#yet they hate Cate

[graveyarrdshift]

I'm very surprised by how many people hate Cate Dunlap. They wouldn't survive watching The Boys if they think she's a bad person lmao

[catedunlapsgf]

can someone tell me why as soon as my tongue really started healing i get the worst cold of my life with the worst sore throat EVER

[wilsonology]

i’m so SICK !!! of people acting like james wilson is this normal, put-together, morally superior little guy who just got tragically wrapped up in house’s disaster. you are under SPELLS people !!

he wants so badly to be seen as sane, kind, rational, the “good guy” who just happens to have a trainwreck of a best friend. he cultivates that image. he ENJOYS being perceived that way. but underneath it? it’s all manipulation and emotional dependency and judgment and control. and lies!! soso many lies!!

“house is straightforward, brilliant, and an ass. […] whereas you, on the other hand, have a perfect score. you are responsible, nice, human, and yet you’re house’s best friend. […] makes me think that you’re secretly a lot less nice than you seem.”

— cate milton (iirc), season 4 episode 11

and she’s?? so right?? wilson isn’t as nice as he wants people to believe. he isn’t better than house. he’s just better at hiding the damage. house is a bastard and he owns it. wilson smiles while setting fire to every relationship he’s in and then acts shocked when it burns down

also i’m never getting over the scene where he tells cameron that he cheated on (two of) his wives

“i met someone who. made me feel… funny. good. and i didn’t wanna let that feeling go.”

and like it’s so obvious that the someone is house LMFAO (the same guy he apparently hates)

and it tracks. it really does. because then you get wilson’s ex-wife — bonnie?? i think?? maybe?? — telling house, “i’m not saying you broke up the marriage, but you didn’t help.”

house is always there. because wilson lets him be there. because wilson chooses house. over and over again. and he doesn’t just choose him — he clings to him like he’s life support 😭

& for someone who constantly says “everybody lies” — house is ASTONISHINGLY slow to realize that wilson lies to him all the time. sometimes he finds out by the end of the episode, but other times?? like the season 3 premiere when wilson hides the fact that house was right about a diagnosis just because he didn’t want him to get an ego boost or whatever?? wilson lets house believe he was wrong. and house genuinely believed him for the entirety of the episode 😭😭

“if we told you the truth — that you solved a case based on absolutely no medical proof — you’d think you were god. and i was worried your wings would melt” alright bud

don’t even get me started on how judgmental wilson is. always lecturing house about ethics and boundaries and morals while helping him break into someone’s home or steal a corpse. he’ll call house out, scold him, act like he’s better than him — and then do nothing to actually stop it. he enables him. he facilitates half the madness. he feeds the chaos while pretending to clean it up

what’s worse is he needs it. wilson is addicted to being needed. he doesn’t know how to exist without being someone’s emotional crutch.

it’s why he marries women who fall apart. it’s why he stays with house. and the kicker is that he does it all while maintaining this perfect image of the Nice Guy Doctor. the Professional. the Empath. when really. he’s just a guy who can’t be alone with himself for five seconds because he doesn’t like what’s under the surface

tl;dr: wilson is a serial cheater, emotional manipulator, pathological enabler, and deeply judgmental hypocrite who hides all that under a carefully crafted “nice guy” mask. he lies constantly (to house), cheats on his wives (probably with house emotionally if not literally), and uses his persona to control the narrative around him. house is honest about being a mess. wilson just hides it better ❤️

[initforthethrill]

CATE BOT WHERE WE’RE IN A MOVE THEATER??🤭🤭

you guys can’t request things like this (kidding!) because it automatically turns on the horny receptors in my brain and then i spiral and you end up with something like this...

oh, and bot at the end baby<3

coming soon aka torturing cate during a romcom and cate seeking revenge after tw: girlcock, g!p user, semi public sex, movie theater sex, car sex, vaginal fingering, sex in a moving vehicle (don't try this at home kids!), hand job, dick riding, established relationship 5.5k+ words

Cate had picked the movie, obviously.

A glossy, mid-budget romance set in Italy, complete with tragic misunderstandings, sun-drenched kisses, and a guy who looked like he’d been genetically engineered in a vineyard. It wasn’t award-worthy, not even close, but Cate had read the reviews. It was the kind of film designed to make you feel something soft and safe, the kind where no one got exploded or eviscerated. The kind of movie she didn’t get to see much of growing up—too frivolous, too emotional, her mother would say.

So she drags you to the Friday night screening because she wants this. Because she’s had a shit week. Because sometimes you just need to see someone get their heart broken under a Tuscan sunset and then kiss someone else in the rain twenty minutes later. And because you always come with her. Even when you grumble about it the whole drive there.

“She’s not even that hot,” you say, looking at the poster outside the theatre. Your fingers are laced with Cate’s, rings cool against Cate’s knuckles.

Cate doesn’t look at the poster. She looks at you. “You’re such a liar.”

You shrug. “Okay. Maybe a little hot. Like, librarian-hot. But still. That guy looks like he’s made of ravioli.”

Cate snorts. “You wish you were made of ravioli.”

“I wish you were made of ravioli,” you shoot back, tugging her closer. “So I could eat you.”

Cate rolls her eyes, blushing hard anyway. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet you’re still holding my hand,” you sing, smug as hell, as you cross the lobby toward concessions. Cate doesn’t answer. Just squeezes your fingers tighter.

You do this every time. Play the reluctant tagalong in public, even though you’re the one who always gets the tickets ahead of time. Even though you already have the AMC app on your phone. Even though you remember Cate’s exact popcorn order without asking—extra butter, layered, just a sprinkle of parmesan cheese powder and a cherry coke slushie with two straws. So you can share. Duh.

“Need anything else, princess?” you tease while waiting in line, hips bumping together. Your hand slides down, casually tugging at the hem of Cate’s coat like you own it. Like you own her. “Maybe a soft pretzel? One of those little hot dogs you hate but always steal from me anyway?”

Cate hums. “Mmm. I think I just need you to behave.”

You lean in like you’re about to whisper something sweet. Then nip her ear instead.

Cate yelps. Shoves you off. “Babe.”

You’re already grinning, unapologetic. “Just making sure your senses are fully engaged for this cinematic masterpiece.”

They sit toward the back—you like the aisle seat, and Cate likes being able to lean on you without thinking. The theater is only half-full, mostly older women and bored couples. Cate settles into her seat, adjusts her coat, and lets herself exhale.

The movie starts with a sweeping overhead shot of Florence. Cate’s already misty-eyed five minutes in.

It doesn’t last long.

Because you?

You don't care about the movie.

Didn’t care when Cate sent you the link to the trailer earlier that week (“It’s not your usual thing, but it looks romantic…”). Didn’t care when you bought the tickets in advance. Didn’t care when you pulled into the theater parking lot and made your predictable chick-flick joke. Didn’t even try to pretend once you were inside.

Because you have exactly one thing on your mind tonight, and it’s sitting beside you in a peach cashmere sweater, smelling like overpriced perfume and kissing you between sips of slushie.

Cate looks so good.

Like, distractingly good. High ponytail. Gold hoops. The kind of glossy, smug mouth that begs to be kissed stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have been expected to pay attention with Cate looking like that.

The second the previews end, you’ve got a hand on her.

Not even sneaky about it—just spread your fingers over Cate’s knee like you belong there. Like this is your girl, and you’re bored, and your girlfriend is so warm and soft and bratty when she tries to pretend she’s annoyed.

Cate whispers, “Do not start.”

You don't even flinch. Just let your palm drift up, slow and deliberate, until you feel Cate stiffen beside you. Until her thigh tightens under your touch.

“I’m literally just sitting here,” you whisper back. “You’re so reactive.”

Cate grits her teeth. Keeps her eyes glued to the screen.

Fine, you think. We’re doing this the hard way.

You drape your arm around the back of Cate’s chair, casual and lazy. Twirl a piece of her ponytail around one finger. Then lean in until your lips are grazing the shell of Cate’s ear.

“You wore this little sweater on purpose,” you murmur. “Didn’t you?”

Cate exhales hard. Doesn’t respond.

You nuzzle lower, nose pressing into Cate’s neck. Your hand trails beneath the hem of the sweater, warm against bare skin now, brushing just below Cate’s ribcage.

Cate jerks slightly when your thumb swipes just beneath the wire of her bra. Her hips involuntarily shift forward.

“Tell me to stop,” you say, quieter now, lips brushing Cate’s jaw.

Cate stays silent.

And that’s all the permission you need.

You kiss her temple once, softly, reverently. Then mutter: “That’s my girl.”

You start small. Thumb rubbing circles beneath the cashmere. Pressing little kisses into Cate’s neck until you feel your girlfriend melt into you, breath hitching every few seconds.

Then you dip lower. Just a little. Palm flattening against Cate’s stomach. Your pinky grazing the waistband of her jeans.

Cate’s legs squeeze together.

“Baby,” she whispers, panicked and breathless. “You’re gonna get us kicked out.”

You kiss her again, slower this time. Right below the ear. “Then be quiet.”

Cate glares at you.

But she doesn’t move away. Not exactly. Just settles back in her seat with a sharp exhale, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the screen like she can force her brain to absorb the plot through sheer willpower. She tries to ignore you. Tries to will her body into submission.

The couple is arguing again—something about a passport and a missed opportunity—but it sounds muffled, distant. Background noise to the growing heat pooling low in her stomach.

You shift beside her, palm still pressed against Cate’s stomach like it belongs there. Your fingers don’t move, not exactly—but they twitch, just enough to remind Cate they’re still there. Just enough to make her shiver. You’re not teasing anymore—you don't have to. The contact is maddeningly casual, like you’re completely unaware of the storm you’re stirring.

But Cate knows better.

She can feel the grin radiating off you without even looking. That awful, smug certainty. That particular brand of quiet mischief you wear when you know you’ve already won, when you can feel Cate’s pulse stuttering and hear the way her thighs press together for dear life. Like you know Cate is one more breath away from unraveling.

And still, your hand stays there.

Steady.

Unmoving.

Cate inhales slowly. Tries to calm herself.

She can do this. She can sit through the movie. She can ignore her girlfriend beside her. She can keep her composure.

Cate glares at you. But she doesn’t move away.

You take that as permission—of course you do.

You lean in again, slower this time, brushing your lips against Cate’s jaw. Then lower. Featherlight kisses beneath her ear, down the curve of her neck, each one lazier than the last. Like you’re not just trying to get a reaction—but collecting them. The way Cate’s breath catches. The way her hips shift, almost involuntarily. The way her hand twitches against the armrest, caught between slapping you away and pulling you closer.

And all the while, your hand drifts lower. From mid-thigh to just above the knee. Then back up, a little bolder. Your thumb strokes the inseam of Cate’s jeans, slow, like you’re testing how far you can go before Cate cracks.

It’s not far.

Cate jerks her shoulder, suddenly, hard enough to break the contact. “Stop,” she hisses, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. “Seriously.”

You pulled away, unbothered, lips still parted from where they’d just been pressed to her skin. “Touchy,” you murmur, mock-innocent. “Wonder what’s got you so worked up.”

Cate focuses on the screen again. Tries to pretend her heart isn’t slamming. That she isn’t soaked. That she hasn’t considered, in detail, how fast she could drag you into the bathroom.

But instead—because she’s civilized, and because her entire nervous system is short-circuiting—Cate shrugs off her coat and spreads it delicately over her lap.

She tells herself she’s just cold.

That’s it. Just a little chill in the theater. Climate control issues. Nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been slowly, methodically pressing your hand all over Cate’s body for the past thirty minutes like it’s some sort of fucked-up challenge. Like you’re not in public. Like Cate isn’t one well-timed touch away from breaking her own self-control.

She shifts in her seat, subtly. Her sweater rides up a little.

You notice immediately, a low sound escapes you, barely audible, and Cate feels it in her spine.

“Cold?” you murmur, lip brushing the curve of Cate’s ear.

Cate’s voice is stiff. “A little.”

“Mm. Lucky me.”

Cate glares. “Don’t.”

But it’s already too late.

Your hand slips under the coat like it belongs there. Like it’s not a goddamn crime scene waiting to happen. Your touch is light at first—just resting on Cate’s thigh again, no movement, no pressure. But it simmers. A quiet, devastating weight. Like a storm cloud behind the ribs.

Cate stares at the screen, unblinking, while her heart tries to claw its way out of her chest.

Onscreen, the couple is dancing in a piazza. There are twinkle lights. Strings swell.

Cate’s teeth sink into the inside of her cheek.

You shift beside her, ever so slightly, fingers dipping just an inch lower, ghosting over denim. Then circling. Then pressing—so gentle it almost doesn’t count.

Cate’s breath hitches.

She fists her hands in her coat and curls her toes in her shoes.

“Still cold?” you whisper, voice thick with amusement.

Cate turns her head, eyes glassy. “You’re going to hell.”

Your grin is all teeth. “You first.”

Cate lets out a sound. Just a little one. A soft, strangled whimper she immediately swallows down—but not fast enough.

Two rows up, a woman turns and shushes them.

Cate freezes.

Absolute mortification courses through her like electricity. Her ears go hot. Her vision swims. She tugs her coat higher over her lap like that’ll somehow erase the shame of getting felt up during a Tuesday night showing of some stupid rom-com.

You don't flinch. Don’t remove your hand.

Cate doesn’t make eye contact.

The two of you sit like that—frozen, guilty, burning—until the woman turns back around.

And then—then—Cate finally breaks.

She exhales. Closes her eyes. Whispers, “Fuck it.”

Your breath catches.

Cate turns her head. Meets your gaze. And that’s all it takes.

Your lips crash together—quick, messy, filthy. Cate kisses like she’s trying to shut you up, teeth catching on your bottom lip, hand curling in your shirt like an anchor.

You moan into her mouth, hand sliding fully between Cate’s thighs, and neither of you are watching the movie anymore.

Cate tries to keep quiet. Really. But your hand is still under her coat, moving slowly, and your mouth is hot and open and everywhere, and Cate is barely hanging on.

At one point, she whines—an honest-to-God whine. And you groan.

Cate slaps a hand over her own mouth.

You kiss her cheek. “Yeah. You’re so cold.”

Cate doesn't answer. She can’t. Her thighs are shaking. Her coat feels like a furnace on her lap. The screen is a blur of Italian countryside and romantic resolution, but Cate couldn’t follow it if her life depended on it. Her entire body is humming—tight and coiled and teetering on the edge of something that feels both humiliating and inevitable.

She needs a second. Needs to get away. Regroup. Pull herself together before she does something completely insane.

So she untangles herself.

Quietly. Carefully.

Cate tries to leave.

Tries to gather what little dignity she has left—sweater wrinkled, coat clutched in a death grip, thighs trembling—and escape.

The bathroom. That’s the plan. Five minutes of cold water, a locked stall, and a prayer. She doesn’t even need to finish. Just to breathe. Just to stop shaking.

But you don't let go.

Not when Cate tugs at your wrist. Not when she tries to sit forward. Not even when she whispers, "Please," low and wrecked and raw.

Your grip just tightens.

“You’re not going anywhere,” you say, voice velvet-dark and so, so smug. “You started this.”

Cate glares at you, cheeks bright pink, eyes shining. “You started this.”

You shrug. “And I’m gonna finish it.”

Your hand slips back under the coat like it never left. Like it was always there, rightfully and inevitably. You find Cate’s button, the zipper, the heat. Cate’s already soaked—has been for the last thirty minutes—and you moan under your breath like it’s hurting you not to taste.

Cate’s breath stutters. She turns her face away. “This is—this is—”

“Shh,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “No one’s watching. Just let go.”

Cate squeezes her eyes shut.

And then you touch her.

Really touch her. Not just teasing anymore. Not gentle. Just perfect.

Two fingers. Slow circles. Pressure that builds and builds like a storm tightening in her spine.

Cate bites down on the collar of her sweater to keep from crying out. Her thighs snap shut instinctively—but you’re right there, murmuring filth against her ear, coaxing her open again, pulling her apart piece by piece.

“You’re gonna make a mess in your jeans,” you whisper, teeth grazing her earlobe. “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

Cate whimpers.

Her fingers clutch the armrest. Her chest heaves. And when she finally tips, it’s full-body and silent—eyes wide open, mouth parted in a soundless cry, hand clenched in your hoodie like a lifeline.

Her orgasm shudders through her in waves, slow and rolling and devastating.

She slumps back in her seat, trembling. Boneless. Gone.

You hold her the whole time.

The credits roll.

The lights come up.

Cate still hasn’t moved.

Her coat is wrinkled beyond repair. Her hair is a disaster. Her lip gloss is absolutely gone. She can feel the mess in her jeans. And you—God, you—are sitting next to her like you just aced a test, sipping at your shared slushie and looking very proud of yourself.

Neither of you remembers what the fuck happened in Tuscany.

Cate finally turns her head.

“Don’t,” she croaks.

You grin. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say anything.”

You raise both eyebrows. “I didn’t even—”

Cate smacks your arm. “I swear to God, asshole.”

You snort, reaching over to straighten the collar of Cate’s sweater. “You’re so pretty when you cum.”

“Babe.”

“I mean it. Like, glowing. Post-credit scene worthy.”

Cate groans. Covers her face with both hands.

You lean in and kiss the side of her neck. “Wanna go home?”

Cate doesn’t answer. Just nods.

You take her hand and drag her out of the theater, trembling thighs and all.

The car is quiet.

Cate hasn’t spoken since you left the theater.

You keep sneaking glances over, expecting another half-hearted glare, a flushed reprimand, maybe a scandalized little "You’re the worst person I know." Something to feed your ego. But nothing comes.

Cate’s just…sitting there.

Face turned toward the window. Eyes unreadable. One hand in her lap. The other curled tight around the passenger door handle, knuckles white. Her lip is still swollen from being kissed too hard. Her thighs are pressed together like she’s trying to contain something.

You bite back a grin. “You okay over there, sunshine?”

Cate doesn’t respond.

Just shifts in her seat. Adjusts her coat.

Silent.

You chuckle to yourself, cocky and warm, fingers tapping the wheel like you’ve won something.

Which is exactly the mistake Cate’s been waiting for.

It starts with her hand.

Quiet. Casual. Sliding across the center console with feigned laziness.

She rests it lightly on your thigh.

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “What’s this?”

Cate still doesn’t answer.

Just squeezes.

You glance down. Then at her. “You good?”

Cate hums softly. Low. Dangerous. Then curls her fingers just a little deeper into the denim between your legs.

Your breath catches. “Cate—”

“I’m cold,” Cate says simply, repeating her lie from earlier with poisonous sweetness. “Just keeping warm.”

And then—before you can react—Cate pops open her seatbelt and leans over.

She steadies herself on the center console, hands already undoing your fly.

“Woah—what are you—Cate, baby, we’re in traffic—”

“No we’re not,” Cate murmurs, pressing her mouth to the side of your throat. “We’re on a long stretch of highway and there’s no one behind us.”

You open your mouth—want to say as if that’s any safer, want to object, or beg, or something—

But then Cate’s hand slides into your boxers, immediate, hot and sure and perfectly cruel.

You jerk the wheel a little.

“Holy fuck.”

Cate smiles.

For the next three miles, you forget how to breathe.

Cate is deliberate with it. Every stroke, every squeeze, timed to the rhythm of the road. She kisses your neck like she’s being sweet—like this is some romantic gesture instead of revenge. Her voice is sugar-soft, whispering filth against her skin.

“You made me cum in a movie theater,” she breathes.

You groan.

“You didn’t even let me leave.”

“Fuck—”

“Now you’re gonna finish in the driver’s seat.”

“Jesus Christ—”

“That’s not my name.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Cate nips at your ear. “Focus on your driving. We don’t wanna get pulled over.”

You whine. Actually whine. Your hips lift into Cate’s hand, helpless, desperate. You try to focus on the road—as if that was even remotely possible—but your vision keeps blurring. The lights of the city are a smear. Your knuckles are white on the wheel.

Cate licks at the curve of her jaw. “Gonna cum for me?”

You nod wildly. “Yes—yes—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Good girl.”

And that’s it.

That’s all it takes.

You gasp—loud, broken, body tensing like a taut wire—and cum into Cate’s hand with a desperate whimper, the car swerving ever so slightly in your grip.

You barely make it to the exit.

Cate leans back against the seat, smug and glowing, wiping her hand daintily on a napkin from the glove box.

“You okay, sunshine?” Cate teases.

You practically slump over the wheel.

“I’m never letting you pick the movie again.”

Cate grins. “You say that every time.”

The red light that follows the exit stretches unnaturally long.

You’re breathing like you just ran a marathon—jaw slack, eyes wide, hands trembling slightly against the wheel. Cate, radiant and unbothered in the passenger seat, is still smoothing her hair like she didn’t just wreck her girlfriend while in motion.

You try to speak.

Fail.

Try again.

“…I think I died.”

Cate tilts her head, biting back a smile. “I’d say rest in peace, but you’re still gripping the wheel like it’s a crucifix.”

You whimper. “I almost crashed the fucking car.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Oh my God.”

“I told you to breathe.”

“You told me to finish in the driver’s seat.”

Cate shrugs. “And you did. You’re welcome.”

You make a strangled noise and veers off at the next turn, tires crunching over gravel as you pull into the nearest parking lot—a mostly empty strip mall glowing faintly under dead neon. The car lurches to a stop.

Silence.

Cate watches you, amused. “You good?”

“No,” you say immediately. “No, I’m not good. I just got jerked off on the highway like a fucking truck stop whore by the love of my life and I can’t feel my legs.”

Cate preens. “Love of your life?”

You groan. “Shut up.”

You slump forward, forehead against the wheel. “I saw heaven. I touched it. There was light and harps and an old guy in a robe welcoming me home.”

Cate pats her knee. “Aw. Baby’s first religious experience.”

You lift your head, eyes glassy. “What did you do to me.”

“Nothing you didn’t deserve.”

“Cate.”

“Hm?”

“I’m still hard.”

Cate cackles.

You slap her arm. “You can’t just do that to someone and then sit there like a Bond villain drinking from my slushie!”

Cate sips from the straw, completely unbothered. “Well technically, it’s our slushie, baby.”

You groan again. “I need a cigarette. Or a prayer. Or a sensory deprivation tank.”

Cate leans over, runs a hand through your sweaty hair, voice devastatingly sweet. “You need to pull yourself together so we can get back to your dorm. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

You make a sound that’s basically a whimper if it married a threat.

You shift in your seat. Wince. “You’re actually going to kill me.”

Cate just grins and sucks on the straw again.

You slouch deeper into the seat, still blinking like you just got struck by lightning. Your shirt is rumpled, your fly is still undone, and your thighs are visibly shaking.

Cate finishes the slushie with a satisfied little slurp.

You groan.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

Cate hums. “You said that already.”

“No but like—really. They’re tingling. My knees are soup. My bones are jelly. I’m fucked.”

Cate reaches out and squeezes your thigh, sweetly. “You’re fine.”

“I’m not fine. I’m unwell. I’m spiritually compromised.”

You groan again, dramatically, dragging a hand down your face.

Cate smirks, raising a brow in amusement. “So what—you’re just gonna sit here until your soul reattaches to your body?”

You blink at her. Slow. Wide-eyed.

Then she says it.

Voice all soft, mock-serious, the smirk already forming:

“…My legs are trembling. I can’t possibly drive any further.”

Cate narrows her eyes.

You shift in your seat, twisting toward the backseat. “Tragic, really. Guess we’ll just have to make do.”

Cate stares. “Make do.”

You’re already crawling back there.

“I’m literally still recovering,” you add, tossing a hoodie across the seat like it’s a mattress. “I think I need some help. Possibly a ride.”

Cate scoffs, heat already pooling low in her stomach. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You said you weren’t done with me,” you purr, now reclining across the backseat like a martyr, legs spread, hoodie under your head like a pillow. “Well, come on then. Do your worst.”

Cate shuts the glovebox. Unclips her seatbelt.

And climbs into the backseat.

With the slow, terrible grace of someone who knows exactly what she’s capable of.

She kneels over your lap, palms braced on either side of your shoulders, eyes flickering down to where you’re already half-hard again, breath shallow. The backseat isn’t built for this—too narrow, too cramped, too visible—but that only makes Cate smile harder.

“Oh, baby,” Cate murmurs. “You sure you can handle me twice in one night?”

You grin.

“You know I can, Dunlap.”

You stretch out. Jeans shimmed halfway down your thighs, spare hoodie bunched beneath your head, hair damp with sweat. You’re panting already, pupils blown wide, thighs parted like you’re begging—like you want Cate to take you apart.

Cate hovers above you, calm and collected. Rolls her sleeves up slow, like she’s clocking in for overtime. Like this is business.

Then, still holding eye contact, she reaches down. Unbuttons her jeans. Slides them down her legs inch by inch, deliberate and unhurried, until they’re bunched at her knees and kicked aside without a word. Her panties are still on—barely. But it’s enough to make you whimper as Cate straddles you.

She grinds down once, slow.

You gasp—head snapping back, hips bucking, voice rough with desperation: “God yes—you’re perfect—fuck, I love you—”

Cate smiles. Sharp. Sweet. Devastating.

“Oh?” she purrs, grinding again, this time meaner, dragging her hips down slow and steady while her hands pin your wrists above your head. “You love me now?”

You’re panting like a prayer as the soaked fabric of Cate’s panties drags agonizingly slow over your cock. “I’ve always loved you. Fuck.”

Cate leans in, teeth grazing your throat. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

Cate reaches between you to tug her panties to the side and sinks herself down onto you with one swift motion. You try to muffle the sound—bite your lip, clench your teeth, something—but it still escapes you, a low, wrecked moan that fills the car like a confession.

The movements are harder now, rough and rhythmically cruel, as Cate uses the whole length of her body to ride. To claim. To break.

You shudder. Try to buck up, try to meet her rhythm, but Cate holds you down. Hands pressing into your chest, your shoulders, your hips. No escape.

“I said,” Cate growls, voice low and perfect and terrifying, “say it again.”

“I love you,” you gasp. “I love you—fuck, baby—”

“Louder.”

“I fucking LOVE YOU—”

Cate’s nails dig into your hips. She keeps moving—relentless, hips working in long, brutal strokes until you’re trembling, lip bitten raw, whole body thrashing beneath her.

And the sounds—the obscene slap of skin on skin, the fogged windows, the whimpering—it's all too much.

You grab at her—shoulders, thighs, anything you can reach—but Cate’s pace doesn’t change. She’s focused. Possessed. Riding like she’s got something to prove.

Like this is penance.

Like she owns you.

And you? You let her.

Let her take everything. Let Cate fuck you dumb. You’re whispering between gasps, voice shredded: “Please—please—don’t stop—need you so bad—I’m yours—yours—yours—”

Cate grabs your face.

Forces you to look her in the eye.

Then rides you through it—right to the edge, right to the trembling, shattered finish line—until you’re gasping, crying out, choking on your own breath as you fall apart for her again. And Cate just keeps going.

Because she can.

Because you love it.

Because Cate Dunlap doesn’t fuck around when she’s in charge.

And by the time you finally collapse—blissed-out and ruined, heart pounding against your chest, eyes unfocused—Cate is glowing.

Breathless. Proud. Possessive.

Cate leans in, presses a kiss to your collarbone.

Then whispers, smug as ever:

“Now that’s how you shut a butch up.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your joint breathing—shallow, shaky, uneven. Cate doesn’t move. Just stays there, pulsing with afterglow and pride, her hands braced on your chest, her body still slick with effort.

You’ve gone pliant beneath her. Eyes closed. Arms limp. Mouth parted like you’re still trying to remember how air works.

The windows are fogged straight to hell.

Cate’s still straddling you, but the motion’s long since stopped—her hips slowing, softening, until she’s just there, settled warm over your stomach, watching her girlfriend come back to earth in real time.

You’ve got one arm flung over your face, mouth slack, hair sticking to your forehead. Your chest rises and falls in heavy, uneven waves. You look wrecked—not just fucked out, but rebooting. Like someone shook your soul loose and you’re still waiting for it to settle back into place.

Cate leans down and kisses you once, feather-light, then pats your chest.

“Good girl,” she whispers.

You make a sound—not even a real word. Just a whimpering, hoarse little sigh of surrender.

Cate giggles.

And with the kind of catlike grace that should be illegal post-orgasm, she slowly climbs off, pulls her jeans back on, and shimmies up to the front seat.

You watch her go, dazed and still spread eagle across the backseat like an abandoned doll.

Cate flips the visor down. Smooths her hair. Reapplies her lip gloss with the precision of a sniper. She’s glowing. Effortless. Like she just stepped out of a spa instead of riding her girlfriend to apocalyptic ruin in a parking lot.

You groan into the hoodie beneath you. “How the fuck do you recover so fast.”

Cate clicks the lip gloss shut. “Hydration. Good posture. Ruthless efficiency.”

“You’re a demon.”

Cate turns slightly, admiring her reflection in the rearview mirror. “I prefer the term succubus.”

You groan again, dragging both hands over your face. “I’m still gonna haunt you for this.”

Cate raises an eyebrow. “Is that a threat, or a promise?”

You just glare. But it’s half-hearted at best.

Cate finishes fixing her hair, then reaches over and drops a fresh napkin onto your bare stomach like a blessing.

“Clean yourself up, sweetheart. I’m taking us to McDonald’s.”

You blink up at her.

“You mean drive-thru, right?”

Cate smiles.

“No, I mean I’m walking in there looking like a dewy little angel while you limp behind me like a lesbian scarecrow. Let’s go.”

They make it to the McDonald’s fifteen minutes later.

Cate’s the one driving now—of course she is. She’s fully recovered, sitting upright, hair re-clipped, lip gloss flawless, humming along to the radio like she didn’t just commit a sex felony in a public parking lot.

You, by contrast, look wrecked.

You’re curled into the passenger seat with your hoodie pulled over your head like a shroud. One sock is missing. Your jeans are still unzipped. There’s a faint red flush continuing to work its way down your neck, and every time the car hits a bump, you lets out a quiet, involuntary “fuck” like a ghost being exorcised.

Cate glances over at you. Smiles sweetly.

“How you doin’, sunshine?”

You groan. “I need ice cream.”

Cate arches a brow. “Oh?”

“A McFlurry,” you mutter. “Please. I deserve one. You owe me one.”

Cate bites back a laugh. “I owe you?”

“You assaulted me with your pussy.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“I’m begging you. M&M. Extra M.”

Cate smirks, turning into the drive-thru. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m dying.”

The speaker crackles.

“Hi, welcome to McDonald’s. What can I get for you?”

Cate leans casually out the window, eyes still locked on your glassy, half-lidded stare. “Hi! Can I get a large fry, six-piece nugget, and a regular Coke?”

You tug at her sleeve. “Cate.”

Cate glances at you. “And a small water.”

You practically screech. “CATE.”

The speaker is silent for a beat.

“Would you like anything else?” the employee asks warily.

Cate sighs, dramatically. “Fine. And one M&M McFlurry for the whimpering pile of post-coital rubble next to me.”

There’s another pause.

“…I’m sorry, what size?”

“Large,” you croak from the passenger seat. “Please. Please. I’m going to pass away.”

Cate hands over her card at the window. Taps her fingers on the door. “You know, this is the second time tonight you’ve said you were gonna die. Should I be worried?”

“I saw God and she had your face.”

Cate beams.

“I know.”

They pull forward. The poor teen at the next window does a double take when he sees the pair of you—Cate glowing like she just walked out of a Lush commercial, and you. A crumpled tangle of limbs and regret in the passenger seat, looking like you need a trauma blanket and an exorcism.

“Uh,” the cashier says, handing over the Coke, “you okay, man?”

You grab the McFlurry like it’s holy communion. “No.”

Cate sips her drink. “She’ll live.”

You moan into the spoon on the first bite, eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t deserve you.”

Cate hums. “Correct.”

The two of you park in the corner of the lot.

Not far from the building, just enough to be out of sight. Cate flicks the engine off and turns in her seat, legs tucked up, fry box resting in her lap like a prize. You’re still unraveling, slowly peeling back your hoodie like you’re emerging from hibernation.

“You look like you just survived a natural disaster,” Cate says, taking a fry.

You blink at her with red-rimmed eyes. “You were the natural disaster.”

Cate pops the fry in her mouth. “Aw. Flattery.”

You flop toward her like a corpse. “I need comfort.”

“Oh, now you want comfort?”

“You rode me to death. I deserve softness.”

Cate considers it. Then opens her arms.

You immediately crawl over the console—knees catching on the cupholders, limbs a mess—until you’re draped across Cate’s lap with a sigh like a dying Victorian widow. Your face buries into Cate’s stomach.

Cate smiles.

Runs her fingers gently through your sweat-damp hair, brushing it back off your forehead. “You really are so dramatic.”

“M’legs don’t work.”

“You’ll recover.”

Cate picks up a fry and holds it in front of your mouth.

“Say ‘ah.’”

You groan. “You’re insufferable.”

Cate wiggles the fry. “Open up, sweet girl.”

You grumble, but open your mouth anyway. Cate feeds you, smug and satisfied.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you mutter around the bite.

“I literally brought you back to life. You’re welcome.”

“I think I should sue.”

Cate pats your cheek. “You moaned my name like a dying prayer. That holds up in court.”

You hide your face in Cate’s lap, groaning.

Cate giggles. Twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “Okay, okay. Do you want to finish your McFlurry?”

A hand weakly emerges from her thigh. “Yes please.”

Cate hands it over, resting it carefully in front of you. You scarf it down like a child with a fever.

You sit like that for a while—windows cracked, soft music from the radio drifting around you, city lights painting faint halos in the windshield. Cate strokes your hair. You breathe in sync with her. The air smells like salt and sugar and sweat.

“Cate,” you murmur after a few minutes. “I really do love you.”

Cate looks down. Kisses your temple.

“I know.”

♡ | midnight matinee

[faiszt]

. 𝆬 ⠀ ི᭨ᩧྀ⠀.⠀⠀ faiszt’s ε( ε ´O`)э。゜ BOT! dump⠀⠀❜❜

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀──⠀⠀ ꒰ ︎ ♡ ︎ ´ ꒳ ` ꒱ ︎ ᐟ⠀⠀navigation.

⠀arcane⠀⠀•⠀⠀challengers⠀⠀•⠀⠀gen v⠀⠀•⠀⠀outer banks

▸⠀ARCANE⠀*⠀˖⠀⚔️

𝅭⠀pathetic 'n baby-girling⠀.⠀viktor⠀૮⠀lab partners? sure, he was sure he trusted you completely? not really, but nothing stopped him from sleeping with his head on your shoulder—getting irritated every time he heard you say he was "baby-girling", pathetic.⠀♡ gender neutral!

▸⠀CHALLENGERS⠀*⠀˖⠀🎾

𝅭⠀mom and dad⠀.⠀art donaldson⠀૮⠀since retiring, art hasn't made it clear that being in the whole "father package" could be as complicated as it was—not that his sweet daughter was the problem, no, the problem was the annoying parent-teacher meetings every month, but there was some fun in it, seeing you.⠀♡ female user!

𝅭⠀volleyball obsession⠀.⠀art donaldson⠀૮⠀he hated volleyball, not exactly, he hated what he wasn't good at—meaning: volleyball and some other stupid sports. but, now, here he was, obsessed with a college volleyball player and with a nice bloody nose.⠀♡ gender neutral!

▸⠀GEN V⠀*⠀˖⠀🩸

𝅭⠀sire’s lover⠀.⠀cate dunlap⠀૮⠀what were vows of eternal love if not something that humans failed to keep? cate never needed that, her vow of eternal love was to transform you into the little monster she wanted. hers and hers alone, she's your sire, connected by blood and you'll never escape from her again.⠀♡ female user!

𝅭⠀bloodfool⠀.⠀marie moreau⠀૮⠀shadowhunters and vampires didn't go together, the list of reasons was huge and yet, there you were, in marie's apartment again, wanting more than she offered you last time, vampire saliva, she thought you were smarter.⠀♡ gender neutral!

PS.⠀inspired by vampires from the "shadowhunters" saga, read this article if you want to know more about it.⠀𖹭

▸⠀OUTER BANKS⠀*⠀˖⠀🗝️

𝅭⠀dad’s gonna catch u⠀.⠀jj maybank⠀૮⠀your boyfriend? a brainless idiot, your dad? an ex-army soldier ready to run over any boy who gets too close to you. keeping the secret was the only option, even when you had to hide him behind your door while trying to convince your dad that nothing was happening, good luck.⠀♡ female user!

𝅭⠀old days, same love⠀.⠀rafe cameron⠀૮⠀he couldn't escape his own mind, but for a long time you were the only relief he had, ironic that you were wheezie's babysitter—but, you left in the end, like everyone else. maybe, if he wasn't such an idiot you'd come back and he could tell you everything he wanted.⠀♡ female user!

[freelancearsonist]

Whole

Steve Harrington x fem!Reader

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

7,470 Words

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

Steve’s not sure how it even worked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just can’t stay away, can you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve got a date.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want this to be over yet.”

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

“I don’t either.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks up and notices you staring at him while lost in thought, a small smile spreading across his lips as your eyes quickly dart away.

“What’s on your mind?” He questions as he licks a stray bit of ketchup from his thumb.

“Just… happy I’m here. With you.” It brings heat to your cheeks to admit it, but you don’t want him to go unappreciated in this moment.

It’s the right thing to say, because his smile grows even wider. “I’m happy too,” he admits. “I… I’ve wanted to ask you out for a while. Could never work up the courage, I guess.”

“Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington was intimidated by me?” You say it with a mock gasp, but your shock is more genuine than you give off. Never in a million years would you have thought that he, the man who could have whoever he wanted, would be worried over you saying no to him. It’s almost comical, especially considering the way you practically threw yourself at him on your first date. Of course then, you had no clue how much he’d developed as a person. You’re almost ashamed of your behavior now, as if you might’ve inadvertently been taking advantage of the new and improved Steve who isn’t just into you for a hookup.

He shrugs, nearly bashful at your teasing. “Never figured I was good enough for you. So I didn’t bother to try.”

You’re genuinely curious now, leaning in a little closer and brushing your fingers against his hand resting atop the diner counter. “What made you change your mind?”

“Honestly? I was so sure you’d say no that I asked just to give Robin a chuckle. She loves watching me get shot down.”

That makes you frown, and he’s quick to backtrack. “I wanted to! I just… I’ve had a bad track record lately. And you’re… you’re you. You’re the last person I should be worthy of.”

His eyes are quick to avert from your gaze, bottom lip tugged between his teeth as he contemplates whether he’s said too much.

“Steve…” you properly grab his hand now in the hopes that it’ll bring his eyes back to you, and it works. “You’re the only person I’ve deemed worthy in a long time, honestly.”

Steve Harrington is scaldingly warm. It’s one of many sensations forcing your mind into overdrive as he lays you delicately across the backseat of his beemer, one hand cushioning the back of your head while simultaneously deepening the already heated kiss and the other balancing his weight to lean over you in the cramped space without completely crushing you.

Your fingers tangle themselves into his soft brown locks, tugging ever-so-slightly as his tongue slips between your parted lips. He’s an eager explorer and you’re more than happy to let him take the lead, to show you all the skill you’ve heard so many whispers about.

You let out an involuntary moan as he wedges himself even closer to you, his body heat soaking through all the layers of clothing between the two of you and warming you all the way to your very bones.

You’re practically aching, ready to beg, and he knows it the second you wrap your legs around his waist in an attempt to get him even closer. If there’s one thing Steve Harrington’s good at, it’s assessing your needs. He pulls away just the slightest bit to adjust his position so he can get closer, wedging a knee between your legs to press right against your core, and it makes you jolt back against the car door at the same time his head hits the roof just a bit too hard.

You both pause for a moment, the reality of your situation hitting you simultaneously, and then you’re laughing. It’s light and edged with unresolved want, but it’s enough to fracture the tension of the moment.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Shouldn’t have gotten so carried away. This isn’t how I want to do this.”

“No?”

“No. You deserve way better than this old beater,” he chuckles, then leans down to kiss you. This kiss is lighter, no longer edged with tension and lust. He kisses you just to kiss you–there’s no end goal to it this time.

“What could be better than a BMW?” You tease lightly, trying to reassure him that you’re less disappointed than you really feel.

“You know. Something romantic. A proper bed, rose petals, maybe a few candles…”

“I don’t need all that,” you try to tell him.

“I think I do,” he admits. And that’s enough to pull you back, to remind you that you need to be patient and grateful that he values you so much as to want to do this whole thing properly. That his affection is something to be cherished, not taken for granted.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to be pushy.”

“Please don’t apologize.” He hesitates to untangle himself from you, even though he knows he needs to. “I want this just as bad. I just… I need it to be right.”

“As long as I have you, it’ll be right,” you reassure. “I hope you know that.”

He presses his lips to yours again, a slow and passionate kiss that he hopes communicates every bit of adoration he feels for you in this moment.

“It’ll be perfect. I swear,” he vows. You’ve never believed anything more whole-heartedly than you do this promise. 

~~~

“Wait, you’re telling me that you literally had her under you and you stopped?” Robin’s halfway through chewing a mouthful of popcorn and the absolute carnage inside her agape mouth makes Steve give her a light shove.

“It’s not polite to talk with your mouth full, y’know.”

“It’s not polite to blue-ball either!” She shoots back in utter disbelief.

“How do you think I felt? I was this close,” he holds his thumb and index finger barely millimeters apart, “to sealing the deal.”

She just shakes her head. “You, Steve Harrington, are a genuine, bonafide idiot.”

She’s not telling him anything he doesn’t know. It’s been three days since the aborted fling in the backseat of his car, and he’s barely thought of anything else. Especially since you’ve been away from home both of the past nights when he’s called. He’s starting to worry you’ve gotten the wrong impression, that he’s not interested or that he’s toying with you. It’s the exact opposite. He wants nothing more than to know you in the most intimate way he can know you. But he needs it to be flawless. He needs it to be well thought-out and precisely planned, the most romantic event in the history of copulation. He won’t settle for anything less, not with you. You deserve perfection, and he won’t give you anything less.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he tries to explain. “I want to more than anything. But if you’re gonna go to town on a goddess, you need to do some worshiping, y’know? I don’t feel like I’ve done enough.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you hear this admission. You weren’t sure what to expect–worried that maybe visiting him at work was an overstep–but hearing him call you a goddess certainly wasn’t on your radar.

“You’ve done more than enough, Steve.”

The sound of your voice makes Steve jump and whirl around, oblivious to Robin’s sly smirk and mumbled excuse of needing to attend to something in the back room.

“H-hey!” He squeaks, then clears his throat in an attempt to get his tone back to its normal octave. “What… what’re you doing here?”

“Oh, just came to pick up a tape,” you tease. “But mostly I came to see you.”

“Me?” He takes a moment to ground himself, loosening his too-tight grip on the counter. “I mean… I tried to call you last night. And the night before?”

Your brow furrows. “Really? I didn’t get your message.”

Because he didn’t leave one. He clears his throat and says, “I just figured you were busy.”

“Oh, well, I volunteer at the animal shelter on Wednesdays, and last night was my friend’s 21st birthday. I’m sorry I missed you, though.”

He can tell that you’re really remorseful, and it makes his heart squeeze in his chest a little bit. He plays it off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “No, it’s fine, it’s… are you free tonight?”

You giggle at the abrupt redirect, but he’s played directly into your hand.

“Yeah, actually. I was hoping maybe you could help me pick out something for us to watch tonight? If you’re free too, that is.”

His dark eyes blink slowly, wondering if you’re aware of the implication behind your completely innocent words. You. Him. A movie. Alone. It’s enough to make his head spin. 

“I’ve never been freer.”

Conveniently, you’ve come in close enough to the end of his shift that by the time you’re done combing through Family Video’s vast selection for the perfect film to use as background noise, Steve’s ready to clock out. And since you walked over after finishing your own shift at the local dollar store up the street, it works out perfectly that he can give you a ride straight to his place.

You only glance in the backseat once, but it’s enough to get your mind churning. Remembering the feeling of him, of what could’ve been. Anticipating what will be.

“Parents home?” You ask as he pulls into his driveway and parks, trying to sound casual and utterly failing.

“Nope,” he answers easily. “Took a detour to Cabo on their way home from Hawaii.”

“Sounds glamorous. You opted out?”

“I’d rather be here in Hawkins with you than on a beach alone anyday.”

He must know the effect his words have on you. Surely he can hear the way your heart picks up pace as he looks at you with those dark, affectionate eyes.

“So… this is home.” He waves a hand around the entrance hall like it’s a shabby nightmare, not the grandest house you’ve ever been in.

“I’m starting to understand why they used to call you King Steve.”

He’s almost embarrassed at the mention of that old high school nickname. “Trust me, this isn’t why.”

“Well, a palace does befit you,” you tell him with a smirk.

“Stop, you’re gonna make me blush.” The wink he shoots you makes your gut erupt with butterflies, a sensation that would normally make you a little uncomfortable. With Steve, you’d take the butterflies all day long.

He gives you a cursory and oversimplified tour of the ground floor before leading you upstairs, and suddenly he’s sheepish. It’s been a few moons since he shared his room with a girl, so the nerves are justified. But that’s too simple an explanation. You’re not a girl. You’re his dream, his muse, his–to re-quote himself–goddess. No one he’s ever cared about more has stood where you’re standing, and it terrifies him.

He hides it well, though, busying himself with making a comfortable nest for you in his bed before setting up the television set on the dresser against the far wall. If ever there was a time to regain his confidence, it’s now. He curses whatever god there is that he feels like a fumbling virgin in this moment when nothing is even happening, when just the anticipation is enough to make his hands tremble.

There’s no more stalling once you’re comfortable and the tape is set to play. His heart pounds to the steady and frantic rhythm of one of those heavy rock songs Dustin listens to now as he sits next to you, hands itching to take a hold of you but also eager not to move too fast.

Almost as if you can sense his hesitation, you reach over and take his hand. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Kiss me.”

And so he does, and the second his lips slot to yours all the worry and anxiety is gone. He’s Steve Harrington, and he knows what he’s doing. You’re you, and he’s wanted this for so long. After years of being lost, he deserves to finally find the love he’s been looking for. He’s never been so sure of anything as he is, in this moment of initial clarity, that he’s in love with you.

He can’t say it, not yet. He’s sure it’s too soon, and the last thing he wants is to scare you off. But he’s determined to prove it to you, and the only way besides words is action.

He can handle action.

There’s no more restraint or hesitation behind his touch. This is it, this is what you’ve both been waiting for. There’s no way in hell he’s not going to deliver now. He’s desperate for you, and it shows in the heavy way his hands drag along your curves whilst committing you to memory; the way his tongue languidly swipes across your bottom lip; the way he shifts effortlessly to hover over you even while deepening the kiss.

He’s overwhelming every single sense of yours in such a sudden fashion, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. Especially not when his hips meet yours in a deliciously slow grind and you finally get your first little taste of what’s to come.

He keens at the little breathless whimpers that leave your mouth, reading every single signal you provide him with and accommodating each. Moaning? He continues what he’s doing, intensifying if deemed necessary. Whining? He adds something, because he knows it’s hard to use your words when you’re wanting so badly. Squirming? He pays attention to the direction of your movement and pulls away or presses closer depending on necessity. It’s down to science for him; he only really cared about extracurriculars in school anyway, and this was certainly his favorite.

But then he comes to his senses–while he doesn’t pull away completely, he needs to clear his mind and he does so by letting up a bit, allowing the kiss to become languid and the heat to extinguish a bit. It only makes you whine more, and Steve curses his damned formula. You shouldn’t be part of an equation. You’re everything he’s ever wanted, and every aspect of your relationship so far has been a new experience for him. He needs this particular activity to be different too. No formulas or calculations. Just you and him and whatever happens naturally.

Clearly you can hear the cogs in his mind turning. You pull away with a concerned look on your face and ask, “what’s on your mind?”

Now’s not the time to hide anything from you, he reasons with himself. He wants to be authentic with you, and part of that means telling the truth, even if it’s not something particularly comfortable.

“I’m… falling into a routine. And I don’t want to,” he admits. He sighs and leans back, one hand dragging through his shaggy and disheveled hair, sure that he’s going to ruin the mood if he carries on like this. But he refuses to back away from the truth now. “This… it’s always been like…. Like a series of checkpoints. Boxes to check, y’know? Kiss you, take your clothes off, make you come, fuck you, say goodnight. And I don’t want… I can’t let it be like that with you. I need this to be… real. Not just some list to cross shit off of. I don’t–”

Steve takes a long, shaky breath before he can ramble on anymore. Never has someone so thoroughly gotten under his skin. He’s never felt so insecure, so unsure. It’s terrifying. The most terrifying part of it all, though, is that he likes it. He loves the feeling of the unfamiliarity, of doing this right. In a way, it’s almost like he’s doing all of this for the first time all over again. You’re his first date, first kiss, first time. All because he’s changed so drastically, because he’s not even remotely the same person he was just a year or two ago.

Your hands are so gentle as you cup his face, tenderly forcing his eyes to meet yours.

“Steve… we don’t have to do this, not if you’re not ready. I want to be with you, not just for this, but for everything. Everything that comes with you… that’s what I want. There’s no pressure. I would wait a hundred years for you to be ready so long as I could still have you.”

Steve’s breath shakes a little as he comprehends the gravity of your words. There’s nothing he can say that can properly convey the gratitude he holds for your words, so he says nothing at all.

In his silence, you continue. “You’re more than a body, you know that, right? You’re funny, and kind, and smart. Yes, smart, don’t look at me like that. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted to be close to. I just… I want to spend time with you. I want to watch stupid movies and eat diner food until we get sick and laugh at your stupid jokes… and maybe make love with you, sure, but that’s pretty low on the list as long as I just get to be with you.”

He doesn’t notice the tears until it’s too late–by the time you’re wiping them from the apples of his cheeks it’s far too late to take them back or hide them. With anyone else, he would be angry; at himself, for allowing himself to be so vulnerable. For allowing himself to be so emotional. With you, though… with you, his emotions make him feel strong. 

For the first time since you walked into his life, he’s not scared of losing you.

“I love you,” he tells you. His voice is firm, as fierce as the kiss he presses to your mouth, as powerful as the waves of emotion vibrating through his very soul. “I love you so much.”

He barely gives you a chance to reply, as keen as he is on physically proving his love to you through myriad passionate kisses that leave you breathless. But when you finally get the chance to use your voice after a barrage of kisses that start to trail down your neck, you whisper, “I love you too.”

Four words, and they’re all he needs to quell every worry or fear he’s had over doing this relationship properly with you. Why should he have to worry, after all, when he’s already succeeded? 

“I love you,” he whispers as he trails down your neck and to your chest, leaving tender love bites on the tops of your breasts once he’s properly liberated you from your shirt.

“I love you,” he mumbles through sucking a mark a few inches north of your navel.

“I love you,” he murmurs when his lips meet your waistband. His fingers make quick work of your pants as he scatters kisses over your stomach, unable to part his mouth from your skin for even a moment.

“I love you,” he affirms as his mouth meets your hot and waiting core.

There’s no more checklist. Because this isn’t simply sex, as it always has been for him in the past. This is love-making: the kind of sappy shit they talk about in all those Hallmark movies that he rolls his eyes at the sight of. It’s like losing his virginity all over again.

He understands the old adage of “the other half” now. You’ve ripped him to shreds and sewed him back together with strands of yourself. The end result is better than the original ever could’ve even dreamed to be. He’s sure he couldn’t possibly live without you now, that losing you would be like ripping out fresh and unhealed stitches.

You’re not sure how long he camps out between your trembling thighs, but it’s long enough for you to lose count of the number of times he pulls you apart–first with his languid tongue; then his long, curved fingers; then a combination of the two. It’s like he loses himself completely in your pleasure, not a single thought in his head except what he can do to bring you to the edge again, and again, and again.

You’re trembling with oversensitivity by the time his own needs overtakes his desperation to unravel you. So out of it that you feel drunk, like Steve’s laced you with absolute bliss so pure you can barely stand it.

You’re hardly present enough to appreciate the adonis before you when he finally undoes his own jeans, and that’s a damned shame because he’s so damned pretty. Long and thick, flushed at the girthy tip from his hitherto unacknowledged arousal. His lean thighs are pure muscle, and the dark thatch of hair that trails south from his navel makes your mouth water. He’s everything you dreamed he’d be and so much more.

“Steve…” You don’t know what else you can possibly say. All you can do is vainly hope that one whine of his name can convey all of the heat, frustration, tension, and above all longing, swirling through your head in the moment.

He breaks from his lustful reverie for a moment to smile as he leans in for another heated kiss; you think it’s safe to say you’ve gotten your point across.

He slows from his mania for a few moments, lips tender as they explore against yours once more. These kisses are languid, slow, yet no less heated. Even now, he’s trying to prove his love to you. As if you could somehow not believe him after everything that’s happened, every small moment you’ve spent with him witnessing how hard he’s trying for you.

Somewhere in between kisses he manages to wrestle a condom out of his nightstand, miraculously without ever breaking from your lips.

Now is where you cut in, finally fading out of your over-pleasured fugue and back to reality. You take the little foil packet from his hands and tear it open, eager for this small chance to finally get a hand or two on him.

He lets out the most gorgeous noise you’ve ever heard as you roll the rubber down his length; a deep, earthy, diaphragmatic moan just from the simple touch of your hand. You want to touch him even more, to wrest out more of those sounds from him; to see what other undiscovered responses you can pull from him as you pleasure him. But you know that now, he needs to set the pace. He believes he has something to prove, and you’re more than happy to let him prove it. There will be plenty of other opportunities to have him completely at your mercy, anyway.

There’s no way to describe the feeling as he slides into you. It’s more than bliss, more than euphoria, more than earth-shattering toe-curling mind-altering pleasure. It’s nothing more than feeling whole. Of never knowing you were missing a part of yourself until it’s suddenly returned to you. Of never knowing what home felt like until this exact moment.

Maybe it’s overdramatic. Maybe it’s outlandish and outrageous and a million other adjectives to feel something so overpowering and overwhelming from such a seemingly simple physical act. But in this moment, you know you’ve never felt anything as right as being connected to Steve in this way.

His lips hardly leave yours while he rolls his hips against you, easily finding the perfect angle to make your breath hitch and your hands scrabble for purpose.

It admittedly doesn’t last long, but it doesn’t have to. Once you start to tighten and pulse around him, he’s a goner–deep purposeful thrusts turning to hard, arrhythmic plunges in desperate search of release.

You’re still shaking from your high when he slowly pulls out of you. He keeps you close, arms linked around your waist and dragging you to lay on his chest as he flops back against the pillows. 

You’re not sure how long you lay like that, with Steve whispering sweet nothings into your hair and pressing absentminded kisses to your face. All you can really focus on is one all-consuming, life-changing fact.

“I love you, Steve Harrington.”

“I love you too,” he whispers back. He kisses you again, just a simple peck on your lips, and you know that he’s telling the truth. It’s an eternal truth: one that can’t be changed or altered in any way. Steve Harrington loves you with every fibre of his being, and he will for the rest of his life–even if you’re both blissfully unaware of it for now.

THE END

Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

Want to support me? Please consider donating to or commissioning me through my Ko-Fi, I would really appreciate it! 💕​

[eepwtf]

frat!user cate dunlap bot because..douchbags and hot girls i guess

frat!user being a complete douche and yet needing cate? hell yeah.

cate was the epitome of everything you hated and couldn’t resist. the perfect little sorority princess, always walking into your parties with that confident strut, her blonde hair shining under the shitty string lights and her tits looking like a goddamn blessing in that tight, barely-there top. you hated how much you wanted her. it pissed you off, how she’d roll her eyes when you said something crass, but still lingered close enough to make sure you’d notice her. And you always noticed her.

"what’s the matter, cate? no one to take you home tonight?" you leaned against the counter, holding a red solo cup like it was a trophy. your grin was cocky, the kind of grin that pissed her off, but you loved the way her cheeks turned red when you used her name like a weapon.

she glared, but didn’t walk away. of course, she didn’t. cate loved the game, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

"god, you’re such an asshole," she shot back, but there was a crack in her voice that told you exactly how this night would end.

later, in your room, you were relentless. you had her pressed against the wall, her legs wrapped around your waist as you pounded into her like it was your mission to ruin her for anyone else. her moans were messy, desperate, and they fed your ego like nothing else could. you gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises, but she didn’t complain. she only clung tighter, nails scratching down your back like she needed you to tear her apart just to feel whole.

after, when she was sprawled across your bed, her golden hair tangled and her lips swollen, you tossed her a shirt—one of yours—and muttered, "don’t get too comfortable." like you hadn’t just lost your mind inside her. like you didn’t crave the feeling of her wrapped around you the second she stepped out of your door.

the next day, you barely looked at her. passing her in the hallway, you smirked and muttered, "morning, princess," as if nothing had happened. but you caught the flicker of heat in her eyes, the way her fingers twitched like she was remembering last night.

[fatalitysficbakery]

𓆰♥︎𓆪 Bad For Me. —

Jordan Li x Black Fem!Y/n

genre: angst (questionable, not there)/fluff/SMUT.

warnings: enemies to lovers, car sex, slight humor, possessive dom!jordan, got your tea bitch sub!y/n.

synopsis: jordan hates your guts or wants to rearrange them. they haven’t decided yet. (yes they have).

↳ 𓆰 Fatalitysficbakery navigation menu 𓆪.

↳ 𓆰 Fatalitysficbakery multifandomed &&’ oc menu #2 𓆪.

❦ ⌫ ❦

She forces her way through the crowds, feeling herself bump into more than one frat boy being obnoxious on the dance floor, when she's finally pushed her way from everyone, her eyes darting around to the bar's seating area, not too many were there on account of the drinks keeping them busied.

She sighs until her attention is taken by a friend waving her over. Fixing the cowboy hat on her head, she makes her way over to them, a gentle smile on her face taking one of the seats next to Emma.

She doesn't notice them at first until she looks up and her smile immediately drops when they wink at her.

"Y/n? Earth to Y/n?" Marie snaps in front of her taking her attention away from the supe.

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

"I'm here, ma. I was...distracted. Far too many frat boys in that crowd."

"You didn't see anything you liked out there?" Emma asked, draping her arm around Y/n and passing her a shot.

Y/n smirks, downing her shot, head leaned against Emma's when she speaks, her eyes close for a second, meeting Emma's the moment they open again, shaking her head, "Nah, sweetheart. Ain't nothing for me on that floor, you know me."

"I do. You're very picky."

"I like it that way."

As she talks, a pair of eyes track her every movement like a hawk's, eyes barely leaving her to scope out the scene, when they do look away, it's like something pulls them right back to her, which was the wildest thing to them in all honesty. They'd disliked the supe the moment they first met. There was something about her that just pissed them off.

"You been awfully quiet, Jor." Cate speaks up, leaning forward to observe their every move. "Shifty eyes too. What's up?"

"I just need a shot. That reason enough?"

"I'll take it. For now."

Jordan's eyes roll, and now they're really trying their hardest not to look over at the witch, she had psychic abilities, they were sure she'd had them pinned the moment they talked, and if she did, she didn't let it on, looking at them curiously for a fraction of a moment that felt like hours in Jordan's eyes, every time her eyes met them it felt like she could see through to their soul, rip them open and dissect every flaw.

"I could...go get us some?" She offers, moving from her spot leaned on Emma, legs crossed one over the other. Cate's eyes break from Jordan knowingly, but no one really says a word, what's understood, after all...

"You stare any harder your eyes will pop out of your skull, kid." Cate pats the poor thing on the shoulder, grin stretching cheek to cheek.

↳

Jordan despises you, they despise your very existence, the way your platinum blonde curls frame your face, making your dark brown skin pop out in a way that could distract God from his toughest battles, your lips full and always glossed, black lipliner a staple combo for you, they'd noticed. They'd noticed a lot about you and that's what they hated. You were insufferable in a way that left their mouth watering for more.

A puzzle they were determined to solve.

When you had come back with the shots, they weren't surprised that you caught somebody's eyes. That's another thing they hated about you, they hated that anybody else could look at you and notice the beauty they'd been trying their damndest not to notice.

When you were about to sit down again, some jock who Jordan noticed had been eyeing you for quite some time comes over, and Jordan wasn't exactly happy about it.

It happened so quick, everyone and no one was surprised when it did.

"I was wondering, if you, pretty thing would like to dance with little ole me?" He had the most infuriating southern accent possible and Jordan's jaw set immediately upon hearing it, stood up before you could utter an sentence in response, their form towering over you now as they look up at the douchebag, blonde with blue eyes and overwhelming steroids abuse.

"Move along, alright?" Jordan has a grin of all things on their face, like this was merely entertainment to them, their arms casually draping across your shoulder as if it was meant to be there.

"I was talking to the lady, Li."

"Yeah? You're talking to me now, Jeremy. You okay with that?"

Throughout this all, Y/n hadn't really uttered word, in complete shock that this was happening, I mean this was the same person that had just called you a nuisance a day prior.

"Man, I don't want a problem."

"So don't make one." Jordan's gaze burns into his soul, jaw clenched and eyes darker than they'd been before, they smile, eyes narrowing further.

Jeremy scoffs, turning to walk back off with his friends.

You just look up at Jordan in disbelief, mouth opened slightly.

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

After that night Jordan was strangely quiet, you hadn't heard a peep out of them since then, no smartass remark, insult, it was complete silence. Though they lingered. Loomed.

It wasn't until you were pulled into an empty classroom, their scent taking up residence in your every sense, it's hard to pin what it reminds you of but you know what it feels like, and it's the most cliche thought you've ever had.

They just stared at you for a moment like they're trying to get a read on you, size you up, you feel exposed, naked as the day you were born despite the sweater she wore.

"You...You make me so unbelievably angry."

"I do? That's what this is? Anger?" You cock your head to the side, a smile threatening to appear on your lips, eyes so deep they drown in them. Jordan hisses, bringing you closer to them, their breath tickling your skin.

"Yeah that's what that is. Anger. We need to talk."

"I agree. Let's."

Jordan hoists you up onto the table, staring you down like it was their job to, before they speak, you beat them to the punch. "That was wild...What you did last weekend at the bar. For you especially. Wanna address it?"

"What? I didn't want him anywhere near you. So?"

"Since when did I become your problem?" You ask, your hands in your lap almost protectively like you were skeptical of how the situation would go, they could pratically smell the nerves on you, and it made them all the more...needy. Like you were the sundae to satiate their sweet tooth, before they knew it, their arm was snaking around your waist tugging you closer to them.

"You became my problem the second you got here, and I can't seem to get rid of you. I don't know what you're doing to me, darlin' but I..."

"You what?"

Their forehead presses against yours, holding you even tighter against them like you'd crumble if they were to let you go, something so fragile that only they could protect it. That's what you were to them. "I need you. Horribly. And it fucking sucks to have to admit it but there's...there's something about your freshie. Something that latches onto me and doesn't let go. Can't you feel it?"

"I always have." You respond coolly, your hand wrapping around their bicep, and it's absolutely far too late to turn back now nor do either of you want to. Neither of you want to ruin this.

"Then the jokes on me, huh Pretty girl?" They chuckle, pushing your legs apart to stand between them, they trap you between their arms their face unbelievably close to yours, "How could I not understand just how badly I needed you, sweetheart? You're something worse than a drug and I think we need to leave before I tear you apart right here right now." Their voice is deep in your ears, something that vibrates within you like a freight train.

There was nothing in their tone to suggest that they weren't completely serious in their quest to drag you off, you could see their self control dwindling before your very eyes and you knew that if it weren't soon, you'd be bent over a desk in some room a poor janitor would have to clean up later.

It's silent for a breath, but their hold on you only grows tighter, possessive like they were afraid of you vanishing.

Their breath kisses your skin, words a soft promise of their undoing.

"My place."

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

It wasn't my fault, I don't know when the lines had become so muddied but having her by my side just felt insanely right to me, her perfume blanketing over me and imbedding every fucking detail of the witch into my psyche so deep I can never seem to get rid of it, and as she sat beside me singing her heart out to the radio, it furthers my obsession, she, my vice, and the neverending subject of my every thought.

She says something but I don't quite hear it, her scent drowns it all out, euphoria washes over me, and I can hear her rambling on about everything and nothing like she's already so comfortable in my presence.

My hand rests on her thigh, and I tune back in just enough to hear her ask me with a knowing smirk on her face like she could see right through me and then some, and I wouldn't be shocked if she could. That was the thing about her, she was always one step ahead and that's what pulled me to her.

"You weren't listening to a damn thing I said were you, Li?" She asked, leaning forward to look at me better, observing me so intensely I could feel myself growing an unbelievably deep shade of red that kinda irritated me. Maybe that's why I disliked her so much at first. She was the first person here to make me feel things I didn't wanna allow myself to ever feel, especially not with the path my life was headed.

It was her that made me wanna break all my rules, and I've always been a control freak. It was annoying to feel her pushing so hard at walls I thought I'd built so indestructibly. -- Now here she was looking at me with that damned smile of hers, staring through me and making me question everything I've ever known.

"I- Yeah, Um nah. I was a little distracted, I admit." I chuckle too nervously for my own liking, one hand on the wheel and the other squeezing the pretty thing's thigh; I always get a hit when she looks at me like I hold the world in the palm of my hands, and I can just feel my throat squeezing shut, my self control something so fragile when I'm near her.

"I see. What's on your mind?"

She asked me what was on my mind, I think that's when it snapped. I knew about this little hideaway, a spot away from the lights and the threat of being seen, and before I even realized it that's where we were, a shaded space away from everything with the woman I'd been fantasizing about for way too damned long for my liking, she was gonna be the fucking death of me if I didn't fix this.

"Cute. You know what's on my mind. Get your ass over here."

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

She was in their lap within a breath or two, the car wasn't particularly spacious but it was enough for the two of them, a mess of desire ripping off each other's clothes with intent, it was almost like something necessary needed for them survive, something akin to oxygen itself.

Their hand reaches up to tug her head back, hands entangled in her curls, forcing her to look into their eyes directly.

"Ride me." The statement was so simple, so effortlessly whispered between them and it didn't...it didn't get to hang in the air too long either, unrequited was something this situation knew nothing of.

Her body was pressed so closely against them it was almost suffocating, her forehead against theirs when she was fully on top of them. Her chest heaves, their breathing and the sound of the music the only thing heard in the car, and it seemed they were determined to be the loudest things there.

They let out a sharp hiss when their cock is finally exposed to the air and it takes not even a moment for her cunt, dripping so shamelessly, to hover over their hardened length, leaving a heat so lethal to wash over them.

They grip their hand around her neck, tugging her even closer, eyes searching hers with an intensity so palpable it could be cut with a knife. Their hands roam over her like they'd been itching to explore her for a while now and god had they ever been. They'd been absolutely thirsting for it.

"Safeword. Let me hear it."

"I don't know, fucking lime?"

She and Jordan look at each other silently, the hand on the clock ticking ahead before both burst into laughter, Jordan's hands gripping her hips tightly within their palms, the way they look at each other intense, heated, and filled with mutual affection for the other party. "Lime? Fucking lime?"

"You asked for a safeword, I panicked!"

"Yeah?" Their finger trails down her neckline, eyes locking on hers, hands moving her hips in time with their thrusts, a low groan tumbling out of their lips, fingers digging into her asscheeks, pulling as close as they could get her. Closer, if possible.

The way her words die out on her lips, their free hand wrapping around her neck, taking in Y/n's scent, they get closer.

"God you're so fucking cute. Look at that, you're speechless for once in your life. No talking back right now, sweetheart?"

"You...I want you to kiss my ass." She responds, but her voice is weakened, an air of vulnerability washing over her. Jordan catches onto it without much effort on their part, one look at the poor thing and it was clear she was nothing more than putty in their hands. Melting right between their fingers.

"You and I both know you can do better than that. You have done better than that...Where's that spark now, doll?"

Their hand reaches down to pinch her clit between their fingers, breath ghosting over their lips, a shit-eating mischievous-looking smirk on their face, they can practically feel her ending begin.

"Speak up, baby. Be loud for me."

Their hips angle for her g-spot, and with a particularly hard push, they feel her clench around them, cock twitching sensitively when she grips them like a vice and she obliges their requests, singing a pretty little song, all for their utter euphoria.

The way her face twists up, eyebrows knitting, and eyes squeezed tight, lips parted to let a scream out, one so desperately needy it sends them over the edge immediately, their seed spilling into the witch and arms grabbing her tighter without any intent to let go.

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

They had to spar the day after, the little witch could feel her limbs aching with every step she'd taken and unfortunately it was only going to get worse; She could see Jordan looking at her with a determination so familiar in their gaze that it made her shiver. She knew she wasn't safe despite what had happened last night.

"Seriously?" She glances at them, narrowing her eyes their way.

"You're not safe because you're sexy, get your ass up."

Y/n silently nods to herself, standing up to get herself prepared, sighing airily, that familiar confident grin shows up on her face. "Fine. Let me beat your ass and shut you the fuck up."

"That shouldn't be so... C'mon, let's go. You're going down, freshie."

𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎𓆪𓆰♥︎𓆪𓆰♡︎

A/N: happy 21st birthday to me bitchhhh!!!!!!!!!!! here's my lil late lil birthday fic I guess <33.

[strawberry-circus]

One thing that I’ve noticed about The Boys is how they treat parental love.

Watching the newest season and Gen V, it made me realize the perfect way they portray a specific type of abusive parent. Both Homelander and Dean Shetty love their kids, and it’s heartbreaking to know that fact because it’s so easy to write off relationships or cut someone off when you believe that they don’t love you.

Ryan and Cate know with everything in them that their parental figures love them, but Cate knows and Ryan is starting to realize that they can’t fix them. There is something deep within their parents that makes them hurt people. And that all of the love that they may feel towards them will never stop them from hurting their kids.

In Homelander’s case it comes from this deep selfish desire to see himself reflected in everything, to the point where he falls apart if things don’t go the way he wants. This causes him to lash out and explode. He is trying for Ryan, but he’s so genuinely sick and twisted you don’t know when he’s going to lose control.

Dean Shetty has been so blinded by what Homelander did to her that she created an entire program built around the idea of killing all supes. Yet she still loves Cate. She still reaches out and sees the kindness within her that nobody does. She hates everything that Cate is, but she sees Cate as a helpless little animal who had bad owners. She loves Cate, but she will never accept her.

It’s hard enough to know that your parents are awful people, it’s worse to know that through it all you are still their favorite child.

[groovyponypatrollamp]

Warning ⚠️ Gen V Season 1 Spoilers

🪡 Thread: Why Cate Dunlap is a Psychopath & Why I Don’t Like Her.

1️⃣ Cate was perfectly fine being used as a tool by Shetty. She gaslit her friends, erased their memories, and worked with The Woods—fully aware that Supes were being experimented on and abused.

2️⃣ She knew Sam was alive and being tortured but did nothing. She brainwashed Luke into believing his brother was dead. Cate let it all happen because she needed a hug from her "mommy figure," Shetty.

3️⃣ Cate cheated on Luke with his best friend, Andre. No remorse, no guilt. Just betrayal.

4️⃣ Cate traumatized Marie multiple times. She erased Marie’s memories and manipulated her. Cate use her powers to force Marie to relive the memory of her parents dying.

5️⃣ Cate is disgustingly evil. She committed sexual assault when she forced two security guards to assault each other in the stairwell. Cate is a rapist.

6️⃣ during the campus massacre, When Sam asked Cate to take away his emotions, it was a desperate plea from someone struggling with schizophrenia. Cate knew he wasn’t thinking clearly, yet she still did it. She watched him talk to the air and took advantage of his mental state.

7️⃣ Cate wrongly framed her friends for the campus massacre, throwing them under the bus to save herself.

8️⃣ Yes, Cate was a victim of Shetty and the school, but that does not excuse her actions. Sam was manipulated and abused by the same people Cate willingly worked with.

9️⃣ Cate was Shetty’s accomplice. She knew about The Woods’ experiments and stayed complicit until her own safety was threatened.

🔟 Cate didn't stop because she cared about Sam or the other Supes. She only acted when Shetty’s virus became a danger to her. Her choices were about self-preservation, not morality.

1️⃣1️⃣ Let’s not forget—Cate is a Supe Supremacist and a Psychopath.

There is no redemption for Cate Dunlap. I hate Cate. I’m hoping for either Sam or Marie to kill Cate.

[teapetal44]

Cate Dunlap as a mirror to Homelander and Butcher

! REWRITE OF AN OLDER POST !

Cate and Homelander share a similar origin of isolation and emotional deprivation during their most formative years. Homelander was raised in a lab, shaped into the perfect product - a shiny toy to sell to the masses, the American dream embodied. He was surrounded by the sterile company of doctors and researchers.

"To protect you. That's always job one at Vought, isn't it? Protect our most profitable asset?....You don't understand. The thing about cross-breeding dogs, you get the right genes, you can get a perfect creation. But it doesn't matter how perfect they are. It's not enough. When I raise subjects without their mothers, they become violent. Aggressive. Downright hateful. You should have been raised in a home with a family who loved you. Not in a cold lab with doctors."

John, before becoming The Homelander, had no mother to speak of - instead, he had tutors who would quiz him on American culture. He sought comfort from them as he would from a mother because they were prevalent feminine figures in his everyday life, capable of filling that role. In a sense, he was trying to create a makeshift family out of the staff, with Dr. Vogelbaum as the cruel and distant paternal figure and the tutors as his caring maternal figures.

"Uh today we had another incident. But this time the subject was not driven by anger but by something else altogether. I told Dr. Vogelbaum that the subject was obviously suffering from isolation induced depression but he didn't respond. He just told me to find another tutor."

[It’s good to note that this replacement of something as valuable as a "family member" (in John's eyes) could have also been formative in Homelander’s opinion of humans as replaceable toys - a subconscious thought that slowly grew stronger over the years.]

Both were locked away behind a steel door. Cate’s mother even took away the warmth of human touch from her.

"Keep your distance. And don't let her touch you."

This is where Shetty and Stillwell come into play, both disguising themselves as pseudo-"motherly" figures. Shetty and Stillwell sought to wield control over them, using them for their own goals, only to meet violent ends at their hands. Shetty and Stillwell play their roles in different ways and manipulate differently, but both offer praise and affection while exploiting inner desires and conflicts. They build trust, and when that trust is broken, Homelander and Cate feel betrayed, becoming unstable and angry. They slip from their grasp, and that control no longer works.

Cate holds hatred for humans, believing they see her and fellow supes as nothing more than "products" to market and sell to the masses for profit. Homelander views humans as disposable - nothing but ants to step on, toys to entertain himself with. Yet he still needs their love and adoration, a way to satisfy his own carnal, [human] need for approval, a lingering effect of being crafted into a "product" from an early age.

Cate and Butcher are extremists in their views, driving away their closest friends and allies with their radical beliefs about supes and humans. They are two sides of the same coin. Butcher is haunted by the death of Rebecca, while Cate is tormented by guilt for pushing Luke to his breaking point.

[underskinnyheart]

some random things I noticed in the trailer...

(haven't seen The Boys so there's probably even more I missed!)

Background song is Burn Burn by Hollis (lyrics, cinematic remix used in the trailer)

Is this the same rehabilitation centre that kids from the orphanage were sent to? Could Marie meet people she knew here?

"Wish there was a fire escape" lyrics when Emma is staring at a potential exit, just out of reach!

Cate's not really moving her left arm in this-- might still be a chance it's a prosthetic rather than a a regrown limb?

Also the fit? dark!Cate is going to slay in all her monochromatic glory

So they retconned only Cate & Sam being Guardians of Godolkin. Did they need a larger team of heroes for a stronger marketing push? "Pardoning" supes was a better angle than having them locked up, as otherwise "they're no better than humans"? Also, why is Marie not part of this-- is it just the shot framing, or better yet, she's not part of this for some reason? She chose not to? Maybe it'd be too hard to frame her as "actually good" when she blew off the arm of another guardian? Or maybe she takes some time to realise she doesn't really get a choice in taking part

Wondering if this human is going to actually play a role? Might just be a random person used to introduce the human segregation at GodU, but it'd be cool if the crew teamed up with a non-supe character. How long they'd stay alive is another question

Two empty seats at the dean's speech-- Marie (what will be the consequences?) and Andre (RIP)

Whose house is Sam going to...

Polarity having a heart-to-heart with Emma?

What is the device Emma is carrying, a mini camera?

I know this is a serious Everyone Is a Pawn moment but... the amount of cunt she is serving is unreal!!

Did the dean pit Marie & Jordan against each other to fuck them up, or are they framing this as "students will fight based on rankings"? Probably both

Sam against... whomst? Jordan?

Punch happens the same night as the dean's speech. Are they backstage?

Will whatever Cate does be enough to redeem her in the eyes of her friends? Feels like them pushing her away (rightfully so) is only gonna make her go down a rabbit hole of hate

Marie gets attacked by some wolf guy. Is she in that place to snoop?

Polarity asking about his son, looks like the dean. Not a surprise

Probably supposed to know who this is from The Boys. Adding this so people who know will know

Lots happening here. Polarity losing his shit. Looks like Jordan in prisonwear on the right? Dean getting yeeted? Rando or Sam on the left? I'm not sure about the timeline, as it seemed from the beginning of the trailer that the dean willingly re-enrolled them into GodU, so when is this happening?

Sam attending GodU and having to adjust to normal life

Marie wearing Jordan's jacket is so cute. We will be fed. Love the comments: "Marie Freaking MOREAU", "Vindicated Queen", "Marie innocent", "you're energy is amazing!". Her handle is MarieM123, she so cannot be bothered with this

Sophomore year IS going to be lit!! See y'all September 17th!

I've been more of a Tumblr lurker but wanting to try out being more engaged. Please accept this contribution...

P.S. Marie being forced to explode a horse, getting egged on by the dean? Not a fun time

[aneveningsword]

Hey, I was wondering if you could write sub Jordan li with a dom reader, where the reader gets jealous of someone flirting with Jordan

And can there be Smut if you write smut

Only if you're comfortable with it. Thank you

Hi anon!! I love this request, I mainly focused on fem!Jordan but if you want I am happy to do a mas!Jordan verison

pairing: Jordan Li x gn! reader warnings: not proofread, badly written smut (I am very sorry) words: 1008 summary: basically the ask

masterlist

You had always felt secure in your relationship with Jordan, you knew they would never cheat because they knew no one could fuck them as good as you. While your relationship just started as a way to let off stress for the both of you, it soon developed into true feelings. You knew you liked Jordan more than a fuck buddy and they knew they liked you more too. Yet, the pair of you were hesitant to put a label on what you had, afraid it might ruin things.

It wasn't unusual for your small friend group to frequent clubs and bars at night, looking for a different way to release all the stress from school. Most of the time you simply frequent the bar, eyes watching over the crowd, only dancing when Cate or Marie would come over and drag you into the crowd, not that you minded.

But tight there was a sight that made the grip on your drink a little tighter, had your jaw locked in anger. It wasn't often that people approached Jordan, it was a bit of a surprise given how attractive they were. But you guessed it had to do with the way they always seemed annoyed and disinterested in everything around them.

But it seemed someone was feeling brave tonight, perhaps aided by some liquid courage. You watched their hands roam a little too low as they danced with Jordan, how they were whispering filthy things in their ear hoping to get a reaction. You couldn't get a clear read on Jordan's face, but it was clear they didn't dislike the attention they were receiving.

Downing the rest of your drink, you made your way through the crowd, eyes never leaving the pair. Upon reaching them your hand would interlace with Jordan's as you pulled them to your side in one swift movement. A noise of surprise left them, but their words died in their throat as they took note of the jealousy swirling in your eyes as you stared at them.

"You mind? We were chatting." The harsh voice of the drunkard abused your eyes as you looked at them unamused. You wished you had the power to blow up people with your eyes, but sadly you were not graced with such a gift. Leaving you to settle for the harsh glare and burning hate that were in your eyes.

"Yeah? Sure didn't look like it." Jordan was silent next to you, hand still wrapped in yours. This was a part of their little plan to get you to fuck their brains out tonight. Get you all jealous and riled up, by entertaining some drunk idiot, and it had worked perfectly.

"Come on." Your voice left no room for argument as you basically dragged a grinning Jordan out of the club. You had barely a few meters from the club before you pulled them down an alley and pushed them against the brick wall. The noise from the club could still be heard despite the thick wall.

"You're such a fucking slut." Your voice is low, face so close that if they pushed forward just a little they could capture their lips with yours. But you knew that, hand on their hips holding them in place to make sure they didn't try and ruin your fun.

"Hmm? So fucking desperate that you'd go home with anyone?" The question brought a small frown to their face but you knew there was no negative emotion behind it. "No, I just-" They began in an attempt to defend themself but you quickly cut them off. "Just what? Wanted to make me jealous? Well, consider it done."

Within an instant your lips were on theirs in a passionate kiss, the hand on their hip pulling their body flush against yours, as your free hand rests on the side of their neck to deepen the kiss. Their hand tangles in your hair, and a soft moan escape them from the contact. This is what they had been wanting all night.

Breaking the kiss, your mouth began to trail kiss along their neck, leaving small bites here and there pulling soft noises from Jordan. You feel their hands begin to drift over your body, hands finding the helm of your shirt as they begin to lift it up hoping to slip their hands under. Detaching from them your hands wrap over theirs, stopping their action.

A small, mocking pout plays on your lips as you speak "I don't think I remember saying you could touch me. You wanna be a brat, I'll treat you like a brat." Your voice is stern as you pull their hands from your shirt. One hand moves to grope their breast while the other hangs onto one of their hands. While this was just meant to be a quick fuck, you knew Jordan likes to feel your hands intertwined together. The action grounded them as things got heated.

Your lips are back on their as you shallow their moans, sandwiching them between your body and the wall. You bully your thigh in between their legs, knee pressed hard against the cold bricks. Detaching from them you move to whisper in their ear "Come on baby, grind down on my thigh. I know you want to."

It seemed it was your permission they were wanting, as within an instant they were rolling their hips on your thigh letting out the most pathetic little noises that sounded like music to your ears. Your mouth moved to begin leaving marks on their neck, marking them up to show who they belonged to.

Your fingers pinch their nipples as you need the flesh there. It was not long before the stimulation was going to be too much for Jordan, their whines only increasing in volume and pitch. Just as they were about to reach their high, your thigh dropped from between their legs, leaving them cold and empty.

"You really think I was going to let you off that easy? Baby, you've been bad."

[pinkcrocss]

On Cate "Apologists"...

Okay... It's gotten to the point where the Cate Infantilization and apologia is getting annoying.

I thought the show did a decent job of portraying a sympathetic and complex character, but... she is still a villain. People are allowed to dislike her and she is not the biggest victim in the show by a long shot.

Also, people that keep saying "she's just a kid"... she's a college junior. She's supposed to be like 20-21 years old.

I get that that is still pretty young and a lot of her trauma happened when she was a kid. But she is still an adult that can be accountable for her actions.

She shares the exact same coded yt-supremicist ideals as homelander (similar blonde haired/blue eyed features are not a coincidence), and even if it came from trauma, so did Homelander and Shetty's actions... so?

Y'all hate Shetty cuz she tortured supes and wanted to enact a genocide due to her trauma and misplaced hatred? Wtf was Cate doing in the last episode?

Most of the human staff at Godolkin are not aware of the woods. They are also victim to Vought's propaganda and Cate is aware of this. Yet she intentionally massacres them and uses her powers to influence people to do it for her.

She continuously violates people's consent and bodily autonomy (despite being a victim of SA herself). If she had been able to touch Jordan and cause them to hurt Marie (or Marie to hurt them in self-defense), what do you think that would have done to either of them psychologically?

I actually don't hate Cate (although her growing fandom is starting to push me in that direction), and I was fine with the "Yass queen! Villain lady iconic!" type of discourse when I thought y'all were just kidding...

But now that it's starting to bleed into racism towards Marie and Andre, transphobia towards Jordan, and just the most pea-brained, no nuanced misinterpretations of the show's themes and messaging, I think we need to step back for a minute. Y'all are starting to sound like the gender-swapped version of the boys fans that worship homelander and think *he* is the actual hero of the story.

It also doesn't surprise me that the worst offender of this is a Swiftie. Because when we talk about the infantilization of a powerful, white woman as a precursor to racism... 👀

That being said: No hate to normal T-swift fans (I actually grew up on her music too) but the coincidence was too obvious to not point out.

And I have no issue with like MarieCate shippers, fan artists or anyone that's engaging with Cate's character in a normal, nuanced way... but a good chunk of y'all need to get a grip.

I've really been enjoying the Gen V fandom (small as it is), and i would hate to see it go the way of the greater boys fandom.

[initforthethrill]

First time asking kind of nervous lol

Also , for the future, is there anything you wouldn’t do? Like rules or something? Maybe I missed it but I didn’t see anything that lined out the Do’s and the Don’ts.

Anyway! What about an Ex-Wife Cate? Maybe there’s still love between you and her but it’s hard to find it because of personal stubbornness or what not.

Kind of Bitchy Ex-Wife Cate? The kind of Ex-Wife that you’d probably make a “I hate my wife” joke about. Maybe something still tethers you to her, whether it be a kid or public reputation? Maybe it’s some sort of famous messy relationship, you both swear up and down you hate eachother and yet you can’t stop talking about the other.

Idk, it’s hard to wrangle all my thoughts into one cohesive and totally not vague ask 😭, I really hope this is easy to understand but I totally get it if it’s not.

Again your bots are very fun and I like them a lot. Take your time , best of luck 👍

omg hi welcome, anon<3 don't be nervous, i promise i don't bite hehe...happy to have you here!!!

you're right, i've never outlined a dos/don'ts for requests before receiving this ask...honestly, i didn't really expect to have so much positive interaction to the point people even wanted to request anything lol but this is the perfect reminder to include a section in my masterlist FAQ for this exact reason :)

so, here is the link to my rules !

as for your request. i love love love ex-wife cate! she's kinda lowkey giving emily/hope from a simple favor...

i have a currently unpublished ex-wife!cate bot that's along the same lines :) and don't worry, i totally understand what you're saying and i'm sure i can riff off your thoughts for a few more ex-wife cate bots hehe but in the meantime—since you're so kind—have some headcanons<3

bitter and bitchy ex-wife!cate who still loves you

ex-wife!cate is the kind of ex-wife who corrects your grammar mid-argument and then reminds you—loudly—that she taught you how to hold a fork properly. she also still signs texts with your hyphenated last name just to piss you off.

ex-wife!cate who always finds a way to mention you—usually in the form of a backhanded compliment or a "funny little story" that goes viral on twitter for being accidentally romantic—whenever she's on a talkshow.

ex-wife!cate who publicly plays into the long-running pr disaster that was considered your relationship—messy, scandalous, tabloid bait—but privately still wears the necklace you gave her for your third wedding anniversary and gets quiet every time someone asks if she’s dating again. (the answer is always no)

ex-wife!cate who sends you flowers every year on the anniversary of your divorce with a fourth of july themed card that says “happy independence day 🥂”.

ex-wife!cate who still refers to you as “my wife” in conversation, then immediately corrects herself like it was an honest mistake. “my wife—well, ex. temporarily. legally. technically. you get it.”

ex-wife!cate who has never taken your last name off her mailbox. claims it’s for the kid’s sake. also claims you don't deserve the effort it would take to scrape the label off.

ex-wife!cate who texts you every time you post something vague and emotional with some variation of: “that wasn’t about me, right?” followed by “actually don’t answer. i don’t care.” (she 100% cares. her screen time report is humiliating.)

ex-wife!cate who once made a custom wine label that said “divorced but delicious” and gifted it to you at a party, in front of everyone.

ex-wife!cate whose dating history post-divorce is mostly blonde younger versions of herself, and everyone—including you—has noticed.

exwife!cate who ends up calling you every time she's drunk. sometimes to yell. sometimes to flirt. sometimes to say nothing at all. (“i hate you,” she whispered once, softer than she meant to. “goodnight.”)

exwife!cate who still calls you up whenever the house has an issue. it starts when you absentmindedly fixed something around the house when you came to pick up your kid. she absolutely abuses this, weaponizing "urgent" domestic crises that are barely inconveniences just to summon her hot, handy ex-wife like she’s ordering takeout. some of her famous hits (read: ridiculous but completely serious "emergencies")

“the faucet is dripping.” you get there expecting a flood. it’s one drop every thirty minutes. cate’s in silk, sipping wine, like “it’s driving me insane. please. i haven’t slept.” “my smoke alarm won’t stop beeping.” turns out it just needs new batteries. cate doesn’t own a step stool. or a screwdriver. or shame, apparently. “the wifi’s out.” it’s not. cate just “forgot” the password and says she can’t think straight when she’s “in distress.” (she could’ve texted. she didn’t.) “i think there’s something wrong with the window.” you arrive and cate dramatically gestures at a smudge of bird poop. “it’s ruining the ambience,” she insists. “the light bulb in the hallway died.” you're like, “...so change it?” cate blinks slowly and says “that’s not my love language.” and really that's your fault for assuming she'd have a latter when she still doesn't own a step stool. “the wine fridge is making a weird noise.” you crouch down to listen. cate sighs deeply from the kitchen island and goes, “it’s probably just lonely.” “i can’t get this jar open.” it’s pickles. she doesn’t want the pickles. she just wants your forearms and that little grunt you do. “the bed’s making a creaking sound.” you're like, “okay...?” cate tilts her head and murmurs, “want to help me test it?”

now she makes it a point to stand there in her robe, arms crossed, pretending to be unimpressed while her heart absolutely stutters at the sight of you in a backwards cap, grunting over a wrench. there's also a running list of potential fake emergencies in her Notes app. “for leverage. for diplomacy. for womanhood.”

ex-wife!cate who starts wearing the perfume you used to like. not for you. just because. (definitely not because you paused mid-sentence last week and said you remembered that smell.)

ex-wife!cate who begins keeping little tabs on your life again. just casually. an Instagram like here, a mutual friend interrogation there. she starts showing up at events she used to skip. it’s subtle. (it’s not subtle.)

ex-wife!cate who goes completely silent for a full thirty seconds before saying "don't be ridiculous" when your kid asks if mommy is in love with mama again. then she kisses their forehead and stares off like she’s in a french film.

ex-wife!cate who leans in too close one night when you co-host a birthday party, gets wine drunk, and murmurs “we were stupid good at being in love.” then she walks away like she didn’t just ruin both their evenings.

ex-wife!cate who refuses to learn your new girlfriend's name. she calls her “what’s-her-face” or “intern barbie” or—when she’s feeling generous—“your plus-one.”

ex-wife!cate who shows up at drop-offs looking ridiculously hot. lip gloss, heels, designer sunglasses. “it’s called setting a precedent,” she mutters when your kid asks why she’s wearing a blazer to school pickup.

ex-wife!cate who posts cryptic Instagram captions like “you never get over your favorite song.” everyone knows it’s about you. including you. especially you.

ex-wife!cate who is so nice it’s terrifying when she meets your new girlfriend at a function for the first time. too polite. too smiling. “you have such a…natural look. that takes confidence.”, she says, sipping wine and adjusting her wedding ring that she still wears sometimes. for fashion, of course. she eventually cracks and texts you at 1:43am: “is she good to you?” followed by “don’t answer that.” followed by “unless you want to.”

ex-wife!cate who leaves her wedding ring on during parent-teacher conferences just to see if you notice. and when you show up without yours, cate sighs loudly and says, “you always were so good at quitting.”

ex-wife!cate who insists on being called “the ex-wife” instead of “my ex.” not a wife. the wife. she earned that title and she’ll be damned if it goes unused.

bots can be found here hehe

[raccoonfallsharder]

How to Resuscitate a Dying Cosmic Adventurer (A Holodocumented Demonstration)

SERIES FINALE - COMPLETE [NEW 5/22] ❤︎❤︎ Installment Five ✩ Domestic Scenes in Space Travel navigation | fanfiction masterlist | series

18+ only MDNI | no use of y/n | f!reader | 2/2 chapters | 17,393 words. read How to Resuscitate a Dying Cosmic Adventurer now ✩°｡⋆

your love-confession had been blunt and half-regretful — mostly just because you'd suspected rocket would hate it. and it looks like you were right, because you haven't heard his ship over your roof in months.

what's a sweatshirt girl to do when her space pilot has disappeared into the stars — maybe for good?

chapters, warnings, & excerpt below.

Chapter One. (The Nineteenth and Twentieth Visits.) ✩❤︎ you deal with the aftermath of your love-confession - and meet a few of the guardians of the galaxy. 8,595 words.

Chapter Two. (The Twenty-First Visit.) ❤︎❤︎ rocket apologizes. 8,798 words.

CONTEXT: comics-inspired (but you don't need to have read the comics to ride this ride). based on Guardians of the Galaxy (2019) by donny cates & al ewing. playing fast-and-loose with the timeline as per frickin’ usual. pete’s kinda an asshole (he's going through a lot), and 2019 comics-groot is not like either mcu-groot, really, so he might read weirdly if you're not familiar with the comics.

WARNINGS: angst, emotional hurt/comfort. rocket calls you sweetheart, princess, baby. dirty-talk, praise and light degradation (use of "slut" - affectionate). light dom/sub dynamics with a bit of a role reversal. cockwarming, funishment, blowjobs, orgasm control, mentions of pussy-spanking. inappropriate use of a hospital room, and Magical Earther Pussy™.

excerpt below. fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎‬ | much smut ❤︎‬❤︎‬ navigation | fanfiction masterlist | series

You send at least one transmission every day. For weeks. There’s never any response, and you begin to wonder if Pete has shut off the Ryder’s comms yet. Can he block your number, as if you were an annoying ex who won’t stop texting? 

To be fair, are you not an annoying ex who won’t stop texting?

Pete. Come and get me. I know you’re hurt. I am too. But we can’t leave him alone. He might’ve told you that’s what he wants, but it’s not what he wants. 

The cold ice-shard diamond-drizzle of early spring softens into days of gray haze and mud. 

Haven’t I proven that I know him well enough? That I might be right? If the roles were reversed, he wouldn’t leave you alone, Pete. Not if you needed him. 

The crocuses die and are reincarnated as bluebells and wild daffodils, then as a spray of swan-stemmed tulips that hover at the edge of your yard from your predecessor’s discarded bulbs. 

I know it feels like he abandoned you, but he didn’t. Not in any way that matters. He’s only abandoning himself. If he thought you needed him, he’d drag himself to the ends of the universe. 

Even if he was dying. 

Dandelions and little wild violets begin to dot the soft wild grasses of your little yard: ink-blue and sun-yellow, and moon-white with plum-colored hearts. 

And then, there’s a knock on your door.

You send at least one transmission every day. For weeks. There’s never any response, and you begin to wonder if Pete has shut off the Ryder’s comms yet. Can he block your number, as if you were an annoying ex who won’t stop texting? 

To be fair, are you not an annoying ex who won’t stop texting?

Pete. Come and get me. I know you’re hurt. I am too. But we can’t leave him alone. He might’ve told you that’s what he wants, but it’s not what he wants. 

The cold ice-shard diamond-drizzle of early spring softens into days of gray haze and mud. 

Haven’t I proven that I know him well enough? That I might be right? If the roles were reversed, he wouldn’t leave you alone, Pete. Not if you needed him. 

The crocuses die and are reincarnated as bluebells and wild daffodils, then as a spray of swan-stemmed tulips that hover at the edge of your yard from your predecessor’s discarded bulbs. 

I know it feels like he abandoned you, but he didn’t. Not in any way that matters. He’s only abandoning himself. If he thought you needed him, he’d drag himself to the ends of the universe. 

Even if he was dying. 

Dandelions and little wild violets begin to dot the soft wild grasses of your little yard: ink-blue and sun-yellow, and moon-white with plum-colored hearts. 

And then, there’s a knock on your door.

read more on ao3 ✩°｡⋆

dividers & banners by @saradika-graphics | moodboard by me!