#i will drag it out. i don't know how but i will.

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

case dismissed ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Summary: sometimes, men don't take y/n seriously in their world. y/n doesn't like to play the mafia card often, but what use is a mafia husband if not for this?

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ ln x reader ⋆˙⟡

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ mafia au ⋆˙⟡

masterlist ☾☼

the courtroom buzzed with tension, as y/n y/l/n, highly skilled and known for her quick retorts, faced the jury. she was in an all-out war with a condescending christian who seemed to enjoy hurling his sexist remarks about her during the proceedings.

“i'm sure the jury is smart enough to decipher emotional manipulation by ms. y/l/n,” christian spat, itching with his overly expensive tie. “come on, don’t they teach women in college about emotional manipulation these days? because, that's exactly what's happening here!”

a shift of anxious whispers traveled across the court, but y/n simply raised an eyebrow and continued her points. she had grown to expect patronizing men like christian, and all dismissive of her just for being a woman. she had suffered much worse in this world, yet somehow, she always came out victorious.

as the suit dragged on, christian's quotes got more and more frequent, and too intrusive. he gave her directions about how to dress, what to say, and even what to do. while y/n was calm, she was also trying to put the flames of rage out. she certainly was not going to let this man’s crude sexism prevail.

the case revolved around a complex corporate fraud scheme, where christian's client, a powerful conglomerate, was accused of swindling millions from unsuspecting investors. y/n, representing the plaintiffs, had meticulously built her case, exposing a trail of deceit and manipulation that led directly to christian's client.

christian, however, resorted to personal attacks, hoping to distract the jury from the overwhelming evidence against his client. he questioned y/n's competence, suggesting that her success was due to her "feminine charm" rather than her legal acumen.

"i'm surprised ms. y/l/n even understands the intricacies of this financial matter," christian scoffed, "perhaps she should stick to cases that are more... emotionally driven."

y/n gritted her teeth, but refused to rise to the bait. she knew that christian was trying to provoke her, to make her lose her composure. but she was determined to remain professional, to let her legal skills speak for themselves.

the trial dragged on, with christian's sexist remarks becoming more and more unbearable. y/n endured it all, focusing on her arguments, presenting her evidence with unwavering confidence. she was determined to win this case, not only for her clients but also for all the women who had been underestimated and belittled by men like christian.

finally, the moment came when christian made a particularly nasty comment about her "emotional instability," suggesting that her arguments were based on feelings rather than facts. y/n had had enough. she reached into her purse, pulled out her ID, and walked over to christian, her eyes blazing.

"can you read out my name, please?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft.

christian smirked, thinking he had won. "sure, whatever," he said, taking the id from her hand. he glanced at it, and his eyes widened in shock. His face paled, and he started to stammer.

"y/n y/l/n- y/l/n norris?" he stuttered, his voice barely a whisper. "but... but that's..."

"yes," y/n interrupted, her voice now ringing with authority. "it's also the last name of lando norris, the most influential, not to mention dangerous, man in the city. my husband."

the buzz between the people in the courtroom, was subtle yet frightening. christian looked like a corpse and was one more second away from truly fainting. what he did not know was that wife of the mob boss he was insulting repeatedly was in fact married.

“apologies, mrs. norris,” christian softly murmured, trembling. “i really did not know.”

“y/l/n-norris. and, that’s correct. you did not,” y/n cut off. “you were so preoccupied in being a sexist pig that you could not notice anything else.”

turning to the judge, she continued in the same cool and controlled tone, “your honour, this case is as clear cut as they come, there is no additional information that i would like to provide.”

in silence the judge seemed to admire her calmness and how she handled that unexpected turn of events. “very well,” he said, looking at her. “the case is dismissed.”

y/n y/l/n-norris could not help herself smiling after the case had ended, she was not only able to win the case, but educate christian on respecting women. however, she had not quite finished yet. she still had her husband waiting for her with a gleeful glimmer in his gaze.

that evening, christian was bound to a chair in a dark, soundproofed room. he was frightened, realizing that he was in the hands of lando norris, a man not particularly famous for his mercy.

the door slowly opened, and lando entered, accompanied by y/n. christian's eyes went wide with fear as he beheld the mob boss come towards him, a sadistic grin spreading across his face.

"look who's back," lando said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "about time. death has been waiting for you."

y/n snorted, "babe, that was a terrible line,"

lando groaned, "i knew i shouldn't have used this one! george said it would sound cool!"

"clearly, george was wrong!"

christian began to plead for his life, but lando, turning his attention back on the man who was tied up, just laughed and shook his head. "you should have thought of that before you chose to disrespect my wife," he said. "now, you're going to pay the price."

y/n observed her husband handle christian, feeling a sense of contentment wash over her. she knew that lando would handle things and that she didn't need to worry about christian ever causing her trouble again.

as she left the room, she couldn't help but feel a burst of pride in her husband. he was a dangerous man, but he was also intensely protective and loyal to her. she knew that she was in safe hands with him, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

did i hate this? absolutely. did i still write it? clearly. will i regret it? no, i've already forgotten about it. dee, this is for you. anyways, i hope you like this! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday ; @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @peterholland04 ; @justaf1girl ; @greantii ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry ; @hiireadstuff ; @opastries81

[suiana]

yandere! male housewife who randomly spawns in your life one day.

you wake up, still feeling slightly sleepy only to be greeted by... this oddly delicious smell of eggs and pancakes???

"good morning sunshine!"

"ah!"

suddenly, this random man that you've NEVER met before walks in, breakfast tray full of all your favourite things, beaming and treating you like you two are a happily married couple.

what the actual fuck.

"bro get out of my house???"

"darling, i know you're confused but please don't tell me to leave☹️ i just cooked all this for you! it's really not that hard to say a simple thank you, you know?"

"I don't even know who you are💀"

he doesn't get out of your house.

and he even has the audacity to stay there, sit on your bed, and feed you. huh??? what???

anyway! you end up in this weird forced relationship that you're dragged into because this guy doesn't seem to take no for an answer. not only is he obsessed and completely smittened by you, he's also... very persistent. too persistent. it's like he doesn't know when to give up. specifically in asking for your attention.

and he wonders why you don't like him...

"darling! it's time for our daily cuddling session!"

"yes dear..."

you're exhausted. absolutely drained from his constant affections that threaten to suffocate you. but you can do nothing about it because this man, like i said, doesn't take no for an answer.

"can you leave me alone?"

"haha... no why would i do that?"

"because i asked?"

":3"

i mean, at least he can cook and clean? you haven't touched the stove or your laundry ever since he appeared in your life so at least that's a positive. i guess. i dunno, maybe if you make him jealous or angry...

"no dinner tonight."

"what? why?"

"you went out without telling me how could you do this to your husband?"

"for the LAST time, we are NOT married."

#oldmarriedcouple

[heyimkana]

Currently thinking about... how break-up sex would go with JJK men...

Like what if, even though you're both so in love with each other, the situation you're in right now forces you to break up with them. They'll try to fight about it, of course, you're crazy about each other, after all. But you insist on breaking up, even going as far as to tell them that you don't love them anymore just so they'll believe you. And before you say goodbye, you ask them to hold you one last time.

Satoru would be quiet. Sex was always fun with him. rough, fast, exhausting, but never boring. Sex with him was always filled with laughter, giggles, and playful kisses that would end with gasps and moans but your last time with him would be quiet. So quiet, in fact, that you could probably hear the sound of him gritting his teeth while he was fucking you from behind, all because he was trying to stop himself from saying, "This is a joke. This must be a joke. We play tricks on each other all the time. You're just trying to get back at me, aren't you, baby? There's no way you don't love me anymore. But even if you do, I don't care. I had let someone go a long time ago and I'd spent years of my life regretting it. I'm not letting you go, not now, not ever. You're staying. No, I'll make you stay." He wouldn't look at you when he fucked you, not once, as he was actually scared that you truly hated him then. But it wouldn't matter if you did. He was never going to let you go.

Suguru would listen with his stoic face intact when you told him that you wanted to break up with him. And softly, he'd ask you why, and you'd lie and tell him that you just didn't love him anymore and his eyes would turn cold as he looked at you, trying to read between your lies and you were scared that he'd know the truth. And if you told him that you wanted him to hold you one last time, he would smile and say, "Sure." but it felt so eerie that you had goosebumps breaking on your skin. Suguru would drag you out of the bed, tear open your dress and his grip was hard enough to leave bruises on your skin but he would still be smiling, even when you flinched in pain. "You like it better like this anyway, right?" he'd say as he fucked you standing up from behind with his fingers wrapped around your neck. He'd have you stand in front of a mirror, making sure to see the pathetic face you made every time he fucked you stupid. He'd show you that you were his in every way possible, making sure you understand that you were going to fucking regret it if you decided to leave him.

Yuuji would be so confused. He'd be confused when you kissed him after you said you didn't love him anymore. He'd be confused when you still hugged him afterward, and kissed his neck, and tugged onto his shirt before you pulled it over his head. He'd be confused when you asked him to hold you one last time, and he wouldn't say anything when you pushed him down to the bed. It was only when you sat on his lap, trying to slide his cock inside that he'd stop you. "No, wait, I can't do it," he would say, unable to look at you because suddenly, tears started to brim in his eyes. "If you're going to leave me after we're done, I can't do it. I love you. I don't know why you suddenly changed your mind about me, but I'm still in love with you and I don't think I can love anyone else but you. You'll break me if you do this, so please..." His voice would break and he would hug you close, his chin placed on your shoulder, his voice, sketched with the tears he was trying to hold back, reverberating right in your ear. "Please stop and tell me. I'm an idiot so I'm very slow at figuring things out and I don't know if I hurt you and I'm sorry but... I want to understand... Why...? Why are you leaving me? Am I... not enough for you?"

Megumi would not do it. He wouldn't kiss you. He wouldn't touch you. He'd only clench his jaw and ball his fingers into fists the second the words "I don't love you anymore" flowed past your lips. And when you tried to kiss him, he'd take a step back, his voice deep when he asked you, "Have I done something wrong?" You'd shake your head no, saying "It's not because of you, Megumi. It's me—" and he'd cut you off with a "Don't give me that bullshit." He'd raise his voice, but only because he was shaking inside. "If that's true, then tell me what it is! Whatever you did, I'll forgive you. If it's a part of you that you think is the problem, I'll accept it. If it's the situation we're in, let me know so I can fix it. Don't just show up and tell me you don't love me anymore, don't—" he took a breath, his voice breaking at the end. His face would twist in heartbreak when he finally gathered the strength to look at you in the eyes. His voice would soften when he continued, "Don't tell me you're leaving me. Please."

Yuuta would feel a thousand emotions at once. For the first few minutes when you told him you didn't love him anymore, he'd keep asking you, "Why? Was it something I said? What did I do wrong? How can I make this right? Please. Tell me. Tell me so I can fix everything." And you'd see tears glazing his eyes and he would look so frightened, so heartbroken, unable to believe that the love of his life was slipping out of his fingers. When you told him, "It doesn't matter, Yuu. I just can't do this anymore." Yuuta would panic, colors leaving his face and he'd start begging, "No, please, you can't leave me. I don't know what I'd do without you. You're my everything, please don't do this to me, please tell me how to make things right," and it was breaking your heart seeing him like this so you'd try to distract him by kissing him.

He'd whimper against your mouth, cupping your face with both hands, still whispering, "Don't leave me" again and again. He'd slowly regain his composure, his body melting under your kiss and when you started touching him, he'd respond with as much passion, love, and desire as he usually offered you, not knowing that it was going to be his last time with you. It was only when he was holding you in his arms, your legs tangled around his waist, his mouth slicked with your cum, his hips thrusting slow but deep, that you told him the truth, "This is going to be our last time."

Yuuta would freeze, his eyes turning round in both surprise and horror, but after that... You'd find your body folded in half, your head trapped between your knees, your jaw hanging low on your face, unable to even scream his name as he was fucking the breath out of you. His usually delicate moans would turn into heavy grunts, and he'd bunch the sheets under his fingers before he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the bed, holding them with one hand as he used his other one to grip firmly onto the back of your thigh, pushing you up even further so he could bury himself deep inside you.

"You're not leaving me," he'd breathe out. "I won't let you. We promised each other we'd be together until we die. I won't let you break it." He'd kiss you, rough and messy, smothering you with it. He'd see a hint of fear written in your eyes, maybe you'd even cry a little from how rough he was being with you, but he'd kiss the tears away, his smile looking both beautiful and terrifying when he said, "Don't worry, Sweetheart. There's nothing to be afraid of. No one will love you better than me, I promise you. And if anyone dares to come between us," he'd angle your face to the side, lick a stripe up your neck before he let his smile graze your ear.

"I'll fucking kill them."

[stevebabey]

the four steps between (best) friends and lovers

summary: Long-time best friends, it's not a surprise that it's you Steve comes to when he needs a fake girlfriend. One little white lie, one perilous family dinner, one evening of pretending to be a couple.

How hard could it be?

[ 12k + best friends to lovers + fake dating + fem!reader]

STEP ONE: THE PROPOSAL

"Be my girlfriend."

The glass held between your fingers slips and makes a loud bang as it hits the sink. The water from the tap pours over it, unaware of the incredibly unusual change in the universe that just occurred.

You tilt your head up, ignoring the lost glass, and raise your eyebrows high. "Come again?"

Steve huffs a little, as though you're the one being rather dramatic, and leans further forward across the island. His hands are planted firmly, his hazel eyes wide as he all but pouts at you. You're still grappling with where the hell that came from.

"Be my girlfriend. Please." He says. "For just one dinner, I promise. I swear I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't actually desperate."

You blink, clearly having missed a beat somewhere.

Frowning, you finally shut off the tap and rescue your abandoned glass from the bottom of the sink. You pick up and give it a quick once over for any chips. Scot-free, luckily.

"Okay, back up." You say, giving a small shake to clear your head. You make a face. "First of all, Harrington, ouch."

Steve sags a bit. "C'mon, you know that's not what I mean."

Not even a hint of a smile at your dig — which tells you he's probably pretty serious then.

"Secondly, what dinner is this? What could be so important that you have to show up with a faux-girlfriend on your arm?"

Steve properly slumps this time, a loud groan accompanying the languished movement. His forehead presses against the counter-top and you bite your tongue to avoid making an unhelpful, teasing comment about it. Instead, you refill the glass in your hand and wait patiently.

"I…" Steve begins, his voice muffled against the counter-top.

"MybrotherisintownwithhisfiancéeandI—"

"Steveeee," You interrupt as you give in to the urge, leaning over and poking him in the head. "If you want my help, please stop mumbling into the counter and tell me the problem."

He doesn't move for a moment, still face down, but you can see the rise and fall of his back as he sighs deeply. He shifts, twisting so his face is no longer hidden. It's noticeably pinker than it was a minute ago.

"My brother is in town next week." He explains. "With his fiancée. And my parents really love to kick up a fuss whenever he gets brought up, whether it's, yanno, like, about jobs and shit or whatever."

Steve waves a careless hand out. He rises from his slumped position, tucking his chin into the palm of his hand.

"And, like, this time it was about relationships. It was all," Steve's voice pitches up, whiny and nasally. "When are you going to get a serious relationship like Brandon, Steve? When are you going to settle down, Steve? When are you going to stop being a disappointment, Steve?"

He huffs another sigh, this one tinged with more defeat. You feel your face twitch in sympathy.

"So, just to get them shut up I…" Steve averts his gaze to study the counter-top suddenly. He draws an idle circle with his free hand. "I said that I was actually dating someone."

You take in his words. "But you're not."

"Thank you, genius. I had no idea." Steve straightens up with a scoff, throwing his hands out. Dragging them down his face, another groan warbles out of him.

"But now they're expecting me to show up to this dinner with someone — someone I'm dating — and I cannot admit I lied. So, please, be my girlfriend for one night."

You snort. His distress, a disaster of his own making, is just a tad bit funny. Just a little. A smidge. "Dude, chill. Just say your girlfriend is sick and she can't come."

Steve laughs mirthlessly. "That's like the adult equivalent of saying oh you don't know her, she goes to another school. No, I can't do that! C'mon, please."

His hands clasp together, raised in a plea.

"Think of it as one hugely, massive favour."

You take a moment to think it over.

"When is it?"

"This weekend, Saturday, 5 o'clock."

"Dress code?"

"Formal. Duh."

"How many people?"

"Uh, my mom, my dad, my brother, his fiancée. Maybe my uncle? Four or five."

Saturday was only a couple days away. He'd left it awfully late to ask—and you're not exactly sure who else would step up for the job if you said no. For the first time since he threw out the insane suggestion, you properly consider it — and feel your face screw up instinctively.

You? Pretending to be Steve's girlfriend?

Sure, to some girls that probably sounded like a dream come true, but it hadn't ever been like that between you and Steve.

You weren't even sure if you could picture it, being tucked under his arm, receiving delicate kisses on the head instead of noogies. Your nose wrinkles again at the oddity.

It wasn't like people didn't like to speculate — men and women can't just be friends, after all — but getting on Steve Harrington's kiss list had never really been a priority to you. Would you even be able to pull it off?

Your mind casts out to the girls that Steve tends to date, nit-picking as you try to think of what separated you from them. While Steve would certainly vehemently deny it, you're pretty sure you can pick a pattern out from the array of girls. A type that you certainly wouldn't see yourself fitting into.

Steve just… doesn't go for girls like you.

Steve, watching you closely, sees the hesitation sink in. He leans forward again, bargaining face on.

"You can veto every movie we watch for the next month."

You squint at him. Raise your chin an inch, forcing yourself not to smile too obviously. It's not often you get to see Steve looking ready to actually grovel for something.

He narrows his eyes, catching onto your deviousness. "Fine. I'll pay for your shakes for the next month, too."

You take another moment to think it over, exaggerating the hmmm sound you make. You tap your finger against your chin, indicating you're not quite convinced yet.

Steve leans further forward, his expression inching toward a bitchy disbelief. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

He looks as though he might start another slew of scoffing, his tongue pressed into his cheek, before he seems to re-evaluate what's at stake here.

He says, "I will drive you up to Indianapolis on—" He holds up one finger. "—one occasion when you ask."

Grinning, you stick out your hand for him to shake.

"You've got a deal, mister."

Steve sighs, his shoulders sagging in relief as he drops his hand to rest in yours. You give it a firm shake and just when you can see the thank-you forming on his lips, you tug his hand forward. You grin wider, almost taunting.

"I would've done it just for the shakes, just so you know."

Steve does scoff this time, ripping his hand back from yours. "You're an awful friend."

You bite down your smile, already dreaming of the free shake you'll be sipping all the way out to Indianapolis. You take a sip of your water and raise your brows at Steve over the lip of your cup.

"Hey. Don't you mean awful girlfriend." You wiggle your brows, not failing to see the hint of pink that colours Steve's cheeks.

Despite the colour in his face, Steve manages to deliver a long, unimpressed stare at you.

His eyes flick down your figure, clearly turning your words over in his head, then back up. As though he's actually realising what he's asked you to do.

He huffs another sigh, running his hand down his face. "Jesus Christ. This is an awful idea."

"Hey, it's your idea, not mine."

—

A stray blouse flies from the closet, landing in an unceremonious lump at the foot of your bed.

You toe at it gently, narrowed gaze travelling from the murky colour up toward the closet, to the perpetrator currently tearing your wardrobe apart. He doesn't even pause, hands still digging, almost resembling a dog burying a bone.

Sighing, you drop your head back, hair splaying against your pillow. The water-stain on your bedroom ceiling greets your sigh with silence.

You had thought that, while sure, yeah, the Harrington's are a fancy bunch, it ultimately wouldn't be that much of a hassle to step in as Steve's date.

You'd have to dig through your closet for the nicest thing you owned (and seldom wore) and you and Steve would concoct a ludicrous story that could be the next John Hughes film.

It would take an hour, tops.

A severe underestimation. Maybe the promise of one hugely, massive favour should've tipped you off.

"Are you being serious right now?" You moan from your place on the bed. You shift your head forward again, eyeing your best friend across the room.

Steve, still buried in your closet, makes a loud harumph in answer. His voice comes out muffled against the clothes, too swamped amongst the fabric. "—Y'know, this wouldn't be so hard if you actually had anything wearable in here—"

You make a noise of indignation, tipping your head further forward. Your necklace shifts, the pendant sliding down the chain and hitting the comforter beneath you.

"And just what are you trying to say?"

Steve pauses for a moment, his hands halted on a pair of coat-hangers. He leans out from the clothing and lets his head loll back, his hazel eyes forming a flat stare.

"Har har." Steve says sarcastically. He turns back to the closet, the coat-hanger in his hand scraping as he pushes it along, assessing each piece with quick, attuned eyes. "I'm just saying you have a lack of clothing that my mother deems acceptable."

He turns back for a second. "Which is a good thing, by the way."

You hum in agreement, letting your head flop back onto your pillow. You've seen the pantsuits Cynthia Harrington wears.

Steve continues his barrage through your wardrobe, making a noise of disapproval every couple of seconds.

You also can't say you had expected to get started so soon; as in immediately post fake-girlfriend proposal. It occurs to you that perhaps you've said yes to something bigger than you expected.

"You're taking this really seriously." You comment.

"Yeah, well," Steve reaches in and tosses another blouse, this one pale-blue, on the bed by your feet. "I know you've met my parents before but they're, like, different when Brandon comes around."

"Different?"

"Like worse. Way, way worse." He draws a line with a flat hand. "Brandon makes them just so—"

His hand curls up, forming a fist. He sighs, dropping it to rest on his hip. For a long moment, he stares into your wardrobe.

You push up on one elbow, brows knitting together. "Steve?"

Steve jolts lightly at your voice, torn out of his thoughts. He reaches out and plucks another blouse from your wardrobe, a maroon pleated one that you'd sworn you had thrown away. It's horrendous and definitely picked out by your mother. He turns and chucks it on the bed, crumpling atop the others and looks up at you, hands perched on his hips.

"Just, like, the smoother this dinner goes, the better, okay?"

You sit up completely, catching the seriousness leaking into Steve's voice. Damn. He actually sounds pretty worked up about the whole thing.

You smile, aiming for comfort. Even if you hadn't quite grasped what you had said yes to, Steve was still your best friend.

His parents were… difficult on the best of days. It was clear he was going for the least eventful, head-down approach as he could for this.

You could do that.

"Okay." You nod, more serious this time, eyeing the blouses on the end of the bed. You miss the relief that shutters across Steve's face. "We got three days til Saturday. What do you need me to do?"

"You can start," Steve says, spinning back to face your chest of drawers this time. His eyes flash over, with a hint of mirth. "By telling me if you even own a skirt that goes below your knees, you scandalous woman."

You laugh and get to your feet, wandering towards your drawers to pull open the bottom most one. Fishing around, you try to recall if you have anything church-worthy, tongue poking out your lips.

A hideous woollen skirt gifted to you for Christmas a couple years ago springs to mind. You shiver.

"Below the knee, huh?" You say. "You better start telling me about the role I'll be playing if I can't even turn up as myself."

You're only half joking. Your fingers curl around the scratchy fabric and you wrinkle your nose in recognition. Tugging it forward, it escapes the confines of your drawers and splays out with a sudden poof. You get the joy of remembering just how ugly it really is.

Twisting, you hold it up to Steve who has taken your place on your bed, laid back.

"Think this'll do?"

Steve's head perks up and he locks onto the skirt in your grasp. "Ugh, it's awful. Perfect."

You drop the skirt, abandoning it to take your place next to Steve on the bed. The springs creak slightly as your weight joins Steve's, the bed dipping and forcing you closer together. A smile sneaks onto his face.

"Okay, but for real," You jab a finger into the softness of Steve's side and he makes a little noise of complaint. "You've gotta tell me what I'm expecting for this, dude. It would be, like, catastrophically mean of you to send me in there blind."

Steve sighs — something he's really doing that a lot recently — and rolls toward you, propping his head up with one arm. The edges of his polo stretch as his bicep bulges. He frowns down at your comforter as he thinks.

"I don't know if I actually can prepare you for it." He admits, raising his gaze to look at you through his lashes. "Like, I think we're gonna have to just come up with a story and fend off the questions as best we can."

Another thought occurs to you. You frown. "Wait, don't your parents, like, know about me already?"

Steve's gaze darts away, this time staring at your comforter with a greater intensity. He gives a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, well, that's why it'll work. They basically already ask me when we'll be getting together."

Your brows jump. A teasing grin taunts your mouth but you forsake it for a more helpful approach.

"Alright, then," You say. "Then let's do better than fending off the wolves. If I'm gonna be your fake girlfriend, I'm not gonna half-ass it. Let's knock the socks off your parents."

Steve's eyes jump up, meeting your stare and it takes another moment before he realises you're being genuine. You grin, poking him in the side again.

"And Brandon."

"Yeah?" Steve smiles. He sounds a tad awed at your dedication, his eyes roaming over your face gently. After a moment, he shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. "Okay. Uh, we have to come up with a backstory first."

"And it has to be one that your parents will believe too."

Steve nods, then pauses, a frown knitting together his eyebrows. "Wait, when did we get together? We can't have just started dating that's— like, almost as bad as showing up without a girlfriend."

You blink, perturbed. "What?"

"Oh, hey mom and dad." Steve says, his tone sardonic and flat. "Oh yeah, this is my girlfriend who I somehow started dating just one week ago, coincidentally just in time for this family dinner."

You cringe a little. He does have a point.

"Fine." You say. A little worry burrows into your brain — the longer you make your 'relationship', the more details you have to construct, to remember, and recall correctly.

You worry your bottom lip. "How long is long enough though? If it's too long, we have to remember more things."

Steve's mouth twists in thought. He gives a hmm.

"I think the last time you saw my parents was… sometime around New Year's Eve, right? They had that party, d'ya remember?"

You wrack your brain and find a memory with glittering fireworks and greasy hot-dogs. Steve had too much champagne and emptied his stomach into a bush. Faintly, the memory of passing by Mr and Mrs. Harrington fits in there— only for a moment.

"Yeah," You say.

Combing over the last years' events, you try to think if there's anything else you would've seen them at.

Graduation? You try to smooth out the wrinkles of that memory too; sunny day, sweltering gown. You hadn't remembered seeing Steve's parents there. "'Cos they didn't come to graduation, did they?"

"Nope." Steve says, popping the p. He rolls back to lie flat on your bed, folding his hands to rest on his chest. "What about after one of my basketball games? The final one of the season." He proposes, eyes tracking back to you.

You laugh without meaning to, spurred on by Steve's surprise.

"Really? At your basketball game? That's when the sparks went flying and we got together?"

Steve's mouth drops open an inch in offense. He throws his hands up. "What? That's, like, totally romantic." He defends. "Besides, it's a good reason for our friendship to have changed."

"You lost that game."

"I still scored!"

"Fine." You appease, laughing lightly. "We got together after you lost the last basketball game of the season."

Steve wrinkles his nose again. "Well, don't put it like that."

You laugh again, soft and light.

"Who asked who?"

"I asked you." Steve says.

You nod, carefully trying to commit the detail to memory. Your head spins as you try to think up the variety of different questions you might get asked at the dinner.

What sort of questions might his parents ask? Or his brother? They'll probably want to know the basics — how you got together, how it's going. You might get a shake-down to see if you're worthy of dating a Harrington.

Then, of course, there is the matter of ensuring you're a convincing couple. In love enough to be brought along to an exclusive family event.

That means… getting touchy. The thought sends a jolt through your stomach— will you have to kiss?

You bury the thought. You'll cross that bridge and have it's subsequently unavoidable, awkward conversation when you get to it.

You're not sure who'll you will have more trouble convincing; Brandon or Steve's parents. But from what you know of Steve's family, you'd bet none of them know him that well.

For all you know, this could well be a walk in the park. Maybe the easiest free trip to Indianapolis ever earned.

"What's Brandon like?" You ask, trying to get a better sense of who you'll be fooling. "Do you think he'll ask many questions?"

"He's…" Steve's eyes shift from you to the ceiling, his mouth forming a flat line. "An asshole, like my dad. He's got this amazing talent for getting under my skin. Which usually includes undermining just about anything I have going for me in my life. Or—" He gestures to you with a sigh. "—what I actually don't have going."

He rolls his head in your direction, his mouth twisted into a bitchy frown.

"He used to always rat on me to our parents when I was kid. He once got me in trouble for going to see Tommy just because he didn't want to walk me over. Said I disobeyed authority." Steve makes quotations with his fingers.

Your brows raise in disbelief. "Isn't he, like, fifteen years older than you?"

Steve huffs a mirthless laugh. "Yep. Told you, asshole. So, yes, he'll probably ask questions but I don't think he'll expect I'd do something as desperately pathetic as faking a girlfriend so hopefully we'll fly under his radar."

Reaching out, you whack Steve on the arm, relishing in his annoyed ow!

Eyes narrowed, you wait til he's looking at you with his what gives? face before you say, "What you're doing is not pathetic, nor is it desperate. It is an act of survival against your shitty family, okay?"

Steve stares at you for a moment before his shoulders seem to melt, the tension leaking from them. He flops his head back.

"Okay." He murmurs in agreement.

"Alright," You say. "Now, let's get this story straight. We got together at the final game of the season, which would mean we've been together for nearly…"

STEP TWO: THE ACT

Your legs itch and you fight the urge to readjust your tights for the umpteenth time.

Steve, in the driver's seat beside you, drums his hands against the steering wheel too rapidly to be casual. He keeps darting one hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at his thumbnail.

You'd reach out and smack him to get him to stop but you're beginning to feel the lurch of nerves yourself. The drive from your house to Steve's has never seemed so, so entirely too short.

"Okay, uh," Steve's throat clicks, clammed up from his silence for too long.

He hadn't spoken much when he had picked you up, other than to laugh at your joke at the mismatch of yourself and your prim outfit.

You'd ended up finding a double-breasted blazer in your mom's closet and you look almost ready to run as the local mayor. You're even wearing tights.

"We got together the 20th—"

"—of June, last year." You finish for him.

Steve nods, his face still facing forward. His eyes look a tad unfocused, even as he reaches out to adjust the collar of his dress shirt. "Right. So we've been together for, uh, about ten months."

You nod encouragingly, checking the details in your head. "You asked me out. Our first date was—"

"—at The Hawk." Steve cuts in, parroting off your memorised answers. "We saw Labyrinth and, uh, then I drove you home."

That part isn't technically untrue. You and Steve had gone to see Labyrinth together back in June of last year, but it certainly hadn't been a date. You find the details lend themselves quite easily regardless.

"That's when we had our first kiss." You remind him, even if it makes your face heat minisculy. "What did you get me for Christmas?" You quiz.

"Uh," Steve's hand rabbits against the steering wheel, nerves evident. He finally breaks his stare from the road to glance at you, his brows furrowed together, eyes worried. "Fuck, I can't remember."

"It's fine," You stress, waving a hand. "You got me tickets to Billy Joel and we drove out to Indianapolis for the concert in April."

Steve nods a bit too manically, his perfectly coiffed hair coming a bit loose. The houses flashing by the window gradually get bigger, fancier. He bites his thumbnail again and this time you do reach out and tug his wrist away.

"Thanks." He murmurs.

He turns the wheel, the engine droning as the car takes the corner to enter his street. Your nerves hike a mile higher and you tug at your tights fruitlessly again. The street is lined with nice cars — not unexpected for Steve's neighbourhood.

What is unexpected is the sheer volume. You and Steve peer out the car windows, eyes wide, as you take in the full street. When you swallow, your throat feels particularly dry.

You turn to Steve. "I thought they said it was a family dinner?"

Steve, his eyes darting from car to car, either trying to find a park amongst the packed sidewalk or maybe just panicking like you are, takes a moment to meet your eyes. He looks a lovely shade of chalky white.

"They definitely did."

There's a free space down the end of Steve's street, the driveway already full with two cars, neither you can recognise.

Steve's foot hits against the brake too abruptly and the car jerks to a stop, rocking forward. You grip the edges of your seat tightly as Steve kills the engine. For a moment, neither of you make a sound.

"What if there's more than just family in there?" Steve croaks, turning slowly to face you.

The paleness in his face has pitched toward something greener. He swallows heavily, twisting back to stare out the windshield and his hands on the wheel tighten. "Oh my god, this is— this isn't gonna to work."

"Steve."

"Valentines, we did Lover's Lake," Steve mutters to himself, eyes still out the window. "Fuck, this is so stupid."

"Steve," You try again. His own panic is worsening your own and if he continues to spiral, you fear you might never make it out of the car and you did not wear itchy tights for that to happen.

"You got me the Michael Jackson record for my birthday," He rattles off again, almost absentmindedly, as though his mind can't pick between panicking about trying to remember all the details or the apparent extra guests.

"This is— oh my god, we're never gonna convince them."

"Steve." You say firmly. His head snaps around, broken from his mutterings. He blinks at you.

You take a deep, exaggerated breath in. Steve follows instinctively, his shoulders rising as he inhales.

"We will convince them." You insist earnestly.

Offering out your upturned hand, you wait for Steve to shift to place his bigger hand in yours. When he does, your fingers curl around it, cradling it.

You can feel the rabbit of his pulse at your fingertips and you meet his eye as you say, "We know each other—really well. We're best friends. We've practised, we look the part, okay? Now, all we have to do is… be a couple for an evening. It's going to be fine."

Steve swallows and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. Then his breath bursts out in a release of tension, his hand finally squeezing yours back. "God, what would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn, probably." You tease, thankful when unease hanging on his frame is replaced by something more familiar.

Steve makes an appalled noise, tightening his grip on your hand so you can't pull it back. His other hand moves, his fingers dancing across the ticklish skin on the inside of your arm til you shriek out in laughter, yanking your hand back.

Your laughter seems to have dimmed the nervousness a bit. You glance over your shoulder, down the street, and track an older couple dressed primly entering the Harrington home. As you turn back to Steve, you swallow to gather your nerves.

"Ready?"

Steve doesn't look like he is, his shifting, unsure eyes and stressing hands. He pushes his palms against his slacks and takes a sharp inhale, before meeting your eyes. "Ready as I'll ever be."

You count the steps up to the doorway without even meaning to, arriving at the Harrington doorstep in approximately 47 steps. The maroon double doors before you seem taller than usual. Steve raises his hand to knock and then halts, his attention shifting to his upraised hand.

He quickly tucks it back against his side, except this time with his elbow held out for you.

A faint pang of surprise in your chest, coloured with something softer, nicer. You’ve seen somewhat what Steve’s like on his dates and you’ve certainly heard plenty of the aftermath. But you’ve never been on one, of course.

As you loop your arm to nook in his, you find yourself unexpectedly eager to find out exactly what it’s like to be Steve Harrington’s date.

Steve knocks on the door, then twists the knob and lets himself in.

Despite seeing the earlier guests, there’s little to prepare you for the room full of people that stand on the other side of the door. Moving on instinct, clinging to Steve’s arm, you step through the threshold and into the lion's den.

Your nerves fry. Never mind lion's den; you feel more like a fly caught in a web. Frog boiling in a pot? No, that doesn't work because you know exactly what you were signed up to when you said yes to Steve.

Well, not precisely. You survey the crowd, counting at least three times as many people as you were expecting with nervous eyes.

Your little white lie with Steve just graduated to having an entire audience. No pressure, right?

“Steven.”

The croon of Cynthia Harrington greets the pair of you.

You feel Steve stiffen up beside you, his shoulders rolling back, his entire body straightening up. His throat bobs as he swallows nervously.

“Mom,” Steve says. His voice is a bit dry and he swallows again. “You didn’t say there were going to be this many people here.”

He’s polite enough to not word it as an accusation. His niceties don’t work, bouncing off the painstakingly sculpted smile of a businesswoman.

“Please, it’s a networking event, I’m not sure what you expected.” She adjusts her diamond earring, swaying and heavy, as she speaks dismissively. “I told you this, Steven.”

You never hear anyone call Steve Steven other than his parents.

“No, Mom, you didn’t.”

There’s a barely restrained bite in his words.

That catches Cynthia’s attention. She stops her roaming gaze to focus on her son, not even glancing at you. After a moment, she gives an exasperated huff.

“Well, why else would we be back, Steven? Your father is trying to close business with Mr. Collings.”

The sting isn’t even for you — in fact, you don’t even think she realises she’s dealt it — but you feel it all the same. Steve’s arm looped with yours tightens, a minuscule motion.

Though you know he thinks they’re all assholes, it doesn’t stop Steve from hoping they’ll come back for him.

“Right.” Steve says, voice tight. “Sure. Of course.”

You’re just thinking about dragging him away from this barbed conversation, clearly pricking all his sensitive spots, when Cynthia’s sharp gaze slides over to you.

Her eyes gleam in recognition and her posture changes.

“Oh, is this the girlfriend you’ve spoken of?”

This time you’re the one who stiffens up. It’s momentary. You know that Steve’s likely freaking out too and at least one of you has to pull yourself together.

The most winning smile you can manage glides onto your face.

“That’s me.” You squeeze Steve’s arm with your hand. It's half in genuine comfort, half in show.

Cynthia regards you for another long moment before she manages to straighten up further, as though pinched.

“Oh! Yes, I recognise you. Remind me of your name, dear?”

It’s a struggle not to grit your teeth. Steve and you have been friends for nearing ten years now.

Still, you relay it politely for her. Your smile feels a bit wooden now.

“Oh, Steven. How nice.” Cynthia says, a touch of patronisation in her tone. Her beady eyes slice back to yours. “He had such a crush on you for the longest time, it’s—”

“Mom.” Steve hisses, cutting her off. Another unexpected jolt of something warm in your chest. Wait, really?

You chance a glance up at Steve. His ears are tinted pink.

You’re not entirely sure what to make of how that makes you feel, so you shelve it for later. Maybe when you’re not being thrown to the sharks by Steve’s awful parents.

Okay, too many animal metaphors. Falling asleep to the Discovery Channel last night is definitely taking its toll.

“We’re gonna mingle, find Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. He moves forward, past his mother, and tugs you with him. Your legs itch with the reminder of your scratchy tights.

“Alright, Steven. Make sure you say hello to your brother!”

Steve huffs, loud enough that you hear it, and you let him lead you through the throngs of middle-aged people. He stops when he reaches the kitchen, finally unwinding his arm with yours.

He does it so he can shove his hands in his hair, a stressed motion from Steve if you’ve ever seen one.

“God, okay, that went well.” He says sarcastically.

“Stop. You’re ruining your hair.” You reach up and rescue his lochs from his harsh grip, fingers around his wrists to tug his hands away. You’re far too aware of how long it had taken him to do.

Steve lets you. When you focus on his face, you notice the pink from his ears is also on his cheeks.

The question jumps off your tongue, unbidden.

“Was she telling the truth? About… the crush? Or was she just trying to tease you?”

The pink dips closer to scarlet. Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment.

“I— she- yes,” He admits. Your heart shudders at the revelation. Steve’s eyes open and he twists his hands so he can hold yours in them. “But, like, not now. In the past. Years ago, I promise.”

For his sake, you do your best not to take it too seriously. Even if you wanted to pry, now is not the time nor the place to do so.

However, you can’t resist a small, teasing grin. Steve catches it and his embarrassment gives way to exasperation instantly.

“You likeeed me,” You say in a sing-song voice.

Teasing is not unfamiliar in your friendship with Steve and getting to joke around, even at this strange party, feels nicer. Steve groans dramatically, his eyes closing and his hands pushing against your hands to shove you away.

A new voice interrupts.

“Liked? I sure hope he likes you now, being his girlfriend and all.”

You and Steve both snap out of your easy joking, remembering that you’re supposed to be presenting as a couple. Head turning to who had spoken, it only takes a couple of seconds for you to place who it is.

He looks a little bit like Steve, but not really.

The eyes are different, not as slanted and he hasn’t got any of Steve’s beautiful moles. But the nose, the mouth, put together with matching brown hair and tan skin, you know who this is without having to ask.

“Brandon.” Steve says. The name is stilted in his mouth.

Brandon smirks, his same hazel coloured eyes dragging a long, scathing once-over of his younger brother. He doesn’t look impressed, if his disinterested expression is anything to go by.

Then he does the same to you.

It’s almost tangible, the prickly feeling of his gaze raked over your body. Searching, hunting, nearly making you want to perk up to gain his approval.

God, Steve was right on the money. This guy is like his father but worse.

“The eye-candy of the month, huh?” He says to you, chuckling as if he’s made a joke.

You consider, then make the decision to throw all pleasantries out the window. You don’t smile back.

“Actually, Steve and I will be coming up on one year soon.”

Tangling your hands back together as you say it, you lean into Steve’s side. It’s warm, smells of his cologne. Only when you gaze up at him, do you let a smile grace your lips. It’s soft and genuine.

Steve smiles back down at you, crooked and lovely.

“I’m surprised anyone could settle him down,” Brandon continues and you turn back to him, fighting the urge to narrow your eyes. It doesn’t escape you how he’s jumped from one slight dig to the next.

He’s clever with it. Polite enough that Steve can’t exactly bring it up as an issue.

Brandon continues, swirling his crystal tumbler of whiskey idly. “Surprised he wanted to. Little bro always seemed like such a womanizer. Didn’t think he’d want just one chick.”

He leans in and socks Steve on the shoulder, hard, when he says the word womanizer. He’s grinning.

You have to admit, Brandon’s far too good at this — good at getting under your skin. If you hadn’t been forewarned of his behaviour, if you actually were Steve’s girlfriend, it would certainly rub you the wrong way. He’s certainly doing his best to sprinkle grit and strife between you two.

And you know it hurts Steve to hear — Sure, maybe when he was a thick-headed freshman, with no clue about the world, he had acted that way.

Nowadays... Anyone who knows Steve, even a little bit, knows he wants the real deal, more than anything.

“Not anymore,” Steve says, though it’s not nearly as confident as he usually is. He clears his throat and casts his gaze around. “Where’s Ariel?”

“Ah,” Brandon hums, looking around himself. He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Not sure. I think I left her in conversation with the Erickson’s from across the street. She’s been pleading with her eyes to be saved but hey, she’s gotta learn sometime, right?”

Your lip curls up in distaste before you remember yourself. Fingers intertwined with Steve’s, you clutch them tighter for some semblance of strength.

You’ve got to get the two of you out of here before you start outright sneering at this man — which is very much not the heads-down approach Steve had asked for.

“Babe,” you say, effectively dismissing Brandon’s comment as you look up at Steve. He looks down at you and squeezes your hand. “Can we grab a drink, please? I’m feeling thirsty.”

Steve murmurs his affirmation and you both turn back to Brandon to bid a polite goodbye. His left eye twitches just once, the only indication that he’s put off by your subtle rejection.

“Well,” Brandon fixes his features, his smirk sliding back into place. “Don’t let me keep you. What was your name again, sweetheart?”

“I didn’t say.” You say, forcing the politest, more nonchalant expression on your face. You let him stew in the awkwardness, waiting for him to break and ask.

He doesn't. Brandon just smiles, though this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He holds out his hand and despite how you don’t want to, you place your own in it to shake it.

“Well, it’s been real nice getting to meet you. I hope I’ll see more of you later tonight.” He smiles like a promise. His grip tightens in the handshake.

You grip his hand tighter, matching his strength, and for the first time in the whole conversation, you match his perfectly fake smile.

“Not if I see you first,” You say, spoken pleasantly enough that the meaning of your words doesn’t sink in until you’ve pulled back. You urge Steve somewhere, anywhere that’s not here.

“C’mon, let’s get that drink.”

There’s a punch-bowl out in the living room, thankfully. Displayed next to it is a large jell-o mould, arsenic green, and jiggling gently whenever someone bumps the table. Rich people stuff, you assume.

You eye it curiously as Steve quietly ladles a cup for you, then himself.

The punch is pineapple flavoured but peachy in colour. You sniff the cup Steve gives you hesitantly before you take a small sip. It’s nice. Mostly juice.

You peer up at Steve over the next sip and the cup hides your near hiccup of surprise when his hand slides along your waist. His hand, warm and large, settles on the small on your back and urges you closer.

“That was— wait, this is okay, right?” He pulls his hand back an inch, hovering over your waist. You nod without having to think about it.

“Okay,” He sighs in relief, resting it back down. His thumb moves, soothing along the fabric almost absentmindedly.

He grins at you, “That was, like, amazing to watch. The whole —not if I see you first— just, god, his face. Amazing.” His hand on your waist squeezes lightly. “You’re amazing. I didn’t know you could be so snobby.”

He says the last word slightly too loud and you laugh, worriedly stealing a glance around the room. No one’s paying you much mind. You do notice, however, that Brandon’s meandered into the living room now.

You sidle closer, tucking up under Steve’s arm.

Surprise touches Steve's features; his brows raising a bit, lips parting, and cheeks colouring that ruby colour once more.

It’s as if, despite all your previous agreements, he’s forgotten that you’re supposed to be acting like a couple.

As if he’s forgotten that couples act like this. In love, that is.

“Are you finding this weird?” He murmurs, volume control on this time. It’s said just to you, muffled into your hairline.

From afar, you think it might look like he’s kissing your forehead.

You take another sip of the punch, peering at his dress shirt, and consider his question. It’s not weird, per se. You tell him as much.

“I think it’s just new,” You look up at him — closer than you usually ever see him. His lashes are long and spidery. His hazel eyes are lighter under the lights. “Just different to what we’re used to. It’s… nice, I think.”

“You think?”

You expect Steve to tease you for your own unexpected soft answer but instead, his response comes out with a strange reverence.

If you had to pick a word, something traitorous would maybe call it hopeful. Wait, traitorous? Wait, hopeful?

"Yeah," You shrug a little, no big deal. "I mean it's not that much different from how we already are, right? Just a little more..."

Steve's thumb swatches along your back, more intentionally this time.

"Touchy?" He provides.

You nod and pretend the strange acknowledgement isn't making you feel a tad more flustered.

The touchiness is really quite nice. It’s sweet to have an anchor in this freaky social situation, very much unlike the aforementioned and abandoned Ariel. Steve’s hand on you is a grounding touch, a constant soft reminder of the person who has your back—literally.

And the person is Steve — which, again, isn’t really that different from what you’re used to. He sorta always has your back anyway.

You suppose it hasn't really crossed your mind before, not in depth at least, the small changes that would occur if you and Steve really did date.

How different would it really be?

Chin tilting up, you slyly steal a look at him as Steve scans the party. He's probably planning escape routes, jaw clenched subtly. He's clean-shaven, not a whisper of that stubble that you think suits him rather well.

Would you still be friends, if the two of you dated?

The question feels silly the moment you think it, even if it's only spoken in your mind. You wrinkle your nose lightly and hide it behind another sip of punch. There's an easy answer to that.

Of course you would. It's like you just said: not that different from how you are now. Same teasing dynamic, same loyal history, same sharing embarrassing secrets and same driving around doing nothing, loving it.

Just more. More of this.

Steve squeezes your side warmly, his head twisted to look back down at you. He's asked you a question you realise.

"Hm?"

"I was asking how long do you think it's acceptable to wait to fake a heart-attack to get us out of here?”

Amusement draws your eyebrows up. You grin up at Steve. "A heart-attack? At your youthful, healthy age? C'mon, Steve, they'll never believe it."

Steve's expression twitches closer to bitchy as he considers your rebuttal. You take another sip of punch. He relents.

"Fine. What else? I’m not above faking haemorrhoids.”

The punch in your mouth comes back out in a surprised splutter, thankfully landing mostly back in your cup. A drop of it streaks down your chin.

Your surprise quickly morphs into a glare, eyes shifting up to deliver it to your best friend.

The shit-eating grin on Steve’s face tells you that his timing was not accidental.

“You’re unbelievable,” You hiss because what happened to the polite, head down, and not eventful approach that Steve had all but pleaded from you?

He reaches for a napkin for you without asking — and then tugs you in closer with the hand around your waist, brings the napkin up to your face. He hovers, giving you a moment to realise what he’s doing, before he dotingly swipes away the streak of juice.

“Careful now, honey,” He says, giving the petname a teasing intonation.

How he managed to pick the petname that does actually make your heart perk up in your chest is beyond you. Maybe he knows you better than you think.

“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You ask, brows raised, pretending to be annoyed. Your bitten-back grin gives you away. “Making me spit my punch and then just sprinkling in a petname—”

“—like you didn’t do that first, with Brandon in the kitchen.” Steve interjects. He crumples the napkin and drops it back on the table.

“Okay," You say. "Fair."

"We forgot to discuss that, actually," Steve says. He sounds casual but he looks away, studying the punchbowl rather intently. "What... like, do you like to be called? In a relationship?"

It is an oversight both of you managed to miss, which makes you feel a little foolish now. You focus on the question.

"I like honey," You admit gingerly. A tepid smile threatens at your lips and when you look up at Steve, he's already turned back to watch you closely. "It's a bit old-fashioned. Sounds more like something you say if you're married but...I think it's nice."

"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Me too."

Something hums brightly in your chest at his gentle expression, his fondness zeroed in only on you. You break his gaze to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.

"What about you?"

Steve chuckles. "Don't like babe."

"Too late."

“Yeah, well, obviously.”

There’s a beat and you think if you’ve ever had this conversation before. Sweetened preferences didn’t usually make it into your gossip sessions. This is new territory.

“I like sweetheart too,” Steve says, somewhat offbeat. As if he’d thought for too long if he’d say it or not.

He peers down at you, a scrunch in his nose. “Not like Brandon says it though. He might’ve ruined that one for me.”

“He can ruin this dinner, but not that.” You decide for him. “C’mon, sweetheart. We look like we’re stealing all the punch.”

Using your hand in his, you lead him away from the punch table and weave through the people milling about the living room. A touch of resistance makes you glance back. You can see a pink glow painted on Steve’s cheeks.

Your feet come to a halt, twisting back to properly face him. You can’t resist the urge to tease. “Oho, you weren’t kidding- you do like that one.”

“Oh, shut up,” Steve murmurs, his tongue pressed into his cheek and his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t believe I raised you so poorly as to address a lady like that, Steven.”

You jump at the intrusion, realising you’d unluckily managed to stop right beside Mr. Harrington. Fuck, why are all of Steve’s family so good at sneaking up on you? You chalk it up to their snakeish tendencies.

“Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. Then, with a quick swallow, he corrects himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Harrington is not what you’d call an impressive man. Sure, his suit is tailored to fit and you have no doubt his overwhelming cologne costs more than three paychecks combined — but in substance? He lacks. Severely.

You’ve met him thrice.

Every time, you wonder how someone as wonderful as Steve, can come from someone like him.

Though, it certainly explains the god-awful ‘King Steve’ phase Steve had gone through in his freshman and sophomore year. You shiver at the memory.

“It was warranted, Mr. Harrington, believe me,” You jump in to move the attention of Steve’s father back to you, easily shouldering the blame. A smile, cool and collected, graces your face. “I was teasing him, after all.”

Mr. Harrington grunts in disagreement. “Hardly an excuse to speak so crudely, especially in front of guests.”

Opening your mouth to defend him again, Steve speaks first. “You’re right, sir. I apologise, it won’t happen again.”

Steve still shoots you a thankful glance. You clamp down your half-formed response and squeeze his hand instead. He squeezes back.

Maybe the two of you should’ve learned morse-code with all the squeezing you’re both doing. You hadn’t anticipated holding his hand for this long.

You could let go. You don’t really want to — and you’re pretty sure, neither does Steve.

You can’t remember the last time you held his hand.

“Your new girlfriend, I presume?” Mr. Harrington nods to you.

Steve barely gets a moment to respond when his father is waving him forward, stepping back to open a circle of middle-aged men behind him.

“Come, there’s a few associates I’d like you to meet, Steven.”

There’s no question, only a demand. Despite how it feels like stepping into a pit of vipers — damn you, Discovery Channel — you and Steve join the circle.

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Harrington addresses the four men before you, a wry smile on his face. “My son, Steven.”

Then, as an afterthought, with a glance your way. “And his girlfriend.”

“Oh? Not fianceé?” One of the men speaks up. He’s balding, his hair combed over in an attempt to cover his ruddy coloured scalp.

“I’m afraid you’re thinking of my other son, Brandon.” Mr. Harrington says, words suddenly imbued with a proud tone. Steve’s hand grows rigid in yours, though you don’t think he’s even noticed. You send a squeeze back.

A different man speaks up. This man has all his hair, but also has a pot-belly that threatens to send buttons on his dress shirt flying.

“Ah, well, fianceé to be, I bet.” He says, speaking directly to Steve and ignoring you. “Soon it’ll be the ol’ ball and chain. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, son.”

Then the fucker winks at you—as if you’re in on some big joke. A deep, miserable pity dawns in you for their wives.

“Actually,” Steve begins. There’s an edge in his voice.

You glance up at him concernedly — sure, these guys are douchebags, but you know that. Throwing in the polite and heads-down approach in front of his father might be the worst timing ever.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Steve says. The bite in his voice has receded and instead, he sounds calm. Polite. “My girlfriend is one of the best things in my life. She’s smart, talented, beautiful— and why she chooses to waste her time with me is a mystery to me.”

He speaks as though he believes every word he’s saying, a hundred percent. You realise you’re holding your breath when Steve turns to look down at you. His hazel eyes are soft, genuine.

“She makes me a better person. She’s… She’s my best friend.”

The line between your genuine friendship and this fake concocted act blurs entirely — and suddenly, you can’t tell what is real and what is not.

Worse, you’re not sure which you'd prefer more.

Does he really think all those things about you?

Steve, who should probably, definitely take up an acting gig after this, plants a quick, nimble kiss on your forehead to sell his loving words.

He turns back to his father’s business friends.

“Believe me, if I ever get so lucky as to marry her, I’d be the ball and chain.” He chuckles. “Not the other way around.”

You’re still holding your breath, heart stuck somewhere halfway up your throat. The businessmen before you show varying amounts of surprise and annoyance—none more of the latter than Mr. Harrington himself.

It doesn’t matter. Steve’s said it all in that perfectly polite way that’s so often been used against him. Something within you glows hotly with pride.

“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” Steve says politely. He drops your hand to re-link your arms once more, then nods to them. “I need to reapply my haemorrhoid cream.”

You’re pretty sure Steve turns you both away from the conversation as fast as he does, knowing that you’re gonna laugh. You do, his last sentence so unexpected it turns your laugh into this foul half hacking, half coughing noise.

Steve pats your back, expecting it, raising his voice as he walks you forward, “There, there.”

There’s a little smugness in his tone. You wait until you pass back into the front hall — now Cynthia Harrington free — to unlink your arms and smack him on the chest.

“Asshole!” You exclaim, but you’re already laughing. Steve’s laughing too, the sound bright and honeyed amongst the dull murmur of the event. God, the looks on their faces.

“I didn’t think you would actually do that.”

“Hey, it got us out of the conversation, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but,” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze falling from his for a moment. “I mean, won’t your dad…?”

Steve sighs and then shrugs. “I think I’m done trying to impress people like that. If you’re not up to standard to them, why the hell would I care about their opinion of me?”

Your heart feels a little wobbly at that. Steve has always been devastatingly earnest; it’s just less often directed at you. The two of you are used to teasing.

You fall back on it. “Awww,” You coo, gripping his forearms and leaning forward with a coy grin. “You got haemorrhoids for me, honey? That’s so romantic.”

Steve narrows his eyes, trying and failing to suppress his own smile.

“Hey. Fake haemorrhoids, thank you very much.”

“Eh, what’s the big difference?”

“One is my bleeding heart, the other is my bleeding ass, is the big difference.”

He can barely get through the sentence before his laugh takes over. You dissolve into laughter too, cheeks beginning to ache with the force of your grin.

“Steve? Leaving so soon?”

The sweet bubble of laughter around you and Steve pops at the sound of Brandon’s voice. He’s in the doorway that leads to the kitchen and at your attention, he steps toward you, slow and deliberate.

“Yeah, actually,” Steve says. His eyes track Brandon with every calculated step his brother makes til he stops, a few metres from you both.

“Y’know, I heard that hasty exit in front of dad. Did you know that was in front of Mr. Collings? Y’know, the one guy dad’s trying to close a deal with?”

Shit. You swallow heavily. You didn’t know that. You know neither did Steve.

Beside you, Steve grows tense. When he swallows, you hear his throat click from dryness.

Brandon watches and revels in the tiny reactions, his smirk growing. He tucks his hands into his suit pockets casually.

“I talked with mom, too. Learned some interesting stuff, especially about your pretty lady here.”

He nods to you, hazel eyes slicing across to meet yours. Your nerves start to stand on end, something threatening in his calm demeanour setting you off. You grip Steve’s forearms tighter.

“That she is the best friend you’ve been mooning over all these years. And I just thought—” Brandon clicks his tongue. “Man, what are the chances that we don’t hear a thing about you two getting together until this conference? Crazy timing, if you ask me.”

He tilts his head to the side, examining the two of you closely. His smug nature is far, far too much like that of a predator toying with its prey.

“It’s like- wait, no—”

Brandon cuts himself out, fishing a hand out his pocket to gesture to you, grinning smugly like something is funny.

“Is he paying you?”

You recoil back, so baffled and taken aback by the cruel mockery Brandon jumps to make of his younger brother. To make of your best friend.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap.

Brandon blinks, surprised, and a bit of his smugness dries up. He draws his hand back, holding it up defensively.

“C'mon, like it's not just the kind of pathetic move he’d pull. I haven’t even seen the two of you kiss.”

He chuckles as if the idea is ludicrous.

STEP THREE: THE KISS

You act without thinking — turning back to Steve, your hands reach up to tightly grasp the collar of his dress shirt.

You see Steve’s hazel eyes widen ever-slightly, then you’re pulling him down, pressing up on your toes, and kissing him.

And… oh.

He’s not half bad at that, you think. It takes Steve a moment, but then his arms circle your waist and after a tentative moment, he kisses back gently, deepening the kiss. Not bad at this at all.

For one brief, precious second, you’re kissing your best friend.

And it's entirely incomparable to any kiss you've experienced before—immeasurable in passion and utterly undoing in a thousand ways.

Steve breathes a little heavier, his cheeks flushed, when you break away. You sink back down off your tiptoes, hands dragging off Steve’s rumpled collar to rest on his chest. You turn to face Brandon.

He doesn’t look so smug anymore. He looks ticked off. Good.

“Brandon, you’re an asshole.” You state plainly. “I hope one day, soon, your fiancée realises what a cruel and shallow bully you really are. And I hope she leaves you for it. Truly.”

The ticked off expression on Brandon's face veers closer to aghast and offended—as if he can’t believe you have the gall to speak to him that way.

“I hope you realise what a stain you are on other people’s life and I sincerely hope that I never have the displeasure of meeting you again.”

Moving to grip Steve’s hand in yours, you move towards the door without a goodbye.

STEP FOUR: THE AFTERMATH

It’s bright outside. Stepping out feels a bit like waking from a stress dream, where in reality, the sun is shining and things that were driving you nuts aren't really problems you actually have.

You stall on the front doorstep, where you were just an hour or so ago.

Well, that didn’t go… awfully, you think. In fact, you’re feeling quite happy with serving Brandon a perfect brand of his own medicine.

You’re about to open your mouth and say as much when Steve drops your hand, brushing past you to head down the stairs, “C’mon, let’s go.”

Your stomach drops at the tone of his voice, a prickly disappointment draped over his words. You’d think you’re reading into it — if Steve wasn’t currently heading for the car, not even waiting for you to catch up. A dead giveaway.

Tights itching from the hasty movement, you quickly follow him and puzzle for a moment. He’s mad. But at what? It takes only a moment to hazard a pretty good guess.

Before the dinner, the awkward conversation of how touchy you two would be had been breached. You and Steve both agreed; no kissing. Even with how close the two of you were, it felt like strange territory to cross into. An unspoken line not to cross.

By kissing him, you’d broken that rule.

Guilt wells up within you. Your moment of telling Brandon to suck it suddenly feels tainted by the sliminess of kissing Steve without permission. You pull at your tights uncomfortably, trailing behind Steve on the sidewalk.

As you reach his car, you swallow the lump in your throat, and speak up.

“I'm sorry, okay?"

Steve, who's reached the driver's side door, looks up and over the top of the car. Then furrows his brow.

"What?"

"For..." The word gets stuck in your throat like wet paper. "Kissing you when we said we wouldn't do that. That was-" You inhale sharply and study the trim along the edge of the car window.

"I just really couldn't stand how he was talking to you. And I thought that would shut him up."

You glimpse back up at Steve. He's softened a little at your words, the crease between his brows gone now. His eyes dart away, a muscle in his jaw working tightly.

"Yeah, well, you were right. It worked."

Steve seems to hear how short his words sound right after he says them, especially as you rear back an inch. He gives a sigh, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "Look, I'm not mad about the kiss, okay?"

His particular wording isn't lost on you.

"But you are mad." You press.

"I'm not."

You step closer to the car, desperate to understand. He is mad but he's not mad about the kiss? Does that mean he is or isn't mad at you?

"You sound mad."

Steve makes a sputtering noise, like he's torn between denying it or not. You catch it, pressing your hands against the car window to lean in even closer.

"So, you are mad. At me? Are you sure it's not because of the kiss?"

“Yes. No." He's furrowing his brow again, confused between how to answer your question correctly. He pinches the bridge of his nose with another sigh. "It’s- no, I'm not mad at you.”

Still not an exact answer. You eye him warily, your guilt still lingering at the front of your chest, aching painfully. It forces out your next words, reminiscent of a rambling apology. You take a step back from the car and begin to pace.

"It's okay if it is the kiss, Steve. I- I mean, we said we wouldn't and I broke that- and I don't want you to ever feel like—"

“I just— I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that!”

That halts your pacing, feet quite suddenly rooted to the spot. You turn rapidly back to Steve, your eyes wider than they were a moment ago, heart jammed back up your throat. Did he just say...?

Steve realises what's escaped him a moment after you do. His hand leaps to cover his mouth as if he can smother the secret he's just let slip.

His eyes crush closed. He smushes his hand against his face more forcefully as though he's trying to push the words back into his mouth.

"What does that mean?" You ask softly. "Steve?"

He clears his throat, dragging the hand down and off his face sluggishly. "That, ah, no- nothing!" He deflects, hands making a crossing motion. "It means—zilch. I just, ah, you know- it's—"

He's thought about it before—about how he'd want a first kiss between the two of you to go.

A glow in you dissolves, the saturated sweetness of it riding through your veins like a sugar rush. You have a sudden wish you weren't wearing such a ghastly outfit for this conversation.

"Steve," You interrupt him. You round the front of the car slowly, stopping with still some distance between you. Let him meet you in the middle. If you're right about all this, that is.

"If there's even a small part of you that wants to do that again," Your breath shudders at your inhale. "You need to tell me."

"A small part?" Steve echoes your words, his tone incredulous. He rounds the car to meet you, his hands out in front of him, flexing into fists. "Don't— don't say what I think you're going to say, if you don't mean it."

He pauses in front of you, eyes blazing with a fierce emotion as he stares down at you. He studies your face and then groans, tipping his head back and burying his hands in his hair.

"It's a big part, y/n. A huge fucking part of me wants to kiss you again and has wanted to for awhile." Steve stresses. His hands sag down from his mussed hair to hang off his neck before he gestures back to the Harrington house.

"What I said in there? About my crush on you being ages ago? I lied. I've had a crush on you for years and I don't think I ever stopped and so if you don’t mean what I think you mean, please don’t… Don’t give me hope.”

There's desperation in his final plea.

A thousand emotions course through you, all competing for your attention. You squint incredulously at Steve, half tempted to sock him for the feeling of a kept-secret. You're best friends for gods sake. Years. Years, he said.

A tremble takes your heart. You open your mouth and try to find the right words.

"Wha... You never said anything."

It comes out a little insulted.

Steve stares at you, flabbergasted. "You never seemed interested!"

"I didn't think I was your type!"

Though it seems impossible, Steve's eyes widen further, his hands shifting to hold out before him, fingers spread wide.

"Are you saying you've thought about it before!?"

"No!" You exclaim, suddenly stressed. You run your hands across your face agitatedly. "I mean, yes. Of course, I've thought about it before!”

Your fingers splay against your cheeks, pulling an expression not unlike the painting The Scream. You're not sure you've ever been this stressed, this undone before.

“Every day through fuckin' high school someone asked me if we were a thing. I just... hadn't, like, considered it til today. Properly."

"Okay, okay," Steve breathes in deeply.

He brings his hands together, clasping them, and he rests them against his forehead. For a second, he stares at the ground before he meets your gaze, dropping his hands.

"And... now?"

Fuck. Right. Cards on the table, you guess.

"Like," You don't know where to put your hands now. They drop off your face and hang loosely at your side. "I told you, I hadn't really, like, thought about it — but we were in there and it just wasn't that different!"

It's a heavy effort to keep yourself looking at Steve. There's no decoding the expression on his face, not when you're already frantically trying to unscramble your own feelings.

"If we did actually, yanno—" You stumble over the words, a fierce and bumbling heat flaming your face. "—date and be—I don't know—boyfriend and girlfriend, like, I guess what would actually change? And now I think we've just been one step removed from dating this whole time!"

Steve takes an almost quivering breath in and takes a step forward, bringing you both closer. He asks the million-dollar question.

"Would you... want that?"

"I," You flex your hands anxiously. "I don't think we can go back to the way things were." You say truthfully.

Something crestfallen ripples across Steve's face. It's hidden away in the next second. You gulp involuntarily. You feel so nervous you can feel it's fizzing inside you, bubbling like a freshly carbonated drink.

But more than that, it feels like you're balancing on the precipice of something good. Like waiting for news on whether you get something you desperately want.

And there it is; the true revelation.

"And I don't think I want to."

The admittance hangs between you, strung out and tinged with your apprehension and Steve's disbelief. He stares at you, brown hair tousled and messy, pink lips parted in his surprise.

He's your best friend and he's been waiting all this time. Holding the torch quietly, the flame flickering low sometimes, but always burning, always for you.

How the hell did you miss it?

"You..." He croaks. He reaches up and tugs at his tie as if it's suddenly too tight around his neck. "You mean that? You'd want to, like, date me?"

What you really want is to kiss him again. To chase away the tender look of disbelief in his eyes with a passionate press of your mouth against his. But you won't kiss him without asking twice in one day.

"I would like to try," You say. It takes a lot of courage to not lose your nerve. You rock up onto the balls of your feet to let out some of the rampant nervous energy.

Steve clocks it, some part of his brain that knows you, and all your tells well, finally coming back online. You're as nervous as he is, and maybe just as unsure.

But you want to try.

That's about all Steve's ever wanted. A chance for more between you.

He closes the distance between you, his hands shifting up and sliding along your neck to cup your jaw. It's ticklish enough to make you shiver and Steve smiles at the motion. He draws your faces closer and you push up on your toes to reach properly, magnetically drawn in.

He pauses just before your lips can touch.

Your eyes scan his face and he does the same to yours, both of you drinking in the intimate closeness. This close, you can see the tiny quiver hidden in his lips.

Fondness percolates between you, sweeter than sunlight and softer than a daydream. You can't resist the smile that toys at your mouth. Steve smiles too.

You're excited.

His pupils are blown wider than usual, only a ring of hazel around them. It might be your new favourite colour.

"I imagined," Steve murmurs lowly, his eyes now trained on your lips. "Our first kiss would be more like this."

The kiss is different from the one in the hallway. There's no surprise in it, no hesitance — Steve cradles your face between his hands preciously and kisses you so fiercely you ache.

He kisses with painstaking reverence. With an unfaltering adoration. Steve kisses you as though he envies anything that's ever touched your lips.

You grapple to find purchase on his suit jacket, your fingers curling around the material and pulling him closer without breaking the kiss. Steve hums into your mouth, his nose pressing against yours. You're both trying to pull each other closer.

"That was-" You breath heavily against his mouth as the kiss breaks. Your eyes open. Steve's gazing at you through his lashes, honey-eyes doting.

"You-" You try again, realising you haven't finished your sentence. You can barely get a word out, a relentless grin overtaking your lips. "I mean—you thought it- like that?"

"I hoped." Steve whispers. He's grinning too, not yielding any of the nearness between you. His thumbs on your jaw swatch softly across your skin.

God, he'll undo you entirely. This newness, this intimacy, it's ruining you. You capture your bottom lip with your teeth and bite it meanly to try to contain your grin.

"So, like, you wanna try? For real?" You say, matching his whisper. Speaking too loud feels like it breaks the moment—and you want to savour it as long as you can.

You can't even imagine how Steve must be feeling, waiting all those years. You take your feelings and multiple them tenfold. It's dizzying. It only endears you even more.

"Like, being boyfriend girlfriend?"

Steve's eyes crinkle in happiness as he scrunches them closed for a moment. His nose scrunches a little too at the motion. He takes a deep inhale and opens his eyes.

"Dating, boyfriend girlfriend, sweethearts, I don't care what you call it." He breathes. "Yes. Yes, to all of it."

Then he kisses you again, stealing the affection off your lips with an ardour that threatens to make your knees weak.

You kiss and kiss until you and Steve are both smiling too much to properly continue.

Only a couple days ago he'd asked the same question you had asked him, except as a begged request to help his ruse. He's the only one you'd have said yes to, you know now, the only exception.

One can only wonder how the two of you would have carried on if you had said no — never gone along with his frankly ridiculous plan, never showed up on his arm to fool an event full of people, never kissed him just to piss off his brother.

Never known the true depths of affection Steve held for you.

As you crowd in closer — your lips skimming across his gently, hearing the hitch in Steve's breath before you kiss him once more— you're thankful you'll never really know.

taggin some peeps below! @illyrianbitch @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @spideystevie @djotime

@katsu28 @inthehystericalrealm @djarinova @cheugyphobe @sunshinesteviee

@sunlitide @citrinesparkles @bigfrogs

just ppl that either expressed interest in the preview or i thought would enjoy! <3 i don't know what possessed me to pick this draft up and straight up like double the word count and finish it in one day but whew,,, i enjoyed that sm

[killerbait]

BULLY ABBY ..?! bullying abby with a dick u wear glasses asphyxiation

⏦ﾟ♡︎ — bully!abby who picks on you relentlessly for years. you never understood why, or what you did to piss her off so much that she made you the prime target to her torment.

you spent day after day examining yourself, searching for something so wrong with you that it made you perfect bully-bait. but after finding nothing that bad, you come to the conclusion that abby anderson is just an asshole.

⏦ﾟ♡︎ — bully!abby who is stupidly rich. her father is a surgeon, practically a monarch in salt late city, who makes a whole lot of money. that, and her exceptional grades, merits in sports and popularity, makes her incredibly cocky and almost insufferable to be around for more than 15 seconds. the twin shackles of jealousy and emotion damage makes you hate her.

⏦ﾟ♡︎ — bully!abby who gets away with fucking everything. the coach worships the squeaky, marble gym floor she walks on, the teachers fail to see past the deceiving, charming personality and exceeding grades, and the principal knows her father personally. not to mention the students who kiss her ass like it's a full time job— you were alone in hating her, or at least, nobody was brave enough to announce it. abby had eyes and ears everywhere.

⏦ﾟ♡︎ — bully!abby who bugs you more and more as the years drag on, starting to ignore the other nerds. she throws paper at you in class, trips you up in the hallways, shoves you into the sink in the bathrooms, smacks your books out of your hands so the heavy cases slam on your feet— the whole stereotypical bully schedule.

when it first started, you cried every day. but now, it's routine, and just annoys you and makes you eager to never see her again after the year is over. and you were so close! until she catches you in the locker room.

your glasses were fogged up, the lenses blurred and the frames askew on the bridge of your nose. you're sure you looked a mess, and you're certain the person you were knelt in front of you was enjoying every second.

"i might of fucked this pretty face sooner if you weren't such a loser," abby snickers, giving you a second to breathe before slowly feeding you her cock again, her grip on the back of your head making sure you couldn't pull away.

she guides you down, feeling the ridges of your esophagus rub against her shaft until your nose was pressed against her pelvis, your throat contracting with another gag and coughing up another load of spit that dribbles off her balls snug against your chin.

your hands fly up to her muscular thighs as she resumes fucking your mouth, guiding you back and forth and ignoring how you slobber and tear up.

"don't touch me." abby's growl makes you pull away, your nails scratching at the tile floors instead. you're not sure if it's just you that pisses her off, or if she was a hothead in general— she barely gives you time to think before her thumb and side of forefinger press on either side of your nose, continuing to choke you on her dick.

your stomach clenches with another gag as your air gets cut off, already having been struggling to breathe with her stuffing your gullet full and now without the struggle of desperately huffing through your nose. you come to the conclusion that she just hates you too.

your feet kick at the lack of air as her cock fucks in and out of your throat, and right before you reach your limit, she lets go and pulls out. you pant and blubber, whimpering when her fingers curl in your hair to keep you in place.

she pushes your glasses up your nose before her hand wraps around her thick, spit coated cock, her fist mimicking the tightness of your throat and making a nasty squelching sound. you watch as the head drools with pre-cum the more she strokes her shaft, the veins starting to throb.

you flinch a little as she groans louder, shifting her weight. her thighs tense as her orgasm rakes through her body, tightening her grip on your hair as ropes of sticky cum splatter over your glasses, in your hair and rolling into your mouth.

you look downright stupid, face covered in your bully's load and lathered in your own spit and tears under her, throat raw and ego bruised.

out of all the degrading things abby had done to you over the years, this had to be your favorite.

⏦ﾟ♡︎ taglist !

@uhh-lana @pearlcigs @abbyspup @graciedollie @starrrcane @lilyyx0 @444fernz @tqlepatia @nvr4getme @2012wannabe @jaywritessometimes @jinxedbambi @tohoko @sapphicloverwlw @shadowmythe @fict1onallyobsessed @pornoangelz @milanyas @powderpinkandsweeet @femmecannibal @aeroti @eatencupcak3 @lils-1979 @sobersonder @fawncritter @nahcala @lesbones @sapphicantichrist @ethereaally @ruelezz @cowgirlvi @90yearoldbear

[cosmosluckycharms]

Show☆Time

It'll all work out

It had been a couple of weeks since you last had your first true conversation with Dick.

He ended up not being able to make it to your performance (unsurprisingly) and your hope was wavering.

Tonight, you had to perform for a bunch of Gotham prep students.

You were nervous but also excited.

You had been practicing for a while, and everything was working out!

After a couple of minutes of rehearsing, the students started making their way in

You finished getting ready, putting the finishing touches

The curtain opened and you performed.

You noticed how one of your older brothers was in the crowd.

He was technically only older by like 2 years, but he was older.

You were so happy! Someone from your family finally came!

You tried not to break character and wave to him.

After the show, you were cleaning up with your friends.

Much to your surprise, Damian came up to you.

"Damian!" your eyes lit up in joy "Did you like the show?"

"TT it was acceptable." Damian crossed his arms and looked away

"YAAAYY!☆" You hugged him and spun him around playfully much to his dismay.

"Let me down!" Damian got out of your hold and walked away.

Rui put his hand on your shoulder "How about we go out for dinner?"

You and your friends decided to get bat burger to celebrate everything going well

You and Tsukasa were talking about plans for shows, and Nene and Rui had their drinks in their hands watching you both talk loudly about whether or not you guys need another confetti canon.

"I'm telling you, we don't need one more, we already have 2!" Tsukasa says, grabbing one of Ruis's fries

"third time's the charm☆!" you take a bite of Rui's fries as well

"Sorry to interrupt your conversation, but it's getting late, we should start heading out." Nene says, taking a napkin and clearing your cheek free of ketchup.

"Okie dokie!" you get up and clear the table.

After a couple of minutes, you all headed out to the fast food joint, drinks in hand.

"Okay, so you'll accept another plushie parachute but not another confetti cannon? We already have 5 of them!" you argued

"The difference is that confetti cannons are more expensive!" Tsukasa dramatically struck his hand on his chest, making you giggle

"I can afford it!" you were right and everyone knew it. Your monthly allowance was more than some people's yearly salary.

"G-guys quiet down! It's dangerous out here-!" nene tried to quiet you both down.

"Nene's right, we are heading towards an alleyway, it's dark out, and you never know." Rui added

"oh cmon, we are fine!" Tsukasa said, turning to look at Nene, only to hear you yell out

They turned to look at you

You weren't there. You had disappeared into the dark alleyway, and the cup you were holding now spilled onto the ground.

Your friends all looked at each other for a second before running behind you.

They saw you and tried to grab onto you, only for the goons to drag you away swiftly.

Rui ran after you, much to Nene and Tsukasa's dismay.

They ran.

They ran and ran to the manor.

They hated to admit it, but they needed to tell your family.

They'd all been at the manor a couple of times, for projects, performances, just regular hangouts, etc.

And from what you told them about your family, they disliked them.

They rang the doorbell.

Alfred opened the door, preparing for the worst, only to see Nene was out of breath and lying on the floor.

"Madam Nene and Master Tsukasa? What are you both doing here?"

"It's Y/N! She got kidnapped by someone!" Tsukasa said, trying to get Nene up from the ground.

"And Rui ran after them!" Nene added, wiping her dress free of dirt.

Alfred sat them both down and called your family and told them what happened.

After a minute or two, the vigilantes came.

"Why are the heroes here?" Tsukasa asked, looking at them

"Vigilantes." Nene corrected "Plus, they probably didn't have time for Y/N, they never do."

Tsukasa and Nene started bickering, being shut up by Batman clearing his throat

"Do you know where she is now?" Red Robin asked

"Yeah, we have her and Rui's life 360, it says she's in a warehouse." Nene showed her phone to him

"Probably holding her for ransom," Tsukasa added

"You're probably right, she's like, the princess of Gotham." Nene agreed

"you guys stay here and we'll go fetch her," Robin said, grabbing his katana.

"No." Tsukasa crossed his arms.

"No?" Nightwing lifted an eyebrow, looking towards Tsukasa.

"No. We know where she is, and we want to help her. We are coming." Nene argued

After much arguing from both parties, Nene and Tsukasa were allowed to come.

They all got into the batmobile and made their way over to the warehouse.

When they finally got near the warehouse, they had to park far away to not get caught by the cameras.

Nene started slowing down immensely due to a lack of energy and had to be given a piggyback ride by Red Robin.

They all ran in, nene still being carried by Red Robin on his back.

Rui was hiding behind a giant wooden box, calling everyone over to a blindspot cameras couldn't catch.

You were up, hanging by the leg, upside down, hands crossed like a bat.

"Y/N?!" your friends exclaimed in confusion

"Hey guys!" you giggled and waved

"Y/N, we're gonna help you get down," Batman said, already scanning the room for any attackers.

"Y/N!" Rui yelled, grabbing everyone's attention

"Shut it, you going to get us caught!" Red Robin covered Ruis mouth, dropping Nene in the process.

Before Red Robin could apologize to her, Rui continued; "Try to untie the rope! Or use something around you to do it!"

"She's going to fall." Red Hood stated already preparing for the worst

"She won't." Nene states knowingly

Robin points his katana toward her chin "Are you stupid? Of course, she'll fall, she's 35 feet in the air!"

Tsukasa ignored their threats "Do it, now!"

You immediately started undoing the knot, you had no idea what the plan was, but you were gonna freeball it.

You watched as everyone started arguing, causing a commotion.

Some goons started making their way toward them, you needed to do something, fast.

You yelled "Fire! Fire! Some bad guys are coming your way!" you still fumbled around with the knot, it was hurting to be upside down.

Before you knew it, everyone was fighting.

Nene was fighting a goon using her pepper spray, while Robin fighting twogoons who were ready to attack her.

Rui was making his way toward you, ready to catch you in case anything went wrong.

And Red Hood wasn't far behind him, preparing himself as well.

After a few seconds, you managed to untie yourself and were holding on to the rope.

"Don't look down!" Rui yelled

Hearing that, you looked down out of habit.

35 feet above.

You were scared.

You were slipping.

You had to get it over with.

Red Hood held his breath and watched as you jumped, thinking you were gonna plummet down to your death

...only for you to fall like a fairytale princess

This was normal to you, you didn't believe in physics.

You aimed for Rui to catch you, and you missed and landed in Red Hood's arms.

You looked at him with a gleam in your eyes

Red hood! Your favorite vigilante!

Before you could start saying hi to him, you saw in the corner of your eye Nene was struggling.

Sure, she had Robin with her, but she was a little weaker compared to the 3 goons attacking them.

You wriggled out of Red Hood's hold and made your way to the goons.

You could hear him yelling at you to not harm yourself, but you needed to help Nene!

You pulled out a comically sized hammer from out of your performer costume, which was around 3x your height, and started hitting the goons.

Red Robin looked at you in confusion, "Where did you get that from?"

"don't worry about it!" you swung around your hammer like a baton

You heard a gunshot.

You turned to look for where it

Came from and saw the bullet had almost hit Nene.

She was frozen in fear.

You saw the goon about to shoot her again, and you tackled her to push her out of the way.

The bullet ended up hitting the side of your stomach, making Nene's eyes widen.

Tsukasa and Rui made their way toward you and kept you from passing out

You passed out as soon as Nightwing got to you.

Your friends were all ushered out by Nightwing, who was escorting them to the batmobile.

He placed you on a seat, Rui was next to you putting pressure on the wound.

You were passed out from the pain.

As soon as you all got to the manor, Nightwing tried to get them all to go home.

Fortunately, Nightwing gave up on trying to get them all to go home.

Tsukasa was well trained in wounds due to spending some time learning about medical things when he was younger due to being in the hospital a lot when he was growing up, so he helped Nightwing patch you up.

It took you around half an hour to wake up.

You were in a guest room, surrounded by the vigilantes yet again.

Your head was lying on Nene's lap, who was stroking your hair.

There was a tense silence as if everyone was scared to talk.

Nene was the first to speak; "You shouldnt've done that."

"Huh?" You questioned

"You shouldn't have taken that bullet for me, you know." Nene continued stroking your hair, looking a bit sadder

"if I didn't, you would've been hurt. I'd rather me get hurt." You fidgeted with the bracelet on her other arm.

After a while, your friends went home as soon as the vigilantes confirmed everything was okay.

After a moment you realized,

"Where's my family?" You asked, looking toward Batman

"They're, uh, busy. In a meeting." He quickly replied

"Oh, that makes sense. Well, when they get home could you tell them I'm tired? I need to go to bed." You got up and left to go to your room.

As soon as you were out of earshot, the vigilantes conversed with themselves

"..does she not know we're..?" Red Robin asked Batman

"Apparently she doesn't. I thought she did."

The next morning, you were awoken by Dick bringing you breakfast in bed.

"We heard about what happened to you from Nightwing, we are so sorry we couldn't be around to help! We were stuck in a, uh, meeting!" He placed the plate on the bed tray placed on your bed

You were still half asleep when he explained

"Please meet us downstairs when you are done." He walked out, closing the door softly on his way out.

This was unusual. It was a welcome change.

Once you were done, you grabbed your duffle bag covered in charms and pins and made your way downstairs.

You saw everyone sitting down in a circle formation as if it was an intervention.

You sat down, putting the bag next to you.

"What's in the bag?" Tim asked, slightly intimidating.

"My performer outfit! I'm so excited for rehearsal-☆" You were about to talk about your day, but you saw everyone's guilty look.

"About that," Jason put a hand on the back of his neck "you can't perform for a while."

"WHAT?!"

"it's only for a month and a half. Until your wound heals. Doing your flips and shit could reopen it and make it worse. You need to heal." Jason said, trying to comfort you

"but-but-but!" you teared up slightly, you strongly disliked this.

"it'll be a month. No more, no less. You'll be able to perform again." Your father said

"Okay.." you were excited to get that month and a half over with as soon as possible.

oh god this was bad

guys im.trying to learn how to write better trsut

if this seems rushed its causw i dornr know how ro write help

guys trust more bug like angel coming soon🙏

anyways

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[meganegatari]

regret & saudade; loose threads ⭑.ᐟ

Made to attend a basement party in your heartbroken state, you come face to face with Ellie—your ex, the one you can’t forget. Tension lingers in every glance, every remark, as saudade thrums between you, a love lost but never gone. In the haze of liquor and longing, the night may unravel—and even reignite.

☆: this a collab with the loveliest of lovely people, @bloodstainedsapphic ♡ musing about this with you was the most fun thing ever, i don't know how i'll ever be able to express just how talented you are, and how thankful i am for all your contributions here!! ...i mean chat, all the credit goes to lyss. i'm serious!! thank you sm lyssbug, and i better see yall thanking her too!! hope y'all enjoy :) ellie's m.list.

◇: 18+ mdni. alcohol consumption, ellie’s a little mean (she's hurt), reader as well + tension, tension, and more tension. whiny sub!ellie x mouthy dom(ish)!reader, oral & nipple sucking (e! recieving), and she has hip tattoos lol. also contains angsty themes and a purposely ambiguous ending. ++ 3.6k word count.

Getting dragged out of bed for a basement party hosted by a friend of a friend was the last thing you wanted tonight. Yet, here you were, begrudgingly getting ready—much to your dismay—to indulge your friends’ wishes.

Parties weren’t exactly a common occurrence in Jackson, at least not ones that didn’t involve the community church. Hardly anyone bothered to put energy into organizing gatherings for the young folk to get drunk and act recklessly when survival took precedence. Still, once in a blue moon, someone made an effort, and word spread fast.

Yes, you understood why your friends insisted. They meant well. This was a rare chance, and they were worried about you, trying to pull you out of the misery pit you had plummeted into recently. Woe is you for having people who care, even if their grand solution included shuffling you into a crowded, musty room with cheap booze for a few hours.

But this was also the last party you wanted to be at for one crucial reason: your ex, Ellie, was bound to be there.

Your ex wasn’t any more of a party animal than you were, but you were sure the extroverted mutual friends who had adopted you both had undoubtedly coaxed her into going, just as they had with you.

There was simply no sugarcoating it. You had been drowning in the throes of heartbreak hell in the weeks since you and Ellie broke up. The decision itself was “mutual”—whatever the fuck that meant. Anyone with half-open eyes could recognize that unresolved feelings were lurking beneath the surface.

But still, you were somehow convinced that Ellie was coping with the heartache better than you. Mainly because you were managing it so terribly, it’d be difficult for her to be in worse shape. The thought of seeing her and proving your suspicions either way made your stomach churn.

Conjuring up the will to act like a functioning human for the night, you finally joined Hesse half a block away from the house and made your way over.

The space wasn’t anything special. Just another grungy basement, stuffy with age and ever-rotating crowds of partygoers. The wallpaper peeled, curling inward on itself, and the flooring was adorned with decades’ worth of spills and stains. A decent time hinged on the hope that everyone would get wasted enough to forget the unsavory details.

The liquor was crowdsourced—meaning passable but plentiful. Your beeline to the booze might have earned a few raised eyebrows, but you couldn’t be bothered to give a damn.

Ellie’s eyes found you just as you were taking in the low-lit room.

Already nestled in a corner and nursing her umpteenth drink, she was just intoxicated enough to sharpen her spite but not enough to embolden her to speak up—yet. You didn’t take long to find her either, carefully coordinating fleeting glances and using purposeful posturing to feign indifference.

Ellie tracked your every move, attentive to your every step and person you conversed with.

There was some mutual delusion: Ellie misread your avoidance as proof that you were doing just fine, and you misread her detachment in a similar vein. You both assumed the other was moving on when nothing could have been further from the truth.

Ellie had opted for a darker outfit than usual, all black, practically wearing the heartache on her sleeve. Her loosely buttoned cotton shirt hung amply off her frame, adding to her almost ghostly appearance. Her auburn hair, slicked back and muted, due for a wash, looked much less lively than it used to. The speckled ivy green of Ellie’s eyes had dulled, something far more monotone. Her undereye bags lay heavier, cheeks hollowed, a gauntness that was concerning for a girl already thin. Maybe you’d make a snide comment for Dina to pass on just to get her fed—not that you cared. You just didn’t like seeing the girl look like a husk of your Ellie- err, the one you used to know.

And—fuck. that necklace. It looked an awful lot like the one that had vanished from your nightstand months ago.

Wearing it was all but a confession of Ellie’s true feelings—that her apathy was merely a poorly executed act.

You slammed back the first drink too quickly, the burn hardly registering in your throat. The second glass didn’t fare any better. After a few more pours, the alcohol softened your edginess enough to lax you into joining conversations, to dance, to let your friends pull you into something resembling fun—even striking up idle chatter with a few pretty girls, acting as if it wasn’t just to dull the ache.

An indiscernible span of time passed, your focus clouding into a haze that lets you briefly forget the grievous weight in your chest, even if it didn’t wholly undo it.

Then, a brief yet audacious tap on your shoulder.

You already knew who it was from the distinct way her pointer fingers pressed into your skin.

“You’re out tonight?” Ellie bit out as a greeting, her suffering more pronounced now that she had closed the distance. Her stare, once dimmed, had reignited, brimming anew with an irate temper. Ellie wasn’t the jealous type, but the combination of alcohol and the sight of you mingling with other girls stirred something unfamiliar and ugly within her.

“I am. are you?” You asked snarkily, starting with the obvious of this tense reunion.

Ellie’s eyes twitched, brows furrowing. Your response went unappreciated but was understandably deserved. She wet her lips to buy another second before spitting out another question, too quickly to be casual.

“You come with anyone?”

Your eyes glossed over with irritation, this being the first conversation Ellie had dragged you into after weeks of silence. Her question seemed like a placeholder for everything else she wanted to say, though it came out too bluntly. The people you’d been distracting yourself with blurred into the background now that Ellie was here, her nerves showing with every crack in her composure.

“Nope,” you snipped. “You?”

“Nope,” she replied, exaggeratedly popping her lips at the ‘p’ sound. It sounded forced, like she was trying to make herself sound more confident than she felt.

Ellie shifted her weight onto one hip, her gaze raking a slow once-over of your form. Pretending she didn’t already have your every dip and curve memorized. Your eyes flicked across the room, grasping for any excuse to escape this friction, but naturally, the friends who had dragged you out tonight were suddenly nowhere to be found.

"Didn't know you were the type to move on so fast, getting cozy with a few girls over there..." Ellie remarked, her voice hung with bitterness, not even trying to hide her hurt there.

Your jaw clenched, miffed by the implication behind her words. "Dudn't know you were the type to care. Or even notice..."

“Pfft. I don’t. Just funny watching you act like you’re over it,” Ellie replied, trying to play it cool, but her voice cracked, betraying her defensiveness.

You narrowed your eyes. “That right?”

Ellie shrugged, drawing another lazy sip from her glass. “Yeah. s’cute, really. Watching you pretend.”

Your blood boiled at the way she said it, like she wasn’t just as much of a wreck as you. Like she hadn’t been staring at you all night.

“Ellie, you’re not cool enough to act like this-“ you rip into her with a sneer. You never pictured you’d speak to each other in such a way, but harshness felt like the only language you shared left, especially in tandem with her own cruel barbs.

Ellie’s tongue poked the inside of her cheek, a tell she’d never grown out of. The callout cut deep, knowing you still saw right through her. Ellie’s fingers started to tap the length of the glass, keeping a rhythm to compensate for the fidgeting she often did when nervous. Another tell she couldn’t hide.

“Yeah, okay,” her voice wavered, but then she turned her attention to finishing her glass swiftly, struggling to cling to that false bravado that was irking you past your breaking point.

“Ellie—” you spat her name venomously, shielding your sadness with anger. “If you have something you want to say, we can go somewhere else.”

Ellie’s cheeks roseated, the weight of you threatening her to put her money where her mouth is sinking in. The liquor had clearly obscured her foresight into the risks of confronting you so impudently.

Not letting Ellie another chance to deflect, you grabbed a fistful of her onyx-colored shirt sleeve and tugged her from the foggy crowd to an isolated corner, into a dark hallway, finally ducking into a cramped, dingy storage room long left unfinished. You shut the door. no working lock. Just great.

In the time you had fiddled with the old, janky handle, Ellie had already slipped back into the jaded facade she wore at the start of your encounter. The awkward, needy girl was buried deep, but not deep enough. The blush on her cheeks, the stutter in her words, the way her breath hitched when you got too close—proof enough she wasn’t as composed as she wanted you to think.

You just had to figure out how to crack her open.

Stepping closer, you caught that false smirk creeping back onto her lips. You wanted to smack that cheshire grin off her face, but the fragility you could see in her eyes—despite her best efforts to conceal it—only fueled your fire.

“You’re so goddamn frustrating,” you snap, voice raw with irritation. “Thought maybe for once you could talk to me like a normal person-or, imagine, like the girl you claimed to love-”

Ellie swallowed thickly as you came closer with every word. Hell, she looked so good, even in this state. The scent of alcohol on her breath, the sliver of skin peeking through the buttons of her top, the closeness of her rouge lips—it was causing the last of your composure to slip. Your heart raced as the room seemed to shrink, leaving only the two of you.

If words weren’t enough, maybe a more physical approach would crumble her defenses.

In that moment, a sly grin spread across your face. Time for a bit of mischief.

Nearly chest-to-chest, breaths merging together, you reach up and begin toying with the hem of Ellie’s cotton shirt, and descend to the gleaming buttons on her jeans. Right as you make contact, you hear her hiss out a sharp breath, the derisive edge in her voice sends a chill down your spine.

“Missed me that much, huh? You were always so impatient.” She clicks her tongue. But you knew Ellie, you knew this was all a “tough-guy” act. She was not going to let you get under her skin so easily, not without a fight.

The chuckle that passes your lips is a scornful sound, her ears perk up in curiosity as to what you're planning.

After a moment of wrestling with the skin-tight denim—she's free. Ellie takes the liberty to pull her shirt up a touch, and the mere sight of her dark, wisplike happy trail leaves your mouth watering. Your eyes flicker up to hers; keenly, expectantly scanning her delicate features.

Most unfortunately, Ellie returns nothing worth celebrating, her facade still clambering to stay mighty. Just observing, cool fern eyes low—almost kubrick-esque—everything still under control. For now.

You continue undressing her, undoing her shirt and exposing her pale torso. Fuck, what a specimen. Eggshell and cinnamon skin, soft and supple as far as the eye can see. The thin fabric clings to her shoulders, and you push it aside to look upon her chest.

Luckily for you, she doesn't believe in bras, letting her dusty pinkish nipples harden when the air grazes her skin. Ellie lets out the quietest sigh, almost inaudible, but you still catch it and throw her a smirk. Her eyes roll, she's still acting unimpressed.

“Keep going then,” she drawls.

You ghost your mouth over her skin, before taking her nipple in between your lips and sucking. You snake your tongue over the bud and gently pinch the other one with two fingers. Still determined to break her, you look up again. She makes no noise, just tilts her head back until it hits the wall supporting her with a dull thud. You had to do more, you needed to.

Moving to press hot kisses in the valley of her chest, you drag your mouth lower, lower, and lower, until you end up on your knees with her still-clothed crotch an inch from the tip of your nose. With her help, her jeans are discarded into a heap to your right. The tight boxer shorts she was wearing hugged her lean thighs in such a way, you couldn't resist lurching forward and sinking your teeth into the flesh.

Above, you hear something resembling a startled gasp—there you go, the beginning of the end.

Making quick work of her undergarment, Ellie leans against the wall, bare before you. You look up once more at her, but in the perfect moment in time to spot a scarlet flush spread from her chest, up her neck, and decorate her cheeks. There's a crease forming in her forehead as well. You spot her hip tattoos, the ink was striking. Running your tongue along the linework, you taste her skin—salty-sweet.

Simultaneously, you drag your hands up and down the sides of her legs, feeling goosebumps rise as you pass over. Her breaths quickly go shaky, her primal need for your mouth on the crescendo of her thighs overtaking her. Slowly but surely, you were achieving your goal.

“God Els, you're so wet. Seems like you missed me more, hmm?” You titter, voice smooth as syrup, to which she grunts almost in annoyance, neither confirming or denying your tease.

“Sure you weren't so desperate, you came here just for me? Because you wanted to get eaten like a slut?” You hear her exhale shake. Your degrading words—like clouds of miasma—infected her entirely, she didn't know whether to be embarrassed or even more turned on.

Fucking finally, your tongue parts her folds; silken and dripping for you. Smoothly moving forward in and pushing her thighs apart, you take more of her into your mouth. The taste of her arousal makes your head spin, and you don't even register the fact you're lightly moaning into her core already. You missed this. You missed her. You missed the feel of her hot skin, her signature Ellie attitude, her sweetness and how she reacted to your touch—even more than you'd like to admit.

Your eyes close instinctively, and you lick a stripe from her needy hole up to her puffy clit, feeling the bud twitch on your tongue. You wrap your lips around it, and she almost wails. Although Ellie, as clever as she is stubborn, stifles her whines with a clenched fist. When you hear the cut-off cry, your gaze snaps upward. she's biting down on her own flesh, hard, her teeth causing the knuckles to discolor. The blush on her cheeks is approaching maroon, obscuring her freckles, and her eyes are screwed shut. She can't hide the tremors or the panting breaths, though.

You keep devouring her, getting more and more drunk the longer her essence invigorates your senses. She pleads for you some more, albeit impolitely, “Hurry- ah—harder, more…”

Your grip on her hips intensifies, nails leaving marks right next to her tattoos, adding to the artistry already there. She begins to whimper, the small, pathetic sounds of an impending defeat causing heat to spread in your own abdomen.

You tongue fuck her into oblivion, pushing the muscle inside her until you feel her walls pulsing around you. Your nose bumps at her clit, eliciting high pitched pleas from her.

At a glance again, you see there's nothing hiding her mouth, and the hand that was aiding her has moved to join her other one—bracing against the wall. You had Ellie utterly wrecked.

She teeters, rickety legs trembling and struggling to hold her upright. A gush of slick runs down your chin, and she squeals. Unable to hold back any longer, she starts begging you to cum.

Her voice is strained, wobbly. “Please, fuck-!! Ah…c'mon…come onnn.”

Music to your ears.

Smiling against her thumping clit, you continue to suck until her rhythmic pants are all you can hear. The climbing volume was more satisfying than you could have ever envisioned and you never wanted to let up.

“Ah, ah, ah— m'so close, pleasepleaseplease.” She pleads with vehemence, damn near calling on divinity to finish. It was ironic really, there was nothing holy about this.

Her pussy seizes and her body tenses before she's hit with the most forceful orgasm she's ever felt. Silent moans choking in her throat, you messily lap at her folds until you feel the flutter, and hear the most beautiful cry of pleasure.

She's loud, unabashedly so, the pornographic nature of the scenario before you making your face grow hotter than the sun. You lick up every drop of warm cum from her, savoring both the ambrosial taste of her, and the sight of her coming undone like this.

Low groans and mumbles transition to high-pitched squeaks, a telltale sign you were entering overwhelming territory. She's sniveling, all semblance of composure long gone. Babbled cries ring through the small space, all she can muster falling out of her, “Fuck, fuck, shit..okay, hahhh—”

You dont let up and fuck her through her high until she shakes above you, seemingly brought to tears by the sensation. You drag your tongue through her folds one last time, just for the hell of it, and to solidify all this in your memory, before kneeling back to examine what you made of her.

Her chest was steadily rising and falling, she was leaning against that solitary wall, legs quaking and about to give, completely out of it.

The blissed out look on her face was ethereal, she was still so pretty. Through everything, you'd always find your way back—lost in those springlike, agate-ringed greens.

You jump up to her level and yank her towards you by her—your—necklace, making her jolt and snap out of the post-orgasm euphoria. Roughly, you crash your lips onto hers. Ellie’s lips part to let your tongue in, and a guttural moan rips out of her when she tastes herself on you.

You gingerly pull away, trying to ignore the ache in your heart that blossoms when you notice her chasing your lips.

The pair of you are winded and still looking at each other with saucer-wide eyes, the intensity of what you did catching up to you as the bliss wore off. Automatically, you reach to hold her hand, but she pulls away and avoids your sympathetic stare. She looks up and down, side to side, pretending to be interested in the peeling wall behind her.

Seeing her uneasiness, you clear your throat. “Ellie, um…you okay?” Your voice is mellow and gentle, the complete opposite of what it sounded like earlier.

Ellie sighs and briskly nods, brushing any and all concern away. She meets your eyes, and you notice the vibrant green dulled once again—almost appearing gray, like wilted leaves amidst a drought.

Her expression was hard to read. Her cheeks are flushed and her skin is glossy, indicating physical satisfaction, but there was a certain longing there too. The way she fidgeted with her fingers, the way she pursed her lips ever so slightly—she misses you.

You absentmindedly begin to collect yourself, wiping the remnants of her from the lower half of your face, all while readjusting your shirt. You turn towards her, buttoning up Ellie's shirt and straightening the collar—you give her a meek smile when she lets you fix her up, both of you unsure of what to say. The air feels odd, not quite heavy, but cold. “Let's go back, play it cool.” You chuckle and attempt to crack a joke to lighten the awkward mood. Ellie simply huffs.

Accepting that it’s time to snap back to reality. You breathe in a sharp breath to compose and ground yourself. “I miss you, come back to me", was sitting just behind your teeth, but you steeled yourself and pushed those old feelings away.

It was too soon to unpack anything right now. Not to mention both of you still being drunk—in more ways than one.

Ellie starts, “We should leave separately, y'know, so no one suspects anything.”

“Oh for sure, yeah. Go- go, before everyone starts asking questions-“ you usher Ellie out with an instinctive hand pressed to her back, all but throwing her out of that cramped, now-suffocating space for the sake of avoiding becoming the town’s gossip. In Jackson, rumors tended to spread faster than a wildfire.

Ellie left, and you were all alone in the space. Your body's framework crumples weakly against a corner, overcome with emotion. You couldn't help but reminisce—silently lamenting for her in the dim, stuffy room.

But there was still a party going on, if you stayed in there any longer, it would become suspicious rather fast. You push thoughts of Ellie away into the abyss where you made sure the padlock was not planning on breaking. You threw the key away, but for good this time, you vowed to yourself.

Ellie had likely whisked herself away into the kitchen to get a light snack—you remembered that sex always made her hungry afterward.

You hear a familiar song start playing from the main room, something you could try to sway along to and you put on a faint smile—as genuine as you could muster, hoping to rejoin conversations as casually as you had left them. You slip out of the small storage space, closing the door behind you, hoping it’s not symbolic of where things stand with Ellie.

thanks for reading! tell us what you think <3

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[animamii]

Hit Different | Eren Jaeger

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Eren meets his match when Ymir's cousin crashes into his life. Classic playboy meets maneater. ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

𖹭.ᐟ modern aot verse! college au!

.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・

Eren sat there on the couch in his garage, legs spread out as his brows were furrowed deep in thought. Arm slung over the worn-out edge of the armrest, blunt ashes falling to the cold cement floor. He stopped smoking inside of his house when you said you didn't like the smell of tobacco, didn't like the way it stuck to your hair. That was months ago, but he still kept the habit. Or tried to. He told himself it wasn’t because of you, that it was just better this way. But he would almost catch himself saying your name when Connie tried to spark up in the living room.

"Don't light that shit up in here y/n doesn't like that shit—" His eyes would go wide, stopping himself midsentence, lowering his raised hand as a confused Connie moves the lighter away from the tip of his dutch.

Now he's sitting here, irritated as hell with thoughts of you. It hits different. The silence. Wondering what the hell you were doing right now. Wondering if you were with somebody else. Eren takes another slow drag, the cherry at the tip of his blunt glowing in the dim light of the garage. He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening as the smoke curls around him, dissolving into the cold night air. His leg bounces, restless, and he hates that he's thinking about you again. Hates that the silence only makes him wonder more.

He tells himself he doesn't care. That it's none of his business if you're out, if you're with someone else. But the thought sticks, stubborn and unwanted like gum to his shoe. He could just text you. Just ask what you’re doing. Maybe something casual—Where you at? or You good? Something that wouldn't make it so obvious that you're in his head. But his phone stays face down on the armrest, screen dark, and his fingers twitch with the urge to reach for it anyway.

His jaw clenches as he swipes his tongue over his teeth, eyes narrowing at nothing in particular. It's fine. He’s fine. He doesn’t need to know. It’s not like you owe him anything. Then his mind wanders to thoughts of you under someone else. Makes his other hand ball up into a fist, has his chest tighten for a second as his jaw feels tension. He hates how even just the thought has him sick to his stomach.

The garage door is cracked open just enough for the night breeze to slip through, and Eren finds himself staring at the empty street beyond it. It would be so easy to get in his car, drive to wherever you are, just to see for himself. Just to make sure. His fingers tighten around the blunt as he exhales sharply. He needs to get a grip. Needs to stop thinking about you like this. How did he even start thinking about you like this?

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

8 months ago

Eren had never really been one for romantic attachments. He simply preferred the hit it and quit it, no strings attached life. In short, he was just a slut. Everyone knew that. Everyone was fine with it. Except the occasional girl who would think they knew what they were getting themselves into but fall into the sinkhole of charm that was Eren Jaeger.

"Yo, Jaeger!" Ymir bursts into Eren's place, plopping herself onto the couch across from Eren, who was laying with a blunt lazily between his lips, preoccupied with his game of Rainbow Six. Flicking through the operators before he goes with his main, Kali.

"W'ssup Ymir?" His eyes flit to her for a second, greeting muffled as he tries to keep the lit blunt balanced, tiny tufts of smoke leaving his mouth with each word.

"Nothin' much. Just got back from helping my cousin move into her place. Girl has so much shit, my back is fuckin' aching from carrying her dresser. I know I'm a masc lesbian but fuck, I'm still a damn girl," Ymir rubs her aching back as she sits up, watching Eren snipe yet another person. "I need some damn indo to help with this back pain."

"Cousin?" Although Eren and Ymir were close, Eren felt like he knew jack shit about her. He didn't even think she had actual parents. In his mind she just spawned onto the earth with no attachments.

"Yeah. My cousin on my pop's side," Ymir leans forward to grab the blunt dangling from Eren's lip, which he side eyes but allows, "We used to be hella close growing up as kids til she moved up north. But she just moved back for school. Got into some fashion design program or some shit." She takes a fat puff, coughing a bit as she leans back into the couch once more.

Eren hums, barely paying attention as he respawned in-game, fingers moving lazily over the controller. “Fashion design, huh? Sounds high maintenance.” In his mind he was envisioning a bubbly, ditzy girl who could barely form a coherent sentence without using the word 'like'.

Ymir snorts, shifting to get more comfortable on the couch, blunt between her thumb and index finger as her other hand rests behind her head. “Please, she’d eat you alive, Jaeger.”

That caught his attention. His brows lift slightly as he glances at Ymir out of the corner of his eye. Taking the blunt back for another hit, the ember at the tip of his blunt glows a fiery red as he took another slow drag, letting the smoke sit in his lungs before exhaling through his nose. His free hand runs through his already-messy hair before he leans back, posture relaxed but interest piqued.

“That so?” He drawls, as if the idea of someone getting the best of him was comical. It was utterly laughable.

Ymir smirks knowingly. “Yeah. She’s not like those girls that throw themselves at you.” She reaches over to grab the blunt from his fingers again, taking a slow inhale before flicking the ashes onto the dirtied rolling tray that sits on Eren's beat up coffee table. “She’s a fuckin' problem.”

Eren lets out a short laugh, eyes still trained on the screen, but the way his leg bounces slightly betrayed how much she had his attention now. “A problem, huh?”

Ymir rolls her eyes, exhaling deeply. “Don’t do that.” She already knows what's going on in Eren's head. She can already see that conniving look on his face. Like a bad ass kid plotting.

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like a challenge,” she scoffs, watching as the smirk tugged at his lips. Aaaaand there it was, that conniving look.

His fingers twitched slightly against the controller, but he shrugs, feigning indifference. “You make it sound like I couldn’t handle her.” But the tone in his voice was anything but indifferent.

Ymir lets out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “Handle her?” She stretches her arms behind her head, amused. “Jaeger, she’d ruin you.”

That made him pause, just for a second. He tilts his head toward Ymir now, fully interested. “How so?”

“She’s just like you,” Ymir says simply with a casual shrug of her shoulders, blowing out a fat swirling cloud of smoke before handing the blunt back to him. “Except worse.”

Eren raises a brow, taking a slow hit before exhaling toward the ceiling. “Worse?”

“Oh yeah.” Ymir’s grin was almost cruel. “She’s got a new guy every other week. Doesn’t do relationships, doesn’t do feelings. The second she gets bored? You’re out. No explanations. No second chances. Sound familiar?”

His fingers momentarily stilled over the controller. “Lemme get this straight,” he says after a beat, bringing the blunt back to his lips. “She’s a maneater?”

“That’s an understatement,” Ymir mutters, rolling her neck. “She’d chew you up and spit you out, Jaeger. And I’d pay good money to see it.”

Eren exhales sharply, shaking his head, but the smirk that tugs at the corner of his lips gives him away. He wasn’t used to hearing about a girl like this. Someone who played the same game he did, who knew how to keep things casual and clean.

But the way Ymir spoke about you… the certainty in her voice, the absolute conviction that you were the one who would wreck him and not the other way around—it irked him. Because no one ever got the best of Eren Jaeger. No one.

“She ever try to sink her teeth into you?” he asks, mostly just to push Ymir’s buttons.

Ymir lets out a barking laugh, smacking her knee. “Fuck no. I'm one of the few lucky ones. She actually respects me.” Then her grin widens. “Which is more than I can say for you, by the way.”

Eren clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes as he gives Ymir a dubious smile, but he couldn’t shake the way his mind was suddenly fixated on you. For the first time in a long time, it wasn’t about how fast he could get someone into bed. It was about how long he could last before you decided he was disposable. And for some reason, he really wanted to find out.

Eren exhales a thin stream of smoke, tapping ash onto the makeshift ashtray as he gives Ymir a sideways glance. “You talk about her like she’s some kind of myth.”

Ymir snorts, kicking her feet up on the edge of the coffee table. “She might as well be. Every dude she’s been with thinks they’re gonna be the one to change her, to get her to stay. And every single one of them ends up ghosted, wondering what the fuck just happened.”

Eren smirks, tilting his head slightly. “Sounds like they’re just weak pussies.” He can't imagine any self-respecting guy to be groveling at a girl's feet.

Ymir lets out another laugh. “Nah, they’re just dumb. She makes them feel like they’re special, lets them think they’re running the show. But the second she’s bored? She moves the fuck on, no hesitation.” She takes the blunt from him again, flicking the accumulated ash onto the coffee table by accident when she misses the ashtray. “Shit’s actually impressive.”

Eren leans back against the couch, stretching his arms over his head, pensive smirk still in place. “So, what? You’re warning me?”

“I’m telling you not to waste your time,” Ymir says casually, leaning forward. “You think you’re hot shit because girls let you do whatever you want, but she ain’t like that. She’ll let you hit, sure—if she even finds you interesting enough—but she won’t think about you after. You won’t be special, Jaeger.”

That had something curling hot and stubborn in his chest, something he wasn’t used to feeling. Not special? Eren Jaeger was always special. He didn’t say anything, just grabbed the blunt back from Ymir and took a slow drag, eyes narrowing at the screen in front of him, pretending her words didn’t get under his skin.

Ymir watches him, and when he stays silent, she grins knowingly. “Ohhh shit,” she drags out. “You’re actually interested, aren’t you?”

Eren exhales a faux laugh through his nose, jaw tightening. “Relax. I’m just curious.” But Ymir already knows you have your claws sunk into him, even before he met you. That's just the type of hold you had on boys.

“Curious, my ass,” Ymir cackles. “This is gonna be fucking hilarious. I cannot wait to see you get humbled.”

Eren scoffs, shaking his head, but Ymir’s words stick to him like gum on pavement. He hated how much this was getting under his skin, how much he already wanted to see for himself. Because if there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was someone thinking they had him figured out. And right now? It sounded like you were the one to beat.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Music lowly plays from the tiny Bluetooth speaker on the white dresser, bass thrumming low as you stand in front of the full-length mirror that sat in the corner of Ymir and Historia's room, applying a final coat of lip gloss, rubbing your lips together to blend your lipliner just right. The dim amber-yellow light of the bedroom reflects the shimmer against your lips, and you press them together with a satisfied smirk, blowing a kiss to yourself.

Behind you, Historia sprawls on the bed, one knee bent, her phone resting against her thigh. She scrolls lazily, barely sparing you a glance until something about your outfit catches her attention. She looks up briefly, eyes flicking over your outfit before raising a brow. “You’re actually trying tonight?”

You turn, placing a hand on your hip as you pose for her, making those cunty faces you two see on Rupaul's Drag Race. “This is minimal effort, babe. I'm going easy tonight.”

Historia rolls her eyes but smiles, propping herself up on her elbows. “Yeah, yeah. You just like making it look easy.”

You grab your pair of hoop earrings from the nightstand, sliding them on as you check your reflection again. Tight, flattering, just the right amount of skin—tonight is going to be fun. “Speaking of looking easy, what about you? You’re not pulling up in that sweater, right?”

Historia huffs dramatically, tossing a pillow at you. “I’ll change later. Ymir is taking forever in the bathroom, and I am not getting dressed in front of her just so she can talk shit about every outfit I try on the entire time.”

You snicker, knowing she’s not wrong. Ymir has a talent for running her mouth, and Historia—despite her sharp tongue—usually ends up the easiest target. Blame the innate sweetness that she harbors. Something you don't really have.

As if on cue, Ymir’s voice calls from the echoing hallway. “y/n, you better not be corrupting my girlfriend again!"

You turn to Historia with a grin. “As if she needs my help.” Historia flips you off before sitting all the way up, long blonde hair cascading down her back.

“Who’s gonna be at this party tonight? Anybody interesting?” You ask, turning back to the mirror as you adjust your top with a shift and a squeeze.

“Dunno. Sasha said she’d be there, and Connie’s probably already pregaming," Historia swings her short legs off the bed.

“And the guys?” You ask, voice laced with mild interest. Might as well peruse the menu before you get to the restaurant. Maybe choose who you want to sink your teeth into before you arrive, make things easier.

“Why? You got your eye on someone?” Historia raises an eyebrow, curious as to what your chaotic ass would have planned for tonight. You and Historia have been out together countless times, and each outing has its own insane story.

“I’m just asking," shrugging your shoulders, you walk over, plopping onto the bed beside her.

“I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘interesting.’ Jean will probably be there. You know how he is—loves the attention but gets all soft when a girl actually plays back," She explains to you. You've met some of Ymir and Historia's friends, become slightly acquainted.

You hum in acknowledgment. “Reiner, probably? Bert too. I think they were talking about it last night,” you continue, running through the other friends you had met in passing.

Historia tilts her head, looking down at you as you stare up at the ceiling. “What about Eren?” She knows exactly why she's bringing him up. Little freakin' instigator.

At that, you pause, blinking once before snorting. “Eren Jaeger?”

She nods, her cerulean eyes still focused on you and your reaction to the boy. “Yeah. You two have never met, right?”

You shake your head. “Nope. Ymir’s mentioned him before, though. Total playboy, right?” You had only been in town for a couple of weeks, and it seemed like every other conversation was 'Eren this, Eren that". It was annoying, really. Ymir's friends acted like he was some kind of God.

Historia smirks. “Yeah, textbook.”

Your lips curl at the corner. “Hmm.” You don’t say anything else, but you can feel Historia watching you closely.

“What?” she finally asks, nudging your arm.

You stretch your body before standing up from the bed with a slow, lazy smile. “Nothing. Just wondering what kind of playboy we’re talking about here.” You've dealt with more than a handful of so called 'playboys' and they've all crumbled before you. Reduced to groveling messes. Snot nosed, teary eyed, on their knees begging pathetic puddles of men.

Historia rolls her eyes, but she's smiling something mischievous. “Don’t even try it. Ymir already said you’d destroy him.”

Your smirk widens, that's exactly what you wanna do. “Then maybe it’ll be fun to prove her right.”

Before Historia can respond, Ymir strolls into the room, towel draped over her defined shoulders, damp strands of chocolate brown hair sticking to her forehead. She takes one look at you, then at Historia, and groans, throwing her head back.

“Oh, hell no,” she says, rubbing a hand down her grimaced face. “What are you two talking about? And why do I feel like it’s something that’ll piss me off?”

Historia smiles, tilting her head innocently. “We were just talking about the party.”

Ymir narrows her eyes before turning to you. “Uh-huh. And why do I get the feeling that you’re plotting something?”

You shrug with a toothy grin, smoothing out your top as you turn back to the mirror. “I don’t plot, Miri, you know that. I just go with the flow.”

Ymir scoffs, rolling her eyes as she sits down on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, and that ‘flow’ usually leaves a trail of broken hearts and emotionally scarred men in its wake.”

You laugh, tossing a menacing wink at her. “Not my fault they can’t keep up.”

Historia snorts, and Ymir groans again, rubbing at her temples. “Alright, for real. What’s the topic of the night? Who are you planning on destroying this time?”

You turn back to them, leaning casually against the dresser. “We were just talking about Eren Jaeger.” Your tongue presses against your cheek as your lips curl into a conniving smile.

Ymir stops mid-motion, eyes locking onto yours, and grimaces. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You raise a brow, your lips slightly parting in feigned innocence and confusion. “What?”

Ymir throws her hands up. “Nope. No. I refuse to let this happen.”

Historia leans back against the bed frame, amused. “You say that like you can stop it.”

Ymir groans, looking between you and Historia. “Listen, I know my cousin. And I know Jaeger. You two? That’s a goddamn collision waiting to happen.”

You smirk, crossing your arms. “Sounds fun.”

Ymir points at you, eyes sharp. “No, sounds like a mess. He’s the worst kind of playboy—thinks he’s untouchable, gets what he wants, then bounces. And you?” She gestures vaguely yet dramatically at you. “You’re the female version of that. The only difference is that you don’t even let them think they had you in the first place.”

You tap a manicured finger against your lips, feigning deep thought. “So, what you’re saying is… I’m better at it?” A devilish smile forms on your glossed lips, perfect brows rising in satisfaction.

Historia cackles, and Ymir grabs a pillow off the bed, throwing it at you. “I’m serious, dumbass! Eren’s the type who doesn’t get played, and you—” She shakes her head, eyes shut. “You’re gonna ruin his fucking ego.”

You shrug, catching the pillow and tossing it onto the bed. “And? Sounds like a him problem.”

Ymir drags a hand down her face. “I don’t got the energy for this.”

Historia grins. “Oh, I do. This is gonna be hilarious.” If there was popcorn she would definitely be eating it right now.

You laugh, stretching before grabbing your phone from the dresser. “Well, guess we’ll just have to see for ourselves, won’t we?”

Ymir groans one last time, muttering something about needing a drink already, while Historia smirks knowingly. The three of you are just about ready to head out when chaos strikes—in true you and Ymir fashion. It starts with a missing sneaker.

“Where the fuck is my shoe?” you mutter, crouching near the bed, tossing aside a hoodie, a hairbrush, and what looks like a half-eaten granola bar (probably Ymir’s). “I literally just had them both here.”

Historia, standing by the door with her arms crossed, sighs. “Ymir probably kicked it under the bed or something.”

“Excuse me?” Ymir squints, sitting on the dresser with her arms draped over her knees. “Why do I get blamed automatically?”

“Because you’re always the reason,” Historia deadpans, icy blue eyes lidded.

“Valid,” Ymir admits with a sensible nod, but then tilts her head. “Still not my fault.”

You blink at her before getting down on your hands and knees, blindly reaching under the bed. “I swear to God, if I find some weird ass shit down here, I’m gonna kill both of you.”

“I told you not to look under there,” Historia says, completely unhelpful. All she wants right now is to be downing vodka cranberries and dancing to Saweetie. She might even pretend to be straight so guys will pay her to kiss Ymir like at the last party they went to.

Your fingers graze something soft and cold and squishy, and you scream. Ymir howls with laughter as you jerk back so fast you nearly smack your head on the nightstand. “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!”

Historia wheezes, clutching her stomach as she leans against the doorframe. “Oh my god, I forgot about that!”

“Forgot about what?!” you snap, eyes wide and chest heaving, with your hands raised up as if they were contaminated. Which they probably were with the rest of the stuff Ymir hid under her bed.

Ymir can barely get words out between gasps of laughter. “Bro, it’s the ice pack! The one Historia left down there weeks ago when she fucked up her knee!”

Historia nods furiously, laughing so hard she has to brace herself against the wall. “I— I was icing it while watching TV and then it just… stayed there.”

You stare at both of them, disgusted. “You two are feral. Ymir, I understand. But you, Historia?”

Ymir wipes a tear from her eye, finally catching her breath. If she laughed any harder, she'd be having an asthma attack. “Oh, man. You’re so fucking dramatic.”

You shake your head, completely over it, and reach back under, finally finding your missing sneaker. “If I die from some unknown bacteria because of you two, my ghost is haunting this place.”

Historia, still snickering, straightens up. “Noted. Now can we go? I need some Grey Goose in my system pronto.”

You dust yourself off and slip your shoe on. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go before I change my mind.”

Ymir hops off the dresser, slinging an arm around Historia’s shoulder. “Finally. I need a fucking drink.” With that, the three of you head out the door—completely unaware that tonight is about to be the beginning of something more dramatic than a damn Shakespeare play.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

“Bro, hurry the fuck up!” Connie yells from the living room, mouth probably full of chips if the muffled sound of his voice is anything to go by. “You take longer to get ready than my sister.”

“Shut up, Connie,” Eren calls back, dragging a comb through his hair one last time. He’s not even trying that hard—just the usual: white tee, black jeans, and a flannel he doesn't care all that much about just in case his overly drunk ass misplaces it. Simple. Easy. Still, something feels off, like he’s overthinking tonight. And Eren Jaeger never overthinks.

He steps back from the mirror, eyes scanning himself once more. Sharp jaw, messy hair that still somehow looks good, green eyes that’ve gotten him out of more trouble than he cares to admit. Yeah. Still got it. He grabs his phone from the bathroom counter, ignoring the flood of unread texts sitting in his inbox—three different girls, all wanting to know if they’d “run into him” tonight. His thumb hovers over one of their names for a second before he snorts to himself and shoves the phone in his back pocket. Not in the mood.

He’s not really sure what he’s in the mood for. Lately, all of it’s been feeling… boring. Same faces, same lines, same routine. A couple of drinks, a little flirting, and by the end of the night, they’re tangled up in his sheets. No attachments. No feelings. Easy. It’s supposed to be easy. But for some reason, Eren can’t shake this weird, restless feeling creeping under his skin tonight.

He walks into the living room, where Connie and Jean are already half a bottle deep into Eren’s liquor stash like they pay rent here or something. Connie’s stretched across the couch, feet shamelessly on the coffee table, while Jean flips through a playlist on his phone, back slightly hunched, sitting on top of one of the kitchen counters.

Jean glances up before doing a double take. “You’re still wearing that flannel?” Jean raises a brow. “Thought you’d retired it after that blonde last month—what was her name again?”

Eren rolls his eyes, snatching a bottle of Hennessy off the table. “Mind your business.”

Connie chortles. “Man, you are off tonight. Usually, you’re already texting some poor girl by now, setting up your after party plans.”

“Yeah, what gives?” Jean adds, leaning back against the cupboards. “Having an identity crisis or somethin'?”

Eren ignores both of them, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a swig. The burn slides smooth down his throat, but it doesn’t do much to quiet his thoughts. He doesn’t know why he’s on edge tonight—he’s been to a thousand of these. Same people, same drinks, same easy hookups. Girls who know what they’re getting into with him and guys who pretend not to care that Eren always seems to be the center of the room. But tonight? Tonight feels different.

Maybe it’s because Ymir mentioned that her cousin would be there—you—the so-called female version of him. He leers at the memory of Ymir's warning. The way she said you’d ruin him like it was an undeniable fact. Like it was already written in the stars. Like it was already decided. Please. No one ruins Eren Jaeger.

Connie’s voice cuts through again. “Ohhh wait.” His eyes narrow playfully. “This got something to do with Ymir’s cousin? What’s her name again?” Eren doesn't answer, just stays quiet. Connie grins. “y/n, right? Yeah, I heard bout her. She’s bad.”

Eren’s jaw flexes again, his grip tightening slightly around his phone. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Connie raises a brow, sparking up a blunt that he seemingly pulled out of thin air. “Means she's bad, bro. As in hot. As in way outta your league.” Connie takes a hit, pulling it back to see if it's burning just right before passing it to Eren, who takes it without glancing.

Eren scoffs, smoke curling from his lips. “No one’s outta my league.” He says it with the confidence of a man who’s never heard the word ‘no’ in a way that actually mattered. Since birth Eren had been one cocky son of a bitch, and for good reason too.

“Yeah? She might be.” Connie smirks, pouring himself another shot. "Heard she's already got a roster and she's barely been here a couple weeks."

Eren leans forward, resting his elbows on the kitchen counter, blunt dangling between his fingers. “So?”

“So,” Connie says, shrugging as knocks back the Hennessy like its water, “I’m just saying—she’s like you. Probably already got some dude lined up for tonight and won’t give a shit about whatever game you think you’re running.”

Eren’s tongue presses against his cheek, brows furrow and his gaze darkening. He doesn't like the way that sounds. Doesn’t like the idea of you brushing him off—of anyone brushing him off.

“She’s just another girl,” Eren mutters, more to himself than to Connie. “They all play hard to get till they aren’t.”

Connie laughs. “Yeah? Well, good luck with that.”

Eren takes another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs like he’s locking in a decision. On the outside, he’s calm, collected, the usual brand of cocky. But inside? Oh, he’s already made up his mind. If you’re really as untouchable as they say, there’s only one thing to do. Find out for himself.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

The bass shakes the walls, vibrating through the floorboards and straight into the bones of anyone standing too close to the speakers. Red plastic cups litter the countertops some half full some tipped over. The air is thick with the sting of liquor, the stench of sweat, and the occasional hint of weed. Floors sticky as they get covered in track marks.

Eren spots you the second you walk in. He doesn’t mean to. It’s not like he was waiting for you or anything. But the second the door swings open and you step inside, it’s like the party shifts. Like you shift the air just by being here.

And fuck, do you look good. Your hair is tousled, lips glossed, and that skimpy outfit—shit. Eren’s eyes flicker down for a split second, a slow smirk tugging at his lips as he takes in the way it clings to you just right. Top hugging your tits just right and skirt shifting with each step. He doesn’t even have to try to picture it bunched up around your hips. The thought just plants itself in his head like it belongs there. He exhales through his nose, rolling his jaw. He’s seen beautiful before. Had them in his bed, in his car, against bathroom sinks at parties just like this one. But there’s something different about this. About you.

And then? You fucking ignore him.

You and Historia weave through the crowd like you own the place with your arms interlinked, Ymir following close behind, and you don’t even spare him a glance. No knowing smirk, no subtle check-over, nothing. You just flick your hair over your shoulder and move straight for the kitchen, where a handful of people are already pouring drinks.

Eren’s smirk twitches. Oh. This is gonna be fun.

He watches as some guy—Jean, of all people—gravitates toward you, already pulling that smooth nice guy act. Eren doesn’t even have to hear the conversation to know exactly what’s happening. Jean leans in just a little, eyes dipping to your lips between words, smiling like he’s got a shot. And then you laugh—head tilted back just enough to make it look effortless. Eren’s fingers tighten around his cup.

Connie, now posted up against the wall beside him, follows his gaze and grins, letting out a low whistle. “Daaaamn,” he drawls out the single syllable just for the dramatics. “Jean’s already on that? Tough break, bro.”

Eren scoffs, tipping his drink back and swallowing slow like he wants the liquor to burn his throat on purpose. “Not my break to be tough.”

“Sure.” Connie sneers, stretching the word out like he’s not buying a damn thing. “So it’s not pissing you off that he’s—”

“I don’t give a fuck what he’s doing.” The words snap out faster than intended.

Connie raises a brow, like he’s just caught onto something real interesting. “Yeah? Then why do you look like you wanna knock his ass out?”

Eren doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. Instead, he pushes off the wall, weaving through the party with that lazy, self-assured stride that’s gotten him anything he’s ever wanted. People move out of his way without him even trying, girls trailing their eyes over him as he passes. But his focus? Locked. Jean is still talking, still smiling like he has a chance—until Eren’s presence shifts the entire energy of the space. Jean notices first. Then you do. And finally—you meet his eyes.

Eren doesn’t look away. He doesn’t break that charged stare, doesn’t let you see anything but that knowing smirk playing at his lips. You knew this was coming. You had to. The way your own lips curve at the edges tells him everything. He expects you to turn, to give him your full attention. After all, you're such a lucky girl to be graced with the presence of Eren Jaeger.

But no. You let out a soft snort, flipping your hair as you continue your conversation with Jean. Eren’s smirk falters for half a second. Oh, so that’s how you wanna play it? His grip tightens around his cup, but then—he laughs. A deep, low chuckle that rumbles through his chest as he tilts his head, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. You think you can just brush him off like that? Like he’s nobody?

Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see how long you last.

Eren leans back against the counter, swirling the liquor in his cup as he watches you, waiting for the moment you’ll crack and finally look at him. He’s patient—cocky, but patient. Girls always fold first. But you? You don’t even glance his way. Instead, you tilt your head at Jean, lashes fluttering just enough to make the poor guy swallow hard.

“You were saying?” you prompt, voice smooth as silk. Eyes looking up at him so steadfast, making him feel like the only boy in the world.

Jean blinks, briefly thrown off before he collects himself. “Uh—yeah. I was saying—you should totally let me take you out sometime.” He leans against the counter, confidence settling back into his stance. “No pressure. Just two good lookin' people getting food together. Maybe some drinks.”

You hum, pretending to consider it. “Sounds more like a date.”

Jean grins. “It can be. Or it can just be a good time. Your call.”

Eren scoffs under his breath, barely audible over the thrum of music. This guy. Jean thinks he’s smooth. Thinks he can keep your attention just because he’s playing nice. Cute.

You smirk, tipping your cup toward Jean. “I like the idea of a good time.”

Jean raises a brow. “Yeah?” Eren can just hear the excitement in his voice, the undertone of him surprised that you'd even consider it.

“Mhmm,” you sip, eyes flickering over him as you size him up and down. “And you’ve been looking real good tonight, Jean.” You can't deny that Jean is attractive. Six foot something, muscular but not too much. Stubble highlighting his sharp jawline.

Jean’s brows lift slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” You lean in a little, lowering your voice like you’re telling a secret. “Been hitting the gym, haven’t you?” Your breath is warm against his ear, subtle but effective. Jean tenses, then exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to play it cool.

Jean then chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck to calm his nervousness. “Maybe a little.”

“It’s working,” your voice is soft and sweet, masking your devilish intentions. A sly hand creeps up his arm, gently squeezing his bicep. Jean subconsciously flexes it, an obvious attempt to impress you.

Jean’s ears go a little pink, and Eren rolls his eyes. Jesus. This is painful. You’re just playing with the guy, toying with him like a cat with a string, and he’s eating it up. His fingers tighten around the rim of his cup. Pathetic. Jean’s lapping it up, oblivious to the fact that he’s just another name on your list, just another temporary distraction. And maybe that’s what really pisses Eren off.

Eren bites the inside of his cheek, swirling the liquor in his cup with a slow flick of his wrist. The ice rattles against the plastic, but his focus is razor sharp on you. On the way your fingers graze Jean’s forearm, the way your lips curve at something he says—something that wasn’t even funny. The sudden tug on his wrist rips his attention away.

"Eren," a voice purrs, dragging his name out like a slow sip of honey. He barely has time to register who it is before soft hands pull him away from the counter, dragging him into the depths of the party. He exhales sharply. Of course. One of the girls from Mikasa's sorority, Louise. She’s all over him before he even gets a word out, pressing against his side like she belongs there. “Where the hell have you been, Jaeger? Too good to say hi now?”

Eren scoffs, eyes flickering toward the kitchen one last time, but you’re still wrapped up in Jean, still laughing at whatever dumb thing he’s saying, still not sparing Eren a single glance. Fine. He lets Louise pull him toward the hallway, weaving through sweaty bodies and the fog of cheap liquor and weed. Her grip is possessive, like she thinks she can stake some kind of claim over him just because they fucked once. They stop near the base of the stairs, away from the worst of the party but still close enough that the music pulses through the walls.

“I was starting to think you were avoiding me,” Louise hums, pressing a manicured hand to his chest, almond shaped nails scraping lightly over the fabric of his shirt as she tilts her chin up, batting her false lashes. Eren notices the inner corner of her strip lash lifting up a bit, making her look wonky, but he doesn't care enough to say anything.

Eren’s smirk is lazy, practiced. “Should I be?”

Her lips part slightly, caught between intrigue and challenge. “I don’t know. You tell me.” Flashing him a smile, she tilts her head to the side, blue eyes trying to pierce through the emotional wall Eren currently had up.

Eren exhales through his nose, tipping his head back slightly, bored. She’s doing that thing—the same thing every girl does when they want to get a second round with him. Soft touches, sultry looks, a voice dipped in sugar and suggestion. It’s textbook.

It would be so easy. He could take her upstairs, let her kill the frustration building in his chest, let her drag him under and replace the image of you and Jean still talking. Laughing. Touching. But when he looks down at Louise—he doesn’t see you. Doesn’t feel anything.

His jaw tightens, body burning with frustrations that you're the irritating source of. “Not happening.”

Louise blinks dumbfounded, jaw going slack. “What?”

Eren steps back, shaking her hand off his chest. “I’m good. Go find someone else.”

Her lips part, the briefest flicker of shock crossing her face before it hardens into something sharper. Annoyance, maybe. Embarrassment. Either way, she doesn’t like it. “You’re serious?”

Eren just shrugs, rolling his shoulders as he shoves his hands into his pockets, already feeling like this conversation is a complete waste of his precious time. “Dead serious.”

She scoffs, crossing her arms, agitation showing in her posture as one leg steps out, her hip pointed. “You really think you’re all that, huh?”

He just shrugs. Doesn’t deny it. Pursing his lips and swirling his solo cup of henny and coke, waiting for her to catch the damn hint and kick rocks.

“Whatever,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “Your loss.” She flips her hair and stalks off, disappearing into the party with a dramatic sway of her hips.

Eren exhales, rolling his tongue over his teeth with a tchht before turning back toward the kitchen. And when he does—you’re looking right at him. Not with jealousy. Not with anger. Just amusement. Like you knew this would happen all along. Eren smirks, shaking his head slightly as he lifts up his drink to his pink lips. He takes a slow sip, holding your gaze over the rim of his cup.

You hold eye contact for a small second before you turn your attention back to Jean. He's actually such a sweetheart you're genuinely enjoying the conversation. Which was... refreshing. You don't remember when the last time you had such an interesting conversation with a person of the opposite sex. One that didn't consist of hook ups or how 'fuckin' hot' you looked.

Jean was in the middle of a passionate tangent about Sailor Moon being able to solo Goku if they were to go one on one. It was cute to see such a straight browed guy defend a shoujo protagonist against the poster boy for shonens.

“I know, I know. Everyone always goes ‘But Goku’s a Super Saiyan, blah blah blah,’ right? But Sailor Moon—she’s got that moon power, bro. You know how powerful the moon is? No one knows the moon’s potential. It’s like, this massive source of energy.” He takes a few more gulps of his drink, making that little ahh' sound before he continues, “And Goku’s just a dude, right? Yeah, he’s got all this strength, but Sailor Moon? She’s literally a magical being. She can manipulate the power of the moon—and that’s not even the best part. She’s got that Silver Crystal, man. That thing can destroy entire universes. If Goku’s even trying to throw a Kamehameha at her, she can just use that to, like, wipe him out before he even finishes charging it.”

Jean huffs out a breath, swaying slightly as he sets his drink down. All that Jameson was going straight through him. “Shit—I gotta take a piss.” He flashes you an easy grin, thumb pointing over his shoulder toward the hallway. “Don’t go anywhere, yeah?”

You let out a tiny laugh of air, smiling as he gives you a flushed boyish grin. “No promises.”

Jean chuckles, rolling his eyes playfully before he disappears into the crowded party. You shake your head, turning back toward the counter, scrolling through your phone like you’re not hyperaware of the gaze burning into the side of your face. Then, before you can even process it—he’s there. A slow, lazy presence stepping into your space like he belongs there. You don’t look up, don’t acknowledge him, but you hear the way he exhales, the entitlement practically dripping from his voice.

"You done playing yet?" It’s smooth, teasing, but there’s an edge underneath. Like he's nagging like an impatient child.

You hum, taking another sip from your drink, still not looking at him as you half watch people's instagram stories. “Playing what?”

Eren chuckles, trying to cover the bratty scoff that somehow leaves his breath. You can hear the way he shifts, arms crossing, the way he fixes his stance. "You tell me."

Finally, you glance up, tilting your head as your squinted eyes flick over him. Jaw tight, bottom lip catching in his teeth, biceps flexing under his shirt like he doesn’t even realize it. Oh, he’s pissed. Amused, but still pissed. Your lips part, a retort on your tongue—

"y/n, we gotta go. Like right now." Ymir’s voice slices through the tension like a blade. You blink, turning just in time to see her hoisting Historia up by the waist, the blonde giggling into her shoulder. "Before Christina Aguillera here falls off another table and gets a concussion," Ymir grumbles, adjusting her grip as Historia hiccups dramatically. You sigh, downing the rest of your drink before setting the cup down. Eren is still looking at you, now frowning like a child whose ice cream just fell off the cone.

You smirk, letting your eyes trail over him one last time before pushing off the counter. “Night, Jaeger.”

Eren exhales sharply as he watches you leave. That was his shot. He should’ve said something—should’ve done something. But no. You slipped away. He licks his lips, tongue pressing against his cheek as he tips his head back, exhaling through his nose.

Next time, sweetheart.

[salsakiyoomi]

sukuna had been gone for ten days.

he won't answer his phone, he won't answer his texts, you even tried to send him an email — yeah, no use.

by the tenth day, you were starting to feel less worried and more angry.

that's when he finally came knocking at your front door.

it was a random tuesday night when you were crying your eyes out at an angsty romance movie when a series of knocks came at your door.

quickly, you wipe away your tears and you head towards the door, creaking it open slightly to see who it is.

a gasp escapes you at the familiar sight of the tattooed face of your stupid, stupid boyfriend.

you swing the door open and before he could get any words out, you drag him in by the collar of his shirt and slap him across the face.

stunned is an understatement.

if anything, sukuna is thoroughly dumbfounded — sure, he knew you were feisty, except, he never thought you'd throw hands, especially as sexy as you did just now.

“where the hell have you been?!” you yell at him, but he's still flabbergasted, with his hand on his cheek where you had just slapped him.

“sukuna.” you growl, and he knows that he’s in trouble.

“sorry, something came up.” he says under his breath, rubbing his cheek.

holy hell, you sure knew how to throw a slap.

“really?” you huff, an angry scowl on your face at the audacity of his curt and vague answer, “that's all you have to say for yourself after ten whole days of being MIA?”

“look, baby, i'm sorry —” “i don't want your apology! i want an explanation! i called you, i texted you, i even sent you an email and you never responded!”

sukuna feels something close to guilt and maybe even…joy? because wow, were you really that worried about it? how flattering.

“i just had a deal going on.” he mutters under his breath, knowing you're going to reprimand him for it.

“what?” you utter out, “a drug deal?! seriously, ryomen? again?! you promised me you quit that shit!”

“it was a good deal, okay?!” he responds, starting to feel frustrated now, “and i needed the money.”

“you could've asked me for money!” you tell him and he scoffs, “yeah, like you're any less broke than i am.”

“sukuna.” you warn and he shakes his head, avoiding your gaze.

“look, i'm sorry, okay?” he says, “it was a moment of weakness.

“yeah, like all of the other times?” you ask sarcastically, “get out.” you add, pointing at the front door of your dorm and already ushering him out.

“oh, come on.” he chides, using the tone that he knows makes you weak, and looking at you with those stupidly convincing red eyes of his, “i said i'm sorry baby, okay? i won't do it again, i promise.”

“you stress me out, ryomen.” you huff, crossing your arms.

“i know,” he says smoothly, “i won't do it again, for you.”

he knows he's let you down again. in his history of fuck ups, this was probably one of the worst — breaking your trust, again.

and yet, he knows you'll always come back to him, forgive him and coddle him — just like you always do.

there was no denying that you were weak for him.

“....fine.” you mumble, “but if you do it again, i'm breaking up with you.”

“yeah yeah, i know.” he chuckles, his hands at your hips, “i won't.”

“good.” you huff.

he hums in response, leaning in to kiss you to make you forget about everything he's ever done and he practically feels the way you melt into the kiss, sinking into his touch as he caresses the soft flesh of your hips.

he was a manipulative piece of shit and he knew it, but if it meant having you under his touch? yeah, he won't give it up.

you bite on his bottom lip and he groans, pulling you closer.

after a moment, he pulls away, the both of you gasping for air.

he smirks, “i can tell you miss me.”

“shut up.” you huff and he chuckles, his hand sliding up to caress the back of your neck and pull you in closer.

“i'll hit from the back tonight if you let me.” he whispers in your ear and you blush, slapping his chest.

“ryomen!” you exclaim and he laughs, “come on, baby. don't you miss me?”

before you even get a chance to respond, he's hauling you up and carrying you to your bedroom.

sukuna's a manipulative piece of shit who probably has nothing better to do than play around and break hearts — he doesn't get attached.

and no matter how many times you threaten to break up with him, he knows you'll always stay.

he was just that good.

[moody-alcoholic]

This Is Going To Hurt

Part 2 - There's Pleasure In Pain

Summary: Poly141 x reader, established relationship, medic reader, kidnapped reader, mini fic.

CW: Dead dove don’t eat, mentions of torture, suicidal thoughts, childbirth, blood, medical stuff, medical inaccuracies.

AN: Yes I know about the show 'this is going to hurt' I haven't seen it but from what I do know it's good so check it out. Also as an aspiring midwife this was so fun to write.

Part 1

Enjoy <3

You don't know how long it’s been. 

Hours? A day? 

More people have questioned you, with new questions.

‘Where was the convoy heading?’

‘Who give you the intel.’

‘What are the Americans up to?’

Some of the questions you don’t even know the answers to. Makes it all the more easier to ignore them. It feels relentless, like it’s never going to stop. Death would be easier. 

You remember one of the first things you were told in training, a dead medic is no use to anyone. You remember once during a training exercise you ignored Price’s order to fall back, instead you ran into the field to pull someone out. 

It was the angriest you’d seen Price get. He screamed at you in front of everyone, chewed you out with the entire platoon watching. That was the night he told you he loved you, they all did. You’d never seen them get so emotional before, especially over a training exercise. 

‘You’re not allowed to put yourself in danger like we do. You need to keep us alive, and we’ll keep you alive.’ You remember John saying that, the way he apologised for screaming at you even though he was in the right. The sex that night was amazing. 

It makes you smile thinking about them. You’ve been thinking about them alot when you’re not being tortured. You have to assume they’re not coming for you, that's what you were taught. If you’re ever captured; don’t talk, don’t trade, don’t let them break you. Not that you have a choice over the last part, it’s all a test of willpower. 

You wonder how long it will be before they break you. You can handle the waterboarding to some extent, these people are evil though, terrorists, the worst of the worst. They don’t care about human rights, they’re not answering to any UN or even their own countries' laws. These people could do whatever they wanted to you and there is nothing you can do.

You secretly hope they’re coming for you, you’d like to imagine Simon and John tearing up buildings to find you, breaking the rules and hunting down every last person who laid a finger on you. They’re soldiers though, they have orders to follow, other people’s lives are at stake not just yours. 

You’re a liability now. They have no way of knowing what’s happening to you, if you’ve talked or where you are. You hope they know deep down you’ll keep your mouth shut. You’ll keep them safe, even if it is from a distance. 

The door to your room opens and you stand. A man walks in and grips your arm tight. You’ve stopped struggling, there’s no point. He walks you past the room you’re usually taken to, it makes your stomach drop. Somethings wrong, something’s changed. Maybe this is it and they’re going to kill you. 

You hear a woman scream, you dig your heels into the ground. The man says something in Arabic then continues to drag you along. This is bad, there is no way this ends well. You can still hear the woman screaming. Maybe they have someone else they’re torturing. He stops you outside a door and knocks. 

A few seconds later it opens. A man is standing there, he looks young, even with the beard, he’s the only person you’ve seen without his face covered. You hear a woman groan, he moves to the side and you see a woman bent over a table with another woman rubbing her back. 

You’re still taking in the scene when the man in front of you says something then pulls you into the room. The door is closed behind you, you look at him confused. 

“Do you know how to deliver a baby?” He asks, you recognise the accent. He’s the person who patched up your arm. 

“Do I look like I know how to deliver a baby?” 

“No, but you’re a woman and a medic.” He says “She’s Khaled's wife. If this baby dies he’ll kill me.” 

“Great, he's not going to like it if I kill her.” You scoff. This can’t be happening. 

“You’re dead anyway.” He says, it’s like a knife to the heart. Now you want to help even less. The other woman rubbing her back asks something in Arabic. 

“She’s been in labor for 13 hours, I think something is wrong, she’s not progressing.” The man asks. 

“Then take her to a hospital. I don’t know how to do this, I don’t even know where to start.” You say holding your hands up. The woman screams again and it makes your head ring. You look round the room, there’s a bed and some basic supplies but not much. 

The man goes over to a book he has laid out on the bed and brings it over. To your surprise it’s in english. 

“This is all I have, I’ve done everything so far.” You scan over the book and turn the page, you see diagrams of anatomy and pictures of a vaginal birth. You try to think of anything you know that could help. You’ve seen documentaries, you’ve learnt some things, you close your eyes for a second pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“Okay. Get her on the bed.” You say looking over at her. The man orders the women around, as she moves you see supplies on the table. You go over looking for gloves.

“Do you have anything sterile?” You ask, turning to look at him. He shakes his head.

“My bag, you must have taken it when you kidnapped me. It has sterile supplies in it.”

“We’ve used it already.” He says.

“All of it?” You ask shocked. There were enough supplies in there to last at least a week. 

“We needed the supplies.” He says. You sigh pulling on some gloves. What you have will just need to do. You go over to the bed and he follows, the woman's laid back hair is stuck to her face as her friend grips her hand and whispers at her in arabic. 

You let the adrenaline calm you, you ground yourself before you sit on the end of the bad. She looks down at you and grits her teeth through the contraction. Shit, you should be counting them right the time between them. You don’t have a watch you start counting in your head. 

“Do you know how far apart the contractions are?” You ask. He asks the woman who replies. 

“2 minutes sometimes 5 minutes.” He says. That’s good right? Means she might be ready to push soon.

“Has she had a baby before?” You ask. 

“This is her 6th.” 

“6th?” You turn back to look at him. You’re not sure what to do with that info though, Does that make her more or less of a high risk. At least she probably knows what to do by now, she probably knows more than you. 

“Can you ask her to pull her legs up. I need to check internally.” He talks and she nods, her friend helping her get comfortable - well as comfortable as she can be. You’re not sure you’ll be able to tell how dilated she is, it’s more to check if everything feels right. Although, you’re not sure what the vagina of a woman in labor is supposed to feel like. 

You smile at her, you have to be confident, she needs to have faith in you. You’re trying to be as gentle as you can, you doubt she’s had any pain relief. You don’t envy her right now, going through labor for 13 hours like this, in this heat, you do feel sorry for her. 

“I can feel the head.” You say, it gives you a boost of confidence. “Can you ask her if she’s had any urges to push?” 

You look over at her as she nods. You pull your hand out, you look down at blood on your fingers, your stomach sinks. 

“Is that bad?” The man asks looking over.

“I don’t think it’s fresh. It could be normal, she is pushing a baby out.” You say taking the gloves off. You walk over to the table to grab a towel and he joins you.

“What should we be worried about?” He asks in a low voice even though you don’t think the women can speak English. We, there's no we, it makes a lump form in your throat.

“Hemorrhage. I’m assuming you don’t have blood.” You say, he shakes his head. So that's a death sentence. 

“The cord could wrap around the baby's neck.” He says. That could be happening right now and you have no way of knowing. You turn back to look at her. There’s no way to monitor the baby right now, you have no idea if it’s in distress and that could be why the labor is taking so long. 

“If she’s having urges to push, maybe she could try?” You say. 

“What if that makes things worse?” 

“I don’t know you’re not exactly set up for a cesarean.” You say. He sighs, you can tell he’s nervous. You should be nervous but you think the surge of adrenaline is keeping you going. Besides, what's the worst that could happen to you? They kill you? They’re probably planning on that anyway. 

There’s a knock at the door and the man goes over to answer it. You watch him out of the corner of your eye hearing him talk. You look back down at the tools. You pick up another pair of gloves and a towel and go back over to the bed. 

You lay the towel out and pull the gloves on as the door closes and he comes back over to you.

“Have you ever done CPR on a baby before?” You ask him. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best.

“Only in practice.” You turn looking up at him confused. “I’m a doctor, well I was training to be one.” 

“You should be doing this, not me.” You scoff shaking your head

“I wanted to be a neurologist.” He says, you sigh, you don’t care, you’re mad he didn’t tell you. 

“Do you have something to clamp the cord with?” You ask looking over at him, he goes over to the table and comes back with an actual clamp. You take it from him and place it on the bed. The woman groans again and you look over at her.  

“Tell her we’re going to try pushing, after the next contraction.” You say getting yourself comfortable and moving her legs so they’re apart. You feel awkward all of a sudden, this is definitely not something you thought you would ever be doing, especially not here of all places, as a fucking hostage. 

You look down-holyfuckingshit. There’s the head. 

“Push, push, tell her to push.” You call as you move your body to get your hands into position. You’re not really sure what you're going to do. Support the head right? Don’t let it fall out of your hands. You’re shaking as she pushes and the head comes out. You see eyes, a nose and mouth. 

The lips are slightly blue, it makes you hold your breath. 

“Tell her keep going, she’s doing great.” You say. You need her to keep going, you need to get this baby out. As soon as the shoulders are through the rest is easy, it just flops out. You look up at her and smile as you reach over for the clamp. 

“I need another clamp.” You say, you place the baby on a towel. 

Why is it not crying? It should be crying. 

You wipe its face, nose and eyes. Cry dammit, you’ve never wanted to hear a baby cry more than anything. 

“Here.” He says handing you another clamp. You turn the baby on its side and start rubbing his back. You’ve seen people do this on TV before. 

“Come on, come on baby.” You mumble. When it cries you almost start too. You roll it on its back as its crying rings in your ears. You take the clamp out his hand. He has the scissors too, you nod at him. 

The woman is shuffling on the bed, she’s asking something. “She wants to know the sex.” the man asks. 

“B-boy. It’s a boy.” The words catch in your throat the adrenaline is wearing off now, you swallow hard you need to keep it together. Your hands shake as you cut the cord. The other woman has moved over to you holding her hands out. You nod, wrapping the baby and handing it to her.

You hear a knock on the door and the doctor leaves you. Or you guess he’s not really a doctor. You look back down between her legs. You’re not sure what to do now, you’ll have to wait for the after birth right? 

She’s not bleeding out though, that’s a good thing. You’re taking your gloves off looking over at the woman stroking her baby's head. You let yourself smile, holy shit you just delivered a baby. Johnny would love to hear about that. Your smile fades as you remember where you are. 

“They want to take you back.” The doctor says as he comes over to you. You nod looking at the person standing at the door. As you get up the woman calls out for you saying something in Arabic. You look over at the doctor. 

“She says thank you. And she hopes you have a safe journey home.” He looks away from you. You turn and smile at her nodding your head. 

“Congratulations.” You say and go over to the door. 

“Oh by the way.” You say turning back to him. “The placenta, when it comes, make sure it’s complete.” 

“How will I know if it’s complete?” He asks. 

“Maybe there’ll be something in the book.” You say shrugging. He nods as the man in the door reaches out, gripping your arm and pulling you out. 

___

The door to your cell opens. You watch as the doctor comes in carrying a plate of food and a bottle of water. Suddenly your stomach grumbles and your lips smack together as you realise how dry your mouth is. 

He sets them down on the slab of concrete you think is supposed to be a bed. You look over on the plate, there’s flatbread and what looks like hummus. You don’t care what it is, you’re so hungry you’ll eat anything. 

You look back over at him, if you eat you’re breaking down your defences, gathering your strength just so they can torture you more. You are so hungry though, the weaker you get the more likely you are to give up intel you know you shouldn’t. 

“It’s not poisoned or anything.” He says you look over at him, you hadn't even thought about that. 

“How’s the baby?” 

“Good, they’re both good.” He says leaning against the door. 

“Where did you study?” You ask. 

“America, Princeton university.” He says. 

“Fuck me, and you chose to come here?” You scoff. He doesn’t reply, pressing his lips together. 

“You should eat, you might not get another chance. They won’t leave the plate in here.” He says nodding at the food.

“What? I deliver your leader's son and I get some hummus?” You spit at him, you want the food less now. 

“Better than letting you starve.” He says. Starvation would be a pretty horrible way to die. You shuffle over to the plate, opening the water bottle first and trying not to drink it down so fast. You can’t help it though, you don’t even care that it’s warm, it feels like you haven’t had a drink in weeks. 

When you’re done you put it back down letting out  breath. You pick up one of the flatbreads and pull some off dipping it into the hummus. 

“Why’d you leave America?” You ask. 

“I couldn’t stand it. I thought it was the way to a better life. Then I saw all the abominations, I had to leave.” He says, you raise an eyebrow at him. 

“Why are you here fighting in a war that isn’t yours to fight?” He asks, theres hostility in his voice. 

“You keep blowing shit up in our country.” You say as you dip more bread. 

“You’re special forces or something aren’t you?” It makes you stop chewing, you look up at him. 

“I’m a medic.” You say.

“No ones ever lasted through torture the way you do. Most of them give up after a few hours, or a day.” He says. So it’s been longer than a day, you don’t know if you should be glad or not. It’s been over 24 hours and they still haven't come. 

You look down at the food, suddenly it’s sitting heavy in your stomach. You remember the feeling of ingesting all the water and the feeling of it coming back out when your stomach’s full. You put the bread down and push the plate away. 

“My name is Sayyid.” He says bending down to pick up the plate. 

"I'm not going to tell you my name." You say. He nods pressing his lips together.

"Good luck" He says, nodding and leaving the room. You don't need luck, you need to get the hell out of here.

___

The car ride went in silence. No witty remarks from Johnny. There’s no filling the deafening silence, the only noise is coming from the engine and the wheels turning on the dirt roads. 

48 hours that's how much time Lawell could realistically buy them, if Shepherd was going to send shadows after them they have to move quick. Ghost pulls the car up to the building. 

This is the closest they can get to the next town without being spotted, there's an al-qatala base there. That’s where they’ll get intel, that's where they’ll find out where you are. It’s too late now though, the journey to get here was long. 

“Gaz, Soap clear the place, we’ll wait here.” Price says as Ghost turns the engine off. There’s no reply, just the sound of doors opening and closing. Price watches them walk round the car and over to the front door. The building will be empty, as soon as they’ve confirmed that though, they can hide the car. 

“I shouldn't have put her at the back.” Price says as he watches Gaz and Soap enter the building. 

“It was the right call.” Ghost replies. Price sighs, yeah it was, he didn’t expect things to go so wrong though. Ghost's hand lands on his thigh, he looks over at him. He can see the softness in his eyes. 

“We’ll get her back, John.” 

“I know, I just hope we’re not too late.” 

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[littlelamy]

hey bby can u please write rafe x fem pogue where sarah drags the pogues to one of topper's parties on figure eight and jj leaves reader alone for a few minutes and when he comes back reader is with rafe even though she knows she shouldn't be with him. got inspo from rihanna's song: don't stop the music <3 ily ily

sarah drags you to the party, her hand wrapped around your wrist, her excitement buzzing through the humid summer air. you don’t want to be here—figure eight parties always feel like walking into enemy territory, like stepping into a world that doesn’t want you in it. but sarah’s your best friend, and jj promised he’d stick by your side.

except jj’s gone, lost somewhere in the sea of drunken kooks, leaving you alone with a red cup in your hand and bass pounding through your chest. you try to blend in, try to ignore the sharp stares from girls in designer dresses and guys who wouldn’t look twice at you on any other day.

then you feel it. a gaze, heavy and unwavering.

you turn your head and there he is—rafe cameron, leaning against the wall like he owns the place. maybe he does. button-down unbuttoned just enough to show the cut of his collarbone, a drink dangling from his fingers, blue eyes locked onto you like he’s been waiting for you to notice him.

and fuck, do you notice him.

he smirks, and you know you should look away, should walk in the opposite direction. you shouldn’t let your feet carry you toward him, but they do. you shouldn’t let your fingers brush his when he takes your cup and replaces it with his own, but you do. (please don’t take random drinks from people) you shouldn’t let him murmur in your ear, voice thick like honey and just as intoxicating.

"you shouldn’t be here," he says, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"and you shouldn’t be talking to me," you shoot back, lifting the cup to your lips. whiskey, smooth and expensive.

he chuckles, watching you like you’re the most interesting thing at this party. "where’s maybank? figured he wouldn’t let you out of his sight."

"he’s around," you answer, but you don’t really care where jj is. not right now. not with the way rafe is looking at you, like he wants to ruin you in the best way possible.

he steps closer, tilting his head, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "you know, you act like you don’t want me, but you haven’t moved away once."

you roll your eyes, but he catches the way your breath hitches. "maybe I just like messing with you."

he smirks. "careful, sweetheart. i don’t mind playing games, but i always win."

one song bleeds into another, the beat thick and pulsing. rafe takes your hand, and you let him. he pulls you onto the dance floor, hands settling on your hips, pressing close, closer, until there’s no space between you. he moves like he owns you, like he’s already memorized every curve, every reaction.

"you feel fucking perfect against me," he murmurs, his lips brushing your jaw, his hands sliding lower, guiding your hips to move against him. "wonder how much better you’d feel without all these people watching."

his fingers press into your waist, controlling your movements as you grind against him, the heat between you making it impossible to think straight. his breath is hot against your ear as he leans in, voice dripping with amusement. "you gonna let me keep you company tonight, or are you just here to wind me up?"

his teeth graze your skin, just enough to send a shiver down your spine as you move on him, a little closer each time. "fuck, you keep moving like that, and i won’t be responsible for what happens next."

his breath ghosts over your neck. "this is a bad idea."

"the worst," you agree, pressing back against him deliberately, feeling the sharp inhale he takes. but you don’t stop.

he groans low in his throat, grip tightening. "yeah, but bad ideas are always the most fun. and fuck, do you feel fun."

jj finds you minutes later, face twisted with something between betrayal and disappointment, but you don’t let go of rafe’s hand. you know you should. you know you shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t want this.

but you do.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx @drewsephrry

[zero2herozed]

Meanwhile, so many of the soldiers who were drafted to fight in that war would have hated anyone still touting Vietnam today. Most of them didn't want to fight. So many died needlessly to raise a sergeants rank. Its somewhat where 'fragging' truly originated, one private 'mistakenly' taking out their squad leader so that all of them aren't lead to their death. When every single death wasn't for America's safety, or even truly 'a war on communism' it only helped capitalism by padding rich politician's pockets.

And when they came home, the soldiers themselves were not only shamed for losing a war they never wanted, they also got called baby killers and many more deplorable things. Some instances because the 'regime' was using villager kids as soldiers or even as a bomber, but some instances simply because horrible men were drafted into the war against their will and took their anger out on *everyone* there, even the peaceful villages they were supposed to protect, destroying the whole village instead of just the munitions building that was the target. My father said there were villagers willingly selling their 12 year old daughters. Not like it doesn't happen here in America all the time, but still, it was the soldiers actively participating *with 12 year olds.* though outlandish rumors they had razor blades inside of them kept some like my father from taking a risk on any Vietnamese women, plenty still did, and got them pregnant, and left their half American kid to die when they pulled out.

AND THATS NOT EVEN INCLUDING AGENT ORANGE YET.

The dangerous chemical dioxin that was dumped in mass on both troops and villagers alike, owned by Monsanto and experimented on the soldiers like guinea pigs like they always do, telling everyone it was entirely safe when they pretty much already knew it wasn't, spent years and billions denying it so not only did how many of the severe cases were dying before they had to pay out, but also their 2nd gen children have no clue where their genetic issues come from. Because oh yeah; this doesn't just affect the first gen it was actually dumped on. It permanently destabilized our DNA ways they still have no clue how deep it goes and are refusing to admit how many health problems could be related to agent orange than just spina bifida. All I know is I have the congenital heart problems as well as horrible joint and spine problems, I'm in pain every day, and I still don't get coverage in good ol capitalist America because "it could be naturally hereditary"

Losing my father to his agent orange caused illness at 14 did not lead to my 'fatherless' behavior being a communist. Its knowing all the ways my father suffered before his death, abused and abandoned by his country, making him jump through hoops and coming to the brink of suicide just to get the measly coverage he and my brother get now, the same coverage trump threatens to get rid of because the draft dodging coward 'doesnt like losers.' Its knowing that he was just a number to die when he was sent out, and only viewed as a medical experiment when he came back. No one deserved this war. Not the Vietnamese. Not the American soldiers. And especially not all the children of both ethnicities that were and genetically still are dragged into this b.s. to this day. I am disgusted that Americans are still trying to make excuses to tout how great we are, how they fought dirty to win, used war crimes against us. BUT NO, WE were the invaders, oppressing THEIR FREEDOM for our precious capitalism. Horrifically outforced for a fair battle, they did what they knew to survive and fought bravely to keep their way of living safe by whatever means possible. FUCK America and FUCK its late stage capitalism, I hope it fucking crumbles soon so I actually can have my community without the government sticking its nose in.

Anyway, sorry for the diatribe on the post that is definitely not mine, nor likely open to American input, but for the Americans reading this, reminder that Monsanto also did Round-Up, a weed killer that gave non-hodgekins lymphoma to the farmers they had spraying their fields of specially genetically modified plants that are immune to the roundup. They know their shit is still toxic. And America is letting them do it. <3

I love when I find a Usamerican complaining about how they lost in Vietnam because it makes me remember what a glorious victory the Vietnamese managed against the great empire of our times, and it still bites them. An example for all the free people of the world. Al gran pueblo vietnamita, salud.

[urno1luv]

giselle coming back from practice stressed and taking it out on reader + consensual somno?😋 i luv ur writing🫶🫶

cw: not really somnophilia bc reader wakes up half way through, fingering

The clock reads 2:14 AM when Giselle finally comes home.

She’s quiet — dropping her bag by the door, running a hand through her messy hair.

You’re asleep — soft, warm breaths rising and falling beneath the covers — completely unaware of how bad her day was. Her eyes linger on you for a second.

You always look so pretty when you're sleeping — tucked up all cozy, lips slightly parted, legs curled up under the sheets like you’re waiting for her to come ruin you. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

You have no idea how badly she needs you right now.

She moves without thinking — slipping out of her clothes, the room dim and heavy with silence. The mattress dips beneath her weight as she crawls in behind you, warm hands sliding beneath your shirt, tracing slow circles along your bare waist.

You stir faintly — but you don’t wake.

Perfect.

Her fingers trail lower — down between your thighs, where you're soft and warm and already wet without even knowing she's there. She smirks against your neck.

"My pretty little baby... always ready for me, huh?"

You let out the faintest whimper in your sleep, hips twitching under her touch — and that’s when something snaps inside her. All that stress — all that frustration — it’s been building all day, weighing heavy on her chest.

But now you're here — soft and helpless in Giselle's arms — and suddenly the only thing she can think about is taking it all out on you. Her good girl.

Her little stress relief.

Her toy.

Her hand slides into your panties — two fingers slipping between your folds, teasing you slow and lazy. "You have no idea what you're about to wake up to, baby..." she whispers. You whimper softly, shifting in your sleep — but she just smirks, pressing her fingers deeper, feeling how easily you open up for her.

"So fucking wet..."

Her voice is low, rough against your ear — half praise, half punishment. "Such a needy little thing... even when you're sleeping, you're begging for me."

She loves how vulnerable you are like this — how easily she could wreck you without you even knowing.

But she wants you awake for this.

Giselle wants to see your pretty little eyes blink open — wide and confused — right before she ruins you. So she circles your clit just a little faster, fingers pressing deep — until your body jolts beneath her, a soft little gasp falling from your lips.

"There she is..." she purrs.

You blink groggily — hips twitching into her hand — but she doesn't slow down. "Shh, baby... don't fight it."

Her free hand slides up to wrap around your throat — not squeezing, just holding — keeping you exactly where she wants you. "You wanna be a good girl for me, huh?"

You're still half-asleep, mind hazy — but the way you whimper and grind against her fingers tells her everything she needs to know.

Her good girl always wants to please.

Even in your sleep.

"You don't have to do anything, baby... just lay there and take it."

Her fingers fuck into you deeper — slow, deliberate strokes — dragging against that perfect little spot that makes your thighs tremble.

"That's it..." she whispers, voice rough in your ear. "Let me use you."

You moan softly, hips rolling into her hand — but she just tightens her grip around your throat, pinning you down.

"Shh... don't make me gag you, baby."

You bite your lip, trying to keep quiet — but the way she's fucking you, slow and deep and lazy, has you melting in her arms, all soft little whimpers and shaky breaths.

"You like being used, don't you?" she growls, pressing her fingers harder against your clit.

You nod weakly, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Giselle's broken little plaything.

"You belong to me, baby." Her teeth graze your jaw, breath hot against your ear.

"You're mine."

You come with a muffled little sob — legs shaking, slick coating her fingers — but she doesn't stop. Not yet.

Her fingers keep moving — slower now, teasing — dragging out every last wave of pleasure until you're squirming in her arms, overstimulated and whimpering. "You can give me another one, baby."

Her hand tightens just a little around your throat — not enough to hurt, just enough to own you.

"You don't get to sleep until I'm finished with you."

[y2kstarr]

keep quiet - c. sturniolo

࣪˖ ִ⭑ ࣪ warning : choking, smut with absolutely zero plot

"Oh fuck-"

The bed creaked beneath the both of you, the headboard muffled at least by a pillow put behind it, thankfully, your idea, all whilst Chris plowed into your sweet cunt, not surprisingly, his idea.

Your legs were wrapped around his waist, dangling off his hips as each thrust caused them to bounce just a bit, your toes curling at each glorious angle he took at your core, his cock sliding in and out of your sopping, messy hole, making filthy noises mix with your muffled moans.

"Shhh baby, I know you love this cock, but you gotta keep it down.." He cooed teasingly as he looked down at you, his brunet curls hanging down near his eyes as he did, his eyes full of hunger and his mouth turned up in a grin, as if it was fun for him to be fucking his girlfriend just a few doors down from where his brothers were.

Yeah, you guys would never live it down if Nick and Matt heard... but you just couldn't help yourselves.

You two had been trying to watch a movie together in his room, not wanting to interrupt Nick with his show in the living room, but of course, it's never just a movie with you two. Hey, keyword; Trying. Well, needless to say, glances at one another whilst cuddled up together lead to wandering hands, then lips, then shared breaths and moving bodies, and soon, Chris was stifling a groan whilst slipping into your tight heat.

"Chrisss.." You whined behind your own hand, panting harshly against it as your teeth dug into your palm, trying your damn hardest to keep quiet, but it just felt so fucking good.

"It feel that good ma?" He teased in a whispered tone, slowing down his thrusts just a bit to roll his hips just right to make you go crazy, a stifled groan leaving him at how you clenched around him out of pleasure. "Jesus- fuck- this pussy's fuckin' amazing, baby-" He panted, giving a slow, deep thrust that had both of you nearly rolling your eyes back.

He started picking back up, his thrusts quickening once more as the two of you rocked the bed, the pleasure twisting your stomach in delicious ways, fire burning deep within you as your nails dragged lines down his back, pulling a groaned whine from his lips.

"Chris- Fuck- Mm!" You whined, your noises getting louder than they should've, your hand slipping from covering your mouth in the heat of the pleasurable moment, getting lost in your foggy, fuzzy mind with each thrust he gave. "Don't- Don't stop- Please, Chris- Oh God-"

Suddenly, your words were cut off, your eyes widening as you felt pressure around your throat, realizing that Chris held his hand around it, looking down at you with dark, lustful eyes. A gasp left your kiss-swollen lips in an attempt to speak, but that was it, nothing but whines and gasps of what was meant to be your voice.

"I told you to be quiet, ma," Chris panted, a strangled groan leaving his throat at how fucked out you looked, your pretty eyes looking up at him like a needy puppy, parted lips nearly glistening with drool, edges of your hair sticking to your forehead from the sweat.

"Guess I gotta take it into my own hands, too drunk on my cock to understand, right?" He teased, a choked whimper leaving you as the only form of an answer you could give, making him breathlessly chuckle. "Yeah, 'm fuckin' right, baby."

The tips of his fingers pressed just right against the sides of your neck, making you take in a sharp breath that hardly went through. Fuzz rimmed your eyes as your mouth fell open, gasped noises coming out that were meant to be words, only choked out moans mixing in with the creak of the bed.

Time and reason molded together, your eyes blurring in vision as one of your hands gripped his forearm, your nails digging into his skin as you felt that knot in your stomach pull tighter and tighter, gasped noises leaving your lips as Chris pressed his forehead to yours, his pants and words starting to muffle in your ears.

"That's it, mama, come on this dick," He panted, his voice a near whine as his hips jerked a bit sporadically, so close to reaching his peak too from just looking at you, his other hand gripping the sheets so hard, his knuckles turned white. "C'mon baby, c'mon-"

Snap.

You felt your vision go practically white as your body shook, eyes rolling back as your back arched from the bed, spasming around Chris's cock as you felt your orgasm practically wash over you in tidal waves. You hardly even realized he'd let go of your throat as you were slack-jawed in a silent scream, noises finally leaving your mouth as you gasped for air.

"Oh God!-" Your hand slapped over your mouth in a weak attempt to hide the words, feeling as Chris's hips stuttered before he released spurts of thick, warm cum inside you, coating your walls as he fucked his seed into you, your head thrown back in pure bliss.

"Shit shit shit- Fuuuuck-" He panted, his lips against the column of your throat as his hips gave a few more reluctant thrusts, before he huffed out a breath and finally stopped, his body practically shaking as he panted with you, your hand finally falling from your mouth.

"Holy... shit.." He breathlessly said between pants against your neck, the two of you a sweaty, tangled mess of limps now as you both came down from your highs.

Your senses returned to you slowly as you breathed, vision and hearing coming back, though you missed that pressure around your throat without Chris's hand there anymore. Fuck, you guys had to do that more...

As Chris moved his lips up to your cheek, you could feel his grin against your skin before he even chuckled, a raspy little breathless "what..?" leaving your lips.

"You're droolin', ma." He cheesed against your cheek, pressing little pecs there in between chuckles as you tried to turn your head away and weakly shoved at his shoulder, your voice still breathy as you scolded him with a smile and rosy cheeks.

"Shut up"

a/n: first time posting a writing, hope you guys like it :3 asks are open for requests.ᐟ

dividers → @cafekitsune

[r3starttt]

BEHAVE

PAIRING: Caitlyn Kiramman x reader

SUMMARY: Part two of being her controversial young girlfriend but she's even meaner about it.

CW: spanking, finger sucking, lots of degradation, oral, slapping, degradation, mean caitlyn, degradation, grinder-strap-on-vibrating toy I don't know the name, degradation, spitting, degradation, and more stuff.

TAGLIST: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @patronagrona @halle5s @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight @v1ntagecl0wn

"Listen to me." Her voice cuts through the silence. Fury simmers beneath her calm facade, laced with a mocking pity that stung more than outright anger. Her fingers press into the soft flesh of your arm as she drags you into her office, the force of her grip reminding you of her control.

The room itself feels oppressive, with the heavy oak desk and a high-backed chair now threatening to choke you, cage you between their dark tones and Caitlyn.

"You knew the rules before you agreed to this," she began, each syllable enunciated with a deliberate bark that made your stomach twist. Her words carried disappointment, her tone authority. "You knew the expectations and the consequences. And yet,"—her voice dropped, softer but far more menacing—"you chose to disregard them, to act out in a manner that I can only describe as... reckless."

Her eyebrows furrowed, mirroring your own expression, though hers were sharp and accusatory while yours threatened to buckle under the weight of shame.

"Didn't you beg me," she pressed on, her words striking you like physical blows, "to treat you like all the women you claim I've fucked? To take you seriously, to treat you your age and bring you into my world more often?" Her voice rose slightly, the edge of incredulity slicing through the room. Each word felt like a slap, the kind that didn’t just sting but lingered with burn

with humiliation.

You nodded, your breath hitching as you tried to steady the emotions roiling inside you. Your lips pressed into a tight line, but the defiance flickering in your eyes was betrayed by the quiver in your brow, the faint tremble in your bottom lip. Tears threatened to spill, but you swallowed them down, choking on the knot that had formed in your throat.

You were angry—at her, at the situation, at the unfairness of it all. You hadn’t done anything wrong, not in your eyes. All you had done was love her, follow her, give her every part of yourself. But now, that love felt insignificant, dismissed as though it were nothing more than a fleeting infatuation in her eyes.

"You want me to take you seriously?" The words left her lips with a deliberate sharpness. Her tone was cold, biting.

"Then act your age." Her voice hardened. "You’ve made it painfully clear that you don’t understand the gravity of what’s expected of you. Do you even realize what I’ve had to endure? The comments about how out of place you are—too young, too inexperienced?" Her fingers wrapped around your arm again as she dragged you toward the imposing oak desk that seemed to dominate the room. "You're putting me through shame after shame," she spat, her grip releasing only when she had forced you down into her chair. The leather creaked beneath your weight, the unfamiliar sensation making you feel even more out of place, as though you were trespassing in a space meant only for her.

"It was a mistake trusting you." Her gaze was unrelenting, her piercing blue eyes fixed on yours, and you couldn’t shake the shame that burned beneath your skin. You felt exposed, vulnerable, and worst of all, humiliated—not just by her words but by the quiet knowledge that her staff, the people who worked tirelessly in this house, could hear everything. They were witnessing your humiliation through walls that were never thick enough to hold Caitlyn's sharp words at bay.

You sat there, frozen, as she straightened and turned her back to you, crossing her arms in a gesture that only amplified her disapproval. "Didn’t you promise me you’d behave?" she asked, the question rhetorical and searing with its accusation. "I know what’s best for you," she continued, "yet you insist on thinking you know better than me." She scoffed softly, shaking her head.

When she stopped in front of you, she lowered herself to her knees, a gesture that should have been tender but was instead filled with tension. “You don't,” her face was inches from yours, but instinctively, your eyes dropped, guided down by an unspoken need to escape her gaze.

Even then, her presence was overwhelming, commanding your attention despite your futile attempts to avoid it. She straightened her posture. "I can’t keep doing this," inhaling sharply as her eyes flickered between yours and the floor, searching for something she wasn’t sure she wanted to find, she finally stated, "I won’t." The two words hung in the air, suspended between the two of you.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think—" you began, your voice trembling under the weight of her gaze, but your words faltered as Caitlyn interrupted. It felt more like a command than a rebuke. Her posture was rigid, and the way her fingers flexed at her sides spoke for her.

"I don't want your apologies. I want your obedience." Her tone dropped to a low murmur, the kind that rooted you in place. "You didn’t think," she continued. "That’s the problem. I’ve told you before—I require you to think."

Before you could respond, her fingers reached for your chin, firm but not cruel, her grip tilting your head upward to meet her gaze. Her touch was deliberate, a physical reminder of her dominance, as her piercing blue eyes bore into yours with a force that made it impossible to look away. "Instead," she said, her voice softening but losing none of its edge, "you act on impulse. Without a thought for the consequences. Without a thought for me."

Her grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to send a clear message, one that prickled at your pride and stung at your heart. It was a warning, a silent declaration of her authority, and you felt yourself shrinking under it, guilt pooling in your stomach.

"I’ve tried to make allowances," she went on, her voice quieter now, as though the effort of restraining her anger was beginning to weigh on her. "To excuse the—" she paused, her jaw tightening as she searched for a word less damaging than the one on the tip of her tongue—"stupidities you keep committing. But your disregard for my judgment, your refusal to listen... It sabotages everything I’m trying to build."

Her words were like a blade, carving through the fragile bond you had tried so hard to maintain.

"You’re reckless, Immature. You refuse to see the consequences of your actions, and I won’t be associated with someone who acts this way."

Her final sentence came softer, almost like a confession, and for the briefest of moments, you saw something flicker in her eyes—vulnerability, regret, or maybe even sorrow. But it was fleeting, quickly masked by the steely resolve that had come to define her.

"I’ve had enough."

She straightened, her presence towering over you. "I thought I could rely on you. But instead, you’ve made me doubt myself. You’ve made me look weak."

You opened your mouth, desperate to explain, to tell her that you hadn’t meant to hurt her, that everything you’d done was out of love, not defiance. But before the words could form, Caitlyn silenced you.

"I don’t want to hear your thoughts on the matter."

"You’ve already shown me that your actions speak louder than your words."

Her gaze lingered on you. And for the first time, you realized that no apology, no explanation, could undo the damage you had done. If you were even guilty of anything.

"Stand up." She commands, and you don't hesitate in doing so. Your place on the chair seems replaced by her, in the meanwhile, her hands wrap around your waist, handling you in front of her. "Take them off." You're almost breathless at what she's asking you to do– "Now." Her tone is deep, it bewitches you and you move to do what she's asking for.

The cold air hits your skin, almost making you hiccup. The clothes she once chose for you adorn the bare of your body, matching its tone– because Caitlyn always knows better than you.

How you present yourself, how others perceive you, it's all a live image of what she's capable of. That's why you need to be good, look good, do good— for her.

"All of them." You frown, a doubt in your eyes as to why. You didn't expect soft, nice sex from her, not now. But her urgency yet apathy on her tone makes it all harder to understand.

"Do I have to talk to you like this so you can understand?" Her look shows no mercy on you, tone vindictive as a vice, like the coo, slow and sweet in tone yet venomous in its true nature. "Mhm? Do you want me to treat you like this, then?" Her words come out quick in the same daring low tone. She's pissed.

"Turn around." You don't hesitate under her command. Your ass on full display for her to take. The sound of her clothes and her sudden approach has you freezing. She's no longer on the chair but behind you, holding you in place.

The cold of her skin touches your hips first, going down the sides of your thighs until she comes back to your ass. Her chin rests on your shoulder, almost biting. "You forgot," her tone pauses just enough to spank at your ass, "every touch, every sensation, belongs to me. You belong to me."

Just when the burning was fading, she held your ass again, nails almost digging into the soft flesh until she spanked you again. "Your pleasure, your pain, your obedience - all of it is mine to control."

Your eyes shot close at the burning sensation, it wasn't painful but pleasant and it felt humiliating. Her cold grip moved up, cupping at your breasts to play with your hardened nipples as if mocking you. There was no need for you to speak, Caitlyn knew you, sometimes a bit too much.

"Open." She held the anger in her voice, her nails brushing your lips before she slid her fingers inside your mouth. She didn't move, forcing you to do all the work– you would for the next hours until she could look at you and decide it's enough.

In the meantime, you're almost gagging at how deep she's making you take her fingers. Her free hand comes behind your ass, cupping at your already wet pussy to brush her middle finger against your clit. "You're wet already. Aren't you ashamed of it?" You can see her from the corner of your eyes. Frown on her face, lips open to let her teeth gap show, a shadow on her face due the absence of light in the room and the small hairs falling around her face. She leaned closer to you, her fingers slipping out of your mouth just to spread your drool all over your chin. "You're like every other girl I've fucked."

Her other hand slapped at your pussy before you could even react, forcing both your eyes and mouth closed before her weight behind you faded a little. She repeated the motion a few times, rubbing small circles against your clit just to stop and slap it.

You were left there for a few seconds, eyes closed until the sound of her drawers opening caught your attention.

"Turn around." Just like you've been doing, you obeyed, looking down into her lap. Black straps hugging her thigh, matching the dark blue grinder. "You always do whatever you please and now you're waiting for me to tell you what to do?" She almost scoffed as you did nothing but look. It didn't take you longer than that to sit on her thigh, your hands coming to wrap around her shoulders until she stopped you from doing so. "Use the desk."

If this weren't the circumstances you would cry at the thought of Caitlyn being grossed out by your touch.

Once you were settled, your hips started to guide your body, humping against her thigh. You got easily caught up until her nails dug into your chin and you met her eyes again. "Slow."

As much as you wanted to ignore her, you didn't, slowing your pace and allowing Caitlyn to guide you with just her words and her eyes.

Each move you made came along the wet that made you feel exposed beneath her. For once you truly thought, under her eyes nor you or any woman could ever be more than a toy for when she's stressed or bored of spending her money on the solitude of herself.

"Please." You tried one last time, but the quiet of your tone was ignored. Her reply was to lean back on her chair and look at you in nothing but silence.

You kept on rocking your hips against her thigh, labored breaths brushing through your lips as you grew desperate. "Just- fuck, Caitlyn. Let me go faster." Your nipples hardened, shining under the little light of the room. The shadows and silence between you two felt suffocating.

Yet, just as you were about to beg again, a small click was heard, followed by the buzzing and vibrating between your legs. With the position you were in, your clit was receiving most of them and for a second it had you thinking maybe this was her silent apology, a reply to all the pleas you've let out.

But Caitlyn maybe is incapable of loving anyone but herself.

She leaned forward again, holding your hips in place as the vibrations stopped. "If you want to cum you're gonna do it yourself."

At this point you didn't care, you were not fighting against her. She wanted you to cum too, she wanted to know— feel like she had control of your body. Caitlyn loved watching you crumble and even if she denied you an orgasm the whole night, she would eventually grow bored of it if not desperate and you would get at least one.

So, you ignored her tone, her grip, her everything and focused on nothing but doing exactly what she said. Making yourself cum.

And truly you got close, humping and whining and grinding as hard and allowed with each few seconds of vibration she let you have. But just as you were about to do so, she practically pushed your body off her thigh. "Get on your knees, you know what to do. Don't you?"

You squeezed your thighs together, glancing at how wet her leg was, you could feel it too, the sticky between your legs as if you were dripping— you were.

Then, you obeyed. The cold texture of the floor digging into your knees while she got rid of any barrier between your mouth and her pussy.

She held your hair, guiding your head like she wished. Just as you noticed her figure growing closer to yours, you tilted your head back, looking up at her with an open mouth. And in a matter of seconds the spit was already in your mouth, you wanted more and if she wasn't being so mean, maybe you would've asked for more. "Good girl... see? not hard to fucking obey." Her hand came close to your lips, brushing over them until she slapped at you. The burning rests on your skin seconds after. "You want more?" Her tone was as dark laced as the whole night, but you didn't lose anything on asking for that softness you once got from here. So, you nodded, sticking your tongue out for her to spit on it again. And she did.

Maybe this would be the nicest she could get today.

Her grip on your hair tightened, slapping at your face once again. "Look at me, or we stop."

The second the words came out you were already doing so, meeting her pupils while shamelessly sticking out your tongue and lapping at the wet folds in front of you. You whined, savoring her whole, pressing your nose purposefully against her clit while taking all of her.

You wouldn’t stop until she came, and maybe then she would let you have what you wanted.

At least one last time.

[jackoshadows]

The thing for me is when I see the same Tumblr blogs with thousands and thousands of likes and reblogs excusing torture, rape, occupation and GENOCIDE as a 'lesser evil' because it was the so called 'good guys' doing it and are now talking about fascism and current issues and it's just so.... I feel like these bloggers only cared about what personally affected them or people they know of.

Which, fine. That's how 99% of the real world works. But then don't pretend to actually stand for morality and being on the right side of history.

Seeing the Western world currently outraged about press freedom and journalists being banned from Trump pressers and headlines like - look at the brave French defying Trump!

Where was this outrage when Palestinian journalists reporting from the ground were killed along with their families - little babies - being murdered? Where was this outrage when Arab and other journalists asking questions about Israeli war crimes were physically dragged out of press briefings?

Where were the 'Brave French' when Palestinian and Arab journalists and journalists from the global south were not allowed to ask about genocide? They were too busy doing genocide propaganda for the Israeli state, that's where they were.

Seeing liberal outrage about everything Trump says vis-à-vis Russia/Ukraine - how dare he say that Ukraine was responsible, how dare he think to do trade deals with Russia.

All the while excusing and looking the other way while Joe Biden was funding a genocide. Where was all the outrage every time Biden opened his mouth and tried to justify genocide, when he dehumanized Palestinians, when he told open lies?

So much outrage for this lady being forcibly removed from a townhall for a Republican and gets a fundraiser set up and more than $12,000 raised:

Where was this same outrage for all the Arab Americans forcibly removed from similar protests? Where is the outrage for protestors who were hit on the head by Joe Biden placards for protesting genocide at the DNC? Or when an Arab American was asked to leave by the Kamala Harris' campaign?

This has to be one of the well thought out tweet I have seen in some time