#It’s so FUCKED that she even considers this

[ghost-proofbaby]

the hat rule. (e.m. x fem!reader)

the hat rule (n.): you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.

summary: when eddie dresses up as a cowboy to a night out with friends, you decide to steal his hat.

pairings: eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: reader is described to be wearing a dress. reader is also dressed up as a black cat. premise is everyone is wearing 'slutty' costumes. overuse of pet names. public teasing, unprotected sex, choking kink, oral (f receiving), ass slapping. 18+.

wc: 13.3k+

happy early valentine's day, babes. shout out to @hellfire--cult for beta reading, as well as @andvys for giving me this idea to begin with.

If someone had told you last week that you’d be attending a slutty costume themed night at a club tonight, you would have laughed in their face.

And yet here you were, at Steve Harrington’s apartment, donned in a black cat costume that shows more skin than you have in years.

The elaborate plan had sparked on a random day after Steve encountered a flyer for the event. It was a nightclub your group had attended before, and one look at the line free drinks for participants had Steve running down your entire group to insist that you all needed to dress up, to participate in this, for the luxury of free Tito’s. 

He’d never considered that the ad might not be targeted towards the male population. And now, you were all gathering at his apartment to pregame, ‘slutted out’ as Robin had so kindly put it – men included.

Nancy pulled out some sort of angel costume she claims she had bought but certainly not worn a few years back, Robin had conglomerated an alluring pirate attire from items you hadn’t even been aware were in her closet. Jonathan arrived in his erotic yet pensive writer’s costume (you’d hardly understood it, but he seemed confident, so you all went with it), Argyle in tow donning some sort of seductive surfer costume, in which you certainly recognized the unbuttoned shirt and cargo shorts that had had a pocket knife taken to them to disregard a few inches. Steve even stuck to his own demands, going all out – a sensual bunny costume.

And then, there was Eddie.

Eddie fuckin’ Munson. 

“Pick your jaw up off the ground, sweetheart,” he teases as he shuffles around you in the kitchen to grab a drink, “Gonna start catching flies otherwise.” 

“There’s a joke in there somewhere about how sweet I am, right?” you blandly reply, keeping your eyes on your room temp cocktail that Steve had so graciously mixed for you upon your arrival, “Something where you call me honey or sugar, yeah?” 

Eddie pauses, bottle of vodka in hand, looking at you with big eyes lined in coal, “Oh, baby, you know me so well.” 

“Cut the pet names, Munson.”

You try to scowl. You really do. But you don’t mean a damn word you say. 

Sweetheart. Baby. Hell, even honey would have done it for you when he was wearing that costume. 

Tight leather pants, flared at the ankle. Worn leather boots that certainly had to have been thrifted, clicking with each of his steps. A cow print vest, and just a vest, over what looked to be an oiled chest. 

And that fucking hat smashing down his curls, adding a shadow across his face that only built into the illusion. 

You hate him. You hate this stupid party. You hate Steve for ever suggesting this. 

“You don’t mean that,” he sing-songs as he pours his own drink into a red solo cup. The vodka mixes with cranberry juice, you think, before he’s dropping a few ice cubes out of the freezer. “Or maybe you do, and I should try saying them with a southern drawl,” Fuck, he does a good southern accent. Slow and syrupy sweet, molasses down the throat as he flutters his lashes at you, “That better, darlin’?” 

You pluck the thin black straw that had been added to your cup for flare, probably stolen from a hotel at some point by Steve and positively meant for drinks of the coffee variety, and flick it in his direction without hesitation. 

“Terrible,” you flatly lie, “Cowboys aren’t even from the south, idiot. They’re from the West.” 

You have no desire to hear Eddie’s Western accent. No desire to hear Texan twang on those lips, putting on his best John Wayne impression. In fact, the faster you can get away from him, the quicker you can get yourself under control. 

It had always been this way between you and Eddie. Push and pull. Will they, won’t they. A game of cosmic shores as the two of you toed at each other’s orbits and bantered effortlessly. Flirtatious threats, inappropriate compliments, lewd innuendos – you had done it all, specifically with Eddie.

That’s just how the friendship worked. 

The friendship. 

Friend. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Eddie won’t leave you alone, though, choosing to lean up against the counter beside you, forcing his way into your peripherals, “Damn. You’re right. Wayne would kill me if he knew I mixed that up.” 

“Oh, I think he has plenty of reasons to knock some sense into you.” 

“Yeah?” he leans forward, tauntingly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, “Why don’t you do it for him? I think I’d like a slap more coming from you, honestly.”

He’s acting like he always does. This is normal. The fact that his entire torso is on show and you can’t stop staring at the way his tattoo on his peck is shimmering doesn’t change that. 

You play the role, knowing your part well as you lean in as well, forcing a smile right back at him, “Wanna kiss my knuckles before I do it, or am I gonna have to do all the hard work here?” 

“Oh, trust me, you’d never have to do all the work with me, ba-”

“Can you two get a fucking room?” Robin interrupts as she enters the room, clearly coming in for a refill but getting more than she bargained for. 

You’re aflame with the shame and embarrassment, feeling it lick from your ankles up to your throat, as Eddie only chuckles lowly. 

“Sorry, Robs,” Eddie chirps, not sounding apologetic at all, “I promise I’ll behave myself the rest of the night.” 

And yet, despite the words you’re hearing him say out loud, he does the exact opposite. 

There’s no real need for him to do it. There’s plenty of space amongst the kitchen for him to maneuver his way out without laying a single hand on you – and yet he still fucking does. 

His palm is shockingly warm when it curls around your hip, his other hand occupied with a drink, encouraging you to move a step forward so that he can brush behind you far too close for comfort. You nearly stumble over himself as he does it. The feeling of his barren chest barely bumping your bare shoulder blades sends your mind reeling, and his staple rings that have incorporated into his costume press right through the thin fabric of your dress.

Your breathing stops entirely as he pauses, the slightest bit of skin still brushing against yours, and leans in with a boyish grin, “We’ll both be on our best behavior tonight – right, kitty?” 

Something clicks in your mind. The way the nickname rolls off his tongue as he’s looking at you with eyes flaming with mischief, hand lingering on your hip for far too long. 

Your eyes flicker up to the hat on his head, and you smile slowly, meeting his toying gaze, “Right, cowboy.”

Best behavior, your ass. Tonight, you have decided, ends the will they, won’t they of it all. 

It’s about to either be the best night of your life, or the worst. 

—

Another shot with Nancy. Another smoke with Argyle. Another adjusting of Steve’s corset when he complains he can’t breathe (he certainly can, but you’re starting to think he just likes the attention). The pregaming continues on as more of Steve’s friends from work show up, the apartment slowly beginning to buzz with the chatter of more strangers than you can count on one hand.

You’re not even at the club yet and you’re already regretting your revealing attire.

Eddie stays mostly preoccupied with his own devices, and only gets scolded a handful of times by Nancy. You can hear every lewd joke he makes, of course. At some point, you make a private drinking game out of it; a sip for every time he makes the stereotypical joke of ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’. 

Well, it was a sip the first time. A slightly larger gulp the second time. A chugging of half your drink the third time. 

“There’s no fucking way,” Steve laments at the table the boys as well as a few guests you don’t recognize have taken over for a game of strip poker, “Jonathan is cheating. Or counting cards.”

“I concur,” Eddie mutters around his cigarette, scowling at his losing hand. 

“You’re also cheating, asshole. This is the first round you’ve lost the entire game.”

“Or maybe I’m just really good at cards, Harrington.” 

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I’m really good at-”

“He’s not cheating,” Nancy interrupts with a sigh from the couch, lounging as she’s served as a referee of sorts for the group. Her entire body weight is draped against Robin, and you’re certainly not going to comment on Robin’s hands toying with her permed locks, “Stop being a sore loser and just strip.” 

You get why Steve was the most upset. He was down to his underwear and socks, corset tossed somewhere far behind him and bunny ears placed on Robin’s head in place of her pirate hat that she had claimed became too warm. 

“I think Steve should trade both socks and put back on the bunny ears,” she quips as she reaches up for the headband, flicking at one of the floppy ears, “He’d look cuter that way.” 

“Fuck off,” he snaps, throwing up a middle finger as Argyle finally loses his shirt. 

When your attention has drifted, you know he did exactly that, though. 

The game had been boring you half to death, honestly. Watching Steve strip without fail every round, hearing the loud cheers from Argyle when he managed to win a few rounds in a row and exclaimed it was a turkey (it had taken a ten minute intermission to explain to him that was bowling, not poker), watching a few of the girls that Steve had invited fawn over him as they carefully removed boots and gloves when they lost – none of it sparked your interest. The only saving grace had been every smug look Eddie offered as he’d win, time and time again. So far, he’d only lost his boots. 

He was hot when he was cocky. There was no way around it.

And now, as he carefully pondered as to which part of his precious costume to part with, you were on the edge of your seat. He was lovely and enticing when he was excited, when he was jubilant with victory, but as a sore loser? 

Dear God, Eddie Munson was a gorgeous specimen with a pout on his lips. 

“Trying to decide what to take off, Munson?” Jonathan notices the way Eddie is hesitating, even through the offset of conversations that had sparked up in the brief pause amongst the growing group.

You lean forward on the couch, almost subconsciously. 

You don’t care what Stacy from Steve’s job thinks of their manager or the latest drama ongoing there, and Steve would probably agree with you if it weren’t for Stacy’s all-red, latex Devil costume.

Eddie scoffs, waving a hand over his attire, “Obviously. You know, it’s not easy to choose when you have a costume as damn good as mine.” 

“What? Don’t think you’ll be as pretty without your hat?” you decide to contribute to the teasing, shocking yourself in the process. 

The last thing you should do when you’re staring him down in this way, is bring attention to yourself. And yet you were, like some fucking idiot with a death wish. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

It’s the fluttering of his lashes as he says it that gives you the courage. They match all that fluttering in your stomach, all that buzzing across your nerves. Because – yeah, you thought he was real fucking pretty. You’d spent the last half hour imagining how pretty he’d look in all sorts of places, too, especially between your sheets and between your thighs. 

You’re up off the couch, taking confident steps towards where he’s seated at the ground on the other side of the coffee table. It’s a little inconvenient now, but it had been a blessing in disguise for most of the game as you’d had a front row seat to the sight of him. 

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself,” you tease, entirely ignoring that lightheaded feeling you get anytime Eddie looks up at you this way. Half-lidded eyes, crooked grin. He’s dangerous and he doesn’t even know it, “I only meant you were pretty with the hat.” 

“You wound me,” he gasps, dropping back on his hands dramatically, his pout now for dramatics rather than genuine, “Gonna stand there and tell me I’m not pretty when I dressed up just for you?”

You have to take a deep breath to compose yourself, cross your arms to steady your guard, “Just for me?” 

He was playing that same old, tired game of yours. The same dance the two of you had memorized the steps to – and something inside of you has grown restless of it. You don’t want to keep skirting around each other with double-meaning jokes, you don’t want to keep painting humor over your flirtatious remarks. You want a damn answer to the age old question of will they, won’t they?

And you want that answer to be will they – terribly, terribly so.

His eyes trail along the room slowly, not avoiding you but trying to draw out the anticipation in you as he sucks in a breath, “Okay, and maybe for Steve. And Nancy. And Argyle. And Jonathan. And- Well, I’d say Robin, but I don’t think she’s looked twice in my direction all night.” 

“I haven’t,” the brunette chirps happily from the couch, still letting the weight of Nancy comfortably dig into her. 

You have no idea how she’s tuned into the conversation, given the way most of everyone else around the room was entirely ignoring the two of you. 

“So,” you all but purr, leaning down to be more level with Eddie. You already know where his focus wanders when his eyes don’t meet yours, “Not just for me, cowboy.” 

He’s distracted, staring at your chest as you notice him slip up in his brave facade for a second. Almost as though you’ve gone too far, pushed the limits a bit too hard. Good. You want to break this. You want to shatter whatever cage the two of you have built.

In one smooth movement, your hand reaches out and snatches the hat right off his head. 

He lets out a yelp and tries to grab it away from you, but you have the advantage as you stand up straight once more. Your free hand reaches up and tears off the cat ears you had donned, and in their place, the hat is deposited. 

It fits you a little big, and you nearly make a joke about the size of Eddie’s head. 

“Hey!” he argues, moving as though he might stand up and put up more of a fight, “I didn’t say the hat is what I wanted to take off.” 

“Took too long,” you shrug innocently. 

“Yeah, well, just carefully add it to the pile,” he jabs his thumb over his shoulder, towards his boots, as he relaxes back into his recline.

You should probably behave yourself. 

“No.”

But this is more fun. 

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in shot, disappearing behind the bangs that are flattened far more than usual. The entire crown of his head is absolutely crushed. No sign of his usual frizzy roots and unruly volume, “No?”

“No,” you confirm a second time. 

And you’re done with this game of back and forth. 

The hat’s staying on your head. It smells ever so faintly of his shampoo, the slightest whiff of his cologne even, and it’s staying on your head for the exact reason he believes is about to be a gotcha! moment.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he’s just tipsy enough that he’s not putting on any specific accent. Instead, his natural Appalachian accent inherited from his uncle begins to break the surface, “Surely you know about the hat rule.” 

Damn right, you know about the hat rule.

You cross your arms, huff a little, tilt the hat for effect, “The hat rule? Please, enlighten me.” 

“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.” 

Perfect. 

You don’t even attempt any sort of surprised act. No exaggerated gasps, no fumbling to remove the hat. You knew all about this rule, and it had been one of the first things to come to mind when you’d seen him enter this damn party with the hat on. 

“Yeah?” you question, mocking raising your eyebrows at best, “Hm. What a shame.”

And then you turn on your heel, not awaiting a single response from Eddie as you escape to the kitchen.

You almost wish you would have stayed an extra second to properly witness his reaction. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s gone pretty and pink, a flustered mess for at least a second as low laughter sounds from the rest of your friends. A tell-tale snort from Robin, and a silent cackle from Nancy. You swear you even pick up on one of the extra guests muttering a confused what just happened? that goes entirely unanswered.

Strip poker doesn’t continue on for long after that.

You refill your drink, this time sans the alcohol, and return to find Steve has officially begun to call for cabs to the club. He busies away on his phone as everyone debates who’s riding with who, the entire party slowly coming to life as everyone stands to prepare to leave for the main attraction. 

When you meet Eddie’s gaze from across the room, the shadow of the brim of his hat cutting into your vision a little, his cheeks match the cranberry juice in your cup. 

Good. 

—

The ride to the club is a blur, and all that really stands out to you is that Eddie makes sure he does not ride in the same cab as you.

Which is fine. Really. It doesn’t cause a single spark of panic in your chest. Not one. 

You’re definitely not working yourself up over the thought that your plan is crumbling right before your eyes, that you’ve gone too far and entirely misinterpreted everything Eddie has ever done during your entire friendship. You’re not mulling over every dirty joke, not dissecting every single line that felt like he was flirting with you and attempting to look at it with fresh eyes. No, the entire ride to the club, you are definitely not beating a dead horse dead. 

Maybe you should have set off to ride the dead horse and not the cowboy. Maybe, then, Eddie would have gotten into the fucking cab with you. 

Your anxieties only worsen once you get inside the club. Pulsing beneath your skin, right in rhythm with the music. Your entire group had each been handed a drink ticket on your way in, and you had noted the fact that the girls of the group were slipped extra tickets. 

Nancy had given all her tickets to Robin, and Steve had given his singular ticket to Stacy. 

“So,” Robin runs up to your side, Nancy not far behind, “Do we waste our drink tickets on shots or real drinks?” 

“Real drinks,” you immediately reply, eyes scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain head of curly hair, “Shots are… well, they can be cheap. We can just avoid the top-shelf shit.”

Was Eddie really going to ignore you the entire night? 

He needed his hat. He couldn’t ignore you the entire night. 

“You’re right,” Robin shuffles the drink tickets in her hands, turning to Nancy, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be me to ask you to flirt with men to get me-”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll have us a round.” 

Nancy’s smile is sweet, courteous, as she gives Robin’s shoulder a squeeze on her way past her. 

Where the fuck is Eddie? 

“Did you see where the guys ran off to?” you blurt out. Most of the guys, aside from Steve, took the same cab. 

Robin also joins you in a quick survey of the club, lifting onto her tippy toes to squint over the current light show, “Honestly? I have no idea.” 

Fuck. 

As she drops back down onto her heels, Robin looks at you knowingly, eyes flicking up between your twisted expression and the hat on your head. 

“Trying to find a certain cowboy?” 

“What?” you look at her, already defensive, even if it was stupid at this point. Who cares if everyone knows you have a crush on Eddie? Who cares if everyone finds out the very foundations of your friendship with him were built upon quite a bit of truth? “I mean- yeah, he kind of needs his hat to complete his outfit.” 

“Should have just given him your ears for an even trade,” Robin shrugs, clinging to your elbow to avoid getting separated as a few bodies push past the two of you, “I’m sure he’ll pop up soon enough, though. Besides, I don’t think anyone’s too focused on what everyone’s costumes are as long as they’re… well…”

“Slutted out,” you finish for her flatly, trying to not get jealous as your eyes look across the sweaty crowd, stomach churning as you wonder how many other sexy black cats in the crowd would be approaching your cowboy. 

You fucked up. You shouldn’t have taken his hat. 

“Exactly!” she’s excited, unaware of your crisis, already moving along from the topic as she spots Nancy somewhere near the bar top, “Look, free shots!” 

The free shots don’t do much to quell your unease, but free alcohol is always nice.

You take the liquid down, burn and all, more than willingly. And then again, not even five minutes later when Nancy has caught the attention of another random man at the end of the bar. You almost partake in a third, but you finally hear a familiar voice saying a far too familiar joke. 

“You know what they say,” he’s flirting – he’s using a tone of voice that he has never used with you, and it’s clear he’s fucking flirting, “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.” 

Instead of continuing your drinking game from Steve’s apartment, you slam the shot back down and mutter some sorry excuse of being right back to Robin and Nancy before taking off in the direction of Eddie.

He’s stood a few stools down at the bar, hands leaning against the worn wood as his arms bracket a pretty blonde. It almost looks as if the line might be working on her. 

“If you’re a cowboy,” she giggles, and you almost stop dead in your tracks, “Then where’s your hat?” 

Well, that’s as good of a queue for your arrival if any. 

“Good question,” you pipe up as you take a few brave steps towards him, “Where is your hat, cowboy?” 

You’d expected him to be angry, or startled, or possibly even immediately take off running in the opposite direction of you. He doesn’t. 

He slowly turns, and his flirtatious smile has turned into more of a salacious grin as he faces you, “Well, well, well. Nice of you to join us, Kitty.” 

The blonde looks between you two a few times before shimmying down off her stool, “I think…. I’m gonna go. Nice to meet you, cowboy.”

You expect Eddie to react, but he hardly does. A quick glance in her direction, a pathetic wave. 

You’ve just trampled over one of his chances of getting properly lucky tonight, and he isn’t even phased. 

“Been lookin’ for you,” you mumble, looking over him. His hair seems to have been unstuck from his scalp a little, at least. As though he may have been running his hands through it repeatedly, “Thought you might have gone home without your hat.” 

“Not a chance. I haven’t forgotten about the rule, you know.” 

Something twists in you, deep in your gut, between your hips. 

“No?” you hold your breath as he leans in a bit closer to you to be able to hear over the music, “Good thing I haven’t either.” 

He tilts his head, eyes glittering in the multi-colored lights, “You haven’t? Then that means you’ll be giving it back, right?” 

Over my dead body. 

You’re on a mission tonight. You’ll either be ending this night in sore disappointment, drinking away your sorrows of rejection, or you’ll be ending up in a bed with Eddie. It’s up to him. 

You lift a hand to the worn rim, tugging it a bit more securely onto your head, “Not a chance, Munson. You know where to find me once you’re done playing around.”

As soon as your fingers leave the rim, holding tense eye contact with him, his own hand is coming up. You tense, worried he’s about to steal the hat back now, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers pinch the same spot yours just had, slow tracing over the rim as his tongue darts out to carefully wet his bottom lip. 

From the front point, around to the side. When he reaches the bit above your ear, his touch drops to your cheek and tucks back some of the baby hairs sticking to your skin with sweat. 

“I do, don’t I?” he hums, voice dropping a bit lower, focused entirely on you. “I don’t think I’m the one playing around right now, though, Kitty.” 

Does he think you’re joking? Does he actually, genuinely think this is all a game to you? 

You nearly make the decision to grab him right there, right at this moment, and shatter all the tension. Get his lips on yours and drag him into the darkest corner just to prove to him how serious you truly were. 

Suddenly, his hand drops away from you entirely, and you almost want to whine. You miss that warmth, that feathery caress, until it aches. “It’s okay, though. Always knew cats were playful things.” 

Is there a dark corner somewhere near you two? Is there a dark hallway to drag him into? Just enough shadow to cover all the sins you’re desperate to commit, just enough light to see that blush rise across his cheeks again. 

“I’m not playing,” you whisper, eyes drifting down to his hand cradling a glass. Something deep and russet, just like his eyes. Likely whiskey. You wonder if you’d be able to taste it all over his tongue before you had him putting it to work where you need him most right now. “Whenever you get that through your big head, come find me.” 

“Big head?” he throws his head back in a laugh, and the tension mists away in seconds. “Who says I have a big head?” 

“I do, as the one wearing your hat,” you readjust it for emphasis. 

You thought the tension had misted away until he��s smirking, tsking a little, “Oh, thought you meant the other one.” 

It’s a replay of the scene in Steve’s apartment, but this time, the roles are reversed. You’re the one left in shock, mouth agape, as Eddie spins around and walks away, leaving you to sit with what he’s just said. 

“Bastard,” you breathe out as you watch him disappear in the crowd, eyes locked on his broad shoulders until one too many bodies separate the two of you. 

A bastard you want awfully, terribly, bad. 

—

You wish you could say you threw back drink, after drink, after drink. You wish you could say you danced with a hundred different beautiful strangers, and each one strayed your mind farther from Eddie. 

You wish you could say you did anything but what the reality of your night had been.

A few men had approached you, only to be turned down repeatedly. Most of your night was spent all but moping at the bar, eyes diligently scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain curly haired figure that seemed to escape you. One moment, you’d catch him pressed against a flirty stranger, hands holding onto whatever bare skin was available to him. And then, his eyes would find yours, and there would be a spark; a wink, a smile, a whisper across a bustling room daring you to come out and play with him. 

You never did. You’d look away, take a sip of your plain coke, and wait a few seconds until it was safe to look back and find him seemingly vanished. 

That in itself had started to become a game. Just like the hat, weighing heavy on your head. 

You’re starting to accept that maybe you had just been a bit too brave. You’d jumped the gun, flown feet first into cold and ragged waters you weren’t prepared to navigate. You knew you wanted a change with Eddie, but were you ready? If you had been, you would have accepted one of his various invites. Would have strode across the room, shoved away whatever man or woman he was dancing with, and slotted yourself into their place. You would have been swaying your hips in rhythm with his rather than allowing him to cycle through strangers, and you’d be reminding him that you wore his hat. 

You’d be the one bringing up the hat rule to him consistently, not him to you. 

When the night begins to wane, you’ve already talked yourself out of it all. 

“I’m heading out,” you announce to Robin when she finally returns back to where you’ve sat at the bar to babysit their drinks, hopping down from the stool before she could argue, “I’m getting way too tired.” 

“What?” your friend gasps, face pink from the heat of being in the crowd, a shimmering sheen of sweat across her forehead, “No! Stay! We can take turns watching the drinks, or just-”

“Robs,” you smile as sweetly as possible, patting yourself down to make sure you have all your belongings. A whistle sounds from a group down the way at the bar, and you ignore them, “It’s seriously okay. You’re having fun! I’m just a senior citizen who needs some sleep. My bedtime was like…. An hour ago.” 

You highly doubt you’ll be getting any rest when you return to your apartment. Maybe some confidence can be built out of fantasies, letting your hands wander and sheets catch fire with all that could have been if you hadn’t talked yourself out of your perfect plan. 

Maybe, imagining Eddie’s hot hands on you rather than getting to properly feel them will light a damn fire under your ass for the next opportunity that arises. 

“I…” she sighs, glancing over her shoulder in the general direction of Nancy, “Okay, fine. But do we want to do brunch or something tomorrow?” 

Not a chance, you think rather quickly, eyes scanning once more for the metal-head-turned-cowboy. Not if Eddie’s going to be there.

“Sure,” you lie, already knowing he will be there, “Just text me.” 

With that, you make your grand escape. 

Borrowed hat on head, phone in hand, you push your way out of the club with a newfound determination. You want to get home and take off this uncomfortable dress, finally do away with the thigh highs that have been rolling down at the most inconvenient of times, driving you insane the entire night. Trade the sexy attire for something comfy – stay true to the cat essence as you curl up beneath your blankets for the night. Hang that damn cowboy hat on your door as a cursed reminder-

“Where do you think you’re going, Kitty?” 

You stop a few feet short of the curb, a cab ordered as you turn to find that bastard leaning against the wall. Cigarette smoke is still clinging to the air around him as he looks at you curiously. 

“Home,” you shrug, trying to ignore your pounding heart. You’d figured you wouldn’t see him again tonight, that your fate had been sealed. “What are you doing out here?” 

“Smoke break,” he lifts his hand with the cigarette pinched between two fingers casually, pushing off the wall to come closer, “It’s hard work, keeping you entertained all night.” 

You scoff, falling back into what’s almost a normal rhythm for you two, “You were not the one keeping me entertained all night.” 

“I hardly saw you dance with anyone at all.” 

“I did!” you try to defend yourself, deciding this could be fine. Some casual conversation as you wait for your ride, a way to pass the time. This is fine. “Robin dragged me out into the crowd at least twice.” 

“I watched you swat a guy’s hands away not once, but three times.” 

“Unsolicited touching isn’t a compliment. He should have taken the hint the first time.” 

Eddie nods in eager agreement, taking another drag of his cigarette, “Damn right. If he had gone in for a fourth try, I was considering dragging him out here for an early smoke break.” 

“Why do I highly doubt it would just be a smoke break?” you question, glancing at him with a smile. Scandalous plans aside for the night, embarrassment swallowed down whole, it’s nice to remember that Eddie is a friend. Albeit a bit flirty, and capable of driving you fucking insane, but he’s a friend.

And maybe that isn’t the worst thing in the world. 

“Oh, no, yeah. You’d be posting my bail.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’ve got my hat, ” he reaches out and flicks the brim with his free hand, and you freeze up a little. You had hoped he wouldn’t mention it again, “Kind of makes me your problem until the end of the night. Speaking of….” 

You already know what he’s about to request as he trails off. This is it. You either give up the bit, hand the hat back over, and go home for the night – or you make one final attempt to get what you had wanted.

Eddie. You wanted Eddie, as more than a friend. 

“I’m gonna need that back, sweetheart.”

At least he’s asking politely, you consider, before it hits you why he’s asking rather than taking. 

The looks across the room. The way he’d been unbothered by the girl he’d been flirting with running off at your appearance. The way he never just took back that fucking hat when he’d been provided ample opportunity. 

He thinks it’s a game for you, and keeps bringing it up, because it isn’t for him. He’s giving you one last chance to back out, or to stand your ground. To say you really want this. 

And fuck, you really want this. 

“Nope,” you lean into his space, pressing closer, fully committed. Your phone dings with the notification of your ride approaching, and you fully ignore it. “My hat now, cowboy.” 

He quirks an eyebrow, and you hear the crunch of gravel behind you. Your ride. “Is that so?” 

“Yep.”

Another ding, another buzz of your phone.

Go ahead. Bring up the hat rule. 

“That your ride?” he asks, tilting his chin in the direction of the car. 

You glance over your shoulder, “Pretty sure it is, yeah.” 

“And you remember the hat rule?” 

Your stomach twists with excitement. Your previous pity party is long forgotten – you’re still hoping to get out of this dress, but you highly doubt you’ll be slipping anything on after it. “I do.”

“Great,” those hot hands you’d been fantasizing about the entire night suddenly reach out to you, gripping your hips tightly as he tugs you into his body. You collide with his chest as he leans down and whispers in your ear, “In that case, that’s my pussy now.” 

His lips linger against the shell of your ear an extra second, warm breath sending chills up your spine before he’s keeping an arm around your shoulders as he guides you to the car. His cologne and the scent of tobacco is suffocating, and you crave to drown in it. You want him to consume you; you want him to take over every breath you breathe, every move you make, to finally get those hot hands and lips everywhere you’ve only dreamt of. 

You barely hear him confirm with the driver that it is in fact your ride – you can only focus on that hand on your lower back, palm heavy on you as his thumb traces arcs that nearly spend you spiraling. 

“After you, kitty,” he murmurs, motioning for you to slide into the backseat first. 

In that case, that’s my pussy now.

You hope he ruins you. 

In the backseat of the ride, it’s all polite distance and hands to yourself. You can’t even make eye contact with the driver, terrified he might be able to mindread and see all the filthy thoughts racing through your head. 

Eddie between your thighs, mouthing at your hips. 

Eddie hovering over you, pulling your knees to your chest as he stretches you out. 

Eddie, proving that your pussy is in fact his for the night. That it was made for him, sculpted out to fit the curvature and every single vein of him. 

Eddie simply fucking your brains out. 

Some polite conversation is exchanged, mostly between Eddie and the driver. The classic questioning of how the night has gone, small talk that buzzes in your ears mindlessly. 

The entire time, you can see Eddie’s hand in the space between you two, fingers tapping away at dark leather incessantly. His rings shimmer like a siren calling to you. 

It’s a small movement, when your own hand drops near his. You keep your eyes trained forward once you begin your mission, inching your pinky closer and closer until it finally collides with his. You swear, you feel him fully jump out of his seat. 

Slowly warming the water, you start off simple – playing with his fingers. Gentle caresses over his knuckles, little pricks to the pads of his fingers. He tries to capture your hand in his, but you have bigger plans at play here. 

You’ve spent the entire fucking night waiting for this. You’re going to have fun with it. 

He huffs after you deter his second attempt at properly holding hands, his knees falling apart a little further. You twist at the ring on his middle finger, a clunky skull you’ve always admired. It has minimal signs of wear, probably pure silver if you had to guess, and you can only imagine how cold it’s going to feel against your skin. 

You can only imagine the imprints it’ll leave if he grabs your hips just right. 

“You know,” the driver hums mindlessly over the low volume of the radio, “You guys are my first ride of the night, surprisingly. Thought it might be busier with all the parties and clubs, but I think it’s just barely picking up now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks politely, nodding as he looks out his window. Perfect, “I think you’re right. It is getting pretty late-”

He’s entirely distracted, your hand out of his line of sight as it moves in on its target. 

His thigh. 

Just a few inches above his knee, your hand grips at what is clearly sensitive flesh. You watch his entire body turn to stone when you do it, and he moves his head quickly to look in your direction. 

You’re looking straight ahead. 

There had been a time, a few weeks ago, where you’d learned Eddie had… sensitive knees. You’d been joking around about one thing or another, and when your palms had gripped at them through the torn fabric of ripped jeans, he’d nearly launched himself across the room. He just kept insisting they were ticklish, that that skin was just delicate.

You’d seen the tent in his jeans then. You’d just been a bit more polite, a bit better behaved that day. 

“What are you doing?” he hisses in a whisper, reaching for your hand, but you’re quick to slide it even higher. 

His hips jump a little, and the driver is none the wiser. 

“Nothing,” you innocently say, still looking ahead, watching the passing streetlights with intense interest. “Absolutely nothing at all.” 

The entire ride, at every red light, your hand inches higher. 

And every time, you relish the way he squirms in your peripherals.

By the time you’re five minutes out from your place, you’ve riled him up to impossible heights. Every little noise has him on edge, constant twitching and shifting in his seat as he tries to get you to just look at him. You know he’s catching every sly smile that attempts to creep up on your lips – you’re pathetically failing at every turn to cover them up. 

You think you have him like putty in your palms as you give yet another squeeze to his thigh, fingers starting to dance up even higher. When your eyes flicker to his crotch for just a second, you see him straining against that tight leather. 

And then he flips the script. 

You’re so focused on your own goals, you never see that ringed hand creep to your own thigh. It’s not until cool metal nips at you, briefly, before you feel the warmth of his hand overtake, that you realize the predicament you’ve gotten into. 

Just as your hand was beginning to skim over his crotch, Eddie’s hand found solace between the meat of your thighs. Even as you try to clench them together, deny him the access he was seeking out, he finds his way in. Scandalous fingers dipping under the hem of your dress, fighting fire with fire when he lets his middle finger brush across the fabric of your underwear. 

Your touch from him nearly retracts entirely. 

“What?” he leans in closer to you, the driver still focused on the road, “Don’t like a taste of your own medicine?”

As he says it, his fingers dip lower. Hovering right over your protected clit, making your entire abdomen clench. 

You swallow hard, a bit of your jagged pride somewhere amongst the spit as you turn your head to look at him, “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Still playing games I see.” 

In sync, the two of you lock eyes as you continue to test waters. You apply pressure with your palm and note the way his breathing hitches, and he draws a feather-light circle around the wet patch forming in your underwear. You can feel your bottom lip quiver as you try to refuse to give him any satisfaction, but when he’s this close, it’s a hopeless battle.

When had he gotten so near you? What happened to all that static distance from when you’d first crawled into the backseat?

You’re trying to only focus on your own hand. Eyes darting to guarantee the driver is still oblivious as you roll the heel of your hand harder against the seam of his pants, and biting your lip to hold back a successful grin when he has to cover a gasp with a cough. It’s all fun and games until the action is rewarded with his payback; his knuckle curling up against your cunt through your panties, pressing in hard before slowly sliding his way up, up, up. 

He deliberately stops when he catches on your clit, and you’re the one coughing now. 

“Had enough?” he mutters under his breath, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. He looks good in this lighting, flashes of the streetlights bathing him in soft yellow, headlights of other cars fluttering in through the windshield as they hit his brown eyes just right to bronze them. 

“Never.”

You almost think you’ve won when his knuckle pulls back. 

But suddenly, his entire hand is cupping your cunt, two fingers pressing against your fluttering hole as another drags up your slit slowly once more. This time, when he reaches your clit, he continues moving in small circles. 

You have to bite your lip to hold back any noises, eyes closing for just a second as you hear him huff out a laugh. 

The final damnation is when he brings his lips to your bare shoulder, merely grazing your skin with them as he mumbles, “You sure about that, Kitty?” 

You clench around nothing, and you know when he feels it from where his fingers remain pressed against you. His own hand twitches as the finger circling your clit stutters for a moment. 

“I-”

“We’re here!” the driver says, not having looked into the backseat yet as he finds a safe place to pull the car into. In an instant, you and Eddie remove your hands from each other. You’re both visibly flustered – you can feel how warm your cheeks have gotten, and you can see clouds of pink splattering over Eddie’s chest and neck. 

“Thanks,” Eddie is the one to speak up as the car comes to a halt, not even waiting for the driver to put the vehicle in park as he throws the door open. 

A bit rushed, but still polite as ever before he’s grabbing you by your bicep to pull you out of the cramped space right along with him. 

You can hardly muster a weak wave to the man as Eddie is dragging you towards your apartment building, knees still a bit weak and mind still blank after getting a taste of your own medicine, as Eddie had put it. 

He doesn’t let go of you until you’re at your front door, those cursed shaking hands of yours fumbling with your key ring. 

“Here, let me-” he starts to offer, reaching for the keys that continue to clank together, just as you find the one you’re looking for. 

“I’ve got it-” you try to cut him off, just as you drop the fucking keys in your haste. “Shit.” 

You quickly drop to the ground to grab them, pausing once you have the metal digging into your palms once more. There’s no real reason for you to do it, but you do – you take a second to look up at Eddie from this position, and nearly drool at the sight of it.

Him, standing over you, still a bit flushed and still visibly uncomfortable in his pants. Pretty curls a mess and lips darkening from how much he’s been biting them. 

You want him to ruin you. You want him to absolutely, entirely and utterly destroy you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs, chest heaving a bit as he watches you carefully, pupils slowly growing in the dim light of your building’s hallway. 

You can see his bare torso clenching, the twitch of his hands at his sides – the same fingers that had just been caressing you over your underwear in the backseat of a stranger’s car. 

“Like what?” you’re dragging out the moment, taking time to appreciate the sight of him. 

“Like you want me to just press you up against the wall and fuck you out here, for everyone to see.” 

That’s a new one. That’s a vision that hadn’t come to you in all your dirtiest dreams of the night. 

It sends your clit throbbing. 

You rise slowly, pushing the hat back a bit to see him better, keeping your voice quiet so your neighbors won’t hear as you ask, “Would you? If I asked nicely?” 

He doesn’t let out a laugh, but a breath of air, like you’ve just sucked all of the oxygen out of his lungs. 

No need to say it – you know he would. You probably wouldn’t even have to ask nicely. 

You’re staring at him when he finally moves, one hand snatching your keys out of your hand and the other gripping you around the waist. Back to pulling you, man-handling you to get you right where he wants you – where he needs you. 

One second, you’re pressed against his body in the hallway. The next, he’s managed to unlock your front door and throw you both into the safety of your apartment. 

Hidden from the world, and you’re still reeling as you wonder what it’d be like for the entire building to witness you calling out his name. Or him calling out your name. 

Here within these four walls, Eddie has put some space between the two of you, staring with blown out eyes and a shaking chest as he breathes out, “Sweetheart.”

A few seconds pass, the two of you just standing there, the click of the front door’s lock being the only thing echoing in the silence. If you focused over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears, you might catch every single gasp of his as he stares in awe – but your focus is elsewhere. Far away and out of grasp for the time being. You can only think of one thing, and one thing only. 

Your body isn’t your own as you move to get exactly what you want; you drop to your knees hard enough that you should cringe at the thought of the pain that will linger, possibly for days, but it doesn’t even cross your mind as your hands begin to fumble with Eddie’s pants. The oversized, gaudy belt buckle is in your way, glinting at you as if mocking the way your shaking hands can’t undo it fast enough. You’re about to give up and just start unzipping the leather pants, desperate to get your hands, and your mouth, and your eyes on him properly, when he stops you. 

“Hey,” he sounds breathless - he is breathless - as his own hands quiver a bit and grab onto yours, “Hey, hey, hey. Slow down.”

Those hands let go of your wrists and reach for the hat, and you’re quick to try and swat them away only for him to grab at you, surprisingly gentle, as he drags you back up to your feet. 

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy – right?” you insist, chin held high, your gaze refusing to waver from his. 

His slow and buttery grin makes you lightheaded, his low chuckle sends shakes through every nerve and bone. “That’s right, but maybe the cowboy wants to take his time. Ever think of that, hm?” 

Were you moving too fast? Were you going to scare him off? 

Small, baby steps are taken by Eddie, the click of his heels shattering against your wooden floors until his hips are flush with yours. 

And - oh.

Oh. 

That surely didn’t feel like you were scaring him off. 

You could feel the outline of his cock, hard against your hip, as he gives a little roll. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, nostrils flaring with a hard breath, and the fear leaves as quickly as it had arrived. 

He wants this. You want him. 

“I’m not a very patient person,” you murmur, eyes glued to his lips now as his head leans in closer, and his hands begin to explore your body. Taking their time as they travel down your arms from where he’d held onto your biceps, slowing as they reach your wrists. Even the press of his thumb against the sensitive inner skin there sends jolts up your spine, little gasps attempting to escape your mouth. 

His fingers tangle loosely with your own for a few moments before his palms find your hips, and he continues his journey. 

“That’s okay,” he whispers back, close enough now that his lips have begun to brush against your own. His nose bumps yours as his hands skate up over your ribcage, thumb sweeping out over the hill of your breast and intentionally avoiding your nipple, “I can teach you, baby.”

Your mouth finally collides with him at the words, nearly going limp in his arms at the words. 

You’ve thought about kissing Eddie for a while now. Every time a snarky remark fell from his lips, you’d wonder how his tongue might taste afterwards. Every time he’d pout his lips at one of your comebacks, or blow a kiss teasingly in your direction from across a room, you’d wonder how hard you might have to bite down to make him bleed. Every drag of a cigarette you’d witnessed, every hard gasp in faux offense, every breathless chuckle at a joke he didn’t want to find funny but did – you had spent a lot of time wondering what it might be like to steal all the air from his lungs, to kiss him until the two of you were both blue in the face. 

“Can’t the lesson wait until tomorrow?” you mumble against him as his mouth, your own fists now gripping onto the lapels of his vest. His hands have reached your shoulders, memorizing the outlines of the curve of your neck where it meets your collarbones, the slope of your chest as you take hot and heavy breaths. 

“Nope,” he insists, pulling back from the kiss, a little bit of spit on his pink lips, “But it’s nice to know you’re thinking about tomorrow.” 

A hand finally finds your chin and pinches it carefully between his thumb and fingers, a careful grip on you to angle you just right so he can all but devour you. Lips, tongues, teeth – it’s a messy ordeal, and you almost make a smart-ass remark that this kiss doesn’t feel very patient. 

But you can’t. Eddie’s taken away all your breaths, all your words, as he starts to guide you backwards. 

Your knees hit the cushions of your sofa, making you jump back from him with a gasp, palms going flat against his chest. 

He feels good. Tender skin soft to the touch beneath your hand, tattoos tempting to trace the outline of. Later. 

“Figured you might want a more comfortable ride,” he laughs against you, breath smelling ever so faintly of mint and whiskey washing over you, before he dips to mouth away at your neck.

You drop back onto the sofa, bite your tongue on a comment about how this cheap piece of furniture most definitely wasn’t the most comfortable option, simply eager at the fact he was letting this move along. 

You want him, you need him, and you have no time for patience. 

His exploration of touches have lit you aflame, and you’re growing a bit desperate at this point. It might be pathetic, it should be embarrassing, but you really don’t care. 

“By all means,” you break out of his hold entirely, catching the way his hand holding your chin lingers a few extra seconds, reluctant to let you go, “Take your seat, Cowboy.” 

He joins you on the couch, eyes never leaving yours even as he throws himself down. Knees spread wide, inviting lap on show, cock still straining against his pants. 

The best seat in the house, as far as you’re concerned. 

“You just gonna keep starin’,” he mocks lightly, looking you over slowly. Taking his time, you suppose, “Or you gonna get over here?” 

His words are all you need. You’re quick to climb onto his lap, swinging your legs so that each thigh brackets his hips, your cunt pressing down on crotch carelessly. You love the way it feels – the outline of him hard against you, the cooling effect of the leather, the sharp edges of the zipper catching just right. 

“There,” he huffs out, grabbing onto you when you give the slightest roll of your hips, “Now we’re both in our seats.” 

When you go to press down harder, guiding yourself over his lap, hands steadying you by gripping his shoulders, he surprises you by his hips jumping up to meet your slow rhythm.

“What happened to being patient?” you try to tease him right back as your forehead meets his, hat comically struggling to stay on between the two of you, “Thought you were gonna take your time with me-”

“Between you and me, I’m not gonna last,” he pants out, hands finding your hips. Those rings you’d been fantasizing of leaving an imprint on you are doing just that as he guides you, “Been dreaming of you too long, sweetheart. Wanted this for so long.” 

Your heart nearly stops. Your hips stutter, pausing as his words rush over you. 

“What?” 

Your head lifts away from his completely, grip on his shoulders tightening. 

He’s wanted this, too? This entire time? 

Eddie takes your pause as a bad thing, a terrible omen as his face pales, “I mean- I just-”

“Munson,” you say lowly, narrowing your eyes at him, “You’re telling me, this entire time, you’ve been flirting with me?” 

Had that tone he used with the girl at the bar been flirting as you’d thought, or simple for show? You’d so cluelessly assumed he’d never used that tone with you because he’d never genuinely flirted with you – and yet, it seems, he’d never used that tone because he’d been genuinely flirting with you. 

“I-” his cheeks are brilliant red, and the wide eyes are from something different than lust now, “Maybe?” 

“Maybe?” you almost laugh, throwing your head back. The hat falls off, but Eddie is quick to retrieve it, “My God, we’re fucking idiots.” 

“Hey, I’m not the one who stole my hat-”

“I like you, dumb ass,” you state plainly, “I wanted this for a while, too.” 

He pauses, one arm outstretched as his hand grips onto the hat, “What?” 

“Been thinking about this, too,” your voice drops a little, almost a whisper, even though you two are the only ones in the room. For all you know, you two might be the only two people left in the world with the way he’s looking at you, “Thinking about you and your lips. Thinking ‘bout your hands and the places they’d go,” as you point out every detail, his body seemingly reacts. A lick of his lips, a squeeze of his hand still on your hip, “Thought about your fingers and tongue a lot, too. How good they’d feel inside me.” 

His hips thrust up at that, and suddenly, he’s placing his hat back atop your head. 

That, it seems, was all the encouragement Eddie needed. 

He deals with that belt buckle that had given you hell, bouncing you a bit on his lap as he fumbles with yanking the entire belt off and tossing it to the side. One hand busies with undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, as the other starts to bunch your dress. 

“Nice and slow,” he insists, looking up at you, absolutely vibrant. Somewhere between the tightness between your hips, all the throbbing between your thighs and in your chest, you feel a sort of bubbly delight creeping up along your spine. “Got it, kitty?” 

You nod once. Twice. On the third nod, he cuts you off with a kiss. 

Your dress is up to your waist, and you don’t know how, but he manages to shimmy off his pants without throwing you off his lap entirely. It’s impressive, really. Probably a symptom of him having thought about this, dreamt about this. He’d probably thought up every scenario possible, and was prepared. 

“Oh, and these?” his fingers find the waistband of your panties, tsking a little as he pulls at the elastic and lets it slap back against your skin, “Those definitely have to come off.” 

“Whatever you say, cowboy.” 

You take your time sliding off his lap, making sure to grind against him before you properly lift away. He throws his head back in a groan, Adam’s apple bobbing as you stand up straight. You take that moment to just admire him, capturing the clench of his jaw to memory, the way his eyes screw shut in pleasure at your influence. 

He’s fucking perfect. You’re sure there’s others who disagree, but you’d pay them no mind. He’s perfect, and he’s all yours. 

You make a show of taking off your panties only once he’s properly looking at you once more, craving his eyes on you as you keep all your movements fluid and steady. No rush, exuding all that patience he’d prattled on about. 

You want to see his face when you gently toss the black lacey piece in his direction, watch him fumble with his own desperation to catch them. 

“Seems a bit unfair that I’m the only one undressing,” you hum as you go a step further and begin to shimmy out of the dress.

“Yeah, well,” he grins cheekily at you, fisting your panties, a hand trailing down to the waistband of his boxers as he eyes you, “One of us was showing a bit more skin than the other.”

“Take off the vest, Eddie.” 

Your command is velvet, and he’s quick to obey. His hand stubbornly refuses to let go of your panties as he rushes to shrug out of the thin fabric over his shoulders, tossing the vest to join his pants and your dress on the floor. 

“And the boxers.” 

You stand there, in nothing but his cowboy hat, as you wait pretty and patient for him to listen. And listen he does. 

The moment his boxers are discarded, his cock is standing at attention, leaking from the tip and deep shade of pink that matches his kiss-bitten lips. You think it might be the prettiest color you’ve ever laid eyes on as you watch a drop of  precum slip down his shaft. 

He’s pretty, even in the fucking pants. 

Girthy, thick enough you almost arch your back before you’ve even sunk down on him. All veins and soft skin, a sensitive tip that you’d trace your tongue over for hours if he let you. 

“Gonna just stand there, or are you going to ride your cowboy?” 

He surely meant to sound more cocky, but the words come out as more of a whine as you watch him twitch under your stare. 

He’s right though, and you’d rather get him inside you than spend another second gawking. There will be time to pay more attention to him and his pretty cock tomorrow. Right now, you need to finish this god-forsaken mission. 

Your thighs find his hips just as his hands find yours, choosing to grip the couch rather than his shoulders as you steady yourself. 

Nice and slow, his words echo in your mind. 

You could have prepared yourself more, but you’d already made it clear to Eddie that you are not a patient person. The fact that you even take your time as you sink down on him, going as far as to grab him by his base and guide his tip to smear precum across your clit, is impressive. 

The stretch is a bit painful. A bit much. A bit dizzying. But you refuse to stop as your jaw drops, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out softly as you feel him fill you, “Fuck, Eddie.” 

“Feel good, baby?” he questions, reaching up to grab your chin just as he had before. Forcing you closer to him, forcing you to look him in the eyes just as he bottoms out. 

You don’t answer him as you both moan out. 

You stay there for a second, unmoving as you swim in the feeling. Feeling him press into the depths of you, the overwhelming warmth and the coil in your abdomen tightening ever so slightly. 

It’s better than you had imagined it. No daydreams could compare to the feeling of Eddie’s cock finally, finally filling you. Stretching you out, making you his. 

“Go ahead,” he grits out, entire body tense, clearly holding out on you, “Ride your cowboy, kitty. Don’t make me ask twice.” 

Nice. And. Slow.

Three little words that ricochet through your mind as you start to slowly bounce on him. Lifting ever so slightly, dropping back down, aching to feel him even deeper inside of you. Feeling the quiver of his thighs to match yours as you repeat the action, gasps and whimpers falling from both your lips. You’re about to try and kiss him, try and swallow all those delicate noises from him, when he stops you. 

“No, no, no,” he’s chuckling, giving your hips a few squeezes before his palms rub down your thighs, the friction sending you on edge, “C’mon, now. We both know that’s not how you ride.” 

His hands rake over your skin, down to your knees, lighting scratching and squeezing along their entire pathway until they make their way back up to your waist and hips. 

“Do it like this, sweetheart.”

He guides you, no longer allowing you to lift up. You sink all the way down on his cock, whining out at the fullness, before he starts the pattern. 

Back and forth. Gentle circles amidst the rocking. Your clit grazes his pubes, and the coil in between your hips has never tightened more quickly. 

The motion feels familiar - like riding a bull. 

This feels right. You still press down, still clench down on him hard enough to make you both slip out obscenities, but it’s getting you there. 

At some point, Eddie’s grip on your hips slips, but it’s fine – you’ve got the rhythm down perfectly. Slow, intermittent figure eights between the rolls of your hips, his occasionally slamming upward to reward you with that deepness you need. You can feel him in your stomach, in your chest, in your throat. 

You get a bit daring, and take one hand to his shoulders, as the other reaches up for the top of the hat on your head. 

Just like a cowboy. 

“Like this?” you pant out between harsher rolls, eliciting curses that continue to grow louder from Eddie. 

“Fuck, baby, yes,” he groans out, head thrown back, mouth open in gratification, “Just like that. Keep- keep going just,” he thrusts up, “Like,” another thrust, “That.” 

You nearly lose balance, falling forward a bit, too stubborn to let go of the hat. There’s a grin glimmering at the corners of your mouth, and it fully blooms when Eddie throws up a hand to catch you .

A hand on your throat. 

He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t cut off blood flow or breathing. He keeps that warm palm there at the base of your neck, cradling you, holding you. A reminder that he could squeeze if he wanted, that he held you in the palm of his hands currently, but he won’t. 

“You like that?” his eyes shine as he looks up at you, the sight of his rings decorating your neck. 

You nod.

“Tell me with your words,” he commands.

“I like it,” you whimper, looking up further, stretching more of your neck to be vulnerable to Eddie. “I like it so much, baby.” 

When the pet name falls from your lips, you can feel him twitch inside of you. The sudden jut of his hips, the sharp intake of breath. 

“You like that,” you laugh breathlessly, your hand atop the hat the only thing keeping it from falling as you lean your head fully back, eyes beginning to roll back into your head. “Wanna be my baby, Munson?” 

“Always have,” he grunts, the hand on your throat slipping up to cup your face to drag you towards him, “Since the fucking moment I met you, sweetheart.”

When he kisses you, it tastes like the closest to Heaven you might ever get. Soft, plump lips, and an eager tongue. All the wasted time hiding behind jokes and teasing, playing pretend like the flirting was never serious.

It was serious. And if you’d just come clean sooner, you would have had this long ago. 

Your hips are still rolling as your hands begin to roam. You’ve found your balance again, lips pressed to Eddie, and it’s your turn to explore all he has to give you. Your nails graze his stomach when your clit catches once more on that rough thatch of hair against the base of his cock. Your fingers dig into flesh wherever they can find it – his chest, his arms, his hips. At some point, you throw a hand out behind you, grasping for his knee. Learning every curve and every point of his body as he had done for you. 

You wanna memorize the roadmap of him. Take a snapshot in your mind so that next time, none of it is unfamiliar territory. 

Your touch is driving him insane; it doesn’t take a genius to pick up on the way his hips falter to meet your movements, or how he keeps breaking the kiss to gasp, letting his jaw fall slack when he hits a particular deep spot within you. 

It’s when your lips finally trail down the stubble sprouting across his jawline, mouth sucking on the soft skin below his ear, that he’s finally a goner. 

“‘M close,” he gasps out, almost sounding drunk as he slurs through his pants, “Ah, fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Cum for me, Eddie.” 

Maybe it’s the way you had been touching him, or the way your cunt had been fluttering around him, or the persistent rolling of your hips that had become so focused on his pleasure. Maybe it was the sight of you in his hat, looking at him like that. Maybe it was the way his name sounded on your tongue. 

Either way, when Eddie Munson comes undone, he’s beautiful. 

Your own movements slow involuntarily as you gaze starry eyed, watching the way his face scrunches and feeling his grip on you tighten impossibly. Leaving their mark, making you his in yet another way. Warmth fills your cunt and every curse word under the summer sun is falling from his lips. 

Your name, curses, prayers, gratitude – a jumbled mess, and it sounds fucking fantastic when it’s said in Eddie’s desperate tone. 

“Shit,” he gasps out, finally coming back down to Earth, “Shit.”

You sit still on his lap, skin sticky with sweat, lips spread thin in a cheeky grin, “Sounds like I get to keep your hat, cowboy.” 

His eyes shoot open, and for a second, you’re terrified.

Those aren’t the eyes of someone satisfied. 

“You didn’t cum.”

“What?”

“You,” he says, stressing the word as he shifts you off his lap. You don’t miss the way he winces, clearly a bit sensitive, “Did not cum.” 

You hadn’t really noticed, too wrapped up in him to notice your high slipping away from you. You’d been too focused on Eddie: on feeling him cum inside you, on watching him break apart, on tracing the outline of the blood rushing to his cheeks with your eyes and that fresh burst of violet on his neck in the shape of your lips. 

“It’s fine,” you start to argue, feeling the warmth of him leaking down your thighs. You should be a lot more worried about making a mess all over your sofa. You should be, but you aren’t. “I can-”

“You’re not keeping that fucking hat until you cum for me, sweetheart.” 

And, oh, maybe your own orgasm wasn’t racing as far away from you as you’d believed, because those words nearly push you over the edge for him. 

“Get on all fours for me, baby.” 

Yeah. You definitely could still be close. For him.

When you don’t move to follow his command immediately, he’s using those gentle hands to guide you. Encouraging a twist of your hips from how you’re reclining back across the couch, letting you press your cheek down against the cushion.

You open your mouth to argue, to insist it was fine, to say anything, but you’re cut silent when a sudden slap lands on your ass. 

A silent command this time, and you’re finally listening. 

You lift your ass up for him on shaky knees, elbows digging into the cushion now instead of your face. The hat on your head is lopsided, and you almost reach up to fix it when- 

“I’ll be taking that,” For the first time since you’d stolen his hat, Eddie takes it back. Right off your head, too fast for you to protest. When you dig your chin into your shoulder to look back at him, he’s smiling, hat back in its rightful place atop his curls, “You can have it back after you cum for me, at least once.”

“At least once?” you mean to laugh, to sound cocky, but it comes out as more of a squeak. 

He shrugs, leaning forward, his bare chest pressing against the skin of your bare ass – right where an imprint of his hand still sings, “At least. By all means, if you feel the need, don’t hesitate to give me a few. God knows you’ve earned it.” 

You don’t have time to banter back; he retracts before bring his mouth down to your cunt, and your elbows quickly give out at the first long stride of his tongue. 

“Gotta get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, a bit muffled, against your cunt. 

Another stride, and this time, his tongue spends an extra second at your clit, circling it salaciously. 

“Oh, God,” you moan out into a mouthful of couch cushion, tempted to bite down to hide all the noises creeping up your throat when his tongue draws yet another circle, tip of his nose pressed to your sensitive hole.

He brings his tongue back to that space, that hole that feels gaping without him filling you now, and you try to bury your cheek only to earn another slap on the ass.

“Don’t be shy now, kitty. Let me hear you.” 

And let him hear you, you do. 

Each lick, short and timid or long and confident, is dredging up obscene mewls from you. When he enters you with it, curling it and pressing as deep as he can, truly cleaning you up as he had said, you’re chanting his name. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” you cry softly, rocking your body back against his mouth, “Your fingers. P-Please, use your fingers.” 

Your wish is his command as he brings his hand up between your legs, breaking from having his tongue buried inside of you and using a calloused pad of his finger to trace over your clit before he begs, “Say my name again.” 

You do. Over, and over, and over as his mouth and his fingers begin to work against you. Careful focus is placed on your clit, and his mouth runs amok between your cunt and thighs. You feel what will no doubt be hickies along the curve of your ass, nips of teeth against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he presses two fingers into you. With every thrust of his hand, your hips are rocking back to match his rhythm, wanting more. 

More, more, more. 

There’s nothing nice and slow about this. You’re chasing after a high, and Eddie is listening to you every step of the way. 

Your thighs begin to shake terribly right around the time your vision blurs, unable to contain the whines that have grown to echoing volumes. Surely, your neighbors can hear. Probably confused as to who Eddie is, probably considering how embarrassing it would be to knock down your door and complain about the noises. 

You really, really don’t give a fuck when white speckles flood your vision, even with your eyes screwed shut, and that tension between your hips threatens to snap. 

Right before your knees give out, your entire body trembling, Eddie pulls back and grabs your hips. You cry out, so close yet so far, until he’s flipping you back over. 

You get one glimpse of him before he goes to work to bring you over that edge – lips and chin slick with you, hair frizzing beneath his hat, a determined glint in his eyes that have your thighs clenching around his ears. 

You were right. Eddie Munson looks damn good between your thighs. 

He quickly returns to his mitigations, and this time, it’s all a bit more strategic. Lips suctioned around your clit and three fingers curling deep within you, a beckoning motion as he urges you to let go for him. 

The white returns behind your eyelids. Your back arches up off the sofa. Your ankles lock as they cross behind Eddie’s back, almost effectively trapping him in place.

You cum hard for him. 

You’re entirely unaware if you scream his name in the process, but you hope you do. As that relief, that ecstasy, floods your system, you hope you make sure everyone within a five mile radius knows who’s responsible. Your entire body continues to shake for far longer than you believe it ever has before. Your hips had lifted, begging for Eddie to keep going even as it all grew painful.

He does. He keeps going, sucking you dry for every drop you have to give him, until you’re physically having to shove him away. 

Your hands are weak as you sink down into the cushion, eyes still closed as you hear him chuckle before you feel him crawl his way back up your body. 

“There,” you don’t even need to see his face to see that smug satisfaction – his voice is dripping in it. “Now you can keep the hat.” 

One of your hands blindly throws itself through the air to smack him, missing entirely as you drift through the afterglow of it all. 

“I’m not sure I’ve earned it,” you mumble as he catches your wrist, limp in the air, “Pretty sure I didn’t break you when I made you cum.”

“Oh, you did,” he notes, hand curling around your wrist. You watch as he slowly brings it to his lips, peppering a few chaste kisses on the soft skin, “Just in a different way.” 

You raise your eyebrows, smiling at the tingling feeling left behind on your skin in the wake of his mouth, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

He tugs you to sit up despite your groan of protest, somehow smoothly maneuvering the two of you so that he’s now the one beneath you, letting the full weight of you bear down on his chest as you lay on top of him. The hand wrapped around your wrist brings it back up for more kisses, more repetitive gentle pecks of affection, as his other arm is quick to wrap around you. Holding you in place, as though he’s scared you might disappear. 

“Well,” you whisper against the bare skin of his chest, nearly shivering when his free hand starts to trail slowly up and down your spine, “Good.” 

Your cheek feels the vibrations of his chuckle, “That’s all you have to say?” 

“Give me a few minutes to recover,” you insist, all but nuzzling into him, “I’m sure I’ll have a smartass comeback for you once I’m…” you trail off, heavy eyes looking up at him, the words lost on your tongue and in the air. 

The gentle curve of his cupid’s bow. The roundness at the end of his nose, still a fading hue of pink. The freckle beneath his right eye. The way the phantom of the dimple of his left cheek never quite leaves his face.

All the things you’ve dreamt of seeing so up close, never knowing it could have been a reality. 

He lets go of your wrist, smiling softly with a shake of his head, “Can’t believe you’re gonna fall asleep on me.”

“Am not,” you nearly say under your breath, sighing in content. 

“Am too,” he mocks, a certain docility to all his teasing before he sighs as well, “It’s okay. You can. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as you hear some rustling, “Promise, cowboy?” 

“Absolutely, kitty. You said something about tomorrow, remember?” 

You both laugh in sync as your couch suddenly becomes the most comfortable place in the world. 

Just before losing consciousness, right as you feel Eddie’s breathing even out along with your own, you decide to open your eyes one last time to catch sight of the cowboy hat perched carefully on your coffee table. 

Tomorrow. You hope for a thousand tomorrows as you decide that that hat is definitely yours now.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Slicked Back & Smitten

Rating: Mature Audiences

Warning: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, spicy, wlw smut, mirror sex, Paige's biceps, paige fucking you while having you in a headlock, !top paige, !bottom reader, light oral (fem reseving), !purple strap Paige, !slick back ponytail P (yes this deserves a warning), fluff

Paring: Paige Bueckers x fem reader

Fandom: Uconn's Women's basketbal

Summary: Slicked Back ponytail P... and she's swollen in the right places too... oh you're down bad baby

Tag: @elliesglock , @elalfywhore , @paxaz535

The morning of the UConn vs. Butler game was absolute chaos. With a 1 p.m. tip-off, I had been up at the ass crack of dawn, running errands before heading to the arena. Meanwhile, Paige was at home, usually getting her game day braids done by Kayla—her routine, her thing.

Except today, Kayla couldn’t do them she was getting over being sick, didn't wanna risk Paige getting sick.

And I? I was too busy being the responsible, errand-running girlfriend to even offer to do them myself.

So, Paige had to figure something out.

By the time I arrived at the arena, the team was already warming up. I greeted a few of the staff members before spotting Kayla on the sidelines, watching the girls get their final shots up before tip-off.

"Did you see what she did?" Kayla asked as I approached.

I was confused. "Who?"

Kayla gave me a look. "Your girlfriend."

I turned my head, scanning the court until my eyes landed on Paige in her love, Abby warm up. And, oh, did my jaw practically drop.

Instead of her signature game day braids, she had done a sleek middle-part ponytail. The gel, the clean parting, the way the ponytail laid so perfectly down her back—it was… different. It was… distracting.

I bit the inside of my cheek, shifting on my feet. "Yeah… I see her."

Kayla snickered, nudging me. "She look good, huh?"

I exhaled sharply, eyes still glued to Paige as she moved across the court, completely unaware of the effect she was having on me. The slick back? The way it emphasized her face, her jawline, her everything? Yeah, it was bad for me.

"Kayla," I started, voice low. "I don’t think you should do her braids next game either."

Kayla howled. "Oh, nah, you down bad!"

I rolled my eyes, pretending like I wasn’t already making plans to personally ensure Paige never wore braids again.

———

The first half of the game was a problem.

Paige was playing out of her mind. She was dropping dimes, hitting threes, getting to the basket with ease—and she looked damn good doing it.

I was trying to focus on the actual game, trying not to be the most obvious girlfriend ever, but every time she drove to the rim, her ponytail swung just right, her edges still perfectly laid despite how much she was sweating.

It was a crisis.

By halftime, I had reached my breaking point.

Sitting in the stands, I pulled my phone out, thumbs flying across the screen as I sent a text Paige wouldn’t see until later.

Me: You need to put me in a headlock when we get back home.

Me: And I need you to consider this slick back ponytail as your new game day hair. Like… permanently.

I hit send, exhaling as I locked my phone. Out of sight, out of mind. I just needed to get through the rest of the game without combusting.

———

Paige didn’t see the message until hours later.

After the game, she had her usual post-game press conference, with Kk and Azzii answering questions about UConn’s dominant win, her own performance, and how it felt playing without her signature braids.

Then came the locker room celebrations, the team hyping each other up, the post-game shower, and finally—finally—Paige was back at our shared off-campus apartment.

Freshly showered, she walked into the bedroom with a towel around her neck, only in her black Nike sports bra and grey boxers sitting perfectly on her waist line, scrolling through her phone finally checking all her notifications.

I was sitting on the bed, scrolling mindlessly myself, until I saw her pause.

Her head tilted. "What the hell?"

I tried to act innocent. "What?"

Paige turned her phone towards me, revealing my very suggestive text from earlier. "This," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Headlock? Really?"

I shrugged, unbothered. "You read it. You know what I said."

She huffed out a laugh, tossing her phone onto the nightstand before crawling onto the bed. She hovered over me, arms on either side of my head, that damn ponytail still sleek even after her shower.

"So," Paige mused, voice dropping slightly. "You liked the ponytail, huh?"

I reached up, running my fingers over the base of it where she had secured it with a black hair tie. "Liked? Understatement."

Paige smirked, dipping down to press a lingering kiss to my jaw. "Liked it enough to text me during halftime about puttin yo ass in a headlock?"

I exhaled sharply. "I was having a moment."

She kissed the corner of my mouth, teasing me. "Mhm. And what kind of headlock we talking about?"

I rolled my eyes, pushing her lightly. "Don’t play with me, Bueckers."

Paige chuckled, finally kissing me for real, slow and deep, before pulling back just enough to rest her forehead against mine. "So… ponytail again next game?"

I nodded immediately. "Absolutely, baby it’s your secret weapon."

She smirked, leaned closer, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispered, "Anything for you, baby. Especially when I get to have my way with you afterward."

I shivered at her words, my heart racing with anticipation. There was something intoxicating about the way she claimed me, the way she took charge. I loved every moment of it, even if it made me feel vulnerable.

Paige stood up suddenly, her playful demeanor shifting into something more commanding. “Come here,” she instructed, her voice firm yet sultry. I followed her, curiosity piqued, as she led me to the full-length mirror on the wall, right next to the bed.

“Look at yourself,” she murmured, her fingers brushing against my neck as she turned me to face the glass. I could see the reflection of us, a flush creeping across my cheeks. “You’re beautiful,” she said, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “But I want you to see what I see.”

Before I could respond, she slowly pulling my satan mini sleep dress, off revealing my body to herself as if she was claming a prize. My heart raced as I realized her intentions. “Paige…” I started, but her smirk silenced me.

“Shh,” she said, a playful glint in her eye. “Trust me, watch me the whole time, ma. ” She walked to the other bed side table to pull out the purple stap, taking the boxers off and expertly securing it around her waist.

I watched her through the Mirror not taking my eyes of her once.

“Now,” she said, walking back to me and now her breath warm against my neck, “I want you to look at yourself in the mirror and think about how good you can be for me.”

She wrapped her strong arms around me, pulling me back against her chest, and I found my breath catching in my throat as I felt her biceps flex around my head.

“Paige, I—”

“Good girls do what they’re told,” she interrupted playfully, flexing her biceps around my chin so I could look up see my own reflection. “Look at you. So pretty, so willing. You’re perfect just like this.”

I gazed into the mirror, my heart pounding as I saw the way she held me—her strength juxtaposed against my vulnerability. I felt a rush of heat surge through me.

“Tell me what you see,” Paige urged, her voice steady yet sultry. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I see…” I hesitated, caught between the thrill of her hold and the desire to please her. “I see… me. I see us.”

“Good girl,” she praised, her voice dripping with satisfaction. I could feel the tension in her body, the way she leaned into me, the heat radiating off her. “Now, tell me how much you want me.”

“I want you, Paige,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. The honesty of my desire sent a thrill through me, igniting a fire that burned deep within. “I want you to fuck me.”

“See? Was that so hard?” she teased, her lips brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “You’re learning.”

Paige turned me slightly, enough that I could see her in the mirror too. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she gazed down at me, and I felt a rush of exhilaration at being at her mercy. “Now, I want you to remember this moment. How it feels to be my good girl.”

With that, she pressed her lips against mine, capturing me in a kiss that was both sweet and demanding. I melted against her, surrendering fully to the sensation of her body against mine. Each kiss deepened my desire, igniting a passion that coursed through my veins.

“Look at us,” she murmured between kisses, her voice low and seductive. “You’re mine, and I’m yours. Together, we create magic.”

Once back on the bed she had me face down ass up, still facibg the mirror.

I gasped as she took her tongue and gave my much needy pussy attention, “You’re so beautiful like this,” she whispered, her breath warm against my thigh just before kissing and biting at it. “I want to make you feel everything.”

After a few mins of practically making out with my pussy, Paige, pulling me up by my hair before locking my head in her biceps again, her lips brushing against my ear as she trailed kisses along my jawline and neck. I could feel her warmth, her desire, and it sent waves of pleasure coursing through me. “Tell me how it feels, and don't be quiet about it either, baby” she instructed, her voice a tantalizing whisper.

“Good,” I breathed, my heart racing. “It feels so good.”

“Good girls deserve to be rewarded,” she replied, her lips curling into a smirk. “And you’ve been so very good, so keep watching in the mirror for me, yeah mamas”

She guided my gaze back to the mirror, forcing me to watch as she explored my body, her hands roaming, her kisses igniting every nerve. “Look at how much you crave this,” she teased, her voice a sultry melody. “You want to be my good girl, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I gasped, the thrill of her words sending me spiraling deeper into desire.

“Then let’s make this a night to remember,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief and passion.

Before I could fully process her movements, she had me pinned, face down ass up into the satan sheets, every inch of my body electrified by her touch. The strap slid deeper, an intoxicating sensation that made my heart race and my mind spin.

I could feel every pulse, every inch of her as she filled me, her confidence radiating through the air. Letting out a groan as if she could actually feel me clenching around her. “Fuck, baby you takin my dick so good. Pussy just swallowin me whole, shit.”

“Paige…” I managed to whisper, but the words were swallowed by the thick tension that hung between us. My body was responding, every nerve ending alive with the thrill of the moment. She held me captive, and I was more than willing to surrender.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, guiding me as she thrust deeper, the rhythm slow at first but building in intensity. I could hear her breathing, a mix of pleasure and desire, and it sent a shiver down my spine. “You’re so perfect for me,” she murmured, a sultry smile playing on her lips. “I could do this forever.”

With every thrust, she drew me closer to a precipice I had only ever dreamed of. The world outside faded away; there was nothing but the two of us, lost in our own universe. I could feel the heat pooling within me, a delicious tension building that threatened to consume us both.

“God, you feel so good,” she breathed, her voice thick with desire. “I want you to look in the mirror when you cum f'me. Watch yourself fall apart on my shit, ma.”

I surrendered completely, allowing myself to be swept up in the waves of pleasure she was creating. The way she moved, the way she filled me—it was intoxicating. I could feel every inch of her, the connection between us palpable, electric. It was as if we were two bodies entwined in a dance as old as time, a rhythm that only we could hear.

“Paige, I…” My words faltered as she hit a spot that made my entire body quiver. I could feel the tension building, spiraling higher and higher until it felt like I might burst.

“Shh, just look in the mirror and feel,” she whispered, her breath hot against my ear. “I’ve got you.”

Her words were like a spell, wrapping around me and pulling me deeper into the moment. I lost myself completely, every thought dissolving into a haze of pure ecstasy. Looking into the mirror watching with way she had my arms pinned behind my back, the determination on her face to make me feel so full. Watching the way my juices leaked on the bed, the way the base of the strap milky white from the way she was pounding me into the bed. The world outside ceased to exist; all that mattered was the connection between us, the way she moved, the way she touched me.

As she pushed deeper, I could feel the heat rising more and more, the pressure building within me. I was teetering on the edge, and I could sense that she was too. And as a last minute act she put me in a headlock again, hips still hitting all the right spot. “Yes, just like that, watch yourself f'me” she urged, her voice a low, sultry whisper. “Let go for me. Yeah ma, cum on my dick.”

With a final thrust, everything exploded, watching myself fall apart on the purple strap. I felt the world around me shatter into a million pieces, the sensation overwhelming and all-consuming. Waves of pleasure crashed over me, leaving me breathless and trembling.

“Just like that, baby. That’s it,” Paige encouraged, her voice a sultry murmur that was so encouraging that I could cum again. “You’re so beautiful when you cum, f'me baby.”

I could hardly respond, lost in the aftershocks of pleasure that coursed through me. I felt her slow down, her movements becoming gentle as she brought me back down from the high. My head resting back on her shoulder for a few seconds before I look at our sweat, cum dripping bodies, in awe

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern flickering in her eyes as they met mine through the mirror.

I nodded, still catching my breath. “More than okay,” I whispered, a smile breaking across my face. “That was incredible.”

Her lips curled into a playful grin, and I could see the satisfaction shining in her eyes. “I’m glad to hear that. But I’m not done with you yet.”

Before I could fully comprehend her words, she shifted her body, and mine her movements fluid and graceful. The strap was still there, a reminder of the connection we shared, and as she positioned herself above me, as I am now on my back, I felt the excitement build once more.

“Just relax and enjoy the ride,” she said, her voice low and enticing.

With that, she began to move again, her body rocking against mine in a way that sent shivers coursing through me. Every thrust was deliberate, every movement intentional, and I could feel myself responding, eager to meet her rhythm.

“God, you’re amazing,” she breathed, her eyes locked onto mine. The intensity of her gaze sent another wave of heat through me, igniting the fire that had only just begun to simmer.

“Paige, you have no idea…” I gasped, my hands finding their way to her hips, guiding her as I tried to keep up with her pace.

We were lost in each other, the world outside fading away once more. The tension built again, a delicious spiral that threatened to consume us both. I could feel the heat rising, the pressure coiling within me, and I knew we were nearing the edge once more.

“Just a little more,” she urged, her breath coming in quick gasps as she pushed herself closer, her voice laced with urgency. “I want to feel you again.”

With her words, I was gone, the tension breaking like a dam as the pleasure rushed over me once more. I could feel her reach her peak too, our bodies connected in a way that felt transcendent.

As we collapsed together, breathless and spent, I couldn’t help but smile. In that moment, everything felt right. We were two souls intertwined, lost in the heat of desire and the sweetness of connection.

“Wow,” I managed to say, a laugh escaping my lips. “What just happened?”

Paige chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. “Just a little magic,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And I think we should do it again.”

I grinned, my heart racing at the thought. “I’m all in.”

---

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[banjo15]

First of all

Canada is booing us

China is booing us

Mexico is booing us

They are our 3 biggest trade partners.

Our 3 biggest trade partners hate us. Is that good for the economy?

“Hey Max, can I buy that sandwich from you? “

“Hey fuck off I know you’re just gonna tax it again”

“What about you Catie, can I buy some wood from you?”

“Fuck you and your tariff tax”

“Can I buy stuff from you, Charlie?”

“Fuck off dude stop taxing us, I hate you capitalists”

What about intersex people? I’d argue they’re a minority. Non-binary, gender-fluid, everyone of the such. They no longer exist because of you. Trans people can’t even leave the country or get a passport.

Literally a high school student I’m 15 dude. I know I couldn’t pass an immigration test, how about you go try to pass one and just come back to me?

My philosophy about illegals is back in the day our grandparents came here peacefully. If they come here peacefully in search of a better life, who am I to deny them that? But if they’re a pedo or a rapist they deserve to get shot, regardless of place of origin, gender identity, sexuality, gender, sex, religion, race, etc.

Trump literally went to Epstein island 7 times. He was best friends with Epstein. Also, did Elon apologize for his actions? No. He made Nazi puns on the internet.

Mexico and Canada is pissed off because first of all, trump said he was gonna BUY Canada.

“Yeah I’m gonna buy your house, what’s your price?”

“Not for sale.”

“You liberal boy, I bet sleepy joe and Kamala told you not to sell it, all you do is just sit down and drink maple syrup. Give me your house.”

“No? Fuck off dude”

“I’m still gonna buy your house.”

*He went up to the next neighbor*

“Also your pool is mine now.”

“Huh?”

“It’s the pool of america”

“No, my pool. Pool of Mexico.”

And Mexico is LITERALLY sending us people to help with the LA fires.

Canada is our friend, why the hell are we trade warring with our brother?

What the fuck even is MSM? I get all my thoughts from people I agree with, and then I think about my thoughts to see if I agree with them.

Denmark said Greenland is not for sale. We are literally pissing off our allies. We are a laughing stock. China is fucking BEATING in ai. “But deep seek is censored” so are all ais. Ask google’s ai if google has ever done anything wrong. And ChatGPT is also censored a decent bit.

As I said before, if you don’t hate so much why can’t they just up and leave? They can’t get a visa.

About abortion… You do know how dangerous pregnancy is right? And I don’t consider ending a pregnancy murder, would you let a tapeworm stay in you if it would turn into a human person?

The reason why women back in the 1950s had kids is because they were lobotomized and on a shit ton of “medication.” After that, they didn’t have many rights. Women couldn’t say “no” to their husbands untill 1993. It took us a bit to give women the right to vote. They couldn’t have a credit card at one point. A driver’s liscense. Lesbians were fucked at the time, do you vote for the Indian woman or the man who and I quote…. “Grab them by the pussy.” He literally called his daughter “volomptuous” and said “if she wasn’t my daughter I’d be dating her.”

You can fact check me on that. No, seriously, fact check me. Do it. I’m begging you.

And as for many cases, abortion is necessary. I’m not gonna go praising it but… it has to exist. What if they get raped? What if it’s incest? What if the pregnant person is underage? What if the pregnancy threatens their life? Denying them abortion doesn’t seem so “pro-life to me.”

“But that’s less than 1%”

So are trans people and people similar to you have campaigned to take their rights away.

Me personally I feel like they can be a man or a woman if they want to IF they don’t hurt anybody. If I gender-swapped you I’m quite sure you would want your original gender.

My argument for/agaisnt trans children is there are Christian children. I’d argue they shouldn’t go through a life changing procedure they likely won’t be able to un-do for the rest of their lives untill they’re 18/21. If children can be trans, why can they be Christian? Why can they participate in religion they’re supposed to be devoted to untill they die?”

Even then, what about single mothers? Do you want them to suffer through it? Childbirth is a punishment from god, yes? I read the Bible. Why should we punish these women for having sex? I feel like you shouldn’t have to labor a baby just because the boy from the dinner date thought you were hot, you thought they were hot, so you fucked. Imagine if men were in a coma for 9 months after sex. And there was a chance of that happening but instead.. after a baby pops out of them. I’d argue most men would get abortions and it would be a normal thing. And if god cares so much about abortions… why does he let miscarriages happen? That’s another pro-abortion talking point. Should they have an abortion if they know damn well the baby can’t survive out of the womb? And another thing, what if they can’t financially afford to have a child? “Adoption” not all kids get adopted. I was adopted and I wouldn’t have minded getting aborted to be honest dude. I know a lot of people would, friends, family, etc. I don’t support killing out of the womb though. And even then, if you care about children so much, are you willing to make safer gun laws to stop school shootings? Are you willing to donate to homeless children in need? You’re not willing to make insulin cheaper for diabetic people (and children), you’re not willing to fund cancer research (for adults and children), what are you willing to do for children?

And we can both agree that the world is a horrible place for kids, left or right.

Another thing… why the fuck would the FBI make the protests violent? If that’s your justification for that then why didn’t the FBI make the blm protest violent? Black Lives Matter was good in concept, but people looted local businesses to make a point. I still think Black Lives Matter, I just don’t really know if I should support the organization that says so.

There are J6ers who rejected their pardon. They agree that what they did was wrong, why can’t you? Even then, what about the J6ers who… Beat up a police officer? So many others beat up police, I thought you backed the blue? The whole movement was to “fight for your country.” Trump told you to… Fight. Fight. Not protest, not speak up, fight. Fight tooth and nail for your “freedom”. And if you don’t hate minorities why don’t you support DEI? And the plane crash wasn’t because of it it’s because trump FIRED everyone. Literally.

The Nazis called themselves socialists because at the time everyone loved socialism. Do Nazis fight for workers rights? Do Nazis fight for free healthcare? Do Nazis give a fuck about equality? Hell no. Nazis didn’t support a community where they have the means of production. He was a capitalist, if he was a socialist he couldn’t afford to make the wonder weapons that he usually made. If communism is socialism capitalism is facism. I’d argue that if I was a big ceo who makes a shit ton of money, would I vote for the people who tax the rich, who give workers rights, or enslaved everyone to work under me? I would vote for the slaves because I’d be a billionaire, but I’m not so I have basic empathy for people less fortunate than me. Do you?

I’d argue I could beat you up with the American flag.

Yo, correct me if I am wrong please, but didn't Hitler rise to power because he promised to fix the German economy and people really liked that so they looked past everything else he was doing??? Like exactly what's happening in America right now???

So many people said they voted for Trump, put a truly evil person in power, because he said he'd fix the economy, and a little voice in my head is going, "Isn't that what happened with fucking Hitler??"

But I've seen no one point that out so maybe I'm miss remembering???????

[xi-vz]

Look at me back on my BS. HC—Shen Yuan looks like Mobei Jun.

•

•

•

Shen Yuan was a cute guy, at least his mom always said he was. He honestly didn’t care much for his looks. He was a teenage boy, and his interests lied with books, gaming, and trolling the comments section of the PIDW forums.

So maybe this whole thing was the forums fault?

Apparently Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky was going to make his first ever public appearance at a convention—it was exciting stuff seeing as PIDW just received a live action TV deal. (Shen Yuan wondered if the TV show would be able to transform the utter garbage parts into gold.)

Shen Yuan, with the fervor only a true (anti) fan could muster, scrambled to get his hands on a convention ticket the moment they went on sale. His parents even encouraged him! Happy to see him excited for something other than the internet. Securing his place, he also entered the cosplay competition where Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky would be a judge. Because why not? When else would he get to dress like a xianxia character?

It took him a while to decide who he wanted to dress up as. Look, if it were up to Shen Yuan he’d have been Luo Binghe. But, one, he doubted he could pull it off. Two, there were probably going to be a ton of Luo Binghe’s.

“Be the ice king,” his younger sister suggested one evening while the two fo them were hanging out in Shen Yuan’s room. She was busy on her Switch while he was on his laptop.

“Mobei Jun?” He asked, a skeptical look on his face.

“Yeah! You look like him.”

Which was untrue but whatever. Since he didn’t have any other ideas, he spent weeks (months) perfecting his costume, studying every detail from the illustrations and fan art.

(Shen Yuan learned how to sew for this costume!)

(And spent way too much money on commissioning what he couldn’t make.)

“You need to bulk up a bit,” his second older brother suggested one night. “I read some of Proud Immortal Demon Way, and Mobei Jun isn’t a twig like you.”

“Ha, A-Yuan is more of a twink,” his eldest brother teased.

So…Shen Yuan began to work out. He still had a few months until the costume contest.

It was hard at first, but his doctor had been on board. Granted, Shen Yuan couldn’t really get buff within a few months, but he did wind up with the beginnings of abs, his shoulders broadened and his ass looked great. There were a bunch of girls (and some guys) who made eyes at him at school now. Not that Shen Yuan noticed. But, he did notice that for the first time in his 19 years, he felt healthy.

When the day of the convention finally arrived, Shen Yuan found himself subjected to his sister's meticulous and admittedly skilled hand. She styled his already long black hair, adding extensions to achieve the full, flowing mane of Mobei Jun. She also worked some magic with makeup, highlighting his naturally icy blue eyes, which he had always considered a genetic defect, but today they were his greatest asset.

When he looked in the mirror, he barely recognized himself. There stood Mobei Jun, the demon king, imposing and cold. Shen Yuan’s heart pounded with excitement and a tinge of apprehension as he made his way to the convention center. His siblings in tow, because they wanted to root for him. As embarrassing as that was.

Upon arrival, the crowd was bustling with anticipation. Shen Yuan attracted a lot of attention—both for his stunning costume and his uncanny resemblance to Mobei Jun. A lot of people called out “my king!” As he walked by them, his cloak billowing behind him.

Damn, he felt majestic as fuck.

As he stood before the judges—a voice actress, a manhua artist and Airplane himself—he couldn’t help but feel a mix of pride and anxiety.

That was until he saw Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky for the first time. And. Wow. Okay.

Airplane was younger than Shen Yuan thought. Maybe 20; handsome, which was so weird. Square-jawed, in great shape with his DanDaDan graphic tee stretched enticingly over his pecs and biceps. His hair was curly and kept in an attractive undercut. He wore glasses and had ear piercings and a lip piercing and dimples and a sleeve tattoo. What? What the fuck?

Was Shen Yuan experiencing heart palpitations?

Airplane looked exactly how Shen Yuan envisioned Luo Binghe to look.

Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky's dark eyes widened in surprise and delight at seeing a Mobei Jun cosplay. It wasn’t done often, the king was not a fan favorite. But, his jaw dropped as he stared.

Something happened when Shen Yuan and Airplane's eyes met. A zing went up Shen Yuan's spine. Airplane stopped the contest then and there and declared Shen Yuan the winner while jokingly (not really) asking for his phone number. They did get to chat later, one-on-one, when Airplane began to sign autographs into books.

“Well, My King,” Airplane smiled at Shen Yuan, and there went his heart again! Which was bad, and meant that Shen Yuan probably needed to see a doctor. “What name shall I write out as the receiver of this book?”

“Um,” Shen Yuan’s brain scrambled. Did he give his name? Did he coyly say Mobei Jun? Ah, he didn’t know what he was doing! That was his only excuse as he blurted out, “Peerless Cucumber.”

Airplane froze.

Shen Yuan froze.

And then Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky began to laugh.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

Omg just read your love potion fic for rafe, and it was SO good. Please please think about making a continuation!!!!

a/n: back at it again with part 3! this time we getting sluttyyyyyy

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

| previous part |

masterlist | join my taglist

“Wait, baby,” you tried to pry your boyfriend’s lips off of your neck as they danced down the length of it, and his greedy touch began to wander up your skirt, “not here!”

“Why not?” Rafe murmured against your skin. He didn’t even offer the fellow college students surrounding the wall he had you pressed up against a single glance as he clearly had other priorities than getting drunk at yet another frat party, “let them watch,” he snuck his fingers up even higher till his touch found your core, “let them see me pound your pussy till she cries,” he drew greedy patterns over your panties, making your cunt clench in response, “at least then they’d know who you belong to.”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you actually have me considering it…” your eyes fluttered up towards the ceiling as he pressed the tent in his pants up against your thigh, “how are you even hard again already?” you asked, half horrified as the two of you had literally just stumbled back downstairs after he’d yet again not been able to keep his insatiable paws off of you.

“How can I not be when the girl I love is so amazing?” he casually dropped the meaningful declaration that he’d repeatedly uttered ever since that very first day when you’d given him that 

enchanted muffin that changed him forever, the sun hadn’t even set that evening before he’d spat out those three words you’d so long yearned to hear, although now, weeks later, they didn’t settle deep within you in quite the same way. Shifting his hand, he then stuffed it down into your underwear without a care in the world who might see, “I would do fucking anything for you…”

It was rare these days that you weren’t sore, as a ravenous sex drive was one of the numerous side effects that had come along with the love spell you perhaps should have thought through a bit more carefully. Though you had been aware of the severity and danger of such charms, it was another thing to endure it in real life and come to accept that, for example, having a boyfriend who couldn’t stop himself from stalking you was a reality you simply had to live with. For even if you were admittedly in over your head, the darker sides to the deal were something you’d just have to find a way to deal with, since that way, you’d at least still have him. 

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[sayyestoheav3nn]

Nights Like This Short: Three Little Words

Roman x black!oc 

Warnings: fluff, suggestive content 

Word count: 1.2k

a/n: going to start working on part six of ‘nights like this’ tonight. but in the meantime, i lowkey had the urge to write a little fluff lol. why do i feel like y’all are lowkey going to hate this man even more now lmaoo 🙃 click here to be added to my tag list 🤍

Roman’s backyard was filled with his family’s laughter and chatter. There was no denying that he enjoyed when they came to visit, however, there was just so fucking many of them it didn’t take much to become a slightly overstimulating event. 

He took a deep breath, letting the warm sun along with the calm ocean breeze relax him. 

As his family mingled, he couldn’t help but to grin at the sight of his two five year old nieces latched on to Zoe as if they’d known her a lifetime. Since the moment she introduced herself to them, the tiny gremlins hadn't left her side. 

Roman’s mom seemingly came out of nowhere and stood beside him, she smiled as her gaze shifted to the scene her son’s eyes were very much glued to.  

Her heart beamed as she watched Zoe play tag with her granddaughters, “She’s a lovely girl, Roman. I’m looking forward to seeing your own little ones running around here one day…” she teased. 

Roman smiled to himself, staying quiet as he took a sip of his beer. Truth be told, it had been a subject in the back of his mind for a while now. There were so many nights he’d lay awake thinking about their future, while Zoe peacefully slept on his chest.

For years one of his biggest fears was getting one of his fuck buddies pregnant. 

This was the reason his rotation consisted mainly of women on the WWE roster, they made it clear the last thing they wanted was to get knocked up at the height of their careers. Which worked out for him perfectly, because the thought of having a kid with someone he felt absolutely nothing for, scared him shitless.

That was until Zoe came into his life.

From the moment he laid eyes on her, he knew she was different. And in getting to know her, seeing her for who she really was, Roman knew there was absolutely nothing in this world he wanted to experience without her.

Roman’s mom studied him, because as good as he thinks he is when it comes to hiding his emotions, she easily sees right through him. “You love her, don’t you son?”

He’d never been more sure of anything in his fucking life, “With all my heart.”

“Then what’s stopping you from telling her?”

Roman looked down, his gaze focused on the grass. “I just…just don’t want her to think it’s too soon.” 

“Sweetie, look at her.” His focus was now redirected back to Zoe, her beautiful smile radiating as she was immersed in a conversation with Naomi, and his sister Mariana. 

“Zoe has been surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces in the span of a day, I’m sure that must be an overwhelming experience for her. Yet, she’s selfless, giving each and every one of us a glimpse of who she is, while still wanting to learn more about our culture and who you are.”

“If that’s not love…I don’t know what is,” she continued.

Roman stayed silent, while giving his mom a hug. He started making his way towards Zoe, but unfortunately didn’t make it very far, due to Jey and Jimmy stopping him to help make a damn bonfire.

They spent over twenty minutes setting it up, the task was slightly more difficult considering it was brand new and Roman had never used it before.

Once he was finally left to himself he made his way back in the house after noticing Zoe was no longer outdoors. Mariana couldn’t help but to laugh seeing her brothers eyes dart around the room trying to find her.

“Look at ‘Mr no strings attached’, finally introducing us to a girl. I honestly never thought I’d see the day.”

Roman rolled his eyes, “Shut up. Where is she?”

“She’s in the office,” Mariana walked in front of him, blocking his path. “I know you aren’t used to actually being emotionally connected with someone, but please don’t fuck this up Ro. Women like her, can’t be replaced,” she muttered.

“I know,” he sighed. Although his sister tends to annoy the hell out of him, he knows she means well. Her words lingered on his mind for a moment, Zoe's past experience with her ex was something he was always mindful of. Hearing what he put her through, was something he never wanted her to go through again.

She stepped aside as he headed for the office. Roman reached for the door, and carefully twisted the doorknob, “Hey, was wondering where you were.”

Zoe looked back at him, a smile tugged the corner of her lips. “Sorry, I wanted to make the girls a cute little bow for their hair.”

“Damn, they already got you wrapped around their little fingers huh,” he smiled.

“Something like that,” she chuckled.

There was a small sense of nervousness gnawing at him, deep down he wondered if telling her would scare her off. He knew this was a big step, and wholeheartedly understood the weight that comes with those three words. 

But there was absolutely no denying what he feels for her, she means absolutely everything to him. And whether she feels the same or not, he needs her to know.

Roman walked behind her as she stood cutting small pieces of fabric. He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist pulling her closely to his chest, his head made his way into the crook of her neck, “I love you, Zoe.”

She paused slowly turning around to face him, tears brimmed in her eyes as she used both her hands to grab his face. There was a brief period of silence, as she looked into his eyes.

“I love you too baby.”

Roman smiled before pressing his lips into hers, Zoe stood on her tiptoes, attempting to slide her arms around his neck. He chuckled and picked her up, hoisting her on his waist. 

Their kiss deepened as Roman slowly began to inch up her dress.

“Roman not now.. your family is here,” she giggled.

“So what?” He sat her down on the table and slid his hands to the warm spot between her legs. Zoe’s mouth instantly parted as Roman’s fingers worked past the fabric of her underwear, teasing her already slick folds. “Let them entertain themselves for a bit, while daddy takes care of you.”

“Fuck...” Roman’s dick was rock hard as he watched her slide down her underwear and slowly spread her legs apart. Roman licked his lips, his mouth practically salivating at just the thought of tasting her sweet pussy. Just as he was about to get in position to feast on the woman he loved, a loud ass knock on the door interrupted them.

“One second,” Zoe scrambled to get off the desk and fix her dress, she was relieved Roman made the choice of locking the door.

“It’s Mariana, sorry the girls wanted me to ask if you wanted to join us for a swim?”

“Of course! I’ll meet you guys in a minute.”

Zoe turned to Roman as she slid her underwear back on. “You coming?”

His jaw clenched as he sighed, “I need a minute.” Zoe glanced down immediately understanding why. Roman’s huge bulge was damn near bursting at the seams.

“Shit, I’m sorry baby,” she kissed his cheek and discreetly stepped out of the room.

There was no doubt they were going to make up for it. 

All fucking night, that was for damn sure.

[bambisnc]

          . . SYNC-LOVE

° ˖ ➴ i don't wanna play this stupid love game.

### . STARRING ⌢ OT4 ⋆ crack. fluff. + 0.8k // dating as a bet trope + slight implied angst + intentional lowercase ˖ ✧

🗨️ .. ⌞ XOXO ⌝ kep1ers discography is so fire dude + [m.list]

౨ৎ ˖ 유지민 — ❪ YU JIMIN ❫  

to be fair, karina is too level headed to be inherently okay playing with someone’s feelings and potentially hurting them really bad just “for funsies.” so she’d really need some good manipulation to convince her. but once she commits, you just know she’d go all out.

would do it in such a flawless way too; her strategy would first and foremost involve befriending you to gain your trust. only after she knows there’s no way you’d refuse her, would she start dropping hints of her being romantically “interested” in you.

there’s no room for error in her plan, after all. but then, she ends up getting too invested in you and your eyes, your smile, your flustered little giggles whenever she acts a little too bold.

there’s an actual moment where she can physically feel her entire being go, “oh, fuck.” and suddenly, she’s in too deep.

nothing she could do now would be able to justify her actions. while rina’s stewing, wondering if there’s anything, anything at all that she can do to protect you, one of her scumbag friends who urged her towards the bet probably beats her to it, letting info about it slip mid conversation. cue angst of the highest quality.

          ⋅ ˚ ଳ ₊ ‧ others utc

౨ৎ ˖ うちながえり — ❪ UCHINAGA AERI ❫  

when faced with the idea of the bet, giselle’s actions would solely depend on what’s at stake. only if the money or other perks offered are something she really can’t pass up on will she even consider agreeing.

if not, of course, it’s a flat out refusal. but (for the sake of plot) assuming she does agree to it, she’s being straight up with you from the get go. approaches you one day, and tells you all about the bet as diplomatically as she can.

my girl really don’t gaf, she’ll ask you to split profits for fake dating her for a couple months. even if by the end of it you don't end up dating, you'll at least have a new partner in crime so it's really a win win! ⋆

if you do end up catching feelings, she'll make so many references to your origin story, everyone around you would be sick of it. would call you the bonnie to her clyde ><

౨ৎ ˖ 김민정 — ❪ KIM MINJEONG ❫  

i’m thinking idiots to lovers, 10k, slow burn.

99% chance that her friends only said it because she's been crushing on you for a while now but refused to admit it. and for the bet, winter really tries hard. like, she really does. but her method of doing it is just … so odd that you’re just left confused about what’s going on. asks you out on a complete whim (like maybe 1 minute after agreeing to the bet), but she’s quite clumsy – embarrassed, even, about it.

she's totally unsure of how exactly to go about it – it’s rather endearing, really. so you end up saying yes. mostly only because she’s cute. and then she drags you on a couple awkward dates with her after which she decides to come clean because she feels too bad (also her heart can't really take how you're so ... perfect with her).

but lmfao by that time you've probably grown super fond of her so you just kiss her cheek and ask her if you can take her out on an actual, proper date. to make up for the whole bet thing, of course. no other reason! <3 

౨ৎ ˖ 宁艺卓 — ❪ NING YIZHUO ❫  

similar to winter, she tries her hardest (for the plot ><) and honestly it might have had the potential to work as well as karina’s save for the fact that her reputation ended up being her downfall.

she’s known for being goofy, funny and silly so you don’t really take it seriously when she pulls up with a whole ass bouquet, chocolates, love letters – any big romantic gesture, you name it, ready to serenade you. hence, the entire process of you actually agreeing to date her ends up being just so, so drawn out.

by the end of it you do somewhat catch feelings for real but ningning would be so shocked that at first she'd withdraw from you completely. ghost you for a little before you corner her against a wall or something and demand an explanation. at which point she'd realize that ... you're actually so cute like this? and ... why is her heart beating so fast right now? the judge's ruling is an obligatory happy ending with her impulsively kissing you to stop your rants about how she's such a hypocrite to chase after you and then run away the second you reciprocated.

handsomely bribes her friends to never bring up the bet because she can't afford losing you. <3 (you probably alr know though. she ain't discreet.)

𐙚 . regulars : none yet! ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

[boogermuscles]

"JOHN IS CIS!! that is an all American boy! but like tmasc Dave teehee :3 i love trans ppl!"

KILLING U W MY MIND LASER IMMEDIATELY!!! U WILL BE A SMOKING PILE OF ASH SOON!!! AHHHHHHHHH

[floweringtheflowersssssss]

───────────────────────────────

.ᐟsevika eating you out on your period...

content warning!. vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, age gap, period sex.

───────────────────────────────

you were woken up by the sunlight creeping in your room and the sharp stabs of pain in your lower stomach. whining in annoyance, you took ahold of your pillow, bringing it up to cover your face, trying to block the light out, but the feeling of heat between your thighs—no fingers curling in the deepest parts of you—tears a whimper from you.

yanking the covers back, the sight that greets you makes a moan tumble out.

sevika's hair was messy from slumber and her shirt discarded elsewhere. her hands were curled around your thighs, holding you open as she devoured you as if you were a juicy exotic fruit. her lips and cheeks were stained with red wetness, blood, along with your own arousal. it was breathtaking the way her eyes were dilated, the pure hunger in the way she ravished you. fuck....

sevika always fucked you while you were on your period; she never turned away the offer to take you; she didn't care where it was; she'd always bend you over and fuck you until you reduced to nothing but tears and sobs of pleasure; it was her thing.

"f-fuck," you gasp as she gives a particularly hard suck on your clit. your hands shoot down to grab onto her hair, tugging at the dark locks. you're rewarded with a moan that vibrates through you, coaxing a new gush of arousal to drip down on her tongue. she pulled back from your leaky cunt long enough to slip two thick fingers inside of you, soaking up the knee jerks and whimpers.

her fingers were a gift sent down from god, skillful, able to make you cum in just a few touches. your back arched as her mechanical hand slid up your body, slipping underneath your thin little nightgown to cup your tits. she rolled your nipple between your fingers, and you mewled, pushing your chest further up into her. it should be illegal how good she made you feel, like you were floating.

"sev──" voice breaking as her fingertips rubbed against the spongy spot inside of you, pleasure coursed through your veins.

"hmm?" her red-stained lips kissed your inner thigh sweetly, a stark contrast to the fast-moving fingers inside your heat. "what is it, doll?"

"i──"

you couldn't speak; all you could do was moan as she took what she craved.

the hand on your tit pulled away to land a slap to your thigh hard. the force of metal hitting your skin was enough to tear a yelp from your throat. you whimpered, pain blooming up your thigh, but the pain made you gush.

"shit," sevika laughed, pulling her fingers out of you covered in the webs of blood and slick.

connected, they were, and you couldn't even be ashamed because it felt so good as she slid them back inside of you, easing in a third as her mechanical fingers rubbed at your clit. the cold of the metal and the warmth of her skin sent you into a spiral of confusion, unsure if you wanted to rock your hips down or buck them up. "you're soaked, doll. does it feel good?"

what a stupid question, considering you were nearing your peak

no response.

you couldn't form anything other than a babble of pleas begging her to keep going. her grey eyes hardened, and she pinched your clit just to hear that squeaky whimper. heat curled in her gut.

"open your eyes," she demanded, gruff and in charge. "look at me, girl. don't make me tell you twice."

oh, the way she spoke made your chest heave. she was so much older than you, and she made sure you knew it, always using that condescending tone on you....

you forced your eyes open so you could glance down at her taking in the mess of her. you couldn't help but feel embarrassed. this was so dirty, so raw, blood was staining your thighs as well as your pink satiny sheets. it stained sevika's mouth like she had dug into a juicy pomegranate and not your sopping cunt. she grins up at you, wild, and unashamed, and at the same time, she sucks your sensitive nub back into her mouth, reveling in the noises you let out.

you whine, spreading your thighs wider in invitation for her to go faster── and god, does she do just that.

her fingers pound into you, each time a gush of arousal drips out or a drop of blood; she fucks it back into you, not letting up even as you thrash and cry and grip her shoulders.

she sucks your clit until it’s throbbing against her tongue. she spits dirty words at you until your thighs are squeezing her head so tightly she fears she may suffocate. she ignores her own aching core in favor of bringing you to your orgasm.

she loves making you cum, loves how each orgasm seems to taste sweeter than the last, loves your taste even more. she could eat you out for hours and would never get bored. there’s a certain liking she's taken to your cunt, one that has her head buried between your thighs for what feels like hours. it’s her duty to make you cum as many times as she possibly can, and today it’s only the first.

your orgasm feels like you’ve left reality for a moment. white splatters across your vision for a moment, dots taking over shapes and shapes turning into blurs of stars. the heat burning in your stomach was a raging inferno starting from the deepest pits of your belly and rising up to your head.

your release shoots out of you, hot and pulsing and so, so wet. you're......squirting all over sevika's forearm and chin, creating an even bigger mess than before, the bloody stain growing larger by the second, the burning desire increasing. all you can do is suck in gulps of air as you try to come down from your high. you curl in on yourself weakly, pushing sevika away to bring your legs up to your trembling body, sensitive and so, so tired.

large, wet hands grip you by the calves, yanking you back down the bed.

you whine in confusion and peek an eye open.

your gorgeous lady simply yanks your thighs back open and, to your despair, pushes three fingers back inside you. you cry out weakly, coming out as a garbled whine as she abuses your sloppy hole. sevika chuckles, a deep smirk shaping her dark lips. "sweetheart..." her fingers press right into your sweet spot. "you can give me one more, can’t you? be a good girl and keep your legs open."

not proofread <3

[arcadiaamber]

so close! she actually had an infatuation with him, but it was most likely because he was her idol and she looked up to him. as for her calling chloe gross, you can tell by her tone that she is literally just joking wifh her and chloe even picks up on the fact that max mightve had a crush on him considering the multiple jokes she had made regarding that.

the drawing is something shes always done 😭😭😭 she has drawn fucked up things in lis1 and its most likely to cope with the fact that she has endured so much trauma...

Alright what the fuck

I've been having fun till now reacting to all the dumb shit deck nine put in this game, but honestly this is the only thing that made me genuinely upset. What the actual fuck is that drawing????? Why on earth would Max ever draw herself like that??? Like wtf she almost looks like she's smiling, sleeping peacefully 🤨🤨🤨 This was literally one of the most traumatic events of her life, I'm pretty sure that's not how she remembers it.

And also "I was infatuated with a hot teacher" what the ACTUAL FUCK are you guys smoking at deck nine?????? When the fuck was Max ever infatuated with Jefferson, or ever called him hot??? She literally told Chloe it was "gross" when she called him hot, and heavily criticized Victoria for her flirting with Jefferson. Max was NOT infatuated with him, she had that typical "crush" that is born out of admiration rather than physical or romantic attraction.

Like what the actual fuck, deck nine?

[s0fter-sin]

cw mild horror

johnny moves into a new house with his dog riley after his last relationship implodes

it's on the older side, a fixer upper; a project he can lose himself in so he doesn't have to let himself think of how his ex used him up just to toss him aside. the backyard's huge with a cluster of trees ringing the property that look beautiful in the sunset. it even has a basement, rarely seen in the uk, that's perfect to store all the supplies he'll need to fix the place up

the only downside is how far away it is from everything; it takes a good hour to drive to anything

but johnny has riley and that's all he needs

he talks to him as he works on the place; promises a new start for them both, that this could be the place they always needed. sure it's old and the groans and scratches that occasionally come from the walls can be a bit unsettling and the smell coming from the dumbwaiter is… concerning but johnny needs this place to work; he needs something to go right and be his and if that thing is a slightly creepy house then so be it

it was a steal; he still can't believe how cheap he got it considering the size of the block but the realtor seemed all too happy to be rid of it. she couldn’t tell him much about the place beyond the size of the land and that it only belonged to two people since it was built; the original owner who built it before it went abandoned for a decade or so until it was bought by a young couple who owned it for over thirty years

he asked about the couple, if they were happy in the long years they lived here, but she just said it wasn’t her place to say. johnny just shrugged; guess confidentiality extends beyond doctors these days

riley sticks by his side as he evaluates the house, figuring out what needs to be done and what to prioritise. he gives himself a week to wallow, living out of boxes with battery powered lanterns to light his - admittedly dismal - dinners before he gets to work. he decides to start with the wiring and old electricity box in the basement. riley occasionally gets distracted by some smell in the old vents but always coming back when johnny starts talking again

it's late by the time he gets the lights to finally stay on so he decides to shower in his newly lit bathroom and turn in

he's laying in bed, hair still wet, when he hears the scratch of riley's nails on the floorboards and sighs, swinging an arm down the side of the bed for pets if riley wants them; wiggling them in invitation when feels his breath on his fingers

"am i doing the right thing?" he asks him. "just- up and leavin'? i don't miss him. i don't... but... should i have tried to make it right 'stead of runnin' with my tail between my legs?"

riley's breaths are all that answer him

then he remembers his ex's apathetic face when he walked in on him in their living room; when he looked him right in the eyes and didn't even bother to stop his moans or hide the legs slung around his waist

"that shouldn't be on me," he growls. "he's the one who decided to nail that goddamn tart- i shouldn't be the one to have to fix shit. he should've been the one on his knees beggin' me to stay."

and he did beg- begged him not to sell the flat he owned and already paid off, the one his ex never spent a dime on rent on yet still had the audacity to ask to stay until he found a new place to fuck his side piece in

"just... why didn't he try?" he whispers. "...why wasn't i enough?"

johnny flinches as riley's tongue laps at his fingers, thick and wet and gross, and he huffs a laugh. "you're right," he smiles. "we're better off without him. just you and me, aye boy?"

he doesn't stop licking and johhny laughs again, pulling his hand back to wipe off on the sheets

"nasty boy," he chuckles. "least you love me."

a whine comes from the bedroom door and johnny frowns, looking over as the door swayed open; he thought he treated those hinges already, the sound was driving him nuts

bloody old place, he groans, sitting up-

and freezes when riley cocks his head at him from the doorway

johnny's throat constricts, ice flooding his system while the warm, wet saliva still on his hand burns. his neck protests as he slowly turns to his left, his quickening breaths roaring in his ears; everything in him begging him to not to look-

and screams when he sees a pair of brown eyes and wet lips spread in a wild grin before the man throws himself back into the vent in the wall

the same scratching and groaning johnny’s heard since the day he moved in following him as he crawls somewhere inside the house

[whoreiorcats]

That passage in the you you are where mark and Ricken get into a fight is another example of mark wanting to keep the grief of Gemma to himself.

How could some idiot like Ricken understand his pain or even share in it? Mark’s grief is so vast he can’t imagine how anyone could bear even a fraction of it. Mark can’t bear it (goes on to microdose on suicide)

But the truth is Ricken does feel it. Gemma was kind to him and indulgent in ways Mark certainly never was and might’ve been more so than his wife at times (when you live with someone you have to draw a line, lol)

I really think that anyone obsessing over severance rn should go and read/listen to The You You Are and I’m about to spoil the juiciest part of it so go!!!

Anyway, Ricken is trying to get a gift he gave Gemma before she died back from Mark and mark can’t find it. Mark blows up at Ricken and tells him that Gemma actually made fun of his gift, that the joy she received from it was at his expense. That “everyone laughs at you the second you walk out of the fucking room” Gemma included.

He’s trying to tarnish Ricken’s memory of Gemma severely and it works to some extent. Ricken recognizes that this mocking laughter will effectively be the last thing he ever “hears” from Gemma.

Ricken tries to make seem like he’s healed from this fight but it’s clearly stung him badly. The whole book is obviously Ricken processing his emotional wounds from childhood to today which actually makes the book an interesting read.

Mark wants people to have liked his wife less so he doesn’t have to think about or consider their pain in regards to her death. GOD mark is just such a good depiction of grief: it’s not beautiful or gentle or anything it’s ugly and it’s isolating. And I feel for them both in the end.

Also reading it from the perspective of Innie Mark will make you insane highly suggested!

[ccazimi]

Poltergeist!

cw: sukuna x ghost!reader, pure CRACK, humorous mentions of a foot fetish, heian era au

wc: 2.5k

a/n: perhaps i will continue this idk yet :P

Sukuna had found the perfect place to settle down after years of simply wandering amidst the forest. The shrine was nestled away within a misty crop of trees at the base of a large mountain, overgrown with vines and surrounded by towering cedar and pine trunks.

The wood had faded to a grayish-brown, bright vermillion paint flaked off to leave patches of dull red. It was large enough that the grounds included storage rooms, a sprawling overgrown garden, and servants’ quarters - all laid out behind the grand torii gate.

Perfect. After a few servants and workers he kidnapped from nearby villages, the place had come alive in no time.

What Sukuna didn’t consider was the possibility that the shrine was already inhabited.

It started with nothing more than a cold draft here and then, or an oil lamp abruptly extinguishing itself in the middle of the night. Sukuna swears his memory must’ve gotten worse since he got here too because he swore he’d closed the door to the garden last night, that he’d kept the manuscripts he was reading on the low table beside his futon.

Not to mention that slightly unnerving feeling that he’s being watched sometimes, late at night when he’s alone in his room trying to sleep.

Not even a week later everyone runs to a corridor after one of the maids starts shrieking at the top of her lungs.

Sukuna arrives disgruntled amidst the commotion, utterly aggravated that he was interrupted during a meal out of all times.

“What the hell is this all about?!” He growls, staring pointedly at the young woman who’s clearly been spooked by something.

“I- I think this shrine is haunted, Lord Sukuna…” She replies timidly.

Sukuna crosses both sets of his arms, unamused and looking at the servant like she’s stupid or something. “Haunted, huh? And how exactly did you arrive at this genius conclusion?”

“I- I saw a woman…in white, my Lord. With blood all over her clothes,” She points to the end of the hall, “standing there. Then she disappeared, and a second later I felt cold, icy cold, hands on my arms even though I couldn’t see anything, and…”

Sukuna cocks a slitted brow, wholly unimpressed by her account so far. “And?”

The maid hesitates, rubbing her head awkwardly before continuing. “And then I felt someone kiss my cheek, with the same cold lips.”

Sukuna blinks.

“You’re telling me a ghost kissed you?” He repeats flatly, just to show how ridiculous it sounds.

“Well…yes, my Lord…”

Sukuna wonders if he must have accidentally dropped this one in particular on her head when he kidnapped her from the village.

“Waste my time with some stupid shit like this again, and I’ll personally send you to the realm of ghosts myself. Understood?”

The maid has no choice but to nod in acceptance, as Sukuna commands everyone to get back to work. There’s no way his meal was interrupted for this shit.

Unfortunately for him, that’s not the last he has to hear of these kind of incidents- if this supposed ghost isn’t smooching people, it’s busy scaring the shit out of them. Before long, basically everyone agrees that the shrine must be haunted.

Well, everyone except for Sukuna, of course.

He refuses to entertain these ridiculous ideas, at least not until he sees something with his own (four) eyes.

Never mind all the other strange but small occurrences that have been taking place around him.

Sukuna's sleeping one night when he feels distantly like someone else might be in his room. He stirs a bit, an eye opening drowsily when he sees what seems like the figure of a woman standing by his bed.

He figures it’s one of his concubines looking for a late night fuck or something even though he hasn’t invited any tonight. They get real needy sometimes.

“Leave.” He mutters, closing his eyes again. “Not in the mood to fuck right now.”

“Hah. You couldn’t fuck me even if you wanted to, squatter.”

Squatter?

Well that wakes him up, because the King of Curses refuses to take any form of impudence even in his sleep.

He sits up on his futon. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking t-”

And that’s when he catches sight of you for the first time, a new face that he doesn’t recognize but certainly doesn’t mind looking at.

He squints. There’s something off about you.

You look a little pallid, like you might be sick or something with long unkept hair. Not to mention your white gown is splotched with red, and he swears he can kinda see the back of his room through you.

His gaze drifts downwards, where he notices that your feet are hovering an inch or two above the ground, and it clicks together for him.

“Why the hell are you staring at my feet? Out of all people who could’ve come in and taken over my shrine it had to be a four-armed freak with a foot fetish?”

“What?” His red eyes snap back up to you. “Who dares speak to the great Ryomen Sukuna with such bold impertinence—”

“Oh, shut up already, would you?” You huff. “I’m the shrine maiden that lived, died, and was resting in peace here till you arrived with all your little minions and disrupted my sleep.”

Sukuna scowls, eyes following you as you float around his room. “So, you’re the ghost that’s been terrorizing my servants, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “What, a spirit wants to spread a little love and now it’s called terrorizing?”

“Okay, let me specify: why the fuck are you going around and kissing the attendants?”

“Because you know how ridiculous it sounds to tell someone that a ghost kissed you? You would never believe them. Also, it’s kinda funny.” You’re on the other side of his chamber now, bending over to reach for the pot of sake on a table.

Unfortunately for you, your fingers pass right through it when you try to pick it up. “Dammit, this whole materializing thing takes a bit of practice…”

Sukuna watches as you try, and fail, a few more times to pick it up before finally getting fed up. “Will you stop that? Just tell me why the hell you’re here.”

You sigh, shrugging your shoulders. “I got tired of messing around so I decided it’s time to cut to the chase- I’m here to haunt you.”

One of Sukuna’s eyes twitches, while he stares at you like you have four arms yourself. “Haunt me? Are you fucking serious?!”

“Yeah. Until you get out of here.”

He scoffs. “And who said you could haunt me?”

“Well who said you could squat in my resting grounds. I got here first anyway.”

“I’m not squatting, I live here. It’s not like you do- not anymore, at least.”

You look at him once before turning to the sake pot and swinging your palm at it. This time you do manage to hit it, making it fall noisily onto the wooden floor and spill the alcohol everywhere.

Sukuna stands up, gritting his teeth. “What the fuck are you doing, stop that!”

You stare at him blankly, and Sukuna realizes this is the first time anyone’s looked at him like he’s stupid. “I’m haunting you. I literally just said that.”

A strangled growl of anger gets caught in his throat as he reflexively raises his hand and yells “CLEAVE!”

Thanks to the fact that not only do you not exist in this dimension, but also that you’re already dead, Sukuna manages to do absolutely nothing to you.

Instead it’s the wall of his room that receives the consequences of his rage, a large gash opening up in it as his attack goes right through you and into the wood directly behind.

You burst out in laughter, bending over while he glares at you with such venom it might be enough to actually kill a living person.

He’s just discovered the one thing he hates more than humans: undead humans.

To say the least, Sukuna is not having fun trying to live his life while being haunted by a mischievous spirit that’s hellbent on getting on his nerves in ways he didn’t even know was possible.

“Can you stop rearranging my furniture?” Sukuna growls in exasperation, waking up to find that except for his futon the layout of his room has once again been changed. You’ve really been on a roll with the interior redecoration lately, coming up with a new design every morning for the past week. “How are you even doing that?! You were literally struggling to move the sake pot not that long ago.”

He can’t see you but he knows you’re listening, and he’s proven right when you decide to show yourself. “Concentration and practice, I told you. Though it happens automatically if I’m feeling strong emotions. Besides your room looks better like this, don’t you think? Really opens up the place.”

Sukuna pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath.

Sure, it did open up the place, but only because you decided to take every single object and piece of furniture in the room and pile it right by the door. “When I find out how to exorcise you, you’re done for. I’m going to banish you to hell. You can do as much furniture rearranging as you want there.”

It must just be his horrible luck, because not only were you an extremely irritating spirit, you were apparently quite a strong one too, which he found out after several different exorcision rituals performed by Uraume had failed. The one time he’d thought it worked and was ready to celebrate, was just you pretending like you’d been banished before showing up again not even two minutes later.

He guesses becoming a spirit must also have given you a certification in theatrics too, because you love to pull them out on his servants whenever you’re bored- including but not limited to: running on all fours, running backwards on all fours, contorting your limbs and body in ways that aren’t anatomically possible, turning your eyes white and zooming after people while you screech that you’re going to catch and eat them…

Sukuna’s told his attendants and concubines numerous times that while there really was a spirit on grounds, it wasn’t malevolent and just really liked to fuck with them.

It didn’t ease their fears, with the kind of stunts you pulled off.

Not that you didn’t find pleasure in the mundane as well. In fact he thinks one of the worst things you do is just floating around his room while he’s trying to fall sleep.

Back and forth, back and forth, he sees the pale and slightly luminescent figure just floating across his chambers.

He tries to ignore it but the repeated action itches his nerves, so he closes his eyes but somehow just the knowledge that you’re probably still going back and forth pokes at him, and finally—

“Can you stop that?!”

“I’m bored.” You reply flatly.

“Go be bored somewhere else.” He grumbles, turning into his futon and cushions.

“Do you have memory issues or something? How many times do I have to remind you that I’m haunting you.”

“You’re annoying me, not haunting me.”

For a second he’s sure you’re going to retort back, but there’s a pause, followed by you saying. “Okay fine. I’ll stop. Goodnight!”

He finds it suspicious, especially the cheeriness in which you bid him goodnight.

He doesn’t question his luck though, as you disappear and he starts to feel his lids grow heavy.

And just about as he’s fall into sleep, he feels it—jarring, icy coldness against the hot skin on his back.

He, the King of Curses, shrieks, sitting upright and fully awake.

Beside him is his dear spirit, under the sheets and cackling.

“What the fuck was that?! Get out of my bed, this instant!” He thunders.

“My feet—they were cold.” You reply innocently, batting your ghostly lashes.

He looks at you like he wants to rip you apart, and then tear his own hair out. “Because you’re FUCKING DEAD.”

“I thought you were into my feet?”

“I do not like your feet, I don’t even like feet in general, can you quit with that already?!” Sukuna massages his temples.

“I could’ve sworn I heard you moan when I put them on you, though…”

He can’t even talk because of how mad he is, just lunging to throttle you by the neck purely on instinct. His hand goes right through your ethereal body, and he must really not like the feeling because he quickly retracts his arm with a disgusted sound.

You do nothing but laugh even more, as he cusses you out while shifting away from you on the futon, and burying his head under a bunch of pillows.

Over time Sukuna still does not like you or appreciate your presence, but his curiosity gets the better of him.

“How did you die?” He asks in his room one evening, seemingly with no one else in it.

Just as expected you appear, hovering in front of him and crossing your arms.

“None of your business.” You reply curtly.

“I think it is my business to find out about the spirit that’s haunting me. Maybe it’ll even give me some idea on how to get rid of you…” He adds almost wistfully, imagining a life in this shrine without you throwing things around every day or freaking out his servants.

But all you do is huff and disappear.

Weird.

Normally you always have something to say. Must be a touchy subject, he concludes.

The next time he asks you again- you do actually give an answer, rambling on dramatically about how you “saved the shrine from a monstrous curse” and “sacrificed yourself for the sake of the world”. He snorts skeptically, nearly impressed at your flair for drama.

He asks you again the next day. This time your story was that “a wandering warrior came to the shrine, and fell in love with you.” But according to you, the gods didn’t “approve” of your passionate relationship and decided to curse you, leaving him to walk away heartbroken while you completed shrine duties till the day you died.

You apparently don’t appreciate his suggestion that maybe he left because of how insufferable you must’ve been, considering how many dishes you decided to toss at him before disappearing while calling him a “brute with a foot fetish”.

Each time he asked, you just spun an even more elaborate and ridiculous story from the last, including everything from goblins to tragic prophecies that would’ve made Victorian romances sound like light work.

You must be getting bored too, because now instead of antagonizing him all the time you actually offer some helpful advice occasionally, regarding his evil plans.

Sukuna notices you getting restless, and decides that a bored spirit is an even more destructive one.

So he gives you the task of managing his servants, and scaring them into submission.

He thinks you’re a pretty good manager, because his servants have been so on top of it after you’ve been appointed that he’s barely even had to fire (kill) any. He hears you working from time to time, showing up behind poor unsuspecting maids and telling them “they must do the dishes faster, lest they feel your wrath.”

He still doesn’t like you but he isn’t quite as determined in his search for a successful banishing ritual anymore.

[countessravengrey]

I always took it not as Katara believing Aang to be her destiny, but that she saw him as not quite the child she initially saw him as, a recognition that he was starting to mature (though how much is up for rigorous debate in my mind, but that's another issue) into what could be considered a viable prospect, whether that be a pubescent crush or a greater love story. And once they started to hint at the doomed Zutara thread in the series, I always looked back on that episode as one more proof that Zutara could have worked. It certainly could have opened up the possibility of a true open rivalry for Katara's affections between Zuko and Aang, instead of whatever the fuck was happening in EIP and Aang's cringy, overly irrational jealousy.

Personally, I always hoped we'd see Meng again for Aang to eventually pursue. She had classic late blooming romance novel heroine energy. Imagine her showing up at Zuko's coronation ceremony with the Fortuneteller to advise the new Firelord, a little taller, calmer hair and teeth, a budding woman, but no less Meng (their names even rhyme 😏), Aang not even recognizing her at first, but then experiencing that first hint of a teenage spark rather than a preteen schoolboy crush... To actually see Meng, whose kind yet playful energy would be a better match to Aang than either Katara or Toph, who--unlike Katara, whose instinct was to nurture to the point of coddling, or Toph, whose play and lessons were a little too rough for Aang to be truly comfortable with--would have gently teased Aang out of his head when he was overthinking, could match his childlike silliness better than even Sokka (who was more corny than anything)... who would have exquisitely carried out the role of devoted helpmate to a grand and cosmically connected figure, a true "woman behind the man" in a way that doesn't make you want to wretch. Meng would have been pleased 'in the background' in a way Katara never had any business being.

Like so much of the romantic potential of the show, this ended up being a wasted opportunity.

The Fortune-Teller does not deserve the hate it has received. It's actually a great episode that people misunderstand. Let me explain.

Kataangers love the episode for it says Katara is destined to be with Aang. Zutarians hate the episode for this reason along with forcing Katara into a pigeon hole. I stand between these warring tribes and say that they are both wrong.

To be clear, I am a Zutarian. If we would've had a Book 4 like the head writer had intended, this episode would've been integral for that book.

"But the 3-act story structure!" some may argue. A 3-act story structure is just a 4-act story structure in disguise.

Anyways, let's continue.

The destiny that Aunt Wu foretells does not give names and is vague in nature. She tells Katara that she is to be married to a powerful bender. She didn't say the most powerful nor did she say bender of all four elements. One doesn't have to be the Avatar to be a powerful bender.

Come Aang's fortune, she foretold of a great battle between good and evil that will determine the fate of the world. We immediately think of Aang battling Firelord Ozai to end the 100 year war. However, this fortune is vague and could foretell another battle after Ozai has fallen.

When Aunt Wu learns that Aang wants to learn about his future about love, she cheers him up by giving him a vague, seemingly harmless white lie to satisfy him. "Follow your heart and you will be with the one you love." Since Aang is 12, he can easily misconstrue infatuation for love.

I believe The Fortune-Teller is a giant red herring that many people in both Zutara and Kataang sectors have fallen for. But wait, what is a red herring?

In literature, a red herring is a device to throw the characters and the audience off the scent of future events. It's meant to distract and deceive.

At the end of The Fortune-Teller, Katara believes she is destined to be with Aang and Aang believes it as well. Throughout the remainder of the series, Katara's emotional bond with Aang is challenged. Then by The Ember Island Players, Katara is confused, unsure about her feelings, unsure about her destiny.

What other character struggled with his perception of his destiny?

For the majority of the series, Zuko falsely believed that his destiny was to hunt down the Avatar and regain his honor. We know that this destiny was forced upon him by his father, Ozai.

But as Iroh has said, "Destiny is a funny thing." Iroh had believed he would have been in Ba Sing Se as a conqueror but instead, he had liberated Ba Sing Se from Fire Nation occupation.

Zuko had turned against his father and his supposed destiny and set out to aid the Avatar instead. After this, Zuko's new belief is that it is his destiny to help Aang in defeating Ozai instead. Truly, destiny is funny that way.

But why is this only applied to Zuko? Why isn't this the same message given to Katara's arc? Is she truly destined to be with Aang and she cannot fight against this fate? Is this strong female character destined to be reduced to servitude?

The same girl that inspired imprisoned earthbenders to fight back? The same girl that fought against gender roles in her own culture? The same girl that didn't give into despair and led her crew out of the desert? The same girl that aided in healing a Fire Nation village? The same girl that rose above her mentor and used bloodbending to save her loved ones? The same girl that went toe to toe with Azula and won?

I SAY NAY!

Imagine, if you will, what Katara's continued arc could've been like in Book 4. Katara would've defied the destiny that was forced upon her and determined her destiny for herself. But in the end, destiny is a funny thing for this action only plays into fate. Zuko is a powerful bender after all. 👀

Now, I must depart before I give too many spoilers for my writing. Fare thee well, until we meet again!

[sinful-lanterns]

being deren’s little star actress and having her fuck you after a premiere 😩

CW: Car sex, unprotected sex, reader wears a dress in this

Imagine Director! Deren being your date to the premiere and wrapping her arm possessively around your waist the entire time. The amount of fans you have makes Deren very protective over you considering how popular you are, and she wants nothing more than to go home so she can unwind with some drinks, sleep, and perhaps even a quickie if you’re feeling up to it…

In the end, Deren couldn’t even wait until the limo ride home before she’s secretly fondling your ass behind your dress. It’s clear she wants to go home now, rubbing her hard on behind you and whispering all the dirty things she wants to do to you. The moment the premiere shows signs of being over, Deren is dragging you out before the paparazzi could catch you, and escorting you to the limo.

There, in the privacy of her limo while being chased by adoring fans, Deren pushes you to the velvety seats of the car and kisses you greedily. Her hands are rough and eager as they peel your dress down to grasp at your breasts. She’s practically on top of you now as she slides her own dress up and rubs her shaft against your thigh, groaning beneath her teeth as she hopes the driver could get you home quickly.

The sex is hot and sloppy, with Deren sweating through her makeup as she pounds into you with vigor. She forgot to pack condoms in her purse, but that’s okay, this’ll be quick. Deren doesn’t even care of the mess you’re making with your combined fluids and spit dripping onto the leather seats (she didn’t have any lube on hand either), she knows you’re enjoying it, and that’s all that matters. As long as her star actress was crying so prettily on her dick, the sleazy Director would fuck you anywhere <3

[vxsellie]

‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔳𝔦

summary. our tributes are to be rounded up, judged by the gamemakers, and ranked 1-12 on skill. what with all that took place the night prior, this should be fun!

content warnings. graphic depictions of abuse (memories), lack of communication, complex emotions (neither of these girls can process their feelings wtf)

total wc. 10,190

notes!! i've got nothing to say here. i talked a LOT in the post-notes tho! so be sure to check those out! anyway,,, once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

09:30.

TRAINING CENTER, GROUND LEVEL.

Echoes of desolation ring throughout the training room. Hardly anyone showed up today, deeming it more salient to practice for the ratings at noon. See, following lunch, everyone will be called by District to the Observation room. Within it will reside the Gamemakers—those responsible for the brutality for the Games each year. There, the tributes will show off their skills and earn a score that ranges from one to twelve. To be given a one is the lowest possible rating, deeming the tribute to be menial; to be given a twelve is, well, unheard of. Nobody has scored a twelve. To earn higher than even an eight is considered incredible.

Anyway, due to today’s peculiarity, most tributes have dedicated the day to rest, not wishing to waste their energy prior to the ratings. Only six people are here, seven with Ellie appended—everyone else having opted for absence. Including you.

Among those present are Sam and Henry, which is unsurprising as they spend every second possible within the training room. As well as Dahlia Hart, the young girl from Eleven, who has yet to venture away from the animal station, a large book clutched in her small hands as she reads about random creatures of her interest. Elliot Delcan from Nine is here as well, too caught up in his own interests to care much for his surroundings. Anthea Solace from One is immersed in a deep conversation with the trainer who teaches tributes to make fishing hooks and nets, though they both seem to have long since abandoned the actuality of their situation. Remy Wilson, your District partner, is present as well, struggling to build a shelter out of sticks and moss.

Ellie is currently being lectured on how to tie a knot. The trainer was stoical for the first twenty minutes, though he’s seemed to lose that sense of patience. But Ellie’s stupid rope won’t bend the way his does, the fibers all frayed and twisted.

“Under, Williams.” The man repeats for the hundredth time. He holds the rope out as he easily ties a bowline knot, forming a perfect circle. His hands move too fast for her to grasp his exact motions. He raises his brows. “See?”

Fuck this. Ellie heaves a heavy sigh, throwing the rope onto the tiled floor before pushing to her feet and storming off. 

As she heads over to a random station across the gym, someone blocks her path. Ellie nearly trips over them, their frame far too small to be jumping out at people like that. She looks down, already irritated. Two feet shorter than her in height, Dahlia Hart’s big brown eyes stare up at her. Ellie’s anger dissipates instantly at the sight of the young girl. There are so many kids in the Games this year. Too many.

“Can I talk to you?” Dahlia asks, tilting a head of coily hair. Her voice is so small, yet her tone remains direct and terse.

“Uh, yeah.” Ellie forces herself to push down any prior—and unrelated—feelings of vexation as she agrees to speak with the girl. She follows Dahlia over to a secluded area of the gym, the two of them partially hidden behind a rack of weaponry. “What’s up?”

“Your ear.” Dahlia speaks lowly, pointing to the gauze that it’s currently wrapped in. 

Ellie had attempted to cover the bandages with her hair this morning, even asking Tilly for some help with a better way to style it, though she couldn’t do much. She simply situated the auburn strands more deliberately before coating her entire scalp in some kind of hairspray that left it feeling oddly solidified in place. 

“What about it?” She attempts to sound casual as she raises a brow at the child. 

“I saw.” She whispers as though they’re sharing some horrible secret. They might be. “Nolan attacked you yesterday. He threw a spear at your head and Y/n defended you. She hit him for breaking the rules and she’s the one being punished.”

The mention of you protecting Ellie sends a shiver down her spine, especially after everything from last night—which she’s been doing a good job at trying not to think about. Thanks a lot, Dahlia.

“She’s a L/n, nothing’ll happen to her.” Ellie assures her shortly, wanting to get out of this conversation as soon as possible.

Dahlia frowns. “I thought you guys were friends.”

Friends. 

What a strange word. It entails so much, yet so little. It describes two people who have known one another their entire life, yet can also describe two people who have spoken thrice. So much room for interpretation. So much room to fuck it all up. 

Ellie thinks of you, though the word doesn’t embody your enigmatic relationship with accuracy. Moonlight on soft skin, smoke in chilled night air, pillowy lips joining of idiotic impulse. Such gentility. But there are other memories as well; a duality. Sharp gazes across crowded rooms, words cryptic when shared in publicity, fists finding purchase in the other’s body during practice.

After you, she thinks of Riley. A friend for life, naught else. Their laughter rang true, the same sound trailing all the way back to their shared youth. To have grown with someone is a special feat that not many are lucky enough to experience. She’s watched Riley’s jaw set with age, her teeth fall out and regrow over the years, her voice roughen with puberty. But now, when she needs that seemingly impenetrable bond most, there’s nothing. A voyage from splendor to oblivion, from brilliance to shadowy nihility. 

Friends. What a joke.

Ellie looks down at Dahlia’s curious eyes and can’t bring herself to get mad at her. It’s not the child’s fault that the world is so cruel, so faulty. She’s yet to be exposed to such torment, and she likely never will. Not after she was Reaped. Not after you inevitably steal the victor’s crown from the hands of twenty-three innocent tributes.

“There can’t be friends in the Hunger Games, Dahlia.” Ellie says solemnly, gaze softening.

“Yes there can.” She speaks as though there's not a doubt in her mind. Perhaps there’s not. Perhaps the purity of youth is all anyone can cling to for a sense of clarity in a world such as this. Dahlia presses her lips together, mouth twisting to the side. “Friends can be made anywhere, my mom said. So long as you’re willing to maintain them.”

“Your mom must be a very wise woman.” 

“Oh, she is. She’s a preschool teacher back in Eleven.” Dahlia says proudly. “She’s had hundreds of kids and she’s never wrong.”

“I suppose teachers rarely are, huh?”

She nods. “They’re the bravest of us all, I think. Nobody else is fearless enough to tolerate such unruly kids, daily.”

“Yeah,” Ellie chuckles.

She’s not exactly the best person to have the conversation with. The entire reason she and Riley met was because they happened to be sneaking out of school at the same time. Ellie was fleeing the concrete building when she spotted Riley scaling the fence, just barely out of sight from the Peacekeepers that patrolled the campus.

Point is, she’s feeling a bit on edge at the moment—speaking to a child about the morality of professors, knowing damn well she was the most disrespectful student any of hers had the displeasure of teaching. Despite this, she manages to maintain a rather monotonous conversation with Dahlia about this, happy to indulge the girl enough to keep her attention away from the initial reason behind their meeting here. She’d withhold this small talk all day, if she needed to.

Anything to keep her mind off of you.

However, the comfortability of the dull discussion is cut off when Dahlia somehow manages to loop the topic right back to Ellie’s ear. And she does it so seamlessly that it’s almost impressive, as if she’d planned it all along.

“Another thing my mom always talks about,” She says, “Is honesty. How good people shouldn’t be punished for bad peoples’ misdeeds.”

The look she gives Ellie’s ear is enough to make her swallow harshly, unable to form a good response to the accusation.

“Y/n is a good person, right? Why is she getting all the effects caused by Nolan’s badness?” Dahlia sounds more like she’s simply thinking aloud rather than speaking to Ellie. “It doesn’t make sense. You should be honest, tell everyone that he hurt you and she was being a good person by defending you.”

“Sorry, kid.” Ellie sighs. “But it’s far more complicated than that.”

“How?” Dahlia shoots back.

Too many ways. First of all, Nolan is a career tribute despite being Reaped from District Ten. He’s trained for brutality and expects to be shown respect. Ellie, albeit unintentionally, dismounted this by fooling him. He’s a victim to the Games just as everyone else is. Second, you weren’t technically defending Ellie. You pushed him for her, sure, but you hit him because of what he’d said about your family. And if that were to be revealed to the Capitol, they’d likely have Nolan turned into an Avox for speaking ill of the L/ns—which is terribly dramatic and unfair on their part. Lastly, Ellie would be seen as weak for needing to be protected. Plus, considering all that’s happened between the two of you, she doesn’t much wish to see you praised for saving her.

“How about this,” Ellie proposes, “Why don’t we go ask Remy what to do? He’d be good friends with Y/n because they’re from the same district, wouldn’t you think?”

“Hmm,” Dahlia hums in thought, “Maybe…”

She places her hands on each of Dahlia’s shoulders and begins to lead her out from behind the weaponry, bringing her back into the gym area with everyone else. She quickly gazes around the room until she spots where Remy remains at the shelter-making station, patiently picking up a stick that’s fallen from the shabby roof. 

He looks up as Dahlia and Ellie approach, his eyes widening.

Ellie hasn’t spoken to Remy, only having seen him in passing. He seems to be far more shy than Dahlia—who is quite outspoken and, as it turns out, unafraid to confront people. His build is far smaller than any of the other kids, appearing to be three years younger than he actually is. His body is thin, topped with a head of curly brown hair and big eyes filled with wonder. 

“Dahlia, meet Remy.” Ellie says, hoping this will manage to get her out of the accusatory conversation regarding her wounded ear. “Remy, meet Dahlia.”

Remy doesn’t have the chance to speak before Dahlia is jumping right to the point. “Your partner, Y/n, did you notice anything odd about her last night?”

Ellie is a bit impressed, as well as grateful, that she’d refrained from blurting out the entire situation to him. She knew there was a high chance someone had witnessed the entire scene, though she was far more caught up in other issues to care much for possibilities such as that. Dahlia’s refrain is a good sign that she won’t go around telling random people.

“She–” Remy blinks, his brown eyes flicking between Ellie and Dahlia repeatedly. His hands begin to fiddle with the stick he’s still holding onto. He makes an expression of discomfort, revealing his crooked teeth with gaps between each one. “I– uh, I don’t talk to her much. She was in her room all last night, I think. I didn’t see her. Not– She didn’t show up to dinner, I don’t think.”

“Did she talk to your mentor about anything related to Nolan?” Dahlia interrogates him, leaning closer with wide eyes. Remy looks terrified as he takes a careful step away from her. 

“Nolan?”

“Yeah.” Dahlia nods. “He’s the buff guy from Ten. Did they mention him?”

“I–I don’t know what they talk about.” He tells her shakily. “They don’t talk much. If they do, it’s private. Or– Well, sometimes they argue? I dunno. They’re weird.”

Ellie frowns, thinking of the things you’d told her about your brother—you two were best friends as kids until he was Reaped. It vaguely reminds her of Riley and herself. She imagines a small child watching them in the suite. Having to bear witness to the tension and unspoken words. That must be a heavyweight on his shoulder, on all of your shoulders.

She pats Dahlia on the head before she can interrogate him further. “Alrighty. Let’s leave him alone for now, yeah?”

“But–”

“C’mon,” She says, “You can show me what animals you were reading about.”

This seems to excite the girl, brown eyes lighting up. She grabs Ellie by the wrist and tugs her toward the animal station. As she’s pulled away from Remy, she casts a glance over her shoulder just in time to see his frown. He’s twisting the stick in his hands as he stares at the floor, expression saddened. He’s never looked smaller.

Dahlia sits Ellie down on the wooden bench and begins telling her all about the random creatures in her book. She nods along to what she’s saying, though her mind is elsewhere. On Remy, on you.

Is Remy disheartened because of Dahlia's pushiness to know about you? Or is it about the Games in general? If it’s to be the former, Ellie wonders why. Nothing too bad could happen within the suite considering the abundance of cameras around the center. Does he have issues back home that plague his mind, or is it just you? Ellie wishes desperately that she could see all that’s happened within the fourth floor. Just for a few moments. Just for a few answers.

Not only to uncover the root to Remy’s despondency but also for her own selfishness. A beastly feeling that rears its head in your proximity. The desire to know more, more, more about you. It sickens her to know that this is what the entire Capitol feels—an insatiable yearning to become acquainted with the L/ns. She’s nothing more than one of them, yet another poor soul to have fallen in the trap of your lineage.

But, worse than that, she can’t seem to hate you for it. She’d gotten to know you quite well in the past few days. Even if it were all a trick of your own concoction, she can’t stop thinking of those words you’d shared in regards to Cat. 

“We weren’t much of anything before we were nothing.” Ellie had said.

“Yet you were still something.” You pointed out. “That’s what matters.”

Perhaps there’s a common denominator here, and it’s Ellie. She’d been with women before, and plenty of them. Her first relationship was when she was in year six, having dated a girl for two days before they broke up over something childish and dumb. Then, in highschool, she dated Riley for half of a year, though they eventually came to realize that they work best as friends. Then there was Cat—a girl she met at the Hob while selling her quarry. They were sleeping together on and off for two years before the Reaping, never having assigned the title of girlfriend to their relationship. 

Ellie has no idea what your dating history looks like, but she’s certain it’s not as pathetic as her own. She’d never been with anyone seriously. Even when she was with Riley, they didn’t do anything more than hold hands and kiss. And Cat hardly counts in actuality—though the emotional effects remain prominent despite the lack of acknowledgement. 

She’s annoyed that you left her, yes, but there had to be something more. You kissed her as though you were just as desirous as she. Plus, the look of fear in your eyes when you pulled away pointed to something other than a mere change of heart.

Her hopes were to talk to you today, to sort through everything that's happened. But you didn’t show up to training, which she should have expected. Maybe she’ll be able to catch you in the halls or something. As long as it takes place before the Games, she hardly minds the circumstantial location. Because as soon as you’re all placed into the arena, there’s no possibility that she’ll be able to have a conversation with you. And, even if you two miraculously ran into each other, your words would have to be cryptic due to the cameras.

It might be pathetic, but Ellie doesn’t even care what happens. Regardless of whether you scream at her or hug her, the ending will be the same—her dead in the arena as you exit as a Diamond. She just wants closure before she’s killed. Because this has been driving her insane all day. She slept a total of thirty minutes last night, actually.

“-–And this is a tree-rat.” Dahlia says as Ellie turns back into her words. “They’re Capitol made, I believe. Look at their snouts, that’s not evolutionarily induced.”

Ellie nods, humming as Dahlia points to the photograph on the laminated page before she begins reading out the paragraph below it that explains the animal’s function. Her voice is so soft, her fingers so thin. It’s absolutely monstrous that she’s expected to fight to the death in the arena. Especially when the ages this year stretch so high. 

After a conversion with Joel last night over dinner, Ellie found out that the tributes from Twelve are in their late forties. Due to the lack of children in their District, middle-aged citizens took up the majority of the slips of paper. In Twelve, hundreds of kids die everyday due to starvation. Even if a child were to be Reaped, they’d likely have killed themself upon seeing the food on the train—accidentally filling their bellies too full.

The men seemed ominous when Ellie saw them during prior training days, looming over the other tributes creepily. Joel informed her that their names were David and James. David has a red nose and grey hair parted in the side. James is always wearing a beanie over his greasy hair, sticking to David like glue.

Ellie looks across the room at Remy’s crooked smile as he finally finishes creating a shelter. A few stations down, Sam is getting better at creating a fire, Henry cheering loudly whenever he manages to create a spark. She then gazes down at Dahlia’s expression of excitement as she goes on about a random fish. These kids are so innocent, so undeserving of this fate. There’s also Cooper Whitlock from Eleven and Lev from Two. 

Never, in the history of the Games, have so many children been Reaped. This year’s arena must be especially brutal.

10:42.

TRAINING CENTER, FLOOR 4.

You’ve hardly left your room today, seeking the comfort of privacy. You’d lowered the temperature last night so the air is freezing, causing you to burrow under your heavy blankets with heightened vehemency. Plus, the metallic machine built into the wall beside your door can materialize food, so there’s really no reason to leave. You have everything you need.

You’ve fallen in and out of slumber all morning, your dreams filled with distorted images of various people in your life—Ruben, your mother, Remy, Ellie, Alice. It’s disturbing, the malformity. Each dream ends the same, causing you to wake with a jolt every time. It ends with a very distinct sound. Your mother’s cane slamming against tiled flooring. The word ‘again’ ringing through your ears in a gravelly voice that sounds like a mix of everyone’s. Over time, as you’ve experienced this over and over, the sound starts to remind you of something else. Of a lighter falling from a pocket.

“Again.” The mangled voice croons, hot breath tickling the back of your neck. You oblige, body fatigued with overexertion. You try your hardest to train without fault, to be perfectly flawless in each move you make. But, as always, you misstep. Right beside your ear, a loud clacking sound is heard. It’s so loud, reverberating through your skull as the floor shatters beneath your feet.

You jolt awake, chest heaving as you sit up in your bed. Despite the cold air of your room, you’re coated in sweat. Just like each time prior to this, you have to look around to remind yourself that the dream wasn’t real. 

A half-eaten plate of food sits on your nightstand, thin rays of sunlight struggling to squeeze between your closed curtains. On your desk resides an abandoned notebook with a minimum of twenty pages torn from the spine. It wasn’t real. It was a dream. Again.

Just as you begin to burrow down into the bed, a knocking is heard at the door. Knuckles on wood, wood on metal, metal on tile. It all sounds the same. Knocking, clacking, clanging. A fist, a cane, a lighter. With a deep breath, you sit upright and attempt to straighten out your hair.

“Come in.” You call out, though your fingers continue to battle with the tangled strands.

The door creaks open and Ruben’s head pokes through the crack. His expression is soft as he speaks harshly, “It’s almost noon, get off your ass.”

You lift your head, recognizing the look in his eye. He doesn’t mean his words, they’re forged by the Capitol. He’s unable to speak his mind, even in the privacy of your assigned bedroom. But this isn’t your bedroom, is it? It’s the equivalent to a pigpen where animals for slaughter are kept prior to their death. There’s nothing comforting about that.

You kick the blanket from your body, suddenly feeling disgusted by it all. 

Ruben continues to watch you from the doorway, arms crossed over his chest to paint a facade of impatience. He sighs, “You look horrible.” 

This statement is actually true. You’ve yet to take a shower or brush your hair, still wearing the outfit that you’d worn while watching a movie with him last night. The ratings are in an hour and a half, just enough time for you to clean yourself up.

“I’ll take a shower then come down for lunch.” You say, feigning obedience.

“Good.” Ruben speaks harshly before turning on his heel and leaving the room, slamming the door behind him. That was a nice touch, you ought to admit.

You remain in your bed for a few moments even after he’s left, staring at the wall as your mind reels. You’ve yet to give yourself time to process things—anything. Whenever your brain begun to stray, you’d simply fallen back asleep. Now that that’s no longer an option, you feel as though you’re drowning in your own thoughts. Good thing you’re from Four, you’re rather skilled at staying afloat.

With a deep inhale, you stand from the bed. Cold air licks down your spine, tracing goosebumps along the entirety of your skin. Shivering, you walk over to the thermostat and reset the temperature back to a normal setting. You then enter the bathroom and strip out of your nightclothes.

The warm water is heavenly in contrast to the biting air outside of the bathroom. Your body visibly relaxes under the heat, allowing the shower to rain down as you stand there, unmoving.

It reminds you of the sea from Four. Despite only having visited a few times—due to your parents prohibiting any unnecessary expeditions from home—you’d come to love it. The endlessness of the horizon, the sound of crashing waves, the scent of salt. Oh, if you were to live in your ideal oasis, it’d be the ocean. Such tranquility for something deemed to be evil. The ocean is a woman, always has been and always will be. And that in itself is enough to make you fond of her.

You can easily recall the days you and Ruben were brave enough to sneak to the beach. Sand squished beneath your toes as Ruben splashed around in the waves. He’d pick you up by the arms over each comber. You giggled as he hauled you into the air, your eyes shut and mouth wide with delight. 

I mean, it was so close to your home. You needed only to walk three minutes South and you were in the surf. Plus, contradictory to your parents’ beliefs, nobody even noticed the two of you. Until they did.

One time, when your parents were called to the Capitol for a few days for some kind of Diamond party, you and Ruben snuck down to the beach. You had begged him to take you, pleading as he continuously refused. Eventually, however, he gave in—as he always did when it came to you. It was noon when you’d reached the sandy dunes, wind whipping through your hair. You giggled and ran through the hot sediment toward the surf. Ruben, carrying all your belongings, clambered after you with a heavy sigh. You were seven, he was twelve. You were both so blissfully unaware of the calamity that would evoke in the year to follow.

Ruben set up the umbrella and chairs as you darted straight for the water, laughing the whole way down. The waves were rough, stretching far higher than normal. Not that you paid much mind. By the time Ruben joined you in the water, you were deep into the ocean—enough so that your feet came off the ground when the waves rolled in.

“You’re too far out, Y/n, c’mon.” He said, grabbing your wrist as he began to tug you toward the shore. You groaned, though you allowed yourself to be led away. You floated on your back as he gently pulled you through the rippled water.

He stopped once the water was shallow enough to have reached his knees and your belly button. You frowned, “I wanna go deeper, Ru.”

His lips thinned, casting a glance out at the horizon. The waves were huge, white-capping as they curled into themselves. A few, out deeper, even reached three feet in height. Ruben turned back to you with a pointed expression. “Maybe later. It’s too windy right now.”

“Fine.” You huffed, though you weren’t entirely swayed into conduct. 

The two of you ended up having lots of fun, notwithstanding your prior complaints. He taught you the names of different fish, though the ones you were able to see were only varieties of different minnows. He also showed you how to read the tides, explaining the way the moon’s gravity pulls the water like a rope. You didn’t understand it, but appreciated the lesson. As he pointed out at the horizon, moving on to explain the underwater currents, something deep in your chest yearned to venture forth. Like a tether tied you to the deep blue. You ignored it, knowing it’d be best to obey your brother’s orders. He knows best, after all.

The sun moved along its coast through the sky, inching lower as the hours ticked by. By the time pink clouds were beginning to feather through the vacant blueness, Ruben decided it was time to eat something. He’d packed the ingredients to make fish sandwiches, stored away in his green bag that sat by the umbrella. 

“Can I swim for a little while longer?” You asked him. 

“Fine.” He gave in instantly. “But only while I prepare the food. Once it’s done, you’re eating with me, okay?”

“Okay!” You agreed, nodding with a wide smile.

He kissed you on the head before wading through the water back to the sand. You watched him go, salty water trickling down his scarred legs as he crouched into the sand. He dug through the bag, his back facing you.

You turned toward the water, cupping your hands around your eyes as you looked for the fish he’d taught you about. You see a school of shiners and a few fatheads. Then, a large shadow catches your gaze. Childish curiosity filled you as the huge fish swam through the seagrass. Eyes still downcast, you began to follow it. As the fish sped up, so did you. Giggling, you wandered deeper into the water as the fish swam out to sea. Before you knew it, the waves were washing over your head.

A particularly large wave swiped your feet out from under you, causing your entire body to be pulled under the wash. You resurfaced a few feet away from where you’d just been, the current having tugged you away like a puppet. You coughed, throat burning with salt as you treaded water. 

“Ru?” You called out in a rough voice. You spun in a circle only to find water on all sides of you. The waves kept coming, washing you under the surface. Panic gripped you by the neck as your legs kicked in the water. You began to cry. “Ruben!”

Another wave, another shout. You began to see the sand in the troughs of the waves, golden  and glistening like a beacon. Your arms were getting tired, the current only pulling you farther and farther from shore. Suddenly, someone was grabbing your wrist. Young, alone, and taught to trust nobody, you instantly kicked them in the breastbone. 

Cursing under their breath, the person released you. It was a stranger, a middle aged woman who was big enough to touch the ground with her feet. You breathed hard, tears streaking your salty face. She sputtered, looking up at you with a worried expression. It quickly faded to astonishment as her eyes widened in recognition. “You’re Y/n L/n.”

You continued to stare at her, still treading water and still crying. You called for Ruben again, which only confirmed her suspicion. 

“I can take you to him.” She claimed, holding out her hand.

A mixture of youthful naivety and lack of choices caused you to take her hand. She held you on her hip as she walked through the water. You continued to cry as she attempted to make conversation—asking about your family and what you’re doing all alone. You didn’t answer her, uninterested in such small talk.

By the time you reached the shore, Ruben was already running over to you. The moment you saw him, you kicked the woman hard in the side and caused her to drop you into the sand. You quickly pushed to your feet and ran to your brother, sobbing incoherent apologies. He ran his fingers through your hair, pressing kisses to your head as he assured you that everything was fine now that he knew you were okay.

That night, word got back to your parents in the Capitol. Word of their children causing quite the scene at a beach. You two had made headlines within a few hours—’Little Y/n L/n, lost at sea, saved by a kind passerby who she’d repaid with violence. Sounds like she’s already an innate victor with such instinctive barbarity.’

Your parents came home earlier than planned, having stormed into the house in the middle of the night. You’d been curled up against Ruben when they slammed open the bedroom door and flipped on the light. You had barely rubbed the sleep from your eyes when your father clamped his hands around your ankles and tore you from the bed. You slammed against the floor, instantly woken.

He held out a crumpled newspaper, “What the fuck is this?”

“I–” Your eyes were wide as a bruise already began to form on your back where you’d smacked the hardwood floor. “I don’t know what–” “I told her it was a good idea.” Ruben spoke up from the bed, voice quiet and shaky. You were taken aback by the blatant lie, though he didn’t back down. “I knew you guys would be gone for two days and– Well, I’d always wanted to go to the beach, so…”

That did it. That was enough for your parents to redirect the blame. 

You’d so rarely seen your father. He was always holed up in his home within the victor’s village. But he was beckoned to the Capitol alongside your mother and so they likely heard the news in unison. As such, they decided to act on their unanimous rage together.

As a child as young as you were, it’s expected to have missed your father. Even in knowing of his faults and abusiveness, you still yearned for his being in your life. This night erased that with entirety.

You spent the rest of that night sobbing in your bed. You trembled under your blankets, your pillow clutched to cover your ears from the sounds of your brother’s screams. You could hear the noises of impact before another scream left him. Or, more worryingly, you wouldn’t hear him getting hit. Just the screams.

Needless to say, that was your last visit to the beach.

And the last time your parents ever trusted you guys enough to leave you home alone.

As the warm water washes over your body, relaxing your tensed muscles, you can’t help but feel that same sense of guilt that you had all those years ago. Lying in your bed, cold and alone, naught but shame crept up your throat.

That same sense of self depreciation embodies you now. For what, however, you’re nescient. It could be for causing Ruben to put on a facade of hatred for the Capitol; it could be for having left Ellie last night due to your own past misery. But both are lucid, right? Ruben knows you hit Nolan for a reason and admitted to having forgiven you. And Ellie is one of the most understanding people you know. Tonight, when the two of you meet on the roof, you’ll explain everything. She’ll listen, as she always does. She’ll forgive you, because that’s the type of person she is.

You didn’t attend training today because you couldn’t seem to pull yourself from bed. 

Last night, after the events on the roof, you snuck into Ruben’s bedroom in the dark of night. Just as you’d promised. The two of you watched a movie, just as you had as kids. It was awkward at first—sitting a few feet away from each other and not speaking a word. But, as time passed, that familiar sense of comfortability overtook you both. This wasn’t Ruben, the morphling Capitol Diamond. This was Ru, your big brother.

You turn off the faucet and wrap yourself in a towel, dripping water onto the tiled floor. The bathroom is huge, stretching to be at least thirty feet long and ten feet wide. The mirrors are fogged and you wipe your hand across the glass to see your reflection. There are bags under your eyes. Part of you wants to cover every inch of your skin in makeup to conceal the lack of sleep you’d gotten. But another, more satisfying, part of you wishes to show up to the Observation room a mess. The Gamemakers love your brother for his beauty. They’re likely itching to get their eyes on you, praying to the heavens that you’ll be just as easily exploited. 

“Hurry up!” Ruben calls through the door. “Your outfit is sitting on the bed.”

Every tribute is to wear an identical outfit so as to not flaunt individuality. To the Capitol, the tributes are no more important to them than a blade of grass crushed beneath their boots. For them to showcase their personalities and feelings would be to make themselves personified, human.

You leave the bathroom, dress into your assigned clothing, and head to the living room. Everyone is already waiting there. Alice is crouched down, fiddling with Remy’s messy curls. Ruben is leaned against the wall, watching. When he spots you, his lips tug upward in fondness. He’s quick to hide it, but not quick enough for it to have gone unnoticed. Not by you at least, perhaps by the cameras though.

“Took you long enough.” He grumbles.

You shoot him a look just as feigned. “I just couldn’t get enough of Capitolistic delicacies. Their showers here are wonderful.”

Ruben has to look away to avoid laughing at your evident sarcasm. Alice looks up, appearing pleased by your display of appreciation, unaware of its insincerity. She stands to her feet, brushing her hands on her frilly skirt. “That’s good to hear, Y/n, I’m glad you’re finding comfort here.”

“As am I.” You smile.

Ruben falls into a coughing fit. You know him well enough to recognize this as a way to hide his laughter—a trick you’d both abused at the dinner table with your parents. When he’d make a comment that went over your father’s head or when you’d make a face to mock your mother. Coughing was always a good way to shield humor.

Once he’s managed to regain sanity and Alice has finished tampering with Remy’s mused curls, the four of you head down to the cafeteria. In the elevator, Ruben turns to you.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” He says.

“It’s just an evaluation,” You roll your eyes at him, “I think I’ll be fine.”

He gives you a pointed look. “I know you. I know you’ll be tempted to do something foolish. All I’m asking is that you don’t act on impulse.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The elevator doors open to reveal a bustling hallway. Tributes, mentors, and escorts walk around. Mentors give their final pieces of advice, escorts attempt to tidy up appearance, and tributes try not to puke from nerves. 

You try to pick out the people you recognize. Nora Harris, the mentor for District Eight, speaks gently with a nervous Raven Hansley. You hardly remember Raven from training because all she did was study plants and animals, never practicing any sort of combat. A few feet down the hall from them, Dina Woodward is braiding Dahlia’s hair. She speaks soothingly to the child, her hands moving with gentility. Even farther down, Abigail Anderson is speaking with Owen Moore—the mentor for District Ten—in a hushed voice. 

Mentors and escorts are prohibited entry into the Observation room. They’re not even allowed into the cafeteria where you’ll wait for your name to be called. They have the choice to either head back to their suite or wait in the hall for their tributes to return. Seems like most of them have yet to enter the cafeteria, even. 

It takes less than a minute before Ruben is pulled into a conversation with another mentor. You turn and recognize her to be Thea Thatcher—Thalia’s older sister. She won the 68th Games. Thea starts small talk with Ruben, which he returns kindly. You find the conversation a bore, though you remain at his side, scowling at her silently. Remy doesn’t dare stray far either, practically clinging to Alice as she starts a conversation with Tilly down the hall. You turn in her direction, squinting. But you don’t see Joel—or Ellie—anywhere. She must already be inside waiting.

Slowly, the crowd begins to disperse. The tributes enter the cafeteria and the mentors either take their leave or remain in wait. You see that Abigail and Owen both leave once their tributes have entered, though Dina stands in the hallway to wait for her youthful tributes’ return. She’ll be waiting a while, though, seeing as they’re from Eleven.

You make a mental note of all the mentors you didn’t see. The ones that likely arrived earlier than everyone else. Teresa Servopoulos from Three, Maria and Joel Miller from Five and Seven, Bill from Nine, and Stephen Lawrence from Twelve. Everyone else, you spotted in the hallway at least once. These are the people who, either don’t give a shit about formalities and didn’t care to show up, or care a lot arrived prematurely.

“C’mon, then.” Ruben says once Thea has long since left. “I think Alice already walked Remy inside, I don’t see either of them.”

You nod in agreement, walking with him down to the cafeteria. You pass Dina, Thea, Nora, and Jordan who have all decided to wait for their tributes. Thea, you can understand, because Thalia is her sister and she’ll return sooner than anyone else seeing as she’s from One. Going back to the suite would be pointless, really. Dina, you know, is big hearted and is waiting because of how young her tributes are. You don’t know much about Nora, but you know one of her tributes is Deaf, so perhaps that’s a reason behind why she’s waiting. You respect Ashley though, you don’t pity her. She’s strong, more so than a lot of the other tributes. You’re sure she’ll make it far in the Games. And Jordan, who is the mentor for Roland and Archie—the lovers from Six—you’re completely unsure of why he’s waiting.

“You’re so nosey.” Ruben says, nudging you along as he notices your staring.

“I’m just observant.” You reply. “It’s a good habit to have.”

“I suppose.” He shrugs before pushing the cafeteria door open for you. Just before you’re able to walk through, he places a hand on your shoulder. You turn to him. “Remember what I said about your impulsiveness. Don’t be reckless.”

You shrug his hand away, giving him an expression of reassurance. “I got it, Ru, don’t worry.”

He nods, though it’s clear that you did little to ease his nervosity. The doors shut behind him and you enter the cafeteria. Large, circular tables are spread across the room. Most people have paired up by District, sitting with their partners from the Reaping. There’s also the Careers, who have already formed their group prior to the Games.

You see where Ellie sits beside Riley. Dahlia has also joined them, appearing to be talking Riley’s ear off. Brows furrowed, you look around for her District partner, Cooper Whitlock. Then you see him and oh. Oh, that poor boy. He’s joined up with the Careers. 

You turn back to where Dahlia sits, only to find that Ellie’s eyes are pinned on you. The hairs on your neck rise at the feel of her gaze piercing straight through you. You know exactly what she’s communicating. With a twitch of her brow, you know. She has no clue why you left last night. Yet you’re both aware that you’re doomed. From the very start, you’re doomed.

You consider walking over there and explaining it. Saying everything that begins to bubble in your throat. But then you catch another sight in your peripheral. Remy. He’s sitting all alone at a small metal table, his leg bouncing with nerves. With one last apologetic glance shot Ellie’s way, you turn on your heel and head toward him.

She’ll understand. She’s kind and compassionate and she will. She will understand when you explain everything tonight. When you explain that your mother’s ghost still haunts you; when you explain that the kiss you shared was rapture incarnate; when you explain that, despite the perfection of the moment, it can never happen again; when you explain that the Games are a wall built to keep the two of you separate, that’s how it is and that’s how it forever will remain. She’ll understand because she’s Ellie and she’s never done anything wrong.

“Thalia Thatcher from District One.” A scratchy voice calls over the intercom. Immediately, the girl stands from her table and walks over to the Observation room with a high held chin. Her hair is platinum blonde and perfectly straight as she walks past your table, brown eyes contorted into a sharp glare. Okay, then. Fuck her too.

It’s twenty minutes before the next name is called. Anthea Solace from One. She spends thirty minutes in the room before Lev from Two is called. Then Yara. Each tribute takes between twenty to forty minutes during evaluation. Throughout it all, the cafeteria is completely silent, waiting for the next name to be announced. This evaluation is the make or break of a tribute’s reputation. It’s the only way to show off your skills prior to the Games. The only way to show the sponsors your skill via the rating you’re given. Nobody will know what happens within the Observation room, but everyone will see the score. It’s imperative that it’s high.

Ellie’s eyes remain pinned on you for the entire two and a half hours that you wait for your name. The whole time, you refuse to look in her direction. You sit beside Remy, your back straightened. His knee has yet to cease its bouncing, eyes blown wide in anxiety. The tension in the room is so high that you’re almost glad to hear your name called.

You stand from the table, the entire cafeteria silent as you walk over to the double doors that lead to the hallway. You push them open and walk down to the Observation room. The door is heavy, though you find that the air within hangs even heavier.

The floors are concrete, walls lined with various weapons to choose from. There are targets for archery and knife throwing, dummies for spears and swords. High above, a small room overlooks the gym. Within it resides the Gamemakers. They sit on plush couches with tables full of warm foods and bubbly drinks. They live in luxury, haphazardly giving scores to tributes without much care. Without thinking of how this can end someone’s life.

They stare down at you with anticipation, expressions ranging from greed to hunger to lust. Your stomach churns as you look up at them. They’re excited. They’re leaning forward to watch you with wide eyes, itching to see what you do. You’re your father’s son, your brother’s sister. You’re bound for greatness and they cannot fucking wait to see you in the arena. Can’t wait to see how you fight to survive. How you look when you’re hungry, when you’re killing someone, when you’re bathing.

What weapon will you grab? How long will you take? What score will you get?

Overcome with disgust and rage for the Capitol, you make an impulsive decision. You hadn’t known, at first, what Ruben meant by recklessness. It was just an evaluation. You walk in, throw a few knives, and leave. But now? Under their beady-eyed appetency? You know exactly what he was telling you not to do. And you do it.

With a scoff, you turn on your heel and exit the room. You won’t give them a show. You don’t feed their yearning stomachs. You won’t provide them with anything they can use against you. You won’t play their Games.

14:32.

TRAINING CENTER, CAFETERIA.

You only spent a minute in the Observation room. The next name is called almost immediately after you. Ellie’s brow creases in confusion. Everyone else spent roughly half an hour each. And yet, here you are, always managing to stand out.

It irks her.

Yesterday, she’d have been overcome with piqued interest and wide eyes. But not now. Not after you left her last night, didn’t show up to training, and blatantly ignored her in the cafeteria. She knew it would happen. She knew you wouldn’t be able to speak to her. But, for some reason, it still pisses her off to know that you value your reputation above her.

And she knows it’s stupid. You two have only known each other for three days and spent the majority of our time together illegally smoking. But still. And she’s even more angry at herself for being angry in the first place.

Another hour passes before Riley’s name is called. She doesn’t say a word, standing from the table and leaving silently. They’ve still yet to speak. And that adds yet another weight on Ellie’s chest. It’s too much all at once and she thinks the tonnage might crush her like an insect. 

“Are you nervous?” Dahlia’s voice is below a whisper as she speaks.

Ellie gives her a small smile. “Everyone is.”

“Even the strong people over there?” She nods toward the Careers—Lev, Yara, Nolan, Thalia, Violetta, Ashley, and little Cooper. Ellie has no idea why they allowed Cooper into their group, but it can’t be good. Whatever it means, it’ll lead to his demise in the end.

“Yes.” Ellie confirms. “Even them.” Dahlia nods, attempting to ground herself. Just then, the intercom clicks on and a distorted voice comes through the buzzing speaker. “Ellie Williams from District Seven.” She pats Dahlia on the shoulder before standing to her feet. 

Riley spent thirty four minutes in the Observation room. Ellie wishes they still spoke because she’s dying to know what she did. She wishes they could sneak into each other’s room and share their respective stories from the evaluation. But that’s not possible, not now. She enters the room with a sigh.

She doesn’t even look at the Gamemakers before she walks over to the bows and arrows. She can hear their chatter, but pays them no mind. She stands on the white line painted a few yards away from the target. Bow in hand, she holds it out in front of her. She shuts one eye, pulling the arrow back. With a grin at knowing it’ll land perfectly, she lets it fly. Just as anticipated, the point of the arrow lands right on the target. Perfect aim.

Her heart beats fast in her chest. Maybe she’ll get a high score. She looks up at the Gamemaker’s room only to see they’re not even looking at her. They’re getting drunk, talking and laughing together over hearsay. Anger traces through her body, igniting within her bones.

Not a single one watched her.

There’s a fancy lightbulb hanging from the ceiling on a thin chain. It’s the only source of light in their little room. Without thinking, she grabs a second arrow and aims it upward. Urged by vexation alone, she pulls it back as far as it’ll go before releasing it.

The arrow wizzes through the air before the point collides with the thin chain, snapping it easily.

The bulb falls to the floor, glass shattering all around the room. The Gamemakers fall silent within the blackened room. With shock, their heads turn toward the tribute of cause. They hadn’t even been keeping up with who was in the room. But here she is. Ellie Williams. 

She scowls at them deeply for a moment before slamming the wooden bow onto the floor and storming out of the room without dismissal. She slams the door behind her loud enough to cause the mentors waiting in the hall to jolt. They all appear annoyed. Except for Dina Woodward, who looks more amused than irritated. Ellie hates her. 

Well, that was dramatic. She doesn’t have Dina. She hates everything. The residual anger in her body is so overwhelmingly vast that it clouds her vision and tightens her throat. She can hear the muffled announcement of Raven Hansley’s name being called as she enters the elevator. She punches the number seven button. When the doors slide open, her anger hasn’t so much as inched lower. If anything, it seems to be growing. Her hands are shaking and she can’t puzzle out why.

“How was it?” Tilly asks as soon as she enters the suite. She’d barely had time to fucking breathe before the woman is on her. 

Ellie shoots her a glare. “You’ll find out along with everyone else when the scores are revealed.”

“Oh,” Tilly frowns, “Well, then.”

Ellie brushes past her. Joel and Riley are in the sitting room, likely talking about how her evaluation went. Normally, Ellie would rush to join them as she’s eager to hear about Riley’s experience. But not now. Not when her emotions are swallowing her whole.

She enters her room, accidentally slamming the door behind her. She tears the outfit off her body, the high neckline feeling as though it’s choking her. She changes into something more comfortable, opting to spend the next few hours in her bedroom until she has to watch the scores be announced.

She sits at her desk, sketching random items. But nothing looks right. The lines are too choppy, the lighting is completely abstract. She ends up balling up twenty pages before she gives up.

Why is she so mad? It’s no shock, really, that the Gamemakers weren’t paying her any mind. She halfway expected it. There wasn’t that high of a chance that they'd be anticipating her arrival. That they’d give a damn about tributes like her—tributes that weren’t you. She wonders how your evaluation went. Did you walk in, give them a charming smile, and leave? She wouldn’t put it past you. The Capitolites would eat that up. You’d easily earn a fucking twelve for flashing them a grin.

That’s when it registers.

She’s not mad, she’s overwhelmed. All the shit from these past few days is finally coming crashing down on her. That would explain that shaky hands and ragged breathing. She tries a different approach. Instead of forcing herself to sit still and draw something, she lies on her bed and allows her mind to swarm.

Marlene. What was the first thing that she thought when she heard Ellie’s name called? Did her breath hitch? Did her eyes water? Did she feel like her child was being ripped away? Or did she just avert her gaze, not wishing to witness the effects of the Capitol infiltrate into her personal life?

Riley. What the hell is going on inside her head? For the majority of Ellie’s life, she could easily read what she was thinking. She could decipher each and every thought that brushed through her mind. To have been stripped of that, to have a security blanket torn from her? She feels bare and vulnerable. She doesn’t have her best friend to run to, she doesn’t have anyone to confide in.

Which is likely why she found such comfort in you. From the moment she got on that train in Seven, she was advised to stay as far away from you as possible. She was told that you were from a family of murderers and had such blood in your veins. Yet, she refused to heed that warning. She met up with you in secret, smoking illegally with the cigarettes Joel was kind enough to lend her. She confided in you because she was dumb enough to think you’d done the same. But who’s to say you weren’t spouting complete lies? Nobody knows anything about you. Each word that left your mouth could have been untrue and Ellie would have absolutely no way of knowing. Despite this, she kissed you. Or you kissed her. Whatever the small details may be, your lips met nonetheless. 

Which brings her to Cat. For the first time, she allows herself to truly contemplate all that happened regarding her. Sure, the relationship itself was never set in stone. Yes, everything they shared was built on sand. And yes, she ended up slipping right through Ellie’s fingers. But it still felt real. She still cared for her and loved her. Cat explained everything in the Justice Building, Ellie simply hadn't been listening. She was blinded by her own sorrow to recognize that Cat was acting for her. She was acting out of love. She ended things with Ellie because she knew that continuing would only add more layers of  complication. Ellie would go into the arena with a lover back home. No. Not back home. Here, in the Capitol. A stylist. Her stylist. God, how fucked up is that? If anyone were to figure that out, they could both be arrested. Turned into enslaved, muted Avoxes. 

Cat did what she did for Ellie. And she returned the favor by kissing you. By abandoning what they had for you—someone who doesn’t give a single damn about her. Someone who plans on killing her as soon as you’re put into the arena together. How stupid could she be? She needs to get her head screwed on right. She needs to stop evading her feelings to chase momentary bliss. 

A knock at her door grounds her.

Good. 

She needs to explain everything to Joel and Alice. She needs to tell them that she’d just fucked up any chance she had at obtaining sponsors. The Gamemakers are sure to give her a low rank. They might even punish Ellie by killing Marlene—as a way to show that defying the Capitol never ends well. She needs to tell Joel. Maybe he can do something. He’s good at this stuff, right?

Ellie opens her door to see Joel in the doorway. 

“Perfect.” She speaks.

He raises a brow. “What’re you on about?”

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“I dunno how much time we’ve got.” He rubs the back of his neck, unsure. “They’re ‘bout to air the evaluation scores. I was supposed t’ come get’cha.”

“I’ll be quick.” She promises.

And then she tells him about the evaluation. How she shot an arrow right at the Gamemakers, successfully shattering the lightbulb. Joel looks absolutely appalled, so she hurries to continue speaking before he has the chance. She explains her relationship with Marlene—how she’d raised her, but isn’t technically her mother—and asks him if he thinks the Capitol will punish her for what Ellie did today. 

Once she’s finished, Joel just stares at her for a few seconds. “God, kiddo, you sure know how t’ get into an assload o’ trouble.”

“Answer the question.” She says. “Will they do anything to her?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head, plunging his hands in the front pockets of his worn out jeans. “They ain’t gonna kill your ma. They won’t do anythin’ to her unless ya win. If you die in the Games, there’s no point in hurtin’ her. All it’ll do is cost ‘em money. If ya win, though, they can punish her. But I doubt they will. ‘Specially if they end up likin’ you.”

“Well.” Ellie frowns. “I doubt I’ll be winning this year.”

“‘N’ why’s that?”

“There’s no hope for anyone who’s put into an arena with a L/n.” She says. “You know that.”

He shrugs. “Well, I’ve got some good news for ya then.” She raises a brow. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard from a few o’ the other mentors that Y/n did absolutely terrible on her evaluation.” He tells her, voice lowered, like they’re sharing a secret. It reminds her of Dahlia. That girl is always saying things she shouldn't. “They say that she walked in, stood there for a sec’, then walked right on out.”

“Hm.” Ellie thinks on this for a moment.

She knows you went in for less than a minute because she heard how fast they called for the next tribute. But she didn’t wonder if you’d somehow fucked up, she just always assumed that everything you did was genius and intentional.

“C’mon, kiddo.” Joel says, patting her shoulder. “Tilly ‘n’ Riley are dyin’ to see the scores.”

She nods, following him down the hall to the sitting room. Surely enough, they’re both already on the couch waiting for Joel to have fetched Ellie. Riley is in an armchair talking to Tilly, who is sitting on the long couch. Joel takes the other armchair, forcing Ellie to sit beside Tilly.

On the screen, a news reporter is talking about the tributes, working up the audience’s excitement levels. His hair is bright green, just like all the other Capitol people she’s seen thus far. Such an odd fashion trend, vibrancy.

“—And, without further ado, here are the scores.”

The screen travels in order, scrolling down to show each tribute. It has a picture of their face on the right, their name and score placed on the left. Thalia earns an eight, Anthea earns a four. Lev and Yara both get the same score, a nine. Sam receives a six, Henry a seven. Then there’s you. 

“What!?” Tilly blurts out as she sees your score, her upside down eyes blown wide in shock. Even Riley looks taken aback by the number. Joel just chuckles, leaning back with a small grin.

A one. You earned a one. 

The lowest score anyone could possibly obtain and you, a L/n, has managed to get it. The commentator even sounds unsure on what to say, happy to continue scrolling through the tributes. He moves down a bit quicker, trying to get your appalling number off the screen. Remy earned a five, which the news reporter is more than glad to offer comments on. 

Joel must’ve been right. You walked in there and did nothing. Ellie would usually be amused by this, impressed even. But instead, she’s just irritated. You seriously thought you could just waltz in there and get an astonishingly high number. Fucking ego.

Ariadne got a nine, Selene got an eight. Archie earned a five and Roland earned a six. 

And then there’s Riley. She got an eight. Tilly compliments her, grinning widely at the high score. Joel says something kind as well, though he gives Ellie a strange look. Perhaps he’s recalling what she did, knowing her score is next. It’s a bit comforting to know she won’t get lower than you. That’d be impossible. At least she did something.

Her picture comes on the screen alongside her name. Then her number.

An Eleven!

[post] notes!! Okokok idk if I explained any of that well. At all. 😣 Their emotions are so hard to write because THEY don't even know wtf is going on. If u already get the gist of their inner monologue u can skip this, if not I'm gonna give a brief rundown to try & explain a bit better without their mental bias:: Yn is easier to explain so I'll be doing hers first. She thinks that Ellie is an absolute saint - which we all know is #FALSE, but since she's been thru so much as a kid and was so blatantly neglected of attention & love, she instinctively clings to whoever provides her with that (hence her attachment to Ruben and her unknowingly forming attachment to Ellie). Since she and Ellie spent so much time together (it was literally 2 days & a total of like 3 hrs MAX), and she grew to trust her enough to confide in her, she now deems her to be, as I said, a SAINT. Which is why, in her POV, we see her brushing off Ellie's staring & everything bc she's under the impression that Ellie will understand her if she explains. Ellie, on the other hand, is far more complex than merely thinking "omg shes so awesome I trust her, she'll understand! woohoo!". No, Ellie is torn - which was hard to write bc she's unaware of her own division. She trusts and cares for Yn, as anyone in her position would. I mean, shit, we saw the way she literally SWOONED over everything that girl did. But, due to her instantaneous attraction to her, Ellie has now been let down even more harshly. Or, in relation to her Icarus metaphor, "the higher you fly, the farther you fall" and needless to say Ellie flew really high really fast. Which was 100% her fault, but she's under so much pressure that she takes out all the built up frustration induced by Riley, Marlene, the Games, the Evaluation, EVERYTHING, on Yn. Well,, mentally. She's yet to do anything outward. So yeah. Yn thinks Ellie is a perfect angel & Ellie thinks Yn is the devil who's to fault for all things bad. But neither of them know what the other is thinking. YAY! So excited to see how they (healthily) handle this!! ☺️

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.    @h4-rt3s.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.    @sevyscoven.    @iheartclairo66.    @rxreaqia. @abby-anderson-wifey @imdeletingthisaccount1.