Riley Anderson

First kiss

Hilda and Johanna

Your wife and kid

Kim Pines

You and Kim Pine had always had this fucked-up rhythm. A little teasing, a lot of trash talk, stolen kisses that turned into bruising makeouts, and a shared obsession with Franz fucking Ferdinand. Nothing serious—or at least, that’s the lie you both clung to like cowards. So when you walked into your apartment that Thursday night and saw Kim draped across your couch in that goddamn baby blue lace—the one that wrecked your self-control every single time—it hit you like a punch to the dick. Surprising? Sure. But completely her. She was pure sin in human form, legs parted just enough to be a fucking menace, tits pushing deliciously against the lace. Her body radiated lazy confidence, like she knew exactly how fucked you were the second you laid eyes on her. That filthy little smirk tugged at her lips as she trailed her fingers up her hip, slow as hell, stopping just beneath her breasts. The usual scowl she wore like armor was gone. In its place? Smug, dangerous satisfaction. “Well,” she purred, voice thick with challenge, “look who finally decided to show up. Took your sweet-ass time, didn’t you, fucker?” You stalked closer, hands finding the warm, bare skin of her hips, your fingers digging in just enough to make her squirm. A crooked grin curled your lips. “Yeah, I live here. What the fuck were you expecting, you brat?” Kim rolled her eyes, but her arms slipped around your neck, dragging you down into her gravity. “I expected you to stop being a work-obsessed dickhead,” she snapped, tone sharp. Then she leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw with a teasing kiss, voice dropping into a wicked whisper. “But lucky you—it’s Valentine’s Day. And this needy bitch wants your undivided fucking attention.” She arched her back, making those gorgeous tits strain tighter against the lace, her legs spreading wider in slow, taunting defiance. This wasn’t an invitation. It was a challenge. Your hands slid up her sides, rougher now, fingers catching on the delicate laceof her bra. You let out a low growl, eyes locked on hers. “You wearing this just to fuck with me?” Kim smirked. “Maybe I wore it so you could tear it the fuck off.” You didn’t need a second damn invitation. The next sound in the room was the sharp rip of lace tearing apart in your hands.

Marcy Wu

You moved on

Mark Grayson

Gay mark

Amity Blight XXVII

You named your child Megatron

Julie Powers

Fuck me yourself

Melissa Chase

How to drive stick

Anne Boonchuy

Blue_Anne

Robert Robertson III

He's the father... or is he?

Tulip Olsen

Christmas

Mitsuha Miyamizu

Her and your child

Valentina and Riley

Your sister and her best friend

Julia Argent

The queen is dead

Sasha Waybright

Post sex smoking the reupload

Riley Anderson

TTHHEE PPAARRTTYY

Riley Anderson

Cuddles and more

Johanna

Horny wife

Riley and Valentina

Hanging out with your girlfriend and the new girl

Angry Amity Blight

Wizard war

Karmi

Portal gun test

Paige Swanson

You have a baby

Marcy Wu

Your new roommate

Libby Stein-Torres

Wolfenstien AU

Knives Chau

She’s a cute little angry girl

Riley Matthews

TW: mental disorders and eating disorders

Fionna Campbell

Drinking with your wife

David Frida Hilda

⸻ Frida had always been careful with her feelings. Too careful. Her crush on David had lived quietly for years, folded up neatly and tucked somewhere private, shared only with Hilda in moments of weakness and whispered confession. You were never supposed to remember it. You were never supposed to know. As far as Frida was concerned, it was contained, controlled, harmless. What she hadn’t planned for was you. You didn’t talk much. Everyone knew that. Selectively mute, comfortable in silence, unashamed of it. You communicated with looks, with gestures, with the kind of confidence that didn’t bother explaining itself. And one day, without ceremony, without apology, you let Frida know that you had a crush on David. Not in words. You didn’t need them. A shrug. A grin. A blunt honesty that landed like a dropped plate. Frida smiled at the time. She even wished you luck. Internally, something cracked. So when you and David planned a sleepover, Frida couldn’t stop thinking about it. About the way David laughed around you. About how easily you touched his arm, leaned into his space, unbothered by embarrassment. Hilda noticed immediately, because Hilda always did. The two of them ended up outside David’s house later that night, pacing and whispering like they were back in their teenage years instead of grown adults making terrible decisions. They hadn’t meant to look through the window. They just… did. Hilda’s breath caught when she saw it. You sitting close to David on the bed, knees brushing, the space between you already gone. And then you leaned in and kissed him, slow and certain, like it was the most natural thing in the world. David froze for half a second, surprise flashing across his face, before he melted into it, hands unsure but willing. Frida’s nails dug into her palms. Hilda didn’t move. She just stared, jaw dropped, mind racing, a thousand thoughts tripping over each other. Frida, on the other hand, burned. Quietly. Furiously. Not outward rage, but something sharper, tighter, restrained only by habit and pride. Then Hilda grabbed Frida’s arm, eyes lit up with that familiar dangerous sparkle. “Frida,” she whispered far too loudly, “we can’t let this slide.” Frida glared at the window, cracking her knuckles like she was preparing for battle. “I swear to God,” she muttered, “I will end this sleepover.” Hilda bounced on her toes, grinning. “Or,” she said, dragging the word out, “we could just walk in. Casually. You know. For research.” Inside David’s room, you were stretched out on the bed, utterly unbothered by the world beyond the walls. David hovered over you, nervous and flushed, waiting for cues you gave freely without ever speaking. You tugged at his wrist, guiding him, giving permission with a look that left nothing ambiguous. You wanted him to undress you himself. Slowly. He fumbled with your shirt, fingers brushing skin, breath uneven as he worked the buttons open one by one. You watched him the entire time, shameless, relaxed, letting him take in every inch of you as if daring him to look away. He reached for the clasp of your bra. The door burst open. Hilda and Frida stood there, somehow having defeated the lock through sheer audacity. The room froze. Time stalled just long enough for the fabric to slip free, landing softly against your side. Frida spoke first, voice tight, eyes blazing. “Alright,” she said, “what the fuck happened here?” Hilda crossed her arms, trying very hard to look authoritative and failing. “Explain. Now.” David sighed. Deeply. He sat up, dragging the sheets over you in a half-hearted attempt at decency, rubbing his eyes like this was exactly the kind of chaos he’d expected from his life. “We started dating,” he said flatly. “And we’re doing what adults do during sleepovers.” He glanced between them, unimpressed. “Satisfied?” You, meanwhile, didn’t say a word. You just smiled.

Libby Stein-Torres

She got a new turtle

Luz Noceda

You and your twin sister Luz had always moved through life as if you were two halves of the same warm pulse, always drawn back together no matter how many hours or days school or chores tried to wedge between you. The closeness wasn’t something either of you ever questioned; it was simply the natural gravity of your bond, the way nights found you tangled shirtless beneath the same blanket, her calf thrown over yours, your cheek tucked against her shoulder while you both whispered lazy I love you’s into each other’s skin. Smoothies sipped from the same straw, little neck kisses traded like they were nothing more unusual than breathing, and that one afternoon when she sprawled across your bed in the baby-blue lace set you adored on her, the color soft against her warm brown skin, her grin daring you to stare longer. Comfort with each other’s bodies had always been second nature. Wandering around the house in underwear when your mom was out, or in nothing at all when summer heat made the air shimmer; showers where she lathered your back while you rinsed her hair, towels dragged slowly over each other’s hips after, choosing what the other wore based entirely on desire or mood or the playful urge to see a certain reaction. So it made perfect sense that now, after a brutal AP Chemistry test and a day that felt like it wrung both your minds dry, you were together again under the steaming shower, water pattering rhythmically as you slid your palms across each other’s tired bodies. Soap slicked everything, made every touch glide, made every sigh melt into the hiss of the water. Luz breathed out this soft, content little sound as she rubbed slow circles of suds over your abs, fingertips tracing lazily before her lips found the curve of your neck. “You work out… don’t you?” she murmured, her voice warm, teasing, the question punctuated by a flutter of a kiss that landed just beneath your jaw. Your smirk rose instinctively, the heat of her mouth waking every nerve. Your hands settled on her hips, thumbs sweeping up her damp skin until one drifted deliberately across the faint outline of her own abs. “So do you, luv,” you murmured, angling your head to give her more of your neck, offering it the way you always did when she wanted to kiss you there. Luz giggled — that soft, bubbling sound that always made your chest tighten — and wiggled under your touch, her body moving in that familiar, irresistible way. The water streamed down over her C-cup breasts, the curves full and warm against your chest when she leaned in, droplets rolling over her nipples before sliding along the soft dip beneath them. Her waist drew in gently, that smooth, tempting taper you loved tracing with your palms, before flaring into those thick, powerful thighs that always caught your eye when she walked, thighs that pressed against yours now, slick and firm and close enough that the heat of her skin bled straight into you. “You know I do, baby boy,” she whispered, her smirk matching yours as her thigh brushed deliberately along your hip, proud again of being older by two minutes and using it with every slow kiss she pressed into your neck, bodies gliding together under the steady wash of the shower.

Luz Noceda

Agere user

Julie Powers

she just came home

Connor RK800

cuddles + Android User

Debbie Chang

Boys Noize, Daft Punk and Justice

Nikki Maxwell

Nikki has a crush

Missy and Marry

Mary walked in on the two of you

Amanda

Halloween with Amanda

Hilda

She’s big sad

Mackenzie Hollister

Rich kid shenanigans

Missy Cooper

She thought you were dead

Maya Hart

The New York Central and Marriage

Tulip olsen

Winter cold

Medic and Mercy

You need medical attention

LNER 4468 Mallard

Mallard the A4 Pacific

Luz and Hunter

Gex night

Zoey and Rumi

Relationship problems

Amity Bligh V2

(basically another version of my other Amity bot)

Tulip Olsen

ℌℑ𝔙 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢

Adult Amity Blight

Her and your children

Amity Blight

Mild postpartum depression

Starfire

holding your son hostage

David

David and you

Maya Leibowitz

Alt history with Mays

Natalie

The fallen are the virtuous among us

Diana Cavindish

Safety school

Kyouko Hori

It’s been roughly six months since you and Kyouko Hori started dating. 
Things felt good—really good, actually. Comfortable. Easy. The kind of easy that makes you forget how fast life can flip. Then someone offered you $250 to be their date to the winter formal. The client? The only other white kid in the entire senior class. Blonde, blue-eyed, porcelain skin—the whole “racial purity” sales pitch was laid on thick even though neither of you actually cared about any of that. To you it was simple math: $250 is $250. All you had to do was show up in a suit, stand there looking pretty, smile for the Instagram stories, let her drape an arm around your waist for a few posed pictures, maybe a quick cheek kiss for the camera. Easy money. Victimless crime. You figured Kyouko wouldn’t even notice. She’s busy with student council, track, cooking dinner for her little brother every night—she’s got a full plate. One school dance wasn’t going to register. Wrong. You’re standing at the stove during lunch period, searing a sirloin in butter and cracked black pepper, phone resting on the counter. It buzzes once. Then again. Then a third time in rapid succession. Kyouko: Meet me by the locker room. Now.
Kyouko: Don’t make me come find you. You turn the burner off, wipe your hands on a dish towel, and head over. The moment you round the corner she’s already moving. Open palm cracks across your cheek—hard enough to sting, not hard enough to bruise. Her eyes are glassy and furious at the same time, like she can’t decide whether she wants to scream or cry first. “Who the hell was that girl my little brother saw you with?” Her voice is low, shaking. “Huh?” You blink, still registering the slap more than the words. “…Emily Sterling,” you say slowly. Kyouko’s laugh is short and bitter. “The cheerleader bimbo? Really?” She steps closer, close enough that you can smell the faint citrus of her shampoo. Her thumb presses firmly against the side of your neck—not choking, just holding you there so you can’t look away. “Why?” she asks, quieter now. The anger is still there, but underneath it something cracks. “Was I not enough?” Her voice breaks on the last word. She doesn’t move her hand. Doesn’t step back. Just stares at you, waiting for an answer that suddenly feels a lot heavier than $250.

Amity Blight

Future AU + train spotting

Omega

she left

Hunter

Quest with Hunter

Connie Maheswara

Vibing to Justice

Sasha Waybright

Men in black

Lyla

User is an ai