#//She hates admitting anyone is better than her in something; but knows very well her limits in expertise compared to her allies and others

[oceanxveiined]

At her very core, she is the very definition of “jack of all trades, master of none”. She has a acquired a multitude of skills—dance, inventing, song, penmanship and composition, combat, strategy, and investigation, among others—but there is always someone within the Snake Eyes group who will always surpass her in some regard. So why does Ozzy keep her around?

Well, if there’s something she has above everyone else, it’s her tenacity and her daring

[capslocked]

PRAXIS

male reader x irene

23k words

"A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair," you remark, and Irene smiles up at that.

The sound of city traffic underneath your open window makes for an uncertain backdrop - though the browns of her eyes glimmer caramel in the dying light. Something sweet, the beginnings of an addiction if you’ll let her.

"A girl could walk in," Irene says, "but, she never does."

It was not a good idea, of course, to keep doing this where the whole world could see, where your shadows and silhouettes make lurid shapes against the blinds, but your office is small and the lighting is soft and Irene keeps pushing up onto her tiptoes, pressing you flat against your desk, trying to kiss you, and you won't be able to stop her - or want to, not when she's already leaning into you with her arms loose around your hips, her eyelashes heavy, her mouth a pink line of want against her smile.

It’s inevitable, maybe.

Here's what they might catch in the exact moment, in a not-so-distant memory:

Your heartbeat, quiet and slow and distant, like there's too much blood for it in your veins, your skin electric-pulsing underneath Irene's, the feel of her leg hitched up your waist, your hand wound tightly in her ponytail. The tiny sigh of a smile at the corner of Irene's lips, like you're tickling her somehow - you'll stop if she really wants you to, but - she doesn't. She never does.

Why wouldn't we want to be mistaken for something? is what you’re supposed to hear; she's too haughty, too proud. Someone could catch you. She’ll never come out and admit, just what would anyone do, if they did?

So yeah. It’s complicated.

You give a little, Irene pulls back. You do your damndest not to push. You hate how goddamn easy it is to convince yourself of anything, everything - whatever the lie. Irene isn’t ignoring you. She doesn't ignore the texts you send her. You don’t need to make plans more than two hours in advance. Mixed signals are such a misunderstood phenomenon: she can just be shy, sometimes. Maybe she doesn’t want to intrude. She was nervous, but she felt really fucking good on top of you - maybe next time, the guilt will be a bit less for both of you.

It’s just sex, she says once to you after; there’s no strings attached. How could it get ever more perfect than that?

-

(And she’s right. You know she’s right, or at least you very well should.

See, you’ve been talking for hours about how you shouldn’t be talking for hours on end. Kissing her after a conversation you’d had around the fact you’d both be better off as friends.

So how's that gonna sound, anyway? Here, go on, try saying it:

Bae Irene? Yeah, met her on the subway - that's the story, the reason you know her; you got on a train one day and she was the prettiest person there. You were both headed to the same place. You’re just not sure when that's gonna change.

And well, the way you see it: you’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)

-

To be candid, you can't really pin down how any of this started. The logistical details, sure. However the suggestion, the sex, the seclusion - these things, not so much.

Somedays, if you squint, it plays out rather predictably. You’ll be going about your business, a particularly average day everything considered, or - well, mostly. Today, there are just the two minor caveats:

First off, your key grinds in the lock when you jam it in. That part is pretty normal, but to your surprise, the door is already very much open.

So, that's odd, you think. That's very odd. You slide inside, cautious, and as you call out an even more cautious "hello?" you realize all the lights are on - so either you've been robbed or are currently in the state of being robbed by someone with suboptimal visual acuity. A disability-washed-burglar. Not to minimize crime, of course, but that'd be interesting, you think, or representative perhaps? Maybe.

Alternatively,

Irene's let herself into your apartment again. It’s quite plausible.

She's not great at the whole 'asking permission' thing, though she swears every time it'll never happen again. You peek around your foyer: there’s her coat, her heels, her shirt, a handbag - all strewn about the hall like she’d been raptured and left a delicate trail of destruction, which does sound a lot like the Bae Irene you've known forever.

(Okay, six, seven months isn’t forever - but you get the gist; the general principle still applies.)

Now another, horrifying option is that both theories are true, simultaneously. A home invader has in fact gotten to Irene. In the middle of robbing the place. How terrible, how awful, how genuinely macabre, what a genuinely-

"Yeah, hey," you hear, followed by a heavy, sloshing thunk. "Welcome home or something."

Sure enough, as you enter the kitchen you spy your truly awful vision being confirmed. One of them, anyway. There is your incredibly hot (this is in reference to Irene), extremely fashionable (same boat as before, honestly), dangerously intelligent (yes) and notorious rulebreaker of an (it really bears emphasis on how hot and fashionable and stylish said rulebreaking often is) acquaintance as per her standard. Irene. A roguish and impossibly captivating conglomerate of trouble with a mild attitude and perfect posture; as a collection, she's a collection you want, a package you intend to keep, an accessory you'd die for. That, and a kettle on the stove apparently, so she can make you tea while you languish on the floor, and you could live like that forever, or so the dream goes.

Also right, the second caveat: there's the robbery. She's stolen a button-up out of your closet.

And look - she's actually so much prettier than she has any business being. Hair up in a messy bun, lips painted light. Nail polish starting to fade. She's still in her nylons and a tight little pencil skirt and you can't really complain. You'd need to be legally dead.

"Hi," Irene says, and the burner sputters to life. "Where'd you go?"

"The bank. And then I had to return books," you say, shucking off your jacket. "You know, I wasn't aware anyone else was living here."

"Excuse you," Irene replies. She turns, leans her forearms on the counter; the shirt buttons are misaligned, but she makes it look like a stylistic consideration - how the sleeves are pushed past her elbows and the neckline has already slipped down one of her dainty shoulders.

She has your clothes. She has an irritatingly winsome half-smirk. The clock above the stove says it’s barely even 9 PM.

"Do you get your mail forwarded here, too?" You shuck off your jacket. "To further clarify, why not call first? Maybe text? Hell, smoke signals could do."

"Because it's a hell of a lot easier to ask you for forgiveness," Irene tells you, knowing, "asking for permission gets me nowhere," and then grabs a mug from the cupboards. She seems to know where everything is already. "I don't know why you get so bothered about it, honestly, what should I do? Call you and say, wow, babe, I am planning on letting myself into your apartment, sorry, yeah, I was thinking we could - ah fuck - you know what, I am irreparably, incomprehensibly horny."

"Nice vocab."

"Thanks," Irene says, beaming, and even tips up her chin to show it.

You notice that you actually match right now, since it is, technically, your shirt. Sure, your collar’s a little stiff - and she’s barely able to keep the fabric from folding and spilling over her lithe frame, but that hardly matters. It's so ungodly hot. She could wear anything - or, probably, nothing, if you're being honest.

And you are, mostly.

So you pad into the space right behind her to tell her some truths, the things you think - but she spins on her heel before you get the chance to grab her, which is a pity; you'd love to do that, maybe just push her flat to the wall. You know, if she'd let you. She would. Probably. You'd ask, definitely, but you’re thinking you wouldn't even have to.

Irene crosses her arms. The collar keeps slipping. You see her collarbone, smooth. She is flawless, no fucking wonder. You are almost terrified of her at times.

"How do you know I’d have said no?" you ask, and it sounds a little sweet - then there’s you noticing an old bruise along her throat, where her shoulder dips down; that was probably your doing, probably from this week, last Saturday maybe? Her skin seems softer somehow, looks like her makeup was fresh at the beginning of the day and the end of the night, that kind of evening smudging. She's smiling with her nose crinkling up. 

She doesn’t react when you press in closer. 

"Really." You’re waiting for her. Probably waiting for her to kiss you, to reach up on her toes and latch her wrists behind your neck, to reach her mouth to yours - though, she doesn't. Her breathing picks up, so it's almost like she doesn't have to, she's smiling at you so sharply. It’s a rare win for restraint as far as your apartment is concerned.

"So then where lies the issue?" she asks, and then she simply waits on this smoldering sort of glance.

You can’t help the laugh that follows. "I mean it's the principle of the thing."

Irene hums at that. She glances to the side. Toward the windows, back to you, and then all over your face.

"Then, allow me a principle," she finally says, staring straight at your mouth, real subtle-like. "Yes, I'm going to keep coming here. Probably a lot. I mean, unless you have an actual issue you'd be hardly one to talk: Mr. Keeps Do Not Disturb Active At All Fucking Times. I bet you're the last person to go through their voicemails, too."

"Guilty, but look - I hit critical mass, like, a thousand unheard messages ago. It’s untenable and unreasonable. You should be offering me pity."

"You are ungovernable." Irene sinks back a bit against the countertop, slow, smooth and sinuous. "You're basically a hermit." She smiles at her own assessment, the grin growing with its truth. Her eyes sparkle in the low-light and her teeth bite at the bottom of her lip. The tea kettle starts to rattle.

"I think we’re supposed to be discussing the breaking and entering here," you correct, dryly, and step a bit closer, "also just for the record, hermits are implied loners. And yet."

"And yet," Irene echoes, letting her voice trail away.

There's an uptick in the corner of her mouth, and she glances at you, quick, momentarily mirthless. You wait for the punchline, the verbal parry, the expertly timed jab-

"What?" asks Irene, and her face instead is all soft edges, light pink lips, and clear, uncomplicated eyes. She grabs for the end of her sleeve and folds it one more time down the slender length of her forearm. The watch on her wrist catches the light. "It's a decent theory."

This almost feels normal, you think, like a routine, something domestic - Irene leaving her things all over your apartment, Irene occupying your bathroom cabinets and the space on your shower rack that used to belong to a singular bar of soap. This is a tale of a typical hookup arrangement gone absolutely off the rails: sex for a night here, a dinner together there, a break from the monotony. You shouldn’t even know Irene that well, you think, or nowhere near as well as you do - and somehow that didn't stop you from giving her a spare key to your apartment - or it didn't stop her from wanting the damn thing.

You try not to read too far into that last one, since you're probably the only idiot that hasn't noticed how smitten Irene has been from day fucking one. It’s your fault, it’s hers; there’s a case to be made for either.

"You can see how a girl might walk in and jump to the wrong conclusions," you remark.

Irene laughs at that, "Oh yeah?" and her eyebrows raise, her lips pursing in an immediate half-smile - this hot little line that’ll get kissed right off her mouth if she’s not careful. She doesn’t even pretend to react otherwise: that same brand of pleased, almost flirtatious - a bit unyielding. Pragmatic, maybe. Not fully on board, still keeping a distance, just an inch outside of what it could be. She never stops fucking with you. She's never anything but beautiful.

It's very unfair, if anyone’s keeping track.

"You mean like an affair?" She laughs out loud. The mark at her temple dots the expression like an exclamation point. "Like me, as your mistress. That’s fucking crazy." 

"Satisfy my ego. Pretend that wasn't, in any conceivable world, the worst possible phrasing, but yeah. More or less," you say, "one which would, mind you, seem very poorly planned on both our parts, all things considered."

There's a pause where she scrutinizes your face; you stare evenly back. It's kind of a bluff. You are sort of a self-centered prick, on occasion, but you are not lying to this woman; you have no reason to. Maybe it's a gamble: to hope she understands you better than she ought to, or to wish she'd accept you in spite of that. To want her, in your home, at your leisure, a friend or something more. 

Trying to materialize words for the immaterial is largely the dilemma.

"An affair, huh" Irene repeats slowly, tasting the word carefully, like she's trying it on for size - and she cants her hips towards yours. Her fingers had wrapped around the bottom of your tie at some point. "My goodness, that’s like, so, so romantic of us."

"Also jesus, please, ‘mistress’ is horribly gauche," you say, and Irene tugs a little too hard and you step forward. The smug look on her face suggests, not entirely unpretentiously: how else, then, shall we call it?

"But look at me. I am in your kitchen, I’m wearing your clothes," she reminds you, with another tiny pull, which draws you so much nearer. You can feel your neck prickle. "That makes us quite close, wouldn't you agree, darling?"

"Dial it back," you tell her, because Irene's the only person in the world that can put so much stress on a single fucking word and get away with it. 

But she's watching you, watching you still, intently. She looks good, smells somehow even better, You inhale her. There's this cloud of shampoo, fragrance, whatever she's decided to wear - citrus today, light. God, she's so fucking gorgeous.

"I'm still trying to scold you," you end up adding, because it won’t go without saying.

"And I'm waiting for you to." 

It's not the right answer, though your annoyance dissipates almost as quickly as it rises: Irene could probably charm her way out of anything if she really tried, maybe, and still make the entire world like her even better - so instead of responding, you just sigh, and sink further into her. She wraps your tie once around her knuckles, and tugs again, harder and pointedly, but it's not so hard that it hurts; you know she could manage that if she wanted. Irene just grins up at you, rosy in the face and pretty: no pain, just fun.

"Are you mad?" She tilts her head in and places her exhale right over yours. You could count her lashes if they’d stop fluttering. "Are you going to tell me you'll send me packing now? Just order me right the hell out of here and change the locks, do you mean it?"

"I would, definitely," you say, without so much as a beat missed. "If I weren't so busy being inconvenienced by the fact you're so goddamn pretty."

"Mhmm." Irene fits her lips to yours, murmuring, "exactly."

Her body presses and pushes up against you, and you're thinking again about Door A, Door B. Thinking about your future, her future: it doesn't mean anything. Who needs to dream, when Bae Irene's already such a walking daydream? Hypothetically - a wicked little fantasy if nothing else. She still can't fucking resist pulling away after just a second, just a touch too soon, and laughing right against your lips - even though, when you open your eyes again, her eyes are softly closed and she’s leaning in for more.

The reality is: the two of you, inextricably, are bound in each other's pull. A binary star of (1) extremely talented, (2) equally charming colleagues that only accidentally get lost inside the same room: (3) office, (4) storage closet, (5) bedroom, (6) living room, (7) kitchen, (8) the little-used laundry nook. Your list keeps growing. It is exhausting, but maybe not the worst: not, actually, so bad-

Your hands flatten against the cool material of her skirt.

"I could," you mutter, trying so hard, "you know, stop this. Maybe."

"I actually happen to believe you," Irene's saying. Her teeth graze your chin. "But maybe you can try," she offers, not so helpfully, "just this once?"

The hem of her shirt slips up the long stretch of her leg. It doesn’t move far before the bend of her knee has her pinned, skirt pressed flat to her thighs. You aren’t exactly a gentleman, so you pull it to her waist as you press even closer. The nylon feels wonderful against her legs.

So you let it boil down to the instinctual, the obvious. To physicality: her hip against your own, her soft sigh as the kiss grows in strength. You wrap an arm around her middle; her hands cradle the sides of your jaw - the tip of her tongue brushing yours - then her fingers find their home on the nape of your neck. When you touch the inside of her thigh, across the smooth fabric, ghosting over the center - where the tension is tightest - her lips part a little. She shivers. You try not to smile about it.

"Slow?" you ask her, and the amusement feels unfair to her, even if it is your best attempt to appear thoughtful. She sinks her nails into your skin and her eyelids open slightly. They gleam. "Told me to try," you point out.

You touch her, feel the heat as she says, a little strained, "I did." She swallows. "I'm allowed to change my mind later, though."

"Fine," you relent, "then so am I."

She considers this briefly. Her lashes lower and raise. She nods.

And the teasing has to go somewhere. "Well," you murmur, and kiss the hinge of her jaw. "Mistress it is. Guess there isn't much left to work with, huh." And in any other context, these are the things that earn you another patented-glare, a toss of a pillow over the bedspread, a hard swat on the chest, an indignant 'well fuck you, I can't believe we're having sex!', an abject departure, a million things all at once - at its most dramatic and emotional: a maelstrom of verbal riposte.

Here, though-

She hikes her leg even higher around your hip. Her fingernails clench even sharper. Your tie falls down a button, to the crook between her neck and shoulder, and her hair comes free of its messy ponytail. The line of it skims over her breast, just so.

Irene sighs louder, and does that thing, a deepening in the middle of the noise that lets you know exactly how badly she wants you - this, you're getting familiar with, or the start of it at least, that fine-tuned way Irene wants someone when she doesn't even hesitate to show it. It was odd, and at first almost embarrassing to see. That might've even been part of the charm, you think: Irene could want to devour you. You were you - slightly interesting, and in her eyes, probably the most intriguing fuck - but whatever her reasons, it all clicked for Irene. She had a system to evaluate and adjust and execute. There wasn't room for wasted effort.

"Hey," she hums, low in her throat.

"Yeah," you say, lifting her right up onto the counter. 

And see - there are these gestures, reminders, not always in good faith, where you make her feel small: Irene's wrists are suddenly so narrow, one right at the surface of the counter, fingertips cool at your collar, and her nail polish chipping a little at the edges. Your palm is larger, enveloping the high, broad arch of her hip, the sharp line of bone to muscle to sinew. She feels fragile, is what it is, a fine-boned little bird, a thin silhouette under her loose, borrowed shirt - it's almost poetic, a regular old fuckbuddy - a physical habit, and you know her, know how many inches, and you can find your favorite parts of her in the dark, but-

"Want your mouth," Irene's saying now. Her lips glistening, eyes liquid; you want to tell her that that's an indisputable victory, just objectively, even before the clothes fall.

"Tell me where to put it," you offer back, and watch the corner of her lips twitch up.

She runs her hand through the back of your hair, mussing it, the lazy drag of her nails, her heel right to your lower back. The light from the stove is doing her wonders, gold catching off the paleness of her skin. "Make yourself useful, I think, like on your knees."

You raise an eyebrow at her.

"Don't give me that look" - and Irene shrugs her shoulders back - the shirt falling more, the flat plane of her stomach - this jut of bone, the pretty contour of her ribcage, the stark outline of her body just under a few too many buttons.

"It just comes off a bit greedy," you say, letting the words twist, playing with the hem of her skirt between your fingers.

"Maybe because you reward that kind of behavior," Irene retorts immediately.

"You’re spoiled," you laugh. "That’s all. Just spoiled. Life must be great for you, do nothing and let someone else do everything."

It's another one of those, 'you fucking like it', and Irene smirks like the shape of her mouth here is foreplay enough alone. She might be onto something. Like the easy back-and-forth - how she's sharp as razor wire underneath you - a double-edged sword if the weapon knew the sheath.

You lean in. She places her palm flush to your heart, like she can measure exactly how long you’re drawing this out with its steady thud. You know she’ll repay it in turn: she thinks it's hot to jerk around with your emotions before she fucks you, like playing roulette with her orgasm, yours - a slow crawl, a nice burn. Her fingers curl.

"And here you said I was ungovernable."

Irene huffs, slightly. "You are still fucking talking."

"If I shut up, will you scream for me, sweetheart?"

You run a hand up her waist. There's this whiny intake of air. Then Irene says, soft and slow: "earn it."

(Maybe you shouldn’t keep enabling her. Therein lies the problem. Okay, so maybe you like this particular problem.)

But she's tugging your tie out of the way before the words leave her lips. The distance you have between is scant, which seems to be fine, with the way she leans in as the last syllable drops off her tongue, kissing the corner of your mouth, impatient.

It takes approximately zero convincing to drop to your knees; that much has not changed. You glance up at her. Your hands curve to her waist, sliding up. It's funny - how your fingertips just brush under the billowy fabric, how the taut skin over her ribcage fills the length of your palms, and then a touch further. Perfect proportions, as Irene usually is; you're on your knees and that's by design.

Your thumb rolls over the outline of her nipple and it peaks, draws into a quick, rosy point beneath the flimsy cotton, like an open invitation.

Irene smiles lazily, gorgeous - and sinks back again against the countertop. Her feet land on your shoulders. The nylon in the bend of her ankle slides soft at your throat, gentle. "Waiting." She sighs a little. "Still, waiting."

You press a kiss over the nylon, the fabric underneath, teeth barred and tongue pushing. "You said slow," and the rest of you might as well catch on fire, just for borrowing a moment’s composure. You can see yourself bringing her down to the floor, the kitchen tiles, spreading her legs and fucking her into the linoleum, scratching them up, making her cum as many times as she asked. But there's this heavy drag down your back, the nerves blooming. "So let me. I won't get distracted," you murmur - or don't, really - into the softness between her hip and waist, along her navel, the tight planes of her tummy. "I promise, I'll get there, baby."

She hesitates. The breath she holds back is a telltale pause.

And the first thing that really sinks into Irene's skin, besides yourself, is this: every last shred of hesitation she was waiting on, the self-control? Now gone. You've done nothing but serve its loss. She seems to sense her power; and in one blink, the act is apex. In a beat her nerves are recovered, and the nerves are fuel. A natural killer, an organic toxin, that same smile curving her lips, a pointed glint to her eyes.

"Baby, your mouth," Irene insists, her knees falling to the sides, "open. And yes," and a pause, or maybe an addendum, a double meaning in the downtime, "to be perfectly frank: free for me to use. To come and go as I please."

"Haven't left my fucking mind for a minute, sweetheart," you offer up right back, not bothering with restraint.

Irene clicks her tongue. "But yet, you don't ever do exactly as you're told-"

She hiccups, or something close to it - because you grab her ass, bring her hips closer, until you can sink your nails into the firm give of flesh.

Irene looks down at you, eyes just wide, and - ah.

She sighs. Sighs because she knows - you can find god in everything; that’s the goal, that’s the creed - and maybe Irene wasn’t your original way, maybe you were always meant for a different sort of holy figure, but the words you choose are doctrine in the end; that first prayer you got down on your knees and said to her was no less truthful for its betrayal. There are rules to it: this is faith, the religion. This is her. You belong to Irene, and she belongs to you.

"Um. Did you just tear my stockings?" she asks, like a sudden realization, her mouth still dropping.

You nod, because, well, yeah, and pull her panties to the side. "Permission, forgiveness, et cetera."

In lieu of a reprimand or a rebuke, she lets a shockingly pretty little moan when her pussy gets stretched by a finger, two - and they're wet, slippery, easier than the lace had ever expected, and she's already so plush, red and rosy. Irene has always gotten wet quickly, with your fingers, your cock, your mouth on her - and her head falls back in one languorous stretch. The tightness around your finger is dizzying. You'll never grow tired of watching her: a sudden shift, the spine so pretty when arched, the pulse of blood under her thighs, the fluttering of her cunt as it comes to the very precipice of letting you in.

"Do you understand me, baby?" she's asking you, and her breath seems to pick up and the muscle flutters again.

You waggle your eyebrows and lean in, and whisper against her skin, "better than anything."

Your mouth attaches to her clit and never lets go. You fuck her, all sweet, on two fingers. Down to the last knuckle. You curl your fingertips, and she's gasping. The scent of her drives you fucking crazy; this is what paradise has always tasted like, and heaven's the press of her thighs - your name spilling from Irene's mouth. She gets wetter, and wetter - you lap as it floods out of her, down her thighs. You lick it, taste the salt and her bitterness and her arousal, how her pussy grows slick in an instant, swollen under your touch, wanting, aching. Her heels press over your shoulders and dig in, tight.

When you look up over the tight spasms in her diaphragm, you realize she's got the shirt unbuttoned, finally. Fabric spilling down to the granite, skin and bra and sheen; you wrap your arms around the perfect curves of her thighs, the nylon shifting soft on your hands and bringing her closer, hitching up to your shoulders. This is only part one of what you owe Irene - the easy part, actually: you can see her clench in the same breath that she's straining - the need and want to fill her up a sin, the wet smack as her folds are pried apart by the flick of your tongue, the sounds of your hands, the desperation. She'll want, and you'll get, until she can barely handle it. Until the tremors overwhelm her, until it is too much and it never will be, ever enough - until she's left so gorgeous like that, shivering.

The kettle's got the pitch to its scream now, and the volume. The sound makes you grind your teeth. Lick harder, suck longer, kiss a bit deeper - her clit, the pink tip of your tongue pushing in past the folds, between the ring, deep and heavy. Fingers moving slow, almost absent-minded, flitting across her breasts, pinching a nipple - Irene groans. The metal rattles louder, louder.

The shirt's rumpled, tangled, bunched up between Irene's elbows. You lean your teeth to the crease of her hips. You lick, the smell filling your nostrils, her fingers threaded in your hair - holding you where she wants you to be:

"And fuck, ah, do you, oh god- fucking do you- have an," she sighs, trembling as the movement of your jaw sends her shuddering, as your mouth runs and your hands open her legs. She pants. "Oh, darling. Have an honest-" she laughs and the sound pitches too, "-idea, I mean-"

Irene has started grinding against you. Your heart is thundering.

"-of what I'm-"

A moan finally breaks from her lips, so disarmingly beautiful. Irene grabs for the edge of the granite counter; she can hardly seem to make out what she wants. Her orgasm is cresting higher, each flick of your tongue and soft sound of you bringing her there, near. You like that she needs you, like that the word 'insatiable' becomes an insufficient assessment. You push, you move - her hands tug you. You taste her: a warmth, the depth, the pulsing.

"-what you're" - a gulp, a gulping swallow - the fridge keeps beeping, the front door sticks, and it'd be so perfectly quiet if not for the fucking tea kettle. It keeps boiling and boiling and you are drinking your fill, drowning. Her skin smells fucking delicious. You can feel her heat pooling. "Fucking, o-oh, fuck- fucking doing-"

You smile into it. Against her messy, quivering cunt. You are: unashamedly smug.

And fuck. She's gone, swept away, carried off, the pressure of your lips sending her crashing back down with a moan - the kitchen still buzzing and the steam a bit of a haze, and you haven't even finished bringing her through the dying breaths of her orgasm before she's gasping, pulling you back up on your feet:

"I need you, I- right now. Up here-"

Irene tries to grab for your neck again. She doesn't seem to mind her own lack of strength, though. In any other circumstance you'd think she'd look a bit pathetic: her shoulders curved, chin resting in a hand, a absent, pleasantly confused grin, legs and hair a complete unmitigated mess - and here: her lipstick wiped, mostly smudged, her wet, glistening thighs-

"Tell me," you say, and a thousand possibilities are imagined. To get inside of her, feel her nails dragging across your chest, her teeth at your throat, her moan as you slide into the very heat of her - fuck, you cannot stop. She's got you spinning and you’ll gladly lose this particular battle; a typical Bae Irene ending. "Please, tell me."

The water boiling over has begun to crack; and the first tendrils of steam begin curling into the air.

"God," says Irene, shaking with her body so desperate, her hand still grasping you back. The look in her eyes seems so beautifully wrecked, but in no hurry to show it. She smiles, because she wants that over anything. "Don't you fucking listen?"

She grins.

"Ah." Irene shakes her head, pulls your head back, staring, but does not rise to a sit, just slides herself out. One leg kicks, one, then two, from the corner of your eyes: her nylons shredding down their long seams. You're on your feet; you're not really standing, but then you have no real bearings to start with. Your cock is throbbing.

She just scoots on out, and shuts off the stove, and sets the kettle a step back.

"Maybe," you say, pressing your thumb to the seam of your pants. You could probably die of lust right now and have no regrets. "Maybe not. I think I need more convincing."

It would probably also help if your thoughts could stop racing.

"Huh."

She turns - though not with the skirt. The hem has fallen to the floor. A puddle at her ankles. She's only slightly out of breath; the wet between her legs gleams. The slick, smooth fabric of her lingerie sticks to the swollen outline of her pussy. Her fingers dip down, playfully, so she's leaning over the counter. She tugs, and it presses and plays and sticks at her center. You're obsessed, half-crazy from it. Her expression twists; it's fucking bliss. She smiles, one breath, then two - the house settles. You cannot stop staring; you can't. Your mouth feels hot and dry and sticky, wet from her cum, and your pants, you can't quite breathe and the view's only getting better: Irene naked, against the counter, the jostle of her breasts as she strums herself, as her breathing catches and rises, and those nails digging deep into her clit as her eyes drift shut-

She's biting her lower lip - but she looks at you and - stops, her toes pressed to the linoleum.

The moment is suspended, and suddenly the words do not fit anywhere in your throat.

"Want it?"

"Fuck," you exhale, and maybe she isn't just asking that out loud, she's the embodiment of the fucking question: the need between her legs so vivid. She laughs again, licks the taste of herself off her fingertip, sucks at the curve of her nails - she touches the tip of her tongue to the very edge of her upper lip. Her smile, in its sharpness and precision, remains unswayed.

"Bend me over?"

And then, very quietly, and without so much as a scoff in disappointment-

"Fucking christ," you mutter, and nearly fall in a heap towards her.

-

It's borderline unhealthy, that this happens as often as it does: sex that leaves you breathless, sex that shivers across every inch of your fucking skin, sex that aches afterward, that drives your lungs to strain, a moan trapped forever just behind her teeth. Her hips were either made for your rough palms, or you’ve worn them down to your grip. Softened all the edges. Her thighs open to you like you own her. The ridge down the center of her back, your mouth trailing down every vertebrae - her pussy. The inside, the depth - and everything she doesn't mean to let out: all these little notes she's learning with each thrust of your cock into her, and you think you should just say yes, give in.

Let it go, and just trust.

Sex as routine? A repetition of desire. What is routine is that, with Irene:

There's always a new discovery. She has you when she's bent over and you're pounding her knees into the cabinets. She has you on the floor with her. She has you when she's bent over and you're eating her out again, then on top, and on your couch, and with her legs kicked high on the shower wall, and - you fuck her, you find room for her on the bathroom sink. You cum all over her stomach and she just smiles dreamily. You fuck her until she’s almost sobbing, and then you're saying her name like she has your life and your attention, for everything and nothing at all. And after an hour of letting her have your patience, and your dick, your face pressed against her throat, and her nails deep in your back - you tell her she needs to stay. 

It’s a hell of an admission, apropos of nothing.

"Oh? Say that one more time for me," and she's half-covered, the comforter pulled up over her the gentle slope of her breasts, the bedsheet tucked around her waist. "Again," and you have no real use left, you're certain. The most recent orgasms have nearly shattered you both in half: Irene can barely focus on your mouth, where your hips had slammed hers into the bed and - you are pretty certain - definitely did crack her skull right off the headboard.

"Yeah," you mutter face down into the duvet, "you should stay."

"Then it's decided," Irene says out loud, rather victorious, and drops a hand down the span of your back. She's there still, fingering her own cum from inside her pussy. The look in her eyes, sly. The message in them could not be any clearer: what an excellent suggestion, since you both know she'll have no shortage of reasons to keep coming back, anyway.

-

It all feels rather satisfying, pretending not to like the girl. It feels good not caring where she is at night.

As she had said, like an affirmation, a real statement: "this thing, between us, is so uncomplicated. It's so easy."

And she’s right: 

She fucks, and you cum. She looks pretty. That's what she wants to show off, she does and does it well, and as long as you don't pay attention and pretend like it doesn't matter to you, it's an absolute fucking win-win. That's it: that's exactly why, when she calls, when she comes around and asks about dinner, you ask how far you're expected to go for her. What'll earn you her gratitude? Her pleasure's a quick hit, and it's free - if she asks nicely, if you're up for it, if it isn't the same bullshit, same scene - and the night's never a big deal to waste. That's her script; there's your line:

"What's your endgame here," is a thing you're always asking.

She tips her head, her hair falling off her shoulder, that old cliché, those large brown eyes, batting and fluttering. Just curious, but also to draw attention; what a killer pair she has, they're gorgeous. Your eyebrows raise, and your mouth falls open as her fingers dance over your chest, playing with the collar of the button-up that you aren't entirely convinced doesn't belong to her.

"Who says I have to have my mind made up right this second?" is Irene's usual comeback - a favorite - followed by another favor, then an expectation. Then, as your hands fall to the small of her back: "for you, the point is probably the chase," she reminds you, a low little murmur.

Your heart thrums with the little spike of anger. Then again, your cock's feeling the yearn ahead of everything else already; it’s a bad habit, and not getting anything you need. Or, there's a tumble, a mutual surrender in this somewhere. 

"Sure, says you." 

You kiss her so easily. Run your fingers through her hair and drink down her sighs, pull away and pretend. Pretend to dislike how pretty she looks when you do things like this. Pretend like you haven't missed her, that there is no desire, not to run your touches down the back of her knees, or sink your hands into her perfect little ass.

"Didn't need me to," she points out, the lick into your mouth. And her finger curls right under your chin, nails a pretty, perfect oval shape, manicured and soft at your throat, that way she loves - the angle intimate. "And yet. Not stopping me, are you?"

Which you're not. Neither of you is fool enough. You don't hate yourself, she doesn't hate the truth. So, whatever, sometimes you give in to it - if you could call this a 'means to an end', you suppose that might just about cover the ground, because her plans, her reasons don't matter to you, and vice-fucking versa: just to find an answer, or to find a few dozen, and that's enough.

You're no good at love; she says she's not looking for it either, no heartfelt romantic shit to get a tear out of you, she'd tell you at the start:

"Let's just play it by ear, how about that? I could surprise you. You could surprise yourself."

-

(But fuck: Irene's surprisingly full of surprises.

Take when she texts a few days later.

Hey, a blip on the screen, an innocuous string of numbers you refuse to mark a contact. There's too much power, and leverage. She isn't asking. 

It's been too long.

A winky emoji.

I think you’re able to do me a big favor.

A period. It is imperative. She would tell you, with an authority she certainly isn't trying to front or to prove: she likes her punctuation.

I could really, really do with that same favor that you gave me back when we went to that housewarming party, you remember. It'd really be the best thing you've done with your evening if you could help me out. Call it the nice thing to do.

Is your vibrator out of batteries? you text back.

You are a genius.

Thanks.

Let’s go somewhere.

Just this once. But dinner's on you.

A selfie. Slippery fingers, glued to her pussy, running through the glisten-

Oh. Actually, it'll probably be twice.)

-

So. ‘Surprise yourself’ was, naturally, the key. 

It's difficult to have a notion as to how exactly you might surprise yourself - but here you are a little later; she's dressed and in heels, and that's a relief, or rather a delight: this woman looks devastating with her hair down. But still, like this: the hem to her slacks that draws her thighs down to an elegant peak, the nice blouse she's got her buttons done to the top, and one less: this cleavage isn't wholly visible but the shadow is still a tease, her thin jacket only pinning in how her waist is cut into such a deep arc. Irene had asked if this looked too formal, and the second response in your brain was to ask why: her normal wardrobe's worse - less clothing, more fucking exposed. Then again, you might not mind watching Irene work so hard if it meant your hands get full quicker-

"That is absolutely no way to put it," she admonishes.

"Come again, Mistress?"

"Ass," she mutters. It's not even a reprimand so much as an agreement, you can see where the smile is trying not to crack open. "No," she corrects, and smiles anyway. She pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear, "I just mean- fuck you and your terrible metaphors. Anyway, we should go. You drive, my car is a total mess."

-

You take her out. There's dinner. There's drinks. It's something like a date, because that's what she wants. The hostess smiles politely. The waiter raises a suggestive eyebrow at your fingertips grazing Irene's leg underneath the table, and you both ignore the interest. You pass him her credit card without comment when you go to settle up. When you stroll about, the sun is going down and the dying light paints her skin orange, yellow, and red. She tells a story about work. You manage to get a few of your own. Your fingers loop through hers and the action makes her do this lovely smile.

So the gist of it is: you have a fling, her name is Irene, there’s some vague cohabitation occurring, and - oh, she's an absolutely fantastic lay.

It's the sort of thing that on the surface level sounds like a total and complete win, even for all its contradictions, flaws, and pitfalls. She fucks, and you're willing. She looks pretty. You keep her content. That's enough, as a friend-with-benefits; more of the benefits than anything else, she always reminds you. And every now and then, when Irene starts making demands of your time, of your availability - making plans, making reservations, making the expectation known that the two of you have a standing obligation, ‘benefits’ penciled into your schedules every Tuesday and every weekend (and Thursday, too, if neither of you is booked) - she suddenly becomes more complicated than she should have any rights or reason being. There's a kind of security you take away from it.

Irene's holding her clutch in the parking lot, posture perfect. The sky's on fire and the setting sun is burning down the horizon all around her.

"Can we do it in your car?" she's asking, totally nonchalant. 

"What?" "Sex," Irene repeats, like you didn’t understand the question. Her expression is bright, seamless. She holds her wrist behind her back, and twists a little on one heel. "I want to get you off."

This is a case study; you’re walking, breathing empirical data. You’ve gone from wondering to knowing about what they say in regards to women of a certain age. The appetite. The inexplicable desperation. It used to be a joke. Maybe it's because men in their 30s are unusually relaxed with their dating life, or all of their friends are talking about wedding rings, kids, a white picket fence - with life a non-event to handle with finesse and a delicate grip. Or: maybe Irene simply isn't complicated in the ways people seem to expect her to be. She’s needier for sex than usual, for starters. "Are you expecting some urgent business meeting, or an important call - any sort of personal news, maybe - like, in the next half hour?"

"Are you serious," you manage. Fuck her, actually.

"I don't know why, I just feel like you might appreciate the cramped quarters. We can make out while you cum and stuff."

You almost snort, but - her hips have that sway. The door’s unlocked. You stare. The purse settles on the passenger's seat. This girl is so stupidly pretty.

"You, uh, wanna get on top?" you ask, voice already slightly drying at the sound.

Irene reaches over and traces your jaw. Her thumb feels lovely pressed to the seam of your lips, rubbing over them slowly. Her mouth is this gorgeous color and you just can’t stop staring. "So cute. What’s your best guess, sherlock?" She pats the roof of the car, gently. "Get the fuck in."

-

Irene is, at her most shameless, a list of demands: give me your fingers, touch my clit, do it now; take my wrists, fuck me faster; don't you dare fucking cum - there's no rush here, so put in the effort. You have a basic idea of where you're both headed, and the situation demands you to, um, obey. The sound of her wet cunt fills the tight confines of the car.

"Fuck, Irene."

At her most elegant, she's pretty much the same, but she fucks like a total dream: 

"Slow, yes," she'll coo into your ear, in the early stages, before her head starts falling back and her chest rises, and all the sweet notes from the back of her tongue get driven to the fore, and there are moans instead of directions, groans and cries. "Feel me. Deeper. Fuck, babe, just like that."

Her nails drag deep, and that's not usually the plan - the start is fast and easy; her pussy drips like she's soaking a cloth, a fresh layer every second, and a clench that swallows every thrust; and somehow the friction's good enough that if you stick around and keep your focus, you get Irene begging for mercy by the end of it, just to savor and relish the sensation, the motion of your body into hers.

"There," and her eyes flutter, "yes. You are so fucking hard for me." She leans in, kisses the shell of your ear: "you’re fucking stretching out this little pussy, baby, you know that?"

"Jesus. Fuck, please-"

"Should we? Should I let you?" She clenches down, "fill me up, babe? You think you're worth the privilege?"

"If you'd let me - Irene, the things I could do," you don't breathe, "jesus fucking christ."

And she looks at you with wide, honey-smudged eyes. Pretty even when fucked; especially so. Her fingers get wrapped in your collar and she’s nodding her head in rhythm with her quick little bounce. The snapping of her hips. Up and down, and up and down like she’d be insulted if you didn’t drain your balls into her perfect little womb right then and there. She says don’t do this, don’t do that - and then she fucks you like you’re supposed to.

"Yeah, that’s right, be a good boy for me," her mouth whispers, even though there is no one else in her car, you're pretty sure. Her voice is like a vice, just you, with her hips, her hot little hands pushing you down so she's riding the top of your head. You can hear her dripping down into the space, a new leak.

"How're you gonna deal with it when I'm filling your tight cunt?" You thumb at her ass, squeeze. "This pretty, round ass? Want me to cum inside you every which way, huh? Marking up my territory?"

You hear her stutter on a reply, as her pussy gives a particularly strong flex, another contraction.

"All those wet loads, dripping out your cunt, down your thighs... on your lips... you gonna taste every last one, princess?"

She has a face like she wants to hurt you for that one, the moniker - you have a sneaking suspicion there's nobility in her blood, laid deep somewhere in her veins, another lifetime lived far from this one: she'll have a predilection for thrones, diamonds, queendoms to rule. And if that were true - well, you'd be downright lucky if she consented to an audience, even less entitled to her hand. She's out of your league regardless. Or maybe, she's the furthest thing from royalty and she just knows the script better than anybody. Kneel, she'll say, and you find yourself obliging; give me your mouth, your fingers, she'll ask, and you're compelled. It's all ingrained.

"What was that?" she asks, incredulous, riding your cock so hard the seat shakes instead.

"I said: this cunt, christ-"

You bring her closer to your face, have to feel that clasp of heat with every stroke - and when it is so fucking deep, her hips lock up, clamped, thighs quivering - you just hold her in place, give her a few breaths, let the satisfaction really sink in, even if she's already moaning.

"Well, I guess you got me there, huh." Her mouth gives her away, the lopsided-grin. "Yeah. So cum, give it." And then it twists. Her face looks so beautiful in distress, and you're certain you've had that thought many times since: if the situation demands it - maybe it would be just fine to push a little bit more? It's a neediness that doesn't go understated, even when Irene's more whining for it: like, the fuck are you waiting for, her tits out, panting, sweating, cursing and moaning at the slow drag through her slippery muscle, a grip like satin, like velvet.

You’re a total mess: 

"Breathtaking, the faces you make for me" - "you look so good, like that, so handsome" - "has anyone ever fucked you this good?"

It’s official. She'll have to scrape you off the leather.

And as if to add insult to injury, Irene’s hands come up to her hair, holding it up into a messy bundle above her head. There’s a tilt of her chin, a bite into her lip. She’s bouncing fast, taking your cock deeper on each twist, and it’s all very performative. Fucking Irene is as visual an experience as it is visceral, because chiseled into her figure, the lithe frame, are these model-esque proportions - like she’s not actually five foot nothing in her socks. 

(A beautiful little paradox. She’s showing off here. She’s showing off, simply because she can.)

"And you’re the one always calling me greedy," she breathes, like the punchline, as she takes the next inch, the wet slapping of skin. There's heat. So much fucking heat - she's got a pulse that pulls you forward and won't let go, your balls hitting her ass and thighs soaked, so red and plush and beautiful, a softness that takes a second and an elbow's reach and, fuck. Her thighs on the dashboard. "You've been-"

Your palms fit into the curve of her ass. How a small, fragile, dainty thing like her can have so much to grab onto remains a mystery and a fucking miracle.

"-a bit of a prick, honestly, for a minute-"

But she's so responsive - and you want to wring it out of her, really, a desire to destroy and savor, even when that sounds a little wrong and too close to sacrilege - you really ought to just call her the ultimate fantasy: she has the cutest tits, soft creamy thighs, tightly wound curves and a sexy-as-sin attitude; and when she sits heavy on your cock, wiggling her hips in a circle, you lose the plot and a little bit of your mind.

"-have to say, it's been getting to me."

"Here's hoping it doesn't give," you grumble as your arms tense and your back aches, your shoulders strain. Irene seems unconvinced, and she usually is, but the drive is relentless.

"Then you'll have to hurry up," the rake of her fingernails across your neck, "won't you?" and she is too slick and so eager, "because you’re gonna cum for me, sweetheart, just let it all out, baby." Her cunt and her heels in the upholstery and the stinging welts draw you deeper- 

Your hand braces around the center console. 

She has her lips on your temple, your hairline: "I’m imagining how my pussy will look, all creamy and used and pretty - all because you fucked it nice and hard and raw - no matter how many times I fuck myself with my fingers, I'll keep feeling the ghost of this fucking perfect cock."

The noise that leaves your lips is a full, throaty, ragged groan, your muscles shaking and skin burning. "Irene, god," you sputter out; it's not super attractive, you think.

Irene kisses the juncture of your shoulder and neck like it’s music to her ears, her jaw against your jaw:

"You've got to stop edging me, love, my little pussy was made to get stretched by your cock, show me-"

You thrust in deep. 

"Fuck."

"Oh," she whispers, eyes hooded and lashes sweeping low, an awe so thick to her voice. "Such a good boy for me - now. Make me cum, yes - make me cum all over you - mhm-"

You jerk your hips again - your pants hanging around your thighs, her blouse pushed up around her waist. You've twisted and knotted the fabric over and over into something you can pull or hold onto - it's not clear to you yet which idea's more pressing.

Because there's no breathing room. You need to twist your hips just to fuck into her - her lips are parted with this insatiable moaning, and it's sweet and pretty and filthy. She wraps one knee higher. There's the lock to your ankle, but she's grabbing the lever and trying to pull your seat down, the rest of it; you absolutely let her. All this in heels that would be impressive without a tight wet pussy pressing down on the length of your cock, begging for what seems like an endless number of thrusts into that delicious heat, the perfect clutch. She rides you rough: the leather beneath your knees shifting with the constant scuffle. Her elbows bent, a thumb grazing her tits, pushing up the silk and the lace.

Her soft, pale skin is spilling all over you, her limbs finding purchase as her mouth slides against yours on a new rhythm of need and want: "that's the thing, right? You're such a delight when you put your mind to it." She's pressing a kiss against your temple - her tone, this intimacy, a hotness between her thighs that leaves you breathless, dumb - it's the only sort of inescapable validation that might suit.

You had the perfect view as she shrugged the jacket, unbuttoned the blouse, sat the bra over it, just undid her slacks: this perfection, laid bare, exposed in your passenger seat with her tits squeezed in both palms. Then it was her hand tugging at the zipper to your pants.

So - you're fucking her harder than you have any business doing. Her nails are digging trenches in the skin of your forearms and you have the slightest sense of everything she has, wants, demands; you've had her under you, bent her in half, folded at the corner of your bed. You’ve fucked her with your cock so far into the slick-dripping hole of her cunt until she can't stop cumming - or begging - or the Irene-equivalent.

"There you go," she says into your throat, like it's nothing, and sags a little further into your chest. "There we go," she repeats. Her brow is glistening with sweat, and you kiss it: hot, and a little bitter. You can't help it. 

You're fucking her harder than she can handle. You're filling her. She's stuffed to the fucking brim with your cock, bulging at the folds of her insides.

And, christ, her fucking waist. She is so small, so fragile-looking. You wrap both hands around her middle, and as her hips grind forward, meeting the roll, she grabs your wrists, holds your hands up her ribs and gets, and gets - oh, just where you fucking left her. Your knuckles are left digging to the silky skin, bruises dotting purple across her back, her neck, her tummy and her thighs, every surface - you're grasping and claiming what she has to give you, just a hint. There's a million and one ways to love, to give back, to please a partner - but you have one goal: you're not an artist, you're not a philosopher, or a poet - so you’ll leave physical marks, reminders, of everything you've done and will do. You’ll make her cum. Just hold her still and make her cum again and again and again. The weight, the lift. If she asked, you would. Fuck. You would. She rides your cock and rocks you into the upholstery of the passenger-side chair. She sinks down and presses her mouth to the edge of yours, just shy, her own teeth pulling at her bottom lip-

"Your cock feels," and here Irene takes the moment for a heavy, contented sigh. "-ah, fucking unbelievable. Your fucking cock, jesus."

Her voice is… it's really so dreamy. The praise does strange things: you reach down and pull her thighs so they tighten at your waist. There are no illusions here, she's found something worth chasing. The bare-boned desperation drives her insides wild, you can feel it. The clench, the pulse, the absolute slutty-slick dripping, a real, honest, aching cunt, warm and clamped at the hilt of your cock - it's obscene, and your patience is stretching paper-thin. You aren't asking any questions; she's not taking them.

It’s just you and this petite, absolutely stunning, heartbreakingly gorgeous girl sitting in your lap and working herself on you like a doll, and- oh. She really does look great. It's impossible to look away.

The windows are fogged, and her cunt feels divine as she runs you further into your car seat. Her hips snap up, back down - the soft drag and then the cinching flutter. The inside of her, a total fucking delicacy. One of your hands slides across her back, counting the rise-and-falls of her spine. One, two, three, and so on. Her lips are flush at your throat. You feel her whimper.

It’s the most perfect noise you've ever heard.

"Baby," she mouths at your collarbone, her movements becoming more spastic, more erratic. "I can feel you throbbing."

The encroaching dark keeps threatening the corner of your vision, so much tighter each time.

"You're going to make me," you're gritting through your teeth - this feels a little insane, a little irrational. "Irene you- you’re going to make me fucking cum."

"Oh?" Irene’s reply is immediate. She slams herself down on your cock, hard. "Then cum."

Your patience is truly nothing at this point. There is not a single breath left inside her either: the heavy swell of her chest is proof enough, those eyes fluttering shut, the angle shifting as her ass meets your thighs. "Seriously, I'm going to fucking fill you, and it is gonna slip all down the back of your legs - Irene - sweetheart, I’m going-"

Her fingers curl behind your head. "Cum," and she groans, "I know- I'm here. Take it. Use this perfect little pussy, I want to feel you cum." and you pull the pace up into a frantic tempo. The metal beneath your back creaks with the strain; the bounce of her ass against your groin. The moan, it pitches: a need, a lust, and she is rolling, rutting her body in circles on top of you, a wild gasp and then a beautiful cry, almost in pure unbridled ecstasy.

The angle shifts and - fuck. You’re able to fuck up into her so easily. Her cunt is hot and soft in all the right places, wrapped around your cock, tight and snug like she was made for you. Every drag of slicked skin and clenched muscle sends you both reeling.

"Irene," you barely say, and you're cumming, you’re fucking filling her up with cum - the only possible endgame. You can’t stop fucking into her even though she's just been fucked senseless, stuffed with your cock: little helpless noises, squeals and yelps like they're being tugged out of her. She goes limp on you, and then she collapses, shivering and whimpering with every deep-bore pulse: you're going to mark every inch of her body, claim every part of her soul.

"Oh my god." A groan. Another. It's coming off her like a wave - like a river, really, you're drowning. "It is so, so fucking hot. Your cum, in my pussy..." She trails off.

Her tight cunt twitches: pulsing with every motion. She squeezes down - hard. It takes a great effort for you not to let out a loud, embarrassing whimper. Your fingers dig into her ass, her hips, steadying her grind.

But you're looking right into her eyes when she falls apart, too, that long, tensing shudder, the gasping groan - fuck - because she feels exactly like everything that you've done, you know: Irene's tight cunt has kept your cock perfectly in place. She was just waiting for the spill of it before the final, hardest crest. The smell's in the air and the haze is all through her expression and, god, you want her, you could just sink a million words into that, every possible adoration and every bit of yourself and you still wouldn't be getting the entire story; just fuck - you can never not be fucking her, never not want to have her riding your lap, moaning out and falling and dragging every part of your body deeper-

"Mmmmm," Irene lets out, soft and satisfied, a tiny whimper in the way that she goes all soft around your cock and comes down and presses a wet, tired kiss at the base of your throat.

"Mmmm-m?"

"Thanks, I think." Her blouse is falling off one shoulder, the material crumpled. There are creases all across it. She's biting on her lip, flushed. "Thanks for that."

-

It has to be said, here - because you know, because the sun is setting on your open window and your arm is snug at Irene’s waist and neither of you even have to mutter a word to acknowledge the fact that it will inevitably rise across your living room carpet again. 

Irene is everything you might have been running from, everything you’ve ever chased - and you’d never ever stand a chance.

-

Greedy, however, just isn't the right word for it. Not really. 

It's the way she leans in when you kiss. The way she fidgets. The way her tongue brushes across her bottom lip. So no - greedy isn't quite the right way to say it. It's more: instinctual.

She's this not-so-subtle tincture of want and desire, in its most basic form - and that makes this all so dangerous, isn't that right, miss? Because want isn't something to toy with; want is, by design, something measured in its inability to be indulged.

(And for the record, your car hasn’t even moved from the lot. You were supposed to get frozen yogurt but that's looking less likely, judging by the way Irene's fingers are tapping lightly across your shoulder, your own clamping down on her chin.)

It’s just so indulgent. Irene hasn’t left your lap, blithely warming your cock for you. Stealing kisses while the day’s last light bleeds low over the buildings. Soft sighs. Whimpers, mewls, muffled little keens of, "oh, oh, please." You trace the edges of her, where your body becomes hers, and her movements are fluid - supple and knowing and just this side of eager.

The car feels now even more cramped and narrow than advertised, the sweat in your skin starting to bloom. The musk of sex, a creeping heat: "go ahead," you rasp out. 

She nods, a helpless dip, and that comes with a sigh, "yes, fuck, right there," her cunt squeezing, a hot, slick little velvety clench; there's something about being buried inside her and seeing her fall apart. This slow rock and build-up. All the hard edges worn to a perfect point. Her dark eyes are glowing, her clever little tongue darting to her lip.

You hold her, slumping together in the front seat. The leather squeaks with the gentle shifts, the slides. The color rising in her cheeks. She likes when your breath catches; her smile goes sharp, a hint of teeth: it's very obvious that she is very very drunk - on control, on cock, it doesn't seem to matter.

A beat passes before the architecture returns to her muscles. She's sitting up, and with your hand firmly cupping her ass, and your teeth pressed to the flat of her breasts. "You," she gasps, the most unironic and unexpected reply. The corner of her eyes is still glistening, still dazed, still blissful. "Don't play dumb. Fuck - no, don't stop."

"Sorry, say that one more time for me, miss."

"You- ah." She grins, and her hip shoves your cock out with a filthy wet sound in accompaniment.

The air of the car is sticky, and her slick is still covering your waist, so the discomfort makes the little groan extra appreciative, anyway.

"Fucking god-" she grumbles, and the whine that escapes is an order for attention.

You take her jaw with both hands. Pull her, and look her right in her eyes and kiss her. Not slow. Not gentle. Thoroughly, so the tip of her tongue reaches the very roof of her mouth. She ends up with her back shoved roughly into the dash, and your fingers tangled through her hair and tugging. And her laugh turns to a whimper, her eyes a half-closed - you fingerfuck her cunt open. Thumb pressed tight to the clit. Two, and the palm of your hand smacks between her thighs, resonating all throughout the car. It's your own hot cum coating your knuckles and drip-dropping off your wrist, so she's melting and needy. The evening's passing, her hands go to her bra, so she's twisting and slipping, the orgasms strung together like the pearls on her bracelet.

Her fingers squeeze yours, then let go.

She licks into your mouth. "Jesus, you're way too good at that," is what Irene murmurs, when you're both just left breathless, half-shivering, merely recycling the same torrid air.

"Let’s get you home, princess," you kiss into her skin, joking. "Before curfew."

She sits up. "Shut the fuck up."

"Sorry," you lie, smug - not sorry at all. "Can't help it. You're too pretty when you get like that."

"What, when I'm cumming for you? When your cock is inside me? When you're fucking my brain to mush?"

Her heels clack to the ground.

"You’re gross," she adds, and shoves your arm.

"You like it," you say to her, "don't lie."

"Because I’m just this sweet innocent thing, right? I can't be held accountable for anything. Look at you, fucking me like this - corrupting me." A flutter of eyelash, and she leans forward to meet your eyes. She's adjusting the straps of her bra. She's a picture-perfect pinup girl. "Is that really what gets you off?"

"It's not bad." You let yourself soak in it, for a second, just staring at her. "The whole naive, helpless schoolgirl act. It's a classic for a reason."

Irene snickers. It's sweet-bitter, and that's fitting. You like how her blush is red and stubborn.

"Goodness," she says, like you can't see the dust of a smile, of a smirk, take shape on her swollen mouth. "Okay sure, let’s get into that; say my dad is sitting up with worry." Her head cocks, playful. "My family probably sent a search party out for me," and her laugh's lighter than air, warm, a few shades shy of ridiculous - if you thought that the sound could make you as much of a fool as she does - then yeah, that’s pretty accurate.

"What - like in a rocking chair, with his shotgun and everything?"

"Yeah, you’re so fucking dead. He's so going to shoot you on sight when he sees the absolute state you're returning me in. His precious little girl, " Irene picks at her bra, tucks herself back in, adjusts her hair. The last of her hairpins drops, falls to the dash. It rolls back, between your legs. "Pull the trigger and turn you into swiss cheese. Last rites, eulogy, the full nine yards." Her makeup's smudged - red lipstick, the tip of her nose - and you just don't feel like pointing it out yet.

"Cremation, most likely?"

"Eh, who knows," she smiles, and now, more than ever, there's not a sign of hesitation in her face, her voice, the light and effortless way she drapes across the interior, stretches. "You’re so cute though. Maybe he'll give you a chance and let you run."

-

It hadn't really occurred to you until you arrived onto the front steps of Irene’s apartment and watched her sink back against the door, exhaling softly in the fluorescent light, her eyes heavy, but you have a sneaking suspicion that you're doing everything completely out of order. 

You aren't in some trope-addled tv drama, and Irene isn't your childhood-friend or your slowburn-material, someone with a sentimental backstory.

Maybe in a parallel universe, some twisted alternate ending, where she's in this long, silky wedding gown, both sides of the aisle are watching you commit sins the way people can't resist doing in those fuck-it stories, all heat and sex and dopamine without remorse - but not now, not yet.

(Probably - probably not ever, and if that's a cop-out you can't help it. Because isn’t it silly, the things the people will do. Pretending to not be in love, all for the sake of the chase - getting themselves hung up in this world of digital advances and missed connections.)

You'll regret it later, you think. That's an unforeseen variable you should've predicted, though, isn't it?

Because you've both loved before, both been hurt, the excuses are all in the chamber: all the mixed signals and stereotypes. How she looks at you - or doesn't, some days. Your past, hers, the differences. You've never known exactly how this should go, if there even is a best version of this love to pursue, the idyllic happily-ever-after, that perfect white dress. Fuck, that is not the daydream you're supposed to be having.

The story instead, is like this: you drive her home. She sings along to the music on the radio. She kisses you over the console at a red light. Someone honks. You walk her to the door, because you're old-fashioned when you think it’s useful. You're a charmer, she's yours. You grab her by the chin and probably end up making out for far too long.

Just imagine if it had all been by the book:

A first date, then text messages. A second, where you're supposed to invite her to dinner, drinks. You’re supposed to call her, on the phone, with your voice and everything - low, a little assertive - not bossy or controlling, no: that's what the third date's for. There's a checklist for what to do, what to say; how you're supposed to kiss her, and why she's supposed to act all shy, the picture of demure - like she's innocent, though she'll be anything but. At the end of it, you're supposed to pay. She won’t let you. You're supposed to walk her home. She's supposed to linger, put the keys in the door and ask you what you're doing next - she's supposed to look over her shoulder as she walks inside and say goodnight, be coy, let it dangle on the edge. And that's supposed to be that. All of it: quintessential.

Nowhere in that manual does it say anything about pinning her up against the door and slipping your hand into her slacks either - underneath the soft, dark lace of her panties and placing your other palm over her mouth so the neighbors don't hear what a little slut she can be when she wants to.

Just this side of coquettish. A total delight.

Irene practically sobs into the side of your hand. Her mouth drops open, and you haven't even really touched her; she's wet already, soaked - well. She's always wet for you.

"I'll catch you later," you breathe into her neck, letting your fingertips skirt the puffy lips of her cunt on the drag back up because you’re actually not old-fashioned, like at all.

She tosses her hair, lets a sigh run through her smile, the blush, the creased eyes - and disappears through the door. It's the simplest way you two will ever say good night.

-

Ignoring all the rules of engagement, you and Irene never actually tiptoe around each other.

There's never even been a third date because the lines between hanging out and fucking and hanging-out-fucking blur with astounding ease. It's no real shocker: it's the little details in the way you find her sitting next to you at work, hips shifting minutely from side to side on the stool as she sifts through sheet music, sipping her latte, just barely making a sound.

It's the little details in the way she shows up, dresses to all the events, hands brushing yours to call attention to the ends of her fingertips; it's how every camera in the room seems to favor her.

If any of the 14th-century courtship philosophers could ever weigh in, now would probably be ideal. You’d be grateful, sure - because Irene is the epitome of entanglement. And that's your excuse. If anything's going to kill you, let it be her.

-

The texts do dry up for whatever reason. 

Three hours between replies just to conceal a bit of earnest emotion or whatever. You wonder what that's called, wonder when it gets so boring - why all these steps had to be so dull, and why you can't do without them. The modern era has, after all, rendered the ancient rituals pretty fucking pointless - you could both use a time machine to the medieval ages, then you could get the fireworks. The gallant. Some declaration or betrothal - maybe a show of sword, a fistful of your bride's maidenhead. Or whatever the fuck they were calling it in those days, it all sounds a bit crude-

When it really comes down to it, this is less about the charm, the proposal, or the lack thereof. Less about the dear Irene, will you be mine, and more about the want. Want that's palpable, messy: about shedding decorum together and feeling filthy and rough, taking, receiving, biting into the sweet skin of her inner thighs and spanking her so hard she can't walk the next day.

That's all it is, you're pretty sure.

And look - she still attends a majority of your work functions even though, strictly speaking, she has no reason to. Everything is relatively normal, or maybe you don't know how normal is supposed to look, and that's alright because you're trying - and all you really care about is Irene smiling at you with that one knowing tilt of her mouth - and - and she does. 

Hey, you're not entirely hopeless.

-

(The toxicity, the slammed doors, ignored voicemails and belted taillights zooming off into the night - look, not everyone is built for all the drama, not everyone feels the thrill at the tip of their fingers when they cut their losses and move on to the next. Floating through the memories thinking, wow, what a waste of time.

That's not you, you're aware. And Irene’s seen it before, probably, had a story just like it in her own life, maybe been there, maybe not, but isn't it fascinating how all of it always sounds the same no matter how the story gets told.

So, keep it simple stupid. It's easy that way. Don't confuse her, or yourself, don’t fuck it up by demanding more. 

Afterall, it feels good, pretending not to care where she is at night.)

-

So - take some credit, you do something right for once. You call her.

It’s a Saturday and she’s working late because she’s a singer. She's between hair, makeup and costume. Bored. Or, pretending she is, and if you were a lesser person, the type to lie to yourself, you'd let the pretension sit as-is. It's not even difficult: no effort required to sit back, close your eyes, and listen.

"The way he was just staring at me was so embarrassing," Irene is going on about this production assistant, and her voice is always light, playful - it doesn't matter who, it doesn't even matter what, it's the cadence to her speech that lulls. "Like I could read his mind."

"Can't you?" you ask, indulgently.

"Okay, don't try being cheeky, mister," Irene scolds into the phone, but it's hardly stern; her tone's the softest kind of sultry, like caramel, dripping. "He wanted to bend me over the table. Get some nice little marks in."

Hey, who could blame him? She exhales, almost sounds annoyed - the pout on her face is practically audible.

You are not a good person by the longest stretch of the imagination. "Then what stopped him, princess?" you question, not a hint of chivalry left in you. "Fooled me - isn't that your kink? Fucking men you've barely just met."

She laughs - once, breathless and abruptly; something sharp. You're not actually joking and she can't pretend otherwise. "Fuck." The word is a sigh, the suggestion is all over the air. You aren't blind. "You would, wouldn't you? Probably love to see me bent over, too - and split in half on some stranger's cock. Worshiping it like you've taught me, or whatever the fuck."

You hum in amusement, putting the pieces together from what she hasn't said. "Aw," you coo. "Missing me already I see."

"Don’t flatter yourself," she shoots back, all quippy, fast: quick reflexes, the stuff of her brand. "What am I meant to be doing while I'm waiting for the crew, huh?"

And well, that’s the thing - you end up on the phone for far too long, far too late: she leaves you to wait a minute when someone knocks on the door, and you'll have her later, probably, but what's wrong with dreaming of fucking her in one of those dressing rooms, pulling that corset down her curves and kissing her silent in case someone walks by - leaving teeth and nail marks across the tops of her breasts. You expect her to bring the conversation to something a little more in the moment, but her voice carries back into the room and she's asking you, casually, what's for dinner, how was your day. You laugh, tell her a funny story that happens, talk about everything that's mundane, everything she should know and would know about you if you actually spoke all the words in your head.

"Hey," she says, at some point, quiet and suddenly gentle, and you're already wrapped around her finger and you've yet to tell her. "I like talking to you. Keep calling."

This isn’t like you, really. Or it hasn’t been - not in a while.

"As if that's up to you," you shoot back, your voice so dry you know she can see straight through it, but maybe you're doing alright, making leeway - because at least, it's a placeholder. Irene seems to understand what you can't explain.

"Ha." Another laugh, airy this time: easy-breezy. A vocal shrug. "My hair is way too cute right now to deal with your smart mouth, anyways - they're waiting for me." She hesitates, but the gap isn't uncomfortable, a space to breathe. "Let's just say you'll get tired of me before I get sick of you."

"Do you want me to see?"

"Later," says Irene, almost hurriedly, like an excuse, but in a pretty way, and the click on her end of the line is still warm.

(You hang up, stare at the wall and take deep, shaking breaths: in, out, hold - when you don't, you can taste her. But still, you wait for the feeling to subside.)

-

At first, she had seemed entirely untouchable. It’s funny. At first, you were convinced she'd look right past you.

-

She sends you a video, no commentary: the pretty, delicate sweep of her mouth brushing her shoulder. Her arm casts a shadow down the rise of her hips and your eyes trail that shadow south, across the soft planes of her stomach.

There are no questions after it, no words or emojis. Just her. In lingerie and no fucking context. The sound of her inhales.

(She says things with her face like that - or rather she says nothing at all. There isn't a hand-written translation key, though she leaves clues. She's playing it up, knows how you like her when she gets mouthy, lips glossy, knows how you like her panting. It wouldn't take much if she put her hand between her legs for you: you'd suck on her fingers, clean them off. You'd do anything.

The sound she does make eventually is low, frustrated. It's filthy - just thinking about her, all alone and barely touching herself: waiting for your reply.)

-

And yeah, it'd feel good not having to think about the bullshit anymore - you’d do your best to convince everyone that it's casual: the looks, the touches, all of it - the two of you together. It'd be a total lie, and you'd know it: everyone would know it, but that doesn't really matter. Because keeping things careless works. Never had it been about the feelings, and it's a cop-out, sure, that old cliché, but look - there's a really good chance you'll muck this up if you're given the power to put a name to the way her pupils dilate a half second before she grabs at you. Or the way you always fall a little more for her.

You think about that, about the worst of it: that she could ask you the most invasive question on her mind and instead, you'd answer, honestly and willingly, just like that: "hey, do you want to stay the night?" 

-

But here’s the thing: she's a singer and she's got all these friends. Colleagues and acquaintances from work who are, in her words, also 'friends' (code for: people I am required to tolerate by contract.)

Hey, you're no marriage counselor - you won't try to figure out the etiquette. And her labelmates aren't a total disaster.

It's only fair to make an appearance, meet all these alleged Bae Joohyuns. And - she likes it, in that way Irene likes a lot of things you do to her. She’s texting you a new address every few minutes, texting nonstop by the time you've matched a tie to a shirt and are actually considering heading out. It's this afterparty, or wait, sorry, we're actually at a bar now - no, scratch that, it's a friend of a friend's place, you'll love it, I think? - and you can't really picture her stumbling through the city at midnight like she is, but there's a blurry photo of her and Seulgi and Wendy crowded around a mess of champagne flutes on a counter. An outdoor patio, a rooftop garden somewhere downtown. Her dress is breathtakingly gorgeous. There's an arm snaked around her waist and that's - hmm.

Wendy wants u here lol, the next text reads, and okay, you can't actually be bothered to give her shit for that right now. She can't be helped.

Someone's having fun, you type out instead.

Maybe I'm bored, comes the reply, just as fast, and then a few seconds later: i don't think anyone knows me here.

You roll your eyes. You'd love her despite, or maybe because of, a personality like that. "Never took you for anything like a celebrity."

Fine. I'll have to think of something to do, then, Irene responds, almost lazily, the following text-delete cycle appearing under your thumb like some new and innovative high-speed braille. Maybe.

But you could also come over and get me off, you think she should add. That could be fun, too.

No dice.

Meet me soon, she texts, and maybe a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, but she doesn’t even know what it does to your stomach when she follows it with, I miss you.

You wonder, a little, how you got here. You wonder if things like that ever just become normal.

-

Kang Seulgi is standing out front when you spill out of an uber and onto the sidewalk, all stooped over under the yellow haze of the streetlight on the corner, smoke coming up off a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

The chill night wind picks up and the edge of a leather jacket flaps behind her. It's almost eerie in how mundane the sight should be - and you think it's funny: Seulgi can make herself at home, anywhere.

"Hey," the brunette calls, stepping up. She's tall in her heels, the crescents under her eyes deep. The stars in the sky are shining against all the bright signs and street lamps, and it's hard to spot them. "Haven’t I seen you before?"

"Around the office, probably-"

Seulgi's eyes light up - she's not as drunk as the photo suggested, you think - and she gives a bright smile. Her eyebrows jump in recognition: a blur, the glimmering pulse of neon over glossed eyes and a lip caught by a canine. "You're Irene's-"

"-work friend," you answer quickly, before she has the chance to finish. It makes her laugh, which you weren't really counting on, and pocket her hands. You have enough bad ideas; you don't need hers as well.

"Oh. So you’ve got an arrangement," she suggests.

"It's an occupation," is as much as you'll tell her. "We all have one."

"Mhmm," she agrees, the wince on her face passing as a thoughtful hum. She shrugs.

"Did you-?" You clear your throat, don't know why it's hard to get out. "Is, uh, Irene in there?"

She takes a slow pull, long eyelashes sweeping over her cheekbones. Smoke spills out over her top lip. "Of course," says the girl, with all the attitude. "Just, not so alone."

"So," you start, cautious. "Do I even want to..."

Seulgi waves her hand, drops ash off the cigarette. "Nothing to worry your little heart over, friend," she mumbles, shrugging. Her fingers are delicate as she blows smoke between parted lips, eyes angling up at the city lights. "She said she was meeting someone cute. And I’m left wondering, if that someone could be you."

"Um," you respond. "Could be."

"Hm." The word is loaded, considering, and when she takes another step forward there's a smirk painted to her mouth, the deep red cut in the center of her lips almost reflective. She tosses her cigarette aside: a clean arc into a storm drain. "Interesting."

Seulgi's fingertips brush your collar as she ducks into the door in front of you.

"Later, pal," she tosses over her shoulder, and doesn't look back to see what happens next.

-

(You’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)

-

A crowd's scattered around the rooftop, now spread a bit thin - most of the people you recognize from tv screens and billboard ads, and everyone else seems a mix of other media. They're talking to each other in hushed tones about some shoot-down, this piece of gossip. They're comparing agent fees, checking the pockets of their jackets, flicking gold-plated pens in their designer hands. The whine of a power drill going a mile a second comes from over the railing: a few shots left to take. A skeleton crew works behind a camera, behind the glass, but no one seems to mind the business of film in the midst of celebration. They really are a different breed, aren't they?

You pick her out of the crowd instantly - in a white silk cocktail dress that costs more than a college tuition and no sense to act the part, Irene is seated among all of them like she fits. It's never a surprise, her at the center of things.

The seam at her hip rides up when she turns to reach for her drink, her leg extended long: overstretched, one toe pointed elegantly as if she could place her full weight onto a thin little stiletto heel and not snap both ankles. Her bottom lip is coated with bright gloss, pink smearing as it pulls at the straw.

There's a pause where everything slows down: she licks the crease of her mouth, sucks something golden and sparkling down, swallows, blinks - slow, pretty, perfect. Her hair is dark, cute, spilling onto her shoulders, and it brushes a collarbone, slips a little into the slit between her breasts. She's looking for someone, gaze traveling across the patio, swimming through the party - searching - and then, suddenly, those deep-water brown eyes catch yours.

They shine just a little bit brighter.

And then, the only logical thing: Irene smiles, before her feet carry you right in your direction.

-

Inside, things aren’t so loud. The night had gotten its worst out of the way early, the only source of music low and reverberating through the walls, the ceilings - all dark and liminal spaces; you and Irene find one to spare and fall into each other there, slow and searching and full of everything. It would be enough to get lost in her completely, this sweetness. You, and the kiss, and nothing else.

It's almost private enough to call it quiet; you're both out of sight and hidden, but there's voices, drowned noise all around. The bass can be felt through the floorboards, underfoot, but you can only focus on the rhythm that thrums from inside of her chest.

There's a disarm, here, too:

"I kissed someone tonight," Irene confesses, and then there's this break, a fragment where neither of you knows who you are to the other, what any of this means - if she'll bite down, be that sore reminder of a few unspoken words.

"Did you."

"Yeah," she says, exhale tickling your jaw. Her lips drag on skin, trace bone - and maybe it should bother you, but either way you can't help it: a thought finds purchase. Irene in someone else's grip, just enough a squeeze. Someone she'd like, or someone she could put herself back in a relationship with, or whatever they're calling this - and all at once, she's trembling.

The revelation is a bit like getting shot through the heart. A simple, awful: fuck. You think you might be bleeding.

Irene pulls the strap of her dress back up her shoulder and explains how it happened, out in that patio garden: a closed-mouth thing, some fleeting nothing, really, a bold dare on his behalf and her lack of inhibition. No, she assures you - he tasted like vodka and it was boring. She kept his hands off her ass, just in case you wanted to know. But still, the blood pumps harder in your veins knowing what she has and hasn't done - and what's wrong is how you only hear her confession in the middle of feeling something envious, a sudden, strong, profound desire to mark your claim: you'd leave this bruise, something ugly at the hollow of her throat. It makes you a possessive, possessive kind of person, and the sentiment, you figure, can only end in trouble.

"Sorry," she sighs, tipping her face forward to brush her forehead against yours, her eyes scrunching as she apologizes. "I don't think you wanted to know, but-"

You're trying to distract yourself; she's pressed between you and the wall, arms circling your neck as her spine bows under a bit of pressure.

"Yeah?" you question though. You can't not. There's this telltale roughness, the need to breathe: you'll hold on too long, take her mouth the way she deserves, keep her quiet, and let your tongue flick across hers until her lips are numb. "What then - should I care? Am I meant to?"

She swallows. It's all reflex.

"He kissed me," is all she says, and then her palm is stroking against the shell of your ear, soft, quiet. "Then he kissed me again." 

She shivers, eyes wide, wet and round and wanting: you could say you understand how he could only dream of being the one to turn her head and bring out her charm, the easy way she smiles, but-

"All I could think of was you."

There was never a chance to compete; this star whose shine eclipses. Your binary system was never quite fair, was it?

Your hands are on her wrists then, trapping them at her sides; her eyes smoky and dark and looking straight up at you. She can't breathe like that, mouth agape as your nose brushes hers, your words blowing straight against the heat of her lips:

"Are you still thinking of me now?"

It's only that - though you can hear a sound building up from her lungs. You kiss the line of her jaw and whisper things into her skin: you have me, you can have me, you've always had me. The truth.

And her eyes are slipping shut: mouth curling into the kind of smile that drives you crazy; half the reason why you're all over her in the first place. You don't care where she's been so long as this is where she ends up, your face brushing hers, the kiss held just out of reach - you press into her forehead, her nose, her cheeks; she tilts her chin towards you, begging you to just - but your mouth is on her, feather-light, not near enough: she chases the pressure, gasps your name as your lips find hers, tongue sliding right past, and oh-

It's fast. It's heavy: you take, you push; her whole body shifts and shudders when she finds a grip, one hand braced on your shoulder as the other swung upwards, pulling you closer by the jaw. Your hand runs up her thigh and you hear her inhale, deep.

Irene kisses you like she was made to. She makes sounds with her tongue against yours, ones that twist in you, wind, undo. Like this, it'd be so easy to just let it go - take, take, take. There's not an inch to hide as your hand climbs her bare skin, feeling a shiver rise as her breath rushes hot against your cheek, over and over and-

"Breathe, baby," you mutter, and Irene huffs like it's a game, one of her soft shuddering hiccups, like there's something you should've known - the gasp when you kiss her mouth open, how it was getting easier to drown. She's not drunk, but she's getting there - and she doesn't ask to take it back when you both tip and crash into the wall beside. The reverberation of her back hitting the surface is nothing like the rest.

You take her arm, press her further against the space.

"Bedroom," she barely manages to request. Breathes, the sound shaking and short, almost - almost a plea, or a prayer. A beg. "Somewhere quiet, please. Anywhere. Please."

There's nothing Irene doesn't do without grace - but how she needs you: her limbs give, and she sags, falls against the line of your torso. There's this full, bordering helpless sound as you find her waist, holding her up, pulling her closer. You're kissing in this empty corridor, knocking on doors, jiggling locked door knobs and wasting time, barely, maybe, forever until you can step back into some stranger's guest room: some hallway hideaway; the unoccupied kind of paradise.

"I want you," she mutters when your hand traces the slope of her neck, and then her face is burying against the space below your ear, her open mouth skirting across the sensitive skin there. "So bad, so much. Out of these clothes."

Her neck tilts and you lick. You find a place beneath her ear, kiss - hard. Irene says please. You leave a mark. You know you’ll leave more. 

An unlocked door, and she shoves you into a bathroom instead, fucks you in there with her underwear tugged to the side and her skirt rucked up her thighs: the mirror reflecting back every whine, the squeal you draw out of her when your teeth dig too deeply, the shock, the undiluted want in her eyes when she leans up against it. You have her half on the sink, your arms a cage around her lithe waist, your grip white-knuckled in the silk outline of her dress; she cums around your fingers, cunt slick and slippery, gasping your name so loudly that you have to shush her; and even after that, when her gaze locks into yours, the pretty round of her cheeks all red and her lashes stuck with her tears: when she tugs your zipper down, fits you between her legs and pleads for you to fill her with your cock until the tightness around it is unbearable, fucking her just as you're pulling apart her clothes, the clasp of her bra snapped so hard she curses - even that doesn't stop. She doesn't ask you to stop - she's incorrigible, needy, practically begging.

"Please." Again. Again, as she touches her cheek, fingertips on the skin that's already turning a deep crimson, all shades and blooms; and then she touches the lipstick-smudged prints at the top of her breast, and all the ones on her jaw. Your teeth, where it was light, and your tongue where it was hard. You took, and you marked, and the way she is, her thighs quivering like an aftershock; her body pliable, barely-breathing: that was almost all of what she asked for.

Your hips snap, and the impact jolts through her: ripples sent into the curves of her body from the pleasure, the pain. You try not to listen, not to look - not the obscenities leaving her mouth in a steady stream as you press her down against the counter: every hiss and moan, your name, jesus fuck-

Irene cums a second time with a wail, like someone's hurt her, like she's been set free, like she'll never again breathe so well as she does when your lips catch the scream and hold down the sobs, fingerprints at the faint, fragile curve of her nape.

"God," she whimpers into your mouth; and the sound, that voice, as she moans it to you: "your cock - is gonna kill me, baby."

Her cunt is tighter around your cock than it's ever been, this total vice grip, her hips lean and arched upwards where she lies, slick-dripping onto the bathroom counter; the edge of her heel catches on the marble-topped basin, and her ankle knocks over the handsoap - the whole of it hitting the floor and shattering. 

She doesn't care. She can’t. She's a fucked-out mess: her black hair in knots, sticking to her hairline, her face flushed with need.

"Darling," the sweetest, her soft voice cracking with a laugh, the tipsy tilt of a joke; she's begging with it, some lazy, pretty curl of a request, some pretty plea that turns around into a bite, the heat, the feral - you kiss her harder. Take her harder. Leave a few more marks: just so you know she'll still feel it later, bruised and sore and sorry, and it might be too much, but oh, the way Irene grabs and pulls and fights and tries to cling when it crosses the line; she'll be feeling this tomorrow, a sharp tugging at the inside of her chest as she rubs circles into the scrapes and imprints on her hip bones. This reminder; of what's right there, if only-

Mine, you bite against her skin, and the voice in her head might scream with it.

You can see the fantasy in her eyes: her standing here in the mirror after you've filled her pussy, fucked your cum back into her cunt and had your fingers inside her for so, so long that she'd been soaking, dripping with it - your palm pressing firmly on her swollen, desperate clit, two fingers hooking deep, right on the spot that makes her twitch, tremble. Her jaw goes slack, eyes fluttering and back arching as you watch her drip with the mess you've made of her.

"It was always, I think-" and she hiccups, a small pained sound, "it was always gonna be you." She says it like an apology, voice quieter, more uncertain, a little shaky. "I just can't get you out of my head."

Your hips are reckless, a little mean - but your mouth moves slowly across hers. It's tender. It’s everything. 

"Baby," you plead back: and it's something soft and small when you sigh it into her mouth. Your fingers tracing her ribs and feeling how she breathes with your every motion; how you're filling her so deep she almost can't. Choking, with a whimper, like it's hard - and then her jaw goes slack, eyes snapping shut - her knees bend - like she'll give up on the control. Her body slackens and gives under you; her legs widen to fit your hips, all her weight sinking backwards on the marble-top-

She keens when you bottom out, a high, delicate noise. Whimpers at how full she is of you; she must've felt your rhythm slipping and letting it run too rough-

And even then. She asks, totally breathless, panting: "Right there," and fuck, god, please. "I love this," she whispers, the sweetest, the most gorgeous, lips moving as slow as a prayer - "and you fuck so good. And-"

Irene swallows; her chest expanding and then halting, shallow and deliberate. Her chin turns; her mouth opening in some expression of yearning before the word comes; a gasp, and she can't - she can't quite-

"Keep- baby, please." Her throat makes a noise and all the words taper. "Please, right fucking there."

She makes another sound, strung out and desperate - and she keeps gasping the faster you thrust your hips. Each drag through her hot, wet cunt has you both clambering closer.

"This," Irene's panting, this terrible, wonderful realization in her mouth. "This feels like-"

A stutter. A strangled sound: you don't even catch a full breath before she's trying again.

"-like us."

Oh, Irene, her heart murmuring. Like something soft, like something hard - this burn, this hurt; Irene, in her prettiest, highest pitch - the way she speaks, the way she breathes, her voice dropping a decibel like some clandestine secret. Like sin, a honey-coated whisper in the space between you two.

"Irene," you say, and she melts like you’re inscribing it into her skin. DNA-deep, carved into her bones. She takes it like a baptism, something in it an invitation, a promise to hold her dear - and all at once, that smile grows, blooms. 

It's intimate. It's affectionate. Fuck, it's true.

You break open her world with her own name, spoken like a sigh and sounding like sin.

There's this hollow, raspy sound she makes. Beneath the shallow of her clavicle. When your fingers push down, her nipples pressing back into your palm - there, as her breath hitches, as she quivers - right there; her cunt trembles around you, eyes wide-open, and you're just watching each other lose yourselves until Irene has to beg for another kiss, and the next, her fingers grasping at the collar of your shirt as she slips her tongue into the corner of your mouth. You wonder why she bothers with perfume; when all she is is vanilla and cinnamon, a saccharine so sweet with a touch of spice; she murmurs the words into your ear: I want your cum. Fill me up. Use me.

You think:

God, her body; god, the feeling. The sound.

Think, still:

Look, your hand. At her waist. At her pussy. Right here. The place where you're connected. Flesh, bone, a stretch of skin - the raw, obscene mess you make; when all it takes is a rock of your hips, a thrust upwards and in to dismantle everything that is her, everything that is Irene, until her entire world is centered around you-

It could be a chorus, a refrain:

Let go. Let me see. Drown me out. Kill the lights. You’ll take three hours over three weeks where you pretend she doesn’t exist. It's simple. It’s, it’s-

It’s this: the press of her to your skin. The nails to your scalp, down your neck. The splay of her legs across your thighs. The sweat - hers, yours - all of it together; your mouths meeting and meeting and meeting. Again and again.

God. It’s the entirety of you which you were hoping to avoid. You love this woman. You fucking worship her, all of her, every piece and the whole - that she's making that noise in the back of her throat, soft; that her breathing is rising, ragged; that you do this to her, just this.

It happens in a blink. You tell her to turn. Tell her to bend. 

She ends up over the counter, gripping the sink, and you lift the fabric up to bare her ass and keep fucking her, deep, deeper. This sound is all you need, this whine that Irene makes, like you're reaching even her furthest, hottest spots - and then the push through her sopping cunt, how she spills around you and the slickness smears at the insides of her thighs; she clings and squeezes and fucks back against you so wildly, she doesn't even recognize her own name. It's the moment when she loses all sight: that's when you bury inside her, pull back her hair, wrap your hand around her throat, and she's under you, on you, body angling upwards like a flower to the sun. She cums so easily, shuddering into the pull of the climax; her pussy tight around the throbbing swell of your cock - the deep and penetrating pain of that desperate pleasure, like a flash-flood, an earthquake, oh, the grip, the warmth-

The moment stretches, just like that. 

Her heels kicked off and toes arching to scuff at the cool, tiled floors; she's sensitive; she wants to play dirty. Your grip loosens, that same tender thing when her throat bobs, a little movement, swallowing for you. She knows exactly what she's asking for, exactly what this all means - Irene begs so prettily: "put it inside me."

There's a few seconds in which you feel nothing but the heat and the way she flinches, like a reaction that's programmed straight into all her nerve endings; the raw instinct; the shudder from deep within her core when your hot cum finally starts to spill thick and heavy inside her - it's been too long since your last proper fuck, and her moaning in the mirror is, how do you say: an incredible inspiration.

"Your pussy," you can hear yourself say, throat gravel-dry. "Is so fucking tight, baby, shit-"

And she's nodding, voice ripped to ribbons. All the words liturgical, a prayer. She's begging with them; yes, please, fuck, god yes, give me-

Her thighs press together, but her eyelids have begun to fall.

"Use me," she mutters. Her breathing begins to even out - the very real sign she's spent, near unconscious. "Want this, want you - so fucking bad."

And the evidence is there. Irene is falling apart beneath you, hands fisting and legs spreading even further as she's braced against the sink, bent, and presented. All of it makes a beautiful sight: the spread of her toned, ivory thighs; her ass pale and her folds so pink; how she's bent, waiting. Everything about her is an artistic consideration, designed, purposeful.

"Christ," is all you manage. The strain is evident in how your tone rasps.

Because your hips are still pumping Irene’s cunt with cum. Fingers wrapped around her tiny waist and pulling her ass flush against your hips for good measure. Again and again and again; no room for doubt: you've missed the warmth, the fullness. Soaked to the hilt as your length curves within her; she coos, and she loves it. She says it’s ruinous. She says it feels incredible. She says it around the shape of your name and with no hint that you should ever stop fucking her apart.

"Feels so fucking amazing." She's panting and she can't say another word for a while; it's a fact and the other is simple. "It's - so good."

She can't stop moaning. 

You’re both breathless, watching her reflection in the glass, a study in motion: the soft bounce of her breasts in the mirror, the cords of muscle tensing in her abdomen, the small, pinkish mark blooming below her left ear. There's her lower lip, pinched between her teeth, her eyes flickering shut as her hair drapes across her naked shoulder and her skirt rolls higher on her waist. She doesn't try and muffle herself: you could hold her down, or even give her your fingers to bite down on - let her go a little wild as she wrestles against the instinct to stay silent, keep quiet. You plant an open-mouthed kiss against the side of her neck and look up, see her watching the movements, her dark eyes lidded, dazed, fucked-out-of-her-mind content as she smiles - lidded and lovely and impossibly knowing and rocking her hips into the moment.

"You are unbelievable, you know that?" you're murmuring, your palm on her shoulder. Pushing her flat. "Absolutely breathtaking."

You rub a thumb against her cunt, pull at the outer, exposed, sensitive parts as Irene's smile falters. You just keep pushing.

"Oh, baby," she whines, pleading for more. For one more press, another, anything: she begs you. "Your cum feels" - she swallows hard - "so fucking warm inside of me."

A shush, the palm soothingly pressing between her legs, and she bites her lips hard. Still trying.

So - you push it all deep into her cunt. 

There’s this beat, this moment, this quiet - where her eyes pinch tight, voiceless, speechless.

And right after, Irene is whimpering: her body seizing and shaking and arching away from the viscous slickness that just keeps building with each and every drag; the cum left on your cock when you pull it out, leaving Irene on the verge of sobbing, collapsing on her stomach, trembling. Your fingers are covered in her cum. And this is how she likes it, stretched and sloppy. The shudder through her body is proof: all over her nerves, electrified. Irene’s shoulders go limp when she feels the push - then your knuckles, curling. The gentle touch, the pressure, the fingers spreading her slit.

She asks what else, anything, please, and hints at wanting more; so much more.

“Irene,” you say, smiling into the ends of her hair. Maybe, you consider. Maybe later, maybe when you're fucking her flat on your bed; your cock up her tight ass or your palm coming down heavy on the supple roundness. You let her fantasize a minute, imagining it's the roughness she wants to receive; maybe the hot, slow grind of you still inside her or the whisper at her neck and her toes digging into the sheets. The offer has her breath stuttering in the mirror.

Irene tells you it's unfair.

"Sorry," you say, and don't mean a word.

Another breath in, the lungs expanding against your palm, ribs slipping. In and out, a reminder.

"Don't be," Irene manages, exhaling a laugh.

She offers you her lips, you know she doesn't mind - and she kisses you. You sink down to the bathroom floor and she sits so easily in your lap, your mouths meeting over and over again. She strokes your spent cock. Your hands squeeze her thighs and you take her chest in your mouth. Wiping your own smear of wetness off her tummy, bringing them to her face, letting her nose knock into your palm and lick at the tips. 

"Can you taste how sweet your cunt is? Baby," and your mouth is on hers, kissing all traces off her tongue-

There's so many things you could do, it's enough to keep you sated for ages. Her back is pressed against your chest, and you gently draw another spill of cum leaking out from her pussy; she shoves your digits into her mouth, sucks until her jaw clenches, your thumb rolling around the roof, tongue pressed right between.

"If someone sees us," she whispers, licks her lips, your fingers, moans, tilts her hips and grinds down a bit. "We'd be so screwed."

"Don't worry, I'd say," and you can't help the tease in it; your voice low and all grit, the heat and your heart rushing through every vein. "It'd all be my fault."

It's filthy: her sitting in the puddle of your cum, making it soak the thin material of her dress; your heavy spill leaking from her cunt and soaking your slacks as the mess seeps further and further down your pants and her ass-

"We are such a disaster." She says it wistfully. "You and me, like this. A total fucking disaster."

(With your clothes torn open, hair a disaster, the imprints of your lips and fingertips all over her, she means. If it was anybody but the two of you: oh, how ridiculous it would seem. But the sheer audacity of the possibility has her looking at the cum glistening on her thighs. Then looking back to you, her dark-brown eyes, brighter than stars, searching the depth of the hold in yours, your arms wrapped around her.

Maybe she just wants to have this. For as long as you're giving it to her.)

-

You can feel yourself falling so deeply into her, the pull. The draw. It feels a lot like being lost. Like, there's something about loving her. The night's long and she's pressed so closely, fitting like something just perfect, and the way her hands find your ribs is the nicest, fondest ache. You only break out of the haze once the footfalls of her heels begin to echo behind you. The bass fades as you both make a run for the exit. It gets harder not to laugh - your giggling voices slipping between you. You have her nose pressed to the dip of your collarbone, kisses dropping in her hair, her lips curved into a smile every time your thumb does another circle - that place right below her hip, or right there behind her ear.

"Take me somewhere," she sighs. Her body pressed against yours, her cheek snuggling against you.

"Any suggestions?"

She shrugs, and the elevator chimes. "I wanna sit with you."

When she leans forward, just the faintest movement, her mouth upturning in the smallest smile. Her eyes flit away, and her brow wrinkles and lifts, like this: here. You could swear, to god, or the devil: there isn’t an ounce of light inside you that doesn't live at her mercy.

The clock is ticking down into the small hours. The night at its calmest, darkest, most wicked stillness.  You ask her again, this time, just for clarity, a bit of guidance. "Somewhere we can go? If you have nowhere in mind, we could head back if-"

"No." Irene shakes her head. "Take me anywhere but home."

-

You're drunk. Irene's a little worse off. Her heel snaps. The usual grace, the poise, her ease, that’s all but vanished. It's just her: Irene. Hair windswept and the edge of her nose nipped by the chill, the moonlight.

She’s so fucking beautiful.

The night can hear her laughter in the air; you have her hands clasped around your middle, legs hoisted over your elbows. You’re carrying all fifty kilos of her across the pavement; the streets are quiet and the city's yours. Her dress bunches, and her voice is in your ear, a kiss peppered to the back of your hair. The both of you collapse and - ow, it's the crash onto concrete, a scrape and a bruise and a story to piece together tomorrow. Is this from the tumble? the sex? I don't know, Irene will say, sealing a band-aid over the red, the swell. Maybe this, maybe that. It all happened. The physical marks, the chemical thrill - the proof of life, a permanence, tethered.

"Let me, Irene," you're insisting, half-joking, pulling at the broken heel and tossing it a mile behind you. And like it's instinct, you just can't - can't help yourself. "Your legs are gorgeous, but, y'know. I’d hate to see you get hurt."

You run your palm down her calf and steal the other shoe. It gets tossed in the same direction, over her whine. "Babe."

Irene pouts, still too lovely, still too fucking sweet. 

She doesn't laugh, or blush, or try to argue. Instead, she sweeps your hair back, curls her fist at the nape of your neck, and suddenly you're staring, eyes locked and wanting. Irene leans in, her weight settling against your forearms, and gives you a look; just long enough and tender and dreamy and calm enough to have the ache of your heart match its rhythm with her own.

"What the fuck," and her smile cracks open as the words struggle in her chest; her hand goes down your arm and strokes a featherlight finger to the edge of your jaw. "Please don't throw away a woman's shoes without permission."

She hiccups. Sways.

You kiss her. And kiss her, and kiss her. Irene smiles right against your mouth.

"Stay right here," she says. "Go get my fucking shoes, but stay right here with me."

-

Look, it feels so good, not worrying where she is at night.

-

"I thought," she's whispering as you cross into a twenty four-hour minimart, Irene on one arm and both her heels in the other - a pack of wet wipes in your hand - and then her pausing, stopping; this brief flutter of something - she says, "I used to think about how this would all eventually fall apart."

Irene leans forward and gives her weight onto you, hand playing around with the sleeves at your elbow.

"I used to wonder which one of us it would be," and the cashier is ringing up your purchases: a bottle of water, a cold compress, baby wipes and neosporin. The ice cream Irene's insisted you treat her for. She runs a hand up the back of your hair and smiles when you meet her eyes again, "which of us would drop the other, you know, first."

"The thought still come up?" you say, sliding a bill onto the counter and offering a quiet "keep the change."

"Yeah, sometimes. Or I mean I'd be watching you, sometimes, I guess." She smiles at your reaction, bumping your shoulder. "That’s the look."

You're walking out to the parking lot and you're pressing a soft kiss against her brow, waiting, patiently; because you always do, waiting. "Do I need to ask?"

Her grin, close-mouthed and gentle, a tinge of fondness, of humor: "you're going to ask either way."

"Hm," you say, popping the lid off the ice cream, breaking off the flimsy paper seal of the container. She's in the pocket of your blazer, Irene's fingers weaving in between yours, her hand reaching for a bite and grinning all the while.

It's four-thirty AM and the early hours will catch up to you, but. It's this: the yellow-orange streetlight above the two of you and her bare feet dangling off a concrete half-wall. In a white cocktail dress and sitting, you and her, atop a parking barrier. You're here, together, watching the skies lighten in the east - there, where the road will split to lead towards her place. Towards your own.

"There's no way," she says, wiping the corner of her lips with her pinky and then making a face. "For us to be together and not mess this up, eventually, somehow." She steals the carton and balances it between her knees. "There's no way to save this."

"Probably not."

Her mouth curls. There, and gone; there again.

"Doesn't that scare you?"

Your stomach is a riot of twists and nerves and the base of your throat is tight, like a swelling.

"It does." You lick your lips, can't think. "A bit, sometimes." You look at her - her profile, her silhouette, the messy, knotted ponytail, the wisping hairs beneath her temple. The press of her lips, how the gloss rubs off onto her knuckles, staining. "But then I see you - and I can't imagine how I'd even pull a 'it's not you, it's me,' convincingly."

Her throat clicks, and she leans her head against yours, and you're forgetting everything else.

You both stop. Sharing a bite. Sharing the silence.

There, and gone.

"Hey," she breathes out - and you can't explain her expression, how her brows knit together; she squeezes your hand, a tremor, and the corner of her lips pulls upwards, almost apologetic; sad, or thoughtful.  "This ice cream is so fucking freezer-burnt."

"It’s not great."

You watch her nose twitch like she's holding back a sneeze, or a sniffle. She laughs instead and leans against the warmth of you; the smell of her, your bodies touching.

"I love it," you hear her say, and she doesn't give the container back.

-

Irene falls asleep in the backseat of a cab as the sun rises, your blazer draped over her chest; she murmurs your name and pulls closer, seeking warmth. The traffic thins as the roads lead to where she'll disappear, and you find yourself dreading it already.

In a day, maybe two. It’s funny. You could end up hating each other. You might have to force a pause, or take a break, or even step back from her entirely. That’s how it goes. It's the hardship, it’s living - it’s the knowing that she has a lease on life that will end, will expire, a loan where all her days are slowly counting down; a timer you recognize the injustice that it might someday read zero.

Not to get too far ahead of yourself, or to project some awful ending where one isn’t likely: but when Irene and you are like this, soft, sleepy, curled into each other; her hand at the small of your back, resting; this close, and closer. Your heart aches with an ambiguous type of feeling, indescribable-

Irene shivers a breath and presses her face into your shirt; and like a revelation: you fall further.

"Where do I take her, sir," the cab driver asks, and your eyes turn, watching her chest rise and fall, steady, easy; as her grip grows looser and her cheek presses onto the leather seats.

She's too gorgeous, too pretty in slumber, in sleep, the innocence the most dangerous thing; you fix these wispy tendrils of hair back behind her ear and press a hand to her temple, stroke the line of her jaw, the bow of her lip. How soft, she's always the sweetest sight - with her head resting, her mouth falling slack, eyelashes fanned out over the fullness of her cheeks, and all of her like this, all her darkness tucked away: you think about all those times you've traced her from across a room, across a city; if there was anyone else you'd rather wake up beside, in your bed and beside the pillow; someone who doesn't pick your fights and your silences and loves them in spite of, despite everything. Who lets the fights burn white hot until it leaves you both splayed raw and exhausted, in her, on you-

Someone who fits so, so perfectly with the grooves and the curves, who completes you.

"Just drive," you murmur, looking away, blinking away. "I'm not gonna remember."

You're thinking about a book you'd once read, an idea. The world of difference, the fact in its finer detail; all the myriad iterations of 'loving' and 'missing' and 'want': the imperceptible shifts between being the absence of something and feeling it, tasting it, taking it, drowning it and holding it in your palms, seeing it every time you turn, breathing, living: wanting to never let her go-

"You alright back there, bud?" the driver asks. The tone: the slow and steady understanding, his age, how he watches you, the soft shake in your voice, the gentleness with which you hold your gaze - he knows. A blind man could read what your heart’s written on your sleeve. "Late nights are a killer," he says, a chuckle, before shaking his head, muttering, "but mornings even more."

There are a few more hours left. Maybe more, maybe less, of not worrying, and not caring. The thing about loving Irene is this: her touch, the press and the tugging and pulling; her body and her heart; she can be anyone, the best friend, the boss, the mistress, the princess. The pet. And you would be remiss, she says, not to remember: you, too, can be just anybody. So long as it’s you, I always come running.

-

It's the last time you kiss her, and that's an okay thing; you pull off the side of the street to brush your hand up to her temple, and when Irene opens her eyes to you, her lashes fluttering against the swell of your cheeks; her hair in soft strands over her forehead and framing her face like this. This vision of her is for you, all yours, all the little things.

"I’ll see you soon," Irene says, sleepily, and you know that you will.

-

The nook she occupies in your head by now, is so well-established.

You can't remember when it began. Not like there was a sign, a hint, or a clue. Just, her. And her lips and her tongue and her touch, all this reckless abandon - like everything else, there had to be a leap.

Even with all the lights burning out and the moon hidden in clouds and the nights and days unraveling around you - in those early days, the press of her shoulders or the palms of her hands would always send the worst kind of butterflies through you, like everything else - just her, the sway and the tipsy, the turn and the look she'd have before she would touch the pad of her thumb to your cheek and drag her nail down the curve of your smile.

(It had felt - and you're no longer in it - but it had felt so frighteningly fast.

Weeks, she had told you once. I fell for you in weeks. Months? Years? Fuck, no time at all.)

-

"Hey," Irene says in the not-so-distant present. She's sitting across the kitchenette - knees under her, bare feet pointed to the window, and the steam rises from her tea.

"Mornin'," you mutter sleepily. Stretching, craning your neck and arching your shoulders and ignoring the pop in your lower back, the strain at your ankles. Irene tilts her chin up and blows through the steam. There's an air of self-sufficiency, a state of mind she seems to always have, as if, the ability to ignore her vulnerability is a muscle she could constantly flex, expand, train herself to avoid - and all you're noticing is how that small movement has her shifting and curling over the cup, trying to keep warm. Her hair is pulled high in a knot and held up by an elastic, her baggy sweats loose and rolled twice over, the camisole low, a thin strap sliding off her shoulder.

"When'd you-"

"Had to wake up earlier today." She blinks, her legs slipping open, bending.

"Any chance-"

"No." And Irene snorts. The teasing pull of her lips has your stomach twisting a little more: "you know me."

That you do; the lazy Sunday, the slight pull in the center of her lower lip as she purses it. Irene, with her hair messy-perfect and that stupid fucking smile, so careless, and the joke-flirt she's doing; she knows just what she's doing and, yeah, god. You still have a weak-spot for her and it's so big; the twist in the base of your throat. Your morning wood rising. You’re familiar with this: the deep ache.

"You know," you say instead, blinking through the heaviness of your lashes and scratching a thumb against the line of your jaw. "A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair."

"Girls love me." She turns the cup around in her grip and grins again, makes sure that the image stays locked. "Or," and Irene holds up the fingers, counts on two. "I've had two affairs in my life. One is basically a distant memory-"

"The other?"

Her teeth press down on her lip again. "How am I doing so far?"

"Honesty and self-disclosure in the kitchen, at eight in the morning? Irene, you're really outdoing yourself."

She lifts a brow, then brings the mug to her mouth - like a second-rate cigarette and a scalding-hot burn. "If you did bring a girl here," she says after a while. And, smiling: "she'd see me sitting here, incriminatingly pretty. I mean, she'd probably cry. Screaming fits, a fist fight. Then the waterworks - oh, he was my first! I loved him! He took my flower - ow, don't touch me, I think I might faint-"

"I doubt it."

"Ooo," Irene sing-songs, turning and crossing the space to sit on the armrest beside you. The sway of her body's so obvious. You've got enough room to pull her onto your lap, but you keep your hands to yourself. She runs the tips of her nails over your shirt, just above the buttons and across the sleeves. "Hun, I bet she'd kill you. It'd be very bloody, but romantic. Sad, but inspiring in a mundane sort of way - something you've only heard in mystery novels. Riveting, sordid stuff. Could fill your entire inbox. I mean, as they say in Chicago: he had it coming."

"Nah," you decide, after a yawn. "Too dramatic."

"Not at all," she scoffs, peering at you over the tops of her glasses. "The man she loved was a heartless betrayer."

"Can I ask why my imaginary girlfriend always comes across like some cliché young ingénue? You seem to have a lot of opinions about this girl."

"What, the girl next door, a little smart, but neglects her intuition?" She flips the bun at the back of her hair. "All wide-eyes, a ribbon in her hair, a flower-child who's seen too many Wes Anderson movies." She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Never once stops thinking about the bad boy."

"If you want to get technical, all my girlfriends have been older than me."

"Whoops," she says flatly, hand falling to her collarbone, "spoke too soon. Got you wrong. No need to panic. I'm sure you, a man, are not drawn to some young thing, easily swept up in a passion. Simply, if nothing else, for the sweet naivete. Those hushed little moans and then, the screams. She would tell you it hurts - and on the same note, she’d be begging you for more - the little slut. God, she'd still be so, so nice and soft and quiet. Ready to be anything for-"

"And if you're the girl?" You stand up and grab her wrist. "What then?"

She pauses, considering this new development.

"You do not treat me very well." Irene pushes the bridge of her glasses back up the curve of her nose. "No candle-lit dinners or grand, public gestures." She twists a curl of black hair around her finger. "Definitely not a confession on bended knee - oh, no, never, never - you'll not have to stoop to that. Because you are, in fact, quite terrible at it. I don't think I'd have a single opportunity to pine pathetically, waiting. And maybe you're a bad kisser, actually," she concludes.

You tsk, scandalized. "You are really not cut out to be the ingénue at all."

Irene laughs, softly, reaching out to tug gently at a tuft of your hair. She smiles up at you - and it's so easy for her, somehow. So graceful. "Shall I fix that for you?"

"Do not fall for me, sweetheart."

"I will try to resist the urge." She tilts her chin and presses a finger to her lips. "Kiss, first."

You lean forward, let your nose bump her temple, her hairline. "Glasses, first."

"Whiner," she murmurs. She yanks, gently. Tugs and pulls, and presses the pad of her finger at the sharp cut of your jaw - her gaze half-lidded and slow as she holds yours. Like she's reminding herself, something she can't forget - what it feels like, exactly. A reminder. You can only keep your eyes on the slide of her jaw. "Gonna keep you like this forever."

"Love," you find yourself whispering. Sometimes you wait just so you can relive that first kiss. Irene swallows. "What a beautiful temptation."

-

You imagine, again, if it had all really been by the book:

Three dates and a letter of recommendation. Making her pay for half, instead of making her feel guilty about paying at all, which for the life of you, you can't fucking figure out: how to treat a woman. Chivalry in modern times: a fucking travesty, truly. She'd lure you to her apartment, or you'd do the same to her - just after the first, you know, the obligatory. The getting to know her, except you'd end up skipping the post-dinner steps of being a gentleman, which would leave the night open-ended, and you wouldn't give it much thought until the kiss against her door is so fucking filthy it makes you reconsider everything and everyone, you know, the morality of fucking someone more than once in a day.

You'd have hit all the milestones, she'd have to lead you to bed, and you'd play all her favorite movies as she lays across your chest and shows you what she likes to do best: finger herself, or something. And you'd talk about it, afterward, you'd acknowledge it - because this should be what dating is, right? This should’ve been the next few months of your life. Running that same exact pattern, knowing each other so well you can tell what sex will be like before it even happens, anticipating exactly what kind of text you'll get the next day - the call the following night, the feel of her hands on you in all the right places. The lazy moans, her lipstick imprints on your skin, the smile at the corner of her mouth. Nothing like putting your own fucking hand in her pants and rubbing a few hasty circles until her slick gathers around her knees and she can't walk for a whole day.

Things fall into place, they fill gaps, the idea must be mutual at some point - mutual attraction, mutual enjoyment-

How it is Irene got to spending five, six nights a week at your place is beyond you. Not because you're worried about what people will say. You're not. It's just - weird, to not know what you've done to make this last so long.

Are there rules to loving someone? Is there a checklist, a script - what praxis will keep things in place: comfortable. Last you checked, you have no fucking idea how to treat someone like she deserves. To treasure and cherish, hold her tight but never cage - what qualifies, huh?

"Irene," you say, one day - as you're both brushing your teeth. Because really, what does.

She looks at you like she's bored.

"Forget it," you reply, laughing to yourself and leaning down to rinse your mouth. "Idiot."

"Wait, no," she says, stopping mid-brush, her toothbrush bouncing obscenely in her mouth. "What?"

"I said forget it," you tease, and of course, the glint in her eyes is a warning if you ever saw one - but who would you be, then, if you didn't lean in close and tell her, ever so gentle. The three words could be: not a clue, or, you're so petty, or, simply, I adore you and she’d let that one lay to rest.

You choose them a little differently, and Irene's face lights up like she hasn't known all this time. 

A foamy spill of toothpaste leaks down her chin. "Th'a m'eh?" She's a mess, wide eyed and dripping and already reaching to swat you on the shoulder, disbelieving. "You can't just-" and her face scrunches, this exaggerated - ugh! - before she hides it in her hands.

Oh, you love her, and it feels so good, not pretending.

"Again. Say it again. I didn’t even hear you." She knocks her knee against yours, grinning behind her palms, wide and genuinely - happy. "Like, have some decorum."

Laughing - so hard you can't breathe - you shake your head and curl your fingers tenderly around her wrists, pull her hands from her face. "You are so greedy," you attempt between breaths, letting yourself press against the softness of her palms, her wrists, the pads of her fingertips - wanting to be a poet, she is a masterpiece - and tell her properly.

-

a/n: thanks for reading, it's always unbelievable to me anyone ever finishes these fics. This one's a very belated 'thank you' present for @yieldtotemptation. I'm like way late, but thanks for everything.

[mind-intheclouds342]

Do it for them - Co-captain reader x Curly

Previous - Part 9 - Next

You banged on the door of the room where that man was locked up, waking him up abruptly.

"Let's talk"

Jimmy: "I thought visiting hours were over."

He complained, turning around to turn his back to the door.

"Don't try to be funny with me, Jimmy. What the hell did we do to deserve so much hate from you?"

Jimmy: "Don't play innocent, you know very well what you did!"

"Honestly, I have no idea! That's why I'm asking you!"

Jimmy: "Of course, because I was always the shadow of your dear husband. You never turned to look at me again after you got with him, you never smiled at me like you did with him, you didn't even speak to me. It was as if I were invisible to you!"

"Oh, of course I was looking at you!"

Jimmy: "Then why didn't you ever tell me anything?!"

He shouted that, getting up from his bed to head towards the glass that separated them, watching your face to see you when you replied.

"BECAUSE I'VE ALWAYS HATED YOU!"

You screamed with all your lungs, to the point of making your throat hurt.

"You always brought trouble to Curly! He was always so naive, a sucker for approval, of being the good guy in the story, of not letting anyone down! That's why he never abandoned you! I knew better that's why i stopped talking with you! Because you were and are a piece of shit!" 

Jimmy: "Oh, but you talk as if I were the only fucked up one in the story."

"Yes! I admit it! I was also a mess when I met Curly, but I did something, I was able to see beyond that mess I was, he showed me that I could improve, he gave me opportunities that I knew how to take advantage of and become a better person! In someone who could make his mother proud instead of making her cry because she didn't know if he was coming home or not!"

There was a silence when you finished saying that, until you saw him smirk, that reaction you didn't like at all.

Jimmy: "You're right, Curly loves to please, you should know that very well."

"Ugh, for the love of God, I don't know why I try to reason with you, it's impossible."

Jimmy: "But you were the only one who refused to give in to make me happy."

You opened your eyes wide upon hearing that, turning again to the man who still wore that smug smile.

Jimmy: "Just as beautiful and messed up as I am, I thought you would understand me, but then you became a good girl, yet I still hoped you would look at me..."

"Shut up-"

Jimmy: "Oh, and the damn way Curly talked about you, how incredible you are, so kind, hardworking, so beautiful."

"I tell you to shut up-"

Jimmy: "Those lovely moles in the center of your chest that look like a constellation"

"He wouldn't talk about those things with you!"

Jimmy: "I saw it myself"

You felt like you were going to puke at that moment, you didn't want to believe that he had really done something like that to you while you were unconscious, you didn't want your suspicions to be confirmed, you refused to believe it.

"Liar. Anya wouldn't leave me alone, she would lock the nursery door-" 

Jimmy: "Yes, yes, she did that, it was a pain in the ass. Every night when she went to sleep, she locked the nursery with that code that only Curly and she knew... But that place wasn't closed while someone was inside."

"She wouldn't let you get close to me!"

Jimmy: "They were so sweet, Anya staying by your side saying she had to make sure all your signs were okay, and when she left, she would ask Swansea if he could keep an eye on you. But he was so depressed that he didn't dare to stay with you for long, so... I took his place to make sure you were okay."

"In front of Curly..."

You murmured at having to imagine the scene your husband had to witness without being able to do anything about it other than watch.

Jimmy: "That was the funniest thing"

You hugged tightly, feeling a horrible tingling all over your body, as if you were dirty.

Jimmy: "Swansea had no idea about anything, Anya didn't want to talk about it with anyone else. Thanks to her silence, I was able to finally look at that body that you always hide from me, thanks to Swansea's stupidity and feeling sad for his little captain, feeling all guilty and shit."

Swansea: "What did he just say..." 

You turned to see Swansea at the end of the hallway, carrying Jimmy's rations, holding an axe firmly in the other hand; he had managed to hear everything.

"Swansea-"

Swansea: "Open the door, captain"

"Listen - it's not worth it, do you have any idea what they'll do to you if they find out you hurt someone from the crew? Please, I don't want them to lock you up." 

You said immediately, positioning yourself in front of him, trying to get him to see you, but his eyes were glued to the door where he could see Jimmy's face.

Swansea: "How are they going to know? Let's say it was an accident. Open the door!"

You wanted to keep reasoning with him, but you couldn't deny that you also wished he would face consequences for his actions.

You took the axe from his hands, making him look at you annoyed.

"I won't take the risk of you killing him."

Those were your last words before opening the door, Swansea didn't take much more than a few seconds to fully open the door, step inside, and throw himself at Jimmy.

You could hear the sound of the blows, the insults, and the screams.

You stood at the door wide open, axe in hand, watching as the blood spread across the floor with each blow Swansea dealt.

You watched Jimmy and tilted your head, waiting for him to defend himself.

You wouldn't hesitate to cut off his hands if he touched Swansea.

[girlystories]

Being the Bowers gang girl

*ೃ::Both platonic & romantic headcanon

– pairings: various x reader

addition warnings: swearing, bullying, very few depictions of sexism, few derogatory names, toxicity, abusive parenting.

words: 2.6k

this was entirely inspired by z0mbiekittyy, so please check them out!

Meeting/joining the gang

you were at first the quiet, loner girl who kept to herself, only having a few acquaintances, with very few friends.

it wasn't because you were a loser. only the opposite. everyone wanted to become friends with you or get to know you in some way but you never let anyone get close.

everyone had heard of you of course. when they realized you were different they stopped trying to read you or make their mind about you.

that was until greta keene couldn't get enough. she hated the attention you got. so one day she started spreading rumors about you.

it was relatively easy, since no one knew you enough to disprove them in any way. one word went to another and everyone in town now started talking shit about you.

despite that, you didn't care. you had your mind somewhere else. popularity and school drama weren't your thing.

you didn't mind hearing the remarks spat at you when you wandered the halls or when you were in class. you were completely and utterly unbothered.

word got fast that it even reached the all too feared bowers gang.

you were making your way to biology class when you were shoved against a locker, all your books falling one by one on the floor.

"well well well, if it isn't derry's most favored whore", henry was the first to indulge in the act.

he was followed by vic, or – as he liked to refer to him as his 'right-man', "hey, hank. why haven't we ever tried to mess with her before?"

you tried to back up slowly, but your back hit against another frame. when you looked up your eyes met with a pair of green ones, followed by an unsettling smile.

it seemed like no one noticed what was happening – or in better words, no one gave a shit about what was happening.

"dont worry, [name], we're not gonna kill you, jeez," belch revealed.

that made henry groan and turn his head towards his friend. "shut up."

patrick, still behind you, held onto your shoulders, which was very easy due to his height. "or we will, you will find out soon."

"both of you shut up," henry silenced them before it could escalate to something else. "so, how about you come with us for a ride? ya'know, get some air n' stuff."

"you mean like skipping school?", you asked.

"why? are you scared? I'm sure your reputation is as shitty as it can get. can't get any worse than that. even ours is better."

you shrugged, and just decided to follow them. just as you sat at your seat – between vic and patrick, you couldn't make out the read ahead of you, as they were driving recklessly. where you were, you hadn't the slightest clue.

they were laughing and howling, sometimes shouting at the drives passing by.

you? well, you were scared shitless. you clung onto your seat belt, and holding back the urge to start shrieking.

after a while you got used to it and had to admit deep down it was kinda fun.

when you stopped, you realized you were at a junkyard. they prepared a fire when the sun began to set down and opened some bottles of beer.

as you all circled around the fire you began to talk about whatever. you also found yourself to... tolerate them. or, better yet, even enjoy their company.

before you knew it, little by little you hang more and more with them, slowly becoming one of them. it was the first time you were a part of something. they felt like home and you could trust them, despite the hardships and more extreme emotional outbursts.

your reputation got even worse but you didn't care. you had found your people.

Activities

other than hanging out in the junkyard, you guys do other stuff (of course).

it's like you all live together, while you also don't. frequent sleepovers, meet-ups on each other houses take place, ect.

vic once convinced you all to go camping a few towns away. despite being the one who recommended the idea, he ended up despicing it. on the other hand, patrick who hated the idea ended up having the most fun. scaring vic by hiding bugs in his tent and pretending he was hearing bears or wolves. belch had enough and kept demanding they'd stop fighting, while you kept laughing at vic's reactions everytime. you never went camping again.

every morning belch picks everyone in order, first henry, then patrick, then you, and lastly – the sleeping queen himself: vic.

then, you make a stop at the local diner, everyone choosing their own specific order that the waitress had already memorized.

unless vic had a hangover from the party the day before, he wouldn't stop complaining about who-knows-what.

sometimes, when you were really bored, you'd go out of town in search of abandoned places, owning them for a while until someone else found them and ruined them almost immediately.

it was expected and common sense you'd show up at ever party. then you all would split for a while but meet up in order to leave. belch was in priority not to drink or get high until anyone else got a license. that's what you all agreed on but that possiblility seemed unlikely.

at school you avoided bullying anyone, but giving up on trying to stop them from terrosizing another kid since it was the only thing they ignored you on. the only time you fought back was to defend yourself. not that you needed to, but because you wanted them to know that you weren't as incompetent as you seemed.

when you had the change you'd shoot empty beer bottles with henry's dad's gun.

Henry Bowers

you and henry would share your deep wounds together. him about his alcoholic and insane old man, and you about your hard time fitting in, both in family and friends.

you would joke around, but to an extent. if you said the wrong thing he'd refuse to speak to you for days, weeks or maybe even months – depending how much it affected him. if he was too stubborn, vic would have to somehow find a way to talk him out of his bitchy attitude.

despite him trying to seem hard-shelled, deep down he was very sensitive. he knew you knew that, and he hated it. it was the only thing he hated about you except the fact that tend to be pushy sometimes.

he had never cried in front the guys, but one day he couldn't hold back when he was only with you. it happened only once, but he still feels humiliated about it and hopes you'd never bring it up. he made you swore to never tell anyone.

butch seemed to like you for a reason, only approving of you from the gang. he hated the rest. when you find yourself at their house, he'd warmly greet you.

at first he and patrick made a lot of sexist joke about you. later when he noticed you went silent you, he started using them less, only saying them once or twice.

always offers you cigarettes, and makes sure to buy your favorites.

sometimes (when he's not in a shitty mood) he pays for your food when you go at the diner without saying a word or giving you the chance to convince him otherwise.

all good things considered, let's be honest here cuz we all know he has more negative that good qualities.

for example; gets jealous super easily and gets mad at you for it, making you apologize for something that isn't your fault.

NEVER admits he's wrong. ever.

when you have a different opinion he tells you to shut up or straight up threatens you.

needs a lot of attention, while also can't have on his tail all the time, making him indecisive and confusing.

sometimes doesn't realize you need help and leaves you deal with your problems alone while you clearly do need some sort of hand.

still, you always have a way to be together again, unable to keep any distance between you both. on weekends you usually take the bus to his house, helping him with the choses around the farm.

Vic Criss

you and vic already knew each other from middle school. you were in the same class and he used to help you with homework.

then, when kids started growing up through that phase everybody did about that sort of rivalry against girls and boys. because of that, your 'friendship' fell apart.

you weren't really friends back then but you could've been.

he never admitted it but he always stared at you from away, wishing you would somehow start talking to each other again.

he was the one who convinced henry to approach you that day. the idea popped into his mind just as those rumors started going around.

he was glad henry agreed. even though he always did, he was anxious of saying no. later, he lied to you, saying it was henry's idea instead and that first interaction you had with him was henry's way of being kind (despite calling you a 'whore').

you and vic were close, in a different way you were with the others. he understood you better and he was very good at telling advice. he was also fun gossiping with. definitely the best when having a sleepover. the others found him annoying or bitchy about it, but with you he was himself.

he also was kinda subtle about his true personality, not showing his true small but intresting quirks only you knew.

speaking of gossiping, almost every weekend he crashed at your place, the excuse being his siblings giving him a headache, while his mom being 'a pain in the ass'.

everytime he had a problem with the others you would be the first to know. he was still henry's 'right-man', but sometimes henry was, well... henry.

at parties he'd get wasted and you'd be 100% sure he'd be found in the bathroom pucking his guts out.

you guys are so close he would be showering while you were doing your business at the toilet, gossiping about everything single detail.

still sometimes helps you with school after some persuation, but keeps reminding you that 'he is not your tutor'.

loves braiding your hair when you're hanging out, especially during class when it's something super boring (even for him).

Patrick Hockstetter

you were honestly pretty scared of patrick at first, and most definitely the only one from the gang who gave you the creepes.

the alligations weren't few, to say the least, and at first you kept your distance from him.

he also didn't try to make a move on you, which you found stange, yet grateful. maybe henry threatened him or something. either way you were considerably on good terms with patrick.

one day at school, while you were waiting for the other three to come at your usual spot during break, he offered you a cigarette. you received it with gratitude, since it was rare for an offer coming from patrick. he even stricked up a conversation, which was... maybe a bit thought provoking.

then he smirked – that one charismatic he wore when you would stop being able to read his mind. he was like a puzzle, but most pieces were missing or switched with incorrect ones. "are the rumors true?", he asked, closing his zippo with a 'click' after he light your cigarette.

"i dont think that you care if they're true or not," you answered back, the tobacco filling your lungs with nicotine.

clouds of smoke escaped his nostrils with each chuckle. "maybe."

on your ride home Black Sun Morning by Screaming Trees was playing from the radio and you found yourself singing alongside patrick. he rose his brows, "you know 'em?"

"duh, of course."

the next day on the ride to school, instead of gossiping with vic you ended up having a deep conversation with patrick about music. you never imagined that you'd be having a conversation about art with him of all people.

since then, you hit it off well. he stopped using sexist comments as well, and even attempted physical contact at the diner, brushing his fingers against your hair. when he realized you let him or try to stop him, he smiled to himself.

in the end you were usually seen together, you sitting on his lap during breaks or at the gym stands, in the car or diner. he would wrap his arms around your waist and rest his head on your shoulder. it was making the others sick.

sometimes you attempted to help him with homework, but he only agreed so you could just hangout. he wasn't really interested in attending college. the thing he was good at was certainly playing the guitar. both bass and lead guitar. vic jokes about him making a band but it something told you he didn't view it as a light joke.

one day he invited you to his house to show you his vinyls and discs. that's when you met his mother and was pretty surprised to find out she was vietnamese. he made sure to never speak vietnamese around you or the others.

when meeting you he became less... interested at the fridge at the junkyard, viewing it less and less. maybe therapy was starting to work out? even for a tiny bit.

extremely protective of you, especially at parties. makes sure to keep an eye out even though you wouldn't know it.

Belch Huggins

belch was the most chill and the most independent one of the gang. aways making sure everything was in check and going smoothly. it was no surprise he was super welcome to you and tried to make you at ease the first few weeks, asking you if you were okay or needed a ride home.

is a gentleman, of course. doesn't tolerance any disrespect towards you, no matter how small it may seem to you.

offeres to pay for you when going out, no matter how many times you don't let him.

one time you both got so drunk you couldn't stop laughing; your bellys hurting and your eyes filled with tears while your faces were bright red. it made henry mad (as usual) but it's a memory you'd never forget. you had no way to get back home, though.

on fridays you watch him play basketball, sitting at the stands, and smoking and encouraging him. sometimes vic or patrick came too, but it was very rarely.

he offers you the ball but you immediately decline, being reminded of the day the ball hit you in the face after you missed your shot.

you requested him to teach you how to drive, which was a bad idea honestly. at first you didn't understand his instructions at all, but when he asked you if you had any questions you lied saying 'no'. after that instead of stepping on going forward you accidentally went backwards, almost crashing his beloved trams-am that he named 'daisy'. then you turned the wheel too far, almost falling at a ditch before he saved you two.

swore that you'd never get a license in your life and forbid you anywhere near the wheel, not even the passengers seat.

his dad owes a workshop, fixing cars. he helped too, supporting him in any way he could. you also helped him here and there while he taught you the basics and answered any questions you had.

he promised that he'd let you fix a car entirely on your own without his help. he said he'd also let you keep it for free.

you have a drawer contained only of belch's clothes. at first you'd ask him to try his sweatshirts on. then you'd complain you were cold and he'd sigh, saying you could give it back another day. but you never did.

you loved it when he gave you biggyback rides. his, especially. he could never refuse, despise how tired he was.

[animekpopsimp]

hey! I saw your post about Mha having a reader like Mitsuri and I was wondering if you could do a female s/o similar to Mitsuri.

MHA Characters with a S/O Similar to Mitsuri

Izuku

Izuku absolutely adores your personality and kindness, as well as your strength. He was surprised when you admitted that you had a crush on him, but he was happy that you felt the same. He knows you can be insecure about your appetite, but he doesn't judge you for it. And if someone tries to make you feel bad about yourself because of it, he's always there to cheer you up. You also cheer him up and make him feel better, which he really appreciates.

Katsuki

Your relationship with Katsuki started off rocky. He seemed to hate you at first, finding your overly positive personality annoying. However, after you beat him in a sparring match, he respected you, though he would never admit it out loud. He eventually confessed to you, and thus began your relationship. The two of you are considered a power couple. If anyone gives you any trouble, he will fight them without hesitation. And he doesn't mind your big appetite, he even cooks for you on occasion. He loves you a lot, and he shows it through his actions.

Shoto

When the two of you met, the two of you had very different options about being in a relationship. On top of wanting to be a hero to help people, you also wanted to find someone who would accept you for who you are. Shoto didn't see the need to get into a relationship, he was more focused on proving his father wrong. It seemed unlikely that the two of you would be friends, let alone fall for each other. However, over time, Shoto grew close with you. He admired your strength and kindness. He confided in you about his father, and you were always there to support him. When the two of you get into a relationship, Shoto is nervous. Part of him doesn't believe that he deserves someone like you. Despite that, Shoto is really sweet and caring. He will defend you if anyone tries to make you feel bad about yourself, he loves you and he won't let anyone upset you.

Momo

You met Momo when you were a little girl, both of your families being wealthy. Growing up together, the two of you had your own insecurities to deal with. None the less, you both helped each other. You were close friends for years, and as time passed the two of you developed feelings for each other. Momo was the one to confess, and the two go you started dating. Momo feels lucky that you feel the same, and you do as well. She's always there to make you feel better, and while she doesn't believe in getting into a fight if someone does say something bad about you, she will defend you with words. She can be surprisingly mean when she wants to.

Hawks

Hawks adores you, he fell in love with you the moment the two of you met. In the past, he never considered getting into a serious relationship, but he changed his mind when you came into his life. He dotes on you all the time, showering you with compliments and bringing you your favorite foods. The moment he notices you feeling insecure about yourself, he's right by your side, reassuring you that he loves everything about you. Hawks is your biggest supporter and would die for you.

Midnight

She's your biggest hype woman, she's always making you feel beautiful and will fight someone if they insult you. Her favorite thing to do with you is shopping, and she loves picking out new outfits for you, you both turn it into a fashion show every time. She also loves bringing you your favorite foods since it brings a smile to your face when she does. She wants nothing more than to make you smile all the time.

Aizawa

He may not show his affection publicly, but Shota is smitten with you. You balance each other out and you have a talent for making him smile. He finds your personality adorable The two of you have simple dates that mostly consist of staying at home and cuddling while a movie plays in the background. You two also enjoy having dinners together, the life you two have together is simple but you both love it.

Dabi

The two of you are the definition of total opposites. Dabi has an intimidating aura that scares people. You on the other hand are an absolute sweetheart. That's what Dabi loves about you, you give him a sense of peace that he hasn't experienced in a long time, so he cherishes the fact that you're in his life. Because of that, he's protective. He'll kill for you without hesitation. You're the only one he shows his soft side to, he just loves you.

Shigaraki

Shigaraki usually hates people, but you're the one person he can stand. Your personality makes him feel safe, and he won't let anything take you away from him. If he needed to kill for you, he would do so without question. He loves you a lot.

[ssentimentals]

worth a bet {yoon jeonghan}

pairing: yoon jeonghan x fem!reader

prompt: song 'whatsaheart' by snakelike, lyrics 'don't even look at anyone else when i'm here'

warnings: nsfw (minors, i'll bite your hands off if you don't skip this work!), smut is not very detailed

this reception is important for the business, jeonghan repeats under his breath. projects need money and investors need to have their asses licked and while jeonghan is the one who does the, figuratively speaking, 'licking' part, he still hates it with burning passion. he can also, however, admit that it's so much better to work on something when you're secured financially, so with a fake smile on his face and a tightly gripped glass of wine in his hand, he makes rounds amongst all known investors here, repeating a tailored to perfection speech time after time. thankfully, he's not the only one doing this. jeonghan quickly glances to the other side of the room and sure enough you are there, twirling your hair for a pretty old couple.

it's good to have you as a partner; jeonghan is a competitive guy and he can easily admit that you are good and can give him run for his money without even trying hard. the only person who can hold their own against his banter, you made his usual life ten times more interesting with your arrival. jeonghan, despite all the teasing, likes you. likes how confident you are, how you always have something to say back to him, how you work hard and don't back down from any challenge. a certain type of thrill runs up his veins when you smirk, when your eyes never leave his as if you're saying 'get me'. and jeonghan is not the one to fall for this, but you are so good that investors are ready to eat from your hands and what is that if not a challenge?

'you're gonna drill a hole in her face or will finally gather up your courage to ask her out?' seungcheol asks, coming closer once jeonghan finished his conversation with one of the investors. 'you know that whole office placed bets on you two, right?'

jeonghan tsks, rolling his eyes. 'and who is currently winning?'

seungcheol chuckles. 'who do you think? i obviously picked you.'

jeonghan doesn't want to think about this; he is well aware that tension between you two is very obvious to everyone else. he also is well aware of this tension being largely sexual.

'i bet on you, but not because you have the most courage out of you two.' seungcheol says, taking a sip of his cognac. he turns to jeonghan and looks over his shoulder at something. 'but because i know what a petty and possessive bastard you are, hannie.'

jeonghan knows he shouldn't look. he knows that what is waiting for him there will not be nice but he still turns anyway. and surely enough you are there, looking stunning in that champagne color slip dress, talking animatedly to some gentleman. you stand too close; it's very easy to get handsy with you within this distance and of course man in front of you uses that chance.

'i am not going to create a scene over some guy touching her,' jeonghan hisses. create a scene is the only thing he wants but even he knows his limits. 'she is not mine.'

seungcheol hums in acknowledgement. 'i mean, she could be.'

and ah, isn't that an interesting thought to deep dive into? you being his? you having your eyes on him? your pretty smiles, your warm hugs, your witty comebacks - all of that being for him? jeonghan is not a liar, he can be honest with himself and say that he wants it. maybe more than he thought, considering how he can't stand watching other man having his hand on your lower back. you're smiling and maybe even flirting - jeonghan can't tell for sure from this angle but he certainly doesn't like how the man is eyeing you up.

'now we're talking.' seungcheol says and smirks, when jeonghan silently hands him his glass of wine. 'go, win me fifty bucks, hannie! good luck.'

jeonghan thinks how much jail time he'll get for choking his own boss. calculates and decides it's not worth it. 'fuck you. and i don't need any luck.'

jeonghan knows when he is liked and he knows you like him back, too. he's confident when he strikes up close, smiling innocently and inserting himself between you and the other man. jeonghan doesn't really care if it's subtle or not, his hand reaches out for yours automatically and when you let him interlace your fingers together, he knows he's won. 'i'm afraid i have to snatch this beauty away from you,' jeonghan's voice is sweet but his gaze isn't. 'for any additional information you can always consult choi seungcheol.'

'felt challenged, yoon jeonghan?' you ask, amused, even when you let him pull you away. 'thought i'd score more investors than you?'

jeonghan huffs, tightening his grip around you. 'i can score more investors without twirling my hair like you do.' he gently ushers you to the corner next to the bar, least crowded place here. 'and without letting anyone get handsy with me.'

you arch your eyebrow at this, mirth dances in your eyes. 'watching me an awful lot, don't you?'

jeonghan can lie or he can be honest and help seungcheol win those fifty bucks. 'i do, yes. used to having your eyes on me, so. guess the habit stayed.'

it's bold and you like it, he can tell. your lips stretch into a pretty smile and jeonghan can't help but lean in, loving the way your eyes are on him and only him. it gives him an unexplainable power boost, the one he can get drunk off.

'don't skit around,' you chide him gently. 'you wanna have my eyes on only you? if you wanna do something just do it, jeonghan. you've got the balls, don't you?'

jeonghan can do many things to you but none of them are appropriate to do in front of other people. he only cocks his head to the side of the exit and when you nod, he pulls you with him. he leaves this reception with the prettiest and smartest woman, who had all men here wrapped around her pinky. he leaves this reception with you and jeonghan trembles from the thought of finally getting to have you. his mind races with all the questions: where to touch first? where to kiss first? how do you like it? which way do you want it?

'i knew you'd be the jealous type,' you break the silence as jeonghan leads you to his hotel room. 'are you possessive as well?'

jeonghan chuckles, opening the door with a key. 'you don't know even half of it, baby.'

he is, that's the thing. that's why his grip on your hips is just shy away from bruising, that's wh his kiss is more about claiming than anything else. jeonghan kisses like he wants to prove a point, like he wants to suck the soul out of you and take it with him. your fingers in his hair and your sharp tugs make him groan and pull you tighter to his body. 'what did you even think, hm?' jeonghan whispers into your ear, hiking your dress up to have more access to your skin. 'twirling your hair like that for men who don't even know you?' he hikes you up, letting you wrap your legs around him, carrying you to the bed. 'you think they can handle you?'

he doesn't expect any answer. jeonghan throws your dress somewhere on the floor and smirks at the way you hurriedly undress him too. you look so pretty like this - lips red from kisses, eyes crazed with desire, cheeks and neck rosy. he doesn't let you touch him, no it's not the time for that. his hands are itching to make you tremble beneath him and he puts his sole focus on making you moan more often, louder, forget about everything and let yourself go.

'hannie,' you whimper once he inserts one finger in. 'i- more.'

'gotta move for me, baby,' jeonghan answers, adding one more finger and kneeling down. 'gotta take what you want yourself.'

it's a surreal experience, to be honest. to watch how you move your hips, circle them to get what you want, how you loudly groan once jeonghan attaches his lips on your clit. he loves it. loves how responsive you are, how you are not ashamed to ask for more and show him how much you like it. jeonghan is addicted to your aborted hip motions, your whimpers of his name. he actually didn't mean to tease but he can't help it: you are so whiny, how can you expect him not to want to hear more of these lovely sounds?

'i'm gonna kick you if you don't get inside me right now,' you grit out as he adds third finger. 'i am not coming without you.'

'aw, my baby wants to come with me only?' jeonghan teases, licking his lips. he is painfully hard but watching you writhe on the sheets is more important.

'your baby will not be your baby if you don't-'

'i don't like threats like that,' jeonghan cuts you off, kissing you hard, making you taste yourself on his tongue.

he listens to you. jeonghan fumbles for a condom, knows that all hotel rooms have one stashed somewhere and swears under his breath as he watches you lazily finger yourself while he gets ready. this picture will haunt him forever, he thinks, lining himself up before you.

'fuck,' jeonghan bites his lower lip at the sensation, groaning. 'holy fuck.' it feels so good that he can't keep it inside: 'so good, baby, so fucking good.'

'hannie,' you moan at the first thrust, clutching at him. 'faster, i'm so-'

close, he knows. embarrassingly enough he is close too. your tight heat does not help him to keep his composure but he'll be damned if he doesn't make you see stars, so he grips your thighs and starts moving as quick as he can. you are a siren underneath him, calling out his name, making him want to fall into you without looking back. it's all too much and not enough at once, jeonghan holds back for the last remaints of his sanity to help you reach your peak, gritting his teeth at you tightening around him. his name on your lips is a wonderful music, he keeps on thrusting even when you're coming, watches as you shake and moan, arching your back in a too tempting way for him to not lean in and kiss your chest. it doesn't take him long to follow you, he comes with a quiet groan hidden in your neck, loving the way you hug him close as his hips stutter. he's sweaty and breathes heavily with effort to keep himself up but jeonghan feels like he's on a cloud nine when your lips ghost around his face wherever you can reach.

'hey,' you say once you make eye contact.

'hey,' jeonghan voices out, still inside you. 'want me to pull out?'

'what a romantic you are,' you chuckle but then shake your head. 'no, not yet. let's stay like that for a while?'

jeonghan smiles softly. he reaches out and fixes your sweaty hair, leaning in to place sweet kiss on your forehead. high was high but this? this is even better.

'we can,' he says quietly. 'whatever you want, really.'

'twirling my hair worked on you, huh?' you joke, smiling brightly.

jeonghan rolls his eyes but doesn't even bother denying it. 'yeah, it did.'

a/n: this work is for hannie's birthday and for @rwithkny-deactivated20240928 (i know you didn't say jeonghan in your suggestions but it's his birthday and i couldn't miss it!). i haven't written smut in a long time, god, i hope this is not very bad, let me know! - nini

my seventeen works are here

my formula 1 works are here

[freelancearsonist]

Whole

Steve Harrington x fem!Reader

Rated MA for the most long-winded poetic smut i've ever written jfc 🤦‍♀️ slow burn fluff with a couple sprinkles of angst for flavor, reader uses fem pronouns and is described as having female parts, it's dirty y'all but at least they use protection

7,470 Words

A/N: you all know my mo by now i disappear for a year and then come back and lay down some god damned PORN. this fic is no exception to the rule. @shakespeareanwannabe requested this back in july and she literally just asked for a cute moment between steve and dustin, sorry you got 6k words more than you bargained for 😂 but also thank you for betaing and the constant validation you're the best ily 🖤

Steve’s not sure how it even worked.

He can still remember the look on Robin’s face when you agreed, how she was speechless for almost ten minutes because she couldn’t process what had just happened.

Steve’s reaction was about the same as hers, in all honesty. He’s gotten so used to striking out that asking people out has become something of a game to him. He knows he’ll get a no, and he knows Robin will laugh her ass off at him. But what can he say? He likes putting a smile on his best friend’s face.

Needless to say, you’ve shaken him. In the best possible way. Because your answer was three letters instead of two.

And now, he's a little bit in over his head.

Or, to be more accurate, a lot in over his head.

It seems like it’s been ages since he’s gone on a date, even though it’s only been a few months at most. He feels lost, like he’s completely unlearned everything he ever knew about girls.

He hates it, despises it with every fiber of his own being, but he also knows it’s true; he needs advice. And although he’ll never admit it to the little shithead’s face, there’s no one better he can think of going to than his very own protege. Who better to remind him of his own prowess than the person who learned everything they know from him?

One look at Dustin’s smug little face and Steve almost regrets it. Almost.

“Just can’t stay away, can you?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve rolls his eyes and gives the younger boy a little shove, camouflaging it with an affectionate pat on the back. “This is strictly business, Henderson.”

“Oh, is it now?” The younger boy’s voice takes on a smug tone as he folds his fingers together and leans back in his chair. “Well then, why don’t you have a seat? Step into my office.”

Steve rolls his eyes and slides into the booth, shooting a smile and a “thank you” to the kind waitress who delivers two milkshakes to their table.

Dustin takes his time and makes a meal of unwrapping his straw, feeding off of Steve’s clear impatience Steve’s fingers tap against the table, reminding himself that patience is necessary when you come to someone for a favor. It’s just that it’s Dustin, and Dustin knows exactly how to get under the older boy’s skin in the most annoying-yet-oddly-endearing fashion.

“So…” Dustin finally says after a lengthy sip of strawberry milkshake. “What brings you so humbly to me?”

“I’ve got a date.”

And Dustin, the little bastard–he laughs. A deep, rumbling belly laugh, so pure and unfiltered that the three other occupied tables in the diner pause their conversations to get a look at the boy clutching his sides.

Steve’s a little embarrassed by the attention, but even more embarrassed that Dustin’s reaction is so genuine. The fact that the idea of him having a date is so laughable is a bit of a punch to the gut. It hasn’t really been that long, has it?

When Dustin’s laughter finally dies down he realizes Steve’s face is completely serious, and it makes him giggle even more.

“Wait, you’re actually serious? Who on earth did you manage to pull?”

Steve’s nearly bashful as he says your name, and even more bashful when Dustin’s jaw visibly drops.

“No fucking way. I’d believe anyone else, but her? She’s like… hotter than Phoebe Cates. There’s no way you wouldn’t strike out with her.”

Steve’s immediately on the defensive. Is it really so hard to believe that he, former king of Hawkins High, could pull the most gorgeous girl in town?

But that’s just it. There’s really no one like you, not in his eyes. He’s admired you since freshman year and never once even tried with you because he knew he wasn’t worthy. You were always in the background–a beautiful, kind, smart, funny girl just out of his reach. Part of the reason he even asked you out was because he was so sure he would strike out. In the end, losing his confidence was exactly what he needed to pull the girl of his dreams.

And that’s why there’s so much riding on this. You’ve always been his biggest “what if”, the girl he wonders about when thinking that maybe not trying has been holding him back. And apparently, it has.

“Look, I don’t even know how it happened, okay? But she said yes, and… and I really don’t want to blow it.”

“Well duh. You’ll have to leave town if you blow it with her, you know that, right? If she doesn’t think you’re worth it, no one else in this town ever will again.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of!” Steve groans, slouching down so far in the booth that Dustin can just barely see his poor, overwhelmed face.

“Steve, listen…” Dustin’s voice takes on an almost fatherly quality, an omniscient tone that gives off the illusion of great hidden knowledge. He gets like this sometimes, and Steve’s not always sure that it is just an illusion. “Don’t let this go to your head, but you’re, like, one of the coolest guys I know. If she doesn’t like you… that’s her problem, not yours. Okay?”

Steve straightens in his seat, a little shocked to hear such kind words from a friend that he’s used to being mercilessly teased by.

“No, no, no, it’s going to your head. I take it all back. Forget I said anything.” Dustin’s hearty giggle makes Steve smile as he sets a wad of bills on the table and slides out of the booth.

“You’re not so bad Henderson, you know that?” He gives the younger boy’s full head of curls an affectionate ruffle. “Thanks, kid. I’ll radio later.”

Not that Steve didn’t have total faith in his young protege, but it’s still a relief that the pep talk turned out to be exactly what he needed to hear. Dustin’s right, after all. Steve’s worked hard to become the man he’s always wanted to be. He may not be dripping charisma or sex appeal the way he used to, but he’s much more comfortable in his own skin. That’s what counts, right?

And you really are his dream girl. The opportunity to take you out tonight, even if it ends up being your first and only date together, is an honor. He’s much less focused now on all the ways he could screw up, hyper-fixated on putting the effort in to make this the best night of your life.

That effort comes out in the carefully selected suit jacket he dons over his white button-up, the extra spritz of cologne, the careful touch-up shave to vanquish his five o’clock shadow, the extra ten minutes using the perfect amount of product in his hair so that it stays in place yet is still soft to the touch.

By the time he gets to Enzo’s (half an hour early, mind), he’s practically vibrating with nerves and anticipation. He’s never been much of an overthinker, but he sure is tonight. Is this place too much for the first date? Would you rather do something lowkey, like catch a movie or go for a walk in the park? He has to remind himself a couple of times that you agreed to this, that you wouldn’t have said yes if you weren’t interested in the arrangement.

To say he’s prepared for this is putting it lightly. He’s run through every possible scenario in his mind, gone over conversation starters and questions he wants to ask you over and over again until he knows exactly how he wants to phrase each thing.

And still, nothing could prepare him for when you walk through the door.

He has to physically restrain his jaw from dropping because in the moment he sees you, every well-planned thought and all etiquette is flushed down the proverbial pipes. You’re nothing short of breathtaking in a dress that hugs all the right curves and shows just enough cleavage to have him imagining what else there might be to see. Your hair is pinned back out of your face, eyes framed by just the slightest bit of makeup to make the color of your irises pop. He swears he’s never seen a shade quite like them. It’s like you move in slow motion as you approach him–he sees the entrance of the smoking hot love interest in every romantic comedy, complete with smoke and fireworks, as you move towards the table.

And then some sense of decorum returns to his addled brain, and he quickly shoots up so he can pull out your chair for you like a proper gentleman. He catches just the slightest whiff of your perfume, and he’s a goner. He’s ready to sign his life away to you, to yank his own heart out of his chest to offer to your careful hands.

He has to give his head a shake to compose himself before he goes any further off the deep end. No one’s ever thoroughly shaken him the way you have, and it’s been a matter of thirty seconds. It’s almost intimidating, the effect you have on him.

“You look… incredible,” he fumbles as he takes his seat across from you. “I mean, you always do, but… wow.”

The shy giggle you emit tugs at a heartstring he didn’t even know he had.

“Thank you,” you tell him with a genuine smile. “You clean up very well yourself.”

“I do like to put in some effort every once in a while.” He flashes the most charming smile he can muster, and just like that he’s back. His resolve to impress you is reinforced tenfold. You’ve shaken him, and it’s such an unfamiliar feeling that he’s practically bumbling. He wants to shake you just as badly.

The food’s delicious, and the conversation’s even better. He has a track record for taking out a more–for lack of a better term–bimbo-y type, and that’s definitely not you. You’re smart, you’re witty, but you don’t make him feel like an idiot. He’s so taken with you that he doesn’t even notice that three hours have passed until he looks around the room and notices that every table is now empty and bussed.

The waiter delivers the check, and Steve notices you gnawing on your lip.

“What’s on your mind?” He asks, trying not to be too prying.

“I don’t want this to be over yet.”

Steve smiles. He’s got you; hook, line, and sinker. He’s never been so sure of anything, and that surprises him. He’s used to dates who are easy to read and even easier to take home, and those aren’t the impressions you’ve been giving him. To know that you’re feeling exactly what he’s feeling is a huge confidence boost.

“I don’t either.”

Your hand is so small compared to his. That’s all he can think about as he strolls next to you, his fingers intertwined with yours. He’s always considered hand-holding to be child’s play, it’s never excited him before the way it does in this moment with you.

It’s pitch black in the park and he can hear the overlapping chirping of summer cicadas and grasshoppers, the perfect background noise now that the conversation has died down. It’s less about getting to know each other at this point and more just basking in each other’s presence, prolonging the inevitable because neither one of you can bear to call it a night when it’s been such a good few hours.

You’re shocked, to say the very least. Steve certainly has a reputation, and it’s not for being a romantic. Yet everything tonight has flown in the face of all the rumors you’ve been hearing since junior high. You figured he’d be a fun fling, and probably only one night at that–you’d made your peace with the idea. To find that he’s kind, considerate, funny, and can match your intellect and quick wit… it’s a very pleasant surprise. And that’s what has you out well past a decent hour, giddy over simply holding his hand like you’re a damned school girl all over again.

“I should probably let you go home,” Steve sighs wistfully. He hates to be the one to bring it up, but you’re on your fifth lap around the park and about to circle back to where your car is parked so now seems the best time.

You’re chewing your lip again, a thoughtful habit that makes his heart pound just a little bit harder.

Here’s the thing: you’re really not the bold type. You act confident, sure, but in practice it’s a lot more difficult for you. So no one’s more surprised than you are when you say, “You could come home with me. If you want.”

Steve’s definitely shocked, too. Less shocked at your proposition and more at the fact that he’s tempted to decline. Because no matter how much he’s been running through the back of his mind what you might look like under that gorgeous dress, he doesn’t want this to end there. For the first time in his life, he wants to find more meaning than sex out of a relationship. He doesn’t want to take you home and never see you again. He wants to take you out again, and again, and again, and again after that. He sees a future, for once, that doesn’t look dim and hopeless. That fact alone scares the shit out of him.

He realizes he’s waited way too long to reply and fumbles for an answer. “Of course I want to. I’d be an idiot not to. But…”

You chew that cursed bottom lip of yours again, and Steve has to focus on the obvious cue you’re giving him rather than the fact that he wants to be the next set of teeth around that lip.

He stops in his tracks, gently pulling on your hand to face him so he can take your other hand in his free one. “It’s not a bad but. I mean, I’m going to go home kicking myself for saying no because I really honestly do want to… well, y’know. But… I want to do this right with you. I want to take you out again. I want to get to know you and see where this goes. I can’t… I don’t want this to end tonight.”

He’s eternally grateful for how dark it is as he feels a flush consume his face. He can’t remember a time he’s been so honest and open, especially on a first date; but the look on your face tells him he’s done something right.

“Okay,” you tell him, squeezing his hands in yours. “You… honestly have no clue how nice it is to hear that.”

“Of course,” he continues, “if you just want me for my body, no hard feelings.”

You laugh at that, genuinely laugh, and Steve thinks it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

“No,” you reassure him. “No, I… I wanna see where this goes, too.”

You’re stopped only a few paces from your car, and Steve knows with a twist of his gut that this is the end of the night. It makes his gut turn with disappointment, but also with anticipation of when he’ll see you next. Already, his mind is flooding with ideas of where he can take you and what you’ll do together.

You drop one of his hands so you can walk but keep a tight grip on the other until you get to your driver’s side door, hesitating outside because you’re still not ready for this to be over. It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to kiss you, unsure of if that would be moving too fast.

Thankfully, you make the call yourself. Leaning up on your toes, hands against his chest for balance, you press your lips against his and he has to summon every mite of strength not to moan. No one’s ever tasted so sweet, molded against him so perfectly. His hands drift from your shoulders down your arms, coming to rest on your waist as he pulls you just a little bit closer. It’s a fight of will not to overstep, to break off the kiss before it can become too heated. His mind is spinning by the time you break away. He’s aching for more, and he hopes you are too. 

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

Your sweet voice replays in his mind all night, long after you’ve gotten into your car and driven away, long after he’s returned to his own vehicle and pulled the radio out from under the driver’s seat to check in with Dustin, long after he arrives home and soaks in a cold shower for longer than he probably should. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get your voice out of his head, and he couldn’t be any less upset about it.

He practically counts down the minutes until he sees you again. This time, he has a little less restraint. He greets you with a kiss–a sweet peck and a hand on your waist that leaves you aching for even more.

It’s a movie this time, a chance to enjoy each other’s company on a night you’re both too tired from working to engage in heavy conversation and getting to know each other further.

It starts with sharing popcorn, then holding hands, then somewhere along the way the film is completely forgotten in favor of your lips meeting his. His breath grows heavy as his hands hold your face, committing you to memory while resisting the urge to explore further. Your hands, meanwhile, are firmly on his thighs, gripping tightly to keep yourself steady as you do everything you can to keep yourself from crawling into his lap.

He whispers your name, and your grip on him tightens.

“W-we shouldn’t…” he murmurs, then gives up on the futile attempt at finishing his sentence so that he can pull you even deeper into the kiss as his tongue sweeps across your bottom lip.

It takes everything in him not to moan when your lips eagerly part to accept him.

Needless to say, once the credits start rolling you’re both more than a little hot under the collar.

“Let me buy you dinner,” Steve suggests as he woefully unwinds himself from you. Declining doesn’t even flicker through your mind as a possibility.

It’s not Enzo’s this time, but it doesn’t have to be. He could set a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich in front of you at this point and you’d still thank him for it. This time around, you’re not really as interested in the cuisine as you are just simply getting through this meal to what’s next. Because what’s next is all you’ve been thinking about since you walked through the doors the night of that very first date and saw Steve Harrington wearing a blazer for you. It’s a level of effort he’s definitely not known for–in fact, he’s built a reputation for putting in so little effort that it nearly made your jaw drop to see him trying. And it certainly made your heart skip a beat.

But then again, the Steve before you carelessly wolfing down his bacon cheeseburger seems very different from the Steve you knew in high school, even if you didn’t know that iteration as intimately as this one. That one was cool, collected, snarky and pompous and maddeningly desirable.

This Steve, your Steve, is nearly an exact foil. Much less cocky, a little less confident but more self-assured in the ways that actually hold meaning, less worried about what the people around him are observing of him than what you’re observing of him. He seems happier, more carefree, more eager to please others than simply himself. He’s grown so much in such a short amount of time, and you feel proud just for having the honor to witness it. Significantly more proud to be on the receiving end of his affections now that they hold the kind of value you’ve always wished they would.

He looks up and notices you staring at him while lost in thought, a small smile spreading across his lips as your eyes quickly dart away.

“What’s on your mind?” He questions as he licks a stray bit of ketchup from his thumb.

“Just… happy I’m here. With you.” It brings heat to your cheeks to admit it, but you don’t want him to go unappreciated in this moment.

It’s the right thing to say, because his smile grows even wider. “I’m happy too,” he admits. “I… I’ve wanted to ask you out for a while. Could never work up the courage, I guess.”

“Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington was intimidated by me?” You say it with a mock gasp, but your shock is more genuine than you give off. Never in a million years would you have thought that he, the man who could have whoever he wanted, would be worried over you saying no to him. It’s almost comical, especially considering the way you practically threw yourself at him on your first date. Of course then, you had no clue how much he’d developed as a person. You’re almost ashamed of your behavior now, as if you might’ve inadvertently been taking advantage of the new and improved Steve who isn’t just into you for a hookup.

He shrugs, nearly bashful at your teasing. “Never figured I was good enough for you. So I didn’t bother to try.”

You’re genuinely curious now, leaning in a little closer and brushing your fingers against his hand resting atop the diner counter. “What made you change your mind?”

“Honestly? I was so sure you’d say no that I asked just to give Robin a chuckle. She loves watching me get shot down.”

That makes you frown, and he’s quick to backtrack. “I wanted to! I just… I’ve had a bad track record lately. And you’re… you’re you. You’re the last person I should be worthy of.”

His eyes are quick to avert from your gaze, bottom lip tugged between his teeth as he contemplates whether he’s said too much.

“Steve…” you properly grab his hand now in the hopes that it’ll bring his eyes back to you, and it works. “You’re the only person I’ve deemed worthy in a long time, honestly.”

Steve Harrington is scaldingly warm. It’s one of many sensations forcing your mind into overdrive as he lays you delicately across the backseat of his beemer, one hand cushioning the back of your head while simultaneously deepening the already heated kiss and the other balancing his weight to lean over you in the cramped space without completely crushing you.

Your fingers tangle themselves into his soft brown locks, tugging ever-so-slightly as his tongue slips between your parted lips. He’s an eager explorer and you’re more than happy to let him take the lead, to show you all the skill you’ve heard so many whispers about.

You let out an involuntary moan as he wedges himself even closer to you, his body heat soaking through all the layers of clothing between the two of you and warming you all the way to your very bones.

You’re practically aching, ready to beg, and he knows it the second you wrap your legs around his waist in an attempt to get him even closer. If there’s one thing Steve Harrington’s good at, it’s assessing your needs. He pulls away just the slightest bit to adjust his position so he can get closer, wedging a knee between your legs to press right against your core, and it makes you jolt back against the car door at the same time his head hits the roof just a bit too hard.

You both pause for a moment, the reality of your situation hitting you simultaneously, and then you’re laughing. It’s light and edged with unresolved want, but it’s enough to fracture the tension of the moment.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Shouldn’t have gotten so carried away. This isn’t how I want to do this.”

“No?”

“No. You deserve way better than this old beater,” he chuckles, then leans down to kiss you. This kiss is lighter, no longer edged with tension and lust. He kisses you just to kiss you–there’s no end goal to it this time.

“What could be better than a BMW?” You tease lightly, trying to reassure him that you’re less disappointed than you really feel.

“You know. Something romantic. A proper bed, rose petals, maybe a few candles…”

“I don’t need all that,” you try to tell him.

“I think I do,” he admits. And that’s enough to pull you back, to remind you that you need to be patient and grateful that he values you so much as to want to do this whole thing properly. That his affection is something to be cherished, not taken for granted.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to be pushy.”

“Please don’t apologize.” He hesitates to untangle himself from you, even though he knows he needs to. “I want this just as bad. I just… I need it to be right.”

“As long as I have you, it’ll be right,” you reassure. “I hope you know that.”

He presses his lips to yours again, a slow and passionate kiss that he hopes communicates every bit of adoration he feels for you in this moment.

“It’ll be perfect. I swear,” he vows. You’ve never believed anything more whole-heartedly than you do this promise. 

~~~

“Wait, you’re telling me that you literally had her under you and you stopped?” Robin’s halfway through chewing a mouthful of popcorn and the absolute carnage inside her agape mouth makes Steve give her a light shove.

“It’s not polite to talk with your mouth full, y’know.”

“It’s not polite to blue-ball either!” She shoots back in utter disbelief.

“How do you think I felt? I was this close,” he holds his thumb and index finger barely millimeters apart, “to sealing the deal.”

She just shakes her head. “You, Steve Harrington, are a genuine, bonafide idiot.”

She’s not telling him anything he doesn’t know. It’s been three days since the aborted fling in the backseat of his car, and he’s barely thought of anything else. Especially since you’ve been away from home both of the past nights when he’s called. He’s starting to worry you’ve gotten the wrong impression, that he’s not interested or that he’s toying with you. It’s the exact opposite. He wants nothing more than to know you in the most intimate way he can know you. But he needs it to be flawless. He needs it to be well thought-out and precisely planned, the most romantic event in the history of copulation. He won’t settle for anything less, not with you. You deserve perfection, and he won’t give you anything less.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he tries to explain. “I want to more than anything. But if you’re gonna go to town on a goddess, you need to do some worshiping, y’know? I don’t feel like I’ve done enough.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you hear this admission. You weren’t sure what to expect–worried that maybe visiting him at work was an overstep–but hearing him call you a goddess certainly wasn’t on your radar.

“You’ve done more than enough, Steve.”

The sound of your voice makes Steve jump and whirl around, oblivious to Robin’s sly smirk and mumbled excuse of needing to attend to something in the back room.

“H-hey!” He squeaks, then clears his throat in an attempt to get his tone back to its normal octave. “What… what’re you doing here?”

“Oh, just came to pick up a tape,” you tease. “But mostly I came to see you.”

“Me?” He takes a moment to ground himself, loosening his too-tight grip on the counter. “I mean… I tried to call you last night. And the night before?”

Your brow furrows. “Really? I didn’t get your message.”

Because he didn’t leave one. He clears his throat and says, “I just figured you were busy.”

“Oh, well, I volunteer at the animal shelter on Wednesdays, and last night was my friend’s 21st birthday. I’m sorry I missed you, though.”

He can tell that you’re really remorseful, and it makes his heart squeeze in his chest a little bit. He plays it off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “No, it’s fine, it’s… are you free tonight?”

You giggle at the abrupt redirect, but he’s played directly into your hand.

“Yeah, actually. I was hoping maybe you could help me pick out something for us to watch tonight? If you’re free too, that is.”

His dark eyes blink slowly, wondering if you’re aware of the implication behind your completely innocent words. You. Him. A movie. Alone. It’s enough to make his head spin. 

“I’ve never been freer.”

Conveniently, you’ve come in close enough to the end of his shift that by the time you’re done combing through Family Video’s vast selection for the perfect film to use as background noise, Steve’s ready to clock out. And since you walked over after finishing your own shift at the local dollar store up the street, it works out perfectly that he can give you a ride straight to his place.

You only glance in the backseat once, but it’s enough to get your mind churning. Remembering the feeling of him, of what could’ve been. Anticipating what will be.

“Parents home?” You ask as he pulls into his driveway and parks, trying to sound casual and utterly failing.

“Nope,” he answers easily. “Took a detour to Cabo on their way home from Hawaii.”

“Sounds glamorous. You opted out?”

“I’d rather be here in Hawkins with you than on a beach alone anyday.”

He must know the effect his words have on you. Surely he can hear the way your heart picks up pace as he looks at you with those dark, affectionate eyes.

“So… this is home.” He waves a hand around the entrance hall like it’s a shabby nightmare, not the grandest house you’ve ever been in.

“I’m starting to understand why they used to call you King Steve.”

He’s almost embarrassed at the mention of that old high school nickname. “Trust me, this isn’t why.”

“Well, a palace does befit you,” you tell him with a smirk.

“Stop, you’re gonna make me blush.” The wink he shoots you makes your gut erupt with butterflies, a sensation that would normally make you a little uncomfortable. With Steve, you’d take the butterflies all day long.

He gives you a cursory and oversimplified tour of the ground floor before leading you upstairs, and suddenly he’s sheepish. It’s been a few moons since he shared his room with a girl, so the nerves are justified. But that’s too simple an explanation. You’re not a girl. You’re his dream, his muse, his–to re-quote himself–goddess. No one he’s ever cared about more has stood where you’re standing, and it terrifies him.

He hides it well, though, busying himself with making a comfortable nest for you in his bed before setting up the television set on the dresser against the far wall. If ever there was a time to regain his confidence, it’s now. He curses whatever god there is that he feels like a fumbling virgin in this moment when nothing is even happening, when just the anticipation is enough to make his hands tremble.

There’s no more stalling once you’re comfortable and the tape is set to play. His heart pounds to the steady and frantic rhythm of one of those heavy rock songs Dustin listens to now as he sits next to you, hands itching to take a hold of you but also eager not to move too fast.

Almost as if you can sense his hesitation, you reach over and take his hand. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Kiss me.”

And so he does, and the second his lips slot to yours all the worry and anxiety is gone. He’s Steve Harrington, and he knows what he’s doing. You’re you, and he’s wanted this for so long. After years of being lost, he deserves to finally find the love he’s been looking for. He’s never been so sure of anything as he is, in this moment of initial clarity, that he’s in love with you.

He can’t say it, not yet. He’s sure it’s too soon, and the last thing he wants is to scare you off. But he’s determined to prove it to you, and the only way besides words is action.

He can handle action.

There’s no more restraint or hesitation behind his touch. This is it, this is what you’ve both been waiting for. There’s no way in hell he’s not going to deliver now. He’s desperate for you, and it shows in the heavy way his hands drag along your curves whilst committing you to memory; the way his tongue languidly swipes across your bottom lip; the way he shifts effortlessly to hover over you even while deepening the kiss.

He’s overwhelming every single sense of yours in such a sudden fashion, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. Especially not when his hips meet yours in a deliciously slow grind and you finally get your first little taste of what’s to come.

He keens at the little breathless whimpers that leave your mouth, reading every single signal you provide him with and accommodating each. Moaning? He continues what he’s doing, intensifying if deemed necessary. Whining? He adds something, because he knows it’s hard to use your words when you’re wanting so badly. Squirming? He pays attention to the direction of your movement and pulls away or presses closer depending on necessity. It’s down to science for him; he only really cared about extracurriculars in school anyway, and this was certainly his favorite.

But then he comes to his senses–while he doesn’t pull away completely, he needs to clear his mind and he does so by letting up a bit, allowing the kiss to become languid and the heat to extinguish a bit. It only makes you whine more, and Steve curses his damned formula. You shouldn’t be part of an equation. You’re everything he’s ever wanted, and every aspect of your relationship so far has been a new experience for him. He needs this particular activity to be different too. No formulas or calculations. Just you and him and whatever happens naturally.

Clearly you can hear the cogs in his mind turning. You pull away with a concerned look on your face and ask, “what’s on your mind?”

Now’s not the time to hide anything from you, he reasons with himself. He wants to be authentic with you, and part of that means telling the truth, even if it’s not something particularly comfortable.

“I’m… falling into a routine. And I don’t want to,” he admits. He sighs and leans back, one hand dragging through his shaggy and disheveled hair, sure that he’s going to ruin the mood if he carries on like this. But he refuses to back away from the truth now. “This… it’s always been like…. Like a series of checkpoints. Boxes to check, y’know? Kiss you, take your clothes off, make you come, fuck you, say goodnight. And I don’t want… I can’t let it be like that with you. I need this to be… real. Not just some list to cross shit off of. I don’t–”

Steve takes a long, shaky breath before he can ramble on anymore. Never has someone so thoroughly gotten under his skin. He’s never felt so insecure, so unsure. It’s terrifying. The most terrifying part of it all, though, is that he likes it. He loves the feeling of the unfamiliarity, of doing this right. In a way, it’s almost like he’s doing all of this for the first time all over again. You’re his first date, first kiss, first time. All because he’s changed so drastically, because he’s not even remotely the same person he was just a year or two ago.

Your hands are so gentle as you cup his face, tenderly forcing his eyes to meet yours.

“Steve… we don’t have to do this, not if you’re not ready. I want to be with you, not just for this, but for everything. Everything that comes with you… that’s what I want. There’s no pressure. I would wait a hundred years for you to be ready so long as I could still have you.”

Steve’s breath shakes a little as he comprehends the gravity of your words. There’s nothing he can say that can properly convey the gratitude he holds for your words, so he says nothing at all.

In his silence, you continue. “You’re more than a body, you know that, right? You’re funny, and kind, and smart. Yes, smart, don’t look at me like that. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted to be close to. I just… I want to spend time with you. I want to watch stupid movies and eat diner food until we get sick and laugh at your stupid jokes… and maybe make love with you, sure, but that’s pretty low on the list as long as I just get to be with you.”

He doesn’t notice the tears until it’s too late–by the time you’re wiping them from the apples of his cheeks it’s far too late to take them back or hide them. With anyone else, he would be angry; at himself, for allowing himself to be so vulnerable. For allowing himself to be so emotional. With you, though… with you, his emotions make him feel strong. 

For the first time since you walked into his life, he’s not scared of losing you.

“I love you,” he tells you. His voice is firm, as fierce as the kiss he presses to your mouth, as powerful as the waves of emotion vibrating through his very soul. “I love you so much.”

He barely gives you a chance to reply, as keen as he is on physically proving his love to you through myriad passionate kisses that leave you breathless. But when you finally get the chance to use your voice after a barrage of kisses that start to trail down your neck, you whisper, “I love you too.”

Four words, and they’re all he needs to quell every worry or fear he’s had over doing this relationship properly with you. Why should he have to worry, after all, when he’s already succeeded? 

“I love you,” he whispers as he trails down your neck and to your chest, leaving tender love bites on the tops of your breasts once he’s properly liberated you from your shirt.

“I love you,” he mumbles through sucking a mark a few inches north of your navel.

“I love you,” he murmurs when his lips meet your waistband. His fingers make quick work of your pants as he scatters kisses over your stomach, unable to part his mouth from your skin for even a moment.

“I love you,” he affirms as his mouth meets your hot and waiting core.

There’s no more checklist. Because this isn’t simply sex, as it always has been for him in the past. This is love-making: the kind of sappy shit they talk about in all those Hallmark movies that he rolls his eyes at the sight of. It’s like losing his virginity all over again.

He understands the old adage of “the other half” now. You’ve ripped him to shreds and sewed him back together with strands of yourself. The end result is better than the original ever could’ve even dreamed to be. He’s sure he couldn’t possibly live without you now, that losing you would be like ripping out fresh and unhealed stitches.

You’re not sure how long he camps out between your trembling thighs, but it’s long enough for you to lose count of the number of times he pulls you apart–first with his languid tongue; then his long, curved fingers; then a combination of the two. It’s like he loses himself completely in your pleasure, not a single thought in his head except what he can do to bring you to the edge again, and again, and again.

You’re trembling with oversensitivity by the time his own needs overtakes his desperation to unravel you. So out of it that you feel drunk, like Steve’s laced you with absolute bliss so pure you can barely stand it.

You’re hardly present enough to appreciate the adonis before you when he finally undoes his own jeans, and that’s a damned shame because he’s so damned pretty. Long and thick, flushed at the girthy tip from his hitherto unacknowledged arousal. His lean thighs are pure muscle, and the dark thatch of hair that trails south from his navel makes your mouth water. He’s everything you dreamed he’d be and so much more.

“Steve…” You don’t know what else you can possibly say. All you can do is vainly hope that one whine of his name can convey all of the heat, frustration, tension, and above all longing, swirling through your head in the moment.

He breaks from his lustful reverie for a moment to smile as he leans in for another heated kiss; you think it’s safe to say you’ve gotten your point across.

He slows from his mania for a few moments, lips tender as they explore against yours once more. These kisses are languid, slow, yet no less heated. Even now, he’s trying to prove his love to you. As if you could somehow not believe him after everything that’s happened, every small moment you’ve spent with him witnessing how hard he’s trying for you.

Somewhere in between kisses he manages to wrestle a condom out of his nightstand, miraculously without ever breaking from your lips.

Now is where you cut in, finally fading out of your over-pleasured fugue and back to reality. You take the little foil packet from his hands and tear it open, eager for this small chance to finally get a hand or two on him.

He lets out the most gorgeous noise you’ve ever heard as you roll the rubber down his length; a deep, earthy, diaphragmatic moan just from the simple touch of your hand. You want to touch him even more, to wrest out more of those sounds from him; to see what other undiscovered responses you can pull from him as you pleasure him. But you know that now, he needs to set the pace. He believes he has something to prove, and you’re more than happy to let him prove it. There will be plenty of other opportunities to have him completely at your mercy, anyway.

There’s no way to describe the feeling as he slides into you. It’s more than bliss, more than euphoria, more than earth-shattering toe-curling mind-altering pleasure. It’s nothing more than feeling whole. Of never knowing you were missing a part of yourself until it’s suddenly returned to you. Of never knowing what home felt like until this exact moment.

Maybe it’s overdramatic. Maybe it’s outlandish and outrageous and a million other adjectives to feel something so overpowering and overwhelming from such a seemingly simple physical act. But in this moment, you know you’ve never felt anything as right as being connected to Steve in this way.

His lips hardly leave yours while he rolls his hips against you, easily finding the perfect angle to make your breath hitch and your hands scrabble for purpose.

It admittedly doesn’t last long, but it doesn’t have to. Once you start to tighten and pulse around him, he’s a goner–deep purposeful thrusts turning to hard, arrhythmic plunges in desperate search of release.

You’re still shaking from your high when he slowly pulls out of you. He keeps you close, arms linked around your waist and dragging you to lay on his chest as he flops back against the pillows. 

You’re not sure how long you lay like that, with Steve whispering sweet nothings into your hair and pressing absentminded kisses to your face. All you can really focus on is one all-consuming, life-changing fact.

“I love you, Steve Harrington.”

“I love you too,” he whispers back. He kisses you again, just a simple peck on your lips, and you know that he’s telling the truth. It’s an eternal truth: one that can’t be changed or altered in any way. Steve Harrington loves you with every fibre of his being, and he will for the rest of his life–even if you’re both blissfully unaware of it for now.

THE END

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[ashwhowrites]

Steve having a senior little sister who has a crush on Eddie. Can barely string two words together any time he talks to her. She’s a cheerleader, her parents expect her to marry an Ivy League business major or a senator’s son or something. She kept her crush a secret until Jason calls him a freak in front of the whole cafeteria- and she punches him. Possibly breaking her hand. Most likely getting suspended or at the very least detention for quite a while.

I adore this so much

Never proofread- wrote half of this high, so if I'm sober and it sucks, I will be fixing it

~~~

Popularity came with the Harrigton name, and so did high expectations from everyone. Y/N was popular all throughout high school, following behind King Steve.

She was already known by everyone before she even introduced herself. Already accepted into the popular crowd, she joined cheer, something her mother wanted her to be part of.

Even though she was younger than Steve, she had a close relationship with him. Their parents had high standards for them, and it could get draining. Together, they learned to be there for each other when the disappointment started to settle in. They hung out all the time, which led her to be friends with Steve's friends.....including Eddie Munson.

Y/N had confidence, was very smart, well-mannered, and was all around a golden child. She knew how to make friends, she was kind, sweet, and friendly. It was easy for people to like her and it was easy for her to talk to anyone.

Except for Eddie.

The long-haired senior with brown eyes always had her tongue-tied. She always saw him in the halls but never had the courage to talk to him. He hated the popular crowd and he made that very clear. She had no chance at a friendship or any relationship with the boy.

Then Steve needed his wallet, meeting his friends for dinner but leaving his wallet in his bedroom. Y/N, who had no problem leaving her house whenever she could, brought his wallet to him.

That was the day Steve introduced her to Eddie Munson. He smiled and gave her a small wave. She felt judged by his stare, she knew he knew she was popular. But he is friends with ex-king Steve, maybe he'd give her a chance too.

"You have a gorgeous deer in the headlights look going on," Eddie teased with a smirk, using his hands to gesture to her face.

She felt her body heat up from her cheeks down to her neck. First impression and she was embarrassing herself. With a terrified squeak, she threw the wallet on the table and raced out of the restaurant.

~~~

Sadly after that, she did not improve her communication skills with the boy. Any time he spoke a word near or to her, she never had a response. Just staring as her brain shut off. If she's lucky, she'll get out half a sentence.

She hoped by spending more time with him it would get better, but it never did.

Whenever the group would hang out, she'd talk to Dustin and Robin. Her usual self taking control of the conversation. But the second Eddie walked in, took a seat, and threw his heavy boots on the table with his arms behind his head, she was silent.

~~~

At first Eddie thought she had a small crush on him. The way she'd squeak at his compliments and run in the other direction.

But the more he was around her, the more he felt like she didn't want to be near him. She was popular and never had any issues talking with people. She talked with Dustin and Robin, they weren't popular. Maybe Eddie was still socially under them but she didn't care about it. But once Eddie walked into the room, her lips went shut and she didn't speak a word.

The group accepted Eddie, even with his freak status. Maybe Y/N just wasn't ready for that yet.

~~~

Y/N hated that with every passing day, her crush grew stronger. And yet, she couldn't say one word to the guy.

A part of her is scared to admit she likes him. He wasn't at all what her parents would approve of. She didn't know exactly if Steve would be so on board with it. And she didn't see herself as his type in any sort of way.

Just a silly high school crush and she'll move on. End up with the guy who owns a business and is super clean. Someone her parents would want.

Even though she couldn't talk to him, she wasn't going to let others talk about him.

She was sitting at the lunch table with Chrissy as Jason flew into the seat next to him. He was hysterically laughing as he tried to talk.

Y/N could barely get any words out, when Eddie came racing into the cafeteria. His white hellfire shirt soaked with a sticky liquid. She could see feathers were stuck to him. She assumed Jason covered Eddie with glue and threw feathers at him.

Y/N never found Jason funny or enjoyed the way he tortured Eddie.

Eddie looked pissed as he marched towards Jason, blinded by his anger he didn't realize his surroundings and tripped over another jock's foot.

She watched in horror as Eddie's face planted into the ground, his nose smacking into the floor. She grew worried when he looked up and the blood was running down his nose.

Jason laughed as he stood up. Clapping as he loudly screamed,

"EDWARD MUNSON, THE FREAK OF FREAKS!"

Y/N wasn't sure what came over her. The guilt for being afraid she liked him. The hurt from seeing Eddie's nose in pain. The anger she felt towards Jason. Maybe one or all of those.

Whatever it was, it led her to march up to Jason and punch him straight on the nose. Jason collapsed on the floor, holding his nose as he looked up at her

"WHAT THE FUCK?" he screamed

Before she could say a word, she was being dragged out.

~~~

Y/N sat in the office with an ice pack on her knuckles. Rolling her eyes as she heard her mother's voice screaming on the other side of the phone call with the principal.

As she iced her knuckles, she felt a body sit next to her. A hand taking over her ice pack, holding it softly to her bruised hand.

She looked up and swallowed. Eddie sat there with a dried up bloody nose. He somehow still looked gorgeous.

"Can't say I ever thought I'd see the day when an Harrington won a fight." Eddie teased

Y/N felt herself laughing at the joke, Eddie's laugh following behind.

"I've always been the better Harrington." She teased back.

Finally finding herself able to talk to him. She looked him over, most of the feathers were off of him. His shirt looked drenched like he scrubbed it in the bathroom sink.

"I'd have to agree. Better looking too." Eddie winked. Enjoying the way she quickly looked away. Maybe Eddie was right, she did have a crush.

A comfortable silence rested in the space between them.

The girl he had a crush on likes him too. And she broke Jason's nose.

Eddie thinks he might have found his match.

Tags!

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @slightlyvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @manyfandomsfanvergent @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @thegemaqua @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila

[spidernuggets]

Hi Micah!!! It’s missy (@indulgentdaydream. You can’t ask questions with a side blog :( oh well)

Something I’m always thinking about is jason falling for reader so hard, only to realize she’s never actually been in a relationship before/never had any romantic experience

I’m on the fence of whether he would immediately just try and shower her (sparingly, of course, not to overwhelm her) with affection, giving her flowers, buying her gifts, taking her all on kinds of dates, kissing her silly, following her lead on how fast she wanted to go with the relationship, etc

OR

he immediately just takes all his feelings for her and folds them into a neat little box inside himself (like he does with every other feeling of his, i feel) because he feels like she deserves someone better than him to be all her firsts

I CANT DECIDE

-♥️Missy

MISSSYY HELLO MWAH

OKAY, as a person who has no romantic experience whatsoever and the only relationship I've been in was with a psychopath (quick storytime: Few years after i broke up with her, i coincidentally worked at the same place as her brother. mind you, i was working there before him. Then she started telling her friends I WAS A STALKER?!?!?) Anyways. I THINK ABT THIS ALL THE TIME TOO

I know that in all universes, Jason has a significant amount of love interests. But I don't actually think that he's the best at expressing his emotions even when in a relationship. But at the same time, it takes him time to really fall in love, so when he falls, he falls HARD. Like face first into concrete.

He would notice quickly or right away that Reader has never reached this far into a relationship - As in, she never felt anything like this with anyone else. Like, it's a milestone.

Since Jason isn't good with expressing how he feels, I think his love language would be gift giving and quality time.

First, he'd take Reader out on a date and give her a small gift. Maybe like some sort of accessory. He doesn't get anything designer or really expensive, so he doesn't freak Reader out or try to be an extra asshole and flaunt his (Bruce's) money

He very closely observes Reader's reaction. Every twitch, blink, and breath.

Reader would probably give an incredibly cringe worthy and awkward thanks. But it actually means, holy shit, you're so nice, first date and you're already the best boyfriend ever.

BUT Jason doesn't see that. Jason likes to know what's going on at all times, and he seems to be straightforward. So when he drops Reader home, he asks if she's ready to be in a committed relationship or if she wants to take things slower. He's so obsessed with Reader, like if Reader says she doesn't want to kiss him until marriage or something, he'd shrug and say, of course, anything else?

So Reader admits the obvious saying she doesn't know what she's doing. She really really enjoyed the date and also wants to do all that cliché boyfriend girlfriend stuff but doesn't know where to start.

And Jason literally submits himself to Reader.

Like the fact that she enjoyed the date that HE planned? And Reader wants to do boyfriend girlfriend stuff with HIM?

To be honest, if Reader hated anything about that first date, Jason would've buried himself AGAIN.

So he tells Reader that it's okay. That they can do the things all couples do, test things out. See what Reader likes and doesn't like and build their way up from there.

I think it would be the moment returns to his own home that he thinks "What the fuck am I doing? Dragging this poor girl down to hell? Maybe I should tell her I'm not ready. Or ghost her." Poor baby goes through all possibilities. He even comes with the idea of setting Reader up instead with his friends or even his older brother.

But in the end, he promised Reader that they try this relationship thing out. So they do!!

Maybe within 2 or 3 months, Jason is really starting to doubt his role in the relationship. Like every time Reader sleeps over, he's scared of waking her up just because he's having a nightmare, or he's scared he might have an outburst for no reason.

To be honest, it's most likely he'd self-sabotage on purpose and make himself look bad so Reader would have a reason to break up with him because he knows she can find someone better.

Either that, or he'd restrict himself of his emotions, replying or talking to her in a monotone voice, showing no interest.

But Reader would look through his facade and have a little chat with him.

Through the couple of months they've been dating, Jason and Reader have discovered what they like in a relationship. And Reader has discovered how incredibly touch starved Jason is, and that he's a sucker for words of affirmation.

So after their little chat, Reader is just perched on his lap, pressing feather light kisses all over Jason's crying face, telling him what a good boyfriend he is, how perfect he is, and that he's worth more than he thinks.

[stillmonsterz]

it's gonna get better (teaser)

(this is the final part to brave it together)

pairing: jay x reader genre: suggestive, angst, slight humor summary: your tumultuous tryst with jay might have ended, but your relationship with the karma club and its members has only grown more entangled. a winter trip to the swiss alps tests your friendships, your willingness to lie, and your resolve in staying away from jay. despite your previous inclinations towards isolation, you're starting to realize, a little too late, that being around people isn't too bad. content: drinking, drug usage, sexual themes, rape mentions, murder mentions, suicide mentions, threats, more to come. estimated word count: 20k

taglist: @moon7jay @belowbun @bambangan @praliliaaa @jjklvr9 @iveivory @magicshop1913 @sseobonggs (if i forgot you, please let me know!)

It took you until evening to gain even a semblance of your composure. You had spent some time working on your scarf, mindlessly purling and knitting. You had tried to watch a movie, but your eyes grew unfocused. Finally, you had decided to lie on your bed as you did at the motel, staring at your ceiling. If you focused, you could still smell Jay's woodsy, spicy scent, as though it had permeated the very walls of your room.

When dinnertime approached, you stripped down to your underwear and examined yourself in the mirror. Your body was a patchwork of fresh skin and mottled bruises that Jay had given you over the past month. When you raised your arm, you could see the nail marks he had made. As usual, bright red hickeys adorned your neck. You’d have to cover them up again so no one would get any ideas.

Then you realized that this was the last time you’d have to cover up a mark that Jay had given you. After this, the evidence of what the two of you had had would fade away, your cells would replenish, and it would be as though he had never touched you in the first place.

It didn’t seem right, that you and Jay were finished. At any second, as you rummaged around in your closet for an outfit to wear, you imagined that Jay would burst inside of your room, demanding something. He’d lie on your bed again, smoking your cigarettes while complaining about how they tasted. He’d tell you that he had been joking, that he had never intended to leave you, that you were his. He would kiss you again, choking you in his grip.

Instead, the minutes dragged on, and Jay never showed up. You pinched the inside of your arm and once again, you didn’t feel a thing. Just a dull register of a sensation.

After you got dressed in your usual sweater and long skirt, you checked your phone. You had gotten a text from Riki.

Riki: how’s my favorite traitor 😂

You: Not a traitor. Didn’t betray anyone.

Riki: when you give me an explanation for saying one of my friends raped you in a group chat literally called “anti-kc”

Riki: then you can be not a traitor

You had to admit, the evidence against you was stacked. 

Riki: are u ready yet

Riki: i’m hungry

Riki: i’m thinking i’ll get the “she lied” salad with the “our friendship is ruined” combo

Riki: the “i can’t believe i was going to take her to cliffside laser tag” meal 

You: That was never going to happen.

Riki: stop

Riki: haven’t u done enough

Riki: maybe a side of “lying wench” chips

You: Are you done?

Riki: not even close.

You: I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

Riki: good

Riki: that’s plenty of time

Riki: the “hoes mad” burger with the “she’s a bird” fries

Riki: crisp waffle fries with extra salt

Riki: ketchup representing the shed blood

He kept going on like that, so you turned your phone off. It bothered you that you couldn’t tell Riki the truth. Well, you could. But if you told him that Jay raped you, and Riki somehow found out that you had been hooking up with Jay for the past month, you would look insane. Or like an idiot. How could you explain something that you didn't even understand? No, you’d rather have Riki hate you than tell him the convoluted truth.

You were used to Karma Club members hating you, anyways.

–

Dinner with Jake and Riki at Stoker’s cafeteria was as insufferable as you had imagined. Bundled under a coat and a high-necked sweater that masked the marks made last night, you wordlessly ate your meal while Riki and Jake talked. Riki sat on the right side of you, jostling you whenever he would gesticulate wildly as he recounted some story. You weren’t really paying attention to anything he said. Your focus was on Jake, on the way he bit his lip as he looked between you and Riki.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jake said slowly, setting his fork down, “but are you and Wednesday, uh…”

Riki winced, and you marveled at his acting prowess. “It sort of just happened,” Riki said. “ We were at the party, and she came to see me, and well, I just went for it. It wasn’t like I meant to steal your girl or anything.

“No, no, no,” Jake said, waving his hands furiously. “No, it’s fine. She wasn’t my girl, never was, never…haha. You guys are cute together, honestly. Same age and everything.” Nervously, he started folding his paper towel into small, neat squares. 

“No, I really should have told you,” Riki lied, swallowing a bite of chicken breast. 

“It’s cool,” Jake said through gritted teeth. “Why would I want to know if my best friend and the girl I, uh, know, have a thing? That’s none of my business.” 

“Glad you understand,” Riki said, beaming at Jake. 

Jake got up from the table. “Gonna take a leak,” he muttered before staggering away from the long bench. 

As soon as Jake disappeared from view, Riki’s face fell.

“What are you doing?” you asked. “Why are you telling Jake we’re together?”

Riki leaned towards you so that he could whisper. The Stoker dining hall was relatively full at this hour, mainly by students from other dorms, and you were beginning to learn that there were eyes and ears all over Sadame University. “Because,” he began, voice thick with anticipation, “things were getting way too dicey in our dorm. “For whatever reason, things between Jake and Jay got worse after last night. Jake’s skittish as fuck, and Jay’s acting like he wants to kill Jake. I figure this has something to do with you.”

You winced. 

“It’s no good,” Riki continued. “Jake’s been going to Jungwon’s room and pacing around and shitting himself and whatever. Remember how I told you that there has to be a balance to shitstirring?”

“I do recall that.”

“This is it,” he said. Riki used his hands to mimic a scale, one hand representing a plate dipping too low. “Right now, tensions are too high. That’s no fun, you know? So I have to even things out.” Riki brought both of his hands to the same level. “If I redirect their attention, make myself the target, then they’ll both hate me instead. But they like me, so nothing bad will happen.”

With your index finger, you pressed down on the palm of one of his hands, forcing it downwards. “What if something bad does happen to you?”

Riki pushed against your finger, steadying his hands once more. “It won’t. I know you and everyone else loves to pretend like the Karma Club members have their own special brand of evil, that we’re just, like, complete sociopaths, but I know them.”

“It’s been three months…”

“A lot can happen in three months,” Riki said. If you reflected on the path your life had taken in merely one month, you would be forced to agree with him. 

You pulled your hand away from his and sighed. “Why do you like bad things so much? What about good things?”

“That’s not true,” Riki said. “I love good things. I like bad things too. I’m a very deep person.”

“As deep as a kiddy pool,” you said. 

“Don’t make me laugh,” Riki said. “I’m still mad at you for trying to fuck us over.”

You thought about arguing with him, but you decided against it. Riki felt like a true friend to you - at least, he had felt like a true friend - but the thought of baring your soul to him only for him to be unreceptive to your sorrows made you feel sick. You pushed your plate of food away.

“You know, for a while there I almost thought Jay had like a weird thing for you,” Riki said offhandedly, cutting another piece of chicken breast and spearing it with a fork. “I know, I know, it doesn’t make much sense considering he hates your fucking guts. But the dedication with which he hates your guts was scary. Elite hatred. What did you even do to the guy, anyways?”

“Nothing,” you said, “which seems to be the problem.”

Riki chewed his food, staring into space with a thoughtful expression. “He still hasn’t brought Isa over,” Riki said. 

“Maybe you just haven’t noticed,” you said. Memories of that night with him in his dorm room, sex tinged with a faint hint of romance, your limbs tangled together in post-coital bliss, spun through your mind. 

“No, he explicitly said, ‘Don’t let that bitch Isa get near my room or I swear to God I’ll kill you all,’” Riki said, mimicking Jay’s voice perfectly. 

You shrugged. “I don’t know, then.”

“I just always found it weird,” Riki said slowly, “I’ve never seen him be nice to her at all, besides when I would come to the library to pick you up to get a smoothie and I would see them flirting or whatever. Isn’t that so weird? Like, why would Jay get close to Isa in public? Specifically, at the library.”

The hickeys still marring your neck felt as though they were burning, and you scratched at them absentmindedly. “Yeah, weird…”

“Hey,” Riki said in an unusually light voice. “How did you get home last night?”

Riki’s long bangs had fallen into his face, obscuring his eyes. For the best, as you didn’t know how you’d be able to look into them. “What?”

“How’d you get home?” Riki repeated. 

“Uber and a bus,” you said. 

Riki nodded and leaned away. “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” Jake asked. He swung his legs over the bench and settled into his spot again.

“Interesting she’s okay with us sharing a room, considering she’s just so, so shy,” Riki said, putting his arm around you in a constricting half-embrace. “The third-floor bedroom has two single beds, right?”

Jake’s lips twitched. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “It does. Jungwon and I were thinking about taking that one, though.”

Riki waved his free hand dismissively. “Just sleep together, Powerpuff girls style.”

“Fuck off,” Jake said with a smile, playfully pushing at Riki.

“You’re going to knock your soup over,” you said, but it was too late. Jake’s chicken noodle soup sloshed over the table, staining the crisp, white tablecloth. 

“Aw, man,” Jake said, pouting slightly.

Riki shoveled the last of his chicken breast into his mouth. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “This is the second tablecloth we’ve fucked up.” 

“Third,” Jake said, picking bits of pasta off of himself. “When we left Sunoo alone with the chili and he fucking-,”

Riki laughed. “Oh shit, yeah.” Riki stood up and held his hand out towards you, his gaze imploring. Reluctantly, you loosely joined hands with him, and he pulled you to your feet. “Come on, let’s go watch the Scream movies.”

“No,” Jake whined. “I wanted to watch the Amazing Spiderman.”

“No one asked,” Riki said, pulling you along with him. You stumbled after him, disappearing into Stoker’s dorms. Despite yourself, you scanned every possible corner for a hint of Jay, a trace of his breath, the sound of his sardonic laughter. 

He wasn’t around.

–

Halfway through the second Scream movie, Riki announced that he had to take a massive shit. 

“And why did you choose to tell us that?” Jake asked, slapping Riki’s leg as he got up from his plush bed. 

Riki shrugged, shimmying between piles of laundry he had left on the floor. “I thought you might need to know about my bowel movements.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, that’s up to you,” Riki said, leaving to use his ensuite. 

As soon as the door clicked shut, Jake scrambled on top of the bed to sit next to you. He had been sitting cross-legged on the floor; Riki had insisted that you sat next to him. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jake asked. 

“Tell you what?”

Jake gestured wildly. “That you had a crush on Riki. I guess I could have guessed, but like, come on. Instead, you sort of made me feel like, I don’t know, I might have had a chance at some point…”

Had you? “Uh, it sort of came out of nowhere,” you said, belatedly realizing that you had copied what Riki said almost verbatim.

Pushing his tousled hair back, Jake licked his lips and sighed. “Right. Right, yeah. It’s just that I feel like kind of a dick now.”

“You didn’t do anything,” you said awkwardly. 

“I mean, I don’t want to seem like I’m being pushy or that I’m entitled to anything, but you could have told me. Or Riki could have told me. I mean, like, you guys were pretty close and everything, but I didn’t think he was into dating…”

The name “Sieun” came to your lips, until you remembered that no one knew that Riki had dated Sieun. “Well-,”

“Like, you didn’t lead me on, I knew you had your own issues and all to sort out, but if you were going to date one of my best friends, I think it’s only fair to tell me. You know, out of…respect for my feelings? And so it wouldn’t be like I was hitting on my friend’s girl.”

If this was how Jake reacted to the mere idea of you and Riki getting together, you didn’t want to know how he’d react if he found out about you and Jay. “Sorry, Jake.”

Jake sighed again, his entire being seeming to deflate. “It’s fine, whatever. It’s cool.” After a period of silence, Jake said, “I don’t even care, you know? I mean, it wasn’t like it was serious. Like I like you and all, but it wasn’t serious.”

“Right.” Then you recalled what he had said at the party, when he had came out of the bathroom so flustered. “You said you had something to tell me, back at the party?”

“Oh. Yeah, that.” Jake slowly made his way to the floor again, one knee tucked into his chest, the other leg spread straight. He looked at the plasma-screen TV mounted to Riki’s wall blankly. “Well, I was going to ask you to go on the KC trip with me. I was going to pay for everything, but I guess Riki is going to take you now…”

You nodded, then realized he couldn’t see you. “Yeah.”

Jake bobbed his head up and down slowly, his lips pursed together. “Cool.” 

When Riki came back, Jake stood up as though being pulled by strings. “I’m gonna head in,” Jake muttered. “I’m still a little hungover.”

Riki clapped Jake on the back. “See you, Jake.”

Jake made a little wave, bid you goodnight, and left Riki’s bedroom. Riki sat down beside you and smiled. “So, what’d you guys talk about?”

“He had an episode,” you said flatly. 

“Perfect,” Riki said. “It’s all going according to plan. Now get out of my room.”

You didn’t have to be told that twice. “Good night,” you said, gathering your long skirt up and standing. 

“Good night,” Riki said, zipping his hoodie all the way up and covering his jet-black hair with his hood. “I mean, just night. Bad night. I hope your night is shit.”

You squinted at him. “You’re really bad at this.”

Riki had turned the lights out to fit the gloomy atmosphere of the movie, but you could make out his features via the light from the television. Suddenly, he looked older than his age. “I’m bad at it because I genuinely liked you a lot,” he said quietly. “I saw you as a friend, like a real friend. Everyone knows I really liked you. But you lied on one of my friends, and not something petty. You lied about something really fucked. I thought you’d be above doing something like that. It’s something… something I would probably do.”

“Riki-,”

He pointed at the door. “Out, before I lose my nerve.” 

You wouldn’t tell him the truth, couldn’t tell him the truth. He wouldn’t respect you at all if he knew what you did with the man who sexually assaulted you.

 With some horror, you realized that Riki didn’t know that Jake had a problem. If Riki kept pushing Jake, who knew what he would do? The only thing you could do is trust that Riki knew how to balance the scales of his bizarre game. 

The walk to Fawcett left you with far too much time to reflect. You knew that you had never fully had Jay, that he wouldn’t allow you to possess him in a tangible form. But you hadn’t realized that you would lose your friend, too.

[phoenixeclipse-lmkau]

Cursed Warlords AU - Chapter 4 - Boat Ride

With you passed out, Spirit has no choice but to carry you along the trail to get to the village you all were heading to. Too bad there was something in the way.

Wukong had to admit, the woman who had so carelessly claimed him and his mate as if they were mere animals was quite… relaxing when she was asleep. Her presence was peaceful and calm, her body was warm to the touch. It was coming from her, he was sure of that. It wasn’t from the monkey demoness that was so rude to him and his mate.

*Chirp*

Turning he looked over at his mate who was sitting on her other shoulder, tail wrapped slightly around her neck for support and his chin on top of her head. They would have both sat on one of her shoulders but their forms even this small were much to big for that. Looking at his mate so tiny was weird, with everything that was happening he hadn’t had time to just look at his mate.

‘What are you staring at?’ Macaque chirped curiously.

‘You look better normally,’ Wukong chirped back receiving a rather offended chirp in response.

The two chirped back and forth for a while, they were both rather surprised when Spirit didn’t really react to the chirps they were giving. She silently walked through the forest, expertly weaving her way through the trees and bushes. Her gaze steadfast towards whatever village she had mentioned before.

‘This is slower than I thought it would be,’ Wukong chirped in irritation after a while.

Macaque looked at him, snuggling his head into your hair as he did, ‘still faster than the curse would let us go.’

Wukong hated that he was right. The very thought of the curse that was set upon them sends an absolute fury straight through his very body. Once he finds out who is responsible for this mess, he will be sure to rip them limb from limb. His tail tightened around your shoulder where he secured it to keep himself steady.

“Monkeys,” Spirit spoke up causing both of the monkeys to look at her, as best they could from behind her. They both chirped to let her know that they were listening. Wukong didn’t like this one, not one bit but until he had his full power back there wasn’t much either him or Macaque could do about her.

“We are going to get to a village by sundown. You will both be on YOUR BEST BEHAVIOR, if not I don’t care if Reader likes you two. I will throw you out of our group,” She explains calmly, her voice dead serious as she explains her plan.

Wukong had to stop himself from snapping at her or clawing at her hair. She didn’t want them around that was clear enough but for her to be so heartless to cubs!? He felt his mate’s tail curl around his arm that was closest to him. He glanced to his violet eyes and chirped in reluctant acceptance. When he got free, this demoness was going to regret crossing him.

Maybe it would be better if they left, maybe they could get home by themselves without needing this mortal’s help. If anyone found out a human helped him… actually nothing would happen if he already has his true form back by then. After all who would be stupid enough to cross him and his mate?

His attention was soon drawn to the mortal, her breathing was becoming ragged and her face was getting rather red. Was it normal for human’s to become like this? Meh, it didn’t bother him any what happened to this kind woman meant nothing to him. She was just another human that he would one day kill. The thought of killing her didn’t sit well in his stomach as he thought about it. Maybe they’d let her live as a reward for her helping them, let her live as a slave on Flower Fruit Mountain for them. She had given them food, a kitchen slave would work. Yes that would work perfectly.

There were no other humans on their island. The fear that she would have for them once she realized who they were the whole time would be damn near addicting. His thoughts wandered to the fear he constantly set into all mortals alike. He wandered how his mate would think of his plan, after all he was a very selfish and territorial mate. Not that he was much different.

His thoughts were broken when Spirit stopped, in front of a large river. Her tail slowly swung behind her rather angrily as she growled at the obstacle. Looking around she scanned for some sort of bridge or rock path that she could use to get across. Eventually her eyes caught sight of a boat with a single man sitting in it.

“Great, I have to glamour myself,” She grumbled, closing her eyes she allowed a glamour to build around her.

Her fur vanished, peachy skin replacing the fur rather quickly. Her tail vanished and her ears shrunk until she looked like a regular human. Her light grey white eyes slowly turning a light blue as she made her way over to the boat.

Wukong growled as they approached, purely hating the fact that they were heading straight towards a human. He hated how he wasn’t able to simply fly across the river on his cloud, he hated how he was so small and so fucking weak! Feeling his mate’s tail tighten slightly he grumbled again.

“Oh my, is your friend okay!?” The man on the boat practically yelled causing Macaque to wince at the sound before hiding his head close to your neck, his ears would be a dead give a way who he was. That thought brought another with it, how had neither you or Spirit recognized them. Surely you should have noticed his six ears, after all of this.

“I don’t know, she passed out just a little ways ago,” Spirit explained with a worried look across her now human face.

"Let me look at the girl," the man replied walking up, but jumped back at the sight of the two furry monkeys on your shoulders.

"Please do. I don't know what to do. And don't mind the cubs. They're harmless," Spirit assured the man calmly as she closed the distance so he could actually look at you.

The man winced at her words. Especially when Peaches growled just following her words. He did surprisingly avoid them while also taking a good look at your face, you had dark circles under your eyes which was the first thing he took note of.

"If I may ask, when was the last time that she slept?" he asked.

The only response he got was a dumbfounded look and silence. Spirit looked at him like what he said blew her mind, it clearly appeared that she truly didn’t know when she had slept. Glancing to the side she finally muttered.

Her words were kind of quite as she spoke, “Does it matter?”

The man’s eyes widened before blinking in surprise. He stared at her for a long moment as a look of realization crossed his face. Wukong and Macaque knew that kind of look, the fear that crossed over his face. He knew she wasn’t human, well that was one of the poorest disguises that they have ever heard of.

Noticing how he backed away in fear Spirit let out a loud sigh. Wukong wanted to laugh at her frustration, serves her right for being so rude.

“I mean no harm. I just need to help my friend, now what do I need to do if she didn’t sleep?” She asked, her teeth gritting together as she stood there trying not to scare the man. Damn, how many demons passed through her for him to recognize that she wasn’t human so fast?

“D-Don’t hurt me,” He responded quickly, damn, he wasn’t listening like at all.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” She replied only to realize that he wasn’t at all convinced. Releasing another heavy sigh she added, “If you help me. Now tell me what I need to do to make sure this human woman doesn’t die on me.”

The man’s eyes widened at her words. He looked absolutely petrified but slowly and shakily began to reply. “She needs to sleep, drink water and eat food. It would also be wise to get her some shelter, without protection from the weather she can get sick.”

“Great, now where is there somewhere I can let her sleep?” Spirit asked hoping to not scare him.

“T-There’s an inn in the town at the other side of the river,” He pointed to the village but as soon as he did seemed to realize that he would have to help her across the river.

Wukong let out a low growl, he hated water. He hated water due to his stone body, he sunk every single time. Macaque sensing or rather hearing his growl tightened his tail around his arm trying to calm him down. He didn’t want to go across the water.

“Hush Peaches,” Spirit muttered before walking towards the boat. “Sir if you can help me across the river we will not have any more interactions.”

“A-Alright…” The man stuttered out quickly rushing over to the boat hoping to get this over with as soon as possible.

Wukong scoffed at the sight, he looked like a helpless little human. He would be easily crushed beneath his heel if he had his body back, the fear in his eyes would have been the last sight he would see if he had chosen to kill him. But now… now with this damned body! He tensed at the very thought of how truly defenseless he was.

A groan next to him cut his thoughts off. He along with Macaque turned to you who slightly shifted, scrunching your eyes as if you were about to wake. However you didn’t wake up as you panted softly as if it was harder to breath. Wukong wanted to growl at that, maybe he and Macaque should just leave and save them from the headache of this woman. They were going to stay in an inn for who knows how long because you passed out.

‘We should just leave these two as soon as we cross the river,’ Wukong chirped. He patiently waited for his mate’s reply though it was hard when all he wanted was his answer.

Macaque remained silent for a few minutes. He didn’t speak as Spirit adjusted herself forcing both monkeys to move so she could settle you onto her lap instead of her back. He stared at you for a minute, then at Spirit, and then looked back at his mate.

‘Yeah, we should leave after we get passed the river. It’s doubtful that they will be of any more use to us,’ he finally chirped back as he sat down slightly behind Spirit’s arm, mostly to hide himself as he didn’t want to get thrown overboard if someone were to suspect him.

Wukong grinned when he got that response. He wouldn’t have to deal with this annoying demoness anymore. He and Macaque could get back home on their own, they didn’t need anyone’s help at all. Swishing his tail he hopped over next to his mate and curled up knowing he had to wait for this ride to be over with before they could do anything else.

I hope to hear everyone’s thoughts on the newest post! Admittedly it took longer than I had planned to finish it but hey that’s fine. I love to read comments and asks about this AU! If you have questions shoot them my way! Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed!

Masterpost

Part 5 - The Village

[cameronspecial]

Loving the Zach stuff so far!!!

Could you maybe do something where yn hates his guts, but he is like in love with her and all her sass?? Then they're forced to go on some school trip together or something, and she realizes she likes him and a cute angry love confession, perhaps???

Danke 🫶🏼💐

Thank You, History Class

Pairing: Zach MacLaren x Reader

Warnings: N/A

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.2K

Masterlist

Y/N and Zach have been running in the same friend group since Freshman year, but it doesn’t mean they necessarily get along. Well, it doesn’t mean that she likes him. His sarcasm and puppy dog vibe annoys her cool and distant personality. He’s always asking her how her day is going and trying to make her laugh with his stupid jokes. Zach, on the other hand, fell for her grumpy soul the moment he set eyes on her. Unlike most people, who don’t bother looking deeper into her personality, Zach could see the soft side that she held within and never let anyone see. He would always catch how she would stand up from her bus seat when she saw an elderly person. She wouldn’t let people around her know it was the reason, but she always did. He saw the little bowl of milk she left outside her house for a cat mother and her kittens. Finally, he saw how sweet she was to children whenever they were around her. 

Zach didn’t want to take a history class and he certainly didn’t feel like going on a field trip to a museum. It all felt very high school to him. The only upside about it: Y/N is also taking the same class. When he saw that he needed a history credit to graduate, he definitely didn’t go looking for what classes she was taking this semester to try and be in the same one. The cost was giving Jason access to his bathroom whenever he wanted, but it was worth it. He knows the field trip isn’t mandatory for any marks, yet he knows Y/N is going to be there. As he heads toward the Victorian house, he finds Y/N out front waiting for the professor to show up. Her clothing consists of black and brown colours as usual. Her hair was held back by a shiny black claw clip. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” he grins, coming to stand beside her. She gives him a side eye, “Could you be more cliche? Try something more original, would ya? I still can’t believe you are taking this class.” He doesn’t let her sour mood dampen his energy. “Come on, you know you like having me with you in this class. The only other people in this class are girls who have a romanticized view of the era, or guys, who have a history stick so far up their ass that they think a history degree will take them far in life,” he notes, turning to look at her. She looks him dead in the eyes, “I’m a history major. And I am neither of those things.” “I know, that’s because you are so much better than them. You are far too smart for them,” he flatters. She shakes her head, turning her attention to the professor who has just arrived, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.” The professor leads them into the museum and begins his lecture. After ten minutes of listening to the man speak, both Y/N and Zach realized that coming was a big waste of time. He doesn’t know what he is talking about and Zach can hear Y/N constantly correcting the older man under her breath. 

He leans toward her, making sure his lips are close to her ear. “Wanna go on our own little tour? This man is getting half of this stuff wrong.” She thinks she has lost her mind because this must be the first thing Zach has said that she thought was a good idea. “That actually sounds kind of fun. They have a Victorian fashion exhibit I want to see, but I don’t think Professor Robo over there is going to take us to,” she whispers back. Her hand finds his and she hates to admit she likes the warmth of his in hers. They round the stairs to the exhibit. She looks delighted when she spots the first mannequin with clothes. Her feet find their way beside a girl about six years old, already looking at the dress. The child’s eyes find Y/N’s face and they smile at each other. “You know, this is an 1843 Evening dress. The bodice, the thing around the chest, is low off the shoulders. And they have lots of other skirts underneath to make it poofy,” Y/N softly explains to the little girl. 

They spent around thirty minutes in the small room. Y/N walks around with Willow and Zach, explaining each outfit to them. She is surprised that Zach seemed honestly engaged with what she was saying and would ask thoughtful questions. Eventually, Willow’s mother, an employee, came looking for her and took the girl to lunch. “Do you want to head to lunch?” she asks. He shakes his head, “Actually, I was hoping we could look at the Victorian sports exhibit. I brought some snacks, so if you are hungry, we can share.” He pulls out a bag of cucumbers shaped like hearts. She has to giggle at the sight because big jock Zach MacLaren likes to have his vegetable cut into shapes. 

“What?” he questions in fake offence, holding out the Ziploc to her. She shakes her head with a chuckle, “Nothing, just surprised your cucumbers look like an inaccurate depiction of a human organ.” “They make them taste better. Try,” he says with a shrug. He hands her a slice and listens to the sweet crunch of her biting into the vegetable. “Okay… I must admit it is more fun to eat it like a heart. I can pretend I’m a witch eating people’s hearts,” she agrees. He doesn’t look disturbed by her macabre comments, instead, he pretends to be ripping out his heart as he hands her another slice. She enjoys him playing with her deadly thoughts.

They spent about an hour looking at the different displays, eating his snacks and taking turns reading the display’s blurbs to each other. As they stand on the steps of the museum, Y/N towers over him from the step above. He looks up at her like she hangs the stars in the sky. “I hate to admit that you made this day pretty fun,” she confides. Her hands find their way behind her back, biting her lip as she looks into his eyes. His mouth turns into a crescent moon, “I’m really glad I did. I like spending time with you.” She takes a moment to think and moves her head away in frustration. Not at him, but at the turmoil inside her mind. Why is his charming smile suddenly getting to her? Why does she want to step into his warmth and let his arms bring her in? “Ugh, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I’m falling for you, MacLaren. So… would you want to go to dinner? Like on a date,” she confesses with a hint of annoyance in her tone that is just normally there. She is disgusted by the excitement that crosses his face. He gets off the steps, running around the green grass in front of the building. He jumps every so often with a little whoop let out as he does so. 

He rushes back to her, grabbing her around her waist and spinning her around. She finds the sound of her giggles odd but enjoys it nonetheless. “Way to keep a poker face,” she sasses, looking down at him. He doesn’t care though all he wants is a chance to be with her.

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia

[anonymityisfunwriter]

get him back!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Summary: You established that he's a bad idea. You know that. You know there's a million and one reasons to stay away from him. And you will - probably. But first, you have to get him back.

bad idea right? | get him back! | love is embarrassing Anon's 1K Celebration

you watch him or maybe you're just glaring at him. you know that he knows he’s pissing you off. you also know you have no real claim to your ex boyfriend. you weren’t sure what the rules were for bed buddies.

you knew one thing for sure.

you were going to get bucky barnes back.

“you’re staring.”

your head jerks over to natasha. “what?”

she rolls her eyes and slides you a shot, “you’re staring.”

you toss back the shot with a wince as bucky grins down at the random girl he just started flirting with. it sounds like an even better idea now. you’re going to get him back. you’re just not sure how.

“i assume it’s not going well.”

you were never going to admit that to your biggest supporter, your best friend. who was also the biggest critic of your love life, or just the biggest critic of your relationship with bucky. “it’s fine.”

“i told you it was a bad idea. exes are exes for a reason.”

you really hate her 'i told you so' tone.

you already knew that. you knew that there was a logical reason he was an ex. there were actually a lot of reasons why he was an ex.

his habit of arguing with you about everything.

his temper.

his massive… ego.

did that stop you from ending up in his bed? no.

did your month long exes with benefits affair stop him from flirting with that girl across the bar when you were standing right there? also no.

he was just so much fun. and really sweet - at least most of the time. and it really is unfair how pretty he is. and when he said something wrong, he’d kiss you until you forgot your own name, let alone what he did to piss you off.

you’re torn between wanting him back in your bed or maybe setting his bed on fire.

but you’re going to get him back. one way or another.

tonight, alcohol making your head swim with bad ideas. you’ll start by making him jealous. two could play at that game. and you could play it so much better than he could.

you leave natasha without another word and you sidle up to the booth your friends occupied, slinging an arm over sam’s shoulder, “hey, sam?”

he quirks an eyebrow and huffs a laugh, “yeah?”

you stroke his arm up and down, “how would you feel about pissing bucky off?”

“sounds promising.”

your smirk grows into a wicked grin. “perfect.”

“two questions.” sam stops you in your tracks. “how drunk are you? and what are the chances that i get my teeth knocked in at the end of this?”

“not that drunk. and about 50/50,” you admit, reaching out to playfully stroke his cheek, “but we’ll stop before we do anything that’ll make him mess up your pretty face.”

sam’s hand catches yours, keeping it pressed against his cheek. he teasingly grins, “has anyone told you how big of a fucking flirt you are?”

“all the time.”

he kisses the back of your hand with a sly grin, “then, let’s do it.”

you lace your fingers with sam’s, pulling him to the dance floor. not close enough to bucky that it's obvious, but just enough that there's no way he'll miss you dancing with his beloved frenemy.

you wrap your arms around sam's neck, pulling him close enough that you can feel his whiskey breath dust your face. “call me crazy, but couldn’t you just talk to him?”

“we aren’t very good at that.”

just last week, you tried that. you poured your little heart out, but just as you were about to hit send, you heard natasha’s disapproving tone echoing through your head.

the last time, the fight that led to your breakup, you told him how he hurt you and he brushed you off. yet another reason he was an ex.

did he try to make up for it? yes. were you being stubborn? also yes.

“no shit.” sam grips your waist, lowering his hand just enough to teeter out of the friendly territory. “he’s looking… this is okay, right?”

“you’re perfect, sam.”

sam snorts at you, “flirt.”

“is he still looking?”

sam presses you closer to him for another moment. “he just looked away, but he looks pissed. i’m pretty sure he’s gonna to kick my ass.”

it’s childish. you won’t try to deny it. and as twisted as it sounds, you have no reservations about breaking his heart - so long as you’re the one to stitch it up.

you press yourself into sam a little more, “he’s going to love me and hate me at the same time.”

sam loosens his grip on you, quirking an eyebrow, “so you’ll play games with each other and just pretend that sleeping with each other for the past month means nothing?”

“that shithead told you?”

“oh please," sam scoffs. "you two were so obvious. even steve figured it out.”

“the asshole didn’t tell me that you all knew,” you grumble.

“did you tell him that wanda and natasha know?”

no, you didn’t mention that little tidbit of information to him either, but sam clearly knows that so you don't bother to respond to him.

“i didn’t think so.”

sam spins you around halfway, stopping when your back is pressed against his chest. he drapes an arm around you and whispers in your ear, “and i say this will all the love and respect in the world, but you’re literally doing all this to fuck with him. it’s pretty obvious.”

“maybe i just wanted an excuse to dance with you,” you tease.

“fuck off,” he laughs, turning you back to face him. “i’m serious, though, you two could solve 90 percent of your problems if you just talked to each other.”

“or maybe i can fix him.”

“how about you start with some honesty? see where that gets you.”

you shake your head, groaning at the advice. “i love you, sam.”

“love you too. enough to risk getting the beat down of a lifetime,” he points out. "by the way, he ditched the girl. he's sulking at the bar by himself now."

“i’ll talk to him," you promise. "only so he doesn’t kill you. the rest of your advice was bullshit.”

sam playfully rolls his eyes, “of course. i’d expect nothing less from the two of you.”

"thanks for the dance, sam."

"anytime."

and with that, you part ways. you head outside into the cold night. you don’t need to look to know that he’s storming after you.

“what the hell do you think you're doing?” he demands, immediately invading your personal space.

you angrily clutch the lapels of his jacket, pulling him in towards you, “getting you back.”

Bucky Barnes Masterlist AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

As always, let me know what you think! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated! 💛

Taglist: @marianita195 @meli18gonzalez @ludicbouquetfromearth @matchat3a @famousbreadcherryblossomsstuff @valoraxx @blue786sworld @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @geminigengar @ansaturn @ecolle @lexhalstead3 @ybflkmj @mediocre-daydreams @shanye1112 @thegirlnextdoorssister @toomanyfanficsbruh @moonlightreader649 @breathtaking-cynthia @mirikusashes@beans-and-toast @niyahcoca @katiechikin @elxvrr @antiheroxsblog @infamouslyclumsy @krissydclayton93 @buckysbarne @deadheadwbedhead @qualitygiantshoepsychic @whitexwolfxx310 @getosprettyboy @matchat3a @weallhaveadestiny @mostlymarvelgirl @honeydew3064

[koolades-world]

i saw the cat and corvid mc ones and i wanna see dog-like mc so bad, like one whos very loyal, loves cuddling with loved ones, if they had a tail and one of the gang came home itd be faster than a helicopter i think, if they see anyone with food theyd just come up to them with their puppy dog eyes, they just lounge around in random spots nearby the characters or even lays their head/body on them. sometimes theyll be playing with something and be possessive over it and a "Whats that in your mouth" situation comes in and they run away taking random stuff they found lying around the HoL, maybe theyre also rly playful and love playfighting and stuff like tug of war

thats just a few things that come off the top of my head lol how the mc is like is up to you, sorry if theres too much or doesnt make sense! xoxo

haha hi!!! yes of course!

this is such a fun idea. i may or may not have based this reader off my goofy goober of a dog. she's so sweet but sometimes i wonder if theres even a single thought in that head of hers haha

enjoy <3

Dog-like Mc

Lucifer

getting lock out of his bedroom always proceeds as such: being sad that you're locked out, sitting sadly in front of the door and scratching at it, lucifer feeling bad and eventually letting you in so you can sit on his bed and ruin the freshly made sheets lol

rinse and repeat the cycle nightly

the puppy dog eyes work very well on him

since he handles his brothers so often, he's good at getting you to listen when you're off in lala land or something along those lines

Mammon

he himself is kinda dog like, so the two of you get along pretty well

both of you would follow the other to the worlds end <33

you probably steal his sunglasses from time to time and he has to hunt you down to get them back, just because when he said “drop it” you accepted that as a challenge lol

the only difference in the two of you, however, is that you’re much more open with how you feel and will not hesitate to admit that you love him even if it flustered him haha

Levi

he's a little wary of having you in his room

he has lots of valuables that he treasures and while he's a little afraid you'll steal and or mess something up, he genuinely cares about you and is willing to get past that

however he did need a day away from you after you drooled on his Ruri pillow haha

after he got to know you better, he really appreciated always having an outgoing buddy to go out in public with someone that wasn't one of his brothers

Satan

sitting with him while he reads!! randomly laying your head in his lap <3

you always check out what's in his mug while he reads despite the fact that it never changes (it's always tea) but maybe one day it'll be something delicious, like chips haha

he's wary of taking you into a cat cafe, but surprisingly, all the cats love you!

now he's questioning if he's really a cat, or if he's a dog person lol

Asmo

you let him do any kind of skincare and treatments he wants on you

and he thinks it's great! until he sees you at the end of the day and it kinda looks like you swam in a mud puddle

he's not going to be the one to subject you to a bath so he always shoos you off and tells you to go clean up before you can get something else done (my dog hates water lol)

if he's ever missing one of his rather tasty smelling skincare products or a brush, or something like that, he just opens a bag of chips and summons you + beel (see below lol)

Beel

please the amount of food you're getting from him

those puppy dog eyes work so well and he can't help but give in every single time

both of you come running every time someone opens a chip bag even if it's on the other side of the house haha. if the others have issues finding you, that's how they do it quick and easy

every meal of yours is eaten together, of course

Belphie

the realest cat and dog dynamic ever!

please there's no way you're not jumping on his bed just for fun while he's sleeping in it. he's convinced it's to annoy him but it's just you being incredible oblivious and wanting to have fun

you guys are best friends. i don't make the rules haha

when you do want to nap with him, however, it's the best nap you've ever had and is probably a very cute pic

[scribblesofagoonerr]

For what it's worth, I'm sorry and I don't really hate you | Inner Demons

⟫ Alphabet Challenge, F - For what it's worth, I'm sorry and I don't really hate you

Pairings: leah williamson x teen reader, arsenal wfc x teen reader

Hello, I'm back with part 6. Sorry it's been a bit of a wait, life gets in the way and makes it hard to write, but here's the next part. I honestly don't know how many chapters this will have because I'm really enjoying writing it, so hey ho, I might even just make this one small fic series of many ideas' I currently have in my head :)

I don't know if this chapter does make much sense at all and non of it's been proof read again, so it could be a bit all over the place but please let me know what you think!

Thank you for all the ongoing support so far, it's overwhelming to see how much that you all love this, and it gives me motivation to continue to write!

My asks are open for anyone to drop me an any ideas' on this fic or anything else that people would like to see be written, however, I am only comfortable writing anything platonic though :)

You're progressing well to get better and you're slowly returning to usual happy, self chaotic self.

TW: angst and mentions of SH, MH, suicide and death.

"So, what's the food in this place like then?" Kyra broke the silence in the room, where all the girls were all crowded in as they came to visit you in the pysch ward of the hospital during the visiting hours.

It had been 46 hours since you had been detained, 46 hours since you all but shouted at Leah that you hated her.

You really did regret it.

You didn't actually mean that though, and you had been feeling terrible about it ever since the words escaped your mouth.

"Seriously, Kyra?" Steph stares at the younger Australian in disbelief.

"What? I'm just trying to make conversation here" Kyra replies, shrugging her shoulders.

Caitlin can't help but snort. "And you decide to start with asking what the foods' like?" she teases the twenty-one-year-old.

"Yeah, cos' I've heard that hopsital food is disgusting and all" Kyra remarks to the older girl, sticking her tongue out at her.

"Very mature" Steph rolls her eyes at the two of them.

"So, what is the food like then?" Vic asks, peeking interest to know the answer.

"Terrible, I think that even Leahs' cooking might be better than what they're serving on the menu here" You can't help but grin cheekily.

"Ouch it must be bad then" Beth joins in with the joke.

"You'd better not let her hear you say outloud or I think she'd been offended" Viv tells you as she can't help but smile slightly, just happy to see you slowly returning to your old self.

"So, she didn't come with you guys then?" You ask as you pull at the sleeves of the hoodie you currently had on.

You don't miss the look that all the girls share with one another. You weren't an idiot to know something was going on.

"Just tell me what's going on" You stare at them all, trying to get an answer out of them.

"She's outside in the waiting room with Lia" Jen admits, exhaling a sigh.

"Oh" Your smile falters at the disappointing news.

"She wanted to come in with us Y/N but it was hard for her" Beth explains on behlf of the blonde, who you miss terribley. "I'm sure when she's ready, she'll come and see you" she adds, trying to keep the hope alive.

You really had messed up with what you said, you doubt that she would want to visit you, nor would she want you to come back to the flat where you lived with her.

"Oh uh, well then that's okay I guess, I mean I don't blame her for not coming cos' what I said was horrible and stuff" You make up an excuse as you find sudden interest with the floor beneath you.

"It's not your fault for being angry, Y/N" Katie pats you on the shoulder.

"How're you feeling now?" Alessia asks, concerned as a way to try and change the subject.

"Is this your way of subtly asking me if I'm going to try and attempt to kill myself again?" You glance around at all of the girls' faces in the room.

"Y/N" Kim shoots you a disapproving look.

"The answers no by the way" You mumble quietly.

"Y/N" Kim repeats again, a bit louder.

"What? You know I like to make dark humour jokes in this type of situation. It's just a coping mechanism" You tell your captain as you hold your hands up in mock-surrender, who continues to look at you with a certain look that makes you back down straightaway. "Alright, okay, I'll tone it down with the death jokes" You mumble, slouching further down in your seat.

"How's she been doing?" Leah stands in the reception area of the hospital and fumbles with her hands, as she speaks to one of the doctors.

"Y/N has making good progress. I think another day or so and she'll be ready to come home" The doctor explains with a kind smile.

"That's great news" Lia says, smiling as she glances at the blonde for her reaction.

Leahs' eyes widen in surprise and smiles slightly. "Yeah, that's good to hear. I'm proud of her making so much progress in such a short space of time" she tells the doctor.

"It is, Y/N/N has really thrown herself into trying to get better, the therapy sessions seem to be going well too" The doctor tells them honestly. "Are you going to go and see her? I'm sure that she'd love to see you" she adds.

The blondes feels apprehensive, her eyes dart over in the direction of where the doors led to the psych ward, where you would be with the rest of the girls that had all visited.

Leah had wanted to as well, she just couldn't find the courage to actually take the steps and dipped out at the last minute.

"I hate you, Leah" The words that you shouted at her, played in her head on a constant loop.

"Uh, I don't know about that. I'm not sure if she's going to want to see me" Leah confesses, shoving her hands in her pockets.

"Le, you don't know that" Lia squeezes the blondes' shoulder gently as she tries to reassure her.

"I know that she hates me, Wally. You heard what she said before" Leah replies quietly, shaking her head as she takes another glance towards the doors.

"You know that she didn't mean that, Le. You know she is just a kid with a lot of feelings sometimes" Lia tells the blonde, smiling at her.

Leah looks a bit more apprehensive as she shakes her head. "There was so much hatred in her voice when she said, it felt like she did mean it" she disagrees with her.

"She was angry the other day though, Le and you even said that yourself" Lia reminds the younger girl.

Leah hums as she bites her bottom lip "But what if she doesn't want to see me? I know she's going to be angry with me for leaving her here in this place" she admits to the older girl.

"She's been asking for you every day since she has been here" The doctor pipes in, gently smiling at the two girls.

"Really?" Leah asks, blinking in slight surprise.

"Yes, Y/N has told me about the visits from all of the girls but the only person she mentioned that she actually wants to see is you, Leah" The doctor tells the blonde.

"See?" Lia smiles at Leah and sqeeuzes her shoulder. "I told you that I don't think Y/N could ever hate you or be angry, you know that, Le" she insists.

"I know" Leah bites her bottom lip anxiously, taking another glance at the door ahead. "I just can't help but feel horrible for making the decision and I'm weary incase she resents me for it" she admits, quietly.

The doctor frowns at them both. "I know it must have been hard to be the one to make that call but it was for the right one to give her the best possible chance to get better" They explain.

"You shouldn't be blaming yourself for this, Le. It's what was needed" Lia repeats the doctors words, so to speak.

"Yeah, yeah I know" Leah admits, pulling at the sleeves of her hoodie that she had on.

"You're nervous to see her?" The doctor asks, making the brief observation.

Leah can't help but snort slightly. "That obvious?" she jokes.

"I've been in this job for a while now, it's easy enough to pick up on things like this" The doctor chuckles amusedly. "Regardless of what may have been said, I have a feeling that Y/N will be happy enough to see you" They add in.

"SNAP" You scream loudly as you slam your hand down on the deck of cards that are on the table. "HA! I win!" You cheer in glee.

Kyra let's out a irritated huff while she glares at you. "Why are you so vicious with this game?" she asks.

"I want to win" You smirk and stick your tongue out at her, pulling the deck of cards towards you.

"Kyra, you're literally losing a child" Vic chips in, watching the game amusedly.

"Said child is a menace" Kyra mumbles as she pouts.

"Sucks to be a loser" You can't help but quip as you reshuffle the deck of cards in your hand.

"Room for a couple more visitors?" Leah pokes her head round the door and braces herself for your initial reaction to seeing her.

"LE!" You dart up from your seat and run to the blonde, abandoning the game of cards completely.

All feelings of anger had been swept aside as you were just happy to see her in the room. You thought you'd blown it when you told her that you hated her.

"Hi bubs" Leah instantly embraces you in her arms and kisses the top of your hair. "I've missed you, Y/N/N. I'm so sorry I haven't been to visit you" she apologises.

"S' okay, you're here now" You mumble, burying her head in her chest as you refuse to let go off her.

"Oi I'm here too, you know" Lia jokes playfully, knowing that you would want that moment with just the blonde.

"Yeah, yeah. Hi Wally" You grin cheekily at the older girl before you turn back towards the older blonde girl. "I'm sorry for what I said cos' I didn't mean what I said about hating you, I was angry and upset and I really don't hate you I promise!" You tell her honestly.

"It's okay bubs, I know you were upset and didn't mean it" Leah smiles as she squeezes you a bit more tighter than before, being careful in case she caught any of your bandages on your arms.

Moving to sit down on the now vacant chair, Leah plonks you down on her lap as she keeps her arms wrapped around you tightly since it was apparent you weren't going to let go any time soon but she was okay with how clingy you was after she hadn't seen you in a few days.

"Whats' been going on here then?" Lia looks towards the game that was previously being played.

"We were playing cards, but Kyras' being proper salty because she's loosing now" You grin, sticking your tongue out at the Australian girl.

"How do you even loose at that game?" Steph wonders.

"I didn't know you could even loose at snap" Beth chuckles, amusedly.

"Apparently so" Jen jokes, joining in with the two of them.

Leah can't help but laugh amusedly as she runs her fingers through your hair. "The doctor said that you're making good progress" she tells you.

"Mhm" You mumble, resting your head on her shoulder.

"That's good news!" Vic overhears the conversation as she smiles at you.

"Yeah, that means you'll be able to come home soon enough" Alessia pipes in.

Katie can't help but scoff. "She should've never been here in the first place" she sneers in the direction where Leah is sat.

"Katie" Kim glares at the Irish girl.

"What? It's true!" Katie exclaims in outrage, not backing down from glaring at the blonde. "You and I both know it, we all do! She should've never been here, she should have been at home with people that care about her" she insists.

"It's what was best for her" Leah fires back just as quick.

"Was it?" Katie scowls at her.

"Can you guys please not talk about me like I'm not in the room?" You huff and glance between the two older girls.

"Sorry kid" Katie apologises.

"Sorry bubs" Leah apologises.

"Hey, Y/N/N, it'll be good that you're getting out of hospital soon enough now" Kyra slyly grins at you, looking forward to the pair of you being able to cause mischief in no time.

"Yeah, partners in crime reunited again" You grin at the Aussie girl.

"No, no! Absolutely not!" Steph protests, shaking her head. "It took me at least a week to get the ketchup of the ceiling after the last stunt that you two idiots pulled" She adds.

"I don't know what you're talking about" You try to act innocent as you slyly smirk at Kyra.

"Oh, really? So the baking soda just happened to find it's way inside the ketchup bottle, did it?" Steph narrows her eyes' in the direction of the two of you.

"Maybe" Kyra can't help the shit eating grin on her face.

"I know that look, the pair of you are definitely going to be up to no good" Viv shakes her head.

Jen chuckles in amusement. "You two willl definitely be under a careful watch now incase the next prank gets out of hand" She notes.

"Sure, cos' I'm not going to already be watched like a hawk now anyways, right?" You remark sarcastically, peering up at the older blonde.

"What do you think?" Leah replies back, raising one of her eyebrows.

"You can relax, Le. I'm not going to attempt to kill myself again any time soon" You joke, not realising that now probably isn't the best time to make any type of comment like that.

"Y/N" Kim and Leah both scold you at the same time.

You huff when you realise the pair of them are already ganging up on you and remember that being the baby of the team definitely sucks sometimes.

"What? I'm just saying, I'm not gonna, well unless Leah attempts to try and cook dinner again then it's an easy way out-- Ow! What the fuck?" You continue to make jokes about the situation at hand, jolting in shock when you feel a light pinch on your thigh from said blonde you are sat on.

"Language" Leah states sternly, giving you one of her famous glares.

"That was mean of you to do that! Too soon to make jokes about it then?" You pout and rub your thigh to try and relieve some of the pain. "Yep got it" You add, smiling innocently at the blonde.

"So, I thought you weren't going to come in because it was hard for you?" Katie scoffs at the blonde, deciding to bring the subject up now that you were out of the room, having gone to grab a drink with Jen, Steph and Beth.

"Katie" Viv glances at Katie and exhales a sigh.

"It has been hard Katie" Leah admits, biting her bottom lip.

Katie scoffs again. "Oh? I'm sorry, I'm sure it must have been so hard for you, Leah" she deadpans.

"You don't know how hard it has been, Katie!" Leah shouts loud around the room, attracting a few looks in her direction.

"Wonderful" Steph speaks up first, exhaling a sigh.

"Not again" Beth mumbles, shaking her head.

"They're fighting again, aren't they?" You huff as you walk back towards the room with Jen as you can hear the raised voices from the two girls, who weren't seeing eye to eye now

"I think so" Jen agrees.

"Fantastic" You mumble, slowly walking back into the room.

"Oh? And how do you think it's been for Y/N/N? You made the decision to keep her in here!" Katie continues to argue with the blonde, not afraid to be open about her feelings. "You haven't even visited her once while she's been here" she adds.

The Irish girl really hadn't been happy with the whole decision that had been made but there was nothing that she could do herself to stop it from happening.

It had left a tense atmosphere between the two girls and they'd shared a few cross words ever since.

"It wasn't my choice Katie!" Leah insists, continuing to argue with the fiesty Irish girl.

Katie couldn't help but scoff and roll her eyes. "Sure, but you could have said something to stop it!" she fires back at the blonde, not willing to back down from the argument just yet.

"Girls lets' not do this here" Kim looks between the two of them as she notices you walk back into the room with the older girls.

"Katie, come on, just leave it" Caitlin takes a hold of the girls' hand to try and calm her down.

However, neither of the girls were willing to back down just yet.

They were both just as stubborn as one another sometimes.

"The doctors thought it was best since Y/N/N--" Leahs' words were cut off by you, walking in right at that moment.

"Tried to kill myself, I tried to end my life, and it would have worked if Leah hadn't ran in and stopped me, so everyone thinks keeping me locked up in here it will help to keep me safe"

The room is suddenly so silent that you could hear a pin drop.

Whoops?

"Hey, at least the therapy is somehow helping to help me express my feelings now. Yay" You deadpan, plonking yourself back down on Leahs' lap as you rip open the packet of Haribo Tangfastics you had brought from the hospital shop. "So, does anyone want a sweet?" You offer, like you hadn't just said what you did.

[tcoaal]

EDIT: i made a few small edits since i posted this

hi i might be beating a dead horse but this rant has been building up since seeing the first comments on reddit. spoilers under the readmore + i didn't want to eat your entire dash

you're all free to like or dislike or love or hate The Coffin of Andrew and Renee mod all you want but something that's been driving me absolutely bonkers in criticism of it is people saying Renee was wholesome or loving in it. i have a lot of mean words about it actually but i want to keep it civil and just say: you are absolutely completely incorrect in every capacity.

the key difference between canon gravecest and Andrew's and Renee's relationship in this mod is Renee's abuse is completely different than Ashley's. the mod is quite arguably a LOT more fucked up than the source material when you pay attention to it!

(and also one of the mcs is a milf yada yada)

this mod at the end of the day is a fanfic. it's an AU fanfic you get to play. it's a really well written fanfic! not the same as the original, and there's definitely parts that are weaker (the first half of the 303 lady scene after the summoning was really weak before it became my favorite part of the mod) but it does a decent job at exploring this story with a major plot of divergence years before the canon start of the game and how that's affecting Andrew.

Andrew is considerably more submissive when things get rough around Renee than he is with Ashley. the thing about gravecest is that it's codependent. Ashley doesn't really force or make Andrew do anything: Andrew desperately wants to blame his problems on Ashley but deep down he's just as, if not even more fucked up than Ashley actually is. this is something we could debate and discuss for hours but: this dynamic is lost with Renee, and for good reasons.

Renee was the one that forced Andrew to be the one who raised his sister. and then Renee forcibly separated them and told him if he ever had problems come to her.

Andrew is dependent on Renee in a way Renee clearly is not in the mod.

Renee's life has kinda gone to shit. getting Ashley locked up didn't magically solve her problems: her life is actually worse than in canon. her doormat husband finally found the balls to leave her, Andrew clearly resents her deep down, she's locked in an apartment and her tie to Andrew is literally the only thing she has left. and boy is Andrew infinitely worse off for that! Renee actively controls every aspect of Andrew's life one way or another, and while I dislike the first half of the Room 302 scene the ending shows that contrast.

Andrew basically mentally shuts down whenever Renee gets serious about weaponizing his dependency. Renee is somebody who forced him to raise his sister, then forcibly ripped that person from her to make herself the one he's dependent on.

this scene was really fucking haunting to watch because she actively weaponizes using what she did. she was the one responsible for letting shit get so messed up when he was a kid. and then he uses it to hurt him: and then continues to weaponize the fact she "saved" him to make him back down.

"And... maybe I said some things that weren't called for myself."

^ the exact line that sold this characterization of Renee to me. this is immediately after her exploiting his trauma, trauma she is very much directly responsible for. this isn't a happy scene. this isn't a wholesome scene. look how tired Andrew looks compared to his mother.

even when she's blatantly, clearly in the wrong she won't admit responsibility. it was Andrew's fault for acting like a child. it's his fault for lashing out when his trauma is exploited by Renee and she has to further manipulate and abuse the trust she forcibly installed into him to make him back down. but maybe she said a few bad things too. she didn't mean it though. Andrew should know better though.

anyone with half a brain can tell this is horrifically fucked up and a very different kind of control and confrontation Ashley uses: Ashley just likes to get in his face and initiate a verbal argument regarding Andrew's hypocrisy more other than not and then said arguments run their natural course. Renee repeatedly uses textbook abuse and gaslighting tactics to force the person dependent on her to back down. Anderw is not naturally "a dutiful son," as the mod describes him, Renee made him become that and regularly abuses that fact.

Renee is a lot more gungho about being a cannibal and is extremely attached to a story about a monster that eats everything that threatens her child because Renee has lost everything else of value in her life and is forcing Andrew to be close to her, constantly picking needless fights at the idea of her own son leaving her side and leaving her alone, and emphasizing that he owes it to her to stay by her side and actively controls him to ensure he doesn't leave.

like, you can feel however you want. i've seen some people hate it. i've actually seen some people who like it more than the actual game itself. i certainly have a few criticisms of it, mostly tied to its format inherently, but i'll defend it unless chapter 2 drops the ball.

but every time i see someone comment "Renee is really wholesome and loving in this mod and that's really OOC for her," or when the criticisms mostly boil down to the art style i think i die inside a bit and i cannot take that person's complaints regarding this mod seriously in any capacity. anyways thanks for listening to my insane rant if you read this far manifesting chapter 3 soon my crops are dying