slaying 24/7

She apologized, saying she’d make up for your spilled coffee after a quick training session with some kid named Todo, and even said you could come along and spectate before she fulfilled her promise. And suddenly, your plans of bed-rotting after taking down two first-grade curses earlier didn’t seem so urgent anymore.

So, naturally, you followed along and watched her spar with her one and only student.

She made it look like an art form— maybe even a dance, honestly, given that her movements sang with graceful precision and ease. You’ve never seen someone blatantly laughing and having fun between traded blows like fighting was the world’s most entertaining capoeira; an Afro-Brazilian martial arts style that blends elements of dance, acrobatics, and rhythmic kicks, all of which she seemed to be pulling off every time she swept low to the ground to disarm Todo or playfully feinted to sharpen his awareness.

“You were staring pretty hard. You see something you like?” You remember she teased afterwards, all sun-bright skin layered in sweat and warm brown eyes that sparkled when you flinched, caught.

You rolled your eyes at the time, but there was never any hiding it: you were staring. And you’d always find yourself staring from then on.

The first time Yuki nearly made you crumple on the spot was before she and Todo even got into the swing of things; all she did was tie her honeyed hair back into a recklessly swinging ponytail, revealing the play of muscles in her arms, and you nearly dropped your already empty coffee cup again, because holy sleeper build. You had no clue she was packing all of that.

The second time, Yuki had whisked the bottom of her tank top up to wipe the glistening beads of perspiration from her Cupid’s bow, abs bunching below the line of her sports bra in a strained flex that sent a ripple down her torso (making your own stomach coil with something embarrassingly mushy), you had to stop yourself from outright dropping your pants on the field.

And the third time, when she finally called Todo off and slung a bag of heavy supplies over one sturdy shoulder before coming to join you— you had stopped trying to look away at all. In fact, you ogled her a little too blatantly, having given up on any sense of propriety. That’s exactly why she shot that comment your way.

Yuki carries herself with a paradoxical ease that’s equal parts strength and softness as if she’s in control of gravity itself. And in a sense, given her capabilities, she is. Years of discipline and training has carved definition into her; her thighs and biceps are sculpted slabs wrapped in smooth skin. Every line of her underscores that she’s someone who pushes her body as hard as she pushes her mind.

That strength, however, becomes something otherworldly when she invokes her cursed technique: Star Rage. By adding virtual mass to her body, Yuki could make her frame heavier, denser— like pulling a star down to earth and wrapping it in human form. It wasn't just brute force; it was the weight of inevitability, the feeling that resistance was futile because the cosmos itself leaned on her leash.

And the moment Yuki allows a flicker of her technique to bleed through, the ground beneath her always groans and bends as if struggling beneath a giantess. You’re strong yourself, a given in the field of sorcery, but seeing Yuki crush curses into dust without breaking a sweat… that’s something else entirely. You’ve seen her toss curses the size of trucks like they were rag dolls and shatter concrete with a singular blow.

It’s actually fucking insane.

Yet despite all that supernatural prowess that’s earned her the special-grade ranking, she’s still your Yuki: talkative, cheerful, all brawn and brilliance and bright laughter and never quite serious enough for her own good.

And she’s strong on her own, you know that. You’ve seen her fight before, seen the way her blows carry the weight of meteors even without activating her cursed technique, and you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve thought how is she even real? Better yet, how is she even mine?

A very particular thought concerning Star Rage creeps into your mind one lazy afternoon— an afternoon that was no different from any other— while the two of you are lounging in Yuki’s newest hideout, a renovated warehouse turned half-gym, half-living space just outside the city. It’s one of her many spots— she owns property all around Japan and across the country. You’re both killing time on a rare day off, which Yuki treats with the same enthusiasm she reserves for an all-you-can-eat buffet (she always fucks up the chicken burritos whenever you stumble upon said buffets).

The air is humid and humming, making even breathing feel like you’re still wading through the warm waters of the shower you just finished. Shampoo tickles your neck where the spray missed its mark, a faint reminder that you never quite rinsed Yuki’s favorite scent for her hair— crushed wildflowers and mandarin— off of your skin.

The warehouse itself still bears the bones of what it used to be. Steel pillars stand like sentinels between cables snaking across the floor between scattered gym equipment in the corner, the faint thrum of Junko Ohashi playing from a stereo stacked on a mismatched pile of books. It’s spacious, yet not in a way that feels empty; it feels lived in, like the air itself hums with Yuki’s presence.

Her touch has softened it: potted plants cling to the sills, their trailing stems swaying high above the woven mats that cover the scuffed concrete floor almost entirely. A singular cushy sofa is draped with thickly lined quilts with hanging lights strung like constellations just above, and a few steps away from the living space is the door bordering it from the bedroom and adjoining bathroom.

Sunlight filters through the warehouse skylights and the cracked industrial windows in hazy yellow sheets, carrying the buzz of summer cicadas from the swaying trees into the building. It slashes golden stripes across the floor and Yuki’s hair, turning the strands into spun metal. There’s the faint smell of exhaust from Yuki’s motorcycle parked just outside on the gravel path, too, but aside from that, there’s nothing.

It’s comforting to know you’re far away from everything. No curses, no higher-ups, no bigwig glimmering city chattering drunken sins in your ear. You’ve become so fluent with the sounds of the wild that hitting the crowded streets feels like plunging into neon static that your skin doesn’t know how to soak in properly when it's not the sun.

The breeze blanketing the room hauls playfully at her hair like a misbehaving child as Yuki leans back on one hand on the floor, tank top rumpled, steely calves stretched out on the rug. Entirely in her element, she rambles on and on about some new theory of curse evolution from around an absentminded mouthful of a watermelon-flavored sucker.

(She wears her power as casually as her shorts and tank top; like it’s just another thing she happens to have in excess.)

Nearby, you’re sitting cross-legged, chin propped on your palm. You aren’t really listening, even though what your girlfriend was saying was incredibly interesting. You’re mostly content to note how the corded lines of her left arm jumps beneath the guise of her buttery-soft lotioned skin every time she reshifts her weight.

With the calluses on her knuckles and the faint scars that traced her skin, she’s the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen, and would forever be. You harbor a kind of quiet awe for her that’s never really faded, and your pulse picks up to beat a steady hammer at the base of your ridiculously dry throat the longer you observe her.

“So pretty it’s unfair,” you murmur under your breath, mostly to yourself.

Of course, it’s that she catches. Yuki pushes off of her palm to fold her legs in a lazy cross that mirrors your own, elbows perched on her knees. Her fingers idly tap away at her thighs to keep time with the song floating through the warehouse. It’s a languorous kind of motion— unhurried, her body let loose, yet carrying that faint undercurrent of restlessness that always seems to hum beneath her calm exterior.

“Hm?” She tilts her head toward you, her brilliant grin already squinting her eyes together into tiny crescents like she’s heard the murmuring of your heart and she’s about to use it against you. “You say something, lover? Are you trying to butter me up now that I’ve fed you dinner?”

You let your head teeter back enough to rest it on the edge of the couch, attempting to hide your fluster behind a thin veil of nonchalance. “Maybe,” you sigh, an idea beginning to form that probably shouldn’t, “but I was just thinking of something,” you admit, taking a glance at her from beneath your lashes.

Yuki squints at you, suspicious in the way only someone used to your schemes can be. “Uh oh. Well, I know that tone. That’s your ‘I’m about to suggest something stupid’ voice,” she lightheartedly accuses, her lollipop muffling the vowels that roll off her tongue.

“Not stupid,” you counter petulantly.

Her eyes glint, then, golden honey at the edges. “Okaaaay… Should I be worried, then?”

“Only if you’re scared you’ll crush me.” It comes out breathier than intended.

Yuki laughs— full-bodied and bright, her giggles shaking her shoulders. “Oh, so you wanna spar? You know I don’t pull punches, babe.” She winks.

“You already throw me around during sparring sessions. How much worse could it get?” You snicker. You glance up at the high ceiling so that her presence doesn’t fill your senses and drown you in her steady warmth before you can get the words out. “But no, not exactly. I was just thinking, do you think you could throw me around with those?” You nod at Yuki’s jacked arms.

An entirely rhetorical question. You’ve lost count of how many times she’s flung you around during spars (each one a dance you never quite lead, no matter how many times you tell yourself you will).

One second you think you’ve got her, your hand grazing her shoulder, your stance set— and the next you’re soaring over her shoulder, your vision spinning before she drops you flat on a mat hard enough to feel the echo in your teeth. It may bruise your pride a little (and your shoulders and back) when you’re beat, but it all flies out the window when Yuki grins down at you like she’s playing with her best friend and girlfriend rather than fighting.

And every single time, you find yourself staring up at her with that same stupid awe, her musical laughter cutting through the ringing in your ears as she crouches over you, sweat beading along her temple and the smug tilt of victory tugging at her mouth. When she offers you her hand to help you up, the calluses of her palm brushing your fingers, she’s always still smiling— wholly radiant in a way that makes you almost forget how hard she just floored you.

That question gets her attention in the way you expected it to. Yuki stops fiddling with the stick of the lollipop peeking from the corner of her mouth, blinking big brown eyes at you through the sunlight shrouding her vision. Confidence winks in the milky pool of her irises like her very own stars that’ve sunken into the orbit of her pupils. “Yeah, no doubt. I have before,” she says slowly, drawing it out like she’s weighing you for amnesia. “Why?”

You swallow. The easy truth in that doesn’t even wound you; it just makes more warmth puff from your core that’s already long heated from her mouth and fingers that descended on you earlier that not even your shower could wash away. You’re still aptly stretched; dreadfully empty. A glass that’s half full, aching to be tipped, to be filled until the rim quivers and everything spills over in her name.

“Even if it means using your CT? ‘Cause like—“ and you’re suddenly fumbling over the subject like a grandma spilling a carton of eggs— “y’know, the extra mass.”

But what you really wanna say is I want you flip me upside down and top me. You keep that part to yourself for now, though.

Yuki’s plump lips curl into that trademark half-smirk that always means you’re about to playfully squabble as she teases you mercilessly… or you’re gonna fuck. Or both. Either way, you’re more than a little hot between the thighs. “I see how it is now. You wanna see how much stronger your girlfriend can get with the help of Star Rage, huh? You wanna feeeeel iiiiit all up close and intimate?” She singsongs.

“Not like that,” you lie like a goddamned liar immediately, pointing at her as her grin widens. Then, because you’re embarrassed about how badly you actually want it, you deflect. “Don’t make it horny.”

Yuki’s laughter rings through the hollowed space of the warehouse like windchimes hit by a playful gust, the sound all cheery and mischievous. You definitely don’t make moon eyes at her upon being granted an utter blessing— her tank top clings to her ribs and abdomen (and most importantly her boobs) with each shaking chuckle.

The stick of her lollipop clacks satisfactorily between her teeth when she shifts it to rest in the pocket of her cheek to speak without an object in the way of her tongue. Though it makes her sound a little bit like a chipmunk, what with the hard candy puffing one cheek out enough to make every word come out slurry and warped when she does speak, “‘Don’t make it horny,’” she pokes, mimicking your tone with exaggerated dramatics, “says the massive pervert herself right after asking me to use my cursed technique to have my wicked way with her. You hear yourself? You’re either a masochist or you wanna play a little predator and prey, bu-nny.”

She may as well have pushed her thumb over one of those dog clickers for training with how swiftly you push off of the couch and rigidly right your shoulders. “There will be none of that, because that’s not what I said. Or meant. Or—“ You cut yourself off, because the way she’s tucking her hair behind her ear to eye you up makes the spouted falsities trip over each other like a magician’s misbehaving rabbits. Which feels fitting.

“Please, by all means, explain it to me then,” Yuki goads, raising her finely manicured brows like she’s already dismantled your entire defense. “You don’t know this, actually, but I’m secretly a certified scientist. Precision of language matters in my field. Go on, chop chop!”

“Yuki,” you groan, unimpressed by her sarcasm. Her earth-brown irises snapshots the twitch of your fingers where they still point at her, trembling just slightly, before you tuck them into your lap to keep them away from her growing smugness.

“Uh-huh?”

You exhale through your nose, a strangled noise bubbling up in the back of your throat that’s supposed to sound like a scoff but comes out more like a whimper of bashful surrender. “Forget it.”

She doesn’t move closer, just blinks readily at you before lowering her voice enough that it skims over your skin. “God, you’re cute when you dig your own grave. If you wanted me to forget it, princess, you shouldn’t have said it while looking at me like that,” she purrs prettily, rocking back and forth in her cross-legged position like a cat that’s just spotted a particularly juicy-looking mouse.

So you do the only thing you can do— escape.

You push yourself up, palms pressed to the woven mat for a beat longer than necessary— mostly to make sure your knees won’t give out from how flustered you are. You stand, brushing invisible dust from your shorts even though your hands don’t need something to do nearly as much as your dignity does. That slow-blooming warmth crawling up your neck isn’t the summer heat; it’s Yuki’s gaze following you.

“Okay, I’m dipping before you get any ideas,” you mutter to yourself, voice a notch too thin but thankfully pitched quiet enough that your girlfriend doesn’t catch on. You crouch to collect the empty bowls and cups from the low table between you, careful not to meet her eyes lest you fall for her siren-like charms.

The soft clatter of ceramic fills the air as you stack and gather them up a little too carefully, hoping the sound masks the tiny stutter in your movements— the smallest tell that you’re retreating, if only to give your embarrassment somewhere to hide. When you step around the side of the table with your arms full, a stray finger snags in the hem of your shorts to playfully jostle you, and you squeak out a laugh as you bat Yuki’s hand away with a nudge of your hip.

Yuki’s chuckles floats over like a teasing melody as you go darting away, dishes balanced precariously. “You’re a menace!” You call out, feet skittering across the floor a little too fast— definitely not running, definitely not affected. The hum of cicadas fills the space between your footsteps, their rhythm quickening suspiciously in tandem with your heartbeat. You can feel the way your panties cling a tad damply to your skin beneath your shorts.

“Takes one to date one!” She hoots back instantly, and that’s all it takes to shift the simmering playfully challenging tension to something somewhat softer, more intimate.

When you start giggling yourself and shoot a half-hearted glare over your shoulder to further share the good humor with her, you briefly freeze when you find Yuki unfurling from her lioness-like sprawl, rolling up on the balls of her feet. In that split second falter of yours, she tucks her fingers together, extending her arms wide above her head, and tilts her entire body to the side in a wave of falling golden hair with a crisp pop of joints cracking. An exaggerated groan flits from her crimson-glossed lips when she stretches enough that there’s an imperceptible ripple of muscle moving under her tank top.

Fluid and slow, like she’s a predator deliberately giving you time to create some distance knowing damn well that she’ll catch you with ease, eventually— and there’s no escape window here to even open and jump out of in time.

Shit. You’ve started something you won’t win. All you can do is get to the kitchen— which, in truth, is just a section of countertop, a sink that gurgles when it’s overworked, and a mismatched pair of cabinets that Yuki scavenged from a hardware store clearance sale and hammered into the wall— and decide if you’d rather be caught sooner rather than later. That’s the best you’ve got.

You place the dishes in the sink and exhale, biting your lip as if it’ll relieve the aroused throb growing a home in your core. This feels like some strange sort of foreplay, and not even the subtle push and pull kind. Just a very elaborate game of “how long can we pretend this isn’t going exactly where we both know it’s going?” before Yuki comes to collect what’s hers and indulges you in the same breath the moment you stop pretending to be busy.

Not that she gives you much time to even do so.

The sound of her foot pressing the pedal of the trash can at the edge of the kitchen space tells you that she’s already closer than you thought she was. It’s followed by a savory crunch of the lollipop finally splintering between Yuki’s teeth and the soft shhh of the garbage bag catching the stick she tosses in.

Something that doesn’t at all fit in with the natural melody of the warehouse is the sudden creaaaaak of floorboards beneath her feet— they’re bowing to her, as though they’ve become sentient and the floor’s suddenly realized it’s supporting something far beyond human. Even the metal struts of the warehouse give a faint groan in protest of the shift in the air that’s almost imperceptible until it isn’t.

Her cursed energy begins buzzing warmly, equivalent to a July storm steadily rolling in over the sea. There’s a subtle heaviness to it, a pull of gravity doubling, tripling, compressing the air down into a strip thinner than a paper. You sense it vibrate through the floorboards first, subtle but unmistakable, then it spreads like static at your back when she pads closer on graceful toes.

It makes the hair at your nape rise to attention. But what really makes you shiver is when Yuki blows a long breath over the back of your neck, just to amuse herself with the shiver that zings through you.

Her shadow eclipses yours as she swarms in, caging you in your spot. “Caught you,” she preens softly, snaking her arms around you from behind and fanning her hands firmly over the expanse of your midsection. The press of her palms is impossibly heavy as if she’s dragging the invisible weight of the atmosphere itself toward her, and you with it.

It has you teetering a little in place as you try to push against it in the opposite direction, just a token unserious protest. But the second she flexes her fingers and tugs you back enough that your spine meets the warm, plush wall of her breasts and the notch of her hips sliding into place against your ass (you nearly fumble the sponge when you reach for it to run it under the tap water), the density around you tightens. It’s more absolute than an entire fucking solar system.

“Cute,” she coos, then, “I think I get your interest. I mean, Star Rage’s what makes me a special grade sorceress, babes. Can’t just rely on good looks and charm, even though those are my natural assets.”

She’s half teasing still, but the way her voice swoops low— smug, raspier— burrows under your skin and takes up residence there. Every word radiates through the room like it’s carrying a fraction of the earth’s core. It’s dangerous.

“Mmhm,” you manage instead of the agreeable laugh you tried (and failed) to force out, the weak noise barely passing your lips as her body heat radiates over your back and sneaks into every muscle of yours. Suddenly even breathing feels like an effort. Like your lungs have to work harder just to pull air past the virtual mass that’s gathering around you.

Her clever mouth finds your shoulder first, brushing lightly against the slope of it before drifting higher. The kiss that follows lands against the base of your neck, her smile etched into it. You can just imagine Yuki’s face; honey-brown eyes drooped lazily and every fair line of her expression oozing intimate arousal. It makes your fingers flex around the sponge for one useless second before you pump soap over it—

— And you promptly fumble it for the second time when she settles more deliberately, pinning you gently between the counter’s edge and the warmth of her that seeps through your clothes. You’re acutely aware of every tall, pretty inch of the blonde beauty behind you. The state of your wettening panties is pathetic, frankly.

“See, the trick,” she murmurs, her nose brushing along the curve of your ear before she kisses just below it, “isn’t just about stacking weight. It’s about control of all this pressure and knowing how much someone— or something— can take before it breaks.”

That makes your cunt twitch and shudder.

Her hands slide over your curves to your hips, thumbs circling lazily over your hipbones to map the shape of you that she already knows so well. You can’t bite back your instinctual shiver. “It’s something I gotta be careful with, but I’ve learned to be more and more precise with the output over the years.”

“Does that mean that you’re basically holding me with the mass of a small planet right now?” You swallow hard, the sound of it almost embarrassingly loud in the kitchen.

“Mm, not really,” she hums thoughtfully, leaning in so that a strand of her hair brushes over your skin. There, Yuki plants a smooch just behind your jaw, slower this time, lingering enough that her breath warms the spot she leaves behind. “I’m more like a… compact star. Not quite supernova or blackhole material, which is basically what I get when I crank it up to one-hundred percent.”

The fact that she’s not even exerting anything close to her max potential— why does that turn you on? She keeps chattering, barely giving you time to go down a horny spiral, “But you have nothing to be afraid of, lover. Pinky promise.”

Her words sink into the space between your racing heartbeat and the hum of dusk’s life outside. Somehow, you can’t decide if what’s holding you is her cursed technique or the simple fact that you don’t really want to move. You chew your lip harder, scrubbing halfheartedly at the soapy bowl in your hands. “I never said that I didn’t trust you not to crush me,” you say eventually.

Yuki hums again. You feel it more than hear it vibrating where her chest meets your back. “Didn’t say you did, either,” she replies. It’s just shy of laughter, her words brushing over your skin like a breeze through warm air.

You try to focus on the dishes, on the faint squeak of sponge against ceramic, but your grip falters when her mouth opens against your neck again. Her cadence drops to a murmur so sinful it curls straight into your spine, “But I know what you really wanna say. I think it turns you on that I could hold you down and keep you beneath me all night if I wanted to,” Yuki purrs lightly, the words drawn out with a confidence that makes your pulse stumble.

There’s no malice in it— just affection wrapped in the thrill of teasing you, of testing the edge of how close she can get while knowing you explicitly before you push back.

Her tongue traces a slow line along your skin, and your next breath is caught halfway between a surprised noise and something dangerously close to a moan. That alone earns a quietly satisfied chuckle from her that’s almost carried away by the soft hiss of the running tap.

You can’t resist showing her the vulnerable column of your neck like a wild animal turned sweetly docile, head tilting to the side to grant her further passage. Yuki takes it in stride and mouths and nips indulgently at your skin until you’re squirming.

Fruitlessly squirming, might you add, since there’s a very attractive brick wall quite literally preventing you from making a wily escape.

“I plead the fifth,” you rasp, just to fuck with her. You don’t turn around. You just stand there, thighs embarrassingly clamped together to get some friction on your clit and hands still in the sink, pretending that the plate in your grip demands your full concentration even though you’re buzzy with arousal.

“Still pretending you’re not enjoying this?” Yuki teases, studying your reaction as much as she’s savoring it.

Her body finally presses in fully flush against your back, the pull of her cursed energy threading through like gravity’s hands have decided you belong exactly where you are. She grinds her pelvis into your ass, just like that, forcing your stomach further into the cold razor of the sink’s edge. Though you can’t feel an obvious press of her arousal, she sure is making a point to showcase her lecherous intent and interest.

You don’t even realize your fingers have gone slack until the next dish slips from your hands and clinks into the sink, startling you. Water runs in lazy rivulets over your fingers and swirls the pinkish suds down, down, down into the drain, the sound suddenly distant beneath the steady drumbeat filling your ears. You watch it all funnel downwards, distantly comparing your sanity to the disappearing streams.

Yuki’s chuckle is low and pleased, the sound of someone who knows they’ve just proven a point. The warmth of it spills across your skin like sunlight through the half-drawn curtains framing the window that looks out into the field beyond the warehouse. When she presses her lips to your neck again, it’s less of a kiss and more of a bid for attention— a touch that says ‘I’m here. You feel that, don’t you?’

You shakily wipe your hands off on the nearest dishtowel before pressing the digits to the lip of the sink until your knuckles whiten. “Yuki…” you warn, but your voice comes out closer to a softened plea than a protest with any sort of backbone behind it.

(Horny thought: Yuki could break your back anytime.)

“What’s up?” She hums with faux innocence. Boldly, she reaches past you to turn off the running water with an airiness that projects her confidence in knowing she owns the space you occupy.

The faint scent of the watermelon lollipop lingering on her breath and something wild— maybe her shampoo, maybe her— fills your head until you forget what you were trying to say. So you blurt out instinctively, your totally eloquent word choice making it sound as though you’re a child pleading to be carried away for nap time: “Bedtime.”

Yuki’s responding giggle that’s almost girlish in its higher-pitched excitement is the sound of someone who knows they’ve just won. It’s quick and bright, the summer sun incarnate, bringing some levity to the simmering tension.

It makes you almost afraid to look behind you; you know you’ll melt the second you spy Yuki’s signature lopsided beam that’s entirely doglike. The one that adorably scrunches up her nose and blonde brows and crinkles her dusky brown eyes until they’re half moons of umber fire, glowing at their edges where sunlight seeps through her pearly cracks.

“Wanna go to bed, huh? Guess I made quite an impression,” Yuki chirps, clearly enjoying every second of your fluster. Her hands creep up, heavy where they begin blatantly groping your tits in anticipation. Your knees nearly buckle at the pressure over your nipples, which stiffen accordingly.

Before Yuki can take this situation (read: you) into her own hands and sling you over her shoulder like you’re her bride in some deeply chaotic version of a fairytale wedding, you let your cursed energy wink, just once— and the kitchen folds and swirls in on itself in a dizzy whirl of light and sound. In the blink of an eye, you’re being dropped into the wide, open bedroom of the renovated warehouse.

Yuki shimmers into place at your back as intended. She lets out a sputtering snort of laughter that sings through you right before she releases you, allowing you to stumble a few steps forward into the edge of the bed. You don’t get very far from her; it feels like the air around you is threatening to suck you into her all-encompassing void.

Finally, bracing like you’re about to stare at the eternally beautiful Medusa and be frozen in place, you peek over your shoulder. Yuki’s blinking rapidly, standing tall and pressing her palm flat over her heart to steady herself. “Okay, wow,” she says, drinking in the familiar walls of the lofted bedroom, her blonde hair a little frizzed from the jump. “You always do that too fast. Next time, give me a countdown before you whisk me away. I nearly left my stomach back at the sink!”

“I thought you wanted the deluxe package,” you deadpan through your abnormally dry throat, making it extremely obvious that you’re checking her out.

“What does that include?” she asks, arching an eyebrow. She only smiles wider in a pull of her lips that flashes her pearly whites when she catches you; you nearly have to cover your eyes to avoid being blinded by the golden blaze of radiance oozing off of her.

Instead, you give her a playful side-eye. “First-class delivery. Door-to-door service. Occasional pussy and throwing my ass back at you action.”

“Scandalous,” Yuki sighs dreamily, drawing out the word like honey off a spoon and playfully fanning herself as she saunters over to cover the scent distance you put between the two of you. “You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”

Around you, the bedroom feels like the warehouse’s secret heart. It’s less a separate room and more a pocket of warmth carved out of the industrial shell surrounding it, and though it’s not massive, it’s expansive all the same— mostly because of how intentionally Yuki decorated it.

The ceiling beams are exposed, crisscrossing like the ribs of some great creature, and from them hang strings of warm light bulbs and a few dried flowers bundled together in twine— lavender, baby’s breath, something that might’ve been wild roses once, and it subtly perfumes the air without being overpowering. Along one mossy green wall that you recently painted sits a dresser (covered with peeling stickers Yuki’s snagged from souvenir shops from around the world) cluttered with things that belong to you and Yuki.

There’s stray silver and gold rings that missed their designated dishes and hair ties on its surface. A few photo strips from some old booth are pinned to the corner of the mirror hanging above the dresser, housing memories of your smiles that came out blurred from the two of you laughing too hard.

The large window of the opposite wall is cracked open just enough for the afternoon air to sneak through. It carries in the low hum of nature’s breath, distant and lazy, and the rhythmic tapping of a wind chime.

Finally, there’s a bed that dominates the center of the space that calls your name. Beneath the wooden legs of the frame is a thick rug from Morocco, clearly thrifted but loved all the same. The bed itself isn’t precisely made up, but it’s comfortable looking in that careless, sleepily rumpled way, the sheets a pale cream gone a little washed from the sun that spills through the windows in the afternoon. A mountain of mismatched pillows crowds the headboard, patterned with simple lines or embroidered flowers.

Though your curated space is lovely, Yuki’s beauty far surpasses it. Now that you’re not staring pointedly at the dishes that have been abandoned in the sink, you properly take your girlfriend in.

Her body doesn’t look different— she’s still the same lean woman that you love in her tank top and cozy shorts that match your own— but there’s a palpable density to her presence now that Star Rage is active. The layers of invisible weight line Yuki’s edges in a faint shimmering outline that reminds you of heat distortion on concrete, thick and wavery in the air.

You barely have time to note the tightening of muscle before Yuki moves faster than she should be able to for someone who just multiplied her own mass. One second you’re standing upright, the next you’re being tackled backwards as she playfully pounces. “Yuki!” You yelp out with a peal of startled laughter, your body hitting the bed and getting swallowed up by the puffy comforter that absorbs the impact.

Yuki’s shadow falls over you as she leaps atop you in quick succession, knees pressing deep into the blanket on either side of your hips in a comfortable straddle. Taking advantage of your shock, she snatches up your wrists with a triumphant grin and pins them to the pillow above your head with one of her hands.

And oh, you can really feel the difference when you start trying to thrash back despite your giggles that weaken you— the extra mass of her cursed technique grounds her and pins you effortlessly. The substantial weight isn’t crushing but present, and you can tell how carefully she’s balancing that impossible density so she doesn’t hurt you.

Jesus. You’re so turned on that your brain is turning to static.

“Oh my god— what the hell!” You manage between laughter despite yourself. You arch up to shove your shoulders and chest into her without the use of your hands, but Yuki doesn’t budge an inch, laughing so hard herself above you that she nearly loses her balance on her own rather than due to your efforts. “You’re crushing me!”

Her voice rings out from between her glossed lips, bright and unrestrained. “You wanted to see what it was like if I added a little mass!” She crows, starting to tickle you in earnest now, making you shriek bloody murder at the silly race of her fingers across your vulnerable tummy.

“This isn’t ‘a little’ anything! I can’t— move—!”

“Exactly!” Yuki sings, positively delighted. “That’s the point.”

You twist futilely under her, the two of you dissolving into giggles like kids roughhousing on a lazy afternoon as Yuki keeps going, relentless and giddy. Through your mirthful tears that haze your vision, she’s radiant— blonde strands of hair falling loose around her face, framing her face like honeyed corn-silk ready for harvest.

Your girlfriend’s breathless and red-cheeked from the effort, and you’re trying to tell her to (unseriously) fuck off through your chortling that gives way to shallow wheezes toeing the line between hilarity and something more heated. It feels natural, what with how light yet tight-knit your relationship has always been. Getting to horse around with the woman you adore with all of your heart, without all the heavy stuff from the outside world, is… nice.

(Mass joke intended.)

The giggles you share taper off, Yuki still bending down enough that her humored exhales ghost across your mouth. Her fingers slow where they’d been merciless and the grin painting her rosy face softens as she watches you try to catch your breath below. Still, her weight remains firm, her other hand still caging your wrists.

“Is someone ready to tap out already?” Yuki pokes fun the second you slump back, teasingly smug.

“I’m just warming up,” you jest right back even though you’re beyond winded.

“You talk big game,” she murmurs, her tone suddenly too pointed to be more of that joyous play. The air between you feels charged, intoxicatingly so. “Still think you could take me?”

You start to scrounge up a coy answer for that loaded ass innuendo, but the words fumble in your chest when she replies for you— quietly, with her mouth descending over yours.

The corners of Yuki’s lips are still curved where they press into you, tasting sweetly of watermelon-flavored candy and something cinnamon-y. It’s like a dose of addictive, sugary heat poured straight into your lungs, impossible to breathe without wanting more. You’d let her win every time if it meant this. It kills all of your fight and turns you into malleable clay beneath her, dissolving into the easy pull of her affection.

She moves unhurriedly against you, her trail glistening over your mouth. Every time you meet, drawn into each other, there’s a rhythm to it— a glide of lips, a whisper of tongue, a faint scrape of teeth dulled by restraint. The impressions left by your pressed mouths leaves a bloom of gut-twisting warmth behind.

You can’t tamp down the moan that breaks free when Yuki bodily flattens herself atop you, chest to chest (making it a little hard to breathe) and stomach to stomach, and licks heavily into your mouth that bends open until she reaches where she wants. It’s hard to do anything but unconsciously obey— especially when she abruptly frees your wrists and guides your hands up to meet her.

She could take over completely if she wanted to. It’d be laughably easy for her, in all actuality, especially with Star Rage idling beneath her sunkissed skin. But she lets you feel like it’s your choice to stay beneath her, to allow her to guide your own touch— a display of casually confident dominance that sends a shudder through you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

Twining your wrists at the back of her neck, you arch into her more readily. Your tongues meet and trace, brushing against teeth, lips, and the roof of each other’s mouths with an intimacy that has every nerve ending humming. It’s lazy at first, then your joining grows with mounting urgency until all that exists is the burn of Yuki’s mouth on yours and the sudden wedge of a knee between your legs.

“Fuck,” you breathlessly curse into her, the word half-tangled by her tongue. Her cursed energy pours more heavily into her concentrated knee, pulsing like a heartbeat against your clothed cunt. Your legs spread, equal parts your own body’s response and the command of Yuki's sheer presence, and you grind into the give of her.

The clothed friction chafes sinfully over your clit— it makes your fingers uselessly curl at her nape. Your second moan, reedier this time, has Yuki peeling her mouth away from yours with a lewd shllick of saliva separating and breaking.

She placates you with a few quick, chaste pecks that allow her to linger a heartbeat longer. She’s propped above you, lips shimmering and kiss-swollen with the evidence of her play. Her brown eyes are half-lidded cups of espresso, scalding and humming with satisfied energy, blonde lashes lowered like the fall of dusk over her eyes. Yuki looks as wrecked as you feel, still needily rolling up into her as if you can’t bring yourself to stop now that she’s where you want her.

“You really are something else,” Yuki murmurs in a rasp that nearly makes you cream on the spot, her hands finding your circling hips to brush her thumbs along your hipbone in a steadying caress as you work against her. “Most people flinch when they feel this kind of pressure. But you like it, huh? Would this count as a violation of the ‘don’t make it horny’ clause?”

Your brain bluescreens for a moment until your earlier declaration of ‘don’t make it horny’ after expressing your interest in her using Star Rage against you pops to mind. You snort, trying to sound casual but failing entirely, “Yeah… I mean, I definitely like being overpowered way more than I probably should. But don’t let it get to your head.”

Yuki tilts her head, hooded eyes alight— you can see yourself in the glassy sheen, splayed out beneath her for the taking, your hair mussed and shirt askew. She chews her wrecked bottom lip, clearly enjoying the sight. “Too late,” she sighs huskily yet lightheartedly, clearly savoring your reaction. The playful heat is still there but it’s tempered just slightly by affection.

She lets her forehead press against yours for a beat before she ducks down, trails teasing kisses down your jaw and to your neck. She gently bites into you the same way she would a tangy and sweet slice of sun-warmed blood orange, pulling a gasp from your quivering throat.

A lazy swipe of Yuki’s tongue somewhat soothes the build-up of a pounding throb right as her once-encouraging hold on your hips grows firmer all of a sudden. Her cursed energy is crushed into her grip, holding you still. Whining a little, you try to buck up against her knee again in a desperate bid for friction, but Yuki only chuckles and pushes down harder, keeping you helplessly pinned. It makes you feel a little bit like you’re a trapped insect that she’s studying.

"You're really struggling now, princess," Yuki mocks teasingly between the kisses and plum-purple hickeys she decorates your neck with. The touch only makes your cunt squeeze harder around nothing and your legs thrash in almost childish frustration, so keyed up you could cry. "But you're not fighting me. You're just grinding under me like a dog in heat. Feels that good, does it?”

You can’t even respond— not when she sits her curved ass back on your thighs to further subdue you as she strips you of your shirt and tosses it to the floor next to the bed before you can blink. The brush of cool air is a startling gust against your sensitive flesh, leaving your skin prickled in its wake. You’re not wearing a bra— why would you in the comfort of the space you share with Yuki?— and she takes advantage of that immediately with a flick of her manicured finger over your springy nipple.

“H-hhhnn,” you hitch when her cursed energy sparks and she uses it to squeeze around your protruding buds. It hurts so good, her fingers steadily rolling them and groping the plush fat of your breasts.

“My girl’s got such pretty tits,” Yuki practically groans as her dark brown eyes dart up and down your body, from the frantically fluttering muscles in your stomach to your heaving chest, “and they’re so reactive, too.”

The slick heat pooling between your thighs and the sore yet pleasant ache in your chest has your brain short-circuiting. Yuki just hums at the way you choke on a sharp gasp at the pressure of her wandering hands, clearly delighted with how completely she’s got you under her thumb— literally, since her thumbs and forefingers give you one last teasing tweak before retreating.

Your body raises of its own accord as much as it can with the sudden addition of her palm splaying firm over your sternum, the titanic mass that she’s added to herself keeping you heeled. Her other hand slyly delves beneath the hem of your shorts and panties to touch inflamed, soaked skin, stirring the pot of your arousal. The sudden clean stroke of her fingertips parting your folds so that her thumb can come down in neat circles over your clit rips a needy cry from your throat, your entire body shaking from the stimulation.

"You're so soaked for me," Yuki whispers appreciatively in an almost cheery lilt, though it does nothing to disguise how she’s breathing just as heavily as you are as if she’s the one being touched. She doesn’t stop watching you thrash and buck into her touch, not once. "All this time, you just wanted me to crush you until you can’t think and use you as much as I want. Ugh, I could just eat you up."

"Yuki,” you whimper, hands scrabbling uselessly at her strong biceps that are strung taut, “please, please, oh my f-fucking god, please—“

"Please what, lover?" Yuki purrs prettily like a particularly cheshire feline, toying with the swollen button that makes your breath hitch violently, spreading your wetness in a sticky layer that coats her fingers and your already ruined underwear.

“Tell me exactly what you want. If you don’t, I could just keep you here ‘n play with this pretty pussy until she’s crying and making a mess. And fuck—“ she punctuates her words with a sudden crook of three fingers that slide into you all too smooth from being stretched out earlier. Your throat fractures around a wordless sob; it’s as maddeningly pleasurable as it was hours ago. “She’d like that, huh? Your cunt’s always greedy for me.”

Your eyes flutter as fragilely as a butterfly’s wings, tears pricking from the intensity of it all— being petted over, teased, trapped and utterly at your girlfriend’s mercy. Being with a woman like Yuki, who could do this all without breaking a sweat as she practically giggles over your neediness, is exhilarating.

Between stuttering noises that Yuki plucks from you with ease, you manage your best desperate keen, "Just fuck me, Yuki. Please. Need you ‘n your strap, hah, inside.”

That plea makes Yuki's lips perk up in yet another blinding smile. "Good girl, baby." Her fingers work deeper for a moment, curling just right until you're nearly cumming from just the sweet drag of them over your rippling inner walls.

You go bonelessly into the bed when she draws her hand out from your slippery entrance, out from beneath your clothes, and leaves your poor core yawningly empty and primed for more. She manages to make the act of licking and sucking your slickness that coats her fingers a sensual performance that quakes your knees.

Almost woozily, dangling on the edge of delirium, you blink wetly as you watch Yuki draw it in with obvious hunger. The world seems to shrink down to just the sound of her quiet, wet enjoyment, and the following ‘pop’ of her fingers being pulled from the suction of her mouth. It’s all too hot.

Finally clambering off of your lap, Yuki slinks backwards towards the edge of the bed, dragging your shorts and panties down with her descent. She flicks the fabrics aside to join your discarded shirt, meeting your gaze with a heavier one of her own. “You’re pretty every hour of the day, but especially when you’re like this,” she croons sweetly, lashes batting as she looks you over.

Heat rushes over you so quickly that it makes you impossibly more lightheaded. You halfheartedly tuck your legs a little closer to cover up your drooling cunt that’s already threatening to leak all over the sheets, but Yuki’s suddenly cooing that you’re just adorable and she practically flicks your thighs apart with all that wound-up strength, the motion so effortless it’s humbling. A fresh reminder that she could probably crush this entire building if she wanted to.

"Don't hide from me, that’s mean.” Yuki’s tone is half-endeared, half-command. “You’re the most gorgeous trap I’ve ever fallen into. A-woof.”

That startles you into weak laughter that breaks apart your embarrassment at its root, and she practically glows with satisfaction before wasting no second in peeling her own shirt off. Your mouth runs dry. Her tits bounce free, sitting pretty, and she steps off of the bed so that she can shed her bottoms, too. A fine thatch of trimmed blonde hair curls at the apex of her thighs like a veil of temptation.

Yuki does a little theatrical twirl at the end of the bed when she catches you ogling her, her chest swaying hypnotically. She’s all perfectly carved curves that her musculature only enhances, wide hips and bulging forearms and graceful leanness. Holy fuck. She reminds you of a lioness.

“Do you like what you see?” She giggles, fully confident beneath your forthcoming gaze, every bit the woman who knows her dangerously tempting power. Her stormy brown eyes, warm yet unpredictable, coax you in and dares you to bite.

You think your embarrassingly loud swallow as she bends to fish a little box out from beneath the bed is answer enough. Still, you answer as you drape your arm over your forehead to try and catch your breath before she really gets started, “‘Like’ isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Oh, really?” Yuki lilts. She pulls out a harness for her hips with a gold-colored dildo already attached from the last time she ruined you, fake bulging veins underscoring its curve, and tosses the box aside. She steps almost lazily into the harness, taking her sweet time securing the straps of the harness and tugging them just tight enough to hold firm. “What would you say, then?”

You’re already trembling from the way Yuki had wrung you out, hair clinging to your damp forehead, but you swear you nearly shiver out of your skin when she presses a knee to the edge of the cushion. Totally relaxed, she pushes herself back onto the bed so that she can prowl your way on her hands and knees, hips swaying and dildo bobbing in a trance-like rhythm between her thighs.

“I’m obsessed with what I see,” you murmur, almost choking, voice barely audible. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, babe. You’re unreal.”

And oh, isn’t that enough to make the blonde beauty poof up with the arrogance of a peacock as she looms over you again, pearly whites bared in a grin so bright you swear that sunlight glints off of her teeth. “You’re so sweet to me,” she titters. “I know you probably wanna see my face while we fuck, then, and I know I’d loveeee to look into my pretty girl’s eyes as she melts for me in missionary, but—“

Yuki’s hands are on you before you can register the swift movement and the indenting press of her palms against your scalding skin, deceptively gentle fingers finding your shoulders. There’s laughter in her breath as she leans close, and then you feel the sudden shift of weight— her strength coiled and quick as a cat— as she flips you clean onto your stomach so swiftly that it spirals your vision, sending you face-down into the mattress with a soft oof. Cursed energy ripples again, doubling, tripling Yuki’s weight towering above, and she flattens you like a damn pancake.

One hand lightly slaps down between your shoulder blades to keep you from wriggling up— not that you want to, as you’re already mushing your face into the nearest pillow as she singsongs in your ear, “… but, I think I like taking you from the back even more, princess. Isn’t this better?”

“After all, you’ve been working so hard to hold yourself up for ages, bunny.” Yuki shifts, slinking to straddle the backs of your thighs and pressing her weight down enough that you can feel her steady thrum of Star Rage. It feels like the earth itself is embedding itself into the curve of your back, a weight not even Atlas could shoulder, but it’s oddly grounding. “But now you can just relax, breathe, and take it. You don’t have to do anything at all. You're pinned so tight under me, you couldn't move if your life depended on it. Don’t you like that?”

You melt bonelessly into the sheets with a helpless little nod, hips canting up a fraction in an arch the second her palm slides along your ass, the knobs of your spine, and up the back of your neck, pushing a few damp strands of hair aside as if to draw calm back into your body. You barely even flinch when a sudden wad of saliva lashes down between your asscheeks when she spits. Her textured fingers greedily peel apart the globes so she can watch it stream like molasses over both of your clenching holes.

But you do go rigid when a hand, buffed with cursed energy, comes out of nowhere and goes cracking down right over your puffy slit with an almost absentminded ease. It hurts just enough to frazzle and numb. “Yuki,” you whine from between drunk lips and a dumbly tangled tongue, gasping halfway through her name when the next slap passes harder over your ass enough to make the fat jump beneath the stinging slap.

Yuki has developed what can only be described as a professional-level appreciation for your rear end. If you so much as bend to tie your shoes, she’s right there behind you in seconds, tilting her head like an eager canine to better admire you and rubbing over the plush swell as if it’s the most natural place in the world for her touch to land.

She claims your ass is her favorite part of you, always quick to announce it with that little grin that curves like she’s constantly plotting ways to prove her devotion for her favorite vice. You’d be surprised how many times she murmurs for you to walk ahead of her on a random street as if she’s trying to hang back and get a better look at some storefront displays, but really, it’s just so Yuki can watch how your ass sits in your jeans and skirts.

So the fact that she’s squeezing and groping you like a mutt ready to mount is unsurprising, really; you can feel her gaze on the backside of you in this vulnerable position, heated and sultry, like a sunbeam tracing the shape of you just because it has the freedom to bleed wherever it wishes.

Your girl indulges for a moment longer until you start puffing out your impatience, hips giving a wiggle that you barely have the room to perform when she slides easily over your shoulders, her body blanketing yours. Fuck, if you’re not turned on to frankly concerning levels when a sudden cool, blunt press teases your clit.

“S-shit, ri’there,” you slur nonsensically, fingers tensing up the crumpled sheets below.

"Look at you... clenching on nothing already. My needy, needy girl,” Yuki observes in a throaty purr. You can just imagine her curling prettily over you, hips hinged so that she can rub the heavy head of her strap all over your sopping pussy, slicking the silicone up. It nearly slips in, only for her to tilt just right so that the tip indents your core that trembles open and closed for her, sliding wetly past where you’re fighting for it.

Your cunt’s doing all the begging for you at this point; contracting to push out more slick, trying to suck Yuki’s cock in that’s growing sleeker and sleeker with your abundant wetness. You swear, any more of this teasing rutting over your folds in maddening drags, and you’re gonna shrivel up from strap withdrawal and an overwhelming need that’s more harshly crushing than her cursed technique.

Blessedly, the circles she paints your debauched cunt with come to a head at your entrance, which she knocks the tip of the toy on. "Relax," Yuki said, leaning down to kiss your sweaty nape with a softness that made your chest ache despite the need tearing your body asunder. "I'll give you what you want. But you're not moving an inch."

When she finally begins her steady push, your body hungrily devouring the beginnings of her strap past its tight barrier and sinking no more than a centimeter inside, you squeak out a cry. You raise into it as much as the cursed pressure above allows despite her words, hips instinctively straining. You can’t stop yourself, and the helplessness that washes over you when she halts right there with a teasing ‘tut’ sends you deeper into a heated spiral.

“Oh, c’monnn. Is that dumb slutty head of yours not registering a thing I say? I said relax and don’t move—“ She punctuates her brightly chirped command with a sudden fluctuation of her cursed energy, bunched up muscles working as her fingers snag your hips. She bodily shoves you so deep into the bed with the virtual mass, hard enough that the bedframe moans weakly.

While every inch of you is raring to go, eager to throw your ass back into the cradle of her pelvis until her strap is meanly bruising your cervix, there was no way you could possibly accomplish the feat of fighting metric tons of gravity— Yuki holds the reins entirely, just as you wanted her to. That thought alone has you gushing sticky-sweet slick.

Melting into it is a given, so you do, letting your trembly limbs rest limply against the bed. You shiver, spent and weak, unable to do anything but take it exactly as she wants. Yuki coos a faint but undeniably sweet, “such a good girl, I knew you wouldn’t be mean to your Yuki,” while splitting you apart another few inches. Subdued all the while, your senses are entirely attuned to her cock seeping along your walls, which cling desperately to her toy like a sodden glove made of velvet.

The thick fullness of her finally lodges herself to the hilt, Yuki so close to you that you can feel the hanging edges of her blonde hair brushing along your shoulders like they’re strands of whispering wisteria. Your body being adhered flat to the mattress grants Yuki deeper reach, so snug within you that you swear you can feel her cock carving out a space in your guts.

You chew up and spit out a strangled cry, delirious with the pleasurable stretch of your weeping, engorged cunt around Yuki’s strap. "T-too much, it’s so fuckin’ deep, Yuki,” you moan into the silken pillowcase that steadily dampens with your pooling saliva.

“Shh, I’ve got you. Let it take you, princess," Yuki manages breathlessly, sweet as sin despite how unwaveringly she dangles your loss of control between her fingers. “You can handle it. My pretty girl always does."

Your breath wavers at the praise. Her weight withdraws a fraction as she rears her hips back in a slow, steady draw, savoring the sight of your folds convulsing around the toy. She pulls back enough that she threatens to slip free even with how fiercely your cunt wrings in rhythmic pulses to keep her close, then snaps her hips forward firmly enough that you swear she nearly breaks the bed.

This time, the air is punched out of you for an entirely different reason. Your wet gasp fractures into a moan that vibrates your lungs as Yuki rocks her hips down and forward, driving into you with steady strokes that carve you inside out. She’s deliciously entwined with you, her heat seeping into your own.

Each slick, impaling rut is only amplified by the sheer force she exerts to keep you pinned while tempering her output enough to keep the compression from fracturing your body. Her control over her cursed energy, even when she’s fucking into you like she’s got something to prove, makes you more frazzled with arousal— if that were even possible.

The prodding of her thick strap finally nails that spongy tightness inside you that makes your cunt instantly rush a fresh wave of wetness around and down the intrusion. Squealing desperately, you bite down hard into the plush give of the pillow to try and muffle the deranged litany of sounds starting to spill out of you to salvage even an ounce of dignity. But the effort dies halfway through.

“Right there, bunny? You’re, hah, squeezing so hard that it’s difficult to push forward— loosen up so I can reach, ‘kay?” Yuki croons summer-sticky instructions, patting your hips as if it’ll jostle you into following through. Trembling so hard your teeth grind together in their grip, you force your cunt to unspool a fraction, inner muscles releasing their tension.

Then you promptly shriek out a keening whimper when Yuki angles her hips and punches her firm cockhead right into the desired spot.

“Good girl, baby, you’re so cute obeying me so eagerly,” she grunts, sliding her hands up to capture the indent of your waist as she starts really fucking into you at a faster pace. Her fingers press hard into your skin, bruises threatening to bloom like ink on paper— she’ll kiss every single one later when she’s not busy demolishing every inch of you on her cock and drawing out those sweet moans that are a symphony to her soul.

“Feel that?” Yuki’s rolling her hips steadily, sweaty golden skin clapping filthily against your skin every time the globes of your ass round right into her upon rejoining with each other completely. She’s consistently kissing her mark without fail, the pointed pounds of her cock striking true sending you higher. “That deep enough for you?”

“Yes, y-yes, god yes, babe,” you reedily sob out, voice warbling with the thrusts that shake your body to and fro. You’re slipping over the sheets with how sweat-drenched you are, being driven closer and closer to the slamming headboard. “Right there, right there, dun’ stop.”

Her cursed energy rolls outward in response— the heaviness recalibrating, then narrowing down to the drive of her hips and the strap as another extension of her body. Increasing pressure from Star Rage strengthens her thrusts, making you wail loud enough to cover up the obscene shhlicks of your cunt hungrily slobbering down her strap. There’s no doubt that Yuki’s entirely in control of the current, you and even gravity itself bending to her will.

Yuki takes pride in knowing you this intimately and being the only one to render you to this state. She’s memorized the exactness of your every twitch and breath, how you get so overwhelmed sometimes that you start trying to skitter away like a particularly cute mouse fleeing a lion. There’s been countless times where she’s had to wrangle your flailing limbs as her tongue slurps over your clit, your body overloading so intensely because the edge of bliss is so sharp that your body forgets what to do with itself.

And there’s nothing more she loves than watching you fall apart as you struggle to handle her generous, giving endeavors in the realm of pleasure.

So when you claw harder at the sheets with a sudden burst of desperation, tendons straining and sweat slicking off your fingers that fruitlessly try to get a good enough grip that’ll maybe allow you to haul yourself away, she laughs like this is a fun chase for her, endeared and delighted and overflowing with cuteness aggression all at once, and wrenches you back.

You babble out a string of nonsense curses when Yuki claps a hand down over your unbruised asscheek; the other swells a fine, glossy red from her earlier spank, like the blush of a fresh June strawberry. The swat of her hand stings pins and needles into your rear, molten lava coiling hard beneath your skin and in your gut.

(If you weren’t slightly embarrassed at the thought of your friends and fellow sorcerers seeing your puffed up skin, you’d be asking her to direct that controlled force on more visible stretches of your body. Purely so you can press on them tomorrow when they’re more tender and feel the aching burn of pleasure-pain that takes you right back to this moment— stuffed full and entirely at Yuki’s mercy.)

"Awww, where do you think you’re trying to go? You’re adorable, bunny, but this isn’t, h-heh, how this works,” Yuki crows, dripping fondness and mockery all at once. Her raspy voice thrumming over the back of your ear as she cranes impossibly closer makes your brain fizzle out. "You wanted to know how strong I was, so you’re gonna stay caged under me juuust like this. You’re not leaving until I let you; hell, I know you don't even want to."

She nails you right in the head with that correct observation, making you moan helplessly— the sound edged with something dangerously close to a sob. But it’s too much, the drive of her strap in and out of your convulsing walls that eagerly drip your nectar for her too good, a maelstrom of debauchery that has you slurring mewls, has Yuki puffing and groaning when the base of the strap presses deliciously against her own clit.

Before your body can forget what resistance of the overwhelming buzz of bliss even means, you writhe like a bucking bronco, cheeks tight with flushed heat and eyes spinning in their sockets from pleasure. No matter how hard you twist, though, there’s no budging the cursed mass that’s more restraining than iron shackles.

In a blink Yuki’s suddenly dropping like a barbell over your rippling back muscles, letting just enough of that crippling force— a force no normal body could possibly hope to generate— pour into the hold to keep you helpless in the sweetest way. The sultry lines of her body mold to her own and her breasts squish into your back, swaying in place as she cants her hips forward over and over again with the might of a star. You swear you’re so close that your ribs entangle, the bones getting caught on each other’s.

The strength behind it makes your cunt quiver around her hefty, fat cock in a needy rhythm— it weeps thicker, too, when one of Yuki’s strong arms curls around your chest, hauling you neatly back against her. The other slides up, her forearm bracketing just beneath your jaw until the crook of her elbow rests snugly at your throat and tightens in a hugging embrace.

Her chokehold’s not suffocating, just firm enough to remind you who’s got you and who’s most definitely not letting you scamper away without an orgasm beneath your belt.

With her new grip, she gently tugs up and urges your face out from the pillow you’ve been crying and dribbling globs of saliva into so she can hear every pretty little noise as she wrecks you thoroughly. She could patiently listen to you babble nonsense all day, a dreamy beam curving her lips all the while— hell, she has before. Yuki swears up and down that your voice is the loveliest sound in the world, especially when you're barely stringing sentences together because of her cock.

You wheeze out a high, needy noise that sounds more animal than human, more from surprised arousal than shortness of breath. Her breath fans hot against your cheek as she leans in closer, chin catching on your jostling shoulder, “Caught you again,” she chuckles in a wrecked, scratchy rumble, her grin audible in her tone, “you really are my favorite little escape artist.”

You can feel her heartbeat buzzing against your back, wild in its thump thump thumps, and bizarrely it’s that— more than the restraint— that makes you stop fighting the bliss she’s drumming into the marrow of you. Her strength curls around you like a living tether, a comforting tether in the face of the swirling, distorted flecks beginning to blot your vision.

You’re trapped between two black holes; the ecstasy and Yuki herself, all wound up with her cursed technique that rushes like prickling lightning over you. You don’t know which spot of blackness you want to sink into more, but your quavering voice sings your answer for you— “Yuki, Yuki, y’r fucking me so good, Yuki,” you cry out.

With your body molded and pressed exactly where Yuki wants you, cunt soaking the sheets, your thighs and Yuki’s, paired with the near-punishing slaps of her hips into your smarting ass as she buries her thick strap inside of you in a relentless mantra, she tugs your head back to face her a little better, whispering, “lemme see my bunny cry f’me.” There, she spills her honey-sweetness into your awaiting orifice— praise, praise, golden and good praise.

"You're perfect, princess. Such a good fucking girl," Yuki damn near whines out, still drilling in and out of you at a pace that screams she’s an athlete trying to win an Olympic fucking gold for fucking you. Each bump ‘n sway sends her clit pressing into the harness holding her strap, friction washing over her hard. “My strong, stunning girl pinned under me… s-shit, ‘m obsessed with you. Take my cock, baby, juuuust like that. Doing so well for me.”

She’s driving you crazy. “You’re so deep, oh fuck— god, yes yes y-yes, ah!” You manage through your constricting throat. It’s so hard to keep up with Yuki when she’s fallen into a frenzy that orbits around servicing you, fucking you so thoroughly that you can’t tell left from right.

She bites her lips— still just barely smooth with her gloss that you all but mauled off of her and the remnants of your saliva and her saliva combined— as she observes the play of your face. Your tongue lolls helplessly from between your hinging maw. Eyes prettily rolled back and their edges brimming with moisture, saliva racing down her bunched, corded arm, you’re the most sinful sight she’s ever seen.

How could she not be addicted to ruining you?

"I can tell you’re gonna cum soon,” Yuki rasps out, tossing her sweat-heavy blonde strands back with a purposeful tilt of her head. “You really love being pinned, stuffed, and used, don’tcha? Cuuute. You wanna let go for me, baby? Wanna make a mess of your Yuki’s cock?”

Your high-pitched keens and whines that thread from between your teeth in a shivering string is answer enough. The waves of sensation leaves you weaker, more undone, while Yuki's strength never wavers, holding you completely in place.

Yuki laves hotly at your cheek, swiping up your tears that finally leak free with her tongue, before dipping her face into your neck. "That's my girl," she pants from exertion and the pleasure of crumbling you like this. Her voice is softer now but no less commanding.

She kisses, licks, and gently nips at your throat even as she pounds you mercilessly into the squeaking mattress, murmuring against your skin, "So beautiful like this... letting me ruin you sweet. You don’t even realize how gorgeous you are when you give in and let me fuck you the way you deserve. You have no idea what that does to me.”

The contrast of pounding force sawing through your quivering channel, the blunt tip of her strap bullying your cervix with how deep she is, mixed with her earnest words— it unravels you entirely. You cling to Yuki's words, trembling hands hanging weakly onto her biceps at the same time as your body snaps clean under the dual weight of cursed energy and overwhelming pleasure.

You convulse— your thrashing muffled by Yuki’s stagnant power— as release tears through your nerves and blots out everything except for Yuki, Yuki, Yuki, your voice entirely raw and frayed as you sob out whiny noises between panting breaths. You can barely moan, just breathing out whatever you can like you’re fighting to hold on. The dizziness of the slight asphyxiation from her arm snaked around your throat makes your haze of pleasure impossibly more staggering.

And still, your girlfriend doesn’t let up. Though she slows considerably to let you ride it out, she grinds as deep as she can get, milking you for every measly pulse of your cunt, for every rush of slick, cloyingly sweet stickiness. Her lips ghost over the place where your pulse flutters hardest in a flurry of gentle-touched kisses.

"That's it, baby," Yuki rasps in an almost singsongy manner, bright as a clear sky with satisfaction. “Shake for me, fall apart again,” she whispers huskily in your ear, finally slackening her hold around your throat and chest.

Without her support, you tremble weakly, dazed and entirely fucked out and so glad that you brought up Star Rage that you barely register what she’s saying until she continues, “You've still got more in you— l know you.”

You hiccup out a laugh, going bonelessly with the flow as she pulls her strap out and languidly rolls you over. Your entire body is sore from being trapped in place, thighs smeared with release and your vision curling in a dreamy haze of heat.

Above you, Yuki kneels between your legs. A few strands of blonde hair are plastered to her flushed face. Her body, still faintly ringed golden with Star Rage’s activation, is flushed pink with pleasure and exertion. Lean muscle tumbles under her skin like lazily fluttering lightning peeking out from behind a storm-slick sky when she leans in, her grin blinding. “Ready for round two?”

You’re gonna be here all night.

a/n: i need to write more of yuki so bad brah... writing this made me feel deranged in the best way possible

“Oh come on, you don’t even have to drink just come out ‘n have fun. You’ve been depriving yourself from a good time over what? Vi, it’s been like a year girl.”

“She has a point,” Dina’s girlfriend now joining her in your doorway. “You’re only sidin’ with her ‘cause you’re datin’.”

Ellie looks at you, offended. “Excuse you, I have my own opinions, they just usually align with hers. You need to out yourself back out there and quit bein’ so gloomy. You could meet your wife tonight!”

“Oh please, This ain’t some romance story Ellie, I’ll get there and immediately wanna go home. Besides, the bar y’all go to is where we saw it happen.”

Concern etches across Dina's face and she gently nudges Ellie to go back outside so she can have a one on one with you. The door closing with a soft click behind her as she enters the room fully, sitting next to you on your bedspread;

“Look, I know you saw Vi makin’ out with that one chick on the dance floor. And I know how much it destroyed you, but it’s been well over a year. Fuck Vi, she ain’t a part of your life no more. You can’t let her control it.” she gives you a genuine smile, squeezing your hand tightly, “You know I’m doin’ this cuz I hate seein’ you all mopey, right?”

“I know Dina. I really do appreciate it, truly.” you give your best friend a hug, “I’ll consider it. I mean you’re right, 'bout the whole Vi thing. Fuck her and that blue haired bitch.”

“‘Course I am. Plus they have a mechanical bull with a ‘best times’ board now.” That might be just what wins you over; “You serious?”

“Hell yes I am. Girl I know you did rodeos as a kid, you need to show all of us how to do it the right way.”

“Well help me find somethin’ to wear!” you exclaim, standing up from your bed.

_________________________________

The Uber drops the three of you off in a dusty parking lot of a worn down looking building, country music seeping from the doors. You step out of the sleek black civic—which looks insanely out of place as people slam the doors of rusty trucks and dingy cars from the ranchers pull into the already full lot. You take a deep breath, calming both your nerves and the threat of your heart beating out of your chest.

“C’mon, let’s get in there, Cat ‘n the rest of ‘em are at a table.” Dina smiles, walking hand in hand with Ellie, the two of then sickeningly sweet. Ellie calls your name as you stay put behind them, “You comin’ or standing out here all night?”

You look down at your much-too-clean cowboy boots, any rancher in the joint will know you’re from the city. Your miniskirt and belt suddenly don’t seem as cute as they were when you put them on. “I look like I don’t belong in there,” the protest falls flat on your friends’ ears. Dina rolls her eyes and walks over to you, “We’re basically regulars, an’ we all look a bit too polished for this place anyways.” she hooks her arm in yours, “Don’t be nervous, you’ll have fun tonight, I promise.”

Ellie holds the door open for you both, and you file into the dimly-lit bar. Your eyes scan the place trying to find everyone, which proves difficult given that it’s a Friday night and all the tables are filled with groups of people around your age.

“‘Scuse me darlin’.” You hear a soft, unfamiliar voice and a warm hand finds itself on your shoulder as a woman and man pass behind you. You can't help it when your eyes follow them, both in worn out hats, flannels, and boots. The woman’s long blonde hair pulled back in a braid, and her voice definitely doesn’t match her appearance. This woman is built. When she finds her table, she swiftly takes her hat off for a moment, veins in her hand popping as she holds the crown of it. Her bicep bulges as she places it back on her head. You find yourself biting your lip, and then you see her side profile, she’s absolutely gorgeous. Your heart flutters, and she looks at you. Flushing, you quickly avert your gaze.

“Hey, you okay?” Dina's voice tinged with worry, her hand resting on your arm. You turn around, cheeks a bit hot, “What? Yeah no I’m fine.” Dina’s face changes from concern to curiosity, she looks past your shoulder to the pair that just walked in. She looks back at you, a grin forming on her face, “Oh you horny bitch. The first girl you see in here gives you attention and you’re all hot.” she nudges you playfully. “Ugh don’t make it a thing. I can think someone’s attractive and not want to sleep with them. And she just walked past, there was no attention.” your objection only digging yourself a deeper hole.

"Oh don't you lie, she's the definition of your type," she shakes her head, “and she was totally eyeing your ass when you turned to me.” She drags you over to where Ellie is now seated with the rest of your group.

Many variations of ‘never thought i’d see you in a bar again’ are thrown around as you and Dina slide into the booth. Once settled in, you casually look over at the bar to see what you want to drink. You never end up looking at the menu, instead, you notice the same woman staring at you and this time it’s her that looks away, cheeks pink. Ellie kicks your shin, mocking you: “‘My life ain’t a romance novel’ my ass.”

_________________________________

A few drinks in, you’re feeling a light buzz as the conversations overlap at your table. Your eyes glance past the bar to the mechanical bull Dina was telling you about earlier, landing on a shabby chalkboard nailed into the wall—the 5 columns in ascending order from 17 seconds to well over a minute. You nudge your best friend, gesturing to the number at the top of the board:

Best Times:

1:27 - Abby

“There ain't no way someone’s stayed on that long.”

“I’ve never seen anyone beat that score. But I reckon she comes on a different night than us. We all came in recently and it was there already. But your eye candy’s come real close to it.”

“Oh shush” you swat at the brunette’s shoulder, slightly embarrassed. “Bet i could beat that seventeen on the bottom though.” Naturally, when someone finally suggests that the group head to the back and get in line for the bull, you’re practically the first to your feet. The talking continues as the group of you walk to the back of the bar, in order to get to the bull, you and the others pass that woman’s table. You overhear a quick and strained, “y’all shut up, don’t even think about it,” from the same voice as earlier and her table falls strangely quiet. You can't help but hope she was talking about you.

A mix of ranchers and a few city folks make up the decently sized line that wraps around the barrier of the ring. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the blonde woman and a couple friends standing up and joining, ending up a few people down the line from you. The excitement in the room builds as everyone attempts to stay on the machine. To absolutely no one’s surprise, most of your group wipes out in under ten seconds, making you all the more determined to stay on for over seventeen. You're the last of your group to go, cheers coming from your friends who have found themselves in a nearby booth.

With a wave of confidence you swing yourself onto the bull, not at all graceful but you don’t care that much. Your forearm flexes as you grab the rein, looping it around your hand. The bull starts rocking, your hips and thighs tensing to keep yourself upright. After a few moments, you get the hang of it, moving with the rhythm of the bull. Ten seconds in, your friends' cheers get louder and you get a bit cocky as you notice that woman’s eyes watching you intensely.

You decide to put on a bit of a show; your back arching much more than necessary, exaggerating the bounce of your hips on the saddle. At sixteen seconds you’re bucked off the machine and land on the padded surface, a soft huff escaping your lungs from the impact, as well as from frustration at your time. “It was hot ‘til ya toppled over. ‘S all in the thighs darlin'. Gotta ride it like you mean it.” You tilt your head upwards, seeing the blonde woman leaning casually against the barrier, her braid falls across her shoulder as she looks down at you, expression smug. Her accent is deeper, with much more of a drawl than that of your friends or your own.

“Just gonna lecture me or are ya gonna help me get up?” you prop yourself up on your elbows and tug your black tube top up a bit, earning you a chuckle. “Can’t get up by yourself?” her hand reaches down and you take it. One arm easily pulling you off the padding. You hold eye contact with her, noticing how blue her eyes are. “You’re irritatin’.” you bite back playfully. A staff member shoos you out of the ring, cutting the conversation short. You pass the woman as you walk towards your friends, her voice stopping you;

“Y’think i’m irritatin’ cuz ya know I can do better than ya or cuz y’think I’m hot?”

“I think you’re irritatin’ cuz you’re irritatin’.”

_________________________________

“So she’s a total ass.” you sit down and lean onto the table your friends now occupy, sounding a bit exasperated but you'd be lying if you said you hated the banter. “That’s not what it looked like. At all.” Dina’s tone blunt yet teasing, Ellie nods her head and Cat adds “there was chemistry” before she begins standing up along with the rest of the group, although Dina stays seated with you.

“Where’re y’all goin’?” your brow furrows, “Back t’our table…” Ellie looks at you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, your eyes flicker over her shoulder and you get a glimpse of that blonde woman’s blue eyes watching you once again.

“Why don’t we jus’ stay here?” you suggest, your eyes trailing down the woman’s body, noticing her thick, muscular thighs. Heat spreads throughout your centre as you imagine those thighs around your head. You quickly wet your bottom lip as your eyes travel back to your friends, who are all looking at you with knowing gleams in their eyes; “What? it’s closer to the dance floor. And the bar. And someone’s probably taken it already.” Ellie’s eyes narrow as she sits back down, “Mhm you keep tellin’ yourself that.” You look back over and see the woman shrugging her flannel off before getting into the ring, handing the worn green shirt to her friend. Her muscles now fully shown off in her wife pleaser, your throat dries up.

With one strong arm she grabs the reins, swinging her leg over the bull with practiced ease, boots slipping into the stirrups. Her free hand holds the crown of her hat as the machine jolts to life. You bite the inside of your cheek, eyes focused on the movement of her hips and he ttensing of her arm muscles. She catches you staring with your mouth somewhat agape and smirks, taking her hat off to let it wave with her free arm. Stray hairs that never made it into the braid fall in front of her eyes and you desperately want to push them out of the way. When she does so herself, still looking at your table, you bite your lip at the stretch of her tricep.

The machine swings her so her back is towards you now, lats flexing as she holds onto the bull. It’s been about thirty seconds now and she begins showing off, overly exaggerating the roll of her hips. Your mind wanders but you feign annoyance to your friends once it goes on for longer than needed.

“Ugh, it’s like a male bird.” you scoff lightly, still watching the woman. “As if you haven’t been eye fuckin’ her. Whatever she’s doin’, it’s clearly workin’ on you,” Cat is smirking as she speaks, the remark causes you some degree of embarrassment. “I have not been eye fuckin’ her,”

“Really?” Dina begins, adding on to Cat's comment, “'Cause it looked like you were gonna cum on the spot." Your cheeks flush; “It’s just impressive. And she’s like ripped. Plus she’s been on the thing for too damn long.”

“You’re only mad 'cause she’s been on it longer than you,” Dina points out, and she’s not wrong, everyone knows you’ve got a competitive streak. “That too.” you shrug.

As your friends persist with the comments, your embarassment increases by a tenfold and you desperately hope for a change in topic;

“Y’all want shots? I’ll buy.” That does the trick, everyone agreeing and you head over to the bar.

_________________________________

As the night progresses, the music goes from country to club, the dance floor getting more and more packed. Dina and you decide it’s probably a good time to join the floor. You turn to Cat, who usually ends up being your designated dance partner, to see if she’s down. Dina tries getting her girlfriend to come with the three of you as you get up to dance, Ellie reluctantly caves in and the four of you head over to the dance floor.

The tune of Gasolina fills the room, the boom sending vibrations through the floor. You and Dina look at each other and smile, pulling the other two women onto the floor with you. Voices sing along, bodies bump into bodies, and eyes meet eyes. You grind on Cat as she cheers you on, holding your hips as laughter falls from both of your lips.

The same blue eyes that have been following you around all night meet yours, the woman leaning against the wall opposite to the dance floor. There’s heat behind this gaze, it’s unwavering. Your movements slowing under it. She licks her lips before the moment is interrupted by excited bodies slamming into each other as the song transitions.

You turn towards your friends as Low booms through the speakers, everyone now yelling the lyrics. When the feeling of eyes on you hits again. This time you don’t even check if the blonde is watching, you just start twerking to the beat of the song, both friends and other patrons around you cheering.

After a couple songs, you’re breathing hard and thirsty as hell. “I’m g’na go grab some water.” you let your friends know before slipping off to the corner of the bar by the wall, a cooler and glasses available for those who need—you fill a glass and lean against the wall, the cool liquid feeling pleasant as it passes your lips. A now familiar figure appears in the corner of your eye.

“Was’at your first time?” the woman asks as she steps in front of you, one hand resting on the wall next to your head. Her other is grabbing a glass and pressing the lever on the cooler with her index finger, a low thrum returning to your core as you watch the ease with which she performs the action. “What?” you ask, looking at her amused face, her hand drops from where it’s at on the wall, brushing your arm before returning to her side. “Ridin’ a bull?” she clarifies, the two of you moving out of the way of the cooler, now facing each other on the wall a few feet down, just on the outskirts of the dance floor.

“Yeah, but I did rodeo as a kid.”

“Mm, that don’t prepare you for bulls sweetheart. They’re a bit rough.”

You take a step towards her, placing your hand on her forearm, running it up to her bicep, thumb brushing across the muscle. Your heart pounds hard against your chest and you pray she can’t see it. Your nerves building as you decide to go all in.

“What makes you think I can’t handle a rough ride?” your voice getting sultry and you see her eyes darken, black pupils now overtaking the blue that was there moments prior. “Y’should really let us cowgirls handle that kinda riding or you’ll hurt yourself.” she feigns self control, but her voice is marginally more gruff than before. “I could be a cowgirl for all ya know.” you state matter-of-factly, running your middle finger back down her arm, tracing a vein to her hand.

“Oh please, I bet the only cowgirl y’ever been is reverse,” she quips, grabbing your wrist as her blue eyes appraise you, almost as though she’s sizing you up. It sends a rush through your body, knowing she’s thought of you like that. “Mhm ‘n I bet that’s exactly what you were thinking when I was on that damn bull,” your fingers brushing the inside of her forearm. Her smug expression staggering, it’s clear she’s trying her best to keep her composure. She takes a shaky breath, “Barely. Y’can’t even ride that thing properly.”

“Maybe…” you pull your hand away, crossing your arms. Her eyes now looking shamelessly at your tits, “I just need ridin’ lessons.” Your voice now challenging, which brings a smirk to the woman’s face. She bites her lip softly, shaking her head with a chuckle as she leans in close enough for you to smell her, pine and musk filling the air. Her voice is low when she speaks;

“Talkin’ like this to me ‘n i don’t even know y’damn name.”

You give it to her, “Do I get to know yours too, or do I just have to call ya cowgirl all night?” you ask as you wrap your arms around her neck, her own holding your hips. “Name’s Abby.”She tests your name on her tongue, “How high’re my chances of gettin’ ya in my bed tonight?” your cheeks feel hot for a moment, and your eyes flick down to her plump pretty lips, “They’d be higher if you danced with me, Abby.” She pauses for a beat, as if considering other options. “Y’did put on quite the show back there, pretty. It’d be a shame for me to miss out.”

_________________________________

With the bass pumping, yours and Abby’s bodies sway, bump, and grind. You find your thighs slotted together, brushing against each other’s cunts. Abby spins you around, holding your hips to meet your back to her front. You gasp as you feel her tits press against your back. Leaning forward, you start shaking your ass on her, arms reaching back and taking her hat, placing it on your head. Her hips push forwards into your movements as you twerk, your pussy fluttering.

Abby’s warm, callused hands trail up your sides, making you stand more upright again. You place your own on top of hers and guide them up to your tits. Hearing the quiet, strangled sound that leaves her mouth, you quickly turn around to face her, Abby’s hands are immediately back on your hips and yours resting on her shoulders. She leans down, “This a preview for later or sum’n?” she murmurs into your ear, hands now grabbing your ass.

“Oh you’ll have to work for it. I ain’t openin’ my legs for just anyone.” her eyebrows raise in surprise, “Y’seem pretty easy t’me.” Abby’s nose is brushing yours, her breath fanning your lips, eyes focussed on your glossy pout. “And what gives you that impression baby?”

“Y’ve been dancin’ like a slut all night, twerkin’ on me like y’need t’get fucked hard n’ deep.” You can feel her lips brushing yours as she talks, her words drawing a small whimper from your mouth. Both of your gazes flicking between the other’s eyes and lips, the tension strung tighter than it has been all night. Both of you waiting to see who breaks first. Your tongue darts out of your mouth, quick as ever, brushing your bottom lip and grazing Abby’s. She exhales through her nose before slamming her lips against yours.

There's a fire that ignites deep in your gut, a soft hum escaping you. You keep an arm thrown over her shoulder, the other hand snaking down to hold her neck. Your lips messily slotting together, tongues meeting tongues, teeth clashing. Abby’s left hand holds her hat on your head, the right grasping your waist. Your tongue is in her mouth, flattening against hers before swirling around it. As you pull away, you bite her lower lip. A higher pitched gasp leaving her as she leans down more, a soft whimper escaping her as you pull back. The hungry sound and heavy eyes are all you need to drag her off the dance floor.

_________________________________

Abby lets you pull her by the hand in the direction of the washrooms, the urgency in both of your paces obvious. You pass Ellie and Dina, who are in their own world until the sight of you with Abby pulls them out of it. Your mind is so focussed on getting Abby into that washroom, you barely even notice them.

As you finally the see old wood Restrooms sign above the hall you make a beeline. The two of you rushing down the corridor, frantic in your attempt to find an open stall. You pin Abby to the first door with the vacant lock, leg between hers as you turn the knob, shoving her inside. She immediately flips the both of you, her turn to push you against the door. Abby grabs her hat off your head, hanging it on the hook, “Y’have any clue how sexy y’are?” she breathes, a thick, jean clad thigh between your legs as she knees the door shut. You just roll your hips on the leg, head tilting back and gasping at the pressure hitting your clit:

“Fuck-"

Her mouth immediately finds its place on the column of your throat, sucking a mark against the skin. Abby drags her lips up to your own, planting a hot, teasing kiss before gliding her lips over to your ear, licking it. Goosebumps cover your entire body as she nips the lobe. Her hips roll on your thigh and she moans softly against your skin, your core aching at the sound. Your mouths meet again, Abby lifts you and places you on the sink, your legs spreading apart naturally. A grin comes from her, “What happened to ya not openin’ these pretty legs for just anyone?” Her thumbs rub circles into your thighs, you open your mouth to say something but she slips a leg between yours once more, effectively keeping you quiet. She runs two digits just under the hem of your miniskirt. “I knew it. Y’are a slut.” You push your knee against her pussy as a protest to her statement, her mouth hangs open, letting a moan out. She sinks lower onto your leg.

“Ya don’t look like you’d be a girl who moans all pretty, but here we are.”

“Shut up,” Abby’s voice is still on the higher side as you move your knee side to side. “Make me,” You challenge her as you lean in, the both of you breathing heavy.

The doorknob rattles, “Almost done in here?” a drunk, unfamiliar voice slurs out. The heavy air between you fizzles out and Abby begins to talk: “Yes, yes jus’ a m-“ You press your knee against the seam of her jeans, she bites her lip, stifling a whine, “Moment.” Abby finishes the sentence, shooting a glare at you.

Both of you compose yourselves, you straighten your skirt and fix your hair quickly. Abby’s smoothing over her wife pleaser and flannel. She places her hat back on you, “It’ll help with the hair.” You pull your tube of lip gloss from your front pocket, bending over the sink to reapply. Abby’s face goes back to being hungry, the ogling apparent. You smirk, arching your back more. “Now that’s wholly unnecessary darlin’,” her lip between her teeth, “Especially when we got someone waitin’ on us.”

“Your face tells me a different story,” you stand back up and Abby opens the door, a hand on your waist as she steers you back down the hallway, voice in your ear: “We oughtta take this back to my place.”

“You got a ride?”

part 2!!

an: first time posting in over a year… i’m actually going to try and be more consistent because i forgot how fun it is to write and had a pretty interesting 2025 (toxic relationships am i right😍), im back fr this time. i might turn this into a series where they date or smt, not sure yet. or write more cowgirl abby stuff. part two w the actual smut should be out within the next few days to a week depending on how quickly i finish my assignments for uni. anyways thanks for readinggg!

The way she was referring to the plastic dildo in between her legs as hers had your stomach, and something way lower, flutter desperately.

“Also, the front of the harness is rubbing on my clit, but that’s just an added bonus,” she winks at you.

She nudges the tip of her strap at your entrance. Natasha had spent one long hour thoroughly preparing you to take her and the need was burning hotter than ever. Your hips buck lightly, trying to take more of her.

“Be patient, baby,” she soothes, a hand rubbing your hip tenderly, “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You’re not gonna hurt me,” you said, growing even more restless with the way Natasha was rubbing the tip of her strap on your puffy clit, “please just put it in.”

She flashes a cocky smirk at you before slowly pushing inside of you. You frown a bit at the stretch but the strain quickly turns into pleasure when Natasha buries herself to the hilt, her hips flush against yours. She stays still for a minute, allowing you to get accustomed to the size.

“How does it feel ?” She asks, her voice all breathy from the sight of you full of her.

Your walls flutter around the strap, “good, really good…” you exhale shakily, “it’s a good length, I’m glad we chose that one.”

Natasha’s hips begin to slowly grind against yours, not even thrusting yet, just a languid roll that has you moaning out in pure delight, your hips bucking up to meet hers.

“Nat, more,” you pout, the desire, the need, for her to fuck into you is getting stronger and more desperate every second she refuses to give into you.

She leans in, licking over your bottom lip, “yeah ? You need me to pound into you, baby ? Need me to fuck you hard and deep ?”

All you can do is nod desperately as she finally gives you what you want. Natasha is almost completely lying on top of you as her hips hit yours with a force you didn’t know she was capable of, her breasts move in tandem with yours, your nipples rubbing against each other with every thrust.

“Oh fuck, you feel so good, fucking me so good !” You cry out as the tip of her dildo hit that spot deep inside of you that makes you see stars.

She is almost putting you in a mating press with the way she is positioned above you, she feels so fucking deep inside of you, and you feel so so full of her, the sensation is setting your insides on fire.

Her head is in the crook of your neck, plastering open mouthed and wet kisses on the thin skin.

“You like that, baby ? Like how deep I am inside of you ?” One of her hand leaves your hips to snake its way on your lower stomach and she presses slightly, making you moan out, “I’m right here, you feel me sweet thing ?”

“Yes, yes yes yes,” you chant, half delirious on pleasure.

She leaves the confines of your neck, straightening back up, taking one of your hands with her. Her eyes are boring into yours as she takes your middle and ring fingers in her mouth, her tongue circling them and coating them in her spit.

“Touch yourself for me, pretty girl. Make that clit feel good while I fuck you.”

Your pussy clenches hard at her words and the obscene show she is putting on for you as your body obeys her on its own. Your slick fingers leave her mouth and trace down her body, squeezing one of her nipples on the way down before arriving at your messy cunt. Your neglected clit twitches hard when your hand finally makes contact, rubbing quick circles on it, your moans only become louder and louder.

“Fuck, Nat, ‘m so close, I’m gonna cum so fucking hard…”

Your pussy flutters desperately around Natasha as she smirks above you, keeping the delicious pace that’s slowly bringing you to your high.

“Do you feel good ?” You asked in between whimpers, “does that feel good for you ? Please Nat…”

“Awww, my sweet angel,” she coos squeezing your breasts affectionately, “yes it does, it feels so good watching you take my cock like a good girl.”

Her words spur you on, the fingers on your clit picking up the pace.

“That’s it, baby, cum for me, rub that pretty clit.” Her words are punctuated with those heavenly hard thrusts that fill you to the brim every time.

And before you know it, your pussy clenches down hard on the strap, practically locking Natasha in place as you ride out your high. Your back arches, tits pushing out into her hands as violent tremors shake your body. An obscene amount of slick is being pushed out of you, forming a white ring at the base of Natasha’s strap.

When you come back down, Natasha is still in you, rubbing your thighs appreciatively.

“You did so good, sweetheart, took me so well, I’m proud of you.”

Your stomach flips at the praise.

“Was it… good for you ? Did you cum, I mean ?” You question, out of breath and feeling a bit sheepish under her prying gaze.

A grin pulls at her pretty pink lips, “I did, it felt so good to fuck you like that, baby.”

Her words have you clench helplessly around the strap.

“Well… you must be pretty messy under that then, no ?” You point to the harness sitting on her hips.

Her eyes flick to you with a predatory glint.

“What do you say about me cleaning you up ?” You ask, your hands coming up to move the strap out of you and slowly take the harness off her, revealing her slick folds and puffy clit from rubbing against the material.

She smirks as she watches you trail kisses down her body, all the way to the place she needs you the most.

“I’d say you you better get to work, baby.”

Author's note : Currently struggling to finish my Jake fic so please accept this Natasha Drabble as an apology.

I have so many more Drabble ideas for her and they are all smut😭 need her so bad😔

Breast exam was the first thing that came to your lips when Mel asked what she could do for you. Naturally. The heat begins to build in your stomach when she requests for you to remove your shirt. And the arousal courses through the rest of your body, coming to settle between your thighs, as she stares at your tits. You think that she could maybe see your heartbeat as she asks about when your last period was and if there was any soreness. (“Yeah, my girlfriend–” *only time you manage to get her to break character, btw*).

And when she actually manages to start the manual palpation, your cunt flutters as she feels up your tits with circular motions, pressure varying. Harder as she nears the areola before she pinches your nipple just a bit too roughly to be simply medical. The first time she does it, it makes you shudder. The second, the moan slips out. And apparently, you feel the need to slap a hand over your mouth and mumble: “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

“Perfectly normal reaction to nipple stimulation,” Mel says, but you can hear the tiny smirk in her voice. “And no discharge.” Because she has to make it accurate.

There’s one point, when you’re lying down as she repeats the palpation process, when the doctor in you slips through, and you ask if she checked the armpit area as well. 

“Are you the doctor or am I?” Which shuts you up right away, thighs pressing together.

Not great for when she moves onto the pelvic exam. 

Because the first words that leave her are: “Do you usually produce this much lubrication, or is this a result of previous stimulation?”

You almost kick her shoulder with your foot. Almost remind her that she sees you like this practically every night. But then you have to suck in a deep breath and remind yourself–roleplay. 

That she was having way too much fun with.

“Previous stimulation,” you mumble, pressing an arm over your eyes as one of her thumbs moves to gently trace over your vulva, a string of your wetness trailing along with it. The touch is feather-light, barely there, and it shouldn’t have you reacting in the way it does–teeth chewing on your bottom lip as you let out a shaky breath and feel the way your hole clenches around nothing. 

She continues the gentle brushes of her thumbs over your pussy lips. Spreading them open, watching wetness collect around your opening. “No abnormalities,” Mel finally says, her own voice a little shaky. It’s enough to assure you that she’s affected by the teasing too. “The vulva and clitoris are swollen from arousal.”

Again, you debate kicking her.

Which, that urge instantly evaporates (along with the rest of your thoughts) when two of her fingers position themselves at your entrance. Just sitting there, feeling the way you flutter and pulse to try and suck them in as Mel retrieves lube from your bedside table. Which you probably didn’t even need, but she was Dr. King right now and everything she medically advised went.

“I’ll just be checking your uterus and ovaries. No cervix check today.” Her words almost make you chuckle, if it weren't for the sensation of her squeezing a generous amount of lube onto her gloved fingers, trailing the bottle just a bit too far up to have the cold liquid hitting your clit. A small whimper leaves you. “The lubricant might be a little cold,” she says after hearing the catch of breath.

You can’t really find it in yourself to care when she eases those two fingers into your waiting cunt, though. 

The slight stretch has you sighing softly in relief, walls embracing the digits they’d practically be crying for, considering how wet you’d gotten. Mel pushes the heel of her other hand against your uterus, the pressure making you cry out a little as you squeeze your eyes shut, arm falling away from your face.

“No masses… Slight tenderness due to sensitivity–”

“Mel,” you try, whining softly as you tilt your hips up. An attempt to get her fingers to move or curl or something other than just sit.

“Dr. King, please,” she interjects, voice irritatingly steady.

A small scoff leaves you–a mix of desperation and annoyance as you peek your eyes open at her. Her own eyes flick between where you’re swallowing her fingers and your face. “You’re so–”

She crooks her middle and pointer finger just slightly, pressing against that sensitive spot inside of you as her palm rubs in a circular motion over your lower abdomen that has your pussy clenching. 

“Dr. King,” you gasp out before you can stop yourself.

Before your eyes roll back, you see the way her tongue pokes against the side of her cheek.

Then: slow, deep curls of her fingers that you aren’t sure can even qualify as thrusts, but they feel unreal. Mel’s thumb never nears your clit, only two gloved fingers working the sensitive spots along your walls and the other massaging your lower tummy.

“Pelvic pressure can trigger endorphins, did you know that?” Mel asks above the sound of your squelching cunt. She finally pulls her fingers out to the first knuckle before easing them back in, changing the angle in a way that has the coil of heat in your gut tightening. “It can relax tight muscles and increase blood flow. If I press right–” She presses the heel of her palm down toward your cunt, making you squeal. “I can stimulate deep nerve endings like the cervix.”

“Dr. King,” you repeat breathlessly, head fuzzy and solely focused on cumming. 

Mel just watches, beginning to pump her fingers shallowly enough to provide some friction. 

“Dr. King– Please– Kiss, pleasepleaseplease–”

Your girlfriend leans closer, giving you a small peck on the lips before settling her forehead on yours. Instinctively, your eyes find hers–watery as you feel your high begin to approach with an intensity that would probably have you wetting the bed.

“You always do this same pulsing rhythm right before you cum–”

A long moan leaves you at the comment, pushing you right over the edge into an orgasm that has you squirting around her fingers.

Mel can’t refer to herself as Dr. King for a week after that.

A/N: thank you to everyone who’s been so patient since I’ve started slowing down, and shown appreciation for my work. There’s so much love from me to all of you, I wish I had a better way of showing it 💛 Hope this lives up to expectations!

──────── UNDEFINED TERMS ────────

You met Yolanda Garcia eight months ago.

But this story doesn’t start with her. It’s not about her, at least not yet.

No, it starts with a house. It’s always the house.

It’s the same one you’ve lived in since you were a child. It has the same creaky step (the second one below the landing), the same dent in the hallway from when you fell against the wall too hard when you were running from your dad while playing, and the same kitchen table with the uneven leg your dad swore he’d fix but never quite got around to. Instead, he just stuck a wooden brick underneath it and called it good. Your childhood home has always reflected stability for your family, it was never something you really thought too much about.

Except now it’s all you think about.

The HVAC system went first, right in the middle of winter. The heat stopped overnight, and by the morning the house was freezing cold in that bone-deep way that requires a steaming shower to warm you back up. Your dad spent two days trying to fix it himself before he gave in and called someone. Those two days really sucked.

The number they quoted might as well be impossible, $11,000, but you managed to pay it anyways because you had to. What else were you going to do?

Then the roof started leaking, because when it rains, it pours. It wasn’t bad enough to collapse, but it was a slow, steady drip that stained the ceiling and spreads out a little more every time it rains. At first, your mom set a bucket underneath it for when it dripped to the floor, and then another, until you were forced to stop pretending that was a solution.

That was another bill, but that time you had to take out a loan because there was no way you could afford it, it just wasn’t happening.

And then there was the car. Not yours, you don’t actually have a car of your own, you take the bus. But the family one. The one your mom would use to drive your dad to work, and then go to her first part-time job, then her second, then drive to pick him up, and then drive home. It broke down on the side of the road, in the dark, after a shift your dad couldn’t afford to miss.

That loan wasn’t optional either. 

None of this was, just one thing after another. Every fix turned into a bill, every bill turned into a balance you can’t catch up to, and suddenly the word mortgage started feeling very dangerous. It loomed over your heads like a dark cloud, because suddenly the house wasn’t just your childhood, it was something that could be taken away.

Your dad is working more than full-time. He picks up whatever extra hours he can get. Your mom has two part-time jobs, one in the morning and one in the late afternoon, she’s barely home long enough to sit down before she’s out the door again, or in bed.

And you?

You work retail. 

It’s a job that pays just enough to feel like you’re contributing but not enough to actually make a difference. Long shifts on your feet, customers who treat you like shit, and a manager who schedules you just barely under full-time so they don’t have to give you any benefits.

Your paycheck isn’t yours anymore. It goes straight into groceries, or into whatever bill is most urgent when your paycheck hits. Sometimes it goes into things your parents don’t even ask you for, but you see the way that your mom hesitates at the grocery store, putting things back and doing math in her head. 

So you hand it all over, even when there isn’t much to give.

Dinner is cheap. There are nights when it’s just pasta or canned soup. Once you ate bread with gravy for three days right before payday. You can’t remember the last time you ate out, even fast food. You’ve stopped buying anything that isn’t necessary, and stopped thinking about things you want.

But it’s never enough. That feels like the worst part: you’re doing everything right, everyone is, and it still isn’t enough. 

The house is old. It needs things that cost money that you don’t have. You notice things you never paid attention to before, like the draft near the windows and the way you have to shut the front door just right in order for it to latch. You wonder how long it’ll be before something else breaks. You wonder how much longer you have left before the bank takes it.

The mortgage is past due, way past due. You co-signed on loans with the agreement that those get paid first so that your credit doesn’t go in the toilet before you’ve had the chance to really live. That means sometimes the mortgage gets skipped when there isn’t enough left over. 

It’s at least two months past due on the evening you get desperate.

You’re on Charlie’s couch with your legs tucked under you and a blanket thrown over your lap. The TV is quiet enough to talk over for when you feel like it, but loud enough to hear the dialogue of Law and Order without needing subtitles. The episodes have been playing back-to-back for hours now, the familiar dun dun starting to sound like a broken record.

There’s a bowl of popcorn between you, buttered and salty. You haven’t had popcorn in…god, you don’t even remember how long. You can’t spare the $4 for a box at the grocery store. You don’t say anything about it, but it’s heaven every time you pop a handful into your mouth. 

Charlie notices your desperation over the snack, but she doesn’t say anything about it. 

On-screen, a woman in a skimpy dress is mid-argument, heels loud on the floor as she paces in front of an undercover detective. 

“I told you what my terms were,” she argues. “Five thousand a week, non-negotiable.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, accompanied by a shake of your head. “Yeah, okay.”

Charlie turns to you with a confused look. “What?”

“Five thousand a week?” you repeat, nodding your head toward the screen. “For that? That’s so unrealistic.”

“It’s not that unrealistic,” Charlie says with a shrug of her shoulders.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Totally serious,” she says, reaching for the popcorn bucket. “People really do pay that much.”

“No they don’t.”

“They do,” she insists. “Sugar babies. It’s, like, a whole thing for rich guys.”

You snort. “Yeah, on tv.”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “No, like in real life. There are actual websites.”

You pause mid-reach, fingers barely closed around an absurdly sized fistful of popcorn. “…you’re kidding.”

“I’m not!” She sits up, grabbing her phone from the arm of the couch. “Hold on, I’ll show you.”

“Charlie -”

She’s not listening, tapping away on the screen. “I had a coworker who used one,” she says. “She paid off, like, half her student loans in a year.”

“That’s not real,” you say, even though your voice is losing some of it’s certainty at the conviction in Charlie’s voice.

“It is,” she insists again. “Look.” She turns her phone toward you and you hesitate a little before leaning in to look.

On the screen is exactly what she said would be. Profiles with clean layouts and pictures that don’t include full faces. Bios with words like arrangement and discreet and mutually beneficial in them like it’s no big deal, like this is just something people…do.

You’re dumbfounded. People really have money they can just…throw away because a girl is pretty?

“No way people are making that kind of money just for - for dating someone.”

“It’s not just dating,” Charlie says with a shrug. “It’s like…an arrangement. Like friends with benefits, except the benefits aren’t just sex, you know?”

“I’m just saying, it’s not realistic,” you say quietly.

“Maybe not for everyone.”

The Law and Order episode keeps playing in the background, voices rising and someone winding up arrested, but you’re not really listening to it now. Your eyes keep drifting back to her phone where she’s set it down between you.

Five thousand a week.

You sign up for that website less than six hours later. 

In the dark of your bedroom, when the rest of the house is fast asleep and there’s nobody to catch you in the act. 

You hesitate, because this is where it stops being something you’re just looking at and becomes real. You’re uncomfortable with even just the thought, wondering if this is the right move for you.

Then you think about the house. And then the past due notices sitting on the counter, and about your mom putting things back in the grocery store and your dad on the side of the road.

And you sign up.

You fill in the blank fields asking you for your name, your email, a username. You’re careful not to use anything identifying. And when it asks for photos, you hesitate again. You choose photos that don’t show your face - the same thing you’d seen in profiles when Charlie was showing you them on her phone. Your body, your silhouette, a hint of you instead of anything that could concretely tie you to the photos. It could be anyone, that’s the point. 

Anonymity.

The bio takes you a bit longer. You don’t know what to say at first, so you open another internet tab and type sugar baby profile tips. The internet has more suggestions than your brain does. You skim articles and forums alike, your eyes catching on things like know your worth and define your boundaries. Some articles talk about contracts, like actual contracts. Some mention NDA’s and Terms and Conditions. What’s allowed and what isn’t.

It's more formal than you expected, a semblance of structure, like a real job. You latch onto that thought because it makes you feel less dirty.

You swipe back over to the tab that holds your bio and begin to type, doing your best to sound like someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone that belongs here, even if you’re not actually sure you do.

The first message comes less than an hour after you finish your profile, and you don’t answer it right away. You instead just stare at the notification with an uncomfortable feeling in your stomach. Someone saw you and clicked on your profile and decided that you were worth messaging.

Eventually you open it and then wish you hadn’t.

The next few weeks are a blur of work and sifting through messages. It feels like that’s all you ever do anymore.

It’s not one bad experience, no, it’s a pattern. A steady stream of messages that all begin to look the same the longer you scroll through them.

Some of them are way too blunt. There’s no introduction or conversation, instead just expectations laid out like you’re a product they’re trying to order. Numbers thrown out without context and requests that make your face burn with shame.

Others try to be charming. Those are sometimes worse because they start normal, and you almost start to relax. But then they always start to change, with an underlying assumption that your time and attention and body belong to them already. That the “arrangement” part of this doesn’t need to be discussed because it’s implied. Why else would you be here?

But then there are a few that are normal enough that you try.

The first time you meet someone, it’s for coffee. In a public place, during the day, and you sit across from him for twenty minutes before you realize he’s not listening to a word you’re saying. He talks over you about himself, and it’s clear that you’re just supposed to fall into line with whatever he “usually expects” from arrangements like this.

Your second date (with someone else, because you never saw that asshole again) is even worse. It’s dinner this time, and you naively let yourself think that meant that it would be more serious, but it’s not. 

He’s too comfortable before food even arrives; he sits too close, speaks too low to try and get you to lean in to hear him, acting like you’ve already agreed to things you haven’t even talked about. When you try to steer conversation back to expectation and terms, he laughs at you like you’re being difficult.

He doesn’t offer to pay and you leave before dessert and refuse to let him walk you to the car your dad let you borrow for “work.”

After that, it starts to feel the same: different names but the same conversations.

Eventually the sinking realization hits that this isn’t what you thought it would be. It feels like you’re trying to force something to work that just…doesn’t. You were naïve to think that you could be like that girl on tv.

You don’t even actually like men, and you’re torturing yourself with them just for money. You didn’t delude yourself into thinking that there were women looking for company this way. 

This is just like every other app you’ve ever used, only with higher numbers and worse expectations attached. Like Tinder with money. 

You think about deleting your profile entirely and cutting your losses. This was a bad idea from the start, this isn’t something that works for people like you. Instead, you spend your last few dollars on some wine coolers from the gas station up the street and drink until you’re unconscious in your bed, the first real reprieve from your own thoughts in months.

──────── UNDEFINED TERMS ────────

One morning, you wake to a message sent at 3:07am.

You frown at that, blinking rapidly to rid your eyes of the sleep as you sit up in bed. You get a lot of messages in the middle of the night, that isn’t what has you stunned. It’s the fact that it’s from a woman.

Her profile picture is the only thing you can see next to the New Message notification, and it’s very intentionally cropped. There’s no face, just an angular jaw at the top of the photo, clothing that gives very expensive vibes, and a watch that probably costs more than the mortgage on your house.

It’s enough to make you open the message.

I like your profile. If you’re still looking for an arrangement, I’d be interested in discussing terms.

That’s it. It doesn’t even seem like she’s trying to convince you, like she could take or leave your response. 

You click on her profile, taking note of her username: Dr.G_Consult. 

Like, a real doctor?

You scroll a little further down, past her listed occupation that confirms the title. Her Bio is just as straightforward as her message to you:

Busy professional. Limited availability. Clear expectations. Discretion required. Not interested in emotional entanglement.

Between her tone and her intimidating profession, you feel like you’ve been evaluated without her even seeing you. You wonder if her messaging you at 3am is the result of insomnia or some drunken middle-of-the-night impulse.

Either way, you message her back. And she answers again. 

There’s no small talk or drawn-out conversation. She moves straight into inviting you out to dinner, already with a time and place. 

You understand the implication without her having to say it outright. She doesn’t have the time to waste, and with what she’s offering, you’re expected to meet her where she is.

On the day-of, you take longer to get ready than you have in a very long time. 

You have this dress, a green one that you haven’t worn in years because you haven’t had a reason to. It’s too nice for any events in your real life. It’s fitted and doesn’t match your current situation at all. This dress doesn’t scream overdue bills and $0.29 in your bank account. 

It’s perfect.

You take time doing your hair and makeup. You’re careful about the makeup, stretching out uses because you can’t afford to replace the products yet. You change yourself so drastically that you barely recognize the woman in the mirror. It’s been a long time since you’ve tried this hard.

The ride there is the part you think about too much. Opening the Uber app and selecting the credit card that you only use in case of an emergency.

Just this once, you tell yourself. If this doesn’t work, if it turns out like everything else, you’re done. You’ll delete the profile and forget the whole thing ever happened.

You lean your head back against the seat as the car pulls away from your street, focusing on the passing blur of the streetlights. The city fades from familiarity into something else entirely, something that feels cleaner, more expensive. You can feel it before you even arrive at the restaurant, you can see the way things like different when money is involved.

You smooth your hands over your dress as the car slows to a stop in front of the restaurant. Your heart is beating so hard in your chest that you can feel it, adrenaline setting your nerves on fire as you step out and thank the driver. 

Your heels click against pavement that doesn’t have any cracks or holes. 

The doors to the restaurant are heavy, but that’s okay because it’s the kind of place with a doorman to open them for you. That’s his whole job. 

The inside of the restaurant is muted. Nobody is talking loudly, there are no glasses clinking. It’s polished, like even sound knows better than to draw attention to itself.

It makes you stop just inside the entrance, looking around in wonder. Everyone here looks effortlessly cool, from the waitstaff to the patrons. They wear tailored clothes and look relaxed, and the laughs you hear sound rich, like you’d hear them on a golf course or a yacht somewhere.

And as you catch sight of your reflection in the window as you approach the hostess station, you realize that you don’t look that different. You blend in, you could pass for one of these people. But it doesn’t feel the same because you know what it took just to get you here, you don’t belong the way they do.

“Hello.” The hostess’ voice pulls you out of it.

You snap back to reality, realizing you’ve been standing in front of her for a little too long to be normal.

“Do you have a reservation?”

“Oh -” You start, caught off guard. “Um -” Your mind blanks because what do you even say? Yes, but not under your name. No, but you’re meeting someone. You’re here for a date that’s not really a date. You’re here for something you can’t say out loud with dignity.

“I’m meeting someone,” you say weakly, feeling your cheeks heat. 

“Name?”

You start to give her your name before realizing that’s not what she wants, she’s asking for the name your reservation is under, and you don’t know. You only know her username, it’s not like she’s making the reservation under Dr. G.

“There you are.” A voice behind you undercuts your panic.

You turn around, back toward the front doors, and find a woman standing from the padded benches there. You hadn’t noticed her before, hiding behind you the whole time, stepping in when you’re at your least comfortable.

She wears tailored slacks and a deep green button-down with the sleeves rolled up just enough to expose her forearms. Her dark hair is pulled back with intention, not a strand out of place, but even in the low lighting of the restaurant you can see it’s curly.

You love curls.

You don’t need to have seen pictures of her face to recognize her. Aside from the similar posture, the definition of her jaw is familiar, having been almost the only part of her you’ve seen until now. Her deep brown eyes are beautiful, but not in a way that feels warm. No, she’s not warm at all. She’s intelligent and clinical, even now you feel like you’re being analyzed despite the smile on her face.

She crosses the space between you in a few easy steps, and her hand finds your lower back comfortably as she turns to the hostess. “She’s with me.”

The hostess nods in acknowledgement and she picks up two menu’s from her station before gesturing toward the interior. “Of course,” she says, “right this way.”

You follow the hostess with the smallest nudge of your date’s hand. You’re increasingly aware of how the atmosphere seems to change around you in ways that are subtle enough to miss if you aren’t paying exactly the right attention. But it’s impossible to ignore once you are, everything from the soft dip in conversation as you pass tables to the way everyone except you seems to feel completely at ease here. 

Your date doesn’t look out of place one bit. She walks like the air around her owes her something, like nothing here is unfamiliar or intimidating or even noteworthy, except you. She hasn’t taken her eyes off you the entire time, you can see it out of the corner of your eye.

The hostess leads you to a table that’s set slightly apart from the main flow of the room. It’s positioned in a way that gives you privacy - no doubt a request from your date who’s profile made it very clear she values discretion. 

You’ve barely settled into your seat when the hostess leaves, and you’re suddenly alone with your date.

There’s silence for a moment, the kind that comes from first meetings and is awkward until you’re the first to break it with your name.

“Yolanda,” she introduces in return, leaning back in her chair. It makes you wonder if everything she does will intimidate you like this. “Why don’t we start with you telling me what you’re looking for.”

It’s direct enough that you look around for prying ears before you answer.

“I’m - I’m not very good at this part,” you admit with a sheepish smile.  

That gets you a small, amused smile, breaking the tension of her otherwise-stoic face. “You’ve never done this before,” she says. She’s not asking.

“I’ve talked to people,” you reply. “It just hasn’t gone beyond that yet.”

“Because you don’t know what you want,” Yolanda supplies. “Most people who use that site either don’t know what they want or think they want things that they don’t.”

You watch her carefully, confused on where she’s going with it. “And you know what you want?”

“I know what I don’t want,” she says. “And I can usually tell within the first five minutes whether someone is going to be a problem or not.”

You open your mouth before you can think twice. “Am I a problem?” you ask, and it sounds more curious than defensive to Yolanda.

Her lips curl upward further, more a smirk than a smile now. “Not yet.”

You smile as well and shake your head. “You’re very direct.”

“I have to be,” she says as she raises a hand to flag down a waiter. One - not yours - stops by the table, and she points to something on the wine list. Wordlessly, the waiter nods and disappears. “I’ve done this before,” she says, turning back to you and snapping the wine list shut.

Your hands are folded in your lap and you’re silent as you wait for her to continue.

“A couple of times,” she goes on, tilting her head like she’s gauging your reaction. “Nothing too long-term.”

That piques your curiosity. “Why didn’t they last?” you ask, leaning forward as you brace your elbows on the table.

She’s quiet as she chooses her words, but even in her own pondering, you can tell she’s still assessing you. Like she’s noticed your engagement and is still figuring out what to do with it. 

“…because they couldn’t follow the rules,” she says simply.

The conversation lingers in the wake of the mention of rules. The word sits between you and creates a tension that’s almost awkward as you try to pivot to change the subject.

“You said you’re busy,” you try. “What do you actually do?”

The waiter returns with empty wine glasses and a bottle, uncorking it and pouring you both glasses as Yolanda speaks. 

“I’m a surgeon.” She doesn’t say it with arrogance, but it still comes off cocky.

“Well obviously,” you say with a little huff. “Your profile already said that. I meant what kind?”

Yolanda thumbs the stem of her wine glass, lifting and swirling it. “Trauma.”

You take in her rolled sleeves and steady hands, her controlled posture now making more sense. “That seems like it would suit you.”

She shrugs her shoulders as she takes a sip. “And you?” she asks as she swallows.

“What about me?”

“Have you always been taken care of?”

The question catches you off-guard, but not because it’s confusing. You’re on a sugar baby website, it’s filled with spoiled women who want to be taken care of in exchange for sex. But it’s too direct, too close to home for you to answer realistically.

Because the answer is no. Painfully, and obviously no. 

You think about the house. About your mom counting dollars at the kitchen table to see how far she can stretch your last $10.About how none of this would be happening if things were different. You wouldn’t be here, with her, in this dress, if you had another choice.

You feel disgusting.

And the last thing you’re going to do is hand a stranger something they could use against you.

So you lift your gaze back to hers, smoothing your facial expression into neutrality. “Yeah.” The word comes out steadier than you feel saying it. “For the most part.”

Yolanda hums as you pick up your own wine glass, desperate to play the part. “Then this will be an adjustment.”

Your face crumples in confusion. “Why?”

“Because I don’t allow passiveness,” she replies calmly, still swirling her wine glass. “You don’t just receive from me, you participate.”

It’s an accusation disguised as clarity. Like she’s used to spoiled little girls expecting money in exchange for the bare minimum. Your mind wanders to her past arrangements, wondering what kind of rules they couldn’t follow. 

You take a sip of your wine, almost immediately beginning to feel the pleasant tingling in your toes that accompanies intoxication, and it reminds you that you haven’t eaten all day. You turn your attention to the menu in front of you.

You already know you’re not going to pick something easily. The prices alone make that clear. Even now, sitting here, and even knowing logically that you aren’t the one paying tonight, there’s still a level of discomfort in your chest when your eyes land on the numbers next to each dish. Calculation of money you don’t have that you can’t turn off.

You don’t want to misstep. 

Play your cards right and this could change your life. 

You can only imagine how much money a surgeon makes. Enough to take girls like you out to fancy restaurants on first dates.

You glance up at Yolanda and then back down again at the menu, your fingers resting against the edge of the laminated page as a thought comes to you. A test.

You lift your gaze again. “Will you order for me?”

She stops mid-sip at the question. She returns your gaze, though her eyes narrow a little. “That’s a new one,” she says, her voice edged with curiosity. “What kind of game is this?”

You press your lips together to keep from smiling. “No games. I’d just like your opinion.”

She watches you, trying to figure out if you’re telling the truth, and you can almost see the moment she decides to believe you. “…alright,” she says finally. She sets her own menu aside without looking at it and then leans forward. “Do you have any food allergies?”

“Walnuts,” you say immediately. “No other type of nuts though.”

She nods, taking that in. “What about strong dislikes?”

“No,” you say with a shake of your head. “I’m not picky.”

“Good.”

The waiter returns not long after and Yolanda orders for you both without hesitation, assured as she names dishes you didn’t even look far enough into the menu to consider. She asks one or two questions about preparation before confirming your order.

You watch her, analyzing her level of comfort with total control. You’ve seen enough Greys Anatomy to know that surgeons have a reputation for being control freaks, and Yolanda fits the stereotype from what you’ve seen.

You almost miss the way her attention turns back on you, until she speaks. “You’re overthinking this.”

You let out a small laugh. “I usually am.”

“I can tell.”

There’s no bite to her words. If anything, it sounds…teasing?

Tilting your head, you ask, “Is that a problem?”

Yolanda sucks her teeth and then purses her lips, considering it. “No,” she eventually says. “Not if you learn when to stop.”

You lift a brow. “And this is one of those times?”

“Yeah.”

You ponder that for a moment before taking a deep breath and relaxing your shoulders. You don’t fully slouch, but you’re not as rigid as you were before. 

Food arrives not long after, carried out in measured timing by two servers rather than just by one, your plates set down quietly and without a word from the staff other than the question of anything else needed. 

Your food looks…intimidating. Not in portion, but presentation. A perfectly seared piece of fish rests over a bed of something green and glossy, dotted with small bright elements you can’t name. There’s a citrusy scent, something fresh that you can smell over the richness.

Yolanda notices your stare. “Branzino,” she says like she’s answering a question you didn’t ask. “Lean protein, it’s easy to digest.”

You glance up at her, then back down at the plate. It looks expensive.

“It is.”

Shit, did you say that out loud?

You let out an awkward chuckle as you pick up your fork. “Good to know.”

Hesitating as you take the first bite, you relax fully once you do. It’s good, really good. Clean but not bland, rich without feeling heavy. You take another bite. Across from you, Yolanda is watching your reaction.

“Well?” she asks.

You glance up mid-bite and swallow quickly. “It’s really good,” you admit. “I haven’t eaten anything this healthy in a while.”

“Oh?”

“I’m usually more of a whatever I can find at midnight kind of person,” you say honestly. “I basically live on black coffee.”

There’s a brief pause that you don’t even notice because you’re taking another bite.

“That might have to change.”

You look up from your plate again to find Yolanda casually cutting into her own dish. Her expression is relaxed, but the lift of her eyebrows suggests more sternness than she’s letting on. 

“I can’t have you running on processed junk and caffeine,” she continues, “if this is going to work out between us.”

You blink. “If this -”

She’s watching your reaction with that same critical gaze, and you realize the implication of her words.

She’s interested, even if she hasn’t said it aloud. 

Your mouth curves up at the win. “Are you going to be monitoring everything that goes into my body?”

Yolanda takes a bite of her own food, chewing thoroughly and then swallowing before answering you. “If necessary.”

“And is that something that would be in writing?” you tease with a smile. 

“It probably needs to be,” she says with a returning, teasing lilt. 

You take another bite, the discomfort in your stomach that never seems to go away these days actually easing a little bit for once. 

Taking another sip of her wine, Yolanda sets the glass down carefully and returns her attention to you. “You adapt quickly.”

You’re caught off guard once more by what you assume is a compliment. “I’m trying to keep up,” you admit.

“If you’re unsure about how this works,” she continues, “there’s an easier way to figure it out.”

“How?”

She opts to watch you instead of answering, as if she’s giving you time to realize what she’s suggesting before she actually says it out loud. When you don’t respond, she sighs exaggeratedly, like she’s being dramatic on purpose for the effect. “I don’t usually extend this kind of an offer,” she says. “But it might be useful in your case.”

You shift nervously in your seat. “What kind of offer?”

“A trial,” she says. “An opportunity to see if this is something that actually works for you instead of trying to decide based on a conversation.”

She’s not offering - no way.

Your fingers tighten around your fork and knife. “You mean -”

“Yes.” She didn’t even let you finish the question. The implication is clear. “You’re free to say no, it isn’t a requirement.”

You look down at your plate while your thoughts catch up to you. You don’t do this, you’ve never gone home with someone on the first date, especially someone you don’t know.

And it’s hypocritical to even consider it. You would’ve never gone home with any of the others you’ve met from that godforsaken website. But Yolanda isn’t making you uncomfortable; she isn’t being pushy, or rude, or only talking about herself.

And it doesn’t hurt that she’s devastatingly beautiful.

You glance back up at her and she’s watching you patiently. “What…what would that entail?”

Yolanda has to contain the smirk that threatens to consume her expression. Because she knows now, she has you. You started this date so uncertain and nervous, but now, even though you’re still sitting there with the same hint of anxiety, it’s mixed with something else. Curiosity. A willingness to take the next step even when you don’t fully understand where you’re stepping. And that’s way more fun than confidence.

Because most of the women who sit across from her try too hard. They perform and play up to her ego to get what they want from her. You’re not doing that, at least not that she’s seen. 

Yolanda’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, her smirk deepening when she catches your eyes tracking the movement.

It’s dangerously appealing.

There’s something almost indulgent about you, about the way your uncertainty presents itself, not as a weakness but as untouched, unshapen by this world she’s so familiar with. You’re someone she could teach.

“A test drive.”

When the check comes, she doesn’t even look at you to see if you’ll offer to pay for your own meal. You’re not supposed to, and Yolanda is nothing if not a gentlewoman. She picks it up and slides her card in without even looking at the total. And when the receipt is provided, she again doesn’t look at it, sliding her card back into her wallet, and her wallet back into her bag.

She guides you out of the restaurant with your hand fit snugly in hers, like you could be any other couple, you trailing behind her as she leads the way outside, and when you step out, a black car is already waiting at the curb for you both. 

Yolanda steps forward and opens the back door. “After you.” It’s directive, not chivalrous.

The interior is dim with cool leather beneath your legs. Yolanda follows a second later and shuts the door behind her. You don’t bother asking where you’re going, you already know.

Your dress sits slightly higher on your thighs from the way you slid into the seat, and her hand settles hot on your skin.

She turns her head slowly, leaning in until she’s close enough that you can feel her breath on your neck when she speaks. “You can still change your mind.”

You keep your head straight, looking forward between the front seats and out the windshield, trying desperately to ignore the rapid thud of your heart beating in your chest. Your own fingers curl around Yolanda’s wrist at your thigh, but you don’t pull her away, instead running them lazily over her bare forearms.

“I know,” you whisper.

She leans even closer at that and you can feel the smirk on her mouth as her lips press against your neck, jut under your ear. Goosebumps erupt over your skin and you unconsciously tilt your head a little to give her better access. The hand that was on your thigh closest to her reaches to your other, fingers digging into your skin as she pulls you closer to her, still mouthing at your neck.

You never take your eyes off the road in front of you, and you catch the eye of the driver in the rear view mirror.

Shame fills your gut, curling like steam and igniting your skin as your cheeks flame. Hot, your whole body feels hot, and you’re not sure if it’s the eyes of the driver or Yolanda alternating between kissing and biting the skin on your neck.

The car stops in front of a building that looks like it costs more per square foot than your whole house.

The lobby inside made of polished stone and expensive light fixtures. The doorman nods as you pass him, though it’s directed at Yolanda and definitely not you, and she returns it with the same motion.

The elevator ride up is quiet and she stands beside you without touching you now, her hands at her sides and her gaze forward. If you didn’t know better, you could almost gaslight yourself into thinking the car ride never happened at all and you don’t know this woman. At her floor, she leads the way down the hallway with her keys in hand. 

But the moment you step inside, the tone changes so sharply it almost gives you whiplash. She closes the door, and then she’s on you.

One hand fists the front of your dress right above your navel while the other slams flat against the wall beside your head, caging you in. Her mouth crashes into yours, hot and demanding and all slick tongue. There’s no gentleness to it, which doesn’t surprise you since you can still feel the ghost of her teeth on your neck. Her teeth scrape over your lower lip and you can’t help the little moan that slips out of your mouth and vibrates between you two.

Your hands slide down her button-up, pulling it to untuck from the waistband of her pants and allowing you to reach her skin underneath. Your palms meet warm, smooth skin that stretches tight over lean muscle. And as you breathe through your nose, you can smell the sandalwood cologne that screams expensive.

She breaks away from your mouth and yanks your dress up and over your head in one unexpected motion, and cool air hits your skin as you’re left in nothing but your heels and panties. Then she pulls on her own shirt, not even bothering to undo the buttons, opting instead to yank her shirt off over her head. It exposes the black lace of her bra, so see-through that your mouth waters at the sight of her nipples through the fabric.

The contrast makes your clit throb; she’s barely undressed, still in her bra and slacks and you can already feel the dampening fabric of your panties becoming uncomfortably slick.

Yolanda drops to her knees right there on the hardwood of her entryway, so fluid it steals your breath. Her hands grip your thighs, spreading them wide enough that the cool air hits your soaked cunt and makes you shiver. There are no teasing strokes, no soft kisses up your inner thigh. No, she leans in and drags her tongue flat up your slit in one long and intentional lick. The wet heat of her mouth stuns you, velvet and pressure all at once. You gasp, your hips jerking forward seeking her mouth, but her hold on your thighs pins you to the wall.

Fuck, she’s good. She circles your clit with the flat of her tongue and then sucks it hard between her lips, the suction bordering on painful and pulling a cry from your throat. She lifts one thigh over her shoulder so you’re balanced on one foot, using her for leverage to keep you upright. Two fingers push into you without warning, thick and insistent, curling immediately against the inside of your walls. The stretch burns and you clench around her, the slick sounds of your pleasure filling the entryway as she pumps her fingers quickly in and out of you. 

She doesn’t bother with filthy words to ramp you up. Instead, she works the same way you imagine she performs surgery: with precision and a kind of total domination. You would do anything, say anything, be anything to keep feeling the way she’s making you feel. Her tongue never stops it’s relentless rhythm, flicking and sucking while her free hand holds your hip in an iron grip.

Your thigh trembles against her shoulders. She’s not even looking up to see your reactions, like she knows what she’s doing, knows she’s so good at this that she doesn’t need to check in. And she’s right. The pressure inside you builds fast, coiling tight in your belly until it snaps almost without warning. 

You cum with a loud moan, your pussy fluttering hard around her fingers and a rush of wet heat flooding her tongue. She doesn’t slow down, fucking you through it and drawing it out until your legs threaten to give. Only then does she pull back, licking her glistening mouth with her tongue like it’s nothing more than a reward for a job well done.

She rises, her eyes dark with want but still cool and intimidating, and grabs your wrist. “Bedroom,” she says, her voice rough from effort, and she tugs you after her.

The bedroom is just as precise as the rest of her: silk sheets pulled tight over a king mattress, no decorative pillows and a single lamp casting a yellow glow. 

She shoves you onto the bed on your back and the cool of the silk shocks your overheated skin.

You watch, breath shallow, as she strips the rest of the way: slacks sliding down long, toned legs, bra unhooked and tossed aside. Her body is made out of sharp lines, her nipples are already tight from the cool air. From the nightstand she retrieves a harness and a thick, veined black strip, the silicone both realistic and heavy-looking. She squeezes lube onto it with a wet squelch and then steps into the harness, buckling it around her hips efficiently.

“Hands and knees,” she orders.

You scramble into position, ass up and chest pressed to the mattress, your knees spread wide to make room for her. Anticipation coils in your stomach like a live wire as she climbs over you, one palm smoothing over the curve of your ass before gripping your hip hard. 

The blunt head of the strap nudges your entrance, pausing there before she pushes in. It’s slow at first, splitting you open nice and easy, and you wonder if it’s for your benefit or if Yolanda is simply cherishing the moment. The burn is exquisite, the fullness is overwhelming. When she bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, you let out a shaky sigh. 

She barely gives you time to adjust. She pulls back out slowly and slams in again, setting an immediate and brutal pace. The slap of her hips against your ass echoes obscenely, mixed with the filthy wet sound of the strap driving into your soaked cunt. One hand snakes around your body to rub perfect little circles over your clit while the other fists your hair, yanking your head back enough to arch your spine.

“Take it,” she grows above you. “That’s it, gooood girl.”

The praise lands like gasoline on the fire already raging inside you, but there’s no softness or affection to it - just the satisfaction of watching you fall apart on her cock. The strap nudges against your g-spot perfectly with every thrust, the harness pressing against her own clit and you can feel her hips stutter when it hits just right. You cum again, harder this time, loud moans falling from your tongue as your vision whites out and your cunt spasms against the silicone.

She rides you through it, her pace refusing to falter, until your arms give out and you collapse forward. Only then does she pull out with a wet pop, leaving you empty and throbbing in time with your heartbeat. She flips you over onto your back like you weigh nothing, the strap still jutting from her hips, now slick with your cum.

She unbuckles it fast, leather straps whispering as they fall away, and tosses the toy aside. Then she’s climbing up your body until her thighs bracket your head, the heat of her pussy hovering inches from your mouth. You can smell her, musky and wet from how turned on she’s clearly been the whole time she was fucking you.

“My turn,” she says, rough with restraint as she lowers herself onto your waiting tongue.

You’ve barely had a second to recover from your own orgasm, yet you still dive in without hesitation, eager to return the favor. You lick a broad stripe up her slit, tasting the flood of her arousal. She’s dripping, slick coating your lips and chin as you circle her swollen clit with the tip of your tongue before sucking it into your mouth. She tastes so fucking good, and it’s been so long since you’ve wanted and been wanted in this way.

She grinds down on your tongue roughly, dominance emanating off her despite receiving instead of giving now. You push your tongue inside her, fucking her with it while your hands grip the muscle of her ass, pulling her down harder. She rides your face with the same intensity she fucked you with, her hips rolling in circles to retain some semblance of control, chasing what she wants. Her thighs shake against your ears but she’s nearly silent, only low groans and the occasional sharp gasp escaping her.

She grips your hair so tight it nearly pulls from your head as she cums. It’s sudden and intense, her walls fluttering around your tongue, her essence flooding your mouth as her hips jerk, riding it out on your face before she stills above you.

Her breath comes deep as she climbs off and collapses to your right on the bed. You lie there, your chest heaving and body buzzing with aftershocks, your own thighs still sticky and trembling.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. For a minute, you can pretend that this was just a regular hook-up, a run-of-the-mill romp with a woman you met at a bar. But as your body catches up, your thoughts lag behind.

Yolanda moves first, rolling onto her side with an arm bent under her head as she stares at the ceiling for a moment like she’s returning to her baseline. Then she turns to you. 

“You should drink some water,” she says with the same commanding edge to her voice that she seems to say everything with. 

A giggle escapes you. “Is that part of the rules too?” you ask, still a little breathless.

“It will be if you don’t do it yourself.”

Oh my god, that almost sounds like humor.

She sits up just a bit as she reaches for her phone, fishing it from the pocket of her slacks from earlier. She taps the bright screen a couple of times before setting it face-down.

A second later, your own phone buzzes and you reach for it without thinking. The screen lights up with a payment notification.

$3,000

What the fuck. What the actual fuck. This has to be a mistake, she couldn’t have meant to -

“Get out of your head.”

Your head snaps up to find Yolanda looking at you, her head propped up on her hand. 

“You thought this was just a trial for me?” she chuckles, almost condescendingly as she runs her free hand along your cheek. “That’s sweet.” She pushes up off the bed fully, standing to get dressed. “We can talk about next steps later.”

And as she moves to leave you alone in the bedroom to retrieve water, she stops in the doorway. “If you still want to.”

She doesn’t look at you when she says it, because she doesn’t have to. Yolanda is an expert at reading the human body, call it a byproduct of her profession that’s practically second nature by now. Call it whatever you want.

She knows she has her hooks in you.

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Three-year-olds were apparently indestructible.

“Alright, no more jumping,” you added, softer this time. “Feet stay on the floor.”

“Yes, Mommy,” they both chorused—already not listening.

Your gaze flicked back to your phone.

Still nothing.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

People had lives. Jobs. Responsibilities.

She was a doctor, for God’s sake.

That thought lingered.

Emergency medicine.

Long shifts. Chaos. No breaks.

It made sense she hadn’t replied yet.

Still…

Your stomach twisted anyway.

“Mommy,” the other twin said, crawling into your lap again. “You sad?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? No, baby. I’m not sad.”

She studied you in that unnervingly perceptive way kids had. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you said, brushing her hair back gently. “Just tired.”

That, at least, wasn’t a lie.

---

Dinner came and went in its usual blur—negotiating bites, wiping spills, reminding them that crayons were not for the table.

Bath time followed.

Then pajamas.

Then stories.

Then water.

Then another story because apparently one was never enough.

By the time you finally got them into bed—again—you felt like collapsing right there on the floor.

Instead, you made your way back to the living room, sinking onto the couch with a long exhale.

Your phone lit up.

Your heart jumped.

You grabbed it so fast you almost dropped it.

A notification.

From Tinder.

Your pulse picked up as you unlocked the screen.

A message.

From—

Melissa King

You stared at it for a second before opening it, your breath catching slightly.

Melissa: Hey 🙂 Sorry—long shift. Just saw this. Hi.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

She answered.

She actually answered.

And somehow, that felt bigger than it should’ve.

You read the message again.

Long shift.

Of course.

You leaned back into the couch, staring at the screen, your mind suddenly blank.

What were you supposed to say now?

You’d gotten this far on impulse.

Now it felt… real.

“Okay,” you muttered under your breath. “You can do this.”

You typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Deleted again.

“Seriously?” you whispered to yourself.

You were a grown woman.

You handled toddlers, bills, work, life—

and yet one message had you completely spiraling.

Your phone buzzed again.

You froze.

Another message.

From her.

Melissa: How’s your night going?

You blinked.

A second message.

She didn’t just reply—she kept the conversation going.

Something in your chest eased.

Maybe this didn’t have to be so complicated.

Maybe it could just be… talking.

You swallowed, then started typing again.

You: It’s been busy lol. Just got my twins to bed.

You hesitated for half a second.

Then hit send.

There it was.

No hiding it. No easing into it later.

Just the truth.

You watched the screen like it might disappear.

The little typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Your heart jumped again.

Melissa: Twins?

You huffed a quiet laugh.

You: Yeah. 3 years old. They’re a handful.

The typing bubble came back.

Melissa: I can imagine. I barely survive a shift in the ER—I don’t know how you do that every day.

You blinked at the screen.

Then read it again.

Because… that wasn’t judgment.

It wasn’t hesitation.

It wasn’t the usual awkward silence that came after mentioning your kids.

It was… respect.

Understanding.

You felt something warm settle in your chest.

You: Honestly? Some days I don’t 😂

A pause.

Then—

Melissa: That’s fair.

You smiled.

Actually smiled.

Your shoulders relaxed without you realizing it, the tension from earlier slowly slipping away.

For a while, the conversation stayed easy.

Simple.

You learned she worked nights more often than not. That she ran on caffeine and stubbornness. That she had a dry sense of humor that caught you off guard in the best way.

And she asked about you.

Not in a polite, surface-level way.

In a way that felt like she actually wanted to know.

Time slipped by without you noticing.

Until—

“Mommy?”

You turned, startled, as one of your daughters stood in the hallway again, rubbing her eyes.

“I can’t sleep.”

You softened immediately, setting your phone down.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you said, standing and walking over. “Come on.”

She wrapped her arms around your leg, clinging.

You picked her up, settling her against your hip.

“Stay with me?” she mumbled.

“Always,” you murmured.

You carried her back to the couch, sitting down carefully as she curled into you, already drifting off again.

Your phone buzzed softly beside you.

You glanced at it.

Another message from Melissa.

You hesitated this time.

Not because you didn’t want to answer.

But because… this mattered now.

More than it had an hour ago.

You picked up your phone, careful not to wake your daughter, and opened the message.

Melissa: I’d like to keep talking, if that’s okay.

Your breath caught slightly.

Simple words.

But they landed heavy.

Intentional.

Real.

You looked down at your daughter sleeping against you.

At the quiet apartment.

At the life you’d built—messy, full, complicated.

And then back at the screen.

“…Okay,” you whispered.

Your thumbs moved before doubt could catch up.

You: I’d like that too.

You hit send.

And this time—

the nerves were still there.

But they weren’t overwhelming.

Because underneath them…

Something steady was starting to grow.

And for once—

Wrong. 

Your Raynaud’s was flaring before you could pass the first crosswalk, skin blanching like it was trying to match the icy gray of the sky. You made it back with an iced drink anyway, because god forbid your routine is disrupted and hot drinks leave you with a dry throat. Your fingers are worsened by the plastic of the cup and the result is you curled on the couch, hands shoved under your thighs. And a very worried girlfriend. Hovering. With a look on her face that only showed up when she was trying to act like you weren’t one of her medical emergencies.

A week later: you should totally buy those heels you’d been eyeing on Depop, right? Retail therapy always worked and you’d been staring at them for days. Weeks. Beige kitten heels with muted cream accents that were part of the timeless Manolo Blahnik’s Spring/Summer collections. The seller dropped the price (and was clearly well into her 50’s), so it only made sense. Divine intervention. 

Wrong. Package arrives. Mel agrees that they are very cute and vintage and make your legs look long (you do not have long legs, but you appreciate the effort). But now, unfortunately, she also has to mentally reroute the entire gift plan she had for you, because you’ve beaten her to the punch in a very specific, very niche category. This is said kindly. You still feel guilty every time you wear the shoes.

Halfway into December a year ago: it snowed. Wonderful and beautiful and cinematic, and you decided to lean into it. You bought eggnog to spike for you and Mel and Swiss Miss hot cocoa mix with Jet Puff mini-marshmallows for Becca. Good idea, right? Very cute, very festive. Nope. Becca decided she wanted Mel’s eggnog after you added the rum to which she promptly spat out over the counter. At least you stood there holding paper towels, offering to clean up like the moment would absolve you of having introduced alcohol into a supposedly domestic holiday beverage experience. All while Mel agreed with Becca that, yes, not all eggnog tastes like that, it was truly just a bad batch.

Long story short, this year was going to be different.

The season that Mel had already labeled stressful for many reasons; more illnesses in the ER, prepping for Christmas, you– was, actually, not going to be stressful. 

Thanks to you. 

This is the conclusion you arrive to some time after Thanksgiving, while you and Mel are collapsed on the couch in that post-meal haze that had you two blinks away from a food coma and your brain convinced to let thoughts arrive slowly after they checked for permission. It was the only day she’d requested off in weeks. A strategic move. She was hoarding days like rations so she wouldn’t have to work through Christmas, and you were acutely aware of this because it made the moment feel both precious and heavily borrowed. Full stomachs. Fire on, real or stimulated, it didn’t matter. A blanket draped over the both of you, weighted, and your head tucked against her chest where her heartbeat was steady–you were very, very thankful for that one reason she was home so rarely throughout the month.

Becca had declared it the holiday season before mid-November, which no one had the energy to contest, and now, she could scroll through the single streaming service you and Mel paid for proudly. Festive movie posters slid past. Paused. Slid again. Mel’s heart thumped under your ear as the choices looped, and looped, and looped. You both knew what she was going to land on eventually. This knowledge did not stop you from narrating each movie that passed anyway.

“My family used to watch A Christmas Story at my grandma’s every year,” you hum, mostly into Mel’s shirt. Her fingers trace lazy, absent shapes into your back, the kind of touch that suggests she’s listening even if she’s not responding. Becca twists around on the floor to look at you both, hair sticking up in places from scrambling around the kitchen with you earlier, suspicious already. “Kind of freaked me out,” you continue. “There’s this part where the little brother gets his tongue stuck to a pole because it’s so cold it freezes. Like, instantly,” you pause, as if considering whether that detail was necessary. “And then at the end, when Ralphie finally gets the BB gun, he shoots an icicle and it almost hits his eye,” you add helpfully. Mel chuckles beneath you, chest vibrating just enough to be felt. “Which everyone warns him about throughout the movie.”

“You spoiled it,” Becca points out accusatorily, and you smile softly.

“We weren’t gonna watch it anyways,” you counter. “Plus, I don’t think you would like it. I don’t, even though it’s nostalgic for me.”

Mel shifts beneath you, and you can tell without looking that she’s probably looking at you now. There’s a very specific silence that precedes commentary. “Those characters kind of sound like you.”

Pause.

You take a little offense to that. Those stressful characters? The loud, chronically unlucky ones? Everything that happened to you during December was an accident. Of your own doing, sure, but it was still an accident. You weren’t going around licking poles to see if your tongue would get stuck to them. You weren’t actively tempting the universe. You were minding your business, the farthest thing from that. The farthest thing from them.

But then, as Becca finally clicks on Elf and the opening music kicks in, bright and intrusive, you let the thought sit there longer than you want to. You replay the previous holiday season: the gloves, the iced drink, the heels, the eggnog incident. Mel: tired, hovering, recalibrating around you like you’re a variable that won’t stop changing. And you consider it. 

Did you really stress Mel out that much?

Which you concluded: a very strong probably. 

Along with the good idea to actively make this your best holiday season yet.

Which, historically, is how all of your accidents begin.

DECEMBER 1ST

Black Friday comes and goes without ceremony. No trampling at Robinson, no dramatic savings, just you. Cocooned in the comforter on yours and Mel’s bed, laptop balanced precariously on your thighs and pillow supporting your lower back as you started on Christmas shopping. Your fingers speed over the keyboard of your laptop. Amazon deals. Tabs open like a dozen little obligations. A list pared down to the people you cannot reasonably get away with forgetting. Your parents. Your sister. Best friend. Two co-workers. Dana from Mel’s work (that absolutely adores you, somehow). Becca. 

Everyone except for the most important individual of them all. 

Because Mel is, inexplicably, hard to shop for. Not in a picky way, but in the way where she can tell if you put thought into it or not, and then her expression would reflect how confident you were in the present no matter how hard she tried to mask it. And because you are a perfectionist, and because you are in love with her, you have decided that getting it wrong is not an option. So you don’t get it at all. Yet.

These are the filler days, the soft, deceptive stretch at the end of November before the calendar officially clicks over and things become real. You come up with one idea. You turn it over in your head. You set it down gently and walk away from it. You conclude, that’s stupid and go back to the drawing board. Think again. Repeat. All of this happens while Mel leaves for the PTMC in the early morning dark and comes back just barely in time for dinner

Bitterly, you think the most selfish gift you could give her would be bribing her boss. More days off for time that doesn’t feel borrowed and time that doesn’t have to be rationed.

You know she would probably insist you don’t get her anything at all. And she would mean it, too. Meanwhile, she absolutely already had an idea for you locked in and loaded. Nailed down something thoughtful and infuriatingly perfect, and all you have is a half-baked plan to handle everything for her this December. And a growing, impractical desire to purchase time like it’s something you can add to a cart.

But time, unfortunately, does not wait for checkout. It runs faster than you expect and would like because you wake up one morning to an empty bed, the absence loud. The air carries a chill that somehow just signals the countdown has begun. Rolling over to face the closed curtains, you flip your phone, and there it is–your screensaver. You and Mel on your birthday earlier this year, cake smudged on the bridge of your nose and your fingers. Her hands cupping your elbows, looking at you sweeter than the whipped sugar had been. 

The moment is frozen, but the date stares back at you anyway: December 1st.

And time, predictably, proceeds without allowing a pause to let you workshop the answer to the ongoing crisis that is what you are doing for Mel this Christmas. It moves forward with or without your consent. You move through your morning routine sluggishly: brushing teeth and hair, washing your face, debating taking a body shower because you were cold enough that shrugging on a sweater wasn’t going to be enough. The temperature having settled that far into your bones. But you ultimately decide against it, time working against you again, opting for said sweater because layers solve most things and so you would make it in time for a work call that lasted for roughly 43 minutes. 

By the end of it, you are starving, stressed, and already experiencing caffeine withdrawal despite the fact that the day has barely started. And when you exit yours and Mel’s room to Becca standing on the kitchen counter, that only adds to your faint irritability.

The youngest King sister glances back at the sound of the door opening when you come out with your laptop in the crook of your elbow and plaid pajama pants still on. She has scraps of paper garlands in her outstretched hands, scissors sheared pieces and corners off before being discarded a few inches away from her. A bright exclamation of your name leaves her.

“I’m decorating. Look–” She extends her arms fully, letting the paper fall open to reveal the design. snowflakes. Lopsided in places, but still identifiable. “They’re snowflakes. It took me a couple of tries but I figured it out.”

You nod, because that’s easier than panicking, as you cross the short space to the counter and set your laptop down on the linoleum countertop. Then, you reach carefully for her arm, mindful of balance. “They look great, Becca,” you say, honestly before adding, carefully, diplomatically: but let’s um– Let’s find a safer way to hang them up.”

Because it is December. And apparently, the season has already decided to test you.

Becca shakes her head insistantly. “No, they should hang from the tops of the cabinets. I made them long enough to have three swoops for each side,” she explains, paper rustling in her hands as she contracts her arms back toward her chest. You let out a breath, dropping your hands as well. Four of the dark oak cabinets hovered over the right of the stove, a microwave wedged between them and two others to the left. Climbing to decorate isn’t an unreasonable plan, just a vertical one.

“Okay,” you say, because arguing feels like it would take more energy than you currently possess. “You do the ones on the left, and I can do the ones on the right. Sounds good?”

Becca nods immediately, an excited smile taking over her face. The way her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners reminds you insistantly of Mel. 

“Kay,” you whisper under your breath, mostly to yourself, mirroring her expression as you take some of the garland from her hands. “Be careful, Becca.”

You should have taken that warning for yourself as well.

Slipping is something you’re used to. You've suffered worse falls than the few feet from a crouch on the counter to the wooden floor of the small kitchen–off your electric scooter when you were ten, the back of the risers after the last period of your sophomore year of high school. But that doesn’t make the impact pleasant. Your right hip takes the brunt of it, the ache blooming sharp and immediate where your weight lands, bright enough to steal the air from your lungs for a second.

Honestly, you’re not even sure how it happened. One moment you’re reaching, and the next gravity is doing its part to enforce Newton’s second law. Becca had hung her garland effortlessly, dismounting the counter without fault, and had even turned back to help you when you reached just a little too far. And consequently, stumble straight down to the floor, garland fluttering uselessly in your hands like it’s surprised too.

And Becca, bless her, moves fast. Quicker than you expect. She's at your side immediately, hands careful as she helps you sit up, eyes scanning you like she’s mentally checking off a list. She notices the way your hand goes straight to your side. Doesn’t comment on it, just gets you ice. Says something tentative about calling Mel–

“Don’t,” you say, too quickly, the word tripping over itself on the way out. You press the ice a little harder against your hip, like you can convince it to behave. “Don’t. It's okay, I'm all good. And Mel is busy.”

Becca frowns at that, just a little. The kind of frown that suggests she’s unconvinced but not ready to argue yet. You force yourself up anyway, pushing through the sharp protest of your body. You wince despite your best efforts, the movement tugging at something sore and blooming, but you keep your balance. Barely.

“Mel always makes time for us,” Becca says.

And that’s exactly the problem.

She always does. No matter how tired she is, no matter how thin she’s stretched, she would use her break to call you. She would worry. She would catalog this as another thing she should have been there for. She doesn’t need that. Not because of you.

“This really isn’t that bad,” you insist, voice steady even if the rest of you isn’t. Your eyes drift to the half-hung garland still clinging to the cabinet, miraculously intact. “We can tell her when she gets home.”

You wouldn’t.

Becca would remember, though, which is inconvenient, so you pivot. The solution presents itself fully formed: distraction through productivity. Wear her out with festive attrition.

You glance back at her and tilt your head toward the hallway. “Go check out the holiday closet,” you say lightly. “Let’s surprise Mel with a decorated apartment, yeah?”

Becca hesitates, clearly torn between her sense of responsibility and her love of surprises. You don’t give her much time to decide. Swallowing the remaining ache, mostly dulled by the ice, you turn away from the kitchen and start toward the hallway, waving her along. She follows, still watching you like you might fall again, which you very carefully do not.

December already had one on you, but you wouldn’t let it get one on Mel.

And despite the ache–and the bruise you know is already blooming beneath your pajama pants, soft and inevitable, like a bad spot on an apple–you keep moving. Decorating helps and so does cleaning, more than you expect. It gives your body something to do while your brain runs laps.

The magazine you work for makes sure you don’t get too comfortable. Every hour there’s something: an edit to review, an article idea to discuss, a quick call that turns into a longer one. You keep your laptop within reach, chiming in where necessary, sounding engaged even as your hands are busy. Still, there’s enough space between tasks for your mind to wander. Gift ideas circle and double back before the familiar feeling of none of them landing hitting. Becca helps you wipe down the kitchen, crumbs disappearing under the cloth, and later with vacuuming the floors.

And you assist where you can. Gel clings go up on the living room windows, pressed carefully into place so they don’t peel at the corners, little snowmen, stars, and something that might be a reindeer if you squint filling the panes. You lay a new crocheted placemat in the center of the circular dining table, adjusting it until it sits just right. Symmetry feels important today.

The hallway closet is a disaster in the way all functional spaces are. Two medium-sized bins of Christmas decorations take up most of it–wedged in among the vacuum, the swifter, stacks of notebooks from Mel's med-school days, and various documents deemed important enough to keep but not important enough to display. The bins are lighter than you expect because there aren't as many decorations as you remember, really. One of them is almost entirely occupied by the 4.5-foot christmas tree that will go in the corner of the living room, next to the shelves holding a handful of your vinyls and several books. The other is meant to hold the rest.

Which, again, isn’t much.

You stare into it for a moment longer than necessary, hands resting on the frame, thinking. About Mel. About time. About decorations. About how you’re running out of two of them and still don’t have anything concrete to show for it. The bruise throbs dully, reminding you you’re still in your body. You close the door. Keep going.

So you delegate. Becca gets a task, making decorations–construction paper and markers spread out like a sanctioned mess while you pretend to be productive. You manage to assemble the Christmas tree one-handed, ice pack balanced awkwardly against your hip, pausing every so often to reposition it when the cold starts to bite more than help. Branches get fluffed unevenly. Which is fine. No one is judging the tree. You work. Then work some more.

Time does its thing. Becca crafts with intense focus, tongue caught between her teeth, producing decorations that are earnest and slightly asymmetrical while you glance at the clock more than you mean to. By the time she’s finished, it’s nearing 4 P.M.–one hour before you can officially clock out and three hours before Mel gets home.

Becca is particular about placement and presentation. You know this, so you dart back and forth between your laptop and her. And between instructions and adjustments, the living room slowly transforms while you try not to move too fast or bend the wrong way. Finishing the decorations takes longer than it should. Everything does today. But you get there. Eventually. Actually, once again, forty-three minutes after you’ve finished your work day. It leaves you just enough time to wrangle Becca into helping put things away and start dinner. Barely enough. The clock ticks loudly as the apartment smells like something warming on the stove.

Then the sound of the door unlocking cuts through it all. Mel's home.

Her nose is red from the cold, glasses fogging slightly as the warm air hits her, her coat wrapped tight around her middle. She's tired. You can see it. And still, she smiles. Just a little. Like always. 

Becca gets to her first, but you’re right behind, the two of you crowding Mel's personal space as she shrugs out of her coat and hangs her bag on one of the hooks by the door. She kicks her shoes into the rack on instinct, movements practiced, muscle memory from a thousand late returns, and before you can even lean in for a hello kiss, Becca is grabbing her arm and tugging her forward. Already showcasing the decorations and vibrating with excitement.

Any hope of subtlety dies immediately.

Still, your plan works. Enthusiasm is contagious so Mel lets herself be pulled and be shown. She laughs in that tired-but-soft way as Rebecca points things out, explaining decorations. Later, on the couch after dinner, Becca starts to wilt. The movie is on (Miracle On 34th Street, which you can’t fault her for falling asleep to) and before you’re even halfway through, she’s nodding off. You shepherd her to bed without protest. Success.

Then, it’s just you and Mel.

The movie is paused, frozen on a frame you’ll never return to as you’re tangled together on the couch. Limbs fit easily like this, where they’re meant to be, but it’s not enough to stop you from suddenly sucking in a small gasp and sitting up too fast. “I forgot something.”

Mel follows your movement without thinking, like she always does. It's one of those things you notice only because it keeps happening. She pushes up onto her hands, brows knitting slightly, her hair is still braided, though a few strands have escaped and frame her face. “Is something wrong?”

You quickly shake your head.

“I– saved something for us to do,” you clarify as green irises track you while you separate from her and shuffle quietly back to the hallway closet. In the back corner, a singular package of purple and green ornaments (some sparkly, some matte, and some shiny) sit in a plastic box. Next to it, a Reebok shoebox that contained a few homemade ornaments. You collect them both carefully, making sure to carry them on your non-bruised hip as you enter the living room to where Mel’s fully sat on the couch.

With a tiny smile, you lift the two containers. The furrow of her brows is gone, and she tilts her head as she stands. 

“Can’t let Becca have all of the fun decorating, can I?” you say hushedly as you make your way past her to the tree. 

When you glance back, Mel is smiling–small, restrained, the kind that lives mostly in her eyes. Her hands twist together in front of her stomach, a familiar tell. “She might get upset if we do this without her,” Mel whispers back, already stepping closer anyway. She takes the shoebox from on top of the store-bought container without asking and the lift of her lips gives her away. She's not really thinking about Becca right now.

You shrug, breaking eye contact for a moment to look at your own container of the baubles. “I think she would agree that you deserve some festive joy of your own,” you tease, looking back to her. Mel presses her tongue against her teeth, lips pressed together. “Besides, she’s tired. You know I’m good at that. Tiring you both out.”

“You have a point,” she chuckles lightly. Then, she opens the lid. Tissue paper lines the inside, yellowed at the edges, and beneath it sit the keepsakes. Mismatched. Handmade. Her thumb traces the edge of the lid absently as she studies them. For a moment, her expression goes distant–nostalgic, maybe. Something gentler. Then she looks back up at you, eyes warm. “Which ones do we start with?”

A tiny smile of your own as you jostle the plastic you’re holding once.

Then, you set the box down at the base of the tree and lower yourself carefully, mindful of your hip even though the ache has dulled into something quieter, that’s still slightly insistent. And the tree still stands there in the corner–bare, branches still slightly uneven from your earlier attempt at fluffing. It smells faintly of plastic and dust. Still, it's a tree. It counts. “These,” you clarify. “‘Cause they have less… meaning?”

Mel kneels beside you, close enough that your knees brush. “They will after this,” she says. “Since we’re, y’know, doing this together.” Your heart softens at her words, and she reaches for one of the store-bought ornaments, rolling it between her fingers. Purple. Matte. “I forgot how many of these we actually have,” she murmurs.

You take one glittery green one that has swirl indentations on it, eyeing the lower branches for where to place it. “Maybe we should get a bigger tree for next year.” 

That makes Mel pout slightly, which turns into her brows raising just enough to signal an idea. “We can put this one in our room?”

“Storage, Mel,” you remind her with a small giggle. But when you see her expression (and remember everything you’re supposed to be doing for her), you cave. “Which… I’m sure we can figure out.” 

You hang your ornament on needles sticking out stiff and non-yielding despite how many times you tried to make them look less manufactured. It’s not a surprise when it holds. “Good choice,” you mumble. She snorts quietly and hands her ornament to you. You hook it onto another lower branch, adjusting the placement twice before it looks right. Mel watches, amused, then reaches for another that she hangs on her own this time.

The tree’s not very tall. You both can reach near the top when you’re sitting on your knees, so you finish with the plastic ornaments that way. Decorating in a rhythm, one ornament at a time, sometimes passing them back and forth. Sometimes Mel places them herself, leaning back to assess, adjusting angles and becoming a bit more demanding with where each shiny sphere looks best. At one point, you get too confident, plopping down to the side of your thigh and bumping your hip in the process. You’re not subtle when the small noise of pain leaves you, but you think you disguise it well enough that Mel doesn’t notice. 

She does eye you, but you play it innocent: widening your eyes and nodding to the shoebox to quietly tell her to move on.

Cautiously, she does. But she doesn’t look away from you as she lifts out an ornament made of construction paper and glitter. It’s laminated badly enough that the edges are permanently wavy. It's a star. Lopsided with a fraying string. Thankfully, it’s enough to pull her attention from your slip-up, because she smiles before she even says anything.

“I made this in third grade,” she says. “We had this whole unit on symmetry in math. I did not understand it.”

You look at the star. You look at her. “Shocking.”

She bumps her shoulder into yours, gentle. “My teacher hung it in the hallway anyway. And then my mom cried when I brought it home. I thought I'd done something wrong.”

You take the ornament from her, holding it carefully. “Did you?”

“No,” she huffs as a laugh. “Apparently it was ‘very me.’” Mel makes air quotes with two fingers. “Which I still don’t know how to take.”

You smile and stand slowly, testing your weight before committing. Mel watches you automatically, hand hovering near your elbow without touching. You hang the star closer to the center of the tree, where it’s visible but protected. “It is very you,” you agree

She laughs, the sound soft and real, and reaches for another ornament. This one is clay. Painted green once upon a time, now chipped in places. It’s supposed to be a frog. You think.

“Oh,” she says, fond. “This one I made the year my dad tried to convince me I wasn't allowed to bring homework on vacation.” It twists slightly as it hangs from two of her fingers. “It was the only vacation we ever went on–The Kalahari, in Wisconsin. Spring break.”

“And?”

“And I brought it anyway. I Hid it in my suitcase and did it in the hotel bathroom at night.” She pauses. “I was the only fifth grader that didn’t fail that assignment, since everyone else turned it in late.”

“Will you at least let me look at it before we go to bed? To make me feel better?”

You hum. “Worth it?”

She considers it. “Yeah. I still remember the frog I found by one of the cabanas. That was the inspiration.”

The tree fills in slowly. Imperfect, yet personal and warm in a way that has nothing to do with lights. When you finally sit back on the couch, hip protesting, Mel leans into your side without thinking, head tipping onto your shoulder.

“This is nice,” she whispers.

You let the feeling of victory flicker in your chest. This was a good sign, maybe you could do this whole ‘making Mel’s December worry-free’ as you sit there with her, looking at the tree, letting the quiet do the rest.

The quiet lasts for all of maybe thirty seconds before Mel brings up what she notices.

She always does. It's never dramatic. She doesn’t announce it, she just shifts slightly, settling more fully against you, and feels the way your body compensates without your permission. The careful angle of your leg, the way you don’t quite sink into the couch on one side. Her head lifts from your shoulder.

“Hey,” she says softly. Not alarmed, just attentive.

You know what she’s looking at before she says it from the way her eyes drop to your hip where your hand has drifted back unconsciously, fingers pressing there like they might keep everything in place. She sits up a little, reaching out, stopping herself halfway like she’s waiting for consent she technically doesn’t need but always asks for anyway.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

You exhale through your nose, slow and measured. “It’s nothing,” you assure automatically, “I just–slipped earlier. It's fine.”

Mel’s mouth tightens, just slightly. She doesn’t argue yet, she never argues. She just shifts again, turning toward you fully, knee tucking up under her. “Define fine.”

You sigh.

So much for some light Christmas romance.

“I fell,” you admit. “In the kitchen. Becca was there, nothing cracked. I didn't want to make it a whole thing.”

Her hand finds your hip anyway, careful and warm, resting over the fabric of your pajama pants without pressing. The contact alone makes the ache flare, like it’s been waiting for acknowledgment. You suck in a breath despite yourself. Mel freezes immediately.

“That hurt,” she observes quietly. Not a question.

You grimace. “A little.”

“Right there?”

“Yeah.”

“Sharp or dull?”

“Dull. Mostly. Kind of… blooming?”

She nods. “Any numbness? Tingling down your leg?” You shake your head and she watches your face while you do it, not trusting the answer without the reaction. Mel’s thumb traces just below the bone, careful to avoid pressing again.

“You hit the iliac crest,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “Probably a contusion. nasty bruise.” Then, gentler: “Can you put weight on it okay?”

“I have been?” That earns you a look. Not angry, just a little tired and mostly fond.

“You shouldn’t.” Her hand stays there, warm even through the fabric of your clothing. She shifts you carefully, guiding your weight so the pressure eases. It helps immediately, which feels unfair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrug. “You were working. And I wanted today to be good.”

Her hand presses just a little more firmly now, grounding rather than probing. “You don’t have to keep things from me for today to be good.” Well, that makes you feel guilty. “We’ll ice it again,” she proceeds after another beat of quiet. “Twenty minutes on, twenty off. If it gets worse, or you start limping tomorrow, you tell me. Please.”

You open your mouth. She lifts her eyebrows.

You close it.

“And I want to look at it before we go to bed. It’ll make me feel better.”

Not better in the way you wanted, but it was the least you could do, you supposed.

DECEMBER 5TH

ME: hey lmk if there’s a lull in patients today. ik it’s always busy, but I have smthing for u

MEL: Feel free to come down whenever! ☺️I’ll take a 15 minute break when you show up unless I’m in the middle of a trauma ❤️

So, maybe the Christmas decorating had been a subconscious attempt at a present for Mel. You hadn’t really realized it until a few days after, bruise having faded to a sickly-looking yellow, but somewhere in the middle of that, it clicks. Saving that experience of decorating the tree with her, had been kind of a gift. It had never really been just the two of you like that before. Not without Becca. or an agenda or the low-grade hum of something waiting to go wrong. That night had felt different. Intimate. Safe. Like the world had stepped back and given you a pocket of time to hold. It felt, unmistakably, like an early Christmas present.

And suddenly you knew.

Finally, you had an idea of what to get her: that same feeling. The feeling of you taking care of things instead of her for once (minus the hidden injury, lesson learned) and letting her experience the little joys of the season.

Decorating had been a riskier first attempt of that, considering your track record with December, but you also hadn’t pieced together what you’d been trying to do. Now, you knew. And could plan accordingly.

And there was one thing you absolutely could not get wrong. Cooking.

Mel liked certain textures (mushy was bad, slimy was unforgivable, crunch had to be intentional) but wasn’t picky about flavor combinations in the slightest, which was perfect. Because you nailed down what made her nose wrinkle in distaste and what made her sigh in contentment and then let your imagination run wild with different herbs and spices and mixes of sweet and savory. You didn’t like jam with any kind of cake or too much frosting, but Mel did, that was the only compromise you had to continuously make even if it was technically for baking. That, and you had to keep track of Mel’s allergies: severe shellfish, semi-severe with coriander and soybeans, and a minor one to benzoates.

But you had perfected it by now. And you were determined to start a streak of bringing her a homemade lunch at least twice a week.

So, on your lunch break, you pack. Sealing up rice balls shaped into different onigari–all with different fillings that were color-associated and had marked labels over beeswax paper–into a lunch box with an ice pack and a paper towel. This, you think, must be what moms feel like when their kid forgets their lunch. You're sitting alone on the bus, knees tucked in, holding the bag close to your body as the vehicle bumps along the road. The route will get you to the PTMC stop in thirteen minutes. Enough time to feel a low-grade, unnecessary embarrassment as the finance-bro-looking thirty–no, forty?–something man across from you eyes the large tupperware of cookies beneath the lunchbox.

You consider offering him one, anxiety does that to you, generosity as a defense mechanism. But the bus lurches to a stop before you can talk yourself into it, and you’re up and off, heart beating faster than necessary as you make the short walk to the waiting room entrance. The door is a pull. Of course it is. Mildly annoying when you’re balancing food in one arm and texting Mel with the other to tell her you’ve arrived. The waiting room is crowded, per usual, not that you were looking for a seat–you weren’t going to take one from someone who needed it and also, you weren’t going to be staying for long. You hoped.

Your scarf is still pulled up to your nose as you watch people move around each other in practiced patterns. The check-in line grows. You stare at your phone, willing the text back into existence. Mel keeps her sound alerts off at work, always tells you and Becca to call if it’s an emergency, so unless she’s deliberately checking, there’s a good chance you’ll be standing here for a while.

You shift your weight. Hold the lunchbox tighter. Wait.

At least–until Mateo notices you.

He rounds into triage with a clipboard tucked under his arm, already halfway through calling the next name. curls bounce when he stops short, mouth open mid-syllable as his eyes land on you. 

He rounds into triage, clipboard in hand with the next patient to call and he looks up, curls bouncing slightly and mouth open to speak when he notices you. There’s a brief recalibration. Then he lowers the clipboard and gives you a quick wave, unmistakably meant for you. You don’t hesitate. You move fast, grateful for the permission you didn’t technically ask for.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks once you’re close enough to hear him over the layered noise of the ER. Voices, a child crying somewhere you can’t see, coughing and sneezing.

“Bringing Mel lunch,” you say, lifting the bag slightly like proof. Then, after a beat, “and the rest of you cookies.” You glance down as he does, at the tupperware. “I guess.”

Mateo laughs, short and easy, and steps back just long enough to badge you through the door. “You remember where the staff lounge is?”

You nod, a tiny smile tugging at your mouth. “Thanks, Mateo.” He says something back, but you don’t catch it as you slip past and into the hallway, following the familiar-but-not-quite path toward the central nurse’s station. It's just as busy back here, if not more, with people moving around in circles. Charts changing hands, urgency without panic. You swallow, suddenly aware of yourself again. Your eyes catch on the decorations first: garlands that look like they belong in an elementary school classroom over doorways, mini Christmas trees on counter corners, more window sticks on a few of the bays. Hoping you don’t get in anyone’s way, and that you’re not called out for not having a visitor’s badge, you maneuver your way through the space, feeling severely out-of-place without black scrubs or a hospital gown on. Just you and your sweater and a bag of food, moving through a space that doesn’t belong to you. You keep going anyway.

And with the amount of commotion, it’s easy to get turned around. Sounds overlap and hallways bleed into each other, every turn looking briefly correct until it isn’t. Even in a space this small, you can feel yourself drifting toward trouble just by being slightly out of rhythm.

Thankfully, a familiar head of almost-white blonde finds you before that happens.

“Kid!”

The voice–gravelly, warm, edged with New York–cuts through everything. You spin on instinct as you let out a breath of relief. Dana is there immediately, materializing at your side like she’s been keeping half an eye out for you the whole time, guiding you to a spot on the floor where you weren’t in anyone’s way.

“Mel said you were comin’,” she says, already scanning you for damage out of habit. “Did you let her know you were here?”

You nod quickly, eyes darting around like you were trying to search for her in one of the bays. “Mateo let me in. I, um–” You shift the containers in your arms around a little. “I brought you guys cookies, just cause– y’know the holiday.”

Dana glances down. You keep going.

“I wasn’t sure what everyone liked, so there’s red velvet, peppermint bark, and double chocolate chip,” you ramble, words tripping over each other now that you’ve started. “And I didn't know about allergies, so they’re gluten-free and there’s no kind of nuts in them, but they do have dairy—”

“Kid,” Dana says gently, a small chuckle threading through it.

You stop. Finally.

“Thank you,” she says, and she means it. She places a steady hand between your shoulders and starts guiding you toward the staff lounge before you can overthink it again. “I’ll let everyone know.” You inhale, already preparing to add something else, when she continues, preemptive and kind: “And i’ll get mel for you. Alright?”

“Thank you,” you breathe as Dana pushes the door open, the hinge squeaking softly in protest. The staff lounge smells like burnt coffee and disinfectant and something faintly sweet you can’t place. You move for the table immediately, setting the cookies down with careful hands. “Have her take the tupperware and any leftovers home with her?”

“There won’t be any leftovers,” Dana knowingly chuckles, already halfway back out. The door swings shut behind her, cutting off the noise of the unit in a way that feels almost unreal.

And you’re alone. Momentarily. 

Because apparently Mel’s much faster at responding to Dana than your texts.

When she enters the lounge, her shoulders are tight, posture coiled with tension and lips slightly parted as she lets out a long breath. But then, she sees you, and it’s like every piece of worry melts from her body. You’re standing there, suddenly very aware of how you look–coat still on, scarf half-undone, lunchbox clutched awkwardly in both hands.

“Hi,” she says gently, reverent almost. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you stopped by.” Another long sigh as Mel closes the distance and her arms envelope you before you can process that she’s close enough. And she smells slightly different here (cleaner, sharper, antiseptic clinging to her clothes) but underneath it is still her, still familiar. She kisses your cheek. Your nose. Your mouth. Gentle and checking. 

“Is that for me?” she asks, voice warm against your skin.

Your arms are pinned against you, and therefore the lunchbox, and you hope that the food inside isn’t being crushed. 

“I brought you lunch.”

She kisses you again. An actual kiss this time, not just a peck. And because she’s Mel, her tongue slips inside your mouth momentarily and you almost forget that you’re in her workplace. Until she pulls back with a small smile.

“Onigari,” you add, like it’s an afterthought.

Another longer kiss. “You’re heaven-sent,” she mumbles against your lips. “I love you.”

You can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes you. “I love you too,” you repeat as her hands slide from your back to your face, thumbs warm against your cheeks, cupping your cheeks as she kisses you again.

Slow at first, like she’s savoring the fact that you’re here. Her hands stay gentle, thumbs at your jaw, but the kiss deepens anyway, breath catching just slightly as she leans you back until the edge of the table presses into your hips. You make a quiet sound you don’t mean to, swallowed immediately by her mouth. It’s different like this–compressed, stolen, charged with the awareness of where you are. The door. The hallway. The world outside the lounge that could intrude at any second. It makes every second feel sharper.

Her forehead rests against yours when she pulls back, just enough to breathe, noses brushing. “How has your day been?” she murmurs, voice low, already smiling like she knows the location isn’t going to stop her.

“Pretty good,” you whisper back, even as one of her hands slides up the front of your coat, fingers curling into the fabric like an anchor.

She laughs softly through her nose and kisses you again, quicker this time, more insistent. Her body presses closer and you can feel the tension she carries every day slowly bleeding off into you, like this is the only place she lets herself rest.

Fingers drift from the edge of your coat to the hem to your jeans and–

“Oh–”

Mel’s off of you instantly. 

Neither of you heard the door open. No warning creak, no telltale scrape, just the sudden awareness of another presence in the room and the way Mel’s body curls inward on instinct, shoulders hunching as she steps back. Dennis Whitaker stands awkwardly in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, the other frozen mid-adjustment of his badge. His expression is carefully neutral (from what you seen, you think it’s neutral, at least–he looked sad and or in shock every interaction you’ve had) in the way of someone who absolutely saw something and is doing their best to pretend they didn’t.

Heat floods your face.

“Hi, Dennis,” you manage, breathless and a little too loud, voice high-pitched. “I was just–” You gesture vaguely toward the door, toward anywhere that is not here. “–Leaving?”

Mel nods quickly beside you, cheeks flushed pink all the way up to her ears, “Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” you echo, already untangling yourself fully, stepping out from between her and the edge of the table. You move fast, too fast, bee-lining for the exit before your brain catches up with your body. Only to remember that you’re still holding the lunchbox. 

There’s a half-second of frozen horror before you turn back around, movements suddenly clumsy, and hold it out to Mel like a peace offering. “Uh–here. See you at home.”

Her mouth twitches, caught somewhere between a smile and mortification, as she takes it from you. “Yup,” she agrees before you’re rushing out the door again. Past Dennis and face burning so hot you’re convinced it’s visible through your scarf.

The embarrassment only deepens when, just as the door swings shut behind you, you hear Dennis’s voice carry faintly from inside the room: “Taking a page out of Santos and Garcia’s book?”

You do not slow down.

DECEMBER 8TH

“Lay down.”

You’re both giggling and breathless from the way you’d had to practically fight her into your bedroom. A very undignified struggle you had to take to get her down the hall. Because Mel was unrelenting at the fact that she was behind on Christmas shopping. Refusing to part from her laptop, so you’d faced it in stages. First, the promise of just five minutes. Then, please. Then, a very unconvincing threat involving tickling. Because she was doing something for you, you knew she was. Even after staying longer at her shift than she usually did. Longer shift. Supposedly behind schedule (she never strayed from the timeline she set for herself). 

It had sounded like a stressful day.

Which was perfect for the next part of your Christmas gift.

“C’mon, lay down,” you repeat, still laughing and trying to stay quiet all at once. A shaky breath escapes your girlfriend as she finally calms down enough to question you.

“What for?” 

You shrug, grinning a little. “Another surprise?” Mel guesses, voice small and sweet and god, you could just kiss her senseless. 

“Was it that obvious?” you ask, leaning into her and looping your arms around her shoulders. Habitually, her hands fall to your waist–still mindful of your side (she would probably be until the end of the year), where your sweatpants are beginning to slip off your hips. 

You pretend like you don’t see when her eyes slip down your body just enough to make you feel warm. 

“You’ve been very generous lately,” she comments, brows pinching together. And then some more as your thumbs hook into the neckline of her sweatshirt. The fabric is warm from her body. It smells like her laundry soap and outside air and that faint lemony note that never quite leaves her. “Not that I’m complaining. I would never complain about that–”

You tilt your head to kiss just underneath her ear. “You’ve been so stressed lately,” you mumble against her skin. She smells clean. Probably just her perfume, if she even decided to wear it. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t. Because she had to be aware of patients and the smell would be too much for her too sometimes–

Another kiss to the skin to stop your thoughts. To maintain your focus. And it works, especially when you hear a breathy sigh escape her. A sound she doesn’t make on purpose, which is always the tell.

So you lock onto that spot for a moment, sucking softly, the thought of leaving a mark passing through your mind, but then Mel would have to cover it somehow and– When you go to pull back, one of her hands just finds the back of your head, holding it to the crook of her neck. Guiding back into the hollow of her neck, not forceful, just certain. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. You know exactly what she’s asking for, what she’s allowing. So you oblige.

Your mouth works over her skin again, unhurried this time, and your feet bump against hers as you shift closer. Closer turns into tangled. Tangled turns back towards your bed until the two of you awkwardly collapse onto it. When that happens, Mel’s using her grip on your hair to twist your head up to hers so she can kiss you.

She kisses you deep, like she’s testing the shape of it with all of the time in the world. Her mouth is warm, familiar, and you melt into it without thinking, hands coming up to brace at her shoulders, then sliding down her arms because you never know where to put them when you want to be everywhere at once.

The bed shifts under you as she rolls, easy and practiced, until she’s half on top of you. Not pinning, but her knee slots between yours and you feel it everywhere, a quiet reminder that she’s here and not anywhere else she could be stressing about. That also reminds you that you should be trying to get her on bottom and–

You break the kiss.

She chases you anyway, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth again like she’s mapping you by touch. Her hair falls forward, tickling your face, and you smile into the kiss without meaning to. “Hey,” she murmurs, more air than sound.

“Hi,” you answer, “Surprise– Let me–”

Your hands find her back, thumbs pressing in slow, grounding circles like you’re trying to smooth the day out of her muscle by muscle. She sighs into your mouth this time, deeper, and the kiss shifts–less careful, more certain. Something heavy that’s about to make you drop all of your clothing.

You feel it in the way she leans into you. Trusts the space. Lets herself go heavy for a second.

Your teeth graze her bottom lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to make her inhale sharply. Her fingers tighten in your hair in response, like a reflex she’s given up pretending she controls. The world narrows. The lights blink softly behind your eyelids. The only things that exist are the press of her mouth, the warmth between you, the quiet understanding that this, this, is the thing that makes the stress loosen its grip.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to rest your foreheads together.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Lay down, I can do that...”

She shifts her weight, untangling herself from you with a little huff of effort, and settles onto her back. The mattress cradles beneath her. For half a second, Mel looks up at you like she’s waiting for the next instruction, relaxed now, pliant in a way that feels earned. You shake your head immediately.

“On your stomach, please,” you say, polite about it. There's a pause. You think you see her cheeks flush, but the room is dim on purpose, the lamp on your bedside table barely pulling its weight. Still, she listens, turning over and tucking her arms beneath the pillow, spine aligning. You push her shirt up carefully, slow enough to give her time to object if she wants to. She doesn’t. The fabric gathers at her ribs, exposing the soft expanse of her lower back, skin warm and faintly marked by the day. Tiny moles and freckles that make constellations of their own.

You reach to the bedside table on your side, fingers brushing the wood until they find the box. You're very aware of the fact that you did not open it when it came in the mail. You set it down and walked away, but–

“Wait,” Mel mumbles, lifting herself onto one elbow even though you’re straddling her hips, knees planted on either side of her thighs. She cranes her neck just enough to look back at you.

“What?” you whisper, matching her volume automatically. 

She extends her hand and you assume she wants the box, because that’s what makes sense, so you pass it to her without thinking too hard about it. She turns it over once. Twice.

A small utterance of your name has a little bit of worry clouding your head. “The surprise is a massage,” she says, not quite a question. “Right?” 

“Yeah…” you trail off, the word stretching thin. There's a flicker of annoyance–more at yourself than her. Of course she clocked it. What did you expect? “Why?”

She holds the box up so you can see it, arm twisting back awkwardly. “This is peppermint essential oil,” she says. “Not massage oil.”

You blink.

There’s a beat where your brain scrambles, flipping through facts you half-remember. Essential oils. Dilution. Skin sensitivity. Peppermint being… intense. “I know,” you say slowly, even though you absolutely did not know in the way she means. “I was gonna mix it. Like. Responsibly.”

She hums, unconvinced. “Menthol makes your nerves think they’re cold by activating the TRPM8 receptor.” You’re quiet, not really sure what that means. Mel’s quick, though. “Peppermint tingles.”

“I thought… that was the point?”

“On my back?” she asks, tone soft but pointed, which is unusual for her. And you. “That wouldn’t make it any easier for you to massage me, either.”

You sigh, dramatic on purpose, and reach forward to take the box from her. “Okay. Fair.” She relaxes again, elbow lowering, cheek settling back into the pillow. 

“I just don’t want to be overstimulated,” she adds, quieter now. “It’s been a lot today.”

Something in your chest softens. “I know,” you say, matching her earlier cadence. You set the box aside and press your palms flat against her lower back instead. “We can do it however you want. Or not at all.”

She exhales, long and slow, the tension easing out of her like she’s finally been given permission to set it down. “Please still rub my back,” she requests quietly.

Your hands move before she can second-guess herself. Slow and deliberate, hoping your palms are warm against her skin as your thumbs trace the lines on either side of her spine like you’re following instructions written there just for you. She sighs again, deeper this time.

Starting small, circles are pressed low, grounding, like you’re anchoring her to the bed. Her back rises and falls under your touch, breath evening out in increments. You can feel where she holds tension without needing her to tell you–knots tucked beneath muscle. You lean forward a little, careful with your weight, forearms bracketing her sides and your thumbs press in, just firm enough to make her hips shift.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you whisper. Mel hums in response, you think her brain is too tired to form a coherent response.

You work your way up, inch by inch, like you’re mapping her. Shoulders next. You knead gently, then a little deeper when she exhales instead of flinching. Her fingers curl into the sheets. Then, you lower yourself more fully onto her back, being careful while distributing your weight so it’s more presence than pressure. Mel makes a quiet sound at that, not discomfort. Something closer to relief.

Your hands slide back down, smoothing over her skin. The room feels smaller now. Warmer. The blinking lights fade into background noise. 

A kiss to her lower back.

“You know what else helps with stress?”

Mel, even if tired, comes to that answer quickly. “Orgasms.”

A small laugh against her skin as your fingers curl into her sweatpants and drag them past her hips along with her underwear. She lifts her hips to help you, her breath coming in slow, even breaths, but her chest is still heaving. You feel the fabric slide against your fingertips, the soft cotton catching briefly on the curve of her hips before giving way and slipping down, down, down, until they pool around her knees. 

Carefully, you hook an arm against her lower belly, propping her hips up and angling them back.

And then, finally, she's bare before you. Exposed and wanting and so breathtakingly beautiful that it steals the air from your lungs. You see the way her body is flushed and ready, the way her skin seems to throb with a pulse of its own, the way her back rises and falls with each shuddering breath.

Your hand trembles slightly as you reach out, your fingertips grazing against the slick, hot flesh of her. She inhales sharply, a sound that catches in her throat and turns into a low, keening moan. Her hips jerk backward, seeking more of your touch, craving it, demanding it.

“It’s okay,” you breathe, fingers gliding through her slick folds and coating them with her arousal. The tiny noises she’s making, and how she’s grinding back against your hand slightly sending heat to your own core. Touch, want–you wanted to touch her, make her feel like this always. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Mel assures you breathlessly. “Can I– Have more? I–” she’s cut off in a small gasp as you ease your middle finger against where her folds are pressed together, but are leaking the most. “Want to feel you,” she barely finishes before you’re letting the digit slip, pushing inside her with patience you didn’t know you had. Her body instinctively clenches around the intrusion. “That feels– Feels so good,” Mel manages before she’s burying her face into the pillow.

Emboldened by her reaction, you begin to slowly, carefully, work your finger deeper, feeling her silky walls flutter and clench around you. Mel’s hips undulate in tandem with your movements, her body naturally rocking into each thrust of your finger. She’s not very loud, but you figure that it’s because she’s relaxed. Hands tangled in sheets as her hips angle to try and get more of what you’re offering. And you feel like you’ve never been more aware of your body than you are at that moment. Every nerve ending feels electrified, every inch of skin tingling with sensation.

“More,” Mel requests shakily again, voice muffled by fabric.

And who are you to deny her?

Gently, you add another finger inside of her, giving her lower back another kiss (almost to her hips) before you’re maneuvering to be situated behind her. Your other hand presses up against where her uterus would be, and the pressure combined with the added finger finally has the first loud moan leaving her. Before she bites down on one of the pillows.

You begin to pump your fingers in and out of her cunt, her inner walls clenching and fluttering around the new intrusion, adjusting to the increased stretch. To help, you pivot your elbow up to make room for your mouth just below your fingers, tongue darting between the apex of her pussy to tease her clit.

"Don't stop," Mel pleads, her voice a desperate, breathless sound. "Please don't stop touching me like this. I'm so close–” A gasp of your name. “I'm going to...I'm going to come." She's never been one to shy away from dirty talk, but the words spill from her lips now, raw and unfiltered, a testament to the intensity of the moment. You know the feeling. It’s one she’s given to you quite a few times. The one where you’re too far gone to care about anything but chasing pleasure, about finding that release that is so desperately needed.

Mel grinds her hips back weakly against your tongue and fingers again. The scent of her arousal fills your nostrils, the taste of her essence coating your tongue, and you feel drunk on it, addicted to it, craving more. But with a sudden tensing of her muscles and no warning, Mel comes undone. Her body pushing back against you, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around your fingers as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over her. You think you hear another gasp of your name, a prayer and a declaration, as she rides out the intense pleasure, but you’re not really too sure. Too focused on her juices flooding your hand and chin.

You part from her pussy as Mel steadily comes down from the high, fingers inside of her still, but you’re making sure to gently thumb her clit through the orgasm. She shivers as you feel her muscles relax. 

And then a tiny giggle leaves her. And her hand is reaching for your wrist as she rolls and you’re falling over her–

And you really hope that she’s not too tired during her shift tomorrow.

DECEMBER 12TH

Christina Burgett <[email protected]> Bcc: [email protected], [email protected]… Subject: Aspen Hill Ice Skating & Hot Cocoa Fundraiser

Hey all!

Regarding tomorrow’s fundraiser event, a previous email was sent out last week containing information about when to arrive depending on what part of the event volunteers are helping with. It’s important to come five minutes early to the North Park Ice Skating Rink to make the check-in process smooth! 

The sign-up sheets, times, and additional info have been forwarded with this reminder. If you did not receive this e-mail, please directly contact me through this address or call the number under ‘Activities’ on Aspen Hill’s website.

Stay warm!

When Mel found out you’d beaten her to the volunteer position she usually took for Becca’s care center’s annual winter fundraiser, you genuinely couldn’t tell if she was upset or relieved. Her reaction hovered somewhere in the middle, unreadable in that way she gets when she’s too tired to sort out how she actually feels. Either way, she would’ve gone regardless. Volunteer or not, because Becca would never forgive anyone who stood between her and ice skating, and Mel knows better than to test that.

The difference now, as you had explained to her, was that Mel didn’t have to be on her feet all day. She didn’t have to smile politely at demanding parents, or refill cups of watered-down, lukewarm hot cocoa for people who would complain about it anyway. She could just… be there. With her sister. Watching her circle the rink like it was the most important event of the year or actually brave the skates herself.

“You would do that for me?” she had asked later, when you had retired to bed with the lights off and the bedroom settling into that quiet stretch before sleep came.

it’s hard not to feel a little offended by the question. Not hurt, just surprised. Like she doesn’t realize how obvious the answer is. “Of course I would,” you mumble into the pillow. “Acts of service isn’t my love language, sure, but I would do anything for you.”

There’s a pause. Then: “But…” The word hangs there, tentative as she trails off. You can almost hear her searching for a counterargument, something practical enough to make you back out. “You hate taking part in any kind of customer service.”

Which is… Yes, true. Painfully so. The evidence is well-documented. Most notably during the first game of the PMC Mercy summer baseball tournament, when you volunteered to help run concessions and somehow ended up dumping a soda on a guy. To be fair, he absolutely deserved it after commenting on your jean shorts one too many times, but still. It didn’t do much for your reputation.

“But…” she trails off, and it’s almost like she’s trying to come up with a reason for you not to take her place volunteering. “You hate taking part in any kind of customer service.” Which was… true, yes. That much was clear when you’d volunteered to help run concessions during the first game of the PMC Mercy’s summer baseball tournament and ended up dumping a soda on a guy. To be fair, it was deserved, but still. 

You sighed, shifting closer to her in the dark. “I don’t hate it when it’s for you.” Silence. “Besides, just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I can’t do it,” you had pointed out, punctuating it with a very convincing fake eye roll. Mel had huffed out a laugh at that, fond and disbelieving in equal measure, like she knew exactly how this was going to end.

You’d repeated the sentiment to yourself the night before, when the reminder email came through from Christina (the head of activities at the care center) with the cheerful subject line, bullet points, and clip-art marshmallows. You read it twice. Once to absorb it. Once to brace yourself.

Now, though, standing behind a makeshift folding table draped in a plastic, light-blue tablecloth patterned with snowflakes that have definitely seen better years, you’re second-guessing your patience.

Not because the work is hard. It isn’t at all, the instructions Christina sent were simple: pour the cocoa, take the tickets, smile politely. And it's the last hour of the fundraiser, and the rush has already come and gone. The line that once snaked around the corner has dwindled to a trickle. This should be the easy part.

Except.

The woman working beside you, someone’s grandma, judging by the sensible shoes and the faint smell of wintergreen, has taken the only folding chair. She’s been here all day, apparently, and still has things to say. Because she tells you this. Repeatedly. She also tells you everything else. Her grandchildren, her knee, the price of groceries, the weather (past and present). She talks while you work, and you work while she talks, hands moving on autopilot as you pour and pass and wipe down the table. I.e. she does nothing and you’re managing every part of labor.

Mel would’ve handled this effortlessly. You know she would have. She would’ve leaned in, asked questions, made the woman feel seen. But as you glance out toward the indoor skating rink, where Mel is gripping Becca's hand, laughing as her sister chatters away with one of her friends, you force down any annoyance you’re feeling. Mel's scarf has come loose. She looks lighter. Happier.

She’s having fun. This is for her. She shouldn’t have to work right now–

“Is this the warmest you could’ve made this?” 

Another mother. Another tiny styrofoam cup held between manicured fingers with the hot chocolate inside sloshing slightly as she gestures. It’s from a large thermos someone on the activity committee had provided and the steam is long gone, but the accusation is very much present. You sigh, quietly, the way you’ve learned to, which is contained, polite, and practiced.

“Yes, ma’am–” you begin, already lining up alternatives in your head. Apologies. Explanations. Solutions for causes you don’t control, but she doesn’t wait.

“We paid $7.50 for lukewarm hot chocolate?”

You clench your teeth together hard enough to feel it in your jaw and glance sideways, hopeful, toward the grandma beside you for backup. Somehow, she’s produced a phone, thumb scrolling with intent, despite the very clear no phones while volunteering sign taped to the wall behind you. Betrayal stings sharper than the cold cocoa. “It was $7.50 for an hour of ice skating,” you say evenly, voice pitched calm on purpose, “including the skates and any refreshments–”

“There has to be a microwave around here somewhere,” the woman cuts in, leaning closer, lowering her voice like she’s offering advice instead of a threat. “And I recommend you go look for it before I inform whoever’s in charge that you’ve let the beverages get cold.”

Something sharp flares in your chest. Irritation, probably. A bit of humiliation. The sudden urge to defend yourself, loudly, publicly. You swallow it back. You remind yourself of Mel. Of Becca on the ice. Of why you’re here.

“Ma’am, I’m just a volunteer–” 

But she shoves the cup into your hands before you can finish the sentence, impatience winning out over sense. And because styrofoam is the world’s weakest medium, it gives immediately. There's a soft, ugly crack, and then gravity does the rest.

Brown liquid spills down the front of you, hot chocolate soaking straight through your white sweatshirt. You hiss softly at the sensation, arms instinctively lifting away from your body, fingers splayed uselessly as the cup collapses in on itself. It’s definitely going to stain. Permanently. You can already tell.

When you glance up at the lady, clothing dripping and arms slightly apart, she at least has the decency to look a bit guilty. “Ma’am–”

“There's a microwave back in one of the break rooms,” granny finally decides to pipe up, cheerful and decisive. Given the hearing aid tucked behind her ear, you’re fairly certain she missed most (if not all) of the exchange leading up to this moment. Which, of course the lady takes as an out instead of apologizing like a decent human. She scoops up two more cups without asking and disappears behind the table, already halfway gone by the time you turn to yell after her.

Granny, meanwhile, squints at you and tilts her head. “Oh, Dear,” she says kindly, eyes landing on your chest. “What happened to your top?”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how.

In the bathroom, you attempt damage control by trying to wash some of the cocoa out of your sweatshirt. Bulk liquid soap. Thin paper towels that disintegrate on contact. You dab and scrub and ultimately make it worse. Actually, you think the stain spreads. Eventually, you concede defeat and shrug your coat up over it for the remainder of the shift, smelling faintly of chocolate and industrial soap.

When it’s finally time to close up, you’re stacking the remaining cups and sealing the thermos when Mel approaches. Becca is still off with her friends, skating laps. Mel's cheeks are pink from the cold, from laughing. There's a grin on her face that’s easy and unguarded. You look at her and decide, immediately, that any amount of discomfort was worth it.

It flickers when she notices you in your coat, though. It's subtle. The smile doesn’t disappear, exactly. It just… hesitates. Like her brain has flagged something out of place before she’s fully caught up.

“Hey,” you greet, a little breathless, mostly because you’re moving and talking at the same time as granny finally hauls herself out of the folding chair. “How was skating?”

“Good, good, it was… good,” Mel says, looping back on the word. She’s got her own coat on, scarf tucked up around her neck, so you’re not sure why she looks so puzzled or why she keeps glancing at you like that. Then it clicks. There’s a big stain right in the center where your coat opens.

“Ah,” you mumble, glancing down. “Spilled on… myself.”

Mel hums, nodding once. Then, she steps closer and adjusts her orbit so she’s near enough if you need her. Her hand finds your elbow, and you’re not sure if she’s trying to keep your attention to herself or double check on you. 

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly, like the question is meant only for you and not the echoing rink, not the fluorescent lights, not the lingering volunteers folding tables behind you.

So it was the second option.

But you nod, because no matter how badly you want to rat out that woman for earlier and that grandma for being a horrible volunteer, Mel had had fun. “Yeah. Totally. It's just hot chocolate, was bound to happen with me, honestly.” And you choke out a laugh.

She looks at you again, slower this time. The stain. The coat. Your posture, which is too straight and too casual. She doesn’t call you on it, she never does in public. Instead, she hums again, that thoughtful sound, and tips her head toward the exit.

“We should get Becca,” she suggests, giving you an out before you would get roped into any more volunteer-antics.

Becca comes skating up a minute later when you and Mel wave her over to the side of the rink, breathless and glowing, hair frizzed with static and effort. She chatters the entire way to the door, recounting spins and near-falls and something about a race she won. Mel listens. You listen. And before you’re out the door, Mel reaches to help you zip your coat up. 

Outside, the cold hits fast. Sharp enough to steal your breath, enough to make your hip throb in protest, and you choose to believe that that’s why Mel zipped your coat shut for you. Her hand slides into yours, fingers warm despite the air.

Once you’re in the car, doors shut, engine humming, she finally speaks again. Becca’s distracted, busy buckling herself in and fighting off her gloves.

“Do you… want to tell me what actually happened?” 

How did this keep happening even when you tried to avoid it?

You stare out the window for a second, watching your breath fog the glass. You could deflect. Joke, then minimize. You’re very good at that. Instead, you sigh. “A mom got mad, and then tried to give me her cocoa and the cup broke and–” You pause to gesture to your front. “But it was unprovoked on my end. Really.”

“I believe you,” Mel reassures. Then, she just reaches over and squeezes your hand once, firm. “Thank you for doing this,” she says after a beat. Not I’m sorry. Not are you hurt. Gratitude first. “And I’m giving you my Northshore Hawaii sweatshirt,” she adds and you blink at her for a moment. 

It was oversized on the both of you–cream colored fabric with forest threading that spelled the words out in the center in a stretched font. It wasn’t even from Hawaii, Mel told you she got it from her dad when he came back home once from a trip to Oregon. It was her favorite.

“Mel…” you trail off slightly, and she shakes her head in a way that would silence any more protests.

“I want you to have it. After today,” she whispers. “I haven’t got to spend time like that with Becca for a while. And I got to because of you.” Your chest tightens around the reasoning. You nod, swallowing harshly again. “Besides, you wear it more than I do.”

But she’s smiling like that again. Because Becca is humming in the backseat, happy and exhausted and safe. Which is enough for you. More than worth it.

Later at home, coats off and lights low, she’ll check on your bruise again, even if it’s mostly faded. She will scold you softly for not making enough peppermint bark cookies when you brought them to the ED because they were all gone before she could get to them. She’ll press an ice pack back into place even if you don't need it. She will kiss your temple and tell you you didn’t have to do all this.

You’ll tell her you know.

DECEMBER 15TH

Convincing Mel to go out after she returns home from her shift is a difficult task. For both you and her. You don’t like making her do things she doesn’t like to do, especially when she’s tired. And for her, probably because she is tired. But there were certain instances where you figured it wouldn’t hurt for her. Like when she spent too many nights cooped up or when she would get a bit stir crazy. When either of those things happened, while others would get irritable or refuse to interact with others, Mel would get sad. 

Lips in the shape of a small frown as she would drift through the apartment, asking you and Becca what you were up to or if you wanted to do something. 

Which is what she would probably be doing right now if she wasn’t stuck at the small, circular dining table and stressing herself over finishing online Christmas shopping. Or if you weren’t sitting at the table with her, scrolling through your phone. Both of you were bored, you could feel it in the air.

Across the table, you hear her click the mousepad harshly. Three times in a row. Then, she huffs, fingers moving over the keyboard as her mouth is pulled tight, that same small frown that is probably present on her face because she keeps clicking on things she doesn’t actually like. This is one of those moments. You can feel it click into place–the apartment is too still and the air feels used up. Mel's been home for long enough that the tired has tipped over into something heavier, something that’s starting to look like sadness if you squint at it too long.

The time on your phone reads 8:30 P.M. You could at least take her to one of the shops by your apartment complex. You lock your phone and set it face-down on the table before clearing your throat slightly. A deliberate motion. A signal.

“Who’re you shopping for?” you ask, gentle. 

Mel doesn’t glance up from the screen. “Your mom,” she sighs. “She had a specific hat on her list. It’s one of the Ugg ones, but it’s sold out on their website.” And then she pouts and you think it’s one of the cutest things you’ve ever seen.

“Show me,” you request, even though you’re pretty sure you know what it looks like already. Mel complies, pivoting the laptop in your direction for you to see. Cream cable knit. A matching puff ball on top. You nod. “You know…” you start, like you’re not about to suggest anything out of the ordinary for the two of you. “The Dillard’s that’s like a block away has Ugg products. And, they close at 9:15.”

That gets her. Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but closer than it’s been all evening. 

“It’s so late, though,” she points out, pushing at her glasses with the back of her hand.

“I know,” you say, and you do. “We don't have to do everything. We can just… walk. Look at things. I’ll hold the bags and we can leave the second it stops being fun.” She glances back at her screen, at the mess of open tabs and half-decisions. Then back at you. Normally, Mel would say yes to whomever was asking her, just to make sure their feelings weren’t hurt. But, since she was with you, you knew she didn’t feel that same obligation.

And by the way her eyes soften, you figure she knows she needs to do something despite it being late.

“…Okay,” she says, quiet. “But only for a little bit.” 

Mel changes her mind twice while putting her shoes on. You can tell because she keeps pausing, one sneaker half-tied, staring at nothing in particular like she might sit back down if you blink too long. You don’t rush her. You've learned that part too. In situations like these, urgency makes her fold in on herself and patience gives her room to follow through.

Becca pokes her head out of her room when she hears the front door to the apartment open. “Are you guys going somewhere?”

“Christmas shopping,” you inform as Mel fixes your gloves over your fingers.

“Brave,” Becca states solemnly. “Godspeed.” She disappears again, already uninterested, already confident you’ll return in a short period of time.

Outside, the air hits first. Cold enough to wake something up behind Mel’s eyes. She tucks her hands into her coat pockets, shoulders hunching, but there’s color creeping back into her cheeks. The street is lit up in that slightly desperate way it gets this time of year–string lights stretched too thin and wreaths hanging at uneven angles. You walk slower than usual, letting her set the pace. Mel’s steps start small, like she’s testing the ground to make sure it won’t disappear under her even as your arm loops with hers. Every few squares of pavement she exhales, long and visible, fogging up the air between you. 

The Dillard’s is a seven minute walk away. You make it there in nine minutes. 

It’s strangely warm inside, the aisles mostly empty except for a few stragglers running errands late on a Monday night. And the lights are bright like you would expect in a department store, Christmas apparel and decorations fueled by consumerism crowding the entryway next to the sliding doors. There’s music playing–something cheerful and ancient–and the smell of cinnamon, artificial but convincing enough.

“This is… a lot,” Mel observes.

“We can leave?” you suggest, automatically as you tend to at any sign of her discomfort.

“No,” she says, surprising you a bit. “It’s… fine. I think. I just need a second.”

So you stand with her near the entrance, pretending to look at light-up gingerbread houses while she adjusts. Eventually Mel’s hand brushes yours, tentative, then stays there. Her fingers are cold. You don’t comment. You just let her have the contact, like a quiet anchor, and she finally gives a tilt of her head that tells you she’s ready to move on. 

“That hat my mom wants is with all of the other Ugg stuff by the women’s clothing,” you tell her, her hand slipping into yours as both of your shoes squeak silently against tile that reflects light just a bit too harshly. Something to the left catches her eye, an ugly Christmas sweater. Red. Loud. With a reindeer that makes her squint slightly. 

Mel turns to you, lowering her head toward yours. “Becca would hate that.” Her voice is hushed like she’s sharing a secret. And when you follow her gaze, a laugh slips from you. 

“She would,” you agree. Then, as you both continue shuffling forward: “She would ask you to wear it.” That makes Mel laugh, soft and sudden, like it slipped out before she could stop it. And for the first time all night, she looks less like someone enduring something and more like someone participating. Less like she was forcing herself to complete a task. 

And she starts doing that thing where she narrates her thoughts out loud without realizing it. Half-sentences, little verdicts murmured under her breath as you move from shelf to shelf–finally approaching the women’s section. 

Thankfully, the display with the Uggs winter wear isn’t difficult to find, and you watch her shoulders loosen, just a little, as the world gives her something small and manageable to focus on. Something she can choose. You trail a step behind her, hands skimming clothing you don’t intend to buy as you watch her hands more than the merchandise. They're steadier now. Decisive in a way they weren’t at the kitchen table on the laptop. She picks up the hat you’d seen online and commits. The act of choosing seems to soothe her. Which soothes you.

With Mel satisfied (settled, even) the two of you peel away from the Uggs display and drift toward the back of the store towards the large counter that is easily presumable as the check-out. There’s not much of a line, but you’re sure the poor teenager working’s cheer will be more performative than anything.

And then you pass the sleepwear.

It’s tucked off to the side, softer lighting. Almost everything is draped instead of stacked, including silk and satin and lace. The air even feels different there, quieter somehow. Mel slows.

Mel isn’t obvious when she wants things. She doesn’t reach, she doesn’t announce. Wanting, for her, is a private act. It shows up in the details: the way her eyes linger a second longer than necessary, the slight part of her lips, like she’s mid-thought and forgot to finish it. She pretends to be casual, but her body always tells the truth first.

But it’s so obvious though when her eyes settle on a baby blue set.

It looks soft in a way that feels intentional. Not flashy. Not trying too hard. Lace that looks like it would give easily in the kind of color that feels cool just to look at, like clean sheets or early morning light. And Mel stops fully this time. 

She doesn’t touch it,  just stares. “That’s…” she starts, then stops, swallowing. Her voice goes quiet. “That's pretty.” It's understated, the way she says it. You glance at the set, then back at her. Her cheeks have gone pink, not embarrassed exactly, but aware. Caught wanting something small and indulgent and not strictly necessary.

And then she does reach for it. 

Mel's fingers linger on the strap a second too long, rubbing the fabric between her thumb and forefinger, thoughtful, like she’s memorizing it. Then she does that thing where she tilts her head, glances at you from the corner of her eye, and looks away just as quickly. “It’s stupid,” she starts.

You raise your eyebrows slightly at her statement. “There’s no such thing as a stupid idea or– Something like that,” you mumble and she exhales a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. 

“I was just thinking,” she tries again, then stops. Her shoulders lift in a small shrug. “I mean– this is nice. And I guess I was thinking it would be… nice if you saw it. On someone. Not me. Obviously.” She winces at herself. “I mean. On you. But–”

Mel cuts herself off, cheeks burning now, the words tangling as soon as they get too close to the truth. She lets go of the fabric. “Forget it,” she backtracks quickly. “I don't need it.”

You don’t tease her. You don’t say anything that would make the wanting sharper, you just look at her, doing your best to appear soft and steady, like the thought didn’t scare you at all. “I don’t think it’s dumb,” you say, because that’s definitely along the lines of what she’s concluded. “I think it’s kind of sweet.”

That makes Mel pause. She swallows, eyes flicking back to the set, then to you. There's something there–want, yes, but also hesitation. The weight of cost, of vulnerability, of buying something with an expectation attached to it. Even an unspoken one.

She shakes her head, gentle but final and turns away from the table where several pieces of the intimates are laid out. Her hand lingers though. “Maybe another time,” she adds, quieter.

You nod. “Another time.”

And as you turn back toward the checkout together, you catch her sneaking one last glance over her shoulder. In the checkout line, Mel finally speaks up again. “Thanks for making me come,” she whispers, reaching for your arm. 

You don’t follow her gaze back to where she was looking, but a mental note is made. For later. 

“Anytime.”

DECEMBER 24TH

Thankfully, after going out to dinner with your parents, Becca heads home with them. 

It’s treated like a small holiday in your household and it’s like a mini-vacation for her. There’s a soft handoff in the parking lot with hugs that linger and promises of breakfast. She's excited in that contained way she gets when she knows what’s coming–your mom inevitably breaking out a board game (Monopoly, probably, because Becca learned the way to win every time), your dad insisting on A Charlie Brown Christmas, flour on the counters, cookie cutters everywhere.

And, most importantly, space.

Mel had told you once, late at night and very honestly, that Becca fitting so seamlessly into your family felt like a weight she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying. Stability, yes, but also relief. The kind that loosens the pressure in her chest. The kind you’ve been trying, consciously, to add to. to be better at. To shoulder without being asked.

But now, back at home and still a little buzzed from the white wine your parents had ordered at the Italian place, you were laughing as Mel tries to set up your record player. 

“I– I thought you said you just have to twist a knob,” Mel stutters, looking over the gray leather like it was some kind of puzzle she couldn’t solve. 

You chuckle again as you get up from your spot on the floor next to the tree, steps soft against the wooden floor through your fuzzy socks. “It’s not on, Mel,” you point out, reaching behind the case to let your fingers run along the surface until they find the On/Off switch. Once you press it, the tiny red dot in the bottom right corner flickers on. “There,” you say softly. 

Mel lifts the needle, the vinyl beginning to spin, black and glossy under the low light, and she sets it on the outer edge of the record. The soft instrumental of jazz echoes in a hushed volume from the speakers, before a woman’s voice that you can’t identify begins singing. Mel looks to you, a tiny, proud smile on her face.

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” she says. You shift, leaning into her side, shoulder fitting neatly beneath her arm. 

“Doing what?”

“Helping me,” she explains quickly. “More than usual.”

“You make me sound like a bad girlfriend,” you laugh and she opens her mouth to respond, an almost panicked look taking over her features before you interject again. “I’m teasing, Mel, you didn’t say anything wrong.”

She exhales. “Well– You’re not a bad girlfriend. You’re my favorite,” she mumbles. “It’s just unlike you to be like this during this time of year.

You hum in acknowledgement. Maybe agreement. “You’ve noticed that too, huh.” She smiles faintly and you share a small, conspiratorial chuckle, like you’ve both been circling the same thought without naming it. 

“It was, um…” you hesitate, suddenly aware of how earnest this is going to sound. “My Christmas gift to you, actually.” Her arms slide around your middle at that, slow and instinctive as she tilts her head, that familiar angle that means she’s processing. Absorbing. 

“I wanted you to have a real Christmas,” you continue, words tumbling out a little faster now. “One where you didn’t have to worry about me, or manage everything, or carry the stress you usually do just because you think you’re supposed to.” Your voice softens, "I wanted you to just… be.”

You’re already bracing yourself for how exposed that feels when she leans in and kisses you.

And she doesn’t pull away right after the kiss. Instead, she lingers there, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven like she’s trying to steady it without making a big deal out of the fact that you’ve just knocked the wind out of her. Her hands tighten at your waist, silently confirming you’re still here.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says finally, voice awed.

You shrug a little, even though there’s nowhere to really shrug with the way you’re pressed together. “I wanted to.” She swallows. You can feel it. Her thumb starts tracing absent-minded circles at your side, grounding herself the way she always does when she’s emotional but refuses to name it.

“No one’s ever done that for me,” she admits quietly. “Planned around me like that.” The music keeps playing behind you, soft and patient, and the room feels warmer somehow. Smaller. Like it’s holding the moment in place and you both are the only people to exist. Mel pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes shining in that way that makes you ache a little. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you tell her.

She nods, her silent way of accepting the answer. Then she leans in again, kisses you once more. Slower this time, fuller, reminiscent of gratitude translated into touch. When she finally rests her head against your shoulder, she murmurs, almost to herself, “This is… really nice.”

You hesitate, just for a second, like you’re debating whether to ruin the moment or deepen it. “There’s also,” you say, clearing your throat softly, “an actual gift.” 

Mel lifts her head immediately. “You already–”

“I know,” you interrupt gently. “But still.” So you bend awkwardly away from her and toward the tree, pulling it free and holding it out to her. It’s the first thing you’ve ever wrapped so carefully, having redone the corners twice because they didn’t sit right the first time. She takes it, eyes flicking up to your face before dropping back down to it again. You watch the way her mouth presses into a thin line, trying not to smile too fast. Trying not to expect too much.

“You didn’t have to,” she repeats, quieter this time.

“I wanted to,” you insist, because it’s still true. 

She sits down on the floor beneath the tree, back resting against the couch, patting the spot beside her until you follow. The music hums on in the background as she peels back the paper slowly, methodical. The box opens and you feel a little embarrassed again, because this is personal.

Inside–two pipe cleaner ornaments grown with borax crystals (one with a nametag of your name and the other with Becca’s), peppermint massage oil, a white sweatshirt that has your hometown written on the front in graphic letters, and a tea leaf mix made by your mother (for colds as long as you added honey after brewing).

Mel sits there for a moment, just looking, and you wonder if this was dumb.

“I– They’re just little ideas from things that happened this month,” you rush out. “There’s peppermint bark cookie dough in the freezer too, you probably saw it ‘cause I didn’t really try to hide it–” 

She just sits there, cross-legged on the floor, the box resting in her lap like it’s something she’s afraid to disturb. The Christmas lights catch in the crystals on the pipe cleaners, throwing soft little glints onto her hands. She turns one of the ornaments carefully, reading the names twice, like she needs to be sure they’re really there.

You watch her face too closely. You can’t help it. 

Mel looks up then.

Really looks at you. And the expression on her face makes you stop talking immediately.

It's not confusion. Or disappointment. It's that soft, overwhelmed stillness. Her mouth opens like she’s going to say something practical (thank you, probably) and then closes again. Mel leans forward suddenly, and wraps her arms around you, box tipping forgotten to the side. She hugs you tight, face pressed into your shoulder, and you feel her breathe out.

“This isn’t dumb,” she says into your sweatshirt, voice thick. “This is… this is everything.” You swallow thickly, in the same way she sounded. “Thank you,” she whispers. Not rushed. Not reflexive. Heavy with meaning.

“You’re welcome,” you respond, because it’s the only thing you can think of. “And…” Gently, you separate from her.

You shift across the floor to sit in front of her, the distance small but deliberate, close enough that your knees almost touch. Close enough that she can feel the change in the air even before you do anything else. Mel watches you, quiet, attentive, her hands resting loosely in her lap as you reach for the hem of your sweater. 

The fabric lifts slowly, over your shoulders, your chin, your ears. Cool air kisses your skin as you pull it over your head and let it fall to the floor beside you, forgotten immediately.

Underneath, you’re wearing the light blue set.

The shade is powdery, almost. The color of early winter mornings, of sky just before snow, with lace traces along the edges in delicate patterns, little looping florals that feel more intimate the longer you look at them. The fabric fits close without biting, sheer fabric apart for the embroidery that very conveniently covers your nipples. Straps sit neatly against your shoulders, thin, little bows above the cups.

Mel's breath stutters.

Then, her eyes move slowly, respectfully (mostly) taking in the details. The lace. The way the color contrasts against your skin. Her hands curl slightly in her lap. “…Wow,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Heat blooms low in your chest, but you stay still. You let her look. This isn’t about performing. It's about being seen. About letting her understand that this, too, was part of the gift. 

Mel swallows as her gaze lifts to your face, eyes soft and bright in that way that makes your throat tighten. “You look… beautiful,” she breathes, voice warm. “I– You always look beautiful,” she continues, making a blush rise to your cheeks and a barely restrained smile grow on your lips. Mel sighs like she’s embarrassed of her compliment. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, shifting closer to her already. Other gift on the floor by her, lights still glinting in the tree. Her fingers brush your knee first, skimming up your jeans before her thumb comes to rest on the button.

You nod again when she looks at you.

Breathing deepens, eyes becoming slightly lidded as she undoes the fastening, her green irises immediately flicking down to where your jeans open–looking for blue lace. When she sees it, a long sigh escapes her mouth. And it’s like she can’t pull her eyes away as you move to stand on your knees, waist aligning in front of her eyes. Momentarily, your hands come to rest on her shoulders as her dull fingernails dig into the soft skin of your sides. 

Tucked into your waistband.

And pull down. Down. Down. 

Until they pool at your knees. Only then does she risk making eye contact with you again, and the sight of her mouth being a breath away from your stomach has a rush of heat settling in your belly. 

Her lips skim your navel. 

A small noise leaves you and then she’s guiding you back to lay on the rug, your feet kicking the rest of the denim off your body.

Mel doesn’t pause. Her lips slide from your stomach upward, teasing over the curve of your ribs, brushing against the lace over your nipples with delicate pressure. Every movement is deliberate, slow, savoring the small reactions that make you shift beneath her. Her hands roam lightly across your sides, fingertips tracing your ribs, memorizing the feel of them, grounding herself at the same time.

You tilt your head, letting her claim the space, and she takes it further. Her mouth finds yours, testing, before deepening into something more insistent. Your hands come up to her shoulders, then slide down her back, tracing the lines beneath her shirt as if you’re marking your territory. Her tongue teases at the corner of your lips, coaxing you, daring you, and you respond with the same heat, matching the rhythm. Slow then faster. Hands tangled in her hair, feeling the texture of the strands, pulling her closer without needing to because there’s barely any room to begin with.

She presses into you, knees straddling your hips, chest flush against yours, and the heat between you isn’t just want–it’s something thicker, heavier, a shared pulse that grows with every kiss. Her lips move with purpose, sometimes brushing, sometimes claiming, and you meet every motion, leaning into her, whispering her name between breaths without realizing it.

Mel’s fingers trail down your sides, under the hem of your lace briefly, just enough to make a shiver run through you, before moving back to grip your hips, steadying herself.

“Is it okay if you keep it on?” she pants against your lips and you nod hastily.

“That’s what I got it for– D’whatever y’want with it– Me, with me…” The words make a tiny whimper escape her before her lips find your collarbone, biting softly. 

“I thought,” Mel mumbles against your skin as her fingers nudge the seat of the panties to the side, a string of your wetness connecting your swollen folds to fabric. “I really wanted to have sex with you in this the first time I saw it,” she admits, and when you glance down, you can see how the tips of her ears are red.

It makes you bite back a moan, especially when two of her fingers move to circle your left nipple through the lace. Subconsciously, your thighs part more for where her hand is between your thighs.

“Say my name,” Mel pleads, her thumb circles your clit as she speaks, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, deliberate circles. You could already feel how your thighs are starting to tremble, could hear the way her breath came in short, sharp gasps against the lingerie. “Come on, please,” she says, voice high and whiny like she’s the one getting two fingers pressed inside of her.

“Mel–” you moan unashamedly, grateful for the empty apartment. Especially when Mel sets a slow, deep rhythm, fucking her fingers with long, deliberate strokes. “Mel!”

She tucks her face further against your chest. “You feel so good around my fingers,” she pants, moving them faster. Fast enough while her thumb remains torturously slow on your clit, giving pressure to intensify the feeling but not grant relief. “So good, you’re so good to me–”

You cry her name again, clenching around her as that coil in your abdomen teeters closer and closer to snapping. “I’m close,” you inform her, so she would–

Mel presses her thumb hard against your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, furious circles. At the same time, she curls her fingers inside of you, stroking along the front wall of your fluttering sex until she found that perfect spot that made you see stars.

Your head falls back against the rug with a choked sob, muscles tensing as your orgasm crashes over you. Distantly, you think another gush of fluid that soaks Mel’s fingers, think you hear a broken, desperate sound come from Mel’s lips as you come undone. You feel the way her gaze remains on your face as you slowly come down, gasping for breaths between whimpers.

Drinking you in and drooling slightly against the top of your breasts.

The lights flicker softly behind you, the tree casting tiny shadows across her hair, across your skin, and for a little while, nothing else exists except the press of her lips and the grip of hands.

And the way you both fit exactly where you are.

DECEMBER 25TH (Christmas)

Your leg jerks in your sleep. In your dream, you feel like your thigh is locking up in pain. Or maybe a cramp. Like when you sit for an extended period of time or stay in one position for too long. The sensation is manageable in your clouded mind, all you had to do was change positions. Your leg twists towards your other, only to be held in place.

And then a bolt of white-hot pleasure is curling through your lower spine.

Your eyes snap open instantly, albeit, they’re still half lidded, but they’re open as you try to shift against the sheets again. You’re already panting for some reason, and you can feel how your hole is pulsing around nothing except for your own juices. And there’s so much. Weakly, you glance down just as Mel circles her tongue around your clit again. 

All that’s able to leave your mouth is a tiny whimper.

Green irises meet yours.

Mel just hums softly against your swollen bud, making your thighs seize again and your eyes roll back as your head falls back onto the pillows. 

“Good morning.” You don’t think you could respond even if she didn’t seal her lips around your clit after the words leave her.

The suction has your back bowing off of the mattress, her tongue finding the exposed bundle of nerves inside of her mouth to press against while your pussy fluttered and leaked and made a mess on the already damp sheets between your thighs. And then two of her fingers are pressing inside of you and curling just right that you don’t even have time to warn her before you’re cumming. Hard. Harder than normal, abdomen tightening as your own fingers claw at the sheets and you sob out her name. You don’t even register the spray of liquid that gushes out of you onto her face. Just the way Mel’s fingers continue moving erratically as you tremble through the orgasm.

Breaths come quickly as her mouth leaves your clit, the poor nerves pulsing as her fingers slow as well. You can’t tell if you’re half asleep or if you’re just too fucked out.

Eventually, you remember how to speak. “What was that for?” you pant, Mel tucking the side of her hair that falls heavier behind her ear as she works her way back up your body.

“For yesterday,” Mel explains as she gives your lips a small peck. Halfheartedly, because your muscles feel like rubber bands that have been stretched too taut and then loosened, you wipe at her face where her skin glistens with your cum. “And the day before that. The entire month,” she whispers, taking your wrist in her hand and guiding it back down to the bed. 

“Don’t mention it,” you exhale. “It was your Christmas present.”

The corners of her mouth tilt upwards and you can’t help but sleepily copy the action. 

“You mean… so much to me,” Mel admits quietly, a secret just for the two of you. And it has your heart softening in your chest. “And you showed that it’s the same for you– Everything about it was more than I could have asked for.”

Your wrist twists in her loose grip to intertwine your fingers.

“Even if I kind of messed it up each time?”

Mel laughs weakly, “You didn’t mess anything up.” She’s settling over you now, hooking one of your thighs between hers and sitting up slightly to reach for her bedside drawer. “You’re the only thing I wanted.”

You feel like you could cry from her words. “You’re the only thing that I want,” you agree softly. “Merry Christmas to both of us, then.” That makes Mel giggle again, the sound going straight to the organ in your chest. She fumbles with something in the drawer before taking it out.

That stupid pink vibrator. 

“Mel,” you groan softly, shifting underneath her. “Did I cum before I woke up?”

“Just twice,” she admits. “They were small ones, though, that’s why it didn’t wake you up.” She explains it so casually. As if she weren’t discussing that she had eaten you out while you were asleep. The thought is more arousing than anything you could’ve pictured, though. The topic of somnophilia had come up before–Mel being the one to ask if it was a hard no on your end. And of course it wasn’t. The thought of her being so affected by you to the point where she didn’t hesitate to use you while you were asleep was probably one of the hottest things you’ve heard. 

Part of your present for her to try it for the first time today.

“Are you okay for more?” she checks, like usual. And you do feel a little sensitive. You would probably be sore for the rest of the day and would have to sit awkwardly during the drive to pick Becca up from your parents’, but you would manage. “I know you need at least five minutes between each orgasm–”

“I’m okay,” you reassure. “I’m ready.”

To prove your point, you reach up to drag her face back down to yours, kissing her deeply. Deep enough to almost feel bruising, and both of your lips move slowly, yet desperate enough to feel like you’re trying to consume one another. Mel whines–the sound needy as she follows your mouth. The toy stays in one of her hands as she works to slip her pajama bottoms and boyshorts off before settling back in the same position. 

This time, though, with the vibrator between your pussies, pressed against each of your clits. 

You both gasp into each other’s mouth when she turns it on.

All you can do is lie limply under her as her full weight sits onto the toy, increasing the intensity against your bundle of nerves with pressure that has you panting and whining into her mouth in silent pleads. 

Mel was always all about connection when you were intimate. Wanting to feel your skin no matter how sweaty you got and needing to have her tongue in your mouth or vice versa. And you knew why–because that feeling of being so attached to another person made you needy. Needy and craving that sensation of being tethered to them. So it doesn’t surprise you when she starts grinding down against the vibrator. 

It’s on the lowest setting, and it won’t increase during this session. 

You’re overstimulated and Mel won’t want to be overwhelmed during her own orgasm and– You moan loudly, slipping your mouth from hers when she forces her hips down particularly hard, rolling the silicone over your clit in a way that has you teetering on the edge already. “Mel–”

She responds with a moan of your own name. “I need you– It’s so– Good, ah–” You can feel the way her hand shakes as she keeps the vibrator steady between your cunts, both of your slicks combining on it as you weakly buck your hips up and press your thighs against hers just to feel her.

“I need you too,” you whimper. “I’m gonn-a cum–” 

You don’t get the words out before you’re falling over the edge. Mel humps the vibrator faster, working herself to release with you and folding over your body when she does reach her climax. Moans and gasps and the dull vibrations of the discarded toy fill the room as Mel lets it fall from her grip, instead pressing her cunt against your own to ride out the high.

You don’t care. You’d take anything from her. 

And when her moans transition into gasps that stir the baby hairs at your hairline, you figure the both of you had endured the intense orgasms and come out on the other side more exhausted than you started. Sweat slicked skin and feather breaths over heated nerves. Gently, you move one of your hands to rest on her lower back, the other sweeping her blonde hair off her warm neck, an attempt to cool her down. 

Mel’s lips find your cheek as her weight collapses fully onto you. 

“Merry Christmas to us,” she repeats your earlier words.

You were going to have to text your parents you were going to be later than expected.