You ask your girlfriend if she'd still love you if you were a slug.
▪︎586 words, fluff, teasing, a little suggestive, making out, a bit of groping, etc▪︎
She’s sprawled out beneath you, one arm behind her head, the other tracing lazy circles against your thigh. The sheets are kicked down around her waist, skin warm and damp where your nightgown clings to it. The ceiling fan hums above, stirring the faint smell of oil from her hands and the lotion you’d used after your shower.
You say it out of nowhere. “What if I turned into a slug?”
Her brow furrows. “A slug?”
“Mhm.” You shift your weight on her hips, slow, like you’re testing her patience. “Slimy, slow, tragic little thing. Would you still love me?”
She gives a small laugh, one that doesn’t reach her eyes. “That would never happen.”
“But what if I did.” you insist, voice dipping. “Would you still—”
“No,” she cuts in, deadpan. “I’d pour salt on you.”
You blink at her, mouth parted in disbelief. “You’d what?”
Her grin grows sharp, a hint of teeth. “Salt. I'd melt you right down.”
“Oh, well then—fuck you.” You try to slide off her, but she catches your wrist quick, the same hand that had been idle seconds ago. Her grip is warm, solid.
“Hey,” she murmurs, tugging you back until your knee presses into her side again. “I’m joking.”
You don’t look convinced. She leans up, kisses your cheek—just there, where your skin still glows from the bath, and stays close enough that you feel her breath move against your jaw.
Her voice softens, low and amused. “You really think I’d let you crawl away from me? Slug or not.”
You huff, pretending to stay annoyed, but your smile betrays you.
Her hand slides higher, up the back of your thigh to where the nightgown rides. Not rough—just enough to remind you she could keep you here if she wanted.
When you finally meet her eyes, they’ve gone heavy, that slow burn you recognize. The kind that always starts like this—half joke, half threat, all heat.
“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, though your voice has gone softer, caught between irritation and a laugh.
She only hums, that low sound that sits somewhere deep in her chest. Her eyes never leave your face.
Then she pulls you down and kisses you—slow at first, then deeper, hungrier. Her mouth tastes faintly like mint and sleep. You feel the shift in her body, the way she moves to meet you, the way her hand slips under the hem of your nightgown. Warm palms slide over the curve of your ass, fingers flexing like she’s testing the weight of you.
You make a small noise against her mouth when she grinds up, the thin fabric between you doing nothing to dull the heat. She swallows it with another kiss, rougher this time, one that makes your chest ache a little.
“I love you,” she breathes against your lips, the words coming out between a sigh and a murmur.
You pull back just far enough to look at her. Her pupils are blown wide, eyes dark and certain. Your own heartbeat stumbles. “I love you too,” you whisper back.
She smiles. You press your mouth to her throat, feel the jump of her pulse under your tongue. Her hand stays on your ass, the other tracing up your spine until her fingers rest at the base of your neck. You kiss her again, slower this time, and the room goes quiet except for your breathing and the soft creak of the bed beneath you.
The kind of quiet that feels like promise.
The intimacy is open, messy, the kind of kiss that tastes like breath and want. Her tongue drags against yours slow, deliberate, until you forget the joke that started this, forget everything but how close she feels.
Her hands get greedy. One stays low, cupping you through the thin fabric, guiding you down against her; the other drifts up your side, fingers pressing into soft skin like she’s trying to memorize it. You feel her nails catch slightly when she grips, and it makes you gasp against her mouth.
She takes the sound, deepens it. The air between you grows thick. You break just long enough to breathe, foreheads touching, both of you slick with sweat already. Her thumb slides along the inside of your thigh, teasing without meaning to—just restless, needing you closer.
You kiss her again, harder this time. She meets you with a low noise that sounds half like a groan, half like a plea. Her hips shift under you, and you follow the motion before you even think. The nightgown rides up, cool air licking across the back of your thighs.
You pull back, just to look at her—her lips swollen, eyes glassy, hair stuck to her temples. She looks up at you like she might bite or beg; you can’t tell which.
You smile, breathless. “You were gonna pour salt on me, huh?”
She laughs against your jaw, open-mouthed and warm. “Not a chance.”
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