#like your life sucks but at least you're thin or pretty or you have a real life friend you can depend on

[blackthorndryad]

.

[handful0fteeth]

i was made for lovin' you, baby

chapter 2 of my Funny How Love Is series. read chapter 1 here summary: following the success of your first date, you and Steve catch a movie together. or, at least, that's the plan - before Steve discovers you've shown up to the date with no panties.

pairings: steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: smut, minors DNI, (light) exhibitionism, dirty talk (a lot of it), steve harrington has a big ole monsterc*ck, tooth rotting fluff, multiple orgasms

words: 16.3k

Miraculously, you survive.

Not without a thorough verbal lashing, but that was to be expected. The moment you walk through your front door, you’re bombarded with questions, and your outfit is fussed with – you don’t think you’ve ever experienced more blind panic in your life than when you have to snatch your skirt out of your mother’s prying hands before you accidentally flash her. 

She yells. A lot. You endure it only because the fearful tremor of her voice makes your stomach churn with guilt. You're silent when she demands to know what was so goddamned important you couldn’t bother to pick up a phone to call home, because you can’t very well tell her the actual reason, that you were pretty preoccupied with your longtime crush sucking your soul out of your pussy and so time just sort of…slipped away.

After forty-five minutes, your mother finally quiets and slumps into her recliner, exhausted. You are sent upstairs with a, “If you ever scare me like that again, I will chain you to the foundation of this house. Do you understand me?” You promise you’ll never be out this late without a courtesy call back home explaining your absence, and she waves you away, satisfied for the moment. 

You jump in the shower, not because you’re eager to wash Steve’s lingering scent off your skin, but because you’re uncomfortably sticky from the slick smeared between your thighs and the sweat cooling beneath your clothes. Your body is pleasantly warm, even without the water cascading over it, and remnants of that dreamlike serenity you experienced while straddling Steve’s lap swirls around your brain like mist. It enables your thoughts to wander as you scrub shampoo into your scalp.

You imagine Steve in here with you, hair slicked out of his face and soap lingering on his skin, bending down to kiss you while his hands roam the expanse of your body. You didn’t see him naked tonight, but God, you want to. It’s so easy to picture droplets of water clinging to the thatch of dark hair between his hips, and easier still to envision yourself following the thin trail above it with your tongue as you sink to your knees. 

 After a while, you aren’t even focused on getting clean anymore. You’re just tilted against the slippery tile wall, hands dancing idly over your wet skin as you lose yourself in your fantasies. You forget the amount of attention your pussy’s been shown tonight until you absently reach down to massage your clit, and the ache that bounces up into your stomach makes you hiss through your clenched teeth. Okay, you think, twisting the faucet off and peeling back the shower curtain. Definitely no more of that tonight.

Exhaustion hits the moment you cross the threshold into your bedroom. You toss your towel over the back of a chair and dive beneath your covers, resolving to call Kelsey in the morning and rub in her face just how proficient Steve Harrington is at eating pussy. 

It seems like you’ve just shut your eyes when your mother’s voice rouses you from slumber. You can barely make out the vague syllables of your name as you pry one open and holler back, “Yeah?”

“You have a phone call!”

“Tell Kelsey I’ll be there in a second!” You sit up slowly, scrubbing your eyes and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. There’s no helping the low groan that slips past your lips as you stand. You’re sore – your thighs burn with every step you take to grab a robe off the back of your door, and your jaw clicks as you loose a yawn.

“It’s not Kelsey!” Mom shouts. “It’s that Harrington boy you went out with last night!”

That was fast. Delicious memories from the night before flood your brain, and your cheeks burn as you knot the belt on your robe and burst into the hallway. You descend the steps two at a time, and in your haste, you nearly tackle your mother as you rip the phone from her.

“Ow, Jesus! Bent my goddamn fingers back, Y/N!” she snaps, shaking out her hand and retreating to the living room with a sour look on her face.

You mouth a silent apology at her back before inhaling deeply through your nose and rolling your shoulders. There isn’t time to practice your best “nonchalant” voice, so you hope for the best as you bring the phone’s receiver to your lips.

“Hello?” Your voice cracks. Of course it does. 

Steve doesn’t seem to notice, thank God. “Good morning, beautiful. How’d you sleep?” 

You tangle your fingers within the curls of the phone cord and lean against the wall, butterflies fluttering their wings against the inside of your ribcage. That smooth, carefree confidence drips from his voice like honey, and you can’t even see him, but you know he’s smiling, so the corners of your mouth twitch upward in return.

“Wonderfully. You?”

“Like a baby. I was just about to head off to work, but I wanted to call to check in about last night, make sure you were…yanno, still okay with everything.”

“I’m still very, very okay, Steve,” you promise. You scan the kitchen and poke your head around the wall to peer into the living room, ensuring your mother isn’t secretly eavesdropping. She’s taking sips of coffee between glances at her magazine and the morning news, but you still lower your voice and turn your face tighter toward the phone when you respond.

“I think the evidence of how okay I am is staining your backseat.”

Steve chuckles, and you bite your bottom lip as your face flushes. 

“Good point,” he says. “I also was wondering if, maybe, possibly…you were free again tonight?”

You’re sure you'd spit your heart onto the floor if it bounced harder into your throat. Is he asking you out again? Two days in a row? You knot the phone cord so tightly around your fist that the flesh starts to go white.

“Oh, yeah, absolutely, I’m free,” you say, forcing yourself to sound normal and not like an overexcited middle schooler. “Did you, uh, have something in mind?”

“Well, I get off work early tonight, so if you’re interested…I was wondering if you wanted to catch a movie?”

“Yes!” you exclaim. You catch your mother giving you an odd look over the lip of her mug before you turn your back to her. “Y-Yeah, absolutely, I’d love to catch a movie.”

“Sweet. I’ll be done at five. I can pick you up after?”

“I’ll just meet you,” you counter, “Family Video’s not that far from my house.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

It’s not that you don’t want Steve to pick you up – it’s moreso that you know your mother will want to talk to him, and you aren’t ready to subject him to her well-intentioned interrogations just yet, not when she’s likely still a little hot about your late arrival last night. 

“Alright, you’ll meet me at five, then,” Steve concedes.

“Sounds like a plan. Mind telling me what we’re seeing?”

“Back to the Future.”

You furrow your brow a bit. You thought everyone in Hawkins had seen that movie by now since it came out three months ago, and had assumed it’d already trickled out of the theaters in favor of being burned onto DVDs.

“I didn’t peg you as a sci-fi nerd,” you admonish playfully, and Steve huffs in amusement.

“I tried to watch it when it first came out but, uh…well, I had stuff going on that night, and then Starcourt burnt down….” He trails off, but you nod and suck your teeth in acknowledgment. 

You remember the news about the mall burning down the morning after it happened – the police surmised a couple of dumb kids snuck into the building after it had closed and decided it would be a good idea to set off fireworks on the Fourth. Your mother shook her head at the newspaper that day, steaming mug abandoned on the table in front of her and hand pressed mournfully to her mouth. You’d snuck a peek over her shoulder, and Detective Jim Hopper had stared reproachfully back at you, beneath a headline announcing his untimely demise as a hero. His and Heather Holloway’s names were the only ones you’d really recognized in the expansive list of casualties, and you weren’t even close to Heather. You’d had one meaningless conversation with her during one of her shifts at the pool because Kelsey mentioned a band she was traveling to see, and Heather overheard and announced her plans to go to that very same concert – one in Indianapolis, in August. Needless to say, Kelsey was the only one who made that trip.

The second-only movie theater in Hawkins burned with Starcourt, and now all that’s left is The Hawk downtown, in all its crumbling, dusty glory.

“Yeah, I guess scooping ice cream waits for no man, huh?” you ask slyly. You’d never gone to Scoops Ahoy when it existed, mainly because you didn’t trust yourself to not sound like a stuttering idiot if you tried to order from Steve, but you’d never deny yourself the indulgent glances you’d steal from across the food court at him. He was the only man you’d ever seen make sailor shorts and a dixie-cup hat look sexy.

“Hey, I was doin’ much more than scooping ice cream.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Just, yanno…helping some friends with some…stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Stuff.”

You snort.

“Important stuff,” he adds, and you nod.

“Is there any other kind?”

“None that I know of. See you in a few hours?”

“Definitely,” you say.

“Awesome. I gotta go, I have to pick up my friend so we can carpool. I’ll see you later, baby.”

The line clicks dead, and you’re left standing against the wall, wrapped up in the phone cord and blushing bright scarlet as the dial tone groans at you. 

Baby. 

If Steve never uses your real name again and exclusively calls you “baby” forever, you’ll die a happy woman. You spin around to disentangle yourself and slam the receiver back down on the hook, clasping the front of your robe shut as you hurry back up the stairs.

“I’m going out again tonight!” you call over your shoulder. “With Steve!”

“And what will happen if you’re out past curfew again without calling home?” your mother yells back. You roll your eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, chain me to the foundation, I heard you!”

“Just checking! Oh, and Y/N?”

You pause in your bedroom doorway, robe already halfway shucked off. “Yes?”

“When do I get to meet this Harrington boy?”

“Oh, uh, you know…!” You shut your door quickly.

~~~

You have too many clothes.

You come to this conclusion as you’re standing naked in front of your closet, half of its contents belched out into a pile on the floor, hair and makeup already over an hour old. You’ve never thought so hard about what to put on your body in your entire life. The cold air dribbling through your cracked window suggests that you wear pants. But you hate all the clean options in your drawers, so maybe a skirt with some leggings? But then what do you wear on top – something dressy, casual, or a little bit of both? 

You blow out a harsh puff of air and flop unceremoniously to the floor, landing on your ass with a thud. Maybe you’ll just go naked. That’ll go off without a hitch, right?

Ultimately, you build your outfit around a plaid skirt you haven’t worn since the previous year's winter. It’s snug on your hips, almost too snug, and as you bend to slip some plain white Keds on, you feel the waistline dig into the soft skin of your belly. The feeling isn’t unbearable, and the skirt makes your ass look stellar, so you decide it’ll be worth the discomfort and the slight waddle you must walk with. Only after you’ve shrugged a denim jacket over a well-loved Heart t-shirt and have your hand on the doorknob to leave do you consider something: your panties.

They’re cute and simple, and you’re sure Steve would praise your choice of undergarment even if they were beige granny panties, but…wouldn’t he be far more surprised if he hiked your skirt up and found no panties at all? You bite your lip.

Well…if last night is anything to go by, he’d just steal these panties, too, right? And then you’d be down two pairs, and you aren’t made of money. You can’t just replace the pairs he tucks away as memorabilia continuously, can you? It’s a smarter, more fiscally responsible decision to go commando, you reason.

Stomach flipping and cheeks burning red hot, you shimmy your underwear down your legs and kick them toward the hamper in the corner of the room. 

~~~

You can’t pry your thoughts away from the breeze tickling between your thighs the entire walk to Family Video. 

You’d intended to drive the family car here, but your mother was already clutching the keys and shrugging her jacket on as you plodded down the stairs, citing that she’d had plans to meet some girlfriends for a drink, so you’d have to figure out different transportation. You were only sort of pouty about it, but mostly very brave – if you consider loudly complaining at your mother’s back that she must hate you and want you to get kidnapped as she scurried out the front door as “brave,” that is. Luckily, Family Video is a relatively brief walk if you navigate the forest behind your neighborhood as opposed to trying to follow the main road through town.

Before last night, you had never even considered going anywhere without panties – it seemed like a thing women only did in pornos. But now, here you are, out and about in the middle of the woods, pussy completely exposed beneath a skirt that’s barely long enough to cover the swell of your ass. It’s…oddly invigorating. And far more arousing than you would’ve imagined. 

The autumnal chill of October seeps through your jacket, sending chills up and down your bare legs, and you wrap the sides tighter around your waist to preserve what little warmth you still have. A few older couples, folks out for an evening walk, you gather, eye you up and down in confusion – or pity – as you shiver past them, and you can’t help but be a little envious of their thick woolen coats and long knitted pants. But the thought of Steve realizing you’ve shown up for your date without panties, and his eyes darkening with arousal as he hitches your legs up to your chest, hot breath ghosting over your exposed flesh as he gazes at you in the way that makes you feel like the single most desirable thing on the planet…

It’s more than worth being a little chilly.

The dark green exterior of the Family Video is almost entirely blocked by a swarm of patrons when you reach the parking lot. You should’ve expected this, seeing as the weekend has just begun, but the sight makes you swallow hard and self-consciously smooth a hand over the front of your skirt. A majority of the clientele for the evening seems to be rowdy teenage boys who raucously mill about the parking lot, some smoking cigarettes, others performing tricks on their skateboards. Shit.

You take a deep, steadying breath and lift your chin as you cut through the drifting crowds filtering in and out of the store. You tuck your hands behind your back as you walk, trying to appear casual as you slide them down over your butt and pin the fabric of your skirt in place. A giggling teenage girl blows a pink bubble with her gum as she holds the door open for you, and you flash her a thankful smile. 

The air in the store is warm and a little stuffy, the smell of dust, candy, and stale popcorn hanging like fog between the doorway and the checkout counter. People amble around, most chattering with friends as they bemusedly pick up DVDs and scan the front and back covers for something that piques their interest. An unsupervised little girl shrieks as she darts past you, clenching The Care Bears Movie against her chest as she begs her mom to buy it. 

A lithe, busy-looking girl paces behind the counter, wearing a green vest with Family Video emblazoned in bright orange lettering on the lapel. Her hair is a dirty, warm blonde and curls softly just beneath her chin, and her angular features are pinched together in apparent dismay as she worries a chipped blue thumbnail between her teeth. You progress toward her slowly, tapping on the counter’s surface to gain her attention. Despite what you thought was a markedly careful and delicate approach, the girl almost flings herself over the counter’s edge, gasping and exclaiming in surprise.

“Sorry! Sorry, um, hi, I’m Y/N, I’m supposed to be meeting Steve here?” you say hurriedly, and the girl blinks her round blue eyes at you. Silence falls gracelessly between the two of you, and you’re sure it only lasts a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity lapses in the seconds the girl’s unblinking gaze is fixed on your face. 

It’s…a little unnerving, you’ll admit. 

She squints, like she’s trying to glean more information from the nervous smile you’ve pasted on your lips, then snaps her fingers and points in your direction as a sudden realization dawns on her.

“I sat on your underwear!” she announces, loud enough for a father and young child to turn their heads and stare at you both in confusion. If you weren’t trying to conceal your ass from what feels like the entirety of Hawkins right now, you’d bury your face in your hands. The girl, to her credit, instantly realizes her mistake (and her volume) and claps a hand over her mouth.

“I am so sorry,” she says, voice muffled from behind her multi-ringed fingers. “That was…I meant…”

She sticks a hand out before her, offering you an apologetic smile along with the handshake. “I’m Robin. Steve’s told me a lot about you.”

Ohhhh. Robin. She was a key character in many of the stories Steve told you last night, and from the way he described her, her frenetic energy suddenly makes a lot more sense. You return her smile and shake her hand, but Robin doesn’t let go immediately. Instead, she grips you tight while waving your interlocked arms up and down repeatedly as she talks, almost like she’s unaware she’s doing it.

“I wasn’t, like, seeking out your underwear or anything, by the way. I just, like – well, Steve and I drove to work together this morning, and when I sat down, I felt something weird bunched up under me, and I was like, ‘Huh, wonder what that is,’ so I pulled it out and lo and behold,” she mouths the word “panties” silently, laughing a bit awkwardly around it, “and I was like ‘Woah! What the hell!’ and then Steve told me to put them down, and I was like, ‘Whose are these?’ and then he told me about your date and….” She trails off and lets go of your hand once she recognizes she’s been flapping it for about thirty seconds. 

“Sorry. I…talk a lot,” she says sheepishly, but you just laugh and shake your head. 

“It’s alright. It’s nice to meet you, too, by the way.”

She grins so wide you worry it’ll split her slim face right down the middle. “So, Steve told me you guys have a second date tonight?” she asks.

You nod. “Yep! We’re gonna go see Back to the Future.”

“Ohh, I remember that movie! Michael J. Fox wants to, like, bang his mom, right?”

You giggle and shrug. “Something like that, yeah. Do you know where Steve is, by the way?”

Robin nods and slides out from behind the counter. “Yep, I’ll go grab him. Be right back!”

She flits off, disappearing behind rows of DVDs and throngs of idle customers. You turn, keeping your back pointed at the counter for safety, and lean against it. Oddly, you feel compelled to greet people when they walk in since you’re standing right at the front; you get a few curious looks thrown your way as you wave and welcome people inside the store, clearly not in uniform and rather done up for a supposed Family Video employee.

A minute passes, and while you don’t see Steve emerge with Robin, you certainly hear him.

A display of chocolate bars flies off the counter behind you, clattering to the floor with a loud, metallic clang that makes everyone stop what they’re doing and look. Candy spills across the floor, and Steve stoops to the ground to collect the fallen sweets and discarded metal rack, mumbling apologies at startled customers all the while. He cradles the chocolate in his arms and lets the rack dangle off one crooked finger as he straightens and smiles at you.

“Smooth move, dingus,” Robin teases, patting Steve’s shoulder and resuming her post behind the counter. He shoots her a look and swings the display rack back on the counter. He sloppily dumps the bars next to it before wiping his palms on his jeans and stepping closer to you. 

He’s sporting the same Family Video vest as Robin, a slightly baggy yellow sweatshirt, and blue jeans. The yellow makes the greenish flecks in his eyes pop, and the moles along his cheeks stand out even brighter. Once again, Steve Harrington is the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen, and he doesn’t even have to try.

“You look gorgeous,” he murmurs. A hand slides around your waist and rests on the small of your back, pressing you close enough that he can stamp a chaste kiss on your cheek. His lips are warm against your chilled skin, and after a moment, he pulls back with a concerned look.

“Jesus, you’re freezing. Did you walk here?”

“Oh, yeah, uh. Mom had to take the car to a thing, so….” You shrug, trying to appear apathetic, but a shiver slithers up your spine as the front door swings open and a gust of frigid air nips at your heels. Steve hugs you closer, fingers squeezing and sliding up your hip and waist to warm you up.

“Next time, just call me. I’ll gladly pick you up so you don’t have to freeze your cute little ass off,” he mumbles against the shell of your ear. Before you can reply – not that you had anything remotely intelligent to say anyway – he turns both of your bodies so they’re angled at Robin.

“You two have been introduced, right?”

“Yep. I told her all of your embarrassing secrets before I went and got you,” Robin says flatly, shuffling candy bars in her hands like playing cards and slotting them into their original spaces on the display.

“Awesome, that means I’ll have plenty of time to tell her all of yours in the car,” Steve retorts. Robin rolls her eyes and holds a chocolate bar above her head threateningly.

“I am not afraid to use this.”

“You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

Steve yanks you to the right as the bar soars past your head, pinwheeling onto the floor and almost knocking against the ankles of two teenage girls by the front door. They both look up sourly, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed in displeasure, and Robin squeaks out an apology before they strut away.

“Good one,” Steve taunts, slipping his work vest off and dropping it on the counter behind him in a heap. Robin swipes it away with narrowed eyes, chastising Steve about not being his mother as she folds the fabric into a neat, green square. He slings an arm over your shoulder and starts to guide you out of the store, calling out to Robin over his shoulder.

“Don’t forget to lock the front door when you leave!”

“One time, Steve. It was one time!”

~~~

The drive to the theater is a pleasant blur of conversation. 

The smell of Steve’s cologne envelops you the second the passenger-side door shuts, woody and sweet and perfectly him. As you toss your purse into the backseat, you find yourself staring intently at the upholstery. It doesn’t appear that your previous escapades have actually maimed the leather.

At one point, as Steve talks about a particularly belligerent customer he had to deal with earlier in the day, he reaches over and rests his hand on your thigh. It’s not an insinuation or expectation – he hardly even applies pressure, just idly rubs his pinky back and forth over your skin while he continues his story. His ministrations do slightly disturb the hem of your skirt, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

You entertain the idea of just guiding his fingers between your legs, allowing him to feel you entirely, letting him play with your cunt while he drives, but just as you’ve built up the necessary courage, the car is pulling into the parking lot behind The Hawk. 

He squeezes your leg before hopping out of the car, and you’ve barely gathered your purse strings in your fist before he swings your door open for you and extends a hand down to help you out.

“Madame,” he says, bowing his head slightly. You giggle and take his hand.

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” you say, and as you step onto the cracked asphalt below, Steve shuts the door and crowds you up against the side of his car. 

His lips are instantly on yours, warm, soft, and hungry, and you can’t help but sigh against his mouth. You didn’t know how addictive kissing Steve Harrington would be until you went without it; now that you’re here, you’re tempted to forego the movie entirely so you don’t have to stop making out with him. He nudges his knee between your legs, and you tense up involuntarily, inhaling sharply through your nose. You feel him start to pull away, having noticed your apparent hesitance, but you remedy that quickly by bringing a hand up to tangle in the hair at the base of his neck and locking your right ankle around his calf. You lick at his lips, and he parts them readily, excitedly. He tastes minty, something you weren’t expecting but aren’t displeased with.

“You smell good,” Steve mumbles, kissing a trail down your neck and tugging the collar of your shirt to one side so he can better access the skin beneath. He hums approvingly before latching onto a pre-existing hickey, suckling and nipping at his handiwork. 

“If you do that, they’re never gonna go away,” you breathe. He chuckles.

“Good. They look so pretty on you.” His hands glide down your waist and settle on your hips, kneading circles into your flesh and pulling you flush against his body. You notice how comfortably you fit together, like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place for the first time. When he straightens, you find yourself tilting your head to meet his eyes.

“You have the softest mouth,” he says quietly, raising his hand and ghosting it along your jaw. His curled pointer finger settles beneath your chin, and his thumb presses into the center of your lower lip. “I could kiss you all day.”

“We’d miss the movie,” you warn, words slurred slightly by the presence of his thumb. You have to admit, though, that spending an entire day holed up with Steve, doing nothing but making out and allowing his hands to roam wherever they pleased on your body sounds like heaven on earth. He smiles at you, that perfect crooked smile, and gives you one last peck on the lips before stepping back.

“Better get a move on, then,” he says, sweeping his arm out and moving to the side. Cold air rushes to fill the space his body occupied a moment ago, and you shiver. You smooth the front of your skirt with one hand and slot the other inside his, keeping in step as you both navigate the alleyway next to the theater.

Empty cardboard boxes loom above your head, stacked haphazardly and tilted into the walkway. Puddles of opaque liquid splash beneath your shoes as you walk through them. A rumor Kelsey whispered to you ages ago floats to the forefront of your mind.

“Hey…didn’t Jonathan Byers kick your ass back here a few years ago?” you ask. The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches. Then, he smacks his lips and walks ahead, tugging on your arm and dragging you through the alley.

“So, what size popcorn did you want? I was thinking we’d get a large to share!”

~~~

Your sneakers stick noisily to the floor as you and Steve slither through the narrow rows of the mostly empty theater. You’re clutching the large Coke you’re going to share and the box of Sour Patch Kids Steve insisted upon while he’s balancing the unnecessarily massive bucket of popcorn on the tips of his fingers. You eye it cautiously, ready to leap to catch it if it pitches forward.

The seats you’ve picked in the top middle row, away from what little crowd is scattered about the theater, creak as you sit down, and the decrepit padding sags under your weight. You’ve missed the previews but are just in time to watch Marty McFly hitching a ride on the back of a truck to get to school. You pass Steve his candy and take a sip of your drink as he settles in and sticks the popcorn bucket between his knees.

“So, what’s happening?” Steve whispers, leaning down to your ear.

“Hardly anything yet. He’s on his way to school from Doc Brown’s house.”

“He who? And who’s Doc Brown?”

“He is Michael J. Fox,” you murmur, pointing at Marty as Principal Strickland berates him. “Doc Brown is Christopher Lloyd, the crazy scientist.”

“Ohh. Wait, isn’t he the One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest guy?”

You lean back in your seat enough to give Steve an incredulous look.

“You’ve seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?”

He shrugs, ripping the cardboard lip of the Sour Patch box open and spilling a few multi-colored gummies into his palm. “Robin and I have movie nights every Sunday. She chooses artsy shit on her turns. My last pick was Gremlins. You should come this weekend, but I can’t promise she’ll give up her turn for you. She’s suuuuper anal about that stuff.”

You smile and relax into his side. “As long as she’s cool with me bringing hot chips, she can pick whatever she wants.” This date isn’t over yet, and he’s already talking about seeing you again. If it weren’t the least cool thing you could do right now, you’d squeal over it.

Steve silently holds a blue Sour Patch beneath your nose as an offer, pinched between thumb and forefinger. You take it, gently pulling with your front teeth, and before he can retract his hand, you surge forward. Your tongue laps at the sticky sugar left over on the pads of his fingers, and in the flickering light of the film, you catch Steve staring at you, surprised. 

He bites the inside of his cheek when you draw his thumb inside your mouth and give a tentative suck. His gaze darkens as you blink up at him through your eyelashes, feigning innocence. As you start to pull away, he presses a finger beneath your chin and hooks his thumb downward against the backs of your bottom teeth, locking you in place. He leans toward you, mouth so close to your cheek that you feel the rumble of his voice across your heating skin.

“Do you really think it’s smart to tease me like that in public, baby?”

It is by the grace of God you don’t moan in the middle of the theater. 

You shift in your seat, trying to discreetly cross one leg over the other to squeeze your thighs together. His tone, the unrelenting grip on your jaw, and the change in his body language make you want to challenge him. You want to nod in agreement, to meet his gaze defiantly, do something that’ll make his eyes flash. But someone a few rows down from you loudly clears their throat, and Steve’s eyes dart toward the noise. 

You bite back the disappointed whine that builds in your throat as Steve slowly pulls his thumb from your mouth, eyeing the thin string of glittering saliva that keeps it briefly connected to your bottom lip before snapping. A beat passes where you both stare at each other, your lips barely parted, ready to welcome anything Steve deigns to slide past them again, but he rests that hand in his lap instead. 

“Watch the movie,” he murmurs, smirking at your open-mouthed and dazed expression.

Yeah, like that’s possible.

You swallow hard, uncrossing your legs and squirming. He hasn’t even done anything, not really, but your pussy is throbbing right now, and you’re genuinely concerned you’re going to start leaking all over the cushion below your ass. The potential embarrassment of standing up and discovering the shiny wet spot, a definitive indication of your arousal, thrills as much as it fills you with dread.

Steve seems to get absorbed into the movie rather quickly, mindlessly alternating between popping gummies and kernels of popcorn in his mouth, but your brain is buzzing, making it impossible to focus. When Steve places the popcorn bucket in the empty seat next to him, you can’t help yourself – you glance down at his empty lap, staring at his dick through his jeans like a fucking pervert. You gnaw the edges of your fingers, which doesn’t come close to sating the desire to have anything of Steve’s back inside your mouth..

The 1950s version of Marty’s father has just knocked Biff Tannen unconscious when Steve leans over the armrest between you again, and his voice is light with amusement when he asks, “What’s got you squirming so much?”

You breathe out sharply through your nose.

“I thought you wanted us to watch the movie,” you snark. Steve’s smile widens.

“I told you to watch the movie,” he corrects. His elbow nudges into your side slightly as he bends toward you. “But it seems like you’re havin’ a hard time with that. I’m just curious as to why.”

“You know why.”

“Mmm, no, I don’t.” Smug motherfucker.

Your hands rest on your thighs, clenching and unclenching as you contemplate your next move. He watches you intently, eyes roaming from your undoubtedly flushed face to where your hands are fidgeting in your lap. 

You won’t tell him why you can’t sit still – you’ll show him.

Wordlessly, you slide your fingers down the sleeve of his sweatshirt until you’re grasping his hand and guiding it toward your skirt. His fingers are cold as they brush against the soft, warm flesh of your inner thighs, and you grin as a gasp flutters past his lips.

“Fuck,” he growls. He pulls his hand back, and before you can whine at the loss, he adjusts himself in his seat so he’s angled toward you and reaches between your legs with his other hand, the one that offers better leverage. You duck your face into the crook of his neck as his two fingers slide up the length of your slit, collecting the slick that’s puddled near your hole and smearing it up your lips. You can’t part your legs any further, or you’ll rip your skirt right up the seam, but that doesn’t stop you from trying. You whimper softly as Steve crowds you up against the back of your seat. 

“I can’t believe you went out with no panties on,” he breathes raggedly. That same fervent, desperate arousal he displayed last night while nose-deep in your pussy bleeds into his voice, making it husky as it washes over your ear, and you shiver. 

Steve dips the tips of his fingers inside you, a groan stifled against the back of his teeth, and you suck in a breath. Is he really going to finger you here, in the theater? You’re not exactly sure what you were expecting, but knowing that anyone could turn around and see you both right now makes you simultaneously nervous and stupidly horny.

“God, you’re already so wet,” Steve rasps, fingers nudging deeper inside of you. “Have you been thinking about this the whole movie? Teasing me ‘til I played with your pussy?”

“M-Maybe,” you whimper. “I didn’t…have a concrete plan…oh, fuck–”

Steve claps his free hand over your mouth before you can loose the moan bubbling up your throat, snickering as his two fingers slide inside you. They curl as he drags them almost entirely out of your hole, leaving only the tips inside before slowly stuffing you full again. He keeps this devastatingly slow pace, fucking his fingers in so deep you ache, only to leave you mostly empty, again and again. You pant and whine against his palm, hips bucking off the seat to try and make him go faster, God, you need him to fuck you properly, but he won’t be swayed.

“You should see yourself right now,” he says against your ear. His fingers still inside you, the tips rubbing against your g-spot so that despite the people around you, you’re confident you’ll scream in frustration if he doesn’t start fucking you the way you want, the way you need. “Your cunt is drooling all over the seat, baby.”

He removes his hand from between your thighs, smirking at how you fuss and strain in an attempt to coax him back inside you. He frees your mouth, but only briefly, as his slick-soaked digits push past your lips the second you open them to protest. They don’t stop, either, sliding across your tongue and toward the back of your throat. He presses down, nearly activating your gag reflex. 

Steve watches hungrily as you hollow your cheeks and suck on his fingers, swirling your tongue over and between them to clean what remains of your slick off. The subtle way he shifts his weight catches your attention, and your gaze drifts down to his lap again.

He’s hard, you can tell, even with the inconsistent light the movie affords you. 

Embarrassingly, your mouth floods with saliva at the thought of kneeling on the sticky theater floor and swallowing Steve Harrington’s cock while the people around you innocently watch Back to the Future.

“Please,” you mewl once Steve pulls his fingers from your mouth. He hums inquisitively, tracing your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

You straighten and push yourself into Steve’s space, crushing your mouths together as you reach into his lap and stroke the bulge in his jeans. A shudder ripples through his body as your fingers squeeze and rub insistently, and it only spurs you on. You deftly unhook the button on his pants and drag the zipper down as Steve explores your mouth with his tongue, hands curling around your jaw and holding you in place.

“You gonna stroke my cock in front of all these people, baby?” Steve chides playfully, nipping your bottom lip. 

“If you’ll let me.” 

He seems a bit taken aback by your answer, enough to where his mouth hovers above yours, and his dark eyes blink open. Steve examines your face, almost as if he’s trying to discern if you’re serious or just so mind-bogglingly horny that you’ll agree to anything.

You sink your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and grasp his cock, too eager to let the cogs finish turning in his head. His flesh is burning hot to the touch, and as you swipe your thumb over the swollen, thick head, you smear a pearl of precum down his shaft. 

The sound he makes once he captures your lips in a kiss again is sinful.

If it weren’t for the armrest, you’re sure he’d be pulling you into his lap right about now. Steve’s breath comes in shallow bursts as you stroke him, slow and deliberate, mimicking the pace at which he fingered you. He reaches for you, wrenching your shirt from where it’s tucked into your skirt and sliding a hand up your stomach. When he cups that hand around your breast, you gasp, and he swallows the sound greedily before pushing your bra down and out of the way.

Two things happen just as Steve brings his other hand down between your legs again: lightning crashes into the clocktower on the screen, and someone unleashes a sustained, phlegmy round of coughing. 

Steve jerks back from you, panting, pink high on his cheeks and his hair dangling in his face. He looks around, tongue darting out to wet his red, swollen lips. After a moment, he laughs and leans back, closing a hand over the one you still have jammed down his pants.

“Why’d you stop?” you ask.

“'Cause if I don’t, I’m gonna fuck your brains out in front of all these people,” he admits, eyes shining mischievously. 

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” you purr, squeezing the base of his cock. He twitches but gently wraps his fingers around your wrist, guiding it out of his underwear. 

“You say that until Chief Powell locks us both up for public indecency,” he laughs. “Do you wanna come back to my place, baby? It’s a lot more comfortable and…private.”

You start nodding before he’s even got the whole sentence out. He smiles, popping a quick kiss on the tip of your nose before reclining in his seat to tuck his dick away and do his pants back up. You have to do a bit of awkward twisting and shuffling to get your bra back into place without accidentally flashing the whole room, and Steve grabs your hand before carefully leading you down the steps and toward the theater door.

“So, uh, just in case I don’t get to see it ‘til it comes out on DVD,” he whispers over his shoulder, “how’s the movie end?”

“Uh, Marty hooks his mom and dad back up, and they all end up better off in the future. His dad’s some hotshot author and makes Biff chauffeur him everywhere.”

“Good for George!”

“Oh, and Doc lives.”

Steve stops cold, holding the door halfway open before turning to face you with a puzzled expression.

“Wait, what, how’d he-”

“Steve, do you wanna stand here talking about it, or do you wanna go have sex?” you ask, patting his chest and urging him out the door.

“Right, right, sorry, just – tell me later!”

~~~

Steve’s mouth finds yours the moment his front door shuts behind the both of you.

His hand slides behind your head, partially to tangle in your hair and keep you where he wants, but also so you don’t smack it against the wall as he pins you there. A few picture frames dotted along the entryway rattle from the force, and the sound stirs a thought.

“Wait, Steve, your parents…” Your protest is weak and breathless, swallowed by a gasp as Steve kisses a trail down your neck and laves his tongue over a healing hickey. 

“Not home,” he breathes.

“Are you sure?”

“They never are,” he murmurs into your skin. 

Paranoia still flickers dimly in the back of your mind, so you crack your eyes open to look around. The oak floors beneath you gleam as if freshly polished, and the cream walls you’re pressed against are stippled with a few small pieces of geometric art. There’s a side table just beyond Steve’s back, shiny and black and dimly illuminated by a single lamp, and while you don’t spot the glint of anyone’s keys on it right away, you still aren’t convinced that means no one’s home. Stairs are crushed against the furthest wall, thick ivory fabric carpeting each step, flowing upstairs into a rectangle of darkness on the top landing.

Steve sinks his teeth into the flesh above your pulse point, ripping your attention away from the decor. You moan louder than you intended and tip your head further to the side to give him better access.

“Such a little fuckin’ tease,” Steve growls against your throat. His fingers clench, tugging your hair by the root. The pain stings sweetly across your scalp, and you suck in a breath. “You have no fucking idea how much self-control it took to not bend you over in that theater, Y/N, Jesus Christ.”

You whimper, snaking your hands up under the back of his sweatshirt. He radiates heat, and the sensation of his smooth, unblemished skin beneath your fingers makes you want to scratch grooves into it. You won’t, not yet – you don’t have a read quite yet on how much pain Steve likes intermingled with his pleasure, if any. 

His free hand glides down your thigh before hitching itself behind your knee, and you gasp as Steve hikes your leg up and over his hip, leaving you suddenly exposed. Steve’s warm, solid body swiftly replaces the cool air that tickles between your thighs as he presses himself flush against you, his bulge straining against your bare pussy in a way that makes you shiver.

“God, I could fuck you right here,” he breathes, and you’re grateful for his iron grip because, without it, your buckling knees would’ve sent you straight to the floor. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, baby. Y’know how bad I wanted to drag you back inside my car last night? Keep you all to myself?”

“Fuck, Steve,” you whine, voice muffled against his soft, sweet-smelling hair. Arousal sinks itself between your hips like lead, hot and insistent, and you grind against Steve’s denim-clad cock desperately. You’ll let him fuck you anywhere he likes – against the wall, on the floor, bent over the railing of the stairs. A perverse thrill rushes through you at the thought, and you’re about to open your mouth to beg Steve for just that when he releases his grip on your hair and leg. 

By the time you realize what’s happening, Steve’s knees have already hit the dark blue rug below you, and his fingers are squeezing your skirt over your hips. He tilts your lower half away from the wall, toward his face, by grabbing a greedy handful of your ass and pulling; you stumble a little and have to tangle both hands in his hair to keep from falling over his shoulder. He peppers kisses along your inner thigh, turning his face into the soft, malleable flesh, and you see the flash of his teeth before you feel them, nipping the juncture where your pelvis and leg meet. 

“Let’s see if I still remember our lesson,” he murmurs, a sound that vibrates up into your core and shakes a moan from your lips. His voice, though faint between your legs, is dark and strained, as if he’s barely holding himself back from ravaging you right where you stand. You don’t know how to verbalize quite yet that you want, more than anything, for Steve to just fucking take you already. You worry the wicked thoughts swirling around in your head right now, tapping their claws against your skull and whispering encouragement to you, will freak him out if you dump all of them on him at once.

Steve’s tongue flattens against your cunt, and the noise he makes as he licks up to your clit makes you shudder. He crushes you closer to him, so close you can feel the tip of his nose bumping between your folds as he gets right to work eating your pussy with the fervor of a starving man. 

“Still so fucking wet,” he mumbles. He pulls away, just far enough to spread you open with two fingers, and teases the tips around the rim of your hole. You whimper, hips bucking involuntarily, your grip tightening in Steve’s hair to keep yourself steady. His dark eyes flicker to your face; his swollen pupils eclipse the color in his irises, leaving them almost black in the dim light of the entryway. 

“You want my fingers, baby?” he asks. You nod, breathless.

“Y-Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He traces around your twitching entrance, gaze unwaveringly intense. You swallow hard and swear you see the corner of his mouth tic amusedly when he catches how your throat bobs with the effort.

“Yes, please, Steve,” you offer, and he sucks his teeth in admonishment. 

“C’mon, pretty girl, I thought you learned how to beg for me properly last night,” he chastises, and your stomach flips. The high, squeaky sound that ekes out of your mouth is wholly unintentional, but how the fuck are you supposed to be quiet when he’s talking like that, looking at you like that, touching you like that?

“P-Please, please, Steve, I need your fingers inside me, please,” you mewl, and Steve makes a satisfied noise low in his throat. He places an approving kiss right above your clit, and if the thought of falling directly on top of him wasn’t mortifying, you’re sure you’d collapse.

“Do you wanna take my cock tonight baby?” he asks. He pushes his two fingers inside you just as your mouth drops open to answer, and you suck in a breath sharply as they curl and brush over that spot inside you. 

“God, fuck, yes, I do, please. I want your cock,” you babble.

“Are you sure? You’re not too sore?” It’s a sincere question. Truthfully, you are still sore – not terribly, not the way you were in the shower last night, but the ache pulsing in your muscles as Steve slowly, so fucking slowly, draws his fingers in and out of your pussy, is inescapable. Admittedly, though, it doesn’t discourage your arousal even one bit – you want him to fuck you until you can’t walk, to have that dull pain twinge throughout your body for days as a reminder. 

And considering how big he is, you don’t think that’ll be hard to accomplish.

“No, I’m okay, not too sore,” you assure him. 

“Yeah? You’ll let me know if it hurts too much, won’t you, pretty girl?” 

You nod, breath hitching as the pads of his fingers rub gentle circles over your g-spot. “I can take it, Steve.”

He smiles, sweet and innocent, his sunshine yellow sweatshirt rumpled and perfect hair ruffled across his forehead. He kisses your thigh again and pulls his fingers almost all the way out.

“You’ll need to take more than two fingers if you wanna fit my cock inside you,” he says simply, and plunges three fingers inside you up to the knuckle while latching his mouth over your clit.

The only reason you don’t scream is because all the oxygen has been sucked from your lungs. 

Steve drives his fingers home again and again, spreading them apart inside you while his tongue swirls over your throbbing clit. Your fingers claw at the smooth wall behind you, desperate for anything that might aid you in remaining upright, and when you can’t find it and the tremoring in your thighs threatens to overtake you, you thrust your hands into Steve’s hair, pushing it away from his face. It gives you an unencumbered view of his dark, thick eyelashes fluttering over his cheekbones as he focuses on your slit and the faint flush hueing his tanned skin. 

When your head falls back against the wall, and you moan, high and desperate, you unthinkingly ball your hands into fists. The strands of Steve’s hair go taut in your grip, and just as you’re about to whisper an apology, he groans into you. 

“Harder,” he says, breathless, a gleaming string of saliva tenuously connecting his bottom lip to your cunt. 

“Wha…” You’re borderline delirious from pleasure, which makes forming an intelligible sentence very difficult. Sensing this, Steve lifts the hand not buried knuckles deep inside you and rests it over yours, squeezing gently.

“Pull harder, baby.” 

You swallow hard. His eyes are wide open now, staring directly at your face, bright and blazing. When you oblige him, clench your fingers and tug at the root of Steve’s hair with both hands, hard enough to make his head tip back, his lids flicker, and a smirk sprawls across his reddened lips. The gasp that passes through them clenches your stomach, and his approval inspires you to pull his head back further.

“Fuck,” he growls. 

“That feel nice?” you ask, and Steve nods as best he can. He looks fucking divine like this; slick lips parted to allow shallow breaths, gazing up at you like you’re the only person in the universe who matters. You wonder if he’ll ever let you take the reins, if he’d let you pluck him apart, piece by piece, just as he’s done to you, only to paste him back together at your leisure.

The thought makes you shiver, and you gush a bit around his fingers.

He’s broken free of your grasp just as quickly as he invited it, however, and when he dives back into your cunt, he’s abandoned all pretense. He laps at your clit with long, flat strokes of his tongue and purposefully thrusts his three fingers against your g-spot, curling them tight and pumping so fast you can see the veins twitching in his bicep. Your pussy makes wet, obscene sounds as he fucks into it, and the embarrassment that tinges the edge of your arousal at that fact brings you closer to orgasm than you were expecting.

“S-Steve, Steve, God, fuck, I’m gonna cum, please, I wanna cum,” you blurt out, and he hums affirmatively. Without warning, you feel the tip of his pinky finger nudging against your hole.

“Cum for me,” he says – rather, he demands it of you. “Cum on my fingers if you wanna earn my cock, baby.”

Earn it. That thought, and the sweet, burning stretch of his four fingers inside your spasming pussy send you tumbling over the edge. You scream so loud you worry any neighbor Steve has will think he’s trying to kill you. In all fairness, he may be – you cum so hard that once your scream fizzles out, it’s impossible to draw in an adequate breath, so you’re just left paralyzed, choking on your own tongue, trembling on Steve’s deft fingers and mouth.

He milks it for as long as he can, chuckling against your folds when you finally gather the wherewithal to whine and push weakly at his forehead after your pleasure ripens into pain. When he pulls his fingers out, all four shimmer with slick, and it takes you a beat to realize your thighs are warm and wet from your orgasm, all the way down to your knees. The small puddle of your own cum that’s collected between your shoes glistens mockingly up at you. 

“Okay…you have to at least let me clean that up,” you pant, jutting your chin toward your mess. Steve laughs and sucks a kiss into one of the few unblemished areas of your inner thigh you have left.

“It’ll dry, don’t worry about it. You can clean this for me, though.”

Steve reaches up and presses all four fingers into your mouth. You moan, a wholly compulsory sound, but obediently twirl your tongue over the digits, doing precisely as he asked and cleaning your cum from his skin. As you do, Steve murmurs praise into your flesh between featherlight kisses, trailing them across both thighs and either side of your hips as he raises himself higher on his knees. 

“Good girl,” he purrs, retrieving his fingers from your mouth. You’re about to thank him when he presses you flush against the wall again. You find yourself upside down before you can ask what he’s doing.

Steve has hoisted you up and over his shoulder, not unlike a literal sack of potatoes, and you’re now completely inverted, blood rushing to your head but enjoying an eyeful of Steve’s ass in his jeans. The fabric of your skirt is still bunched up around your hips, leaving your bare ass fully exposed, and you reflexively reach back to cover it as Steve darts up the staircase. Your body bounces on the rounded edge of his shoulder, which digs a bit unpleasantly into the soft pouch of your stomach, but you find yourself giggling uncontrollably all the same. His strength impresses and arouses you all over again.

“Sorry, baby, I just don’t fully trust you to walk all the way to my room on those shaky legs,” Steve says, mirth belying his apology. You’d like to argue, but he isn’t wrong. Even as they dangle uselessly across Steve’s torso, your thighs tremble. At this rate, you would’ve been lucky if they cooperated enough to let you crawl after Steve to his bedroom.

Although…

Before you can entertain that thought, you’re flying through the air. The springs of Steve’s bed shriek as you land atop it in a heap, making you wonder if they always squeak like that. 

“Sorry about the mess,” Steve says, arms crossed over his torso and hands gripping the hem of his sweatshirt. You look around – aside from a few crumpled pieces of paper on a desk and a moderate pile of rumpled clothes in one corner, the room is spotless. The walls and curtains are matching shades of plaid, and more oak furniture crowds the corners. You take a deep breath, expecting Steve’s cologne to waft sweetly up your nose, but instead, you inhale the scent of dust. There isn’t much here to denote that the room belongs to a college-aged man, let alone that he spends any meaningful amount of time in it. It looks more like a well-used guest room, aside from the forest green sleeve of Steve’s varsity jacket peeking out from the cracked closet door and a singular framed picture on his desk. The features of the two figures are bathed in shadow, but you can tell by the exaggerated swoop of hair on the taller one that it’s Steve with…someone.

It makes you sad, Steve’s room.

You sit on your knees and shuffle toward him as he peels off his shirt, laying your hands over his to stop him.

“Let me,” you whisper. 

He pauses, a sliver of smooth skin visible through the gap he’s made in his clothes, and you catch a glimpse of his happy trail just above his belt buckle. One hand drifts downward, and your fingers press tentatively into that thatch of hair. Steve’s stomach is a hard wall of muscle protected by soft flesh that pudges out around your fingertips slightly, and the way he tenses beneath your touch doesn’t escape your notice. His eyes glitter in the room's dim light, flickering over your face, searching. 

“Please?” you add, and he smiles.

He drops both arms to his sides, allowing you to slide your palms along his waist and lift the sweatshirt from his body. Dark, coarse hair swirls across his chest, dipping between his pectorals in a thin line before reappearing above the waistband of his jeans; beneath the sparse edges of his body hair, you’re able to pick out dozens of freckles and beauty marks dappled along the lean, tan expanse of his torso. The sleeves of his sweatshirt flip inside out and cling to his wrists as you tug the last of it off, and you both giggle when the neckline snags on the tip of his nose before snapping over his forehead. 

You sit back on your haunches, hands hovering above his body, unsure of where to settle first. He’s so fucking pretty, you want to touch everywhere at once, from the broad line of his shoulders to the divots along his pelvis.

You don’t have long to think about it. Steve slips both hands behind your knees and pulls; your back hits the bed in a squeal of springs and a whoosh of air, and as your thighs spread instinctively, the riiiiip of your skirt splitting clean up the seams catches his attention.

“Oh, shit. Sorry,” Steve chuckles, pinching a jagged flap of fabric between his fingers. It’s unsalvageable, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You squeeze what remains of the waistband down your hips and drop the scraps off the edge of his bed, giggling.

“You’re gonna owe me a whole new wardrobe at this rate,” you say, and Steve presses an apologetic kiss to the bridge of your nose.

“I’ll get you the best a Family Video salary can buy,” he promises. Then, two fingers are buried inside of you to the knuckles, and any witty retort you had loaded up for him dissipates on the breath that hisses out through your teeth.

“Fucking – oh, my God,” you groan, stretching out the last word as Steve plunges his fingers in and out of your cunt. He tilts his hand slightly so that he’s brushing up against your g-spot every time, and you would be embarrassed about the pathetic little whimpers tumbling from your lips if you had the wherewithal for shame at this juncture. Your back arches, driving your head into the pillow, but Steve’s free hand tangles itself in your hair and forces you into a semi-sitting position.

“I want you to watch, baby,” he murmurs. “Watch how you take me.” 

“Please, Steve, more, please, I can take it,” you pant, eyelashes fluttering as you watch Steve’s glistening fingers vanish and reappear rhythmically. He laughs against the shell of your ear before kissing your temple.

“I know you can take more of my fingers, pretty girl. I watched you do that,” he coos, voice rife with singsongy condescension. “Unless that’s not what you mean.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” you whine, and you don’t think you’ve ever sounded so petulant in your entire life. Steve’s fingers still, and he makes a quizzical Hm? sound high in his throat before deliberately dragging tight, fast circles around your g-spot. The veins in his forearm pulse and bulge with the effort, and he’s gone and sucked all the air out of your lungs, so you can’t even answer him when he says, “Then use your words and tell me what you need.”

For a few seconds, your brain goes blank. Pleasure thrums through every nerve in your body until your skin is prickling with heat, gooseflesh rising on your thighs despite the sweat beading at your hairline, and the realization that you’re already close again cracks through your skull like lightning. You grab Steve’s wrist, though you’re torn on if you want to push him away or pull him in deeper. It’s too much, it’s far too much and yet it’s not nearly enough at the same time because it’s not his cock, and you need his cock, so finally, you draw in a shallow breath, swallow what little saliva remains in your mouth, and you tell him.

“I need your cock, please, Steve. I need your fucking cock so badly, please just give it to me.”

“That’s my girl.”

Steve crawls between your legs, aptly slipping his belt out of his jeans and whipping it to the other end of the room. As he strips his pants off – you bite back a laugh, watching him struggle to rip his foot out of one of the legs – you sit forward slightly and peel off your Heart T-shirt. Fresh air cools your flushed skin while you reach behind yourself, awkwardly attempting to unclasp your bra and still look sexy, a feat you don’t think has ever been accomplished.

“I got it,” Steve says, and as he presses himself against you, head hanging over your shoulder and fingers adeptly unhooking the tiny metal hoops, something hot and hard rubs between your legs. You look down and realize he’s already stripped himself of his briefs, and once your bra falls away, discarded alongside your shirt, you see the flushed length of his cock bobbing slightly between his hips. 

Your mouth fills with saliva. It’s like you can still taste him, heady and salty and perfect, on the back of your tongue, and for a moment, you want to beg him to fill your throat over and over again. 

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” Steve murmurs, lips trailing down the side of your neck, then your collarbone, before both hands rise to cup your now bare tits, and his mouth glides along your heated flesh. When he closes it around a nipple and laves his tongue around it in slow circles, you arch your back, moaning with abandon; Steve inches closer, the head of his cock nudging more insistently against your cunt. He repeats his ministrations on the other nipple, hands kneading and squeezing the pliant skin of your chest gently until you’re whining and bucking against him.

“You ready, baby?” he purrs. He lifts his eyes to yours, pupils blown so wide and black within his dark irises that it’s like staring into twin pools of ink. You open your mouth to respond just as Steve grips himself by the base of his cock and grinds the shaft against your soaked slit, up and down, up and down, grazing your clit with every stroke. If you weren’t so smitten by him, you’d fucking kill him.

Growling, you plunge both hands into his hair, tugging hard at the locks by his temples as you did before, and Steve’s shocked gasp skitters across your face. 

“Fuck me before I lose my goddamned mind,” you pant, voice much less authoritative than you’d like it to be. You compensate by jerking Steve’s head back, punctuating your demand, and he laughs. 

“If you insist.”

Both of your wrists are swept up in one of his hands and pinned above your head so fast you don’t have time to react. The head of his cock presses against your hole, thick and hot. Despite his thorough prep work, you can tell this will still be quite the stretch. You hitch your legs up over his hips as he prods further, keening and squirming as your pussy struggles to accommodate the sheer girth of him – it fucking burns, but the pain doesn’t discourage you in the slightest. Still, you can’t help the pitiful mewls that fall from your lips, nor the way your body thrashes against Steve’s iron grip.

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, voice rough with arousal. “You can take it. I know you can. Just relax. Does it hurt?”

“K-Kinda.”

“Do you need me to stop?”

“Fuck no, please don’t stop,” you plead, and Steve huffs out a laugh. 

When the head finally pops inside you, you reflexively bear down on it and release a broken moan through gritted teeth, and Steve’s low groan reverberates through your body. “So fucking tight, fuck baby,” he moans, and just as your lips part to beg him to keep going, he thrusts in another inch. Steve pushes inside of you slowly and steadily, sucking air through his teeth and screwing his eyes shut so tight you wonder if he’s consciously keeping himself from cumming already.

Then – he pulls out.

Fuck it. You’re gonna kill him and kill him slowly.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he wheezes, scrambling off the bed and leaving you with a spasming, achingly empty hole and questions on your tongue. The low lighting doesn’t afford you much clarity on what Steve is doing. Under normal circumstances, you’d probably find the way he’s frenziedly flitting about the room, naked as the day he was born, funny, but you are legs akimbo on his bed, alone, with nary an explanation as to why he pulled his dick out of you in the first place.

It dawns on you when he finds what he’s looking for and kneels on the bed again, and the slim plastic wrapper in his hand gleams in the lamplight.

Duh.

“I completely forgot,” he says, smiling bashfully as he frees the condom from its wrapper and rolls it down over his flushed cock. You can’t help it – you’re disappointed he’s not gonna be fucking you raw tonight. You understand why he can’t, why you can’t let him, of course, and if you’d had your wits about you, you’d have reminded him about it yourself. But still. 

Steve kisses your forehead as he lines himself up with your cunt again, and this time, he doesn’t make you beg at all – he thrusts almost half his length inside of you in one go, and you forget all about the condom for the moment.

“Fuck, fuck, yes, Steve!” You twist his sheets up into your fists, shocked you don’t tear a hole clean through the fabric, and your mouth hangs open as Steve bullies his cock deeper inside you. Pleasure rumbles through him, something you feel rather than hear at first because he leans over you, one hand supporting the small of your back, lifting you partially off the bed, and presses your bodies together. He plants wet kisses along the side of your neck and down your chest, breath washing over your skin as he pants raggedly. 

“You have no idea how hard it was to not just fuck you raw, baby,” he murmurs. A shiver ripples down your back and you moan, the sound swinging high and cracking in your throat because that is maybe the hottest thing he could have said in this moment. 

“I would’ve let you,” you admit, the words slipping from your mouth without much thought given to them, and perhaps you’d be embarrassed at your stark honesty, or how desperate you sound if Steve didn’t groan so deliciously in your ear afterward and start snapping his hips forward faster.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, breathless. With every thrust, he buries himself just a bit deeper inside you, and the ever-increasing fullness makes it hard to think, let alone maintain any sort of filter on your words. It still burns just that little bit, enough to remind you that you’ve never had anything – or anyone – this big inside of you before, and it just makes this sweeter. 

“God, yes, absolutely,” you huff, because it’s true – you’d never admit it to him, would never tell a single soul or even pen it in the margins of your diary, but you have spent more than one sleepless night in your life with your hand jammed down the front of your underwear, fantasizing about Steve Harrington filling your pussy with load after load until his cum dribbled steadily out of your thoroughly used hole. You’d always flush with embarrassment afterward, when the warm glow of your orgasm had faded and you had to deal with your soaked sheets before they went cold under your ass, mostly because, at that point, you’d hardly said five words to the guy. 

Steve adjusts his grip, hands sliding from your back to behind both knees before he pushes them toward your chest. When he bucks against you next, it’s all you can do not to scream. He can get so fucking deep at this angle, with your hips tilted up and Steve looming over you, and you’re positively flabbergasted when you look down between your bodies and realize he hasn’t even pushed his entire length inside of you yet. You’re brimming with him, entirely full, you don’t think you could take another inch, but still you whine and look up at him through your lashes.

“Deeper,” you plead, weakly gripping his elbows for purchase. “P-Please, deeper…more…”

 He chuckles, a low sound that rolls like thunder through your body and makes gooseflesh prickle across your skin, and when he pushes a sweat-damp clump of hair from his eyes, you realize just how bright they are. The way they flash at you, coupled with the sheen of sweat glistening off his pinked cheeks and the parting of his red, swollen lips to allow passage for his heaving breaths makes you wish you had a camera. You’d live in this moment forever if you could, Steve pounding you into the mattress and gazing at you like this, like you’re the only thing in the world he cares about.

“You’re fuckin’ twitching around me, baby, are you gonna cum already?” he asks, and the question drops you back into your body at once, though you weren’t aware you’d been floating out of it in the first place. He’s right – without having even acknowledged your clit the entire time Steve’s had his cock inside of you, you’re teetering on the edge of an orgasm, your cunt fluttering sporadically around his length. You open your mouth to reply, but no sound beyond gasping breath comes out, and this is apparently greatly amusing to Steve.

“Oh, you are, aren’t you? My pretty girl’s gonna cum all over my cock and I’ve barely even started, huh?” 

His words are like a crank winding an invisible cord that stretches from your core to your clit, one that has already been pulled so taut that you don’t think it’ll withstand his mouth much longer. You want to cum so fucking badly, but you also don’t want to be finished yet, and before you can verbalize any of that to Steve, he’s bearing down on you and pushing your thighs even further back. You’re not sure how you manage it, because you could’ve sworn you were not this flexible before tonight, but Steve forces your legs almost flush against your shoulders and slots both arms behind your knees, so you can’t close them even if you wanted to; he crowds against you, the full weight of his body now accompanying each thrust as he obliges your earlier request and sinks deeper into your drooling pussy than you thought possible.

Your mind goes blissfully blank. The tether in your belly snaps, and you start cumming so hard on Steve’s cock that you can’t even manage a scream – your mouth opens, a perfectly rounded O as your eyes screw themselves shut, and your back arches off his bed, your orgasm igniting every nerve in your body until you’re little more than a writhing live wire. It’s intense – that’s the only word you have for it, understatement of the century though it may be. You clench so tight around Steve that you’re shocked you don’t force him out of you, and he just keeps fucking you through it.

“That’s it, baby,” he croons, swiping the hair from your face with one hand and holding you in place. “That’s it, good girl, keep cumming for me, fuck, I can feel you soaking my cock–” 

“Steve, fuck, fuck, God, don’t stop, please,” you wheeze, your pleasure ebbing just enough for you to draw a small breath and find your voice again. You reach up, fingers shaking before settling in his hair, and tug the locks at the nape of his neck as your body trembles uncontrollably. Though he does moan in that way you’re rapidly becoming addicted to as you pull his hair, he slows his pace to a devastatingly slow grind and releases your legs. They flop uselessly down onto the bed, tingling with pins and needles, and you whimper pitifully as Steve takes this moment to sit up on his heels.

“Steve–”

“I’m not going anywhere, baby, it’s okay,” he assures you, resting both hands on your aching hips and kneading small circles into the soft flesh with his thumbs. “I’m here.”

“Did you…?” You glance down at where your bodies are still joined, and Steve snorts.

“Almost. That’s why I had to stop for a sec. You just feel too fucking good.”

You can’t help the smug grin that creeps across your lips. You’re tempted to rock against him anyway, or perhaps even knock him backward and ride him until he can’t take it anymore, but your leaden limbs forbid you from making any significant strides toward either option. Steve pants above you, hands slowly migrating up the squishy expanse of your stomach, past your breasts, and finally landing on either side of your jaw before he licks his lips and bends toward you. He kisses you, chaste and gentle, a featherlight brush of his mouth against yours, and his thumbs press somewhat insistently at your temples.

“You’re crying,” he informs you, and again, it’s Steve’s observation that brings you back to your body – the sides of your face are wet, and if you turn your head at all, you can feel your damp hair sliding around on the pillow. “Are you okay?”

“Mmhmm…very, very okay,” you purr. “Jus’ felt good, that’s all…”

If your orgasm was like a firework shooting off and exploding inside of you, the afterglow you’re nestled in is like a warm bath, with every inch of you buzzing pleasantly in sluggish pleasure. Steve kisses you again, trailing his lips up past your cheekbone so he can plant them square in the middle of your sweaty forehead. The juxtaposition of this tenderness, the capacity he has to be so gentle with you after he just had you bent in half and seemed hellbent on fucking you through the bed, makes your stomach flutter with the kind of girlish giddiness only Steve can bring out of you. 

“Do you want me to keep going?” he asks. His cock throbs inside of you, but when he pulls back far enough to flash you that sweet, lopsided smile of his you know he’d roll off in a heartbeat if you asked him to. But you do not want him to do that, not even slightly, so you find the strength to lift your thighs and wrap them around his hips before you nod, grinning dopily, and say, “Please keep fucking me, Steve.”

His mouth is on yours before you’re finished saying his name. His movements have slowed, from the glide of his tongue past your lips to the roll of his hips, and he greedily swallows the keening whines that bubble up from your throat as his cock drags along your oversensitive walls. Your breath hitches every time he pushes himself as deep as he can go, something he makes a note of with a laugh and a playful nip to your bottom lip.

“You like being full of my cock, huh, beautiful?” he murmurs, ducking his head. He’s seemingly decided you need more hickeys, as evidenced by the way he starts sucking on a patch of flesh just beneath your ear like he’s trying to draw blood from the thumping veins below. 

“S-So much, yeah.”

“Yeah? That’s not even all of it, baby.”

“It’s not?” you whine, incredulous, and Steve snickers against your skin, shaking his head. 

“No, but I think it’d hurt if I tried to fit it all inside of you,” he says, and there’s something sharp in his voice – something mocking. 

“You don’t know that,” you huff, and Steve hums against your throat. 

He takes one of your hands in his, guiding it toward where he’s buried inside you, and says, “Feel that? Feel how nice and full you are now?”

You nod. Steve drops your hand. “Now feel how much of me is still left,” he says.

You do, fingers twitching along the length that remains outside of you, and you’re shocked. There must be at least two inches that Steve has yet to stuff you with, or perhaps that he physically can’t stuff you with, and while you want so badly for him to just shove the rest of it inside, you consider he may be right. His thick cockhead pulses where it’s resting inside your pussy, nestled against the very back of you; any deeper, he’d certainly hit your cervix, something you’ve experienced before with other (clumsy, inconsiderate, douchey) partners and would very much so like to never experience again. Still, your pride weathers this slight blow, and you compensate by wrapping your fingers around the bit of Steve’s cock that you can’t accommodate.

“Fuck,” he moans, drawing the word out nice and long as you start to jerk him off. He lifts his head from your throat, mouth curling into a shocked smile as he rocks his hips into your fist and, consequently, your cunt. “That’s…fuck, that’s really hot, Y/N.”

“Yeah?” Your voice is breathy, and pleasure sparks anew throughout your core. You have to twist your wrist at a slightly odd angle to get a grip on him with both of your bodies in the way, and your fingers keep slipping in the ample lubrication your pussy supplies, so it’s perhaps the clumsiest handjob you’ve ever given, but Steve doesn’t seem to care. He thrusts into you messily, brows pinched and swollen mouth dropped open as he chases his peak inside you, and your free hand raises to cup the side of his face.

“Cum in me,” you whisper, and the broken sound that tumbles from Steve’s lips spurs you on. You push back against him and bear down on his cock at the same time you squeeze your fist, the rubber rim of the condom skidding beneath your fingers. He slumps forward, pressing his cheek into your palm, hands shooting out to catch himself before he falls headlong into your chest. Sweat beads at his hairline and trickles down the long column of his throat before pooling in the hollow at the base, and the sight is so tempting you sit up and lave your tongue over his salty skin. 

“Cum in me,” you say again, “please, Steve. I need it, please, please.” 

“God-fucking-dammit,” he growls, his hips stuttering, chest heaving, and not a second later, he’s cumming. You can’t feel his load inside you – a fact that inspires a non-zero amount of disappointment that hasn’t abated since the second he slid the condom on – but watching him cum is enough to make that disappointment vanish. He goes silent for a beat as his peak overwhelms him, but when his cock starts to pulse inside your cunt and within your loose fist, fresh moans rip themselves from his throat, and you are so fucking thankful that Steve Harrington is not afraid to be loud for you. His body tenses and shudders as he pumps into you erratically. 

Just as you think he’s finished, and you’ve begun to take your cramping hand back, Steve stops you. He’s panting, gasping for air like he’s just finished a marathon, and his eyes are positively sparkling. He places your hand back on your pussy, and when you don’t move, he nods his head.

“Make yourself cum for me again,” he says simply, and it’s all you can do not to balk at him.

“But you just–”

“Don’t care. You can give me one more, baby.” 

Of all the things you’ve done tonight – in the last 48 hours, really – touching yourself in full view of Steve is the thing that makes you blush the deepest. You swallow thickly, fingers hesitating over your admittedly swollen clit, and Steve chuckles. He’s not as hard as he was moments ago, and you can feel him softening the longer he remains inside you, but that doesn’t stop him from jerking his hips forward harder in encouragement.

“C’mon, you’re gonna give me one more,” he insists. “Touch that pretty pussy for me, show me how you do it when you’re all by yourself.”

Well, when he says it like that.

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth and make quick work of your clit, rubbing circles around the throbbing bud as Steve fucks you fast and sloppy. You really didn’t think you had it in you at first, but once again, your body seems to have an endless capacity for orgasms when you’re around Steve – the coil in your belly winds itself quickly this time, burning blood-hot between your hips and readying itself to snap faster than you’ve ever experienced before. A wicked thought crosses your mind then, one that involves Steve testing just how quickly he can make you cum, and how many times he can replicate that speed, and you resolve to bring it up to him at a later date as your pussy spasms and Steve moans above you.

“Fuck yes, I can feel you getting close, that’s it,” he babbles, breathy laughter carrying his reassurance, and with one last well-placed thrust, you’re cumming on his cock again. God help you, there’s a splash, and wet heat soaks between your fingers as Steve fucks you through your orgasm, audibly impressed with how much you cum this time.

“Good fucking girl, I knew you had it in you. Shoulda put a towel down.”

You’d shush him if you had any air in your lungs. 

He pulls out and delicately unwinds your trembling thighs from his hips, beaming at you the whole time he peels the condom off his dick and disposes of it in a small wastebasket. When he returns to the bed, he scoops you up and rolls you over, placing himself in the wet spot you’ve created and dragging you on top of him so all you can feel is his solid warmth. He peppers kisses along your dampened hairline and gently strokes both hands up and down the length of your spine, pausing above the swell of your ass to knead his fingers into your heated flesh a few times. Your hearts are pounding, and for a moment, you swear they beat in sync. You tell yourself it must be the post-orgasm endorphin drop making the world a little rosier than it truly is.

“I’m so proud of you, pretty girl,” Steve murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead and tilting your face toward his. His cheeks still have an adorable flush to them, and his hair is slicked away from his face with sweat. You note the twin moles stamped on the left side of his face, right on the apple of his cheek, and surge forward on your elbow to capture them in a kiss. 

“You feel okay?” he asks. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shake your head. “Not at all. I kinda wanted you to, but–”

“Oh?”

Motherfuck. You and your big mouth. 

“Uh…” Steve stares at you, eyes bright and curious, and the corner of his mouth flirts with a grin. He looks…intrigued? You don’t know why that’s so shocking, considering you’ve yanked on his hair like they were a horse’s reins multiple times tonight and he nearly melted in your hands, but you blush all the same under his gaze and chew your bottom lip.

“We can definitely talk about that,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly soft given the mischievous look on his handsome face. 

“Really?”

“Well, I mean, kinda depends on what you mean by “hurt” you,” he adds, raising two fingers to twitch around the word “hurt.” “D’you mean, like, get a lil’ rough with you, or…like, stick you with a cattle prod?”

“Cattle prod,” you deadpan, and in the beat of silence that follows, genuine fear flashes across Steve’s face. You snort, smacking him lightly in the center of his chest, and his abdominal muscles relax noticeably beneath you. 

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t thoroughly enjoy everything that you just did, by the way,” you clarify, flattening your palm between his pecs and idly mussing his chest hair. “‘Cause I did. I just…like it a little rougher, sometimes, too.”

“I can do rougher,” Steve asserts, pinching a lock of your hair between thumb and forefinger and delicately tucking it behind your ear. Your belly flutters at the prospect, and though you already have suggestions bubbling up your throat, your tongue feels too thick in your mouth to adequately communicate any of them. In fact, the more Steve caresses your body, the heavier you feel, and it’s only after his face begins to blur that you realize that your eyelids are drooping.

“Tired?” he laughs as you blink a few times.

“Mmm,” you mumble, noncommittal, even as your head comes down to nuzzle into his neck and your thoughts go fuzzy at the edges. “Can’t sleep…curfew…”

“I’ll wake you up,” he promises. “Just nap, baby, it’s okay. I got you.”

You grumble again, a piss-poor argument that Steve does not heed. Instead, he drags his fingers through the hair on the side of your head, careful not to snag on any tangles, his touch so light it makes you shiver. It is impossible to ignore the pull of unconsciousness when someone is playing with your hair, that’s just an objective fact, and so you sigh, limbs loosening and body going slack on top of Steve’s as he lulls you deeper into darkness.

~~~

Turns out, Steve’s sweatpants fit you.

Well, maybe “fit” is being generous – you had to knot the drawstrings as tight as they would go to keep the waistband above your hips, and it still slings well below the curve of your pelvis if you don’t bunch the front up in your fist and manually hold it up. They’re also comically long, and you’ve had to cuff the legs three times over just to make sure you don’t trip over the fabric that otherwise puddles around your feet.

The heater purrs as it drools warmth into the interior of Steve’s car, a welcome reprieve from the freezing October air that presses against the windows. They’re fogged, and you absently draw little doodles on the misty glass with one finger. Queen’s second self-titled album plays faintly, a throbbing bassline and Freddie Mercury’s crooning vocals filling the narrow space between you and Steve.

“I didn’t peg you as a Queen guy,” you say, gesturing in the direction of his cassette deck, your hand interlocked with his and beside the gear shift. He scoffs.

“You kidding? I love Queen,” he says emphatically and takes his hand off the steering wheel for a moment to spin the volume dial. As he does, the song changes, bleeding seamlessly into the next one; Freddie’s voice reaches its peak just as a few bright notes are plunked on a piano, and a beat is thudded out on the drums. Steve sings along, loudly, and though you can tell he’s not being serious about it, his voice is smooth and clear. You’re so enamored by the sight of him that the lyrics don’t register right away, not until he leans into your space, eyes pinned fastidiously to the darkened road ahead, and sings at you.

“Funny how love is everywhere, just look and see.”

They’re just words, not even Steve’s words, but your cheeks color nonetheless.

“Funny how love is anywhere you’re bound to be.” His gaze flickers from the road for a moment, one singular moment, and he looks right at you. Your belly flips, and the heat in your face burns all the way down your neck. If it were anyone else, literally any other human being on the planet, you’d be tucking and rolling out of the car the moment they started serenading you, even as a joke – but this is Steve, and he’s smiling so wide, and he’s fucking harmonizing with Freddie Mercury, and he shakes your intertwined hands to the beat as he does it, so you’re content to sit here and let him give you a rendition of the entire rest of the album if he wants to. 

You definitely don’t get hung up on the fact that he looked you in the eye while he sang about love. Nope. Not at all.

The song peters out just as Steve pulls up to your house, and he checks his watch as he puts the car in park, nodding at the glowing numbers proudly.

“Back, and with five minutes to spare this time,” he announces.

“I’ll have to tip you for the excellent service,” you tease.

“I accept cash, credit, or a kiss on the lips,” Steve shoots back, already dragging you toward him and leaning his body over the gear shift. You giggle, and he swallows the sound, pressing his warm mouth against yours so tenderly you’d hardly believe the filth it’s capable of if you weren’t a firsthand witness.

He helps you shrug your jacket on before you step out of the car, and the chill of the night gusts against you so intently you can’t help but shudder. You stoop down as he rolls the passenger side window down for you, just as you had the night before.

“You comin’ to movie night on Sunday?” he asks.

“Wouldn’t miss it. D’you think Robin will let me pick if it’s my first time? And I ask her so nicely?”

“I think you’d have a better shot at winning the lottery and getting struck by lightning on the same day,” Steve estimates, “but I can check. Who knows, maybe she’ll be feeling generous.”

“Tell her I’ll bring extra hot chips if she is.”

Steve laughs, and both hands come up to cup the sides of your face. He kisses you again, and this time it’s slower, languid, a purposeful prolonging of your departure. You gladly accept it, and again, there’s a pang in your stomach, a desperate want to hop back in the car with him and not let the night end. When he pulls away from you, playfully nipping your bottom lip, Steve murmurs something against your lips that makes you feel like Earth has stopped spinning.

“D’you wanna be my girlfriend, Y/N?”

The innocence, the painful earnestness of the question strikes you, makes the breath catch in your throat, and Steve’s eyes glitter with starlight as he looks up at you. “It’s probably kinda silly, considering…well, considering, but, I mean, I wanted to…yanno, ask, formally…I know it’s only been two dates, but, I just, I really like you, and I wanna keep doing this, seeing you, and I wanna be the only one seeing you –”

“Like there could be anyone else,” you breathe, and this time it’s your own words that shock you. You could see the whirlwind beginning in his head, the anxious avalanche of words to defend himself from potential humiliation, so you just blurted that out because, well, duh, of course there isn’t anyone else you’d want to be with. You knew that from the second he picked you up with flowers in his hand last night.

He perks visibly. “Is that a yes?”

“Of course, it’s a yes.” 

You hear the door whoosh open, slam shut, and gravel crunching underfoot before you register that Steve has gotten out of the car and is rounding on you. When he grabs you, one hand supporting the small of your back, the other plunging into your hair, and dips you backward to plant a kiss on your mouth, you try your damndest not to focus on the fact that not only is he not wearing shoes, but his socks are mismatched – one white tube sock, one black with green swirls. You mostly succeed, and you think the giggle that tickles against his lips passes as one of shock. 

As he tips you upright, something out of the corner of your eye catches your attention. A light is flickering from your house, and as you squint against it, you realize it’s not the flicker of an old bulb fizzling out. It’s measured, a steady pattern, and the reason for this is quickly made apparent as the dark shape of your mother floats in front of the curtains. She’s flicking the porch light on and off, signaling for you to hurry it up, and you’re torn on whether you wanna die right on the spot, or march up the driveway and throttle her.

“That’s my cue,” you sigh, but when you turn to look at Steve, there’s something odd about his expression. He’s fixated on the light, which casts scattered shadows across the angles of his face, and his eyes are sort of…glazed. There’s a faraway look to them, as though he’s gone somewhere in his head that you can’t reach.

“Steve?” You thump his chest once, not too hard, and he inhales sharply through his nose. He blinks a few times before shaking his head, like he’s physically shucking whatever unpleasantness was burdening him off, and just like that, he’s himself again.

“I’ll pick you up Sunday afternoon,” he says, kissing you one last time on the forehead before allowing you to step out of his embrace. You want to ask what that was, where he went just now, why his eyes keep flitting almost nervously between you and your porch light – perhaps the threat of your mother scares him that much? – but you don’t have time. You both part from each other slowly, him walking backward toward his car, you retreating up your driveway.

“I’ll pick something good!” you holler, and Steve nods.

“See you then, baby.” 

You’re backing up against the front steps of your house as Steve disappears into his front seat, and the sound of your front door opening is muted by the revv of his engine.

“Right on time,” your mother says from behind you, shadow obstructing the yellowy light that spills onto the porch. You look over your shoulder at her, eyes narrowed.

“You know, I’m legally an adult,” you point out, “I shouldn’t have a curfew.”

“He’s got a nice car,” Mom says, craning her neck to look around you and tucking the fuzzy blue halves of her robe tighter against her body. “Does he drive like a maniac?”

“Yes, he’s like Dale Earnhardt but worse,” you snark, eyes glued to the glittering shell of Steve’s BMW as it curves down the street and into the yawning mouth of the night.

He does have a nice car…your boyfriend has a nice car. The word is like helium, lifting you off the ground and floating you inside the house.

“Wait…weren’t you wearing a skirt when you left?” Mom asks as you glide past her. “Where did you get those sweats from?”

Oops.

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[lostintransist]

Fallen Angel | John, You're Buying A House

AO3

Upon waking you knew something in your life had shifted. Sitting upright in bed and feeling a gush of fluid pool in your underwear answered the question of what had changed. Waddling awkwardly out of your room a dubious feeling settles low in your gut.

The bathroom door is shut.

At least two male voices rumble from further down the hall. Fuck. One of the guys had to be in the bathroom. Knocking you pray it will open.

“Busy,” comes Simon’s gruff reply.

Double fuck. Simon would be in there for a while. Digging your fingers into your body you decide how to deal with the growing problem that is now sticking your loose pajama bottoms to your legs. Johnny’s laugh and the sound of a kitchen chair scraping against the floor fling you into a decision. Reaching up your fingers find the long thin key to release the simple twist lock.

Simon doesn’t have time to yell at you before you are through the door and locking it behind you.

“The hell do you need?” He snaps at you from the toilet.

“I need you to cover up and let me get in the shower without asking questions,” you stare at the grain of the door as you strain your ears to listen for how he might be feeling about this.

A beat of silence longer than you can comfortably handle passes. You open your mouth to plead with him when Simon’s voice reaches you.

“Why are you bleeding?”

He doesn’t sound alarmed, only vaguely concerned.

“Wouldn’t you know it this is a pretty regular process for me?” The sarcastic reply slips out.

Fabric rustling behind you alerts you that he isn’t going to kick you out.

“Come on then, I can’t start the shower from here, but I can take your clothes when I am done and start a load of wash for you.”

Turning and seeing compassion on Simon’s face has your lip starting to quiver. He holds out a hand to you. Crossing the long bathroom, you take it gratefully.

“I’m really sorry,” you wipe a hand under your nose, “that I had to bust into your bathroom time.”

Simon lifts and drops one shoulder.

“Not like Johnny wouldn’t do the same if I didn’t lock the door.”

The truth of the statement startles a laugh out of you.

Squeezing your hand in his Simon uses the other to jerk the shower curtain open for you.

“Milady,” the seriousness in his tone causes you to burst into giggles.

Stepping in, you pull the curtain shut and quickly strip. Folding the bloody portions of your pants into themselves you set all of your clothes in neat bundle on the floor just beyond the shower. Starting up the water you focus on getting the water in the pipes to a self-indulgent level of heat. When you are clean and refreshed, and you can somewhat manage the day ahead, you turn off the flow. The silence in the room beyond the flimsy barrier taunts you.

Holding the curtain tight in one hand you shift it enough to find the room empty of Simon. Instead, a candle is burning on the counter and a stack of your softest folded clothes sits on top of the toilet seat. Drying off you get your period situation dealt with as best you can for the first day of your flow and get dressed.

The underwear and bra are absolutely yours but the sweats in the pile look suspiciously like Kyle’s and the shirt could be either Johns. You accept the offering of them claiming you, but also the subtle hints of them and their laundry soap soothed you.

Cramping didn’t hit you until you stood at the sink, trying to wash up your breakfast dishes. The dual stabbing at the base of your spine came as a surprise. Your finger curled over the edge of the sink as your vertebrae did their best to pull away from one another. Breathing got hard; short gasping sucks of air were all you could manage.

John materialized behind you. His hands roam down your back, he knows he hit the right spot when your hips jerk forward and bang against the cabinet. You let out a sharp whine.

“Touch or no?”

“Push,” you gasp out.

When his thumbs dig into your pain point you are granted the most exquisite type of relief. When it eventually subsides, and the pressure of John’s fingers begins to hurt again you shift to dislodge him. John pulls you into a hug before dropping a kiss on your forehead and sending you off to do something else.

“Go and rest, I will take care of these,” his beard tickles against your face.

Not one to miss out on not doing dishes, you squeeze John tight and leave the kitchen. The stirrings of your normal period cramps start. Spotting Johnny reclining against the arm of the couch you decide. Johnny is sketching away in his notebook. You really should look at getting him a real art book when the café starts turning a bit more profit and can cover all the back pay you are owed. Tugging lightly on one of his crossed ankles you get Johnny’s attention.

“Can I lay on you?” You try and look pitiful.

He would have said yes either way but it made you feel better about asking for help.

“Course,” he places his book face down and scoots down until his feet rest against the other armrest. “Come here.”

Collapsing on top of the hot-running Scot you settle down. Using him as a personal hot water bottle is the best idea you had all day. Johnny runs a hand down your back a few times before resting his sketchbook on your back as he continues to work. You wake to the feeling of your period overcoming your precautions.

Leaping off of a snoring Johnny you rush to the single bathroom in the flat and find it locked. Again.

“God dammit! John!” Your shout wakes Johnny up as he rushes up from the couch and John from your room where he must have been resting if the pillow demarcations on his cheek are any clue.

“What? What’s wrong?” John questions you.

“John, you’re buying a house.” Before he can ask stupid questions such as why, you point to the bathroom. “This is the second time I have to change my outfit because there is only one bathroom, and my period will wait for no man.”

The door opens, every pair of eyes in the hallways snapping to a now concerned Kyle who pulls out one earbud and tucks his phone into his pocket.

“What did I miss?”

Shoving past him into the bathroom you reply as you slam the door closed.

“John will explain.”

@the-loneyest 😘 @lilynotdilly

Fallen Angel Masterlist | Masterlist

[sanguineterrain]

i'm sure you have plenty of requests, but do you write part 2's/continuations of blurbs?? bc i'm FULLY invested in the bodyguard!jason au and i need to know what else transpires in their time together. does he read to the reader?? does reader take him clubbing with him subsequently losing them in the crowd?? is he their unofficial date to the countless galas and social gatherings they're invited to?? what is their sleeping arrangement? the people demand politely request answers!

the people shall get their answers!

bodyguard!jason todd x gn!reader. pt 2 to this. tw reader punches a rich asshole, pining, tension, etc. jason is a sweetheart as always! all fics are reblogged to @sanguinelibrary

****

Galas suck.

You swish champagne in your glass and watch it fizz. Then you do it again. And again.

A man's loud laughter carries over the delicate string quartet. You glower in his direction for a second. Then you rest your head on the wall behind you.

"I'm bored to tears, Red," you say.

Hood is playing wallflower with you, except he actually has an excuse.

"To tears, huh?" he says. "Maybe you should try being social. I believe that's what these shindigs are for."

Your head lolls in his direction, brows rising. "That's pretty rich coming from you. You're the least social person I know."

"Well, I do shoot people for a living. Tends to put others off. Go figure."

You stop a passing waiter and pluck a vegetable croquette from tray, then pop it into your mouth. "You haven't shot anybody in months."

Hood sighs. "Yeah. Sad stuff."

"You could shoot somebody here."

"Not without good reason," he says.

"How 'bout for being an entitled, elitist prick?"

"I'm afraid I need a little more reason than that. For legal purposes. But I do love shooting entitled, elitist pricks."

"Fine. Give me the gun."

Hood hums. "I think I'm a bad influence on you, trouble."

"You're the best influence on me," you say. "Give me your gun. I can be trusted."

"That's a negative."

You finish the croquette and edge closer to him, your shoulders touching. You tap him on the shoulder. He leans in, ear near your mouth.

"Ye-es?" he asks, eyes flicking to you. Wow. You've never gotten used to Hood's laser focus on you.

"What if I said you're the wind in the trees and the music of the birds and all of my dreams come to life?" you ask, only exaggerating a little.

"I'd probably check for a concussion," says Hood. You can tell he's smiling behind his mask.

"What if I said you're too sexy for your shirt?"

"Hm. Can't disagree there. Still no gun, though."

"Bastard."

Hood bumps your shoulder and straightens. "Sorry, trouble. Looks like we'll have to soldier through without sending anyone to Emergency."

You suck your teeth. "Man. Will you dance with me, at least?"

Hood snorts.

"I'm not joking," you say. "I headcanon you to have secret waltz and tango skills."

"You headcanon me?"

"Yes. I write headcanons about you on my blog." You gulp down the rest of your champagne. "So, what do you say?"

"Dancing isn't in my job description, trouble. 'Sides, there's plenty virile, eligible bachelors here for you to rumba the night away with."

You wrinkle your nose. "Who describes people as virile? They're not lab mice."

"Sorry." Hood clears his throat, then cocks his hip. "They're hot and totally into you!" he says in a peppy voice. "Better?"

You shiver. "Don't do that again. Gave me the heebie jeebies."

"'Gives the heebie jeebies' is actually on my resume," Hood says. "Right after 'scares the shit out of people.'"

The music slows to a finish. The dancers clap. You groan, leaning against the wall.

"Maybe I can pull the fire alarm," you say.

"Excuse me!"

An old, small man in an expensive suit with white, thin hair struts over. You squint at him as he comes to a stop in front of you.

"Isn't your father that ambassador?" he asks, eyes roving over you. You know that gaze. It's the gaze that's deciding whether or not you're worth speaking to.

"Yes, he is," you say. "May I help you?"

He sniffs. "Terrible business, that. He very nearly cost that young woman her life at that banquet."

Hood brushes past you, stepping forward. "Sir, I need you to back up. Safety measures and all that."

Your jaw tightens. This is literally the last conversation you want to have, talking about your tightass, selfish father. You've done enough of that in therapy.

You hide a smile behind his back.

The man peers at Hood, mouth curling. "What business have you, bringing threatening men like him in here? This is a private event."

You step around Hood. "He's my bodyguard. He's not a threat."

"He certainly looks like one. He's dressed like a hoodlum."

"Hence the name," Hood says cheerfully.

The man sneers. "Those scars of yours are hideous, young man. I can't believe you accompany your charge in public looking like you do."

"What the hell did you say?" you ask, stepping to him. "Huh?"

"Trouble," Hood says quietly, touching your shoulder. "It's fine—"

"No, because what the fuck? Where the fuck do you get off?" you say, invading his personal space. How fucking dare he?

The asshole's bulldog eyebrows rise. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. Red's being perfectly professional. Won't even eat the hors d'oeuvres. And you're commenting on his body? Are you insane? Did all that corruption eat your brain?"

His face is now a nice shade of beetroot. Hood clears his throat behind you.

"C'mon, ease up," Hood says. "Don't do this f'me."

"Yes, listen to your mutt," the man says, sneering. "Seems he's got a modicum of sense, unlike you. It looks like all of his house training has a promising future."

Your fist connects with cartilage.

It's a blur after that. Someone pulls you away—Hood—and your now-sworn enemy screams bloody murder, red dripping down his suit. Your hand kind of hurts, and your head really hurts.

Hood herds you through a set of French doors, into a garden. Cool, night air fans your face.

"Well, 'm glad I didn't give you a gun," Hood says, walking you to a bench by the fountain in the center of the garden.

Sweet scents of lilac and rose waft through the air. You look away as Hood carefully inspects your hand.

"Hm. Just a little bruised. No injury."

"I tucked my thumb like you taught me," you say.

"I see. Think you broke his nose."

Is that pride you hear in his voice?

Hood sighs, releasing your hand. "But you shouldn't have done that."

You start to shake, anger shooting through you all over. You curl into yourself.

"I'm not apologizing to that shithead. He's a gutless, no-good, gutter snipe. Nothing under that hideous toupee but air."

Hood laughs. "Easy, Sundance. Y'know guys like him are full of hot air. Surprised you let him get to you. You don't care what those rich assholes say."

You turn around to look at Hood. "Someone had to take him down a peg. What he said was horrible."

"You've heard so much worse, trouble. You take it all with a grin and then get back at 'em later. 'S how you always do it."

"Yeah, well... well, I was sick of what he was saying. He can say all he wants about me, I don't give a shit. But when I'm in the room, no one talks about my bodyguard."

Hood is quiet for a long moment. There's only the sound of the babbling fountain and crickets. You rub your sore hand and stare at a rose bush.

"Y'don't need t'defend me," he says. "People have said far worse, and I definitely don't want you puttin' your reputation on the line for me, trouble."

"Fuck my reputation!" you say, scooting closer to him. "You're important to me, Red. Everyone should know not to say a damn thing about you when I'm around."

He shakes his head. "I'm just your bodyguard."

"No, you're my friend. Right?"

Hood looks up at you. "I—yeah, of course, but—"

"Well, friends defend each other."

"So some rich guy doesn't wanna look at my ugly mug," Hood says. "Big deal."

"You aren't ugly," you say, brow furrowing. "Don't say that."

"Trouble. Sweetness. Look at me. Tyra Banks would call me a lost cause."

"Don't be a dummy, Red. You're hot and mysterious, and you have pretty eyes. You're a fantasy protagonist's wet dream."

Hood leans in. Your heart picks up. Oh, you're nervous. You're getting nervous again. A tornado siren wails in your head. Danger! Danger!

"So you're sayin' I'm too sexy for my shirt?" he asks.

"So sexy it hurts," you say, voice slightly uneven.

"Mm." He looks you over. His lashes are so long. Damn. "Y'haven't even seen my whole face."

"I don't need to," you say instantly. "I'm an excellent judge of good looks."

He laughs. You smile.

"Think you can sneak us out?" you ask. "For my safety, of course."

"Mm, of course." Hood looks over the garden. "Yeah, I think I can manage that."

"I'll get us burgers," you say. "I'm starved."

"Taking me out, huh?"

It's a joke, but God, what if? What if you could go on a date with Hood, without masks or politics? What if you could see his smile? Feel his smile?

"If I did, I'd take you someplace nice," you say. "Not just a burger joint."

Hood is quiet as you go to the edge of the garden and he prepares to get you both over the balcony. He holds out a hand and puts his other on your waist so you can climb. Your faces are close. You smile, a little nervous.

"For the record," he says, not letting go until you're safely on the grass below. "I'd be content eating anywhere with you, trouble."

Hood easily vaults over the balcony, landing on his feet. He gestures with his arm.

"You lead," he says, eyes dancing.

God, you're in so much trouble.

[utilitycaster]

i keep seeing people say that OF COURSE Bell Hell's haven't grown or changed, it's only been 3 months in campaign! and it's been nonstop! and every time I see that, I gotta admit 1. okay so you admit they haven't grown, cool. 2. that feels like a watsonian answer to a not-quite-watsonian complaint. iirc, m9 were only a few months longer than BH by the time their campaign ended, and it's been pretty comparable irl time. Both bell's bells and m9 had significantly less 'in world' time than vm and the m9 grew and changed plenty.

Because there's a discrepancy between 'time in game' and 'time at the table' for actual play, using 'in game' time as an excuse for...anything, feels thin. Because it still FEELS like three years both to us and the players! Does that make any sense or am i losing my mind? cause every time i see answers like that I feel a little crazy for feeling like it's almost entirely unrelated to complaint they're trying to address

No, it makes complete sense. I discussed this here as well but on some level it's like ok so they haven't changed! Turns out they suck, and the fact that they haven't changed means we have a party that still sucks. Like, if your point is "I don't like this character trait", someone saying "well it makes sense for them to have it" doesn't fix the core problem of you not liking it. This is a repeated problem in discussions in this campaign. I think Liliana dying would have been narratively interesting; I literally give zero fucks whether it's deserved, because she isn't real and I'm not a believer in Calvinism nor instant karma in real life and plenty of people die for unfair reasons and I happen to really enjoy exploring that and how people respond to it in fiction. You can't have a conversation with someone who, when you say "I'm not a big fan of vanilla ice cream, do you have chocolate?" says "but vanilla is literally a complex flavor made from orchids?" (Also yes, the Mighty Nein are a great example of a party who were already more closely bonded about a month and a half in, following Molly's death; the entire campaign was almost a year long though a bit shorter in terms of time together due to Happy Fun Ball time dilation. For reference, Bells Hells have been together 4 months and 5 days, and the Mighty Nein, at that exact same amount of time, were exploring the second Uk'otoa temple, and a number of them were already rethinking their whole deal at that point.)

I don't currently have any original posts to make re: criticism of Campaign 3 until next episode, most likely - I'm reblogging well-made posts I see, and obviously I'm answering asks, but I said this more briefly in the tags of another post earlier and I'd like to elaborate, but this has been a problem for me, at least, the entire campaign:

Campaign 3 has a small but loud contingent of fans who are utterly incapable of tolerating the idea that other people hold different opinions than they do and post them on their own blogs (often even not in the main tag). They respond to this with abuse and harassment; with a constant switching of direction to the point of self-contradiction; and with doubling and tripling down on statements I personally find to be bigoted. They are, in my opinion, small-minded, unintelligent, self-absorbed people who are so locked into, as I said here, an Us vs. Them mentality that so long as there is anyone who doesn't like them they will never be happy. They have gotten, narratively, almost everything they wanted thus far, but they'll never be happy so long as someone openly disagrees with them. Like, if the fact that your ship is the most popular one for this campaign on ao3 is so important to you, why are you so pressed about a few people disliking it? If liking Campaign 3 means you're a good anticolonial leftist and you're therefore allowed as a white person to mock the experiences of any nonwhite person actively dealing with the consequences of colonialism why do you need the support of The Bad People Who Don't Like It? If you can be broken by anything less than universal adoration, then, well. Break, bitch.

Essentially, think "the personality of Elon Musk in a broke 20-something whose main interests are cartoons aimed at a grade school audience, and a three sentence incorrect summary of Marxist theory that they use to justify whatever they already wanted to do," and you'll get the picture.

My advice therefore is that it's not really worth arguing, and frankly, there would be little to no discourse if they weren't so pathetically insecure that a post saying "The structure, pacing, and message of Campaign 3 are all weak and inconsistent, and Bells Hells have so little motivation they fail to be heroes, villains, nor antiheroes" sends them into an extended tantrum because the OP didn't append the words "I think" or "I feel" at the beginning of every statement, as most of us assume any reasonable adult would understand that a person posting on their own blog is posting their own opinions. (And, frankly, appending those words doesn't really help half the time because most of them are ultimately mostly outraged that someone would dare think or feel things that they don't.)

I am making posts about my thoughts on Campaign 3; I think most other people with criticism thereof are doing so as well. I will only be convinced otherwise by Campaign 3 itself being better, and I think it's probably too late for it to do so, and I will not be swayed nor intimidated by people who, see previous paragraphs re: my thoughts. My advice to you and anyone who's saying "wait a second" is to trust your gut; everything you said here seems like a pretty good assessment. If it helps, back away from the fandom and see what you feel without the influence of others (including me!) posting, and go with that.

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

It must really suck to be a YA villain. Like, there you are, your evil armies are winning, the rebels are dying, and the teenager prophesized to bring you down is bound and gagged at your feet. The teenager's love interest is slowly bleeding to death in the corner, your death machine is almost fully powered up, and you're just about to finish your monologue. The one you've been really looking forward to ever since the third time the teenager foiled your plans.

Suddenly, the Powerful and Ancient Mythical Sword that hasn't been seen in 3000 years pops out of thin air. You recognize it at once. You've been looking for it all your life. You stare in awe at the Sword, every ounce of your attention focused on the one thing you never thought you'd actually find.

In that split second of inattention, the teenager's best friend, who you were pretty sure you decapitated earlier, leaps out of the shadows. Their head is sewn back on and they has a Potion of Untying Ropes in their hand. The very same potion that idiot Duke Second Incommandly swore up and down he'd locked in his most secure safe. The best friend throws the Potion at the teenager. It shatters, untying their ropes instantly. The teenager springs to their feet and the sword, your sword, flies into their hand. Their hand is glowing green. He must have bathed in the Secret River of Controlling the Ancient Sword! But you also bathed in the Secret River of Controlling the Ancient Sword back when you thought the Powerful and Ancient Mythical Sword was in that inn run by the teenagers recently rediscovered middle aged relative. Why isn't it heeding your mental command? Could you have accidentally bathed in the False Secret River of Controlling the Ancient Sword That Looks Exactly Like The Real River But Doesn't Actually Control Anything? But Duke Second Incommandly swore up and down that he'd found the real river!

While you're cursing the Duke, who is even now leading your evil army in a suicidally overconfident charge up the Hill of Everyone Who Charges Up This Hill Dies and Their Army Gets Eaten By the Tragically Oppressed and Adorable Gobblemonster, the teenager charges you, sword raised high. Their blow strikes true! The Powerful and Ancient Mythical Sword cuts through your Shadow Armor and plunges deep into your torso. But, you cry out, you turned your torso into a ghost during a ritual when you were still an Attractive But Troubled Youth! The rumors of the Sword eating ghosts must be true! You must flee. All that's saving you now is the teenager's morality resurfacing just in time to keep them from striking the final blow killing you. You summon up your last bit of power and bind your ghost torso to the teenager's lifeforce. Ha! Now no one can kill you unless they want their precious savior to turn into a ghost torso too.

While the teenager struggles with the Weight of Your Tortured Ghost Torso, you flee. In the distance, you see the last remnants of your evil army, along with your death machine, swallowed up by the Gobblemonster.

Oh well, you think. At least you managed to kill the teenager's love interest this time.

You take one last look back to savor the anguish on your sworn enemy's face when they realize the love of their life has died and nothing they can do will save them...

Only to see the teenager scream in rage and break the Sword over their knee! They, and you, are stunned into shocked and surprised disbelief as there, inside the broken blade, lies the Mystic Wand of Bringing One Person Back to Life Before Destroying Itself Forever! You watch in dismay as the teenager uses it to raise their love interest from the dead as the ghostly manifestations of the teenagers Dead Parents and Other Assorted Parental Figures silently forgive him for not using the wand to bring them back to life instead. The teenager can only see them because you passed your Ghost Seeing Powers along with your Ghost Torso. The teenager cries in joy at seeing their parents for the first time since you murdered them.

Victory has once again turned into defeat.

This isn't even the fifth time this exact thing has happened to you.

[whorefortheevans]

Not His Type - Jimmy Darling x Fem!Reader (18+)

I genuinely can't tell if this is good or not lmfao, I haven't written smut in literal yearsss and I've never written for ahs please help me.

CW: fingering, oral (fem receiving), public sex, slight praise at the end word count: 1316

"I'm telling you, Ethel, I'm definitely not his type," you explained, for what felt like the millionth time, to Jimmy's sweet mother. She and you have become increasingly close over the time that you've been working at the freakshow. Two years ago, you came looking for a job, just something small to make at least a little money. Elsa turned you down at first, because you were nothing short of normal, but after offering (begging) to help Ethel with the cooking, she finally gave in.

"How do you know what his type is? You've never asked 'im," she responded, continuing to chop the vegetables you both were preparing for the night's dinner. You scoffed, rolling your eyes and sliding the diced onion into a large pot.

"He likes Maggie. And what's not to like? She's blonde, thin, pretty face..."

Ethel glanced up with a small smirk creeping onto her lips. "Listen, Y/n, I've known Jimmy my whole life and I'm telling you, he's liked you for a while now."

Jimmy was the first guy you had shown any interest in. Most of them are crude and only want one thing, but he was the first man to ask for your name, take your hand and gently kiss your knuckles as an introduction. Well, needless to say he's had you since day one.

"Nope," you denied. "I am not his type, not even close."

"Not who's type?" Jimmy asked, striding into the tent. He had a playful smile on his face, and you turned away from him immediately, praying that the blush on your face wasn't as apparent as it felt.

"Nothing, don't worry about it," you said quietly. "Just boring girl talk."

Ethel put her knife down on the table and turned to you. "Oh, you know what? I forgot to grab a carrot, I'll go find one, don't wait up!" she said, half yelling as she quickly walked out of the tent, leaving you and Jimmy alone.

You suppressed a grin and rolled your eyes, standing in front of the table and starting to cube a potato. You saw Jimmy move towards you out of the corner of your eye and felt your heart flutter. It's stupid for him to have this hold over you.

"Hi, Y/n," Jimmy said in a sing-song voice.

You smiled and looked up at him. "Hi, Jimmy."

"Who's the lucky guy?" he asked.

"What lucky guy? The one who doesn't like me back?" He grinned and shortly nodded. "It doesn't matter. I have no chance." you said, looking back at the medley on the table.

Jimmy came closer to you, now standing just mere inches away, his body heat making you impossibly warmer. "Put the knife down, Y/n."

You placed the knife onto the cutting board and pushed it away from the table's edge. You turned to Jimmy, who took your wrists in his hands and smiled at you. "Who's the lucky guy?"

He leaned his head towards yours, nudging your cheek with his nose. You gasped, trying to control your breath and slow your heartbeat, but you knew it was no use. "Um, it's you, Jimmy," you said, awkward and quiet. You felt him smile against your skin.

"And who says you're not my type?" he said, clearly amused, but your sense of embarrassment dwindled quite quickly. You didn't answer him. Your words were caught in your throat and his proximity was making you very nervous.

He didn't press the issue further, and instead kissed your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, and after a small pause to look into your eyes, he smiled again and placed his lips on yours.

His hands grasped your waist, and you placed yours on his shoulders for stability. He gently bit your bottom lip, eliciting a moan from you, and he continued to kiss his way down your jaw to your neck, biting and licking until he found the spot that made you moan yet again.

He sucked on the skin just below your ear, and you threw your head back to give him space. He walked you back a few steps, until your lower back hit the table behind you. Jimmy pulled away and lifted you up, sitting you down on the cleared space of the table. Now standing between your legs, he reached his hands under your shirt and pulled it off.

His left hand massaged your breast, hardening your nipple and sending chills down your spine. His right hand moved further down, rubbing soft circles over your clothed clit. You moaned and pulled your head away from him.

"Is this okay?" he asked you.

"Your mom will be back soon," you said, although you didn't want him to stop.

"We'd better make this quick then, lift your hips." he said, as he quickly pulled down your pants and underwear in one go.

"Jimmy! The food is right here!" you exclaimed, your heart pounding steadily.

He laughed and kissed down your body, positioning himself on his knees right in front of your dripping pussy. "The heat will cook off anything bad, don't worry." He ran his fingers through your wetness and stuck them in his mouth. "You taste delicious," he said, kissing your thighs, inching closer to where you most want him.

"Jimmy, please," you whimpered, wriggling your hips to try and find some sort of friction.

"Please, what?" he teased, looking up at you.

You groaned in embarrassment, "Please touch me, lick me...anything."

He smiled up at you and lightly kissed your clit, sticking his tongue out and flattening it against you. You gripped the edge of the table and let your head fall back in pleasure.

He kitten licked your clit before briefly pausing, and running his tongue from the base of your pussy back up to your clit, sucking it and kissing it in a way you've never felt before.

You let out a series of moans, trying to keep them quiet in case anyone was near enough to hear. You moved your hand into his hair and pulled on it, causing him to moan and send vibrations through your core. You leaned back on your left hand, hoping it would be enough to support you through this.

Jimmy took his right hand from where it rested on your thigh and plunged his middle two fingers into your hole, pushing them as far in as possible before withdrawing them. He began to pump them, slowly at first, and as your moans got louder his hand went faster.

You could feel your arousal dripping out of you, running down to your asshole and collecting on Jimmy's chin. It wasn't long before you were a wriggling mess. You could feel your pelvic muscles tightening and your walls started to clench around his fingers. "Jimmy, I-I'm gonna...cum," you moaned out.

Jimmy took his mouth away from you and pumped faster, if that was even possible. He took his left hand and rubbed hard, fast circles on your clit and looked up at you, your mouth agape and eyes squeezed shut. "Cum for me, Y/n. Cum on my fingers like a good girl,"

That was all you needed before he sent you over the edge. You bit your knuckles, trying to keep quiet but your moans still sounded loud in your ears. You clenched tightly around Jimmy and squeezed your legs together as the pressure inside you was released.

Jimmy took his fingers out but rubbed your clit through your orgasm before helping you put your pants back on. He stood up, wiped his mouth on his arm and smiled at you. "Who says you're not my type?" he grinned, backing away from you as Ethel came back in, holding up two carrots.

"Found 'em," she said, before setting them down on the opposite side of the table and sending you a playful smirk.

[pristinekanesays]

🦋Life Is Strange: With A Sick S/O

🦋 just like the good ol' title, how the crew react when you become sick

🐺 GN!Reader, no specific pronouns are mentioned!

🦋 warnings: swearing, mentions of the reader having a cold & coughing/sneezing a lot, fluff, cute ass stuff, nathan not giving a rats ass tbh

🎧A/N: hey dudes, i'm back and i've been missin' you, feel free to request somethin'! might be a little short and the writing style has changed, feels gooooood to be back >:D.

🦋Chloe Price:

🤍| she'll joke around with you first like 'hey maybe you caught something from that snotty-nosed kid down the street' or laugh and plead that you don't sneeze on her or somethin'.

🤍| but seriously, she's fuckin' freaked especially if you've got a pretty bad cold or cough.

🤍| props to her though, she might be a bit overboard when you're sick but at least she cares.

🤍| she can't cook all that great but hey, if life ain't going so good for you then she'll somehow convince joyce to let you stay (much against davids wishes) and then you can have all the homemade chicken soup you want.

🤍| will still blast her music as loud as she wants unless you have a pretty nasty headache then she'll turn it down a little. (only a little)

🍂Kate Marsh:

🤍| an angel in disguise with the most beautiful white wings, she's there when you need her and will literally jump when you call.

🤍| will ask if your okay (like you literally aren't basically fighting for your life) then shake her head like a disappointed mother when she hears your hoarse voice.

🤍| if you're still trying to attend class or do stuff while you're sick, then she'll be the girl rushing after you and trying to get you back to your dorm.

🤍| i've said this before, kate can definitely cook but if you're not eating then she'll settle for buying fast food you like (because at least you're not dying of starvation).

🤍| checks up on you occasionally but not every second, she acts like if she even turns a lamp on that you'll die on the spot or combust into thin air.

📷 Max Caulfield:

🤍| kinda like warren, refers to you being sick as a 'total bummer' but she doesn't mean it in a way to bash you for being sick, only really to make you laugh or roll your eyes.

🤍| she texts you a few times a day when your sick, to check up on you or to occasionally..send you memes.

🤍| visits you sometimes after class, either to bring you food or just to see if you're still alive and breathin'.

🤍| when she finally gets some time to spend with you, she'll sit down beside you and show you photos that she's taken of you before you got sick. (including the one of you in a banana suit.)

🤍| if you're chilling in her dorm while she's in class, then she'll leave some music discs out for you in case you ever get sick of the silence.

🎭Rachel Amber:

🤍| she's busy cracking jokes half of the time and when you joke back she'll hit you with a 'i'm not the one coughing and sneezing everywhere, am i?'.

🤍| she won't be able to check up on you every second since she's busy with class, drama & the tempest but will still try to make time for you.

🤍| will send you updates about what she's doing though, for example 'at drama lab, still doing good?' or 'class sucks, hope ur okay.'

🤍| she can cook, yeah! but rachel seems like the type of person to eat it out of the tin instead of making it homemade (she's just like me)

🤍| she's kinda like victoria in a way that she loves you but she cannot risk being sick, especially with all the shit she's gotta do.

🎬 Victoria Chase:

🤍| she cares and is definitely worried when you suddenly become sick but tries to pretend that she doesn't, at least not that much.

🤍| she's busy with a lot of stuff so she can't always be there when you need her but she'll try to be.

🤍| so filthy rich that it's mind-blowing, she can buy you whatever, whenever you want it.

🤍| she'll text you after she's done everything she needs to do and her schedule is clear, will ask if you need anything picked up or if you're feeling any better since the last time she saw you.

🤍| okay, if you don't like nathan then i'm sorry!! she's gonna send him to give you stuff or check up on you, even if you guys literally despise each other.

🎮 Warren Graham:

🤍| he's super sweet, so no worries! he'll make sure to check up on you and give you advice whenever you need it.

🤍| doesn't care about getting sick, he's still down to hang whenever and will look at you with an awkward but reassuring smile when you're coughing your ass off.

🤍| he's the type to rub your back bro even if he knows he's gonna catch your nasty ass cold and be stuck in bed for days.

🤍| if you're okay with touch then he'll also hold your hand when he's beside you and tell you that this is gonna pass, so don't worry!!

🤍| he's chill so he might let you get up and do shit but will definitely be scared that you'll just collapse out of nowhere, even if you've only got a painless cold he's still gonna make sure you're okay.

🤍| he didn't get any affection from his father, ever. so it's gonna be hard for him to try and care for you when you're sick.

🤍| sometimes just ends up buying you stuff to make up for not being there when you need him, if you and victoria are on good terms then he'll probably just ask her if she can get you meds or anything else that can help you. (LAZYYY ASSS!!! D:<)

🤍| checks up on you when he can but will try to pretend that he hasn't been fearing for your life the whole time he's been busy, dude it's a cold.

🤍| rich just like vic! he can bring you whatever you want, just ask and he'll tiptoe through that door like a sims 2 burglar with the things you asked for in hand.

🤍| apart from that though, just ask victoria or something if you ever need company because his brain will explode and he'll look at you all dumbfounded 'n shit.

[three--rings]

thought of a story that I haven't told that tumblr may enjoy.

So I majored in psychology in undergrad, right, and when you take psych classes they almost always require you to do a certain number of hours of being an experimental research subject, right, because professors have to publish and need someone they can force into their studies without paying, right?

And like that's fine if it's 4 hours for one class, but when you're doing an entire psych major in two years like I did, that's a LOT of hours of research studies.

And we all dreamt of getting in those fun social psych experiments where they fuck with your head, right? And not the ones where they make you sit in front of a laptop and do math for an hour. (They made me DO MATH Y'ALL. "This is an experiment in how well you learn under certain conditions." Conclusion: you suck at this.)

Anyway, you'd get funny things like one time I turned up on campus on a freaking SATURDAY for a study and sat around in a courtyard with like 30 other people while nothing happened and all of us talking about like "hey, uh, do you think THIS is the study? Like to see if we leave?" But no, just no one turned up for us and we didn't get our freaking hours.

But one time I DID end up in one of those freaky social psych studies. So to be fair, I had insider knowledge, because again, psych major. So I signed up intentionally to my social psych profs study. Hoping at least it wouldn't be math.

And I arrive and am greeted by...the TA for my social psych class wearing a fat suit.

It's like IDK April or something and Texas and 80+ degrees and she's in a long skirt and a sweatshirt. And also she's MY TA. I recognize her. I even say "Oh, hi!" like I would when seeing someone I know on campus. And she greets me like she vaguely recognizes me. But, normally she is not approximately 280-300lbs.

So, I'm, like REALLY REALLY sure it's a fat suit. Like....99.5% sure.

But not 100%.

And so what the FUCK do you SAY to THAT? Well, obviously you don't say FUCKING SHIT. You pretend nothing is fucking weird, right? Because the very, very small chance that you are WRONG and this isn't a normally thin girl in a fatsuit but a real person who is shaped like that is still...NOMINALLY THERE and OMG what if you comment on it and you're WRONG?

So I get ushered into this little room and shown a bunch of pictures of people and asked to rate them on various things like competency and attractiveness, this is normal social psych survey stuff, except I'm SURE the experiment is does the person in the room with you and their appearance change your ratings.

And the whole time I'm distracted as FUCK, cause I'm just sitting there thinking "am I wrong and this isn't my TA somehow? no, no, pretty much ALMOST certain I'm right...etc." And "why would anyone be wearing a sweatshirt in this weather/building if they WEREN'T wearing a fatsuit?"

But MAYBE the point of the experiment is "will this person call out an obvious fake fat person?" And should I do so or not? Is this social pressure to conform and not speak the truth I know? Should I say something? I, uh, may have had an unknown and untreated anxiety disorder at this point in my life so, yeah I'm LOSING MY MIND and probably acting like a FREAK.

So anyway, eventually I decide okay, obviously you can't say anything because yeah...but you will be debriefed once this is over and you'll FIND OUT THE TRUTH. You won't have this lingering doubt in your mind when this is over because they will debrief you.

If you don't know human research, debriefing is when, after all the experiment data collection is over, they inform the subject of what the topic of the research was and explain any tricks or deception or anything to them. (We played distracting music to see how you did on the test...) If there was any potential distress involved it should be dealt with by examiners, etc. Usually in practice you are handed a slip of paper that explains the purpose of the study and what you did.

Usually you don't care and barely read it. But I was dying to be debriefed. I wanted her to be like "yeah I am wearing a fatsuit" and me to be like "lol, yeah I know, cause like, I know you right?" And if the secret purpose of the experiment was actually "will you say something" then I will be told that and get to explain why I didn't.

Like sometimes debrief also involves follow-up questions that helps determine why you gave responses you did or whether you should actually have your data thrown out for some outlier reason (like the person faking being fat is my fucking TA).

So we get done with all the questions and leave the small room. And we're in the antechamber and the TA is like "okay, cool, thanks bye" and directs me to the door. And doesn't hand me a debrief slip or mention debriefing AT ALL.

And now I'm fucking SPOOKED. It's a TRICK and they want you to SAY SOMETHING and you're going to try to leave without saying anything and they will then stop you and debrief you. So I wait, for like...several seconds, waiting for her to remember debrief and just get stared at so I go "oh okay" and like stutter-step my way to the door of the office and like open it and turn back and she's already gone, and so I like, step out into the quad and am like "what. the. fuck."

And I literally stand there like "should I go back in and ask to be debriefed?" Literally I knew enough to know that THIS IS THE PURPOSE OF DEBRIEFING to not leave subjects wondering about shit like this and not leave them with nagging doubts and questions.

And the only really mysterious experiment of my life just failed to debrief me.

But of course I don't do anything but walk slowly away.

And it's now 20+ years later and I never did find anything out. Except you can DAMN well bet I confirmed at my next class that 1) yeah that was TOTALLY my fucking TA, I was right and 2) NO she was actually really slim.

So I'm sure it was about how a fatsuit (or *cough* sorry "attractiveness") of an interviewer changes responses to surveys. But I'm STILL mad I wasn't debriefed because it's fucking annoying and violates HRB standards and I could have gotten them in serious trouble over that by reporting it. And also my data should have been thrown out.

Also this is why you shouldn't trust psychology studies because the subject pool is SHITTY AS FUCK. "Psychology is the study of the average American college sophomore" as one of my profs quipped and then didn't change his method of getting subjects.

[ahoystevee]

Dazzling Starlet, Bardot Reincarnate

It’s 1990. Eddie Munson did Steve Harrington the favour of being his first male sexual encounter and is filled with deep regret when Steve Harrington shows up at his apartment needing his help months later.

OR: Steve’s parents find magazines under his bed and Eddie begrudgingly lets him stay at his apartment and hates every second even though hes secretly a sweetie with a soft spot

"I cannot fucking believe it." Eddie grumbled, arm leaning against the surface of the bar as he glared over the rim of his glass.

"What?" Robin asked, immediately averting her gaze to Eddie's line of sight.

"Oh, you're talking about Steve again. Shocking." Robin sang, tone tainted in sarcasm.

It had been three months since Eddie had kicked Steve out of his apartment the morning after their surprising, yet oddly exhilarating sexual excursion.

He'd done Steve a favour, Eddie got laid. Quid pro quo. All's fair in sex and war.

Eddie was of the assumption that he was free of him, that life would go back to normal after Steve Harrington. Like plucking a blood sucking leech from your skin knee deep in a shallow river or finally digging out that splinter in your finger with a pair of tweezers.

But no.

Because Steve Harrington was everywhere.

All of the time.

Dancing, flirting, kissing.

He'd become a regular at Eddie's most sacred place. His Nirvana, his church. Valhalla, Abraham's bosom, whatever you wanted to call it.

Thursday to Saturday, as soon as those club doors opened at 9pm, there he was. He'd even made friends with the bouncers so he could skip the queue each time. The guy had a fucking membership card and every single person in there knew who he was.

Eddie shrugged it off at first. He's young, he's finding himself. He deserves to blow off some steam and have a little fun. The sex was pretty much the only joy of being gay so he couldn't blame him too much.

Eddie would watch him saunter up to past, present - and what he was hoping were future - flings without a care in the world. He cut his T-shirts up into crop tops to show off his abs, he started wearing eyeliner, he would tease and flirt with anyone who so much as looked in his direction.

He had a posse of men around him at all times with their hands all over him.

And Eddie was forced to bear witness to all of it.

Eddie whips around to face Robin behind the bar, slamming his glass down on the surface.

"I used to be the best fucking ride in here. Then he comes along acting like he owns the place and everyone flocks to him like Jesus' disciples after he waltzed out of his cave." Eddie seethed through gritted teeth.

"They're just a bunch of cock starved hedonists. Y'know I thought we had a little humility about us. Evidently fucking not."

Robin rolled her eyes, drying a glass with a dish towel.

"He's just the hot new thing, you know how this place goes. Some other poor unsuspecting twink will come along in a week and everyone will forget about him."

"I literally taught him everything he knows."

"Well - at least you don't have to deal with him anymore. You did him a solid and now he's - giving everyone else a solid." Robin snickered.

Eddie downed his drink, sliding the empty glass across the bar.

"Makes me sick." He spat.

"You're not jealous are you?" Robin smiled slyly as she poured a single measurement full of Eddie's favourite whiskey.

Jim Beam. Old reliable, Jim. That was the one man who couldn't piss Eddie off even if he tried.

"No, no - I'm not fucking jealous."

"Sounds like you're jealous." Robin thinned her lips and widened her eyes cautiously as she handed Eddie his drink.

"Screw you, man. I just think it's a bit rich coming from the guy who didn't even know how to finger himself three months ago." Robin grimaced as Eddie took a hefty sip.

"Like, how good can he be really? He's a bottom, all he does is lay there. I was the one doing all the work! Me!" He exclaimed as Robin continued to stare at him.

"What?"

"It just sounds like you're a bit upset that after your steamy night of passion, he seems to have forgotten all about you."

"That doesn't upset me." Eddie sneered.

"Its preferable he forgets all about me. I like it that way."

"Sure." Robin said, lowering her gaze to bite back a smile she was desperately trying hard to hide from Eddie.

"Are you forgetting that I could have had him again? I'm the one who sent him packing the next morning. I didn't get down on my knees and beg him to stay. I wanted him gone."

"Well, there you go then. I don't know what you're so uptight about!" Robin declared, slapping her hands against her thighs in defeat.

Eddie turned around, realising he wasn't going to be getting the validation from Robin anytime soon. Ever the pacifist.

Eddie watched as Steve raked a hand through his hair - his already cropped shirt lifting even higher as Eddie's eyes unwillingly glazed over the scope of his body.

God.

Steve gleamed at Eddie, making his way over to the bar.

"Oh my fucking God there's no escape is there." Eddie muttered.

"Hey." Steve called out breathlessly, smiling at Eddie.

"Hi." Eddie grumbled, leaning back against the bar and crossing his arms tightly against his chest.

"You look like you're having fun."

"I would say the same for you, but - looks a bit dry over here." He retaliated, directing his attention to Robin and offering her a sickeningly sweet smile.

"Could I get a vodka lime and soda please, Robin?"

"Sure thing!" Robin responded.

A little too politely for Eddie's liking.

"Vodka lime and soda? What are you a forty year old woman watching her figure?" Eddie mocked, peering at Steve in his peripheral.

"Well - I was gonna offer to buy you a drink"-

"No thanks. I don't take handouts." He interjected, hurriedly.

"So testy." Steve acknowledged - folding his arms against the bar, elbow knocking against Eddie's as he situated himself mere inches against his face.

"And for your information - It's the opposite of dry, thank you very much. We're having a blast."

"Yeah, it's a real hoot and a half over here." Robin deadpanned, topping Steve's drink off with soda water.

"Coulda fooled me." Steve shrugged.

"Not going out there?" He asked, cocking his head over to the main floor filled with bustling bodies.

"Nah, just observing tonight. I'm not interested in chasing around a bunch of fucked out crystal queens with blown out pupils right now."

"Y'know - I've seen you a couple times - you haven't left with anybody in a while." Steve acknowledged.

"So?"

"So - could the great Eddie Munson be past his prime?"

Oh, this kid had a death wish.

Continue reading on ao3

[nether-before]

I'm gonna be real, I was never huge on your portrayal of Callie before, but after reading that post that explained your headcanons, something clicked and now I'm FEELING it. Up until now I guess I thought you were just drawing her like that just because and thought it didn't fit the character, but after reading the reasoning behind it... omg, flipped like a switch, you're actually a genius.

Like, I LOVE headcanons about the idols that acknowledge how much the industry and being in it sucks moderately to severely for almost everyone in it irl... ESPECIALLY for the Squid Sisters, because they were teenagers when they started being idols, as opposed to Off The Hook and Deep Cut being in their twenties at their debuts. They also, to me, seem to be the most "by the books" idols the game has seen, at least in Splat 1. Pearl and Marina seem to be self-made, and Pearl had the wealth and connections to get the band rolling without signing any contracts. Deep Cut was also wealthy from the start, and thus likely has more power over themselves since they won't lose everything if they go out of style or fail to be 100% optimally marketable. The Squid Sisters, though? Farm girls found by a talent scout. They DEFINITELY belonged to an agency and signed some things they didn't fully understand. Thus, potential for angst, criticism of a shitty industry, something something capitalism...

Also also, I am a fucking SUCKER for the "weight gain as an outward signifier of mental/emotional healing" trope. Makes me go gaga EVERY time. I was saved by antidepressants after a lifetime of being The Skinny Kid, which doesn't seem to be that uncommon an experience on this website, so I connect to this sort of thing a great deal. Thin character who's been through some shit finally finds themselves in a better life, and as a result puts on weight? Already great. If, additionally, they struggle with it at first but eventually realize, accept and internalize that they're healthier in this state than they were while skinny but in a state of constant anguish? EXCELLENT. A+. Just like me fr.

And so, to cap off this wall of text, can I just end by saying that I'm pretty basic with my Squid Sisters hcs, ok? Yours do not align with mine, but I'm not the kind of person who gets upset about that. To the contrary; I LOVE conflicting hcs. I love when fandom is a conversation, not a consensus. I love when different people see the same character in different ways. And your take is one I don't see ANYWHERE else. I respect the hell out of you for boldly going your own way. I ALSO respect how you were not shy and went all-in on a rarely depicted but very real female body type that's mostly relegated to OCs. Your Callie isn't just chubby or curvy, and she isn't even just fat, she's really fat. She's an absolute unit. She has muscle under that fat, bulky and strong muscle like she pumps iron on the daily. She's got wide shoulders and thick fingers and a chest like a barrel and a huge belly. She's built like a brick shithouse. AND YOU DIDN'T EVEN GIVE HER BIG BOOBS, THEY'RE STILL SMALL.

You NEVER see this in fandom unless we're drawing orcs or dwarves, and hell even then it remains rare, despite women like this existing in real life. You portray a broad-framed, strongfat farm girl with a small chest, and you portray her as not only beautiful, not only a social butterfly, but as an absolute girly-girl fashionista glitter diva material girl supreme. What few instances of truly boulder-suplexing women we get are typically relegated to barbarians or aggressive tanky fighters, and they're almost always butch.

YOU say you can bench press a steer and make cars sag when you sit in them, but still be 100% femme. YOU say a girl can be an arm wrestling champ at the local biker bar AND gossip with her besties at the mall while holding 5 pink shopping bags. YOU say girliness, glitter and the colour pink have no size limit, that a woman can own a wide variety of dumbells and lipstick colours alike, that physical strength and being pretty are NOT mutually exclusive.

I've flipped like a dime on this, OP. Thank you for being so unashamedly original and positive in your portrayal of Callie.

HELL YEAH!! This was great to read, and I'm happy to see she kind of resonated with you with the whole "weight gain as emotional healing" thing. Love when art impacts people! Thanks for this.

[shirohige-pirates]

Birds of a Feather

CisFem Reader x Marco

CW: Violence, blood, language, adult themes and scenes. 18+ only

Summary: Life has not been kind to you. After a string of bad relationships, you're a little jaded and a little depressed in all honestly. The worst day of your life seems to be the turning point, but the roller coaster ride that follows could either throw you soaring free, or have you caged forever?

Tag List: @clumsyraccoon

Chapter 24: Living Life

You wake up, surprised only a little to find yourself tangled up in Marco’s arms. You were both a mess of blankets, pillows, and limbs on your couch, and you were grateful you’d opted to go with the deep-seated model. Not that you’d expected to go a few rounds on it when you bought it.

Marco shifts a little, enough to kiss your forehead before nuzzling into you. Despite the mix of cuddling and sex you’d spent doing last night, you hadn’t gone that late into the evening before you’d just kind of fallen asleep on one another. The sun was barely starting to rise, welcoming your last day off before you both had to go back to work.

“Hungry?” You murmur when soft kisses start against your shoulders.

Marco hums negatively, hands moving against you. He turns onto his back, pulling you on top of him. Your head on his chest, your back to his stomach, and his stiff cock against your thigh. You let your legs drape over either side of him, moaning happily as his fingers slipped between your folds and teased your clit. The slow movements were firm and the pleasure bubbled against your ribs.

“We are… gonna need to eat, ahhh-at some point,” you say the words, but you make no move to squirm away, hands reaching to allow your fingers to trail over his body. “You’re unexpectedly frisky in the morning, Mr. Newgate.”

“Eventually,” he agrees, thumb slipping along your lips. You poke your tongue out, and he presses his index finger against it, pushing into your mouth as you nip and suck on his finger. “I’m not the only frisky one, yoi.”

You sit up, Marco’s fingers moving out of the way, and wrap your hand around his cock, feeling and hearing him hum. “Something about you makes me want more.” You admit, stopping long enough to wrap the blanket around your hips before putting your hips just below his pecs and leaning down.

“Am I truly being denied?” He grumbles playfully, hands grabbing the sheet over your ass, flexing his fingers against the curve of it.

“It’s hard to concentrate,” you murmur, lips against his shaft. You can feel his body tense, and there’s something sweet about it. “You’re too good, so keep your hands to yourself, and let me have my fill.”

“Plying me with flattery,” he muses, hands wandering against the thin sheet separating you two. “Won’t work for long, pretty bird.”

With that warning you decide not to waste any time. Hands, lips, and tongue working together you use everything you know to please him, caught between wanting to savor the quiet hours of the morning, and wanting to distract him enough he didn’t get the upper hand. You had experience enough to know you knew what you were doing, but he seemed a step or two above you in terms of skill.

It was hard to read him, and hard to know exactly what he liked. Not that he seemed to dislike anything you did, but never to the point that he came undone beneath you.

That victory would be yours one day.

But not today.

A whine escapes you as he starts to slowly pull the sheet away. You try to distract him, taking as much of his long length into your mouth as you could. He was shaped much as he was shaped, long and lanky, but damn if he didn’t know exactly how to use it.

“The problem, pretty bird,” he teases, his voice struggling at least a little. “Is that seeing you squirm, and hearing you moan,” his fingers press against your slit, moving up and down slowly, making you shiver despite your efforts. “Just makes everything,” long fingers push past your labia, sinking into your pussy smoothly. “Better.”

You moan against him and feel the hand gripping your ass flex, fingers digging into your flesh a little. It was probably the most reaction you’d gotten out of him when you knew he was trying to wrest control from you. Or maintain it.

You do your best to ignore his fingers, and focus on every twitch and hitch of his breath. Any indicator that something was extra good, so you could do it again and again, and a little better or a little deeper.   You decide to run your teeth against him, not at all roughly, just running the edges of them against his hard flesh.

You can hear him suck in a hissed breath, hand grabbing your ass more harshly than you know he meant to. You continue to tease him, kissing, licking, randomly nipping with your teeth as gently as you could, hands working his length, keeping his attention.

“I want to swallow,” you say, sucking on his red tip. “Please don’t make me wait, Marco.” You purr, words sinking into his skin just before you suck a little harshly right under the tip.

“Haa-nngh-y-you’re certainly more honest first thing in the morning.” He muses, a slight lilt of nervousness in his voice. He pulls his fingers out of you, grabbing your hips and lifting them up a little. You feel his entire body tense and curl just before you feel his tongue push into you in place of his fingers.

Your surprise from being moved turns into a deep throaty moan. The sound vibrates against him and you can feel his body twitch. You can feel him mumbling against your cunt, you don’t need to know the words to understand the tone, and you urge him on.

He throbs against your lips, the only warning before he pushes into your pussy, his tongue desperate to go deeper as he fills your mouth. You can feel him mumble something against your cunt again, before his body relaxes and he lays back on the couch. You can hear him let out a couple heavy, content breaths, as you lick and kiss the last few twitches that you can from him.

Wiping your mouth as you look over your shoulder at him you smile. “And now we can get cleaned up, like we should’ve last night, and get breakfast go-ah! Hahaha, Mar-Marco—nnnngh!”

He grabbed your hips and pulled you to his mouth before you could get up and get away. His lips and tongue were lavishing attention on your clit as his fingers pushed back inside you. You couldn’t hope to get your legs under you, and just let your mewled pleasure spill out onto his stomach as he held you where he wanted you. It only took him a couple minutes to bring you to the brink.

“Marco - Marco please!” It wasn’t fair how easily he did this to you, but you couldn’t complain about it. It felt amazing every time, and pleasing you pleased him, you understood that much.

Your lips and body trembled as he commanded you to cum, fingers clawed at taut skin that flickered and healed before your eyes. The rush floods through you, waking you up and threatening to wear you out just as easily.

“It’s… almost cruel,” you huff, body twitching as you come down from your high slowly, Marco’s tongue tenderly exploring you, as if he didn’t already know everything.

“What is?”

“How easily you do that.” Your grumble is facetious and you both know it. Leaning over to one side you bite his side, a quick and playful action, but when Marco jumps and makes a clipped sound you realize you tickled him.

Your pout changes quickly into a far more devious expression. You’ve nearly sprung ears and a tail with how catty you’re feeling.

“Pretty bird.” You can hear the concern in his voice.

It was, however, knowledge for another day.

Shuffling around a little you get off Marco and the couch. He helps steady you as you get your feet under you before sitting up. Stretching you let a satisfied moan out, before giving him a smile.

“Shower and then breakfast?” You prompt, and the relief on his face is a delight.

“A good plan.” He agrees, getting up and following after you. “Breakfast in is nice, but do you want to go somewhere today? Sunday breakfast crowds are usually during brunch, this early most places should be practically empty, yoi.”

“Worried I’ll tickle you if we stay in?” You hum.

“… I am now.” He admits, and a second later his arms are wrapped around you, holding you in place in the hall. “You make it sound like you aren’t ticklish, pretty bird.” His voice is low against your skin, the words and their timbre putting your body on edge more than the firm hands holding you tight to his body.

Concern flickers through you before the cat returns.

“Do your brothers know?” You prompt, slipping from hands that are a little less confident than they were a moment ago.

Marco laughs, that thick rumbled chuckle that warms the room, and puts his hands up in mock surrender. “A truce, my devious little love.”

“Just some friendly rules,” you correct. “I won’t give your brother’s my knowledge, and you promise not to tickle me too much.”

“Too much is a little ambiguous, yoi.”

You laugh. “Fair, fair, I just mean,” You can feel embarrassment seeping into your movements and words. “Maybe treat it like you would… um, bondage or something.” Now it’s Marco’s turn to grin. “Later, later!” You insist, trotting to the bathroom, putting a bit more distance between the two of you.

“Food first.”

“I don’t think tying you up and tickling you is something we should do after breakfast.” Marco teases, following you into the bathroom.

You stamp your foot as you set the water temperature, a reaction to the shiver he sent straight through you. “You make it sound like we don’t have all day.”

“Mm… and… tomorrow?” He questions, looking over at you. “I can pack a bag tonight, or we can try carpooling this week and… more next week.”

You turn your back to the shower, stepping in as Marco steps toward you. Pressing your lips together you take a moment, glancing up at him before making sure you didn’t walk yourself into an accident. You step through the cascade of water from the shower, and continue until your back’s against the tiled wall.

“I would… love for you to stay.” You admit, as Marco steps into the water, almost pressing into you as he leans down.

“… Then I’ll stay.”

Hands and lips wandered a bit as the two of you showered, but you managed to keep one another on task whenever the other got too frisky and finished getting clean relatively quickly. Comfortable clothes led to a comfortable car ride, which carried you both to a nice quiet breakfast.

You talked idly about the logistics of Marco moving in. How you’d need to reorganize the garage next weekend so there was room for both cars. Finding space for his clothes would be easy. Your home had always been larger than you’d needed, and the closet space was sufficient for three or four people.

The two of you mused about converting the basement and getting it sealed so it could be turned into something. If he needed or wanted space in the morning there was a guest room and bathroom he could use, or you would, if you woke up early and didn’t want to disturb him.

You talked about mundane things for the most part, and Marco brought up a chore list, and who would be in charge of cooking. Things you hadn’t considered for this “trial” run, but things that made your blood rush a little.

There was just something comforting in hearing him talk about it all so seriously. Earnestly. With words and tones that spoke of someone expecting it to work out for the long term.

A warm smile spreads across his lips and you can see his cheeks and ears start to turn pink. You realize you were staring and look away.

“I’ve never had someone look at me like that before, yoi.” He muses.

“Ah, sorry.” You say, clearing your throat and taking a drink of coffee.

“No need,” he assures you, reaching over and slipping his fingers between yours. “But if you keep looking at me like that, I may need to insist we return home before we do anything else.”

You feel your face heat up and put a hand over it. “That’s entirely not fair.”

“Mm?”

“You’re… too smooth, I don’t know how to react.”

“You’re reacting perfectly fine.”

You want to disappear into your shirt, but instead put your head down. “By the seas.” You quietly whine.

Marco chuckles, squeezing your hand. “Alright, pretty bird, I’ll rein it in.” He promises.

“So, for getting your things… how do we want to do that?” You prompt, almost desperate to change the subject.

“I think it’s best if I make that trip alone,” he responds after a moment. “My brothers can be a bit much and I think the first time you meet them I’d like there to be some kind of structure.”

You grin. “For my safety?”

Marco nods. “For your sanity,” he adds. “We can do something the weekend before the Party, or we can just introduce you during the party. There’ll be a good bit going on, which will be a good thing. You won’t have thirty or so sets of eyes laser focused on you and nothing else.”

You grimace involuntarily. “Yeah, no, that’s fair.” You shudder a little. “I keep forgetting just how big your family is. Mine was… very small by comparison.” A soft sound escapes you, but even you aren’t sure if it’s bittersweet or not. “My family now is even smaller, I imagine, since it’s really just Ivankov. Though, I should include Buggy and Bon-chan, or I’d never hear the end of it.”

You look away for a moment, pondering things you hadn’t pondered for years since coming to this island. You’ve already told Marco more than you’ve admitted to anyone else. Sure Ivan and Kid probably assumed you had a devil fruit of some kind, but neither had even eluded to being curious about it, and you’d certainly never even admitted it out loud.

“I’d… like to tell you about my family.” You nearly mumble the words, eyes shifting over to Marco’s. You can see the confusion shift to something else, something more understanding and he nods.

“Whenever you’re ready, pretty bird.”

Breakfast turned to perusing the stacks at Cups and Covers. Your attentions weren’t on the books, or the store itself, and you ended up talking more about Marco moving in, getting a little more detailed about plans and schedules. The conversation shifted from that to meeting his brothers, which you both agreed to do at the birthday party.

Being the man of the hour meant that Marco could corral both his brothers and the guests with a little more pushiness than he would normally employ. He promised to show you his “old” room, since he wouldn’t be entirely moved out of it, and a truce was made about tickling during the party.

He spoke at length about his brothers as well, letting you know who would likely be there, and a little bit about them. Not that he expected you to remember it all, of course, but he could go over things a few times between now and then. The more you knew about them before hand the less likely they were to be able to throw you for a loop.

Pranks and jokes were a part of the family as much as love and trust, so sometimes they could forget that other people didn’t function the same way.

“I’d say it’s a unique love language.” You muse as the two of you are driving back to your house. “But I think I can keep up. I pick on Buggy all the time, I’m probably due getting ribbed myself.”

Marco smiles. “Yeah, well, when it comes to teasing you, pretty bird, I’d like to keep most of that pleasure for myself.”

“I thought you said you were gonna rein it in.” You grumble after a moment.

“That was hours ago, yoi.” He insists and you laugh. “I hold back a lot to begin with.” He huffs, and you can see the grin on his face to go with the mock pout.

“Oh?”

“Mm, I’ll show you someday.” He promises.

“For some reason that scares me a little.” You admit with a nervous laugh. “But… I think, once or twice, I’d like that.”

Pulling into the driveway, Marco puts the car in park. “I think I’ll head over now, yoi. Grab what I need, and come back as soon as I can.”

“Worried that if you come inside now you won’t go back at all tonight?” You prompt and he grins.

“Very much so.” He leans over to meet you as you lean in for a kiss.

“Be safe,” you murmur quietly, eyes shifting up to his before you look back down at his lips, leaning in for another kiss.

“Of course.”

[turtlemagnum]

there's this online recreation of the sans fight that i played religiously back in middle school before i even owned a device capable of running undertale, still up. i got good enough at it that under normal circumstances, i can usually do it first try. a bit of a banging my head against a brick wall thing, but damn did it eventually break. honestly i think doing that before ever actually playing undertale was a bit like goku training in 100x gravity, except instead of landing on namek to fight frieza he went and fought raditz again and just absolutely wrecked his shit. at least, until i got to undyne, still not great at her. god i love her. adhd, getting distracted, i had a goddamn point i was trying to make. so, notice that i said "under normal circumstances" as a caveat. what i would consider not normal circumstances would be, say, playing with fucked up arrow keys. such as, the ones that seem to be on every goddamn modern laptop where up and down are both collectively taking up the same amount of real estate as a single normal key, because apparently right shift needs that extra fucking space. like seriously who the fuck even uses right shift, top 10 useless keys right there, right next to caps lock and most of the function keys. guess i've just gotta suck it up until i can afford to get an actual gamer laptop and not a budget office clunker that i got for the admittedly nice CPU

honestly like, i think my ideal laptop would be halfway between the Ultra Gucci Gamer shit and what i have now. give me like, 16 gigs of RAM, a decent CPU for emulation, a low end but modern and power efficient discrete GPU, and a big fuckin SSD. no RGB shit, just a power waste, though i do like having backlit keys at times i think the more efficient way to go about it would just paint em with something glow in the dark. is glowstick fluid toxic to get your hands on? i remember hearing about a guy who died because he injected that shit at a rave, but i don't know how much of that is This Shit Is Poison vs Dont Put Things That Arent Blood In Your Blood Sacks You Moron, y'know. for some reason radium popped into my head, but after thinking about it for more than an instant i'm like 85% sure that shit's what done killed marie curie, and now i can't help but imagine that's something elon musk would tell his engineers to do. "yeah. just a, uh, gamer key-board. with, radium paint on the lettering. saves power, good for the planet." what was i saying

anyways yeah like. the only other specs i can think of would be just having as many ports as possible, 1080p screen @ 60hz, y'know the bare minimum in Current Year. i will say that my current laptop has given me problems with screens i've never had on a computer before, there have been times where i see something i know for a fact is a different, more saturated color on other screens and having it be barely different from the background. also? i want that motherfucker bulky god dammit, i'm tired of everything being thin and light and having absolute dogshit battery life. i miss when i could charge my gameboy once a week and have it entertain me the entire goddamn time, y'know. i'm lucky if i get half a day of consistent use out of a laptop or my switch without charging it, y'know. to be honest, you should be able to murder someone with your technology. i could kill a man with a gamecube or the PC my dad left me as a kid, if i tried to bash a man's skull open with my laptop the laptop would take more damage than the skull. like don't get me wrong, it'd fucking hurt, but i'm not sure there's any singular component in this thing less than 95% cheap polymer by volume. a goddamn disgrace, lemme tells ya. back in ancient rome we had the technology to build bridges strong enough to still be used today, there are guns from the world wars that you can shoot to this day, you're tellin me you can't make a laptop sturdier than a saltine cracker? well, i'm pretty sure they're mostly designed by crackers, so i guess i can't blame em too hard for their inadequacies. such is lief i suppose (sic)

[authorautumnbanks]

Accidentally Dating (2)

Summary: A series of accidental dates and meetings between Kagome and Satoru over the years.

Pairing: KagomexGojo

Ch 1

What are you doing?

Kagome jumps and clasps her hands over her mouth to stop the scream from bursting out of her. She glowers and turns around slowly to glare at the intruder. "What are you doing?" she questions, wrinkling her nose at Satoru, who sucks on a lollipop as though he has no care in the world. He's dressed in a black hoodie and dark jeans. The darkness of his attire makes his white hair stand out even more.

"I was in the neighborhood."

"Really? I didn't know you lived around here." Come to think of it, she doesn't know where Satoru lives. He claims he has a home, but she's never seen it or heard him talk about his parents. Or any relatives, for that matter. Maybe it's one of those situations, like Mama is always telling her. Not everyone is blessed to have a happy home life like she and Sota. "You know, if you're ever in trouble, you can just stay with us. I'm really good at hiding things."

"That's unnecessary." He rolls his eyes and sinks to a squat next to her. "What are you doing?"

"Well," she starts, turning back around to peer through the bush, "... where did Sota go? Oh no!" She jumps to her feet and flails her arm, smacking Satoru upside his head in the process. "Crap! Sorryyyy! I lost Sota."

CrapCrapCrap!

Satoru grumbles and rubs his head, but Kagome can't focus on him right now. Where the heck did Sota go? He was right there and then he wasn't. Oh no! Mama is gonna be so upset when she learns she is only down to one kid.

Somehow, she knows Mama isn't gonna be consoled by the fact that only one child is alive and well. Noooo, Mama is gonna be so upset. Sota is like the baby, baby.

"We gotta find him. Can't you use those special eyes of yours to lock on his location? Like a map?"

"Lock on? That's not what my eyes do." Satoru blows out a breath and crunches down on his lollipop. Kagome cringes at the sound. That must have hurt his teeth. "What was he doing and why were you watching him?"

Kagome sucks in a deep breath and tries to calm her racing heart. Everything is going to be okay. She hasn't failed as an older sister. "I was overseeing his first errand. Mama didn't ask, but Sota is sooo forgetful, and what kind of sister would I be if I didn't look out for my little brother?"

At Satoru's dumbfounded expression, she lets out another huff of frustration. Seriously, it's like Satoru grew up sheltered. He should just move in with them and maybe he won't get into so much trouble.

"Have you never done an errand before?"

"That's what servants are for. Why would I do that?" He stands and stuffs his hands in his hoodie pocket while gnawing on the lollipop stick. "Shouldn't you be sending one to take care of all of this?"

"We don't have servants." Perhaps it is worse than she thought. Satoru has been led to believe that he has servants. Kagome frowns at his attire. He's dressed as if he doesn't truly care about his appearance. The clothes aren't bad. She doesn't recognize the brand as one of the local ones at the market, but still, just because the outside looks okay, doesn't mean the inside is fine.

At least that's what Gramps is always going on about. He said that Satoru is different from other kids, after all.

"At any rate. If you can't help me, then I have to cut this intrusion short. I have to find Sota!" She beats her chest with her fist and winces. Her yellow polka dot dress is actually quite thin and does nothing to soften the blow.

"Tell me you didn't seriously hurt yourself with those puny fists."

"No one asked you."

"Didn't have to. I have good eyes."

"Yeah, well, that's why you're like 10. So there." She sticks her tongue out and rushes past... or attempts to. "Let go of my arm."

"Or else what?" Satoru rolls his pretty blue eyes. Not that she'd ever tell him that. If he ever asks, she'll tell him that his eyes aren't all that. She's got pretty good eyes, too.

"Or else, I'll do this." She leans in and licks his nose. He staggers back, letting her arm go to rub his nose with the back of his sleeve. Kagome laughs as she runs away. Yeah, that outta teach him. "Now you have cooties!" She yells over her shoulder, giggling at his utter look of disgust.

Not only has Satoru never done his own errand before, but he's never been to a proper school either. He probably doesn't even know what cooties are. Serves him right for trying to hold her back when she is an older sister on a mission. Kagome heads over to the older woman with a broom in her hand.

"Excuse me, ma'am. Did you happen to see where my little brother went?" Kagome fiddles with her fingers as she waits for an answer. The older woman, with her curly white hair and dark brown eyes hidden behind thick glasses, stops sweeping and taps a finger to her chin.

"Ohhh, hmmm. I think I may have seen him go that way." The lady points to the left. Kagome bows and thanks her. One of these days, she will remember the older woman's name.

Kagome turns and runs right into Satoru. OW! What is he made out of? Stone? Kami, her nose hurts.

"You tried to leave me."

"Satoru, I couldn't leave you behind if I tried."

"What does that mean?" He leans forward until their noses touch. He may be a year younger than her, but he almost has her in height.

She hopes he stays shorter, so she has one thing over him.

"It means that you are a clingy cat and you are lucky that I'm partial to cats or I would have thrown some catnip on the sidewalk."

He narrows his eyes and huffs. "Whatever. I sense his energy coming from that way." He pulls back and jerks his thumb towards the direction the older woman pointed to.

"You just overheard what whatever-san said." Still, Kagome follows behind Satoru, who grumbles under his breath. He's always grumbling under his breath. She tugs on his hood. "Hey! Stop grumbling. I can't hear what you're saying about me."

"It's frustrating that you can just touch me."

"You're so weird. It's not like I actually have cooties. It's just a thing kids claim girls have."

"Bleh."

Kagome opens her mouth and then closes it. Mama always says if she doesn't have anything nice to say, then she should keep her mouth close and pray for their souls instead. But Mama never said what to do if she doesn't have anything nice to pray about. "Keep it up and I won't invite you to my birthday party."

"Your birthday is in April. It's August."

"Semantics. I like to plan ahead." He is not getting an invitation. "Fine. Then you can't come to my other party."

"That's fine. Your mom would invite me, anyway."

Dang. Mama would invite him. Kagome pouts and then perks up when she spies Sota at the stand. She grabs Satoru's hand and drags him to hide with her behind a tree.

"How have you survived all this time?"

"Shush. Keep your voice down. We can't let Sota see us," Kagome whispers, peering around the slim tree.

"All he has to do is look back and see us. This tree isn't nearly as big as you think it is."

Kagome whips her head around. "You're right. Your head is huge."

"Says the girl with five foreheads."

Kagome bites her tongue and slaps his arm. "Such a jerk. My forehead isn't that big." She places a hand to her forehead and turns back to Sota, who is bowing at some man before taking his bag of goods. "Yes! His first errand seems to be on the right track."

"Thank Kami for that."

"Are you being sarcastic? No one invited you." Kagome sniffs. Vanilla. "Are you wearing the cologne Mama got you?"

"No." He turns his head away, cheeks tinged pink. Oho, is wittle Satoru embarrassed? Kagome grins and starts to tease him, but someone clearing their throat stops her.

Oh no.

"Sister, what are you doing here?" Sota asks, holding the bag close to his chest.

"Uhhhh, not following you." She laughs and elbows Satoru to be quiet. OW! One of these days, she is going to learn that Satoru is made out of brick. He is not like the other guys she knows.

"Oh... are you and Toru playing?"

"I don't—"

"Yes! We're playing! It's just a total coincidence that we ended up here while you're running your first errand." She chuckles, but it sounds like a duck quacking for help.

"You're saying it," Satoru whispers in her ear. Kagome ignores him and keeps smiling at Sota in the hopes he won't get suspicious.

"You guys stay here." Sota nods to himself. His cat shirt is a bit too big for him, but it's cute none the less. Everything is cute on her little brother. He's the cutest. "Don't follow!" he commands, breaking off into a smile before walking back in the direction of the shrine.

"Did you see that?" Kagome asks after a moment. "He ran an errand all by himself!"

"So amazing," Satoru deadpans.

"Okay. You aren't coming to my next party."

"That's fine. You can come to mine."

Kagome throws her hands up and lets out something between a growl and a shriek. Satoru is the most infuriating kid she has ever met.

***

A/N: Turns out writing kid Kagome and Gojo is a little harder than I thought, but we're getting there lol. Sorry, this came out way later than I was wanting. Somehow forgot my grandma was going on a cruise and I needed to take care of her pets. Next update will be How To Tame. I do have part of Wish I could drafted and it's looking like that chapter may be smut, idk, we'll see. As always, stay safe and healthy. Winter blues is a real thing, so make sure to do little things that refill your well! P.s. Usher and Jung Kook totally did a Gojo shout-out (thanks for telling me to watch the video)

[rouxthewriter]

Hound Dog

Pairing: Tom Riddle/Reader

Word Count: 1,039

Warnings: reader is a BAMF

Summary: You're a famous actress who's used to dealing with the entitled attitudes of Hollywood's elite. But when you meet Tom Riddle, you find yourself facing a different kind of challenge.

You were at a celebrity event, surrounded by the usual crowd of self-absorbed assholes. You weren't particularly interested in being there, but it was part of the job. As a famous actress, you had to attend these kinds of events and pretend to enjoy yourself. That’s what your publicist told you, at least. It felt like that man was trying to suck the life out of you sometimes

The room was dimly lit, with warm yellow lights casting a soft glow across the walls. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and alcohol, a mixture of cigars and whiskey permeating the space. The walls were lined with plush red velvet curtains, which added to the sense of opulence and grandeur. In the center of the room, a large circular bar dominated the space, with polished chrome fittings and shelves lined with bottles of all shapes and sizes. The bartender was a tall, wiry man with slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin mustache, who expertly mixed drinks and served them up with a flourish.

The room was filled with people, all dressed in their finest attire, sipping cocktails and chatting animatedly. The sound of chatter and laughter blended together, creating a low hum of noise that filled the air.

The seating areas were arranged in intimate clusters, with plush armchairs and couches arranged around small tables. The upholstery was a rich deep red, adding to the sense of luxury and comfort. The tables were littered with empty glasses and half-finished drinks, and the sound of ice clinking against glass added to the overall ambiance.

You were sitting at the bar, a perfect place to be alone when all the tables are taken by people you could never take home to your mother.

But you didn’t want to be alone.

You were scanning the room, searching for someone to talk to, when you caught sight of Tom Riddle. He was standing near the bar, talking to a group of people, but his eyes were locked on you. He was handsome, that was for sure, but you'd heard about his reputation as a womanizer. You weren't interested in dealing with that kind of drama.

But before you could turn away, he started making his way over to you. "Hey there," he said, flashing you a charming smile. "I don't think we've met before."

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I'm sure there's a reason for that."

He chuckled. "Well, I'm Tom. And you are?"

"Someone who's not interested," you replied coolly.

He didn't seem to be deterred by your attitude. "Come on, don't be like that. I'm just trying to get to know you."

You rolled your eyes. "I'm not interested in getting to know you."

Tom seemed to be taken aback by your bluntness, but he didn't give up. "Why not? I'm a pretty interesting guy."

You looked him up and down, taking in his cocky grin and confident stance. "I don't know, maybe it's the hound dog look you've got going on. You're not exactly my type."

He laughed. "Oh, I get it. You're playing hard to get. Well, I like a challenge."

You scoffed. "I'm not playing anything. I'm just not interested. And I'm definitely not interested in being your 'challenge'."

Tom's grin faltered slightly, but he quickly regained his composure. "Well, that's too bad. You're missing out on a good time."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sure I am."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot on your ear. "You know, I bet you'd change your mind if you saw what I can do."

You pulled away, disgusted. "I don't want to see what you can do. I'm not interested in anything you have to offer."

Tom's face twisted into a sneer. "Fine. Whatever. You're not that hot anyway."

You couldn't help but laugh at his childish behavior. "Is that supposed to bother me? I don't care what you think."

But as Tom walked away, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. Who did he think he was, acting like he was God's gift to women? You were a successful actress, and you didn't need some arrogant asshole like him trying to impress you.

But as the night wore on, you found yourself unable to shake the memory of Tom's smug grin. You kept catching glimpses of him across the room, chatting up other women and basking in their adoration.

You knew you should just forget about him and move on, but something about his arrogance was driving you crazy. So when he made his way over to you again, you decided to give him a piece of your mind.

"I'm done with this game," you said, standing up from your seat. "I don't have time for boys like you who think they can treat women like toys to be played with and discarded." You gave your card to the eavesdropping bartender, who reluctantly left the scene.

Tom looked up at you with a mix of surprise and annoyance. "What, are you too good for me now? You're just like every other girl in this town, thinking you're better than everyone else because you're famous."

You scoffed. "I'm not saying I'm better than anyone, but I do know my worth. And I won't settle for someone who can't treat me with respect."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Respect? Please. You're just like every other Hollywood diva, thinking you're entitled to everything just because you're famous. Well, let me tell you something, sweetheart, you're not that special.

You took a step closer to him, your eyes locked on his. "I may be a Hollywood actress, but that doesn't give you the right to treat me like garbage. And you know what? You're right, I'm not that special. But I deserve someone who treats me like I am."

With that, you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving Tom sitting there with a scowl on his face. As you walked out of the club, you couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, he'd learned his lesson. But even if he hadn't, you knew you weren't going to waste any more of your time on a hound dog like him.

Being alone wasn’t so bad after all.

[crapcafe]

hearing people talking about cooking is always such an interesting topic and i'm gonna take a min to ramble about it. i learned how to cook (eggs and pasta mostly) as a kid from my mom because she learned to cook at a young age as well and she would also be gone on work trips pretty often. later on in life i worked in restaurant kitchens as a kitchen manager and a line cook. i've even had the displeasure of working alongside new hire line cooks that don't fucking know how to cook but figure that they can still do the job (they could not)

some things just become intuitive so it's hard for me to remember exactly what i needed to focus on learning and what did just come naturally from the start, but a lot of it relates to just general science/chemistry knowledge. denser items will take longer to cook than less dense things (potatoes take forfuckingever but sliced button mushrooms take like a minute or two), high heat makes things cook way faster so liquids will boil off sooner, dense items will sear/burn quicker, and thin/small things will just burn. some professional cooks don't even know this based on the amount of times i've had to talk coworkers out of turning the fryer temp higher because things were taking a long time to cook (this is a great way to get a nice crispy skin on some shit that's still frozen in the middle)

there's a lot of learning how to read recipes. abbreviations (sometimes tablespoon is T or tb or TBSP or Tbs), how to adjust amounts if you need more or less of something, looking up substitutions for things (if you don't have milk but need to make a cream sauce, using applesauce instead of oil or butter or eggs in some baking recipes, etc). its definitely a skill to know how to read some recipes, and coming in with your own knowledge is great, but it's another instance of "you need to learn the rules to know how to break them." this is how you get the screenshots of ppl substituting kale in their banana cookie recipes and then wondering why they suck

thinking of foods in terms of nutritional value can also be helpful. if you have tortilla chips and salsa youre technically getting some vegetables in you. frozen and dried fruits and veggies are still fruits and veggies. rice and beans is grains and protein. miso soup with tofu and spinach is lots of protein and iron. romaine salad with balsamic vin, olive oil, feta, and tomatoes is some vitamins and fats and calcium but without grains and fiber it wont give you too much energy so have some bread or something with it. moving away from processed food will make you feel better. apple slice and peanut butter is my new depression meal bc it makes me feel more alive than shredded cheese from the bag and you can feel like a roman emperor a bit.

if you're just starting out learning how to cook: try to keep it simple with starch + veggie + protein (veggie pasta is a staple classic, roast some stuff and toss it with pasta and garlic and olive oil), find something with just a handful of ingredients that you actually want to eat. the act of cooking can be fun but not everyone thinks its fun, so at least make sure you'll want to eat the final product. if there's any sauces you really like try to keep some on hand. gochujang+soy sauce+sesame oil+sugar+broth can be really good in a stir fry, and basically all of those things will last a long time.

anyway theres a lot of text about cooking. theres a reason i stayed working in kitchens for almost 5 years despite how shit working in kitchens is. i like food and cooking. its one of the few things humans have been doing for a bajillion years and its necessary to live a healthy life and if you can find some fun and peace in the process then thats even better. theres no shame in not knowing how to cook but there is shame in refusing to try and learn imo

insert senshi page about eating well and exercising regularly to live a healthy life