#BUT IT WAS SO FUNNY TO SEE WHAT IT ACTUALLY WAS

[letteremi]

f*cking (with) your ex is iconic

art by su2kuna on x - check them out !!

playing pranks on big, bad sukuna. or, messing with your ex until he swoons from sheer annoyance into your bed - sukuna x fem!reader

content warnings/tags: nsfw (explicit fingering, non-explicit piv, emotional?? porn w feelings) - sukuna is desperate [MDNI], porn with plot??, swearing, non-sorcerer au, maybe funny idk it depends on your sense of humour, ex bf!Sukuna (who’s still whipped), petty prankster!reader, mutual pining, gojo is a menace, like one word mention of geto + choso + toji, yuji as sukuna’s nephew, jealousy, making up (and out), lightest bit of angst + dramatic confession, happy ending - not proof read so like look away really quickly if there are typos ty

the sukuna propaganda...it got to me

w/c: 6k

Sukuna remembers the day you broke up with him, like a permanent scar, like one of the dark, trailing tattoos etched on his skin. 

It’s been exactly three months and two weeks.

Well, could it be called a break up if you just up and left? When he got back, his house was dark, and it felt like the very spirit of the place had been sucked out. 

It smelled like you too — not in the au naturel way, like how you smelled when tucked in the crook of his arm — like copious, copious amounts of your perfume. 

Like you had deliberately spritzed heavy amounts of the artificial scent into every crevice of his house, until every inch of his space was stained with you. 

Emptied every bottle you owned into his walls — and he bought your (very fucking expensive) signature fragrance for you, he knew how much that must’ve hurt. 

And when he checked the bathroom, your toothbrush was missing, your skincare gone, and your towel no longer beside his by the rack. 

Sukuna backtracked, stumbling over his own feet on the way back to the shoe rack. He almost didn’t want to check, because checking would be confirming that you were really gone. 

But there it was — or rather, it wasn’t. Every single pair of your shoes was gone, like when you walked out, they had followed.

The bedroom was next. Sukuna didn’t even bother scouring the area for signs of you. He knew by the state of the sheets — neatly tucked under the mattress, a sight you’d see in a hotel — that you weren’t there. You’d cleaned where you slept next to him for years, like you were dusting remnants of your life with him away. 

And plastered ominously to the wall above the bedframe, was a singular, neon yellow sticky note — the only bright spot left in his living space. Unmissable. And written in your pretty handwriting.

How fucking ironic was that? 

‘You know what you did.’ And you emphasised the period. Like you were trying to stab him with the pen. 

Um. No, he did not. What the fuck did he do? 

He wracked his brains, the sentence rattling around in his skull like a ping pong ball. 

Did he not wash the dishes one too many times?

No, actually, the first time you brought it up, he became elbow deep in suds and dishwater like a man possessed. And then you scowled about the water bill, to which he flicked bubbles in your face. 

Was it about the socks he left lying on the floor?

He eyed them on the floor then, turned inside out like his stomach was.

No, it wouldn’t be about the socks. He knows you well enough that if it were about the socks, you’d have given him hell for it. And he would’ve listened, just like he did with the dishes, the garden, the flickering lightbulb in the hallway. 

So, what was it about? 

He tried to call you, message you, email you. He even went on Roblox to text you (Yuji threatened you and him to download it, to play with him). 

Every single thing he tried, failed. You had blocked him on everything. He had to admit that your dedication was astounding, it was one of the things he truly loved about you. 

So, Sukuna knew that if he tried to force it, you’d never come back to him. What was that saying about attracting, and not chasing? 

Anyway, you couldn’t avoid him forever. You lived in the same area, hung out with the same people, went out to the same clubs. 

He could wait until you were ready to talk. You’d be back — you just didn’t know it yet. 

⋆.𐙚 ̊

Prank 1: the best ex your nephew could ask for 

Should Sukuna thank his lucky stars that you were in his life again, or should he unplug the miniature karaoke machine from the wall and sit his nephew down to tell him that if he considers a career in music, he will starve to death?

“Yuji?” Sukuna stares at the blaring, blinking machine, the way a man might look at a bomb he’s too tired to defuse.

His answer comes in the form of screamed out song lyrics that have him wanting to claw out his eardrums. “Kid, just cause you got a present, doesn’t mean you have to lug it around like a damn limb.” 

“Auntie got it for me. I’m going to sing.” The six-year-old turns the volume up, and Sukuna considers writing his will. 

‘Auntie’ got it for him when you and Sukuna had already broken up. He was pretty sure ‘auntie’ only did this to annoy him, knowing he babysat Yuji almost every weekend. He stares out the window, like a mournful widow might, glaring at the bright, shining sun like it owes him money. 

And then he grabs Yuji’s ipad, swipes to Roblox, scrolls to your stupid user. The green dot by your avatar tells him you’re online — perfect. 

There’s zero hesitation in his fingertips as he types his scathing message. 

‘Take back your demon-spawned karaoke machine.’ Huh.

That makes him sound too bothered, too annoyed by your antics. Which is exactly what you want.

So, he settles on: you left something at Jin’s place 

No punctuation, zero emotive language. He’s powerful. Above it. 

He blinks, and the vibrant green is now grey. Offline, and that’s when he knows you’ve done the equivalent of leaving him on read. 

Yuji hits a high note so shrill, Sukuna worries for the glassware. 

“Okay, field trip. Get your shoes on.” He yanks the machine from the wall like a hostage negotiator losing patience, and the satisfaction that fills his chest is embarrassing, as the flickering lights die down. “We’re going to ‘auntie’s’ place.”

Yuji blinks. “But she said not to bother her unless someone’s dead.” 

“I’m close.”

The karaoke machine is tossed into a plastic bag like it’s toxic waste, and then shoved into the backseat of the car. Yuji climbs in, still humming, as Sukuna buckles him into the child-safe carseat. By the time they pull into your driveway, Sukuna has developed a full-blown eye twitch. 

He rings the bell. Once. Twice. 

No answer. 

He’s about to trudge back to his car in defeat when the door creaks open. And fuck, it’s like you’re opening the gates of heaven. Something warm, and sweet seeps into the cold street he’s standing on — were you baking? 

You’re wearing those sweats — the sweats he gave you last Christmas — and he’d bet 100 bucks you’re not wearing a bra under the crewneck — his crewneck, is that where it went?

You arch a brow, unimpressed. 

“Oh. It’s you.” 

“Glad to see you’re still warm as ever.” He lifts the bag, holding it far away from himself, because if it’s any closer to himself, his ears will ring from trauma. “Delivery.” 

You peer inside. “You’re returning a gift I gave to a child?”

Yuji peeks out from behind Sukuna’s leg, and then the boy abandons him and bounds to you. “Auntie, did you know it lights up too?” 

“Of course,” you say sweetly, like whatever dessert you just whipped up. “I made sure to get one with strobe lights, and mic echo. Just for you.”

You’re not looking at Yuji when you say the last part. 

Sukuna huffs, knowing he’s losing a long-suffering battle. “Gonna tell me what I did?” 

You smile. “Stop acting clueless.”

And then you shut the door, cutting him off from everything good in the world. 

Yuji shrugs, holding a warm cookie in his chubby hands — when did you even slip that to him?

One sweet treat and he knows you’ve won Yuji over, well, even more than you already have. 

“She’s cool.”

Sukuna glares down at him. “You’re adopted.”

𐙚 ̊

Prank 2: pay your local nerd $5 and he’ll do anything you ask

It starts with a single $5 bill, and one very smug, very technologically-savvy, Gojo Satoru. 

You slide it across the table at your favourite cafe like you’re doing a drug deal. A pair of dark sunglasses sit on your face. “I want to ruin Sukuna’s life. Digitally. Annoyingly. Nothing illegal.” 

Gojo takes the money with a grin. His hoodie is up over his head. “You had me at ruin.”

And then he holds the note like a fan, lazily fanning air into his face, looking to the side like he knows a secret and he’s not telling. “You know, a normal person wouldn’t do all this to their ex.”

“You don’t know what he did,” you mutter, crossing your arms. Then, you sigh. “Don’t go too far,” you warn. “Just…mess with him. Make his phone hate him.” 

“Say less.” Gojo already has his laptop out. “Tasteful chaos, or psychological warfare?”

“...A little bit of both.”

-

Day one: the selfie invasion 

Sukuna unlocks his phone at 8 am, and is immediately greeted by your selfies. His phone damn near explodes at the sheer number — he counts later, 247 in total — that pop up on his home screen like an unskippable ad. 

Duck face. Peace sign. A selfie with the caption: Miss me?

Fuck, he does. 

There’s the occasional selfie of him — desecrated with markers, and digital stickers. The pixelated photo almost looks like one of those graffitied toilet walls, or artfully decorated alleys. 

His bluetooth speaker suddenly connects and starts blasting a voice memo you recorded:

“General PSA. Sukuna hasn’t changed his bedsheets in three weeks. His breath stinks. And he dresses like an eight-year-old who has just discovered clothes. This message will repeat every hour.” 

Was this what you considered revenge? Because Sukuna thinks this is the best thing that has ever happened to him since you left.

He screenshots the pop-ups like his life depends on it, and he laughs at the voice recording — no matter how annoyed you sound, no matter the bitterness that tinges your words. 

New photos of you? ✅

The sound of your voice? ✅

Yeah, that’s all a man needs to be fulfilled in life. 

And he is so getting back at you later. 

Day two: autocorrect is your enemy and my friend 

Gojo remotely accesses Sukuna’s text autocorrect settings. Per your recommendations….

‘yes’ becomes ‘ofc sexy🫦’ 

‘omw’ becomes ‘get the bed ready’ 

‘bro’ becomes ‘ugly fuck who could never live up to my ex’ 

Toji: are u still coming over tn 

Sukuna: ofc sexy🫦get the bed ready ugly fuck who could never live up to my ex 

Toji: nvm stay home 

 Day three: your guiding light 

Waking up at the ass-crack of dawn was not for the weak, and Sukuna was not weak. 

Well, maybe a little, because he’s yawning like he’s had two hours of sleep instead of ten. 

Geto knocks on the driver’s seat window, to which Sukuna jumps up at, hands immediately gripping the steering wheel like he was alert and ready. “You sure you’re up for this?” 

“Jesus. I said I was good to drive. Stop asking.” Sukuna rolls his eyes, and then glares at the pest at the other side of the glass. Geto raises his hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at his lips, before he gets into the backseat with a slam of the door. 

“Don’t be so rough with my ride,” he mutters, but the scowl only sends Gojo and Geto into giggles that are too cheerful for his liking.

Road trips, am I right? 

In the mirror, Sukuna catches Choso popping in his earphones. Smart.

He tosses his phone to Toji beside him, who swipes at — catches it — in mid-air like it’s some tennis ball. “Google maps.”

Toji grumbles, but he types in the location — it’s four hours away — and turns the volume up. 

When he reverses, drives to the main street, that’s when he hears it. 

“Turn left at the next intersection because you weren’t the right guy for me.”   

The car is silent, nothing is hard except Sukuna’s breathing — getting increasingly more controlled, more harsh. In the rearview mirror, Sukuna swears he sees Gojo stifling a laugh behind his hand. Geto elbows him, failing to hide his own grin. 

“Drive straight…into your own asscrack, asshole.” 

Sukuna’s grip in the steering wheel tightens. “What. The. Fuck. Was. That?”

No one answers for a second. 

“The GPS?” Gojo finally says, like Sukuna’s the weird one here. 

“It said I wasn’t the right guy for her,” Sukuna growls, that bit stung. “And then it called me an asshole.” The steering wheel might come off at this point. 

“I mean,” Gojo offers, “those don’t necessarily contradict each other.”

Before he can threaten violence, the speaker chimes again. 

“In 200 metres, cry about it.”

The car erupts. Geto’s laughing so hard he needs to hold onto the seat in front of him, like it’s the only thing keeping him up. Even Choso pulls out one earbud, face splitting into a grin. Toji chuckles into his fist, staring at Sukuna with those fuckass eyes. 

“Who did this?” Sukuna hisses. “Which one of you programmed this?” But he’s already looking at Gojo. There’s only one with the skills, and the bravado to pull it off.

Gojo coughs, suspiciously theatrical. “What can I say? I’m affordable, attractive, and available for tech-based revenge.”

Another GPS prompt cuts through the fit of laughter infecting the vehicle. “You have reached the gas station. Emotional maturity not found.”

Gojo’s still laughing when Sukuna turns around in his seat, and says, with the type of calm that sends chills down your spine, “You’re walking home.”

Something within him twists when he realises Gojo saw those new pictures of you first, when that privilege had once been reserved for him. 

“I will airdrop you memes the whole way back.” 

He damn near dropkicks the idiot out of his car.

𐙚 ̊

Prank 3: mashed potatoes in your lawn and me in your heart 

Sukuna is watching you through the window. 

No, not your window. Who do you think he is? 

His window. 

You’re crouching in the damp grass of his front lawn, and he knows that you think you’re being sneaky — using nighttime darkness like your vigilante cloak. Just what is it that you’re scooping on his carefully cultivated seedlings? 

Hold on a fucking minute. 

The porch lights flick on. 

Sukuna can see the panic racing through your mind as he walks out the door, shirtless (on purpose, by the way). He brandishes a fork in one hand, like his weapon against your culinary revenge. 

He blinks, because just what the fuck is he witnessing. Then he asks, like he’s checking if you’re of sound mind, and not because he really wants to know. “...Are you putting mashed potatoes on my grass?”

You stand slowly, a wooden bowl against your hip like a shield and holding the spoon like a mighty sword. “Yes.” Bold, unabashed. Owning it. 

“...You know it’s supposed to be instant mashed potatoes…right?”

“Then how will you read my message with clarity?” Whip fast, you respond immediately, and Sukuna fights a laugh. 

“What?” He cocks his head. 

You gesture at the mash on the lawn, and then, suddenly, the letters swim in his mind like in a dream. Half-spelled, but what the final message should be is clear as day. 

L-O-S-E-R 

He drags a hand down his face. “You broke into my yard to insult me and waste carbs?”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t bite at the bait he’s dangling.

Wasn’t much of breaking in, either, maybe more like just sneaking past the security cameras, hopping the fence, petting his dog (oh you missed the cutie-pie) so Sukuna wouldn’t be woken by frantic barking, all while carrying mashed potatoes. 

No one could say you weren’t dedicated to the cause. 

So, Sukuna sighs, stepping down onto the grass barefoot, and he knows that you’re fighting the urge to stare at his toned body. He squats beside your sad attempt at lawn vandalism, dips two fingers into the mash, tastes it. 

“...Needs salt.” 

You blink, jaw dropping to the floor. “Did you just —” 

“ — yeah. If you’re going to mess with me, at least do it right.”

And now, you stare at him. Baffled. You stare at him, sleep-rumpled, eating grass-mash with no shame. 

“You are so weird,” you mutter. 

“Babe, you’re the one making mash with dirt and bugs.” He licks the mashed potato off his thumb. “Gonna tell me what I did, now?” 

You just turn on your heel, swivelling back to your car with loud footsteps that almost pass for stomps. 

“Missed you too, sweetheart.” 

⋆.𐙚 ̊

You were done with emotional warfare (for the time being). Tonight was a night reserved for you, and you only. 

The point is, you weren’t trying to make a scene. 

Hair immaculate, lips glossed to a sinful shine, skin dewy under the neon haze. Outfit wrapping around you like a second skin, clinging to you in the right places and draping artfully loose in the right ways. A blueprint of revenge, stitched into shimmering fabric. 

So god forbid you sway your hips a little, grind a little against strangers, and pointedly ignore Sukuna’s stare — red, and furious, even under the strobing array of lights and lasers. 

And don’t blame a girl, blame the club atmosphere for the way she drags a guy to a dark corner, and runs her hands up his chest like she has a point to prove. 

Watch me not care about you. 

It backfires when a familiar hand wraps around your waist like a vice, like it belongs there, and pulls you into his chest. His breath is hot at your ear, the press of his palm unforgiving. The illusion of detachment shatters in an instant. 

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmurs, voice low, but eyes blazing with something far louder. 

You spin out of his hold, and the guy you were with — you didn’t even catch his name — escapes into the night. Fury tastes hot on your tongue. You weren’t going to make a scene, but then again, he wasn’t supposed to give you a reason to. 

“Yes.” Short, clipped, and you enter the throng again. 

Or you try to, because Sukuna’s hand encircles your wrist and tugs you again. “Don’t go.” 

“Why shouldn’t I?” You whirl back, and relish in the way that he flinches at your tone. “Give me one good reason that I should stay.” 

Sukuna opens his mouth. Closes it. His jaw ticks like he’s chewing back something bitter. You see the muscle flicker in his temple. “We need to talk.”

You laugh, cold and humourless. “What is there to talk about? You’ve already said plenty to her.”

“Who is her?” Sukuna’s brows furrow. 

“Your texts with her, Sukuna,” you seethe, crossing your arms. He isn’t Sukuna to you. He never was Sukuna to you, and hearing the name slip so easily from your lips right now is an indescribable pain. 

And Sukuna is also definitely not looking at your pushed-up breasts right now. 

You snap your fingers in his face. “Don’t tell me that they meant nothing.” 

He says your name, softly, like the adoration he holds for you is bleeding into his voice — an oath, and a plea all the same. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Talk to me.”

“You’re a jerk, you know that?” 

Sukuna sighs, then, one calloused hand wraps itself around your wrist. Tugging, leading. But not pulling, not dragging you. He needs you to walk with him on your own terms. “Let’s go talk about how I’m a jerk, hm?” 

There’s something in his voice that tells you he’s being sincere, and before you know it, you’re following him, heels clicking against the concrete. You’re still angry, you’re still hurt, and you’re still holding the grudge in your heart like it’s your most prized possession. 

But there’s absolutely no harm in hearing a guy out, especially if the guy is dressed like a discount mafia-boss (if you were trying to insult him, make him see red) or…a loose black shirt, half buttoned, and forearms on display — wristwatch only emphasising his muscles. 

And especially if he looked like he would be on death’s door if you didn’t walk in his wake. 

After winding through the crowd like a meandering river (Sukuna never let go of your hand), you find yourself in one of the empty dark rooms of the club.

To his credit, it is decorated rather nicely. Plush pillows, draping silk curtains, and a couch with gothic legs that looked like you could sink into it. But also….

“...Are you serious?” You nudge one of the cushions on the floor with the tip of your (thankfully, enclosed) shoe. 

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Sukuna groans. “No funny business. Just here to talk.” 

And then he sits on the couch, patting the space next to him like it was a target for your ass. 

You give him a look, before plopping down on the opposite side — the furthest from him. Sukuna rolls his eyes, mumbling something about ‘what an attitude, save some for the rest of us’. 

“Now, what texts?” The sounds of the club fade to the background, muted and muddled. It’s just you and him. Great. 

You roll your eyes so hard, it feels like they’re about to pop off onto the floor. Then, you start reciting the words burned into your mind.

“‘Bet she doesn’t know about the shit we used to get up to in your car.’” 

You huff. “And then, when she invites you to have a drink, you say, ‘im with someone now’, which is good. I liked that. But then you continued with ‘but yeah, good’ fucking ‘times’?” 

As if on cue, the LED lights of the dark room come on, casting Sukuna’s face in a litany of deep, dark blues. 

“You let her remind you that she used to be yours, and you didn’t fucking stop her. You laughed.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it might offer him the words he needs — and when it doesn’t, he swears under his breath. 

“It wasn’t like that,” Sukuna says, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows they were a mistake. You weren’t looking for pathetic excuses. 

You bark a bitter laugh, folding your arms so tightly it feels like you’re holding yourself together. “Don’t insult me.” Attagirl. If you were any easier on him, he would wonder who replaced the woman he cherished. 

“I’m not,” he mutters. Then, louder. “I swear I’m not. I’m just — fuck.” His jaw clicks, flexes under the pressure. “You think I give a fuck about her? You think I’m thinking about what happened in that fucking car when I’ve had you for these past few years?”

You don’t respond. He keeps going anyway. 

“She messaged me. I didn’t message her. I — I didn’t flirt. I didn’t say I wanted her back. I said I was with someone.”

“Yeah,” you snap, “and then you basically high-fived her with your dick in memory lane. Real loyal.”

Sukuna looks up at you, finally, and it knocks the breath from your lungs. Just a little. He looks wrecked. Not the dramatic kind — no theatrics, no crocodile tears — just tired. Heavy with something that might be regret, or shame, or both. 

“I was stupid.” His fingers twitch, like he wants nothing more than to hold you. “Didn’t see it like that until I saw your face when you brought it up. Until I saw how you looked at me like I wasn’t yours anymore.”

You don’t reply, hoping your silence pulls more words from him. He shifts closer, not touching you, but close enough so that you can feel the heat emanating off him. Like he’s pulling you back into his orbit. 

“I should’ve shut it down,” he says, quieter now. “Should’ve said, ‘don’t text me again,’ blocked her right then and there.”

You scoff. “But you didn’t.”

“No.” His hands curl together. “I didn’t. And that’s on me. But don’t mistake that for me still wanting her. I haven’t looked at anyone like I look at you. Not once. I look at you like I’m drowning in it.”

“...In what?”

“In whatever the fuck this is,” Sukuna says, voice hoarse. “You drive me crazy. You talk with your hands, and you handmake tokens for people because ‘people need to know how hard they’re loved’, and you get possessive when girls talk to me — and I feel so fucking amazing, not because you’re jealous but because you want me like I want you — and you have no idea how hard I fell, okay? I’m still falling. Don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

You swallow hard. 

“Love is a war I don’t mind losing with you.”

And then he looks into your eyes with a quiet plea, like he’s not giving you anymore flimsy excuses, but a reason for why he reacted that way. “I thought that if I acted unbothered, relaxed, it would mean that I just didn’t care about her enough to react. I…I thought you wouldn’t care.” 

“I did care. I do care.” Your throat is tightening in the way you hate. “I cared, Sukuna. Do you think I want to be called ‘someone’. Someone you just settled for? Fuck off.” 

‘I know,” he says. Fast. Fierce. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for not making you feel like you’re the only one. You are. You always were. I fucked up. I fucked up hard. In the small, stupid, stupid way that breaks trust until it’s gone.”

You stare at him. “And now?”

He blinks. “Now I block her. Delete her. Throw my phone into oncoming traffic. Am I missing anything?”

That earns the tiniest twitch of your lip — not quite a smile, but a victory he’ll gladly latch onto. “God, you’re such an idiot.”

“Yeah.” Sukuna leans back on the couch, finally letting out the breath he’s been holding since the moment you left him. “But I’m your idiot. If you’ll still have me.”

A beat of silence. 

You reach for one of the decorative pillows. Chuck it in his face. 

Sukuna catches it easily, grinning. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

"Didn’t say yes.” You move to leave the couch, and this interaction in the past.

“Oh yeah?” In a blink, he’s swept you on your back, caging you to the couch with his arms. Then, he begins planting kisses, up from the valley of your breasts, to your jaw, and then back again, as if caught in a trance. Hot, greedy kisses that trail down your chest, your ribs, your throat, like he can’t decide which part of you he missed most. Intoxicated by your scent. 

You groan, but you’re tilting your head back, exposing your neck for him. “Thought you said we weren’t doing anything here.” Your voice, unbothered, almost annoyed, seems to fuel him. 

His eyes find yours, quick and searching, with an undercurrent of desperation and need. “Plans change.” A hand moves under your dress, kneading your ass slow, grasping at the fat like he needed you carnally. 

You laugh in his face, grabbing at the collar of his shirt, and he whines, low and petulant. A sound you never thought he would make, and clearly, neither did he, if the deep blush on his cheeks is anything to go by. 

“Are you serious?” Barely containing your giggles, as your hands rise to caress his neck, trailing manicured fingernails down his chest in the way that makes him shiver like he’s in a snowstorm. 

“Just shut me up.” Oh, gladly. 

You tug him to your lips by his collar, and then your lips collide, urgent and bruising, a mess of teeth and tongue and desire. He’s licking into your mouth with a ferocity, a want, that only a man deprived can. You’re no better, biting and sucking at his lower lip like you want to draw blood, like you’re not done punishing him, and he lets out a depraved noise that you’d tease him for, if not for the muffled groans you’re letting out. 

The skin of his chest is hot, feverish, under your icy palms as you push Sukuna off — just for air, just to breathe, because what was that. He only leans into your touch, eager to be held by you again. 

“Why’d you stop?” Panting, like he can’t stand the distance. Breathless, like he’d give you anything you wanted right then and there.

The oxygen in his lungs? Done.

The blood of his heart? Already yours. 

His hands resume roaming your body, like he was trying to memorise you by touch alone, imprinting every bit of you into his mind like you were going to leave again. A finger hooks at the band of your panties, letting it snap against your skin, and you let out a hiss that he watches leave your throat with heavy breaths. 

Asking for permission that you so readily give. 

Then, the cloth is tugged free, and he drinks your sigh like it’s the finest wine in the whole world. The hand that was on your ass travels to your bare cunt, dipping between the folds so gently you’re wondering if he wants to fuck or make love. Then he releases your swollen, saliva-slick lips, and this time, it’s you who makes a noise at his leaving you. 

Sukuna arches an eyebrow, though his cheeks are flushed. “Wanna hear you sing for me,” he murmurs, almost reverent, like he’s not already tracing circles around your clit. “Come on, pretty.” 

And then he slips two, thick fingers into your pussy — knuckle deep in a single thrust — and you’re arching your back like a cat in heat.

“That’s right, spread your legs for me.” Sukuna shifts, moving his leg to brace against your inner thighs, so that you couldn’t deprive him, couldn’t squeeze them shut.

Your gasps of pleasure become high, needy moans, driving his movements, as he continues to thrust, to pound his digits into your pulsing walls, like he was trying to make sure his fingerprints remained inside you when he couldn’t be. 

“You’re so wet for me. Always — always, so good for me. Need you so bad, can’t think. Just…I need you. Need you.”

You’re grinding your hips in tandem with the meticulous rhythm of his fingers, and he moves to suck blooming bruises by the sensitive spot of your ear. His free hand is wrapped around your waist now, curling around your torso and fondling with your breasts. 

A thumb repeatedly brushing over your already-hard nipple, the rest of his fingers grabbing and grasping like he doesn’t want any part of you untouched. You don’t think he realises, or maybe he’s too far gone to care, that he’s nuzzling into your neck with soft whines. 

Your legs are trembling now, and Sukuna pulls back, watching you as you lose yourself to the pleasure he’s handing to you on a silver platter. If Sukuna was feverish, you might be the surface of the fucking sun. You clench around his fingers, and he lets out a groan that you feel in your own chest. 

“Sukuna,” you whine, “I’m gonna —” 

A displeased expression flits through his face at the name you call him, but he doesn’t stop his constant touching, he doesn’t want to ever stop. 

“No.” His lips brush your ear. “That’s not what you call me.”

You glare at him in turn, and his eyes swallow every contortion, every wrinkle of your pretty anger. “Ryomen. I’m gonna —”

“Cum, I know. So do it, cum for me, princess. That’s it, let go — use my fingers. Use all of me. Come on, pretty princess, give it to me. Want me to..? Oh you do?” 

With a quick nod of your head, he’s flattening his thumb on your clit again, curling his now three fingers against your squelching walls. His breathing is hot and heavy against the shell of your ear, letting out grunts and soft moans when you react to his touch. His free hand is now pulling you closer to him, because you were trying to squirm away from him in your daze of pleasure. 

And then, your walls spasm erratically, the pleasure blinding white as you cum on his fingers, and you cry out his name — the right one. His rocking motions never cease, helping you ride the waves until your breathing returns to normal, until you glance down at his pants and see the tent in his pants. Your mouth goes dry. 

You press a trembling palm to him, and he throws his head back with a hiss. You grin at the sound you pull from his lips, and you reach for him again, but Sukuna pins your wrists above your head with his still slick fingers. If you were in a better state of mind, maybe you’d think this was metaphoric.

Held hostage by your arousal. Funny. 

"Let me help you,” you purr. 

Your answer comes in the form of him grinding his cock against you, and your empty cunt clenches, drooling slick on him. “I prefer you like this, and not as my GPS.”

You’re about to snap back a reply, but you’re cut off by the sound of his zipper, the shuffle as he frees his cock. When he finally enters you — slow, thick, deeper than you remembered — you cry out, clutching his shoulders. Sukuna shushes you, gently, and kisses your temple. 

“Let me make up for it,” he rasps. 

You do. 

He does. 

And when you both come — messy, desperate, half-clothed — it doesn’t feel like sex, not exactly. 

It feels like forgiveness. Like proof. 

Like you’re still his, after all. 

⋆.𐙚 ̊

When the sunlight pries at his sleep-crusted eyes the next morning, Sukuna feels around for you — who should be next to him — but he’s left fumbling at cold sheets and empty air. 

He blinks his eyes wide open, no longer sleepy, mumbling, ‘what the fuck’, and ‘no fucking way’ like a mantra. 

And then, he sits up. Violently. 

The comforter falls off his torso, and so does half his pride, because one — he is still naked, two — he is very confused, three — he is so alone. A quick sweep of the bedroom confirms it — you’re not dead asleep on the floor, you’re not brushing your teeth in the bathroom. 

There is no note. No sign of your clothes. This time, you didn’t even leave your perfume. 

He walks through his house like a ghost. Not in the kitchen. Not on the couch. Not with his dog, who’s whining now. And then his eyes fixate on his wallet, lying open on the coffee table. 

Huh. You’re usually no thief, but you did take his credit card like you did him a favour by sleeping with him. 

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, itching the back of his neck, before fluffing the decorative pillows on the couch like they’ve committed heinous crimes. “I get emotionally raw, one time, and I wake up robbed and dumped.”

But then, just as he’s stomping through the halls and cursing aloud, his phone buzzes. Sukuna snatches it, half-expecting a text of emojis laughing in his face. 

Instead, there’s a photo. 

It’s you, in his shirt, standing in line at a cafe. The message reads:

‘ordering you coffee. do u want anything else’.

He peers closer at the photo, and in your other hand, you’re holding a smoothie from the store down the street that you always complained was too expensive. 

Sukuna chuckles. Starts typing. 

‘you took my card? grab me a blueberry muffin, or a chocolate croissant. maybe your hand in marriage, idk, im flexible.' 

He can picture you right now, rolling your eyes as your nails clack furiously against the phone screen. 

‘u want muffin or not.’

Sukuna massages his temples. This is what he gets for falling in love with a thief and a brat. 

He wouldn’t change a thing. 

You, on the other hand, hold his credit card like it’s your hostage. And you giggle at the thought of him waking up with you gone, like he’d just imagined last night. 

He’s not entirely forgiven, not yet. 

Boy, are you going to enjoy giving him mini heart attacks until he is.  

a/n: half my ideas come from scrolling through tiktok. today’s inspo was audrey hobert’s ‘sue me’ but bruno mars and ariana grande played on repeat while writing this. can u tell which songs influenced which parts.....................

© 2025 letteremi. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise/copy, translate, or repost my work to any platforms 

[kenntoria]

gojo thinks you’re doing it on purpose.

you have to be doing it on purpose. no one is that oblivious.

he flirts with you like it’s a sport. grins all teeth and gleaming eyes, throwing his arm around you whenever he can, tucking your hair behind your ear even when it doesn’t need tucking. he buys you drinks, snacks, silly little trinkets that he claims “just screamed your name.” he calls you sweetheart, baby, pretty in front of everyone—god, he even texted you “good morning, love of my life 🥺💖” the other day and all you did was thank him.

“thank you,” like he dropped off a package.

he watches you laugh when he flirts. you swat at his chest, tell him he’s annoying. you smile like you think he’s funny. but never once have you actually flirted back—never batted your lashes, never teased him, never leaned into the bait. and he’s been laying it thick.

and now here you are, sitting beside him, sipping your drink, babbling about something that’s going right over his head because all he can think about is how you’re casually resting your head against his shoulder like it means nothing.

“—and then shoko said it’s probably from stress, so i’ll just sleep early tonight and see if it helps.”

“you should stay at mine,” he says immediately.

you blink up at him. “what?”

“my place. better bed. better arms to fall asleep in. i’ll even make you pancakes tomorrow morning,” he says, grinning.

you stare at him for a second, then smile.

“aww, you’re such a good friend.”

gojo internally combusts.

friend.

he leans back against the couch, throws his head toward the ceiling like he’s begging the heavens to strike him down. you just called him your friend. after all the longing gazes. all the suggestive comments. all the soft moments he thought were mutual.

he turns to look at you again, ready to say something dramatic like i can’t believe you’re breaking my heart in real time, but you’re already looking at him.

your eyes are soft. lips curled up, sweet and open, like you really think he’s just being nice and you don’t even realize he’s half in love with you. like you don’t know he’d drop everything if you so much as leaned in. he deflates.

“…you’re so cute it’s actually unfair,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face.

you smile wider, nose scrunching. “thank you!”

and he just laughs—because what else is he gonna do?

you’re too cute. too sweet. too fucking clueless.

but you’re his. even if you don’t know it yet.

(you will.)

[darlingsblackbook]

Zayne x Nurse!Reader | Jealousy is in the air

Zayne and Nurse are back againnnn, part 6 was the ending of the 'main story' I'll still write things for them here and there- like this. If you haven't that yet, recommend reading that first, you can find all of the parts on the masterlist♡

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Zayne hadn’t realized just how quiet the cardiology floor had felt until he heard your laugh again. It was soft, light, slipping through the cracks of the hallway like sunlight and melting all the ice that had taken over the floor.

The sound hit him like a surprise, making Zayne pause as he was reviewed his patient notes. It was a sound he had not heard in weeks. Not since before everything fell apart.

Zayne turned his head, almost against his better judgment, and there you were. His favorite nurse, leaning against the reception desk, one hand holding a clipboard while the other covered your mouth as you tried to stifle another laugh.

Opposite you stood Grayson, looking at you with a certain glint in his eye that Zayne could see all the way from where he stood. His lips moved again and there you went again, laughing even harder now- just what could he have said that was so funny!!

Zayne’s first instinct was relief. Relief that you were smiling, that some of the heaviness that had been weighing you down seemed to have lifted, even if only for a moment.

But that relief was accompanied by something else, something hot and unwelcome that settled low in his chest, sharp and unrestrained. Zayne clenched his jaw and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to push that feeling away- but why was it not him that was making you laugh?

Zayne felt irritation toward himself. He couldn’t even remember the last time you laughed like that with him. Things between them have become so… clinical? Transactions of words and tasks, instead of the moments they used to share

Zayne lingered in the hall, pretending to double-check a chart, but his attention stayed locked on you. The way you shoulders looked lighter, the way you tipped her head just slightly toward Grayson as you spoke, as if the rest of the floor didn’t exist.

Grayson, of course, was as unbothered as ever, answering you and having you lean in closer without even realizing it. Zayne hated the way his stomach twisted when you did just that.

Zayne knew this was good. You deserved this, tofeel at ease again, to find reasons to smile instead of staring at the floor as if waiting for it to swallow you up.

Unfortunately, rationality didn’t quiet that part of Zayne that wanted to step in, say something, to pull your attention away from Grayson entirely back onto him. The part that hated seeing you give anyone else the pieces of the warmth he hadn’t felt directed his way in far too long.

Still, Zayne did not interrupt. Instead, he kept his distance, listening as your laughter softened into a gentler smile. He hated that he was measuring the sound, trying to calculate if you had ever laughed like that when it was just the two of you.

When you finally turned, catching sight of Zayne down the hall, something in your expression shifted. It was not cold, nor distant, but not quite the same either. Your smile faltered, just slightly, like you wasn’t sure how to greet him after everything.

Zayne forced a faint smile in return, professional, as though nothing inside him was coiling tighter by the second. “Finished with your rounds?” he asked, voice even.

“Almost,” you said, tone polite and careful. You gestured to Grayson with a small nod. “He was just helping me sort out some things."

Zayne’s eyes flicked to Grayson briefly. “Of course he was,” he murmured.

Grayson, simply ignoring the tension- actually finding amusement in all this- excused himself and left the two of them standing alone in the hallway.

He did not leave, in fact, he hid around the corner to watch his favorite live show.

For a moment, Zayne said nothing. Just watched you and studied the faint color in your cheeks from laughing, the way you were still fighting the ghost of a smile. It did something strange to him, a mix of warmth and ache that left his chest feeling tight.

“I’m glad,” he said finally, his voice quieter than he intended. When you tilted your head in question, Zayne added, “That you’re… laughing again.”

You blinked, clearly surprised by the softness in his tone, before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Me too.” And then you excused yourself, leaving him standing there in the hallway, staring after you and wondering when exactly it had become so difficult to bridge the gap between the two of you.

Grayson still hiding behind the wall : Yes, they finally spoke again!

Taglist : @sylusgirlie7 @jeonjenny @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @draftbeerbibi @weebinator01 @satorustorm @asilaydead @ninaandtuna @gremlinartstudio @keyiswatching @dreamlesssleepsaga @eurynam @amerti @neobitch127 @m30wk1ttycat @yuurisfavblog @dysphxriaii @zainaaryam @floofycookie @beesin03 @thatpersonnamedrook @chiikasevennn @ollie-the-fae @dramaticalsachan @babylilxc @minsified @destinysrequiem @xsammijoanneex @hirostrvw @pepperushia @starllight613 @seris-the-amious @moonlight-inthe-sea @luvvhue @gojosballsack69 @ellarchives @xinnn6 @marmandarina @kithyyy @aixyraus @marmandarina @goomimii @evadnesworld @reirakurenai @estiesbestiesworld @albenyx @asgwendollie @avis-writeshq @sohhzzy @elizabeth-von-winken-universe @bitchynightmarepost @treeteaofversailles @mwritin6s @happygalaxymilkshake @dprweganggang03 @nommingonfood @cadesthings @insidious-innocence @sharieb @pinksaiyans @needvbunni @gawa-ng-gabi @craic-on-a-cracker @canthavetoomuchchaos @neobitch127 @edens-melodies @sanzy4 @betsybetts @animegamerfox @lemonn015 @astudyoftimeywimeystuff @sunnyilis @safeinyourheart @bluelilyofthevalley @vintag3u @jlynns-posts @69-gojos-wife-69 @burn-it-all-for-your-love @whimsicalcup @blitziwitch @roschea-arts @seung185 @lalaluch @jadeymeciela @everywherestrs @mrwind-upbird

[kdh-tally]

Abs of Abby didnt do much for me in Soda Pop but the "Play me on repeat, kkeuteopsi in your head" and "I can be your sanctuary" part...OMG like the big step he takes, the hand movement, playing with the beads of the hat...LIKE STEP ON ME SIR... I would like to request Abby with your idol outfit (like the boots, the leather pants, the fishnet top...what a slut) × fem reader in which reader simps for him and he sees her as a plaything for a while but then falls for her. Ofc if you are okay with it you can add a little bit of spice aswell. Thank you!!

Abby x MakeupArtist!Reader [pt 1/3?]

Prompt : Abby is lowkey a flirt and his new makeup artist is just trying to survive.

Author's Note : I was actually trying not to die writing this. I kinda gaslit myself into liking Abby even more than i already do???? Anyways. This is pt 1 of 3 (3 parts for now). Imma capture the whole play boy thing in the next chapter! There's also a reason his other makeup artists kept getting fired... Not Proof Read!

Part 2

You were a makeup artist and you were really good at what you did. You were so good that many companies often sought after you to bring their crazy concepts to life.

Your favourite group to work for so far had been Huntrix. You had been working under their company for the past few years and figured you needed a change of pace. 

The girls, clingier than ever, absolutely refused. Begging and pleading with you to stay every day. Especially Rumi. You had no idea how but the girl had somehow gotten half her body tattooed without letting anyone know?

Not that it was any of your concern though. She seemed happier than ever and it made you happy as well. Unfortunately, they didn't succeed in their tactics.

"Come on Y/n, think of all the times we've spent here togetherrrrrrr," Zoey whined, laying across your suitcase so you couldn't put any more of your tools into it.

"Zoey, we're still going to hang out," you laughed at his childish behaviour. "I'll just be working somewhere else now."

"It's not the same Y/n," Mira grumbled, a pout on her face as she handed you everything you were looking for. Rumi nodded in agreement with her from your couch.

"You guys," you sighed, turning to the three of them. For a second, you felt like you were going to cry. You had been working under Eclipse labels for the last three years of your career. The girls had become your closest friends during that time. 

You knew that it would be difficult not being able to see them every day but you wanted to reach out and try new things. You wiped an unshed tear from your eyes before putting on a brave face. "Don't make me cry on my last day here," you sniffled. 

Immediately, you were pulled into a tight group hug.

--

The girls eventually let you go and finish packing. As you left they waved you off, making you promise to come back to hang out at least once a week. Sleep overs would happen every other day.

At your apartment, you began applying for new jobs. You were in no rush, considering you were great at your job and well known in the industry you had absolutely no struggle finding a new job. 

It didn't even take a whole day for you to receive a new job offer. It was from the Saja Boys, the new boy group that rivalled your girls. You hadn't known much about them or seen a live performance yet seeing as when they first arrived in Korea you were on holiday in Hawaii. 

You sighed, starting to do research on the group. Funny enough the only form of musical content they had uploaded was of their debut. It was on the street. They were performing such a go-lucky song that was so incredibly bright.

Honestly you didn't understand the hype. Soda-Pop was a good song.There was absolutely nothing wrong with the song. It was cute and a little catchy. Unfortunately, the whole aesthetic just threw you off. While the boys were cute, it was odd watching grown men jump around in bright neon colours.

It was a drastic change from Huntr/x and their girl crush concept. However, this was exactly what you were looking for. A change from the usual makeup art you had been doing all of your career. 

So with slight reluctance, you accepted the job offer, calling in to schedule an interview as well as your working times. 

--

It was a Monday when you started your first shift. You had been tasked with doing the boys' makeup for a variety show where they would show their fans a bit more of their personality while also teasing their newest comeback.

You were supposed to meet with your new boss, the head stylist, first. But you were already lost. 

"What is with fancy k-pop groups and huge buildings," you scoffed, walking around in your painful heels, why did you wear those again?, as you searched for anything that could possibly help you find your way. 

As you turned a corner, your eyes were set on a serious looking woman. You swallowed down your fear, putting on a face of completely fake confidence, and walked towards her.

As you stood before her, you cleared your throat, stretching out a hand. "Hello Angela. I'm Y/n, the makeup artist."

The woman looked up from her phone, eyes lazily staring you up and down before lighting up in recognition. Her posture changed immediately, excitement obvious with the way she was tittering on her heels. "Hi! You're so much prettier in person."

You couldn't help but smile at the compliment. Obviously you misread her, she seemed just as excited as you were. "I look pretty? You look stunning!"

The two of you went back and forth for a while, complimenting each other's style till she realised she was meant to be working. "Oh my days! I almost forgot. Let me show you where you'll be working today."

As she led you down the hallway, she explained that you were specifically going to styling Abby. Supposedly most of his stylists ended up quitting within weeks for unknown reasons. Angela told you about her theory. Abby had to be scaring them away or just straight up annoying them until they reached their limit. 

You laughed, this would be interesting. You vaguely remembered what he looked like. He was the muscular one in their bubble gum pop song. With the odd Hawaiian themed shirt.

She led you to what was obviously a private room, standing by the door and motioning for you to head inside. "This is where I leave you," she smiled. "Please don't quit. You seem super fun" 

You both laughed and made promises to hang out after if you survived. 

And with that you entered the room.

--

The room was bigger than you thought it would be, and it was empty. It was quite obvious that you had been the first one to enter. With a content sigh, you began setting up your materials. Makeup brushes, powders, glosses, concealer, everything one would possibly need.

Five minutes had gone by and the man still hadn’t come in, with a sigh, you lounged across the makeup chair, debating on whether you should change into a different top that you wouldn’t mind getting dirty. 

Before you could come to a conclusion, the door slammed open. You stood up immediately, bowing your head in respect before standing to get a proper first look at the man. Your eyes were going to fall out of your head.

“Are you my new makeup artist?”

It was an easy question. You should’ve been able to answer it with ease. But the way he said it??? The way he said ‘my’ as though you weren’t just working for him but you belonged to him? 

With a deep breath you nodded. “My name is Y/n and I’ll be working on your make up,” you more or less repeated his question. 

He did nothing but smirk before moving closer to you. Now for the reason you were flustered? This wasn’t the man you saw in the soda-pop music video. The man in that video wore some turquoise button up that was too tight for his body and a pair of skinny jeans. The man that was right in front of you was straight up shirtless.

You were staring up at him wide eyed when he leaned down to whisper in your ear. “Are you going to stand there the whole time or let me sit down princess?”

You gasped in embarrassment before moving away, you didn’t need to look into a mirror to confirm how red your face must have been. “Stupid Y/nie,” you thought in your head as the man chuckled and got into the makeup seat.

Looking to the sky as though saying a quick prayer to the Lord, you gathered the courage to get started on his makeup. 

–

You were starting to understand why everyone before you had quit so soon.

The man refused to comply with anything you asked. You had been working on concealing his under eye bags when he began man-spreading. There was no way for you to work comfortably in front of him and you were pretty sure he knew it. 

You let out a sigh of frustration, backing away from him. 

He looked up from his phone to stare at you innocently. “Having trouble?”

“No,” you sent a fake smile. “It’s just a bit difficult to work when you’re sitting like that.”

He looked at you feigning innocence before sitting up. Putting his phone on the vanity before reaching out to grab your waist. It was only then that you noticed how much bigger he was compared to you. 

He maneuvered your body so you stood between his legs, giving you ample space to reach out for his face. You were left in a state of shock when he leaned back, a grin on his face. This wasn’t fair.

You were expecting a cocky man who dressed in mismatched neon highlighter outfits. Not this cocky, shirtless, muscular, fine as hell, really strong, nice looking, handsome, confident….

“Better?” he asked, breaking your thoughts.

You swallowed, nodding quickly before refocusing on your work. You forced yourself to ignore the way you were basically pressing up against him to reach his face.

–

You quickly learnt that he didn’t just get his makeup done in the room. Two of his outfit stylists had entered the room when you were working on highlighting his face. Fortunately, he had begun behaving so you were no longer standing between his legs but were instead standing beside him, gently brushing at his eyelids.

When the door had opened, you almost jumped in surprise as two energetic women entered the room. Your eyes widened at their outfits, pretty tight crop tops and mini-skirts.

As they laid eyes on you, you could practically see the excitement leave their bodies as they narrowed their eyes at you. One was about to speak, her gaze condescending when the other forcefully grabbed her arm to shut her up.

The other looked annoyed but quickly realized who else was in the room with you. “Abby oppa~” she cooed, your eyes widened, quickly realizing why they seemed so pissed. “Who is this?”

Abby, who had seemingly found peace in your hands, briefly opened his eyes to glance at them. “She’s my new makeup artist,” he said before closing his eyes, assuming you’d continue your work. There it was. The way he said “my” again.

The girls said nothing, but you could tell they hated you. They glared hard at you, distracting you from your work. Suddenly, you felt a firm squeeze at your waist, gasping in shock, you looked down.

Abby’s eyes were still closed but he was obviously getting annoyed at your long pause. “Are you gonna continue princess?”

You said nothing but continued your work, praying the two girls would stop plotting your death. 

–

Eventually, he had to get dressed. The two girls, after sucking up to him for a while, reluctantly left. You turned to the mirror to begin packing up, also to give him space to get dressed.

It had been a few minutes of silence when he spoke again. “Y/n,” he called out. You, none the wiser (even though you should probably be on guard at this point) turned.

How was the guy hotter than before? The boots, the leather pants, the fishnet top… He was still practically shirtless, his toned body only more defined because of the top. Your eyes trailed up to his face, he’d caught you staring again. 

“W-what do you need?” You fumbled over your words, facepalming mentally. 

He gestured to his lips, a knowing smirk on his face. “You haven’t put on the lipstick yet”

This man was actually going to be the end of you.

You rummaged through your pockets, finding a nice glossy purple colour. You moved closer to him, getting up on your tiptoes to reach him. He let out a chuckle, that did something to your brain, before leaning down so he was at your eye level. 

“Go on.”

You took in a breath, opening the lipstick before gently pressing it to his pretty, pink, plump, soft, shiny… 

Swallowing your nerves, you used your pinky to smudge the gloss so it stayed perfectly. Once you finished, you quickly backed away. He was in no rush to stand, putting on the black beaded gat on his head as he left the room.

“See ya princess.”

As soon as he left you let yourself fall to the floor. Why did you take this job??? You needed to tell Angela and the girls everything.

[petalborn]

winning streak. (steve harrington x f!reader)

summary: jerky frat boy!steve places a bet with his brothers about his likelihood of being able to hook up with the bizarre girl that hangs around on campus.

word count: 8k

content warnings: 18+ MDNI , porn with plot. S1 Steve behavior but make it college, casual 80’s misogyny, p in v, semi-public sex, spitting, light degradation, fingering, technically DUB-CON cause reader is drunk when they first do anything, little angst with a fluffy ending, virgin but not super innocent reader. steve kind of pining for reader. reader pining back.

an: this is a fairly self indulgent fic. reader is a dweeb who’s a tad bit snarky and loves her odd little trinkets and books. apart from that they’re pretty open to interpretation.

no one thinks he can pull it off but steve loves a good challenge.

he runs the school. he’s top dog— not just in his frat, but practically the whole campus. the legacy above all legacies. his dad practically built the school. they wouldn’t have those fancy heated pools if it wasn’t for the legendary alum known as, Sr Harrington.

steve’s degree is pretty much already waiting for him, despite the fact that he has a good two years left— so to steve, college is just a game. a series of games actually. it’s a time to fuck around, to bask in the pleasure of being a king amongst men. steve’s mastered the art of being an Alpha Gamma Psi but his favorite one to play is cat and mouse.

it starts the way things always start with steve “the hair” harrington: in the middle of a party, half-drunk, too confident for his own good.

the bets made over warm beers and poorly rolled spliffs. the kind of frat house conversation that reeks of sweaty cologne and unchecked ego. one of the guys—tommy, probably, or maybe it’s jason—nods across the yard toward you. you’re sitting cross legged on the lawn, leaning back against a tree with a dog eared copy of Rebecca in your lap, headphones on, looking like you’re at your own private picnic.

you didn’t even understand why you came to this stupid thing. your obnoxiously charming roommate managed to convince you. she was so close to getting a rush invite from her dream sorority, and this was part of the homework. so now here you were.

“bet you couldn’t get that one in your bed, Harrington.”

steve follows the guy’s gaze, squints into the moonlight. you. the campus witch, as they say. you wear those obnoxious outfits. you doodle weird looking birds in class and once left a frog in a TA’s desk cause he called your presentation on women’s literature boring. people say you keep rocks in your bra and once cursed a guy for cheating on you with a freshman. steve doesn’t know if he believes that last one—but you truly are weird as fuck.

and hot. like, sickeningly hot, in that sharp, left of center way that makes him feel a little off balance.

“she’s… not my type.” steve stays fixed on you, his eyes studying you over the brim of his red plastic cup.

his frat brother scoffs. “she’s not anyone’s type.”

something about that pisses Steve off more than it should.

he downs the rest of his drink and smirks. “she’ll let me fuck her by midterms.”

“you’re out of your mind.” some scrawny freshmen pledgie pipes up.

“you’re scared she’d eat you alive,” steve retorts.

the guys laugh. someone throws down a ten. then another. then it snowballs into an ego-fueled pot of about a eighty five bucks and a six-pack of heineken.

and steve? steve is already planning his next move.

he sees you again three days later at a lecture he’s definitely not enrolled in. you’re two rows ahead of him, wearing a black skirt and doc martens with mismatched laces, your calves are crossed on top of one another and propped up against the seat in front of you. he can just barely see a tattoo peeking out from the back of your thigh. sexy.

you glance back once when he laughs too loud. eyes narrow in obvious annoyance.

he grins.

“something funny?” you ask.

“what? i just like your socks,” he lies. they’re black with little frogs on them.

you stare at him for a beat too long. “you’re not in this class, harrington.”

something about the sound of his name between you wine tinted lips makes him pause for a second. almost too long of a second. why was he shocked that even you knew who he was?

he shrugs. “maybe I’m expanding my horizons.”

“maybe you’re wasting your time.”

you look back to the front, but steve catches the tiny twitch of your lips. you’re amused.

hook.

for the next two weeks, it’s a game.

he shows up where you are: the art building coffee shop, the used bookstore on jefferson, the weird campus flea market you somehow knew about before the flyers went up. always casual. always charming. he flirts just enough to keep you irritated but curious. you don’t give in. but you don’t walk away, either.

one time, you catch him staring at your rings while you flip through a first edition Vonnegut.

“what, never seen a girl with ten fingers before?” you ask, sliding a silver claw-shaped ring up your knuckle.

“just wondering how you— y’know,” he says without missing a beat. he holds his hand up mid sentence, using his middle and ring finger to mimic fingering. obviously amused by his own antics.

the act sort of stuns you— and truthfully, you can’t quite tell if it makes you nauseated or curious.

you should slap him.

you don’t.

you smile instead—slow, like honey sliding down a spoon.

“keep wondering, frat boy.”

—

it’s now just days before midterms, and steve can’t quite tell yet if he’s actually gonna drive it home. but he’s having a lot of fun trying.

it’s the afternoon before the next Alpha Gamma party, and steve knew he needed to see you. luckily for him, you weren’t tough to find. it was friday. friday’s were when you hunkered down at your volunteer job in the campus library, combing through all the fresh returns.

the library was mostly empty that late in the afternoon — just a few scattered students and the hum of dusty fluorescents overhead. you sat cross legged in the corner of a study alcove, a stack of obscure mythology books splayed out in front of you, half researching, half daydreaming.

you didn’t hear him approach — just caught the soft creak of the chair across from you pulling out and the dull thud of someone sitting down.

you didn’t look up. “pretty sure there are fifty other empty tables, harrington.”

“i like the view at this one.”

your eyes flicked up, annoyed. steve was leaning forward, arms braced on the table like he had something important to do, though the only thing in front of him was a sad looking spiral notebook and a pen he kept twirling between his fingers.

his gaze dropped, briefly — a flicker lower than your face before he forced it back up, not fast enough to go unnoticed. you shifted, legs unfolding and crossing the other way, and you could feel your skirt tug slightly up your thigh with the motion. his eyes did that little dart again, and this time he didn’t bother pretending he hadn’t looked.

you tilted your head, feigning oblivion. “something on your mind?”

steve grinned, lazy and all confidence. “just wondering what kind of spell you’re trying to cast in here.”

he reached out and plucked one of your books from the pile — goddesses and their rituals — flipping it open and raising an eyebrow. “this about you? should i be worried?”

you reached across and snatched it back, brushing his fingers in the process — on purpose. “if i were hexing anyone, you’d already be choking.”

he let out a low, amused sound and leaned back in his chair. the pen in his hand tapped against his bottom lip, slow, rhythmic. it drew your attention, unwillingly — the way his mouth parted slightly, tongue just barely peeking out when he paused mid-thought. you weren’t looking at his mouth. you weren’t.

“you always read this much?” he asked, pen still to his lips.

you made a show of returning to your page. “you always this nosy?”

steve hummed and let the pen drop from his mouth, now just twirling it between his fingers. “only when someone interesting’s trying really hard not to notice me.”

that earned him a look. “you’re not that hard to ignore.”

he grinned wider. “then why haven’t you?”

your heart kicked a little at that — not enough to show, but enough to feel. you didn’t answer, just flipped your page a little too loudly and let the silence settle.

“coming to the party tonight?” he finally spoke again.

“maybe.” you shot back, eyes glued back to the pages before you.

he stayed a few more minutes, not studying. not reading. just watching you.

and then, just as suddenly as he came, he stood up, chair scraping gently against the floor.

“see you later, bookworm.”

he left with a wink you didn’t dignify with a response — though your face burned warm as soon as he turned his back.

line.

the evening fell quickly. and you’d confidently decided that full moon party will the first time you let him get close. you’re dressed in white for once, a long dress that’s all satin and carefully hugged to the natural curves of your body. the word “romantic” bounces from wall to wall in steve’s head when he sees it.

it’s different. you’re different. he feels different.

for the first time, you don’t even roll your eyes when he appears at your side. you weren’t drunk yet, not completely anyway. just tipsy enough to make you soft around the edges. which is exactly what steve needed.

“well, well” you purr, your finger drawing slow circles through the foamy contents of your cup. sucking the remnants off before finishing your sentence. “if it isn’t campus royalty.”

he leans against the counter beside you. “you always drink alone?”

you glance around at the sea of drunk college kids. “you call this alone?”

he laughs, reaching for the cup in your hand to take a sip. “thought you didn’t like parties.”

“I don’t.” you snatch it back, sipping from the same side his mouth just touched. “but I like watching people be idiots.”

“oh?” steve leans closer. “does that mean you like watching me?”

you glance down. then up. “when you’re not being a dick? sure. you’re nice to look at.”

he blinks. “was that a compliment?”

“don’t get used to it.”

out of nowhere, the tension between you two begins to feel thick and heavy. like it’s coating the inside of your throat with every inhale you manage.

steve takes notice of the shift, and honestly, it’s hard not to. things like this always happen in the same order of events with girls like you.

after a few sips of something cheap and strong, you’d now begun to wonder if he really was that bad. would it really be a mistake?

he studied you. took notice of the way were now facing him more. your eyes glassy and heavy, the crystal pendant on your necklace quickly rising and falling with your chest as the silence between two of you lingered.

taking a risk, steve steps in closer. his knee brushing up against your thigh. he’s somewhat fearful that you won’t be receptive to him yet. nervous he’d read you wrong and you were not as warmed up to him as he needed you to be. his subconscious suddenly reminding him that this was a game. a game that he can’t lose.

but shockingly, you don’t move away. you stay focused on him. looking at him with that same doe eyed dizzy expression that he noticed on all the drunk girls faces who came before you.

and then he touches you, just a hand on the small of your back. just the smallest pressure—and for whatever reason, you don’t flinch.

you lean in. suddenly aware of the drunk bodies that surrounded both of you.

“do something,” you whisper. “or piss off.”

the feel of your breath against the side of his neck gives him chills. without missing a beat— he takes your cup and it up to your mouth. his expression nudging you to down the last few gulps. offering you an “atta girl” while tossing the empty cup into the trash. he’s smug. way too fucking smug.

steve grabs your hand, the skin on them rough from the many years spent playing basketball. it feels… nice, oddly enough. anticipation beginning to bubble in you as he leads you down the hall.

had it not been for the loud music you’d heard the wolf whistles and howls coming from his brothers. the gaggle of drunken idiots who spent the last forty five minutes studying the two of you, hoping to see him bring home yet another win.

steve leads you to his personal bathroom— where everything comes crashing down.

and sinker?

on the other side of the door, the party is thunderous. someone's playing Talking Heads on a shitty speaker that keeps glitching, but the bass still rattles the floor. lucky for steve’s frat brothers— if they put their ear to the door, they were likely hear the whole thing.

you strut your way over to the counter, hoisting yourself up to sit on its edge. really starting to feel those last few sips of that god awful truck bed cocktail that steve made you finish.

he watched you for a moment. watched the way your upper body swayed a little from side to side, absentmindedly feeling the the vibrato of the music. loosening up to the idea of him, and you.

“i meant to tell you” steve starts, sauntering over to you. both hands resting on your thighs as he slots himself between your legs. caging you in. “you look good tonight.”

it was a mediocre compliment, truly. but it made your mouth twitch up into a small smile anyway. reaching up, you allow your fingers to comb through the top of his hair. heart starting to race at feel of his finger tips inching up your inner thighs.

maybe it was your own eagerness to blame. or simply the frat juice that coursed through you— but you’d suddenly forgotten to tell him of your inexperience with things like this. it felt embarrassing to bring up now anyway. steve knew what to do. hopefully.

“i’ve always seen girls doing this.” your hand slides through his hair again, arm then dropping to rest on his shoulder. “personally, i don’t get the appeal.”

steve smirks. god, you’re mean— and he loves it.

“you think about me a lot, don’t you?” he says, hiking the satin dress up some more.

you shrug, though it’s clear you’re lying. he’d been on your mind every day since that lecture. just like he planned. “hardly ever”

his hand slides up your thighs carefully, just brushing the skin where your stockings end. “that why you’re squeezing your thighs together right now, sweetheart?”

you look at him then. really look. his eyes are half-lidded, mouth slick and pink, and he smells like expensive cologne and beer and sweat. it should repulse you.

It doesn’t.

“you gonna do something about it?” you whisper, arousal beginning to pool between your pillowy soft thighs.

steve groans under his breath, grabs your hips, and tugs you forward. he kisses you hard—hungry, teeth scraping, tongue aggressive in your mouth. he tastes like weed, spearmint, and shitty vodka. you chase him with every kiss, hands threading back into his hair.

“fucking brat,” he mutters against your lips.

“fucking cliché,” you shoot back.

but that quick wittedness starts to leave you when he finally dips his hand into your panties. his index and ring fingers spread your soft puffy lips apart— middle fingers slipping between the slick folds. god, you’re a soaked mess already. it’s sort of embarrassing.

“jesus, baby” he hums, amusement laced in his tone, “you’re already a mess for me.”

“just shut up and touch me,” you whine, burning hot from his taunting. it makes you feel small. but in a way that you really enjoy.

not wanting to leave you waiting any longer— two fingers slide in without warning. thick, fast, and curling just right as his thumb presses to your clit in tight circles. your hips buck against his hand and he grins like he’s just won something. Like you’re the prize.

the sickly wet sound of your fuck hungry hole can hardly be heard over the sound of the party— but you can hear it. can feel the way your thighs are slickening with your own arousal. the sticky warmth smearing all over the place as his two fingers push into the gummy spot inside you. fuck, its practically blinding.

“you gonna cum on my fingers, pretty girl?” he murmurs into your neck, licking up the column of your throat. “make a mess in your little panties like a good little slut?”

no one had ever spoken to you like that before.

you whimper, grinding against him. “Steve—”

“i got you,” he croons. “I got you.”

you were familiar with the feelings he’d put in you. but something about the way steve was bringing you to your climax felt different. it boiled inside you. coming at you quicker than you could’ve expected.

you desperately clung to him, face buried in his chest. whimpers muffling into his dark green sweater. the iron struck and it was white hot.

it only took a few seconds for you to come to. panting as you looked up at him. the post clarity hitting you hard and fast.

suddenly the mental image of the dozens of girls who came before you started flashing in your mind.

“fuck.” you breathe, watching steve lick his fingers clean of your mess. clearly very pleased with himself.

you wondered what number you were. wondered if he spoke to all of them like that. told each of them he had them. made them feel like he did.

just when he’s about to reach into his pocket to grab a condom. his cock tight and swollen in his jeans. somewhat desperate to feel more of you— he sees you hop off the counter.

“done with me already?” steve half laughs but he looks confused— let down, almost. but he smirks it off. some guilt lingering in the pit of his stomach but he didn’t quite understand why. he just wasn’t ready for this to be over already. whatever this was.

you don’t respond. almost feels like you can’t. just feeling confused over the whole thing. and way too fucking tipsy. you fix your dress, thighs making a slippery wet sound as you shift on your feet.

“see you around, steve.” the words were short. deadpan. it didn’t make sense. not to steve or to you. but he didn’t say anything else. just waving you off, watching you leave the bathroom.

the house reeks of everclear and smoke, like it always did after a party. steve leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on his face, trying to cool the flush still lingering on his cheeks.

his fingers still smelled like you.

he didn’t know what the fuck was happening. you’d pulled him in like gravity — all snark and heat and wide eyes and the softest little sounds he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. it was supposed to be a joke. a win. a bet.

but now?

he ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “shit,” under his breath.

the bathroom door creaked open just as he was drying his hands on a crusty towel someone had left hanging from the doorknob.

“yo, harrington.”

he turned and saw tommy, one of the louder assholes in the house, grinning like he already knew something steve didn’t want to talk about.

“heard she left lookin’ all fucked out,” tommy said, clapping him on the back. “nice work. how far’d you get?”

steve hesitated. maybe a second too long. that was all it took.

“wait,” tommy said, his eyes narrowing, “don’t tell me you didn’t drive it home.”

steve blinked. “so what?”

the fraternity brother snorted, loud. “dude. hands and mouths don’t count. that’s like… second base. you gotta seal the deal or you lose. you know the rules.”

steve rolled his jaw, trying not to show the way that made something curl up and rot inside him. “it’s not a fucking baseball game.”

“it is when money’s on it,” the man shot back. “so unless you wanna cough up fifty bucks, you better go find your little ghost girlfriend and try again.”

steve didn’t answer. just shoved past him and out into the hallway, heart pounding louder than the music thumping through the floorboards.

he told himself he didn’t care about the bet. told himself it didn’t matter. told himself it was just fun.

so why did it feel like he’d already lost?

steve made it halfway down the hall before he stopped.leaned against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw tight.

he could still feel it — the way you’d gasped when his fingers curled just right, the way you’d grabbed his wrist, grounding yourself like you didn’t want him to stop. your thighs had trembled around his hand, slick and warm and fuck, you’d made the prettiest little sounds. his fingers twitched just remembering.

it should’ve been enough.

should’ve checked the box, called it done. a win. bragging rights. hell, mason and the rest of them would’ve bought him drinks all weekend just off that alone.

but it didn’t feel like a win.

it felt like watching something delicate shift in his palm and knowing he’d just cracked it without meaning to.

and he hated that it mattered.

he let his head thunk lightly back against the wall, eyes slipping shut.

"fuck," he muttered, too quiet to hear over the pulse of party bass under his feet.

because here’s the truth he wouldn’t say out loud: yeah, he wanted to fuck you. obviously. you were gorgeous and weird and snarky and drove him insane in that twisty, aching way that made his chest feel too small. he wanted to see what you'd look like in his bed, what noises you'd make if he took his time, what kind of faces you'd pull when he whispered the right things in your ear. his cock twitched just thinking about it.

but that wasn’t all.

it was the way your mouth moved when you were about to say something smartass. the way your fingers always fidgeted with the rings you wore. the stupid trinkets in your bag. the books you carried like armor. it was the way you looked at him — like you knew him better than he wanted you to. like you were trying to see through all the noise.

and he wanted you to. that was the worst part.

because this wasn’t just some throwaway fuck to him. not anymore. maybe not ever.

and now tommy was in his ear, reminding him of the bet, the rules, the cash.

as if any of it would feel good if he had to drag you into it with a lie.

he ran a hand down his face. maybe he should double back. but not for the money.

no — he wanted to see you again. wanted to feel the way your breath hitched when he leaned in close. wanted to hear you tell him off just before you let him touch you again. wanted you to want it as much as he did.

wanted a do over.

this time, without the bet hanging over his head like a noose.

this time, something real.

even if he didn’t deserve it.

while steve thought himself into drunken turmoil. you were searching the party for your roommate, nancy. desperate to head back to your dorm across campus. the hallways were much quieter now, but the bass still throbs from the living room speakers, muffled behind closed doors and spilled beer.

your head’s spinning, your thighs are slick, and there’s still a phantom buzz humming between your legs from Steve’s fingers. the smell of the party— the smell of him still lingered with you. you didn’t quite understand why you bolted. though, you knew it had something to do with the way his final words sat with you.

i got you.

they echoed in your head. in that moment you believed him. you wanted him to have you. have all of you. why the hell would you almost give up your virginity to steve harrington of all people??

all of this. for a bet you didn’t even know about.

it had been a few days since the bathroom rendezvous. you weren’t sure what you were expecting—some kind quick glance across the lawn. maybe. an apology. a joke. something. but instead, silence.

you’d been avoiding him anyway. ducking through different lecture halls, leaving class early. it was easier that way. less humiliating.

still, he lingered in your head. in flashes. in sensations. in the low ache between your legs every time you remembered the way he touched you.

so when your roommate dragged you to the rush party—excited to celebrate the sorority she’d finally gotten into—you half hoped not to see him.

the party is loud—hot bodies pressed into tighter corners than the house was ever meant to hold. someone’s spilled jungle juice near your feet, and the bass is so heavy it rattles your sternum.

you’re not even sure why you came. your roommate begged. promised it would be fun. but it isn’t. not really.

you’re halfway through an overly sweet drink and considering slipping out the back when you hear it —steve! steve! steve!—and your stomach turns before you even spot him.

but then he appears.

drunk. flushed. his curls damp with sweat. blue polo wrinkled and unbuttoned enough to see the dark patch of hair on his chest. he’s holding a beer and looking for someone. and when he sees you, you know.

his grin splits. wide and daunting.

he stumbles toward you, swinging the can to his lips and stabbing it with his keys mid-stride. it sprays immediately—too much pressure. too messy. the foamy stream hits your chest, sticks to your collarbones, soaks into your dress.

you gasp. “what the hell—?”

“shit,” he says, fake-sheepish, eyes trailing down your front. “looks better on you anyway.”

he’s drunk. and cocky. and absolutely, definitely, here for you.

“you’re disgusting,” you mutter, wiping yourself down. but your fingers tremble when you flick foam from your cleavage.

“yeah,” he says again, lower this time. he steps in close. his eyes flick down to the hem of your skirt. “but you love it.”

you should walk away. but you don’t.

his hand finds your waist and tugs. not hard—just enough to test. just enough to see if you’ll lean in. and you do. against your better judgment, your better instincts.

“come on,” he whispers against your ear, warm breath on your neck. “wanna show you something.”

—

he tastes like beer and bad decisions when he kisses you behind the house. your stomach feeling heavy but hopeful when he pushes you into the passenger seat of his car— climbing in after. he’s sloppy with the way he slams the door , the leather seats already fogged up by the time he got you in. locking it like he’s afraid you’ll bolt again.

you hadn’t expected to see him tonight, not after how you’d been dodging him for days—feeling stupid and raw ever since the bathroom. since he touched you like that. since you let him. you missed him, sure. but the shame stuck to your skin like syrup.

and now here you were, back where you swore you wouldn’t be. knees pressed together, breath shaky, thighs already aching to fall open for him.

“c’mere, baby,” steve muttered, voice low like he was afraid to scare you off. but there was nothing gentle in the way he dragged you across the console, yanking you over into his lap like you weighed nothing. “fuckin’ missed you.”

your breath caught when you felt it—thick and heavy, pressing against your ass. he was already hard.

“harrington—” you started, but it came out breathy. desperate. you didn’t even mean it to.

“shh,” he cooed, mouth pressed hot and wet to the corner of your jaw. “let me feel you, baby.”

his hands were greedy, rough palms sliding up the back of your thighs, dragging your dress up in the process. you gasped when cool air hit your cunt—already soaked, the tiny black cotton of your panties clinging tight to your pussy lips.

he groaned when he felt it. “jesus christ. you this wet just from seeing me?”

you couldn’t answer. you just nodded, thighs twitching when his fingers slid over the sticky fabric, middle finger pressing right against your slit. he found your clit easy, even through the panties. rubbed slow, tight circles until your hips started rocking down into his hand without you even realizing.

“fuck—knew you missed me,” he muttered, dragging the panties to the side. “i missed this little pussy most. missed those pretty sounds you make when i touch you”

“steve,” you whimpered. “please— before someone sees. “

you didn’t even know what you were begging for. you just knew you needed more. needed something to fill that pulsing, aching heat between your legs.

he popped the button on his jeans, zipper half down already from how hard he’d been since the second you got in the car.

he pulled his hand away suddenly and brought his fingers up to your mouth. “spit.”

you blinked at him, lips parting before your brain caught up. “w-what?”

“you heard me.” his voice dropped, thick with lust. “spit in my hand. make it nice and messy for me.”

your belly fluttered. you leaned in, mouth dropping open, and let a warm trail of spit pool in his waiting palm. he grinned—nasty and full of something dark—and reached down to stroke himself with it. moaning at the way it mixed with his own precum, slicking him up fast.

“good fuckin’ girl,” he muttered, giving himself a few more pumps before dragging your hips forward, notching the thick tip of his cock between your folds. “always so ready to make a mess.”

you gasped at the contact, the leaky head of his cock nudging your clit over and over again with each slow roll of his hips.

“fuck,” he gritted. “you feel that, sweetheart? feel how your little pussy hugs it even without takin’ it in?”

you mewled. he reached up, grabbed your jaw, and tapped two fingers against your lips. “open.”

you did—mind fuzzy, breath caught in your chest.

he leaned in close. “tongue out.”

then he spat. hot and wet right into your mouth, the filthiest thing he’s done yet. and you moaned around it, swallowed it down like you were starving.

“there we go, atta girl—“ he hissed, eyes dark.

his grip on your hips tightened, dragging your slick folds up and down his cock, smearing your arousal all over him. the head kept catching on your clit, making your thighs tremble, your breath hiccup in your throat.

he helped you grind down harder. faster.

“fuck yourself on it, just like that. such a needy little thing. fuckin’ dripping all over me.”

“steve,” you whined, voice cracking. “need it—need you to fuck me. please.”

he grinned like the devil himself. “that right?”

you nodded desperately, whining when he tapped his heavy cock against your swollen clit.

“say it.”

“want you inside,” you begged, trembling in his lap. “want you to fuck me.”

that did it. with a filthy groan, he lined up and pushed in—slow at first, just the tip, watching the way your gummy wet walls sucked him in like you were made for it.

“jesus christ,” he hissed. “this pussy’s so wet’.”

he bottomed out with one rough thrust, making you cry out and clutch at his shoulders. didn’t even give you time to adjust—he just drilled into you, setting a relentless pace, the whole car rocking with the force of it.

“fuck, fuck—feel that?” he growled, voice tight. “feel how this needy hole grips me? you were made for this cock. fucking bred for it.”

his hips slapped loud against yours, every thrust slick and obscene. he reached down and rubbed your clit in tight little circles, and it was too much, too fast, too good—

and that’s when your orgasm hit, hard and hot and overwhelming…

your legs shook, muscles tensing, the pressure building sharp and fast.

“steve—‘m gonna—oh my god—”

“make a mess on me, baby. let me feel that pretty pussy gush.”

your orgasm hit with a cry—hips jerking, slick spilling out of you, soaking him completely. and all he could do was groan, gripping your ass and rutting up into the mess like he couldn’t help himself.

“fuck, look what you do to me—look at this mess all over my cock.”

he fucked into you ruthlessly, fast strokes, still holding you in place as you panted through the aftershocks.

“wanna cum all over this pussy. cover it in it.”

you whimpered, nodding, hips twitching with overstimulation.

and then he came—loud and hot and filthy—painting your folds, your clit, your thighs with his release. so much of it, dripping down onto his jeans, sticky between your legs.

you sagged forward, dizzy. ruined. legs trembling. chest pressed to his.

he kissed you—slow and deep and messy, like he didn’t care that your lips were sticky with his spit.

finally leaving his haze, forehead against yours he grins. “you’re fucking unreal. “

—

you’re still breathing hard when he pulls out, sloppy and spent, your thighs sticky with sweat and spit and everything else he left behind.

neither of you says anything. there it was again. guilt.

the air inside the car is thick—humid and heavy and laced with sex. your head's against the window, cooling glass sticking to your temple. he’s still between your legs, still holding your thigh open like he can’t bear to let it close just yet.

and then he blinks. pulls back. zips up without looking at you.

he doesn’t say good job or are you okay or that meant something, not that you expected him to. but it still hurts, the way he wipes his hand on his jeans like it’s nothing. like you’re nothing.

you fumble with your dress. your panties are too far gone, bunched somewhere near the pedals. your mouth still tastes like him and you don’t know what to do with that.

just the tick of the cooling engine. your ragged breaths. the wet mess between your legs.

you climb out of the car, knees trembling so much you nearly stumble. your dress is twisted, sticky and damp where he’d touched you, and you tug it down as best you can, trying to make yourself decent again. that’s when you hear it — laughter.

two of his brothers are standing near the bushes, half-drunk, definitely staring.

your fingers shake as you clutch your bag, the cigarette pack rattling inside like a countdown. your stomach twists—a heavy, sick feeling that’s settling deep, but you can’t quite place why. it’s not just nerves. it’s something darker, something pulling tight around your insides.

the night air is thick and heavy, and it presses against your skin like it knows your secret.

you barely remember the path back to the house, the pounding bass inside like a heartbeat you can’t sync with. your legs move on autopilot, dragging you toward the front door, but your mind’s a storm.

you spot your roommate near the kitchen doorway, laughing too loud, holding a solo cup, surrounded by girls who don’t notice the cloud creeping over your face.

“hey,” you say, voice unsteady. “can we get out of here? like, right now?”

she blinks, confused, but something in your eyes makes her pause. you hate how weak you sound, but you need to get out. away from the stares, the whispers, the way your body still burns from him.

“yeah,” she says finally, slinging an arm around you. “let’s go.”

unfortunately, you’re halfway to the front door, fishing for a cigarette out of your bag, when you hear it.

“get it, harrington!”

the words echo from the living room as you pass by. catching a glimpse what appears to be a celebration. what’s he got to smile about right now?

and then you hear it— “she let me do it raw.” he boasts, green bottle in hand.

they all erupt into oohs and ahhs, a couple of sick freshmen who live vicariously through steve clap him on the back. you see it. “that better count for the bet, man.”

“c’mon dude, tell us how she was.” the voice is whiny, pitched with excitement. probably a pledge. you freeze near the coat rack, ducking half behind a doorway.

“she that freaky behind all the witchy shit?” someone else asks, laughing.

“harrington’s a got magic dick, I swear.”

“told you he could do it. should’ve doubled the pot.”

they’re not even trying to whisper. it’s nauseating. you don’t want to hear more. but you do.

“what’d I tell you? by midterms. on the dot.” steve is smug. it’s almost disturbing to see.

“that’s our boy!” someone cheers, followed by a sloppy round of applause. “someone get him his prize! — eighty bucks and some hein ain’t too shabby for some weird ghost pussy, huh?

your stomach drops.

steve’s voice follows—low, cocky, a little hoarse:

“you act like I ever lose.”

the breath punches out of your chest.

you blink, hard. And again. something thick and hot starts building behind your eyes. your hands won’t stop shaking.

you could walk away. pretend you didn’t hear it. pretend tonight still means something. but instead, you turn around. step into the living room where they gathered.

steve’s leaning on the arm of the couch, still smirking. he sees you before anyone else does—and that grin falters the second he registers your face.

you tilt your head. smile coldly.

“congrats on your win, harrington.”

“hope the heineken’s worth it.”

and then you rush out. no one caring enough to stop you. faint woofs and laughter echoing so loudly you can still hear them on the lawn.

“somebody protect our boy!” they joke, “the witch is gonna put a hex on him.”

the first thing steve notices the next morning is the hangover. the second is the ache in his chest.

he came knocking late last night. guilt weighing him down as he waited outside your door. you didn’t open it. he really didn’t expect you to.

you made her cum and then humiliated her in front of half the house.

steve doesn’t even remember telling the guys. just remembers stumbling out of the car, smug and spinning, and getting pulled into a victory lap he never wanted to take.

now he can’t stop seeing your face when you said it.

"hope the heineken’s worth it."

god. you looked like you were about to cry. but you didn’t. you just walked out like he was nothing.

he is nothing.

he checks your usual haunts. no sign of you at the coffee shop. the bookstore’s empty. you're not in class. you’ve vanished.

he immediately plans out what he’d say if you were in front of him. practices it to himself as he walks to your dorm hall.

Sorry? No, that’s useless.

It didn’t mean anything. Worse.

you weren’t supposed to matter.

his chest hurts again.

—

while steve was tormenting himself. you laid in bed, curled up in your feelings. thinking back to the night prior and the conversation you had with nancy.

you could hardly remember the walk home.

just the sting in your eyes, and the acid in your throat was all you seemed to remember.

the way the air outside felt too cold, too sharp. like your skin didn’t fit right anymore.

nancy had followed you. didn’t say anything at first—just walked silently beside you the whole way back, steps in sync. she didn’t ask questions. didn’t push. just stayed close, like a shadow that cared.

you made it to the dorm before you start let the dam break.

the second the door clicked shut, your legs gave out. you hit the carpet hard, knees folding beneath you, and nancy’s already there—dropping down next to you, arms wrapped around your shoulders like she’s trying to keep you from splintering.

“what happened?” she whispered, voice already tight with worry. “what did he do?”

you want to tell her. but the words get stuck. tangled up in your throat. it takes a minute before you can force them out—each syllable slicing like glass.

“it was steve,” you croak. “it was all a fucking bet.”

she stiffens, fingers freezing where they’ve been stroking your back.

you pull away just enough to look at her. your face is a mess—mascara smudged, lips trembling, the taste of shame still stuck to your teeth.

“i gave him my virginity,” you say, and your voice cracks right down the middle. “for a fucking bet, nance.”

she doesn’t speak. just stares at you—eyes wide, jaw clenched. furious. heartbroken for you. like she can’t decide if she wants to cry or start a fire.

“he acted like he cared,” you whisper. “he made me believe it meant something. like… like he saw me.”

you wipe at your cheeks with shaking hands. “and now i feel disgusting. like i was just—some game.”

nancy pulls you into her chest again. her voice shakes with quiet rage.

“you are not disgusting. he is.”

you sighed against her shoulder. “i hate him.”

you don’t, not really. but it’s easier than admitting the truth: that even now, even after everything, a piece of you still wants him to be the boy he pretended to be.

you just let yourself cry instead.

and she held you through all of it.

there reaches a point in your post part sorrows where you realize— the dorm feels too quiet. the sun filters through the blinds, but it doesn’t warm the chill in your bones.

right as your kate bush record spins to a stop, you hear a knock at the door—soft, hesitant. you don’t want to move, don’t want to see who it is.

“please, can we talk?” steve’s voice, low and rough with regret, filters through the wood.

you don’t answer.

the knocking comes again, a little harder this time. then again.

finally, you sigh, dragging yourself up. you open the door just enough to slip your head out.

he’s standing there, hair flat and stuck to his sweaty forehead, eyes tired and rimmed red, but searching. desperate.

“i’m sorry,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “for everything. for what i did. what i said. for letting them talk like that.”

you meet his eyes, trying to keep your voice steady. “you let them.”

“i didn’t want them to know. i didn’t mean for it to get like that.” he takes a step forward, but you don’t move back or forward.

“then why did you do it?” you ask, the words sharp and raw. “the bet. bragging about me like i was a prize.”

he swallows hard. “i thought i was playing a game. but it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“you made it like this,” you say, voice cracking. “and you didn’t even try to stop it.”

he looks like he might say something else, but you raise a hand, stopping him.

“i don’t want to see you,” you say, voice cold now. “not until you figure out what you actually want. not until you respect me.”

steve’s face falls, but he nods slowly.

“i get it,” he says quietly. “i fucked up.”

“yeah,” you say, stepping back inside and closing the door softly but firmly. “you did.”

the silence that follows feels like a wound closing — not healed, but starting.

you can’t help but slam the door shut in his face. despite your anger, it even feels harsh to you. waiting with your hand on the knob, listening for when he walks off. it takes a lot longer than you expect.

you manage to avoid steve for a solid week— sadly, you become really good at fucking put when you get an inkling that him and his goons are close by.

except for today. it’s a rainy wednesday, the quad is soaked and mostly empty—except for the girl in the green trench coat, stomping through puddles in her boots, hood pulled low. steve knows it’s you from fifty yards away.

he ends his conversation at the sight of you. instantly booking it, jogging to catch up— breath fogging the air between you.

“wait—hey. hey.”

you stop. don’t turn.

steve’s dripping, grey basketball hoodie sticking to his arms, curls limp with rain. “can you just—please—just give me a second.”

you cross your arms. your jaw is tight. every bit of softness you let him see in you in recent weeks is now gone. all your sharp edges had grown back— and they appeared even stoney than before. “what, need to collect your prize money?”

the words hit him like a slap.

he shakes his head. “it wasn’t—it’s not like that.”

“oh? It’s not like you made a bet to fuck me and then let the whole house celebrate when you succeeded?”

your voice cracks. you fucking hate that it cracks.

“i didn’t tell them,” he says quickly. “not on purpose. i didn’t mean for you to find out like that.”

you blink in the rain, droplets slipping off your lashes. “but it was true?”

he hesitates. and then, quietly: “yeah. at first.”

you laugh, bitter and wet. “god. i feel so fucking stupid.”

it’s like he can see it. can actually see the walls he’d finally gotten past are now ten times higher than before. they’re built around you like a cage and it makes his heart ache.

“you know, steve.” you scoff, “you were the first person i ever let touch me. how much of a fucking idiot does that make me?”

“you’re not,” he says, stepping closer. “you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. you’re the only one who’s ever made me—made me feel like i wasn’t just—” he falters. “like i could be more than this.”

you stare. his hair’s plastered to his forehead, dripping into his eyes. he’s shivering.

“i fucked up,” he says. “and i’d take it back if i could. but i need you to know— before anything ever happened between us.. i was already in too deep. you scared the shit out of me. you still do.”

your sigh, your voice small. “then why do it?”

he exhales hard, like it hurts.

“because i thought winning meant something. but i didn’t win— i lost you. and that’s the only thing I’ve ever cared about losing.”

for a second, neither of you speak. the only sound is rain hitting the pavement, and your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

“and what happens now, steve?”

he swallows hard. “that’s up to you.”

you stare at him, the rain soaking through your jacket now. cold water slips down the back of your neck, but you barely feel it. not over the burn in your throat, the heaviness sitting in your chest

he looks... wrecked. not frat boy drunk or post sex cocky. just genuinely wrecked. red rimmed eyes, clenched jaw, hands open like he’s offering them to you. like he wants you to take them. or slap them away.

you want to yell. want to throw something. instead, you ask, voice low: “did you even like me?”

steve blinks, startled. “what?”

“you flirted. you touched me. you looked at me like you saw me. was that just part of the game? or did you actually like me?”

he shakes his head. “no. no, it wasn’t part of the game.”

“then what was it?”

he takes a cautious step closer. “you walked into that lecture hall and i forgot what the bet even was. i saw you wearing those dumb frog socks and i—god—something cracked open.”

“you stalked me around campus,” you remind him, arms crossed.

he winces. “yeah. and you let me.”

you fall silent. because it’s true.

“i liked you,” he says softly. “i like you. so much it’s making me fucking crazy.”

you try to look away but he catches your eyes again, and there’s something raw there. like he’s not asking for forgiveness, just for you to see him.

“you were supposed to be a joke,” he says. “weird girl with stupid books and strange rings. a bet. a fucking dare.”

his voice drops, steady but thick:

“and now all i do is think about you. how you laugh. how you doodle on the tops of your thighs in class. how you roll your eyes when you’re flustered. i think about you when i wake up. i think about you when i can’t sleep. i think about you like i’ve been thinking about you forever.”

the rain falls harder. a crack of thunder rolls overhead. but neither of you move.

“you made me feel like more than some spoiled asshole,” he adds. “and i didn’t know how to be that version of myself until i met you. i want to be that guy. for you.”

you’re quiet for a long time— then: “you made me feel wanted. like maybe i wasn’t too different. like someone actually… liked that about me.”

steve nods, barely breathing.

“i did,” he whispers. “i do.”

you sigh, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as if you’re weighing something. you don’t open them until you feel the warmth of his hand—not touching, just hovering near yours.

you look down at it.

then up at him.

and for the first time since that night, you speak softly.

“i’m not some challenge, steve.”

“i know.”

“i’m not gonna be a footnote in a frat house story.”

“you’re not.” his voice cracks. “you’re so so much more than that”

you don’t smile. but the storm behind your eyes softens. just a little.

you step forward slowly, your fingers grazing his hand—just barely, a whisper of contact. the warmth from his skin seeps into yours, both familiar and new all at once.

he swallows hard, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to read the future between your gaze and the fading storm around you.

“i’m still mad,” you say, voice low but steady.

“you should be,” he admits, voice breaking a little.

for a long moment, neither of you moves. the rain taps against your jacket, the distant thunder softening. the air between you is heavy—full of everything left unsaid.

he opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, but the words catch and dissolve.

instead, your fingers tighten just a fraction, holding on to that fragile, trembling connection.

and then you pull back, the moment hanging between you like a question without an answer.

“we’ll figure it out,” he finally whispers.

you nod, heart still pounding, knowing this isn’t the end. maybe not even the beginning. just a fragile, honest step forward.

[rotapathetic]

૮ no one laughs at clark’s jokes but you ა

reader works at daily planet ᨳ reader and clark aren’t aware of their mutual attraction to each other

“that’s what the camel said!” clark finished his joke, looking around for a reaction. between you, lois, and jimmy, you were the only one grinning at the joke.

granted, you didn’t understand the punchline, but clark was just so cute as he waited excitedly for a laugh. pen fisted in his hand, both hands raised slightly, gestured outwards like the joke was a magic trick and he just said the magic words. his little lip bite holding in his own laughter certainly couldn’t go unnoticed.

“maybe stick to front page worthy writing?” jimmy teased with an innocent shrug. you quickly turned to glare at him, your eyebrow raise speaking more than enough that you needed him to stop. rude, you mouthed silently. jimmy shrugged again, rolling his chair back to his desk.

clark dropped his hands, his fist tapping on his knee as he glanced down. “yeah, that. . that one wasn’t that good,” he scratched the back of his ear, “. .i should’ve practiced it more.” he attempted a bashful smile, which didn’t reach high, and awkwardly turned back to his computer.

lois, finally speaking up, spoke to clark’s back, “at least you tried?” clark looked over his shoulder, giving a broken nod, and facing back around.

it wasn’t the first instance clark attempted a joke in the office that fell flat on every ear that it reached, whether you were there to hear it or not. every time you were though, you made sure to give clark a smile, no matter if you liked the joke or not. you liked clark. and he was enough to bring on your smile.

this time though, you wanted to actually tell clark you liked his joke. it was the first time you would speak to him, but you’ve garnered up the courage. having no clue, though, that clark only told jokes just to see your smile. what started off as clark genuinely attempting to make his co workers laugh, turned into only wanted to see you laugh after you did at his first joke.

you abandoned your work, rolling your chair next to clark’s. his fingers were typing away on his keyboard, one reaching up to adjust his glasses, and coming back down to repeatedly press the back space.

“hi,” you spoke softly before you could back down. clark turned to you, hands pausing over the keys. “uh. .” he quickly tabbed out of his work like he had something to hide, not sure why he did it, which caused him to even shake his head at his own useless action. “. .hi,” he breathed out, a wider smile than the last forming.

you were momentarily lost in the smile, but quickly remembered your script for this interaction. “i really liked the joke. one of your funniest works.” you smiled back. clark rose a brow, turning his chair towards you, his knees pressing against yours. “really?” he went to rest his head on his first as his put his elbow to his desk, but it only came into contact with his keyboard, which caused him to quickly sit back up. that’s what he got for trying to play it off cool, knowing he was freaking out inside at you speaking to him. and liking his joke, at that.

you giggled at the failed attempt, which clark would have no trouble playing on loop in his head if this was the last time he would hear it it. “yeah. i like all of your jokes. i was just hesitant to tell you, but you’re really funny. and good at what you do, obviously.” you added.

clark opened his mouth to respond, but when his brain told him to tell you that he only made them for you, he quickly shut it and nodded with a smile instead.

you took it as an invitation to continue, “i especially liked the one about the ocean. could you say it again?”

clark blank minded for a second, forgetting every joke he’s ever told. you remembered what he said? you were actually paying attention? you didn’t just nod to get the conversation over and walk away like people usually did? clark didn’t know what to do with the newfound attention and knowledge that his make-a-joke-every-day-to-get-her-to-laugh plan worked.

“oh, um. what did the ocean do to the sand when it left for the day?” clark asked, chuckling at your confused face as you tapped your chin, pretending to think. “i don’t know, clark. what did the ocean do?”

clark bit his lip, leaning in closer like he was telling you a secret. “it waved goodbye.”

your laugh was abrupt and louder than you intended, you quickly slapping a hand over your mouth. you still continued to giggle behind your hand, eyes scrunching. and clark laughed with you, still leaned in close, savoring this moment that was just between you two.

you laughter dulled down, and you lowered your hand, shaking your head. “how do you come up with them?”

clark’s laughter was cut short at the question. well, he definitely couldn’t say he started off googling how to make a girl laugh then found a website full of jokes, writing them in his journal, and repeating them in his head before bed to memorize them and recite at work at the hopes you would hear.

“um. . some sitcom that i watch. . you wouldn’t know it,” clark rushed to add just in case you asked for the name. he is not good at making things up on the spot.

“nice. . could i ask you a favor?” clark was nodding before you finished your sentence. anything. whatever you want. whatever you don’t want. whatever you need. whatever you don’t need. yes, a million times over. how do you say yes in every language?

“sure,” clark responded instead.

“watch more episodes when you get home so i can hear another joke tomorrow?” you hesitantly asked.

this was the last joke clark had memorized so he would have to spend the night memorizing new ones. and excitedly so he would. now he couldn’t wait for the work day to be over so he could shove his face in his journal and repeat lines to himself over and over as he made dinner, picked out his outfit for tomorrow, brush his teeth, and lie in bed with his bedside lamp turned on, muttering jokes into the empty space.

but he couldn’t mention that either. so he nodded and instead said, “sure.”

[calypso-rt]

I don’t share what's mine

꩜ corporate!reader x bluecollar!rafe

꩜ jealousy, jealousy

It starts harmless enough.

You’re in the corridor outside the conference rooms, phone to your ear, scanning an email on your tablet, when you hear his laugh.

That low, careless, sun-warmed sound that somehow crawls under your skin every time.

You stop in your tracks.

Rafe’s leaning against the reception desk again, the picture of relaxed confidence. His arms are crossed, biceps flexed under the sleeves of his T-shirt. And perched on the edge of the counter beside him is Chloe, the new bubbly blonde intern.

She’s giggling. Like, actually giggling. Twirling a strand of hair around one finger.

“…and then I said, ‘Well, I might not know how to change my oil, but I’m real good with my hands,’” Rafe’s saying, eyes sparkling. Chloe dissolves into fresh giggles, practically shoving his arm. “Oh my God, stop. You’re terrible.”

You freeze, invisible ice sliding down your spine.

Rafe, your Rafe, with the rag stuffed in his back pocket and the grin he only usually gives you, leans closer, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “Anyway, point is…you ever need help checkin’ your fluids, you know where to find me.”

Chloe squeals. Squeals.

You don’t even realize you’ve hung up your phone call mid-sentence. You just turn on your heel and march back toward your office, ever the avoidant.

He comes knocking an hour later.

Your door’s half-closed, but he doesn’t bother knocking, of course. Just pokes his head in.

“Hey, corporate—”

You don’t look up from your screen. “I’m busy.”

There’s a beat. You can practically feel him staring at you.

“…O-kay,” he says slowly. “I just—”

“Busy.”

Another pause. Then you hear the door close again.

The next day, you find a sticky note on your monitor:

“Lunch? Or you still mad?” — Mr. Corporate

You crumple it and toss it into your trash can.

By Thursday, he’s had enough. He corners you at the elevator bank, stepping in front of the doors just as they’re opening.

“Okay, what the hell,” he says.

“Move, Rafe.”

“Not ‘til you tell me why you’re actin’ like I keyed your car.”

You lift your chin. “I’m not acting like anything.”

He folds his arms, towering over you. “Bullshit.”

You refuse to look at him. The elevator doors slide shut again behind him.

He lowers his voice. “Is this about Chloe?”

“Why would it be?” you snap. “You can flirt with whoever you want.”

His brows shoot up. “So that’s what this is.”

You glare at him. “I don’t care what you do. It’s none of my business.”

“Oh, see, that’s funny.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “’Cause you sure look like you care.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He studies you for a long moment. The playful glint is gone. When he speaks again, it’s softer, but still intense enough to pin you in place.

“I was messin’ around. I don’t give a shit about Chloe.”

“Seemed like you were having fun.”

“She’s nineteen, corporate. I was tryin’ not to be an asshole. That’s it.”

You fold your arms tighter. “I’m sure she’d love to hear that.”

Rafe sighs. “Jesus. You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” you snap.

He hesitates. Just a second. Like he’s deciding something. Then his jaw firms.

“That I don’t come all the way across town in the middle of my workday to see anybody else.”

Your heart stutters. You try not to let it show.

“That I don’t bring sandwiches to girls I don’t give a shit about.” He tilts his head, eyes blazing. “That I’m not interested in anyone else but you.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

He exhales. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”

You swallow hard. “Then why…why flirt with her?”

“’Cause I was tryin’ to prove I can hang in your world. And I screwed it up. Happy?”

You blink. “Why would you have to prove anything?”

“Because you’re…” He gestures vaguely at your suit, your heels, your entire immaculate presence. “This. And I’m…not.”

You hesitate. A long beat of silence stretches between you. Then you say, softer than intended: “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

He searches your eyes. “Then why’d you freeze me out?”

You glance away. “I didn’t like it.”

Rafe grins, slow and a little wicked. “Didn’t like me flirtin’ with someone else, huh?”

You scowl. “Shut up.”

He takes another step closer, invading your personal space completely. “So what you’re tellin’ me…is you’re jealous.”

“I am not—”

But he cuts you off, mouth brushing your ear. “God, you’re cute when you’re mad.”

Your entire body locks up.

“Tell you what,” he murmurs. “Why don’t you let me make it up to you tonight?”

You shove his chest lightly. “Rafe—”

But he’s already smirking. “I’ll pick you up at eight, corporate.”

And then he’s gone, sauntering away like he hasn’t just shattered your defenses completely, leaving you breathless in your power suit and wishing you’d pulled him back instead of pushing him away.

...

You’re back at the garage on a Friday afternoon, wearing a silk blouse and dark jeans instead of your usual suit, casual for you, though you still look wildly out of place among the oil stains and rattling pneumatic tools.

Rafe’s truck is nowhere in sight.

Which is unfortunate, because your car is definitely making a noise this time.

A real one.

Like a metallic screech that sends a jolt straight through your bones every time you brake. So you pull in, pop the hood, and hover beside your car, arms folded, trying not to look helpless.

That’s when you hear a voice behind you:

“Whoa. Fancy car for a fancy lady.”

You turn.

He’s tall, maybe a couple years younger than Rafe. Dark hair, mechanic’s shirt half unbuttoned, grease on his fingers. He’s wiping his hands on a clean rag, grin firmly in place.

“Hi,” you say cautiously. “Is Rafe around?”

“Nah, he ran to the parts store. I’m Eli. New around here.” He flashes a brilliant smile. “But lucky for you, I know my way around a BMW.”

“Oh…that’s okay. I’ll just wait for—”

But he’s already stepping closer, peering into your engine bay. “Pop the hood the rest of the way for me, sweetheart?”

You bristle faintly at sweetheart, but comply. “I just came in for a noise—”

“Brake noise, right? I heard it when you pulled in.” Eli shoots you a wink. “Bet you didn’t know a pretty car like this could scream so loud.”

You open your mouth, then shut it again.

He leans closer into the hood, arms flexing under the fluorescent lights. “You from around here?”

“Uh…kinda.” You shift awkwardly. “I work downtown.”

He grins. “I knew you were a corporate girl. You’ve got that boss energy.”

Your cheeks warm despite yourself. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Oh, it means you probably scare the hell outta half the guys you meet. But that’s okay.” He glances over his shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Some of us like a woman who knows what she wants.”

You stare at him, thoroughly off-balance.

And that’s precisely when Rafe comes back.

You hear his boots before you see him. The slam of his truck door. The crunch of gravel.

Then his voice, sharp as a blade: “What the fuck’s this?”

You blink up, startled. “Rafe—”

He’s striding across the lot, eyes zeroed in on Eli like a predator who’s spotted something on his territory.

Eli straightens, rag still dangling from one hand. “Hey, man. Just helpin’ her out—”

“Didn’t ask what you were doin’,” Rafe snaps. He plants himself between you and Eli so abruptly you nearly stumble backward. “Back the fuck off her car.”

Eli raises his hands. “Jesus. Chill.”

“Don’t tell me to chill.” Rafe’s jaw is clenched so hard you can practically hear his teeth grinding. “You don’t touch her car. You don’t talk to her like that.”

“Rafe, it’s fine,” you try to cut in, but he ignores you completely.

“You think ‘sweetheart’ is how we talk to customers around here?” Rafe demands, voice low and dangerous.

Eli blinks. “I…I was just being friendly—”

“Yeah? Go be friendly somewhere else.”

Eli glances between you two, looking faintly rattled. Then he mutters, “Whatever, man,” and walks off, tossing the rag onto the nearest tool cart.

The moment he’s gone, Rafe rounds on you, eyes blazing.

“What the hell, corporate?”

Your mouth drops open. “Me? I didn’t do anything!”

“You let him touch your car!”

“I didn’t let—he just started helping!”

Rafe rakes a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of grease at his hairline. “You should’ve waited for me.”

“I was waiting for you!”

He’s breathing hard. His chest is rising and falling like he’s been running.

Then he grabs your wrist, not hard, but firmly, and yanks you away from the car a few steps, out of earshot of the others.

“Do you even realize…?” His voice is hoarse now, lower, ragged. “The way you stand there, all wide-eyed…lettin’ guys lean all over your car, talkin’ to you like you’re somethin’ to win…like you’re—”

“Like I’m what?” you demand, getting ticked off at his tone.

He glares at you, but there’s a wild, almost panicked glint behind it. “Like you’re available.”

You blink, stunned.

“Rafe…” your voice softens. “I didn’t even notice he was flirting.”

He lets out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, well. Every guy within ten feet notices you.”

You scoff, a slow smirk spreading on your lips. “What, are you…jealous?”

He stiffens. “No.”

“Rafe—”

He grips your chin gently, tilting your face up. “You’re mine.”

Your breath catches, and you shouldn't find it attractive but you do.

He blinks, seeming to realize what he’s said. His thumb drifts across your jaw. “Shit. I didn’t—”

But before you can answer, he’s ducking his head and kissing you. It’s not soft, not gentle. It’s rough and urgent and tastes faintly of salt and grease and something purely Rafe.

When he finally pulls back, your pulse is thrumming in your ears.

You whisper, “I was just getting my brakes checked.”

Rafe grins, still breathless. “Not by him, you weren’t.”

And then he tugs you back toward your car, muttering under his breath, “C’mon. Lemme fix it proper.”

A/N: i may be spamming this duo but i just love them

TAGLIST (OG taglist + anyone who asked to be tagged): @lunaleah, @luzstarkey, @rafeycameronsgf, @pluviophilis @aerie717, @voqueflms, @bonjourjiminie

[harringtonfeels]

sweet girl

6.6k | mechanic!Eddie Munson x coworker!Reader | Smut

Eddie's trying to rebuild his social life, with little success. When he finally has something to celebrate, he invites you and some guys from the shop out for drinks - his treat. When you're the only one who shows up at the bar, he finds himself seeing you in a new light.

anon asked: Eddie goes out one night and sees the funny kind but not attractive girl from work at a club. He sees her in a new light. NSFW idea

Notes: Reader is a little insecure. Soft dom!Eddie/needy sub!Reader. Gareth makes an appearance, but I (the author) am not very nice to him. Or his grandma.

Eddie's always been a little bit of a flirt. Nothing too crazy - he's always considered himself pretty good at reading the room - but sometimes just enough to get himself into trouble. Between that and his bad reputation, there's a reason his boss normally has the girl at the front desk handle all his transactions with customers.

Working at Kovach's took some getting used to at first. He's a social person, freak or not, and his coworkers… Well, they're outgoing in some ways, but they're not much like Eddie. Not nerdy, not big into his kind of music. And while he's been able to skate by with coworkers in the past by being charming and funny, the coworkers who've liked him the most are usually women. And, well, there aren't a lot of girls working at Kovach's Auto Repair. As a matter of fact, there's only one: you.

While Eddie knows his way around a car, he doesn't always know how to handle the sausage fest that is Kovach's. He's not an unmanly guy, but he's not exactly one of the boys, either. So more often than not, when Eddie's feeling social, he finds himself leaned against the front desk, teasing you about little things. How carefully you write when you total up parts and labor, the way you've actually got a preference for brands of copy paper.

Today's been a good day. Eddie's made a fair bit of cash from wrapping up a big repair - uninsured driver, hit a deer - and all that work has paid off. He's going out tonight to celebrate, and of course, you're invited.

"Me?" you ask, brow furrowing in disbelief as he plucks a cupcake out of the Tupperware dish beside you.

If Eddie notices your surprise, he doesn't mention it. "Yeah, duh," he says flatly. "You ever been to Crafter's?" It's a little brewery that opened up in the center of town. It's not the Ritz, but it's a little classier than The Hideaway. Over the last few years, Eddie drinks a lot less than he used to, so he prefers a quality drink when he does, instead of whatever glorified nail polish remover will get him drunk the fastest.

He's got no shame as he crams about two-thirds of the cupcake into his mouth. It's yellow cake and blue-dyed buttercream frosting. Eddie wouldn't just kill for the sweets you bring in on Fridays - he'd die for them. You gave up a long time ago on expecting Eddie to stick to one, so you've started bringing a little extra. For the whole crew, of course. Just in case.

You shake your head. "No, I've never been."

"Well, consider it a date," he says casually as he licks icing off his hand. "You, me, Gareth, and whatever other unlucky schmucks here don't already have plans for the night."

It doesn't go unnoticed by you that Eddie just assumes you don't have plans. Unfortunately, he's right, so it's hard to be mad. It's been a while since you've gone out anywhere, so you really can't blame him.

"Alright," you shrug.

Eddie throws a little side-eye your way. "'Alright'?"

You laugh at that. "What do you want me to say, Eddie? 'Oh, benevolent overlord, thank you for this blessing. I'd never be invited anywhere without you.'"

His grin is worth the teasing, and he throws a wink your way. "Now, that's more like it," he says, pointing in your direction. Then, he leans back in to snatch another cupcake, and you swat his hand away. He heads back into the shop with his hands up in surrender, wicked grin all but promising he'll be back to try again.

Surprising absolutely nobody, none of the guys from the shop come. Eddie's been trying to get to know his coworkers better, but it's been an uphill battle. Not everyone is keen to be seen associating with him in the first place. Plus, most of them have worked there since the shop opened. They're all somewhat older than Eddie and usually have wives to get home to or some sportsball event on TV.

But Eddie's been working hard to keep an open mind and an optimistic outlook. It's hard to do - harder than ever - but it's also more important than ever. Somewhere in the aftermath of all the shit that's gone down in Hawkins, he realized the only way he was ever going to have a life was to start acting like, one day, he might have one.

So he tries to let it roll right off his back, like a duck in water.

Gareth showed up, which is at least better than no one. And you should be here any minute now, assuming you keep your word. And he doesn't take you for a liar.

"What's this girl's name again?" Gareth asks, frowning at his cider. He doesn't love meeting new people and isn't very good at remembering them, either. He's already met you once, when he brought his car into the shop, but Eddie supposes maybe he wouldn't remember your name, either, if he'd only ever interacted with you once at the checkout counter.

It's not that there's anything wrong with you. It's just that he wouldn't exactly consider you memorable. You're punctual and diligent. You do a good job working the front desk, but Eddie's not sure what would even make a receptionist stand out in a place like Kovach's, or what would qualify one for employee of the month.

You're not what Eddie'd call a knockout, either. The guys at work don't make up excuses to come and lean against the counter all casual-like, just so they can lay eyes on you. They don't ask you out for dinner, or offer their "services" - the single employees or the customers. It's not like someone would take a look at you and run for the hills, but you're just… a regular person. Exactly the kind of girl Eddie would expect to see working the counter at Kovach's.

So no, you're not exactly memorable. But you are cool, in a sense. Your uncle runs the shop, so you're not afraid of making fun of the other mechanics with Eddie when you've got downtime. (What's he gonna do? Fire you?) And you're always willing to help Eddie squeak in last-minute orders for parts, even when you should tell him to wait until tomorrow. And the thing that makes you the coolest is that you look at Eddie like he's somebody, which is a lot better than he gets from anyone else at the shop, except for Kovach himself.

Eddie reminds Gareth of your name for the third time since he invited him to Crafter's in the first place. Says it nice and slow, then spells it for good measure with a mocking tune.

He never even sees you coming when you pull the barstool away from the high-top and climb onto it. One second, there was no trace of you, and now, here you are, in all your glory (or lack thereof).

"You spelled it wrong," you say by way of a greeting. You don't look directly at him, but you're not looking at Gareth, either. Instead, you lean slightly toward Eddie, bending over at the waist to place your purse on the ground between his seat and yours. Your hair brushes his arm, and he pulls back, trying to give you some space.

When you sit up straight, you flash Eddie a half-heartedly apologetic smile. "Sorry 'bout that." Then you look across the table. "You must be Gareth?" you ask.

Eddie blinks, realizing he's fumbled the intro already. "Oh, yeah." There's something about your arrival that's thrown Eddie off-kilter. It's probably just that he expected he'd see you walk through the door - that's part of why he chose this table in the first place.

Gareth, for his part, doesn't seem fazed at all. He just says "yep," as though having a bit of personality might actually kill him.

"No Greg?" you ask Eddie.

He shrugs. "They all said no, except for Michael, who said maybe, which means no."

Gareth whistles lowly at that and shakes his head, taking a big swig of his cider. Eddie wrinkles his nose in response. Gareth's never learned how to savor anything. He drinks to get drunk. Eddie used to, too; now, he doesn't remember what he enjoyed about it.

"Wow, Ed," Gareth drawls, "your social life is reaching new heights every day."

Eddie doesn't even dignify Gareth with a response. There's plenty he could make fun of Gareth for, but he knows this game well. Eddie's got the advantage of knowing both of his guests, and you and Gareth don't know each other at all. Leave it to Gareth to try and build a bridge by making Eddie the butt of the joke.

He doesn't mind, not really. It's probably better than Gareth ignoring you all night.

So instead of reacting to Gareth's stupid jab, Eddie looks at you intently. "Want anything to drink?"

You cock your head to the side and look at the glass he's got his hand wrapped around. "What are you drinking?" Your voice is soft; he can just hear you over the low thrum of guitar and voices of regulars.

Eddie's been experimenting with mixed drinks since he started coming to Crafter's, and he's challenged himself not to drink the same thing twice all summer. It started as a bid to make conversation with the bartender on duty during his first visit. Now it's turned into a collaborative quest to test the limits of what Bartender Nick can do with the supplies available to him. Eddie's had some real stinkers as a result - last week, it was some atrocity that had the consistency of egg drop soup - but this one's not bad at all.

"Coffee and Coke," he tells you, like that's a normal thing to be drinking.

You don't seem impressed. Even worse, from your expression, you're a little revolted. "Seriously?"

"Well, yeah. It's like an espresso martini but with Coke." You don't seem convinced. "Hey, don't knock it 'til you try it. I'll buy you one if you'll give it a chance."

"I think I'd rather have a drink menu."

Eddie sighs theatrically, but like a diligent host, he pushes his barstool back and stands. "Your loss," he says, waggling his eyebrows. "Food menu, too?"

"Yes," Gareth chimes in, looking bored as usual.

"Be nice," Eddie warns Gareth, signaling that he's keeping an eye on him before weaving through bodies and chairs to the bar. That's all he needs, is Gareth scaring you off before you can even settle in.

For better or worse, before Gareth even receives the appetizer he ordered, his mom calls the bar, asking for him, and he has to leave. Grandma had a fall, and his mom had to take her to the hospital but forgot all of Grandma's meds at home. Eddie asks if he's going to be okay, but Gareth doesn't let on like he's worried. He says it doesn't sound too serious, and despite how much Gareth pretends he doesn't care about anything, Eddie knows he's a Grandma's boy through and through. If it was a big deal, he'd be acting like it.

"Poor Grandma," you say with a contemplative frown after Gareth leaves.

Eddie'd never given a lot of thought to the prospect of getting older and what that must be like until '86. He never really thought he'd live to be old. Now that he's determined to do so, that kind of stuff weighs on his mind more than he'd like. He makes a mental note to take some flowers to Gareth's grandma tomorrow, after sleeping off whatever level of hangover he leaves Crafter's with.

As if like clockwork, one of the servers brings out the appetizer sampler. Eddie asks her to put Gareth's purchases on his tab. Gareth tried to insist on paying for himself earlier, but Grandma's unfortunate fall means that he isn't there to stop Eddie from covering the bill.

You and Eddie split Gareth's appetizer, and you chat a bit about you. While you're always friendly at work, you don't talk about yourselves much at all - just small talk and the like, and those awesome desserts you bring. You talk about how you moved back to Hawkins after college, that your family had lived here for a while when you were young, and then when you struggled to find a job after college, your uncle agreed to hire you. You tell him about your little shoebox apartment above the general store on Main Street.

He tells you he plays guitar, and that he and Gareth used to be in a metal band together, called Corroded Coffin. You talk about music quite a lot, comparing notes - the unexpected things you have in common, the funny differences in your tastes. Eddie's softened up a little in the last several years and has been trying to expand his musical horizons. He confesses that he's got a soft spot for Madonna.

It's when you laugh at his admission that something shifts in his mind. When you arrived, you sat between him and Gareth at the circular table, meaning you're directly to his left. You're sitting so close, he hasn't actually gotten a good look at you - although, he guesses he wasn't really trying. But when you laugh, he sees up close the way your eyelashes flutter, the way your smile touches your eyes. And your eyes - they're full of affection instead of judgment.

Eddie's seen you nearly five days a week for months now, and talked with you at least once each of those days, and yet, he's never really noticed you. Not the way he's noticing you now. He can't help but smile at the sound of your laugh, and against his will, his eyes follow the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips. You feel impossibly close. He didn't even see it before, the way your shoulders are tilted in towards him, and the way he's also turned slightly on his barstool, leaving you only a few inches apart.

When you place your elbow on the table and support your cheek with your hand, he sucks in a breath and leans back, blinking. He's been drinking, but he's not drunk. Not drunk enough to cause the warmth in his belly and chest, or the muddled feeling in his mind.

"I'm gonna go grab another drink. D'you want another one?" he asks with a nod toward your empty glass.

"Oh," you say, perking up, "sure!"

"Alright, what do you want?"

You're already sliding off of your barstool behind him. "I'll come with you. I don't trust you with my drink." Eddie's brow furrows at that before you interrupt his train of thought with another laugh. "Not like that - I don't remember what's on the menu, and you clearly have bad judgment," you say, waving a hand at what used to be his drink.

Bartender Nick had called it a Monkey Gland, whatever that means. Eddie's not even sure what was in it, just that it was a lot in the flavor department.

Eddie lets you lead the way to the bar, and oh, man, that was a mistake. Now that he's more than a foot away from you, his curious eyes are quite busy, and that's not a good spot to be in when trying to keep up in a crowd.

You've done your hair, is the thing - not like you do for work, but something softer and more feminine. He noticed your makeup earlier, your striking eyes, but he failed to notice the hair. Or your dress, for that matter; it's a tight little thing that ends at your mid-thigh. It fits like it was made for you. He's never seen you out of uniform, or wearing anything but non-slip tennis shoes. Your strappy heels draw his attention, glinting gold in the overhead lights.

You look like you dressed up, is the thing. Yeah, your outfit is cute. Yeah, you're more relaxed tonight than you ever are at work - and more conversational. But you look like you tried. Do you try like this for all your social events? Did you dress up for Eddie?

Did you come to Crafter's with the intention of going home to a place you've never been? Or do you have an "afterparty" he's not been invited to attend?

By the time you reach the bar, he's sweating, and it's not just his hair. It's you.

"I thought you weren't having anything you've already had this summer," you tease as you climb back onto your barstool. You just got a refill of your usual, but Eddie's changed from some obscure cocktail to a piña colada.

"Maybe I've never had a piña colada before," Eddie says, raising his eyebrows at you.

"I don't believe you."

Eddie simply sips through his straw in response, pink lips wrapped nicely around the black plastic.

You're feeling warm from the alcohol, and making conversation with Eddie is as natural as anything. Eddie's always a little bit of a charmer at work, and sometimes you struggle not to blush, but this is different. His not just charming tonight - he's flirtatious. You wonder if he's like this with all of his friends. Although, you can't imagine he'd flirt well with Gareth.

After a little while if shooting the shit, Eddie's posture grows a little more stiff. He leans back on his barstool and rolls his shoulders. "Thank you for coming out tonight," he says, just loud enough for you to hear him over the music, but low enough that you have to lean in.

"Yeah, of course," you say with a smile, surprised at the gratitude. "I wouldn't have missed it." Although, it's just now occurring to you - none of the guys from work came, and Gareth had to leave early. If you hadn't come, Eddie'd be spending tonight at the bar all by himself. The thought reminds you of birthday parties from your past, the ones where everyone said they'd be there but nobody showed.

Eddie's so genuine and so lively, you can't imagine him sitting in a bar all by his lonesome, waiting for someone to come who never will. Maybe it's just your little crush talking, but Eddie is… He's friendly and witty and oh my God, he's even hotter with his hair down. Someone like Eddie - it's baffling to think he could ever be stood up, by friends or otherwise.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Heat rushes to your cheeks as soon as you say it, and Eddie's brown eyes widen a little. You didn't exactly mean to ask. It just came out as soon as the thought crossed your mind. But you don't retract the question.

Clearing his throat, he says, "No, I'm not seeing anyone. Why do you ask?"

You feel a little bold, although not quite assertive. You look down at the table as you say, "I was just curious if anyone else would be coming to meet up with us."

After a beat of silence, Eddie's fingertips graze your thigh, just above the knee. When you look up at him, his brown eyes are warm like caramel. "It's just us."

Eddie doesn't know how it happened. It's like his fingers moved of their own volition, but he could swear he feels a spark when his skin meets yours. Your eyes haven't left his, but you take a sip of your drink through the little black straw, and then he feels you press into his touch, ever so slightly.

Every time Eddie's ever talked to you, he's noticed how kind you are, and how funny. But he's never before noticed the exact shade of your eyes, or—Jesus Christ—the scent of your hair. It's coconut. The smell is intoxicating, and it leaves him wanting more. So much that when his chest brushed against your shoulder at the bar, the only thing he could think about was coconut. He opened his mouth to ask for a lemon drop and ended up ordering a piña colada instead.

"Do you—" Eddie cuts himself off abruptly. For a moment there, he was almost so lost in your eyes that he forgot himself. You're his coworker. Your uncle owns the company he works for. The first place that's really given him a chance. It's a terrible idea.

But he doesn't miss the way your jaw drops, lips parting just slightly. "Do I what?" you ask. Slowly, you lift your leg up and cross it over the other, leaning just a bit closer in your seat. And Eddie can see it. He can see the way you want him, too. It's in your eyes. It's in your touch as you lay a soft hand on his forearm. It's in the flutter of your lashes as you look up at him, like you're waiting for him to give you something. Something he'd love to give.

Earlier today, Eddie had only ever thought of you as a friendly coworker, a buddy, maybe a confidant of minor indiscretions. Tonight, he can feel the charge of the static between you, can almost see the desire rolling off of you in waves. He knows what it feels like because it's vibrating at the same frequency of his own.

Eddie's been keeping a slow pace for his drinks, slower than he thought he would. His intention tonight was, despite his usual attitude, to get absolutely plastered. But he's been so caught up in chatting with you that he's only had three drinks, and it's been two and a half hours. And he's not even finished the third.

You're on your second, and he doesn't know your tolerance, but your eyes aren't glassy and your movements aren't that languid, too-slow pace of someone who's beyond tipsy. No, you're both a little tipsy at worst.

Your thumb brushes over the mottled scarring of his bat tattoo, and his breath catches in his throat. Finally, against his better judgment, he asks, "Do you wanna get out of here?"

Eddie's presence in your apartment is almost unnerving, with just how aware you are of him. You haven't had a guy over since you moved into the place six months ago, so for it to be Eddie, the funny guy from work who's way out of your league, is mind-boggling.

There's an awkward density to the air. It's surreal, is the thing. He's hanging his leather jacket up at the front door beside your raincoat, and your eyes are zeroed in on your feet as you undo the straps of your heels. Eddie takes his time unlacing his combat boots beside you. If he's as nervous as you are, he doesn't let on.

His hand brushes against your hip as you stand, ready to support you if you were to stumble. When you look up at him, he pulls you in close, one hand resting at your waist, and the other delicately cupping your jaw. His touch is gentle, like he's afraid you might shatter, or worse, run away.

You don't miss the way his gaze flickers to your lips and his own part slightly with anticipation. He leans in just an inch or two before stopping himself, big, brown eyes looking into yours. "Can I kiss you?" he asks, his voice a low murmur.

Your breath catches in your throat. This is the way you get out of this awkward feedback loop in your head, you think. The overthinking, the wondering what changed for him, why he suddenly wants this when he's never seemingly looked at you twice. This is how it ends - by you taking his cues. You've thought about touching Eddie close to a hundred times, at this point, and now that you've got the opportunity, you don't know how to close the deal.

So you nod quietly and follow his lead.

For all that Eddie's fingers are calloused from working on cars and playing guitar, his touch is gentle. He strokes the pad of his thumb over your cheek, his breath warm on your skin as he presses his lips to yours. Your eyelashes flutter as your eyes close, and you try to relax into him, hands finding his waist. His lips are softer than you would have expected, and he kisses you like…

It doesn't feel like an easy score or a one night stand, really. He moves slowly and methodically, but not without urgency. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his lips find yours again quickly, and you inhale the scent of his cologne through your nose - bergamot and cinnamon. Your lips part slightly as his fingertips graze the soft skin behind your ear, and when they do, you feel his tongue brush gently against yours. It startles you a little, and you pull away, cheeks burning.

Eddie leans back to see you better. "You okay?"

Embarrassed, you nod and bite your lip. "Yeah, I'm fine. You just surprised me is all."

Cocking his head to the side, he asks, "Good surprise, or bad surprise?"

"Not bad."

His eyes search yours, and he cradles the back of your head with his hand. "You're sure you want to do this?" When you hesitate to respond, Eddie tips his head toward the couch behind you. "Why don't we go sit down and talk it out?"

As he leads you to the sofa, you complain, "I don't think we need to talk, really."

He shoots a look your way that says he begs to differ. "Honey, we're not getting anywhere if you can't talk to me about how you're feeling." When he sits, he turns his body to face you, one leg pulled up onto the couch and the other hanging off of it. Uncertainty all over your face, you mirror him, dress riding up your thighs.

Eddie politely pretends not to notice, instead taking your hand in his and leveling you with a look of genuine curiosity and a hint of concern. He hesitates to begin, not sure which route to take to steer the conversation in the right direction, but after a second, he finally just asks, "Are you attracted to me?"

Your cheeks burn hot at the question, but you nod. "Yeah, I am."

"Okay," he says, drawing out the second syllable. "Do you like me?"

Your brow furrows, like you're not sure why he would ask. "Of course I like you."

He strokes the back of your hand with his thumb and asks, "Okay, so what's going on? You seem nervous." After a beat, he says, "Is it because of Kovach?"

You wrinkle your nose at that. "Don't talk about him," you say quickly, like you're trying to put your uncle out of your mind as quickly as possible. "No, it's not that; it's just… are you actually, like, into me?" Eddie's taken aback by your question. You can tell from the way he blinks in response, so you continue. "You've never acted like you had any particular interest in me before, and then tonight, it's like something has changed, but—Do you actually want me, or do you just want someone?"

There it is, Eddie thinks, the big question.

He lets go of your hand and sits up a little straighter before asking, "Have you ever been somewhere before, like a neighborhood you drive through all the time, and thought it was a nice neighborhood but never thought too much about it?" When you make a face, he says, "Seriously, just humor me. Think about it."

Even though it's silly, you try to do as he asks. You imagine your drive to and from work. It's a short one. You follow Main Street, and then go out toward Maple, and then on to the edge of town. And between Maple Street and Kovach's, sure, there are some pretty nice houses, and some average ones, but overall, it's a decent neighborhood.

"Yeah, I guess so," you say hesitantly.

Eddie perks up a little at that. "Okay, so you're driving through this neighborhood that you go through every day, and part of what makes the neighborhood nice is all the individual houses. So you pass the first house, and it's decent, you know, you like the house alright. And you pass the second one, and it's pretty good, too. And you start thinking, okay, this must be an alright neighborhood. And then on down the street, there's, like, this beautiful house. It's got nice siding and brick, and the lawn is manicured really well, like the people who live there must really care about their house. It's got the white picket fence and everything. It's the American dream."

You laugh, a little awkwardly. "Eddie, I really don't understand what you're getting at here."

"You're the neighborhood," he says quickly, as though that makes perfect sense. "And it's like all the houses in the neighborhood are parts of you that I've seen before. But it's like, today, I saw this fucking beautiful house in the neighborhood, on a street I'd never gone down before, and all I could think about was how gorgeous that house is - and how much I like this neighborhood."

You make a face.

"Seriously," he says, leaning in a little closer. "I see you every day, and you know what? I like it when you bring cupcakes, and I like it when you make fun of the other guys and shitty, asshole customers with me, and the way you let me get away with putting in last-minute parts orders, and the way you get embarrassed when I catch you reading, and—"

He can see it in your eyes and the little crease between your furrowed eyebrows - he sees the way it's dawning on you now, but he says it anyway.

"I didn't realize how much I like those things, but tonight, when I got to see you really just be yourself instead of who you have to be at work - I loved that. And I love seeing you dressed like this, and acting a little more confident, but it's not just about the way you look. I feel like, for the first time, I'm really seeing who you are. And this isn't just a decent neighborhood to me anymore. I just realized tonight that this is a really nice neighborhood, a beautiful one, and I'd move there if one of the houses were up for sale. But before tonight, I just hadn't seen enough of the neighborhood to know."

Your voice is smaller, softer when you look up at him through your lashes. "Eddie…"

He licks his lips, brown eyes searching yours, and then he asks again, "Can I please kiss you?"

This time, you feel it - that electricity that binds you, the same spark that simmered in the current between you both at the bar. You don't bother answering him, just raise up onto your knees and close the gap between you. Your fingers slot themselves into Eddie's hair, that soft, curly hair you've been dying to touch for ages, and as your lips meet his, he pulls you in closer, standing to his feet. On paper, it looks like you're following his lead, but Eddie feels the insistence in your touch as your press your hands to his chest, guiding him backwards to the bed in the corner of the room.

When the backs of his legs connect with the mattress, you slide your hands up to the hem of his shirt and begin tugging it up his torso. Your lips part from his just long enough to pull the shirt over his head, and then you're back on him, pushing him down by the shoulders until he gets the memo to sit down at the foot of the bed.

A moan escapes you as your hands find his abdomen, palms pressed flat against the firm muscles you've only seen in glimpses at the shop. Eddie laughs at the needy sound that spills from your mouth, and he hooks one leg behind your knee, rolling over to pin you to the mattress. "Oh, honey," he coos, all sticky sweet sympathy. "You've been wanting this a long time, huh?"

If it was anyone else, you'd probably feel patronized, probably take offense. But you know Eddie, and instead of offending you, it only makes you want him more. Nodding emphatically, you tug him closer by the belt loops. "Think about you a lot," you confess, your breath catching at the end as he presses a soft, languid kiss to your neck, beneath your ear. Hitching your leg higher up his waist, you press your hips against his, searching for relief.

"Mm, do you?" His hands roam your body, caressing the outside of your thigh with one and hiking up the hem of your dress with the other. His smile is a little smug. "What do you think about?"

You don't think you could feel embarrassed right now if you tried. Your response spills out of you of it's own accord, on a breathy sigh, as he lowers the strap of your dress and kisses along your collarbone. "Think about your - mm, your fingers," you whimper. "Filling me up, getting me ready for you."

"Yeah?" he pulls you onto his lap, then. With his hand, he cups your heat through your panties. "These fingers?" he murmurs, stroking you through the thin fabric.

Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you brace yourself for his touch, hips squirming slightly to give him better leverage. You're on fire now, pulse thrumming hard and fast in your throat. "Eddie, please."

"Oh, honey," he says, looking into your glassy eyes, "you don't have to beg. I'll give it to you, I promise."

You can't help it - when he hooks his fingers into the side of your panties, pulls them aside and grazes his fingertips against your clit, you whine and dig your nails into his back. This isn't just sensitivity after a dry spell. You need his touch like you need to breathe. Now that you have it, it feels so surreal that it's painful.

"Let me take these off, sweet girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You do as he asks, and the maneuvering is a little awkward, but the anxiety is gone. When you settle back into his lap, he strokes the hair at your hairline and pulls you to his chest, letting you slump against his shoulder.

Eddie presses the pad of his thumb into your folds, and he listens to your sounds to help guide him. After just a couple of seconds, he finds your clit again - confirmed when you whimper and spread your thighs a little farther apart for him.

"That's it, baby," he coos, sweeping a broad circle around your clitoris before using his middle finger to trace a trail all the way down from your labia to your hole. Your walls clench at the sensation, and he must feel it because he hums soothingly when you do. Then, just as he presses one fingertip to your entrance, he asks, "D'you touch yourself like this?" You nod against his shoulder, shame and embarrassment completely absent from your mind. He dips his finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, before pulling out again. "You imagine it's me touching your pussy like this?"

He doesn't wait for your response before sinking his finger deep inside you, all the way down to the chunky, silver ring at his third knuckle. You cry out in response, thighs already shaking with anticipation. "Eddie," you whine, lifting your hips up to fuck yourself on his finger.

"You should have said something, baby," he says, syrupy sweet. "I'd have taken care of you a long time ago if I knew you needed me so bad."

Normally, his cockiness might be sexy, but right now, it's more frustrating than anything. You grit your teeth as he works another finger inside of you. The stretch is so delicious, you lose your train of thought for a moment, walls clenching tightly around him. It's made even more difficult to think when he resumes rubbing little circles into your clit with his thumb. For a few seconds, the only thing you can do is surrender to the pleasure and moan into his shoulder.

Just when you're starting to adjust, he curls his fingers forward, toward your pelvic bone, and you gasp at the sensation. He tries different angles, but it's only a matter of seconds before he finds that spot, the one that fills you with blinding, white-hot pleasure. Before long, you're chanting his name like it's a life-saving incantation, and you're barely able to get a grasp on what's happening before your climax hits, hard and fast and way too soon, and suddenly, you're cumming all over his fingers. When you cry out his name, your voice sounds ragged to your own ears, like it's coming from someone else entirely. Your hips buck against his hand, silently begging for both more and less at the same time.

He works you through your orgasm, tells you what a great job you've done, how beautiful you look while taking his fingers. Wrenching a sob from your throat with one hand, he uses the other to rub your back, soothing you with touch and praise.

When you finally finish, you push his hand away half-heartedly, clitoris too overstimulated to handle anymore of his ministrations. Eddie laughs and eases you down onto your back, then presses a soft kiss to your temple as you try and catch your breath.

He takes your hand in his and kisses the back of it, gentleman-like, as though he didn't just make you cum all over his lap merely seconds ago. Your brain is seemingly stuck in overdrive, thoughts incoherent.

When his hand grazes your thigh, you look over at him, where he lies beside you, and his expression is serious - the most serious you've ever seen it. "Can I touch you again?" he asks, and your mind races at the thought.

Of course he can touch you, you think, but you don't know if you can handle it. "I-I'm sensitive," you say, looking into his eyes for any hint of disappointment.

"Sensitive… here?" He taps a finger just to the side of your clitoris, and you nod, curling into him. When you do, he asks, "What if I don't touch you there? You think you could handle that?"

Headlights shine through the window above Main Street and ricochet off the walls, casting Eddie's face in just a glimpse of light. In that moment, you can see it highlighted all over his face, the desire smoldering in his big, brown eyes. And you know you'd give him anything he wanted, even if you felt like you were going half-insane with over-stimulation.

Swallowing thickly, you nod. "What do you wanna do?"

He walks his fingers across your arm and pulls you closer. His voice is low as he murmurs, "I wanna take my time with you… wanna see how pretty you look when you cum on my cock."

Normally, that kind of talk might make you feel embarrassed from it's crassness, but instead, it's the flattery that makes you bite back a smile. "I'm not pretty," you say. Your voice holds no conviction.

Eddie's fingers cup your jaw, tilting your chin up so you can't look away when he says, "You're beautiful to me."

[hasufin]

So, like, there's a reason for this.

It's a shitty reason. And I can't make it funny. But it's really simple:

Companies have no idea how to hire people.

What they want is an employee who is a diligent worker, instantly knows everything about the job, shows up early, works late, never complains, doesn't mind being in the same role for the same pay for years or decades, always gets along well with co-workers, goes to the company functions and smiles appropriately for photo ops that HR wants, won't ever look for another job, but also won't have a single complaint when they get laid off.

And even corporate executives and HR realize that's not actually possible. Except, they're getting absolutely inundated with applicants. There are so many applicants for these jobs.

And the companies are sure - SURE - that one of them will be their Buckaroo Banzai Unicorn. I mean, there are thousands of people applying!

But they haven't the faintest idea who to pick that person. They don't even know what that person looks like on paper.

So they are getting increasingly baroque in their hiring. They're terrified of hiring a mere mortal when they could have hired a demigod. And they will do anything to turn those thousands of applicants into a manageable number of people from whom they can choose.

So they put up the listing. They inflate the requirements to literally impossible. If you don't have the impossible reqs, you're out. If you don't apply, you're out.

They have you send in your resume. And fill out the online application, where you manually fill in all the information you had on the resume. Oops that timed out, guess you don't get the job!

The system filters out applicants. It can't tell between java and javascript. It tosses applicants. It's run through an AI, if your name is weird or you were born on April 20th you don't get the job.

They give you a phone interview. If they call and you don't answer you're out. If the connection is bad, you're out.

They want to do a video call. If they don't like what they see in the background, you're out.

They have you come in to an in-person interview. If you dress up too much, you're out. If you dress up too little, you're out.

They ask you insane questions. They make up excuses for how "what kind of fruit are you" gives them deep insight into your psyche. If you call them out on their bullshit, you're out.

They hire someone. Maybe. Maybe after six months of gathering applications and interviewing people they decided to not fill the position. They still don't know if they hired the right person, because they have no idea what they're doing.

fellas is it just me or has job hunting gotten worse

[cressidagrey]

Today was a Fairytale

Pairing: Lando Norris x Emilie Abadie (Original Character)

Part of White Horse

Summary: And with that, the 2024 season comes to an end.

Warnings and Notes: 

I promised and here it is. Fourth Spin off featuring Emilie and Lando. There will be one final 5th one to be posted after the last White Horse Chapter.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble.

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Lando Norris

Emilie: Okay. I’m coming to Abu Dhabi after all.

Lando: !!!!!!!!!! YES YESYESYES THIS IS THE BEST TEXT I’VE EVER GOTTEN 😭🎉🏁

Emilie: I haven’t even booked a flight yet.

Lando: I don’t care. You said you’re coming. That’s already a win. I’m buzzing.

Lando: OH OH MY GOD YOU CAN MEET MY PARENTS

Emilie … Wait what

Lando They’re flying in for the race And the team dinner And the maybe-title celebrations (🤞) It’ll be perfect!

Emilie: Lando. That was NOT the plan.

Lando: Plans are fluid. Like DRS. Or tire strategy. This is fine. It’s great. They’re excited to meet you.

Emilie: You already told them I’m coming, didn’t you

Lando: ……maybe 🧍‍♂️ My mum asked if you like dogs and art museums

Emilie: Lando.

Lando: Too late to back out now. I’ve got your paddock pass. Your team shirt. And I may or may not have told Zak that you’re our lucky charm.

Emilie: You’re an actual menace.

Lando: A charming menace. Who is very, very happy you're coming.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Belle Verstappen

Emilie: Belle. Belle. I AM MEETING HIS PARENTS.

Belle: 🥹🥹🥹 Awwwwwww

Emilie: NO. NOT “AWW.” THIS IS A CRISIS. I was supposed to see the race and maybe kiss his sweaty face in the garage. Now I’m going to brunch with his mum.

Belle: That still sounds like a win to me 😌 (Also his mum is lovely. She looks like she teaches pottery and makes really good tea.)

Emilie: He said she likes dogs and museums?? What if I panic and say I hate culture?? What if I spill something??

Belle: Deep breath. I highly doubt that you’ll say that you hate culture, given that your family LITERALLY OWNS AN AUCTION HOUSE FOR FINE ART You’ve survived 3 Norris podium meltdowns and a group chat with Daniel Ricciardo in it. You can handle brunch.

Emilie: ...That’s fair.

Belle: Also— His family is going to LOVE you. You’re brilliant. You’re funny. You keep Lando grounded without ever dimming his light. You’re everything I would want for someone I love.

Emilie: 😭😭😭 Stop that or I will cry into my carry-on.

Belle: Too late. You’re probably already the favorite daughter-in-law and they haven’t even met you yet. Now go pick out a cute outfit. You’ve got in-laws to charm.

***

Emilie had imagined this moment about seventy times on the flight from Monaco to Abu Dhabi, and in every single version, it ended with one of Lando’s parents subtly implying she wasn’t good enough.

Too quiet.

Too sharp.

Too… not them.

Because that’s what happened with her ownfamily. Every time. Bring someone home, smile, make polite conversation—and leave feeling like she’d somehow failed a test she hadn’t studied for. 

So she’d braced herself. She’d ironed her nicest linen dress, the one Belle called her “low-key power outfit.” She’d practiced smiling in the hotel mirror.

She had not, however, prepared for Cisca Norris.

“Oh darling, no, don’t stand! You’re wearing sandals in this heat, and that makes you the cleverest person here,” Cisca said as she swept in with bangles jangling and sunglasses the size of small dinner plates perched on her head. Her dress was bright coral and had an abstract jellyfish print. She looked like a whimsical museum curator who also ran a vintage bookstore on weekends.

Emilie blinked.

Cisca leaned down to kiss her on both cheeks. “I’m Cisca. You must be Emilie. Lando hasn’t stopped talking about you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Emilie said carefully.

“No, no, it’s lovely to meet you,” Cisca corrected, taking her hands. “Lando is always so chirpy on the phone now. It’s a miracle, really. For a while we thought he might actually become one of those men who only talk about tire deg and video games.”

Adam Norris arrived a second later—sun-kissed, slightly wrinkled polo, Ray-Bans on a lanyard, the same lazy grin as his son. “You must be the one who actually gets him to eat breakfast before qualifying.”

“I try,” Emilie said with a small laugh.

“Respect,” Adam said, nodding solemnly. “That’s harder than pole position.”

And just like that, they folded her into their orbit. Cisca asked about her work. Adam cracked jokes about Lando’s childhood karting tantrums. They pointed out mechanics they knew, waved at engineers, somehow managed to make the paddock feel casual. Emilie felt like she’d walked into a parallel universe—one where families didn’t simmer with tension or whisper about each other behind closed doors.

Emilie tried to find her footing. She wasn’t used to people like this—warm, open, disarming. Cisca complimented her earrings. Adam asked if she liked vintage cars and somehow segued into asking if she’d tried the local dates yet. They didn’t ask where she went to university, or what her father did, or whether she planned on “being a distraction” during the championship push. They didn’t even blink when she mentioned Belle.

There was just… joy. Chaos. Teasing. Unfiltered pride in their son.

She kept waiting for the shift. For the edge. For the moment when someone would ask a too-sharp question or compare her to someone else’s daughter or say, “Oh, we thought he’d end up with someone different.”

It never came.

Instead, when Lando finally ran up to them—post-warmup, pre-race—grinning like a lunatic with adrenaline in his veins, his mother immediately squished his face between her hands.

“My beautiful boy,” she said dramatically, “don’t you dare forget sunscreen again. You turn into a tomato.”

“Mum,” Lando whined, swatting her hands away, “you’re ruining my street cred.”

“Darling, you drive a car that looks like a papaya. You have no street cred.”

Adam burst out laughing. Emilie nearly choked on her coffee.

And then Lando looked at her—flushed and giddy and so stupidly proud—and kissed her cheek like she was the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him.

And all Emilie could think, through the chaos and the shouting and the white noise of her old fears trying to crawl back in, was:

I’m not used to this. But I could be. God, I want to be.

Because Lando’s family wasn’t like hers.

They were warm and ridiculous and real.

Later, when Lando slipped his hand into hers and kissed her temple, she leaned into him.

“You okay?” he murmured.

Emilie nodded, then quietly: “I didn’t expect them to be so—”

“Normal?” Lando offered.

“No. Kind.”

Lando glanced at her, gaze softening like he understood everything she hadn’t said. “They’re not perfect. But they’re mine. And now they’re yours too, if you want.”

Emilie didn’t reply. She just tightened her grip on his hand.

And when Cisca handed her a watermelon cooler and told her to sit in the shade before she melted like a lemon sorbet, Emilie laughed. Really laughed.

Maybe families didn’t have to be cold.

Maybe they could feel like this.

***

The McLaren garage exploded the moment Lando crossed the line.

Emilie didn’t scream. She shrieked.

It was undignified. Loud. A sound that came from somewhere in her chest and exploded out of her like fireworks—because he’d done it. Constructors’ champions. Race winner. At Yas Marina, of all places.

Lando Norris had just won the last Grand Prix of the season.

And with it, he’d delivered McLaren their first Constructors’ title in over two and a half decades.

Someone shoved a headset at her. Someone else picked her up in a hug she didn’t register until her feet hit the ground again. Zak Brown was sobbing. Mechanics were hugging anyone within arm’s reach. 

And Emilie? She just… stood there for a second, hand over her mouth, trying not to cry.

She wasn’t part of the team. Not really. She wasn’t an engineer or a strategist or a mechanic. But she’d watched Lando chase this all year. Watched him come so close only for it to slip through his fingers again and again.

And now…

Now he was beaming on the big screen. Shouting on the radio. His voice cracking with disbelief as he yelled something about “We fucking did it, boys!” and “Oscar, that one was for both of us!” and then—clear as day—“Tell Emilie I love her!”

Her heart slammed sideways in her chest.

Someone whooped next to her. Another champagne cork popped. She was probably going to be sticky for the rest of the night. None of it mattered.

Because he’d said it. Publicly. Without hesitation. Without fear.

He’d said her name, like it was something holy.

When the car finally came in, Lando peeled himself out of it like a man reborn. Helmet off. Hugs all around. His curls were damp with sweat. His face flushed from the heat and emotion.

And the second he saw her—just a flash of her in the chaos—he ran.

No hesitation. No pause. He scooped her up like he’d waited a lifetime.

They didn’t say anything for a moment. Just held on. The world fell away.

Then he buried his face in her neck and murmured, “Thank you.”

“For what?” she whispered, already breathless.

“For showing up. For being here. For—God—for everything.” He pulled back, cupped her face. “I love you.”

She laughed. “You said that on the radio, you know.”

He grinned. “Did I?”

Emilie nodded. “Yeah. Whole world heard it.”

Lando leaned in again. Pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth. “Good. Let them.”

That night, under the glowing lights of Yas Marina, Emilie danced barefoot on a garage floor slick with champagne. She watched Lando hoist a Constructors’ trophy into the air. She cheered with Zak and Andrea and Oscar and the mechanics and every person in orange who had believed.

She laughed until her ribs hurt.

And sometime around 2am—when Lando found her again, pulled her close, rested his head on her shoulder like he could finally exhale—she thought:

Maybe this is what it feels like when everything changes.

When the dream stops being about a podium or a title.

And starts being about who you want next to you when you finally get there.

And Lando?

He’d chosen her. Again and again.

And tonight—God, tonight—she got to be there to choose him right back.

***

They were tucked into the back of the McLaren hospitality unit, the chaos of victory still buzzing just outside—mechanics shouting, bottles being popped, someone singing what might have been We are the Champions off-key. Lando had finally showered, his hair still damp, curls sticking in all directions. Emilie was sitting on the sofa in one of his oversized team hoodies, feet curled beneath her, nursing a bottle of water like it might keep her from collapsing.

He hadn’t stopped smiling since he stepped off the podium.

“Are you okay?” he asked, nudging her knee with his. “You’ve been weirdly quiet.”

“I’m just… taking it all in,” Emilie said softly. “You won.”

Lando leaned back, one arm draped behind her, the other holding a chocolate protein bar he had no intention of eating. “We won.”

“You and Oscar won the Constructors’. You won the race. It’s not the royal ‘we,’ Lando.”

“It is if I say so.” He smiled, then sobered just slightly. “I meant it when I said I was glad you were here.”

Emilie looked down at the bottle in her hands. “I almost wasn’t. Belle told me to go”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “But you came. You’re here. And I—”

He stopped. Took a breath.

“Will you come to the FIA gala with me?”

Emilie blinked. “What?”

“The prize giving thing. The stupid fancy one with the weird suits and awkward interviews. I have to go. They’ll be handing me an actual trophy for once. And I want you there.”

“Lando…”

“I know it’s last-minute,” he rushed on. “And you probably don’t have a dress and the flight’s in like… two days, but I’ll get everything sorted. You won’t have to lift a finger. I’ll make Zak book a stylist, I’ll beg Lily for help, I’ll wear whatever you want, I don’t care. I just—” His voice cracked a little. “I want you with me.”

She stared at him.

He’d looked more relaxed dodging a Ferrari at Turn 1 than he did in that moment.

“You’re serious,” she said.

“I just won my home race and the Constructors’. I want to walk into that gala with the person who saw the worst of this year and the best. I want it to be you.”

Emilie bit her lip, blinking too fast. “That’s… really sappy.”

Lando grinned. “You love it.”

She rolled her eyes, heart already thudding.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Of course I’ll go.”

And Lando, grinning wider than she had ever seen him, kissed her like she was the only prize that had ever mattered.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Cisca Norris

Cisca: You didn’t tell me she was like that.

Lando: Like what 😅

Cisca: Like kind. Like smart. Like someone who listens before she speaks. Like someone who sees everything and says only what matters. Like someone who will never put up with your nonsense but will still let you hold her hand.

Lando: Okay damn Shakespeare go off

Cisca: Don’t sass me. I’m being serious.

Cisca: She’s lovely. Truly. And I’ve met a lot of girlfriends in that paddock. Some of them couldn’t hold a conversation that wasn’t about shoes or Instagram. Emilie asked about the garden. She talked to your dad about watches. 

She’s real, Lando.

Lando: ...I know.

Cisca: You’re different with her. Not just calmer. Lighter. Like you're not trying to prove anything anymore.

Lando: That’s because she never made me feel like I had to.

Cisca: There it is. I really like her. Bring her for Christmas. I want to get to know her properly.

And I want her to know she's welcome.

Lando: Okay. I’ll ask.

Cisca: Ask gently. She strikes me as someone who’s been taught not to expect to be invited.

Lando: ...yeah. She has.

Thanks, Mum.

Cisca: Thank you for letting us meet her. You chose well, darling.

And I mean that.

Lando: Yeah. I think I did.

***

“Belle,” Emilie said faintly, staring at the collection of dress bags draped across the back of the sofa, “we are not going to find a gala gown in under two days. I’m going to show up in a bedsheet.”

“Then we’ll make it a toga theme,” Belle replied serenely, legs propped up on an ottoman, one hand resting on the top of her bump. “Honestly, it might be on trend.”

“Please don’t joke. I already sweat through one fitting and the tailor asked me if I was experiencing stage fright.”

Belle grinned, clearly unbothered, flipping through a lookbook from a stylist friend like it was her Sunday crossword. “That’s just because you were trying to explain to her that your boyfriend invited you to a black-tie gala two days before it was happening, and you didn’t sound at all like you were in denial.”

“I am in denial. I said no to so many things this year and now—now I’m going to the most high-profile event of the season with Lando Norris, and there are photographers and livestreams and possibly Nico Rosberg in a velvet jacket.”

Belle tilted her head. “Nico in velvet is not the thing to fear here.”

Emilie threw a fabric swatch at her.

“Relax,” Belle said, catching it lazily. “We’ve got a stylist friend who owes me a favor, and if all else fails, we throw a vintage coat over a slip dress and call it 'old money Monaco’.”

“I’ll owe you forever.”

Belle shrugged. “I’ll collect in baby-sitting hours. Now, do you want navy or emerald?”

Emilie looked between the two gowns, breath catching. Both were beautiful. Both were hand-delivered this morning. Both were options she wouldn’t have even dreamed about three days ago.

“…Emerald.”

“Excellent. Now hold up the bodice so I can see if we need emergency tape.”

As Emilie wriggled behind the folding screen to change, Belle leaned back and took a sip of her mint tea.

“So,” she said casually, “Lando’s parents.”

Emilie poked her head out, hair half pinned. “What about them?”

“You met them in Abu Dhabi, right?”

Emilie nodded slowly. “I thought… I don’t know. I thought it would be terrifying. I’ve never brought someone home. I’ve never been brought home. My family’s all… stiff, and cold, and performance-based. I expected—”

“Frost and judgment?”

“Exactly.” Emilie smiled a little, stepping out in the dress now. “But Cisca is like this bohemian art teacher who smells like oranges and complimented my earrings before even asking my last name. And Adam just offered me water and made three jokes about Lando’s childhood obsession with bugs. I don’t know what I was expecting. But it wasn’t warmth.”

Belle’s smile turned knowing. “Seems like we both lucked out in the in-law department.”

Emilie blinked. “You really like Max’s family, huh?”

“Victoria makes me lemon bars and tells me I’m glowing even when I look like a tired watermelon. Sophie slays dragons for me aka my mother. Jos—” Belle laughed, “—well, Jos is gruff but I think he’s trying to apologize for being… himself. But yeah. They’re mine now.”

There was a silence, soft and full.

“I didn’t think I’d get this,” Emilie said finally, smoothing a hand over the velvet. “Any of it. The relationship. The support. The family.”

Belle smiled gently. “Me neither.”

They looked at each other—two women on opposite ends of a year that had rewritten everything they thought they knew about love and safety—and in that moment, it was enough.

Then Belle smirked. “Okay, now twirl. Let’s make sure you don’t flash the FIA president when you walk up the steps.”

Emilie groaned.

But she twirled anyway.

***

The gala was glitzier than she'd imagined.

It was all gold lights and shimmering champagne, sequins catching flashes of camera bulbs, team bosses pretending to be relaxed, drivers looking scrubbed and starched in tuxedos that tried to make them look like anything other than what they were—exhausted men who’d just survived a 24-race season.

But Lando looked like he belonged.

Not just because the tux fit him criminally well (which it did—tailored, deep black, sharp enough to make her rethink every questionable decision she’d made in life).

No—he belonged because he was glowing.

Constructor’s Champion.

Race winner.

More than that: steady. Confident. Finally on the mountaintop after years of climbing.

And still, the first thing he did when they walked into the ballroom was look at her.

“You okay?” he murmured, as though he wasn’t the one being pulled in a dozen directions by reporters, handlers, and Red Bull spies hoping to decipher McLaren’s secret sauce.

Emilie smiled, adjusted the off-shoulder sleeve of her gown—deep emerald silk, chosen with Belle during a chaotic 24-hour dress scramble—and nodded.  “I’m with you. So yeah. I’m okay.”

He grinned, kissed her temple, and whispered, “You’re the best part of my whole year, you know that?”

Emilie didn’t blush often. She’d lived too much life, had too many walls. But this—this man saying things like that in between flashing cameras and podium flashbacks—this made her cheeks warm.

She watched him as the ceremony unfolded.

Oscar and Lando got their trophy. Max looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but tried his best to look vaguely amused when people made jokes.

And Lando? Lando glowed.

When they called his name, when the lights hit him just right, Emilie watched the boy she’d known from late nights and tiktok thirst traps turn into something else entirely.

A man who had grown into his own story.

 Not just written into someone else’s.

When he stepped off stage and made his way back to her, trophy in one hand, champagne in the other, she met him halfway.

“Hey, champ,” she said, teasing—softly though, because her heart was already too full.

He leaned in, pressed their foreheads together, and said, “Thank you for being here.”

“Always,” she whispered.

And when he pulled her close during the afterparty, his arms around her waist and the stars of Kigali shining just faintly through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Emilie thought:

This is what it feels like to be wanted without performance.

 To be loved without question.

 To belong.

[kxsagi]

hi!!! hope you're doing well today

i was rereading horimiya for the millionth time, when i was inspired by hori being jealous of tooru and especially shindo (never any of the girls lol) for their relationships with miyamura and the way he'll yell at them or hit them

i was hoping to request something similar, where the reader is jealous of bllk boys' male friend/rival (preferably isagi for the allsagi of it all (i just find it so funny lol, but def not necessary)) because they bring out a side in them that never shows up when they're with the reader, but if asked if she ever feels threatened by other girls, she's like 'no, obvi i'm ur type for girls, but u spend so much time in physical contact with hot, sweaty, well-built men, idk y u wouldn't swing that way as well'

uh, kaiser, sae, rin, nagi, and anyone else you wanna do (honestly, if i didn't think that was overboard, i'd list like half the cast because i love ur writing sm lol)

ummm, but like if this is too much feel free to ignore this, i love reading whatever u write either way

take care

ps. sorry, this is so long, i'm v bad at thought filtering

“𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?”

a/n: ovulation is hitting 😍

also hiii i am doing well and hope you are, too! thank you for the detailed request and for your patience, this idea was absolutely one of those rare gold finds and i loved writing it! take care as well, you're amazing 🫶🏻

suggestive suggestive suggestive content inside

ft. kaiser michael, itoshi sae, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, isagi yoichi, karasu tabito, mikage reo, shidou ryusei

kaiser michael

you have no issue with kaiser’s female fans. if anything, you roll his sleeves up for them. what you do have an issue with? how your boyfriend looks at isagi like he’s both an itch he can’t scratch and the best dessert he’s never been allowed to taste. 

you swear he’s thinking about that man mid-kiss. 

“you talk about isagi a lot,” you say. “he pisses me off,” kaiser mutters. “and you say his name like it’s a prayer.” “are you jealous of that football nerd?” “he’s not a nerd. he’s passionate. determined. his sprout bounces when he runs.” “are you–” kaiser laughs, actually jealous now “you like him, too?” “NO. but YOU clearly want to bench press him and braid his hair.” 

the next time kaiser sees isagi shirtless during training, he physically growls. then makes out with you like you just tackled him. 

“you’re mine,” he says between kisses. “got it?” “then stop moaning isagi’s name in your sleep.” “YOU HEARD THAT???” 

itoshi sae

sae doesn’t do jealousy. or rather, he claims he doesn’t. but you? you are FIGHTING the urge to trip bunny iglesias every time you see them on-screen together. 

“you always look dead-eyed with me,” you mutter. “but you’re over there giggling and shoulder-bumping some 6-foot spanish dreamboat like you're in a telenovela.” “i wasn’t giggling.” “you smiled.” “he fell down the stairs.” “AND YOU SMILED.” 

sae sighs. he doesn’t understand why you’re not threatened by the gorgeous women who fawn over him, but spiral over bunny, who “runs like a gazelle and flirts like he’s on sabado gigante.” 

he sees the way your eye twitches when bunny compliments his dribbling in post-match interviews. 

later that night, he corners you in bed, pushes your hair back, and says in a low voice, “you think i’d ever want anyone but you?” “… no.” “then stop giving bunny death glares. he texted me: are u mad at ur gf???” 

itoshi rin

you have never been jealous of another woman in your life. not when they comment heart emojis under rin’s posts, not even when fans scream for him outside the hotel. 

no, you only spiral when isagi yoichi is involved. because rin turns into a different person around him. 

“he brings out your rage in a way i never could.” “that’s not a compliment.” “you chase him like you’re in a villain origin story, rin.” “he’s just my rival.” “your rival? or your twisted soulmate?” 

you start watching their plays back in slow motion. rin has better eye contact with isagi than with you during sex. and when they score against each other, the yelling? the chest bumping?? oh, they’re in LOVE. 

so you do the logical thing and wear rin’s jersey to their next match with “mrs. itoshi (not isagi)” bedazzled on the back. 

rin refuses to comment on it publicly and is absolutely unhinged in bed that night. 

nagi seishiro

you’re not threatened by any women in nagi’s life. he barely notices them. but reo? reo is the exception. reo could say “jump” and nagi would be mid-air asking “how high?” 

“you only get out of bed early for reo.” “it’s for football.” “you text him goodnight and don’t even check if i’m alive.” “he sends cool memes.” “… do you love him.” “probably a little.” 

you SCOWL every time reo shows up with some “new training idea” or asks nagi to move in again. and nagi just… doesn’t get it. 

until one day you dramatically say “maybe i should just date reo, since you like him so much,” and nagi looks genuinely offended. 

“but i’m your boyfriend. that’s not fair.” “welcome to MY struggle.” “… fine,” he mutters, grabbing your waist, “you want my attention? i’ll give it to you. reo can wait.” 

(you get thoroughly ruined. and the next morning, reo texts nagi anyway.) 

isagi yoichi

you’re not jealous of the girls that coo over his interviews or fangirl in the comments. no. you’re jealous of kaiser, who calls your boyfriend “dog” and spits german insults at him mid-match while isagi responds with equal aggression, chest-heaving fury, and unblinking eye contact like he’s ready to kiss or kill. 

you’ve never seen isagi this fired up. not even when someone took the last pudding from the fridge. 

“why do you let him get under your skin like that?” “because he’s insufferable.” “and hot?” “… what?” “and tall. and shredded. and you talk about him a lot. i’ve seen enemies in rom-coms. this is how it starts.” 

when you catch them forehead-to-forehead arguing on the pitch, you yell “KISS HIM ALREADY!” from the stands and storm off with your popcorn. 

later, isagi finds you lying dramatically on the couch and climbs over you, pinning you down. 

“you think i want kaiser?” he asks, breathless. “you’re insane.” “you yell at him with more passion than you ever kiss me.” “fine,” he mumbles, leaning in close, “then let me shut you up with something better.” 

(you end up not caring about kaiser for a while. you also end up losing your voice for two days.) 

karasu tabito

you knew dating karasu came with chaos. but you weren’t ready for the unspoken homoerotic tension between him and oliver aiku. 

“he’s your captain. not your boyfriend.” “you think i want aiku? please.” “you keep calling him ‘daddy dearest’ and biting your lip when he calls you 'rookie.'” “i do not– okay maybe once.” 

you catch them shirtless after practice, towel-whipping each other and talking in voices two octaves deeper than normal. 

karasu tries to cuddle with you later and you shove him off. “go cuddle your alpha male.” 

he immediately starts proving his heterosexuality with very aggressive affection. picks you up bridal-style. kisses you until you forget your name. sends a selfie to aiku labeled: “mine. back off.” aiku replies: “relax bro. i’m taken.” karasu: “not by me you’re not– WAIT.” 

mikage reo

you are not threatened by girls. you are threatened by nagi seishiro, who doesn’t even try to flirt but somehow still manages to steal half of reo’s emotional availability on a daily basis. 

“you answer nagi’s texts in 0.3 seconds,” you accuse. “because he types like a toddler. i need to make sure he’s not stuck in a vending machine again.” “you’ve never replied to my texts that fast.” “you’ve never needed help picking which ice cream looks less suspicious.” 

it drives you insane because reo swears you’re his number one, but then he’s out there building nagiland with nagi, offering to share his fortune, and talking about “what our kids would look like if we spliced our genes for the ultimate striker.” 

you finally snap when you catch nagi lying on reo’s lap like a sleepy cat while reo plays with his hair. 

“am i interrupting a date?” you ask, smiling like a shark. “babe, it’s not like that.” “oh, okay. do you want me to come back when the honeymoon’s over?” 

reo chases after you, trying to explain while nagi just yawns and asks if you’re mad again. 

later that night, reo shows up at your place with your favorite takeout, a handwritten “i’m sorry i emotionally married nagi in high school” note, and spends two hours whispering that he only wants you. 

“you’re the only one who makes me feel like this,” he murmurs against your collarbone. “prove it.” (he does. loudly. nagi texts “tell your gf to stop breaking your back. we have practice.”) 

shidou ryusei

you’re not scared of girls flirting with your boyfriend. they touch shidou and he literally barks. 

no, your actual enemy is sae itoshi, who looks at shidou like he wants to smite him, and somehow that just turns him on. 

“you only try hard when sae’s around.” “because i want him to notice me.” “… you’re literally dating me.” “and yet, he still hasn’t called me slurs to my face.” 

you watch him light up every time sae insults him. when sae calls him “disgusting,” shidou smiles. when sae pushes him after a match, shidou licks his teeth. 

“you never look at me like that,” you say. “you don’t call me worthless and step on my dreams like he does. it’s different.” 

you’re half-convinced shidou would break up with you for five minutes just to get a crumb of abuse from sae. 

but then after every game, no matter how rabid he was, he always finds you – wild-haired, still sweaty – and throws you over his shoulder like you’re the only prize he wanted. 

“you mad again?” he grins. “cuz i looked at sae like he was a shiny chew toy?” “i’m mad because you want him to step on your neck.” “… you can do that too, babe.” 

(he says this while pushing you up against a wall and proving, once again, that no one ruins him the way you do. not even his red-haired enemy-crush.) 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[vamplvs]

warnings -> jimmy olsen x fem!reader, a hint of jealousy, no superman (2025) spoilers!

clark is infuriatingly perfect. he's tall, broad, too sweet for his own good, charming, and jimmy is sick of it.

not that he's actually sick of clark—the guy's his best friend—but he's sick of the way clark has been effortlessly stealing your attention since you've started working at the daily planet.

you're always bantering with him and laughing at his jokes, getting into silly hypothetical debates about metahumans and discussing aliens. and when jimmy rolls around to join the conversation—because he likes talking about that stuff, dammit—you go quiet every time, without fail.

clark gives you this look every time, like he knows something jimmy doesn't. it drives him up the wall.

"want some coffee, clark?" he hears you ask from your desk—which is conveniently situated right next to clark's, because of course it is.

"uh, yeah, that'd be great, thanks."

jimmy looks over to see you taking clark's mug with a smile that makes his heart do something funny in his chest. he frowns and turns back to his computer, his own mug long empty on his desk.

what's the harm in getting coffee for himself, too?

so he follows after you to the break room, mug in hand.

"how's that new article going?" he asks, and you nearly jump out of your skin. "shit- sorry, i didn't mean to scare you."

"no, no, you didn't." the coffee maker clicks and whirs as it spits out a fresh pot. "it's, um, fine."

"right, yeah." jimmy rocks back on his heels. "clark mentioned that you might need some pictures of the justice gang fight downtown. i have a few that just need editing." he actually overheard you and clark talking about it earlier, but he's not willing to admit to eavesdropping, honestly.

he can't admit that he's that obsessed.

then the coffee maker beeps, and you're racing to pour out two cups. "oh, sure. that'd be great." you're gone before he can get a word in edgewise.

"i'll just email those to you, then!" he calls after you.

despite all the sugar he puts in his own coffee, it still goes bitter on his tongue when he walks back to his desk to see you and clark giggling like schoolgirls. your eyes meet jimmy's for just a moment, and his heart stutters.

clark looks over his shoulder at him and then back to you and prods your shoulder playfully. you swat his hand away and mutter something to him with a roll of your eyes.

moment officially ruined.

god, this whole "crushing on his coworker" thing is getting old fast, and you've only been here for a month.

he spends the rest of his day editing those photos for you, making sure that they look as good as possible. he picks out the clearest ones he has of the fight and the aftermath—he got one with that mr. terrific guy and all his tech that he's particularly proud of.

"man, how do you do it?" jimmy asks, after you head out for the day.

"do what?" clark spins around in his chair and furrows his brow.

"seriously?" and clark has the gall to shrug. "it's like every girl here fawns over you."

"they aren't fawning over me, jimmy." clark gestures to two of the interns who are very much staring at jimmy. he waves awkwardly back, and they giggle.

"yeah, but the new girl is."

"is not."

"is too!"

"i promise you, she is not." clark spins around in his chair to face his desk again with a roll of his eyes.

"then explain all of the giggling and the lingering looks and the coffee!" jimmy gestures exasperatedly at the mug on clark's desk. "she doesn't get me coffee."

"maybe she's just quieter than the interns," clark says with a shrug.

"yeah, quieter with me, not you."

clark looks at him like he's said something ridiculous and sighs. "maybe it's for the best that you're a photographer and not an investigative journalist."

"what's that supposed to mean?" jimmy crosses his arms defensively.

"c'mon, i didn't mean it like that. just-" clark pauses, like he's trying to find the right words. "you're not asking the right questions, is all."

"not the right-" then it dawns on him with all the subtlety of a brick being flung against his skull. "oh."

"yeah, oh." clark laughs then, and shuts his laptop. he makes quick work of packing his things up while jimmy stands by his desk, visibly buffering.

-

okay, so maybe jimmy is awkward the next morning. maybe he fumbles around the coffee maker for a little longer than strictly necessary in the hopes that you'll walk into the break room. maybe he looks at you for a little longer than strictly necessary, waiting for his shot.

clark is very obviously trying to hold back his laughter when he catches jimmy doing it, and lois does the same—betrayal of the century. he seriously told her, too?

you, on the other hand, seem entirely unaware. you wave politely to jimmy, thank him for the pictures, and continue on your day, business as usual.

this might just be worse than believing you were into clark.

because now he's caught off guard, has had the rug pulled from under him, and he figures it's best not to ask you out in front of the entire office.

but he wants to, dammit. he's itching to talk to you, to make you laugh, to take you out for dinner—or lunch, or to the movies. he'll take anything, really.

he finally gets his shot during clark's lunch break, he rolls his chair over to your desk. the office is mostly empty, except for you, jimmy, and a handful of interns—most people are out getting lunch, really. so, it seems like a great time.

he takes great pride in the small smile you shoot him as he approaches.

"hypothetically, if you were going on a date, where would you go?" he prompts with a grin.

your smile is gone in an instant, replaced by a confused furrow of your brow. "what?"

"y'know, hypothetically."

"uh, i guess the park downtown. why?" in his own head, jimmy cheers. he loves that park.

"okay, so, you want to go there this weekend with me?"

"sorry- me?" you point to yourself like you're not sure he's actually talking to the right person, and jimmy, frankly, has never been more confused.

"yeah...?" why wouldn't it be you?

"this isn't some kind of joke, right? like, clark didn't put you up to this or anything?" he watches with a furrowed brow as you look over your shoulder for any sign of clark.

"um, no?" jimmy is lost, totally and utterly lost. why would clark put him up to this?

"this isn't, like, practice for them?" you point to the interns who have been watching the entire interaction with rapt attention.

"no, i'm pretty sure i'm asking you out."

your confusion melts back into a small, embarrassed smile. he grins back at you. "oh, then, yeah, i'd like that."

"great, i'll pick you up on saturday?"

"sounds great, jimmy." you mirror his wide grin.

he drums his hands on his legs and spins his chair back to his own desk. his heart his racing in his chest, and he can't tamp down his own smile—even when perry calls jimmy into his office to interrogate him about deadlines and photo ops.

when he sees clark laughing with you later and spots the wide-eyed look he gets when you catch him watching, something in his chest flutters. and maybe he's a little embarrassed when clark laughs even harder.

[wemlygust]

I guess it may be because, on both tiktok and tumblr, your enjoyment of the platform will correlate closely with your ability to say no and to Not Engage with rage bait, rants you already agree with, stupid takes, "give me money I only have $5" posts, "You need be aware of [bad news here]" posts (srsly do not suffer these on your main feed! Get your news from sources/in ways that lets YOU have control of when you look at it! Don't let it get flung in you face at random times, making you miserable and actually LESS likely to do anything real about anything), etcetera. You have to curate your curators (on tumblr) or your algorithm (tiktok... and tumblr if you have't learnt to only look at the "following" feed yet) in a deliberate way, to control what you allow to be shown to you in what spaces/at what times (e.g. no bad news during your "relax and look at funny cat photos" time), or you'll fall into a trap. And people are understandably bad at this. These platforms do not care about ANYTHING except that you look at it for as long as possible, so you can see more ads and/or buy subscriptions. They will wreck your mental health to keep your eyes on them, if allowed. So you gotta approach them carefully, with a deliberate plan for engagement, like you're making a foray into hostile territory. Even though it's often worth it for those funny videos and so on.

Funny to me to think about the whole "oh you say you don't like <insert website> but you'll gladly reblog content FROM <insert website>" as like... trade exports between nations that all a little bit don't like each other.

"Come try these grapes. They're from Tiktok." "OH Tiktok? Wonderful. They grow the best grapes. We just don't have the right terrain for them here." "I agree. Lovely grapes. Wretched country though, I'd never live there." "Oh me neither. They cancel their peasants in the town square. Speaking of, have you seen the new textiles boypussydilf is selling in the town square? Imported from Instagram!" "Oh amazing textiles, Instagram has. Wretched country though." "Absolutely wretched."

[starsinthesky5]

you are in love: big reputations pt 2 // JOE BURROW

✰ description: covering the events of you are in love V pt 2

✰ universe: you are in love masterlist

✰ previous parts ➜ you are in love big reputations pt 1 ➜ you are in love V pt 2

✰ a/n: finally finished this up thank goddd. now onto the party 4 u fic ;) we all need some LSU joe in our lives again

there is NO face claim! i just use whatever i find on pinterest and envision for this series ;) you can tap on the photos to get closer look! especially the stories

taglist: (ask to be added): @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @joeyburrrow @softburrow @burrowbarbie @yelenasbraid @lovelyburrow @majestic87 @grittysbiggestfan @definitelynotdomanique @burrowswomen @lilfreakjez @fourburrow @ladyluvduv

liked by: joeyb_9, chanel, jenfinch_12, versace, gracieabrams, y/bsf_21, y/bsf2, gridback_news, and 3.4 million others

tagged: dior, versace

y/n_y/ln: did some cool things with @chanel + @versace the other week ;)

comments:

joeyb_9: fire flicks and fire caption 🙊

——— y/n_y/ln: i wonder who came up with this fire caption 🧐

y/bsf21: this caption is so joe coded...what has he done to you

——— joeyb_9: you say that like it's a bad thing

fan3939: GIVE US MORE MUSIC IM DYING OVER HERE GIRL

loverofbridges: this new aesthetic she has going on with reputation might just be her best yet

versace: 👑🖤✨

y/nfan282: release the ready for it MV from the vault girl PLS

sabrinacarpenter: the black wig?? we found your new hair color 😻

——— y/n_y/ln: ...should i?

fan3095: BLACK HAIR. WE NEED THE BLACK HAIR

jesshubbard: ok but the GLAM of it all??

——— y/n_y/ln: missing game deys with you right about now <3

bengalsfangirl09: our QB’s girlfriend AND a couture queen??? we won.

gracieabrams: you’re unreal.

fan392: waiting for that vogue editorial currently

——— popmusicrumors: 👀 she is rumored to be on the cover for the may edition

fan484: is she thrist trapping with that first one...holy hell 🤤

xp3_22L: my qb gettin that every night. that should be me bro

y/bsf2: drop the photo dump bae we’re starving

——— y/n_y/ln: need to have photos to dump first 😔

y/ncollective: bet you he was hovering behind the camera being all giggly telling you how pretty you look <3

chanel: ✨ the dreamiest collab 💫

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tagged: bose

joeyb_9: 💪💪💪

comments:

bengals4life: CINCY’S FINEST FR 🤩🧡

y/n_y/ln: is this your hotgirl workout routine we're getting to see here

——— quinn_ski: take him to pilaties again i think he forgot what real burn feels like

—————— y/n_y/ln: unless you wanna see him show up to athens split in half...i think i'd rather not put him through that again

y/n_y/ln: hey you're pretty cute ☺️

——— joeyb_9: funny thing, my girlfriend says the same

—————— y/n_y/ln: she must be the luckiest woman alive 🤩

————————— y/n_y/ln: i am! thanks <3

fan284: y/n you speical fucking woman 😣

fan42: i need him so bad guys

bose: blue is our new favorite color 💙

cincybengals951: joe...we love you but let's get back to throwing the ball, enough with the photoshoots and trophy boyfriend antics

——— joeybfanIX: nah let him enjoy his offseason for once! he deserves it and actually has someone who truly understands him to spend it with

——— y/nlover: calling him a trophy boyfriend is unnecessary as fuck. leave them alone

——— fan2949: its okay to keep your wrong opinions to yourself sometimes! hope this helps <3

——— footballfanatic3: why r we worrying about him? he knows how to lock in when he needs to. let him live a little with someone he clearly likes to spend time with

lahjay10_: joey gainzzzzzzz

fan965: still obsessing over how great his hair looks

——— fan2281: the girlfriend effect ✨

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📍NOLA yacht club

liked by: joeyb_9, y/bsf_21, jenfinch_12, y/bsf2, jackantonoff, y/ncollective, tatemcrae, madelyncline, sza, enews, sabrinacarpenter, and others

tagged: joeyb_9

y/n_y/ln: deep blue but you painted me golden

comments:

joeyb_9: blue has never looked so good. damn baby

——— y/n_y/ln: say that again without drooling, burrow

——————  joeyb_9: can’t promise anything 😮‍💨

y/bsf_21: i’m sorry but she’s not real. who looks like THIS on a boat????

fan2948: deep blue but he painted you golden? i’m chewing concrete actually

fan_of_yours: someone check on joe…man’s fighting for his life in the comments 😭

fanpage_y/nstyle: THE DRESS. THE LEGS. THE CAPTION. THE WAY SHE OWNS THE INTERNET. we are not okay 🥹

fan294: these are def song lyrics...she's such a tease

fan2901: okay but imagine having this saved to your camera roll like joe does. embarrassing for the rest of us.

fan8437: blue is her color and golden is his love STOPPPPP 💙💛

madelyncline: teach me how to be this ethereal pls

y/ncollective: joe’s somewhere biting his fist rn guarantee it

trevortherevver: y’all ever gonna come back to land or is joe still pretending he’s poseidon with his girl by his side 😂

——— y/n_y/ln: he was def thinking his dinner fork was a trident

y/nlover: this is literally joe’s pov every day. lucky man 🥰

jackantonoff: caption poet mode again i see 🤌

fan2872: 💕💕😍😍

fan9932: bet joe took these pics and had to put the phone down every 2 seconds to remind himself to breathe

——— joeyb_9: not wrong 🫠

—————— y/n_y/ln: you’re so embarrassing get off my post

————————— joeyb_9: nah. stuck here forever. just like with you.

tatemcrae: im just gonna keep liking this so it shows up on everyone’s feed ty

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tagged: y/n_y/ln, joeyb_9

gridback_news: Spotted: music’s reigning sweetheart and her soon to be MVP QB trading bright stage lights for golden sunsets on the bayou 🌅💫

Pop powerhouse Y/N Y/LN and NFL golden boy Joe Burrow were seen stepping off a private boat dock in New Orleans last night, still absolutely glowing after what insiders are calling a week-long lovefest in the Big Easy. Sources close to the pair say they’ve been soaking up every bit of downtime together—riding the high of her massive Grammy wins and his whirlwind press tour leading up to the NFL Honors this weekend.

This week has been nothing short of a dream for the couple. From hopping between hidden courtyard bars with local friends, sampling oysters and hush puppies, to slow-dancing to street jazz under twinkling French Quarter lights—every outing’s been a postcard. Fans even caught them sharing a powdered sugar-kissed kiss outside Café du Monde (yes, Joe had powdered sugar on his hoodie, yes, we are obsessed).

And it’s not just lazy strolls and late nights. Insiders say Y/N has been Joe’s quiet anchor through a maze of interviews, suit fittings, and event obligations. She’s been right by his side, hand on his back at crowded venues, or whispering something that makes him flash that grin we all know too well. Meanwhile, he’s been just as fiercely supportive, telling friends he’s “never seen her this inspired” and hinting that more new music from our songbird is coming way sooner than anyone thinks 🎶💗

As for that boat date? Eyewitnesses say they were all tangled up in each other—legs draped, heads tucked close—whispering and laughing like they forgot the world existed beyond the gentle slap of water against the hull. One bystander claims Y/N was seen trailing her fingers through Joe’s hair, and when he looked up at her, it was like watching two people fall in love for the first time all over again.

With the NFL Honors on the horizon, sources say both are excited—him for what could be another career-defining moment, her to cheer him on from the front row, the same way he did for her just days ago.

In short? The bayou’s never looked so sweet, and neither have they💘💘

#YN #JoeBurrow #NOLAspottings #GrammyGlow #NFLOffseason #BoatDates #MVPandHisMuse

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tagged: josephkhan, starlightproductions

y/n_y/ln: ...are you ready for it? music video out NOW! link in my bio 🖤

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📍new orleans, louisiana

💿 now playing: hot (young thug ft. gunna)

liked by: joeyb_9, y/bsf_21, fanpage_y/nstyle, y/ncollective, rulethejungle5, enews, taylorswift, joe&y/nupdates, and 3.2 million others

tagged: joeyb_9, dior

y/n_y/ln: see you in the dark, all eyes on you my magician

comments:

joeyb_9: mine. every lifetime, every timeline 🖤

——— y/ncollective: EXCUSE ME

——— xoxogossipgirllover: is...is he saying he proposed...

—————— fan02: probably not but who knows they're so unpredictable

——— fan9384: joe don't play with us

dior: you’re cordially invited to take over every red carpet forever ⭐️

fan383: a baddie has regained her wings because HELLO

oliviarodrigo: hot indeed 🔥🔥

fan892: most of her recent captions have to be song lyrics because they're so?? she's teasing haaard

zendaya: 😍

loverofbridges: he's already influencing her music taste im rotfl

y/bsf_21: Y/N MY GODDDD?

bengalsfan247: i need her skincare routine, workout routine, prayer circle schedule

fan49393: omfg she's so hot

joeburrowsource: joe’s camera roll is better than most photographers’ entire portfolios

y/n_lover: guyssss her smile :((((

——— fan232: pure freaking happiness. that's what im calling this era

fan982: beautiful 🤩

fan022: nbdy doing it like her 🗣️

fan2025: joe burrow not trash talking this season because he’s saving his energy to gas up his girlfriend. priorities people

fan23: joey b do you understand how lucky you are. i don't think you do

fan_joeyyb: joey b taking these pics like he’s not absolutely down horrendous. be serious.

fan3_22: i love how joe is just her personal photographer now

bengalsbro: he be hitting that every night god damn

——— fan37: don't be weird tf

gighadid: the gloss?? the gaze?? the grip you have on us my friend 😍

enews: new orleans just got 93% hotter

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📍saenger theatre

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tagged: y/n_y/ln

gridback_news: Spotted: All eyes on her ✨

Pop phenomenon and newly crowned Grammy darling Y/N Y/LN sent cameras into a frenzy tonight at the 2025 NFL Honors, stepping out in a custom sheer black Amen Couture gown threaded with hand-stitched ruby crystal detailing—what insiders are already calling “a top-three red carpet moment of her career,”.

Styled by Maeve McCarthy, she paired the look with black satin Jimmy Choo stilettos, a deep berry lip, and a vintage Messika diamond choker once worn by a '90s Italian screen siren—rumor has it, Joe personally flew it in via private courier as a pre-Grammys gift. 🖤

And as for Joe? Sources say he couldn’t take his eyes off her. “He looked like he was watching the sun rise,” one onlooker noted. “She walks into the room, and it’s tunnel vision. Everyone else fades out,”. An industry stylist seated backstage told us, “She walked past and half the room went silent. The gown was art. But it’s the way he looks at her that made the moment,”.

Sources close to the couple say the two have been “stronger than ever” in recent months, navigating hectic careers and awards season together like “they’re building something long-term—quietly, intentionally, and totally in sync,”. Another insider adds, “They talk about the future like it’s already here. Where they want to put roots down, who they want to be 5 years from now…individually and as an established unit. She’s always been the kind of person who pours everything into what she loves, and he matches that. It’s a slow-burn fairytale. No big declarations, just real life and deep love,”.

While the pair remain famously private (and public at the same time), body language experts are having a field day with tonight’s footage, subtle glances, hand brushes, and Joe’s now-signature move—stepping back to make space for her in every photo, eyes on her like she hung the stars 🌟

📸: NFL

#YNxJoe #NFLHonors #RedCarpetRoyalty #JoeBurrow #YN #PowerCoupleEra #StillSoftForYou

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liked by: alo, y/n_y/ln, bengals, jjetas2, killatrav, NFL, ryland_1, trevortherevver, quinn_ski, lahjay_10, teehiggins, and others

tagged: alo, jjetas2

joeyb_9: hard work brings cool stuff

comments:

fan031: wait y/n liked this so fast LMAO she said 😵‍💫

y/n_y/ln: beyond proud of my mvp ❤️

fan612: “hard work brings cool stuff” bro that’s YOUR GIRLFRIEND. that’s the cool stuff 😭

fan843: was not prepared for this post sir

y/nlover: his speech was toooo perfect. cutest shit ever

fan999: y’all see y/n and joe sneaking glances on the red carpet?? I need a moment

fan428: he doesn’t miss. football. fits. females.

——— fan39: correction, FEMALE. no plural.

fan777: HAIR? EYES? SWAG? this man has it all

jjetas2: we did that 👔🔥

alo: adding MVP to your resume as we speak 👑

ryland_1: attaboy joe!

trevortherevver: 👏🔥

quinn_ski: celebratory drinks at buddy's when you get back?

lahjay_10: my qb >

teehiggins: aight shiesty i see u

NFL: leading man energy 🎬🧡

fan109: man said “cool stuff” instead of “i’m the luckiest mf alive”

bengals: MVP! MVP! MVP!

fan492: this post smells like expensive cologne and being loved right

fan555: we get it. you're hot. you're talented. your girl loves you. ENOUGH.

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tagged: y/n_y/ln, joeyb_9

peoplemagazine: 🏆✨ MVP MODE: Joe Burrow just added another milestone to his stellar career—taking home MVP at the 2025 NFL Honors last night in New Orleans, and doing so in true QB1 style. The Bengals superstar made headlines not only for the win, but for a quiet, heart-melting tribute to girlfriend Y/N Y/L/N tucked right into his suit pocket. 👀

Styled by Alo, Joe wore a custom midnight black suit, paired with some of his personal favorite chains, and in true JB fashion, no shirt underneath—but what really caught fans’ attention was the jewel-studded solar system chain he carried with him throughout the night. The pocket chain featured a miniature galaxy of celestial stones and planets, with a single golden charm at the center: a star encrusted in citrine, etched with the letter of his songstress. Fans quickly dubbed it “his stargirl,” calling it a private universe dedicated to the love of his life. 🌌🪐✨

Y/N kept a low profile throughout the night, but she never left his side. She was spotted in the front row during his MVP acceptance speech, beaming with quiet pride, and throughout the evening, she stayed close, adjusting the hem of his jacket between awards, leaning in to murmur things that made him laugh softly under his breath, checking on him between flashes and questions on the carpet. When Joe took the stage to accept his award, he thanked his family, his teammates, and Y/N, by name, calling her “the one who turned the plane around,”. It was a rare moment of public vulnerability from the quarterback, who’s never been one to speak too candidly about his private life, but fans have noticed he’s been opening up more in the past year, especially when it comes to her. 🖤

Backstage, an NFL photographer caught one sweet moment where Y/N reached up to adjust his lapel, and Joe responded by brushing a kiss across her wrist—intimate, lowkey, and instantly iconic.

Tap the link in bio for the full article and a video of Joe’s speech, plus more exclusive behind-the-scenes moments from the couple’s unforgettable night. 🎥🖇️

📸: Getty / NFL Honors

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tagged: y/n_y/ln

gridback_news: Spotted: Y/N Y/LN turning the NFL Honors afterparty into her own personal runway last night 💫 The global pop icon was seen arriving at the event’s private celebration just past 10, dressed in a head-turning denim corset mini by EB denim that had fans, cameras (and Joe) doing double takes. The structured silhouette hugged her curves perfectly, with flawless denim stitching and a deep neckline that gave the look an effortless cool-girl edge. She paired the look with an Aquazzura bag and pair of matching heels, vintage jewelry from Joseph Saidian and Sons (including her special bracelet and necklace that SCREAMS Joe Burrow) with her usual stack of celestial charms, tousled bombshell waves, and a berry-stained lip.

Though she kept things lowkey earlier in the evening while supporting Joe at the ceremony, Y/N truly lit up the night at the afterparty—seen laughing warmly with NFL legends and her MVP beau’s teammates, effortlessly charming everyone around her. Sources close to the couple say she’s “beyond proud” of Joe’s special win and that “there’s no one else he wanted to celebrate with more,” 🏈💋💙 .

Fans and insiders alike are calling them the ultimate power couple, and honestly? It’s hard to disagree! 💫

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📍saenger theatre

liked by: joeyb_9, y/bsf_21, jenfinch_12, y/bsf2, y/ncollective, peoplemagazine, vogue, selenagomez, taylorswift, NFL, bengals, haileesteinfeld, sabrinacarpenter, and 5.8 million others

tagged: joeyb_9

y/n_y/ln: breaking my usual feed rhythm for this one…so bear with me. i promised myself i’d keep most of this just between us, but tonight’s too big to pretend like i’m not bursting with pride.

joey, watching you win MVP tonight was surreal. not because i didn’t think you’d do it—i did. i’ve always known you were capable of something like this. but knowing how hard you’ve worked for it...how much you’ve carried on and off the field this year, how much you've sacrificed, how deeply you care about your team, your city, your people…watching that all be recognized this way was something else entirely.

i’ve seen you at every stage of this journey over the past nine months i've been yours. i’ve seen the long nights, the quiet doubts, the pain you tried to hide from everyone else. i’ve also seen the joy, the resilience, the unbelievable discipline, the way you lead with intention and heart. no one wants this more than you do. no one gives more of themselves to something than you do. and you do it without ever losing your softness, your special spark that i fell in love with . you still hold doors open (literally and figuratively) even if you're having the worst day imaginable, still check in on everyone else first even if you aren't in the right headspace yourself, and still laugh like a kid when you win against me in supersmash bros every friday night. you’re the strongest man i’ve ever known, and somehow...also the gentlest.

this past week with you was magic, that's all i can say. but truthfully, you’re the most extraordinary thing i’ve ever known. award or no award. thank you for letting me walk beside you through it all. for letting me love you. for letting me be yours.

congratulations, my MVP. you are everything. i love you to the moon and to saturn.

xx, your stargirl 🖤🌌💫

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y/n_y/ln via instagram stories

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📍louisiana

liked by: joeyb_9, y/bsf_21, jenfinch_12, y/bsf2, y/ncollective, peoplemagazine, taylorswift, lahjay_10, jjetas2, jesshubbard, madelyncline, and 5.3 million others

tagged: joeyb_9, LSU

y/n_y/ln: nola & baton rouge.

beignets, bayou sunsets, red carpet flicks, late nights, campus lights, and a whole lot of love. found my new favorite record shop, fell in love with the chicken & daiquiris combo everyone hypes up, and finally learned how to say “tchoupitoulas” without getting roasted by JB.

thank you to the cities that gave me the sweetest memories these past two weeks (and the sweetest boy a long time ago). forever mystified by how these cities screamed his name.

laissez les bons temps rouler ⚜️

comments:

joeyb_9: the best to do it all with 😮‍💨

——— y/n_y/ln: even the “chicken at 1am” stomach ache?

—————— joeyb_9: hell yeah. especially that. character building moment right there

————————— y/n_y/ln: i was character dissolving in the uber back to the hotel joseph.

————————————joeyb_9: worth it. 10/10. would daiquiri & suffer again.

——————————————— y/n_y/ln: you say that now but you made us stop for tums and ginger ale like a baby

——————————————————joeyb_9: a baby in love 🧸

fan392: omfg did he take her to his old LSU apartment complex😭

——— fan02499: that's the cutest thing ever hello-

rulethejungle5: the picture with him and the grandma is golden. thank you for your services y/n

y/bsf_21: tchoupitoulas gate will go down in history

——— y/n_y/ln: he wouldn't stop laughing at me 😒

LSU: geaux jeaux and y/n! had a blast having you here 💜💛

lahjay_10: not joe becoming your lil louisiana tour guide 😭😭

quinn_ski: ah man you shoulda been there back in 2019 during those tailgates. legendary shit

——— y/n_y/ln: pls don't give me more fomo than i already have 😪

—————— trevortherevver: you missed out on robin's goated pre-game speeches :(

————————— y/n_y/ln: did you not just see what i said about fomo trev...not helping man 🥲

fan39: you said culture, you said southern hospitality, you said “i’m the girlfriend of the south’s favorite son” and you were right

dualipa: 😍

fan29: the aesthetics of her photo dumps never fail to deliver

fan2029: she really learned how to say tchoupitoulas just to impress her man…true love fr

tatemcrae: gorgeous gorgeous girl <3

——— y/n_y/ln: love u xx

joe&y/nupdates: the little napkin note awww

fan9432: Y’ALL HELD HANDS OUTSIDE CHIMES I SAW IT WITH MY OWN EYES

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y/n_y/ln via instagram stories

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📍baton rouge, louisiana

liked by: joeyb_9, y/bsf_21, olivarodrigo, sadiesink, y/bsf2, y/ncollective, sabrinacarpenter, sydneysweeney, billieeilish, vogue, madelyncline, and 3.9 million others

tagged: joeyb_9

y/n_y/ln: only bought this dress so you could take it off

comments:

joeyb_9: took it off respectfully.

——— fan292: SIR?? HELLO???

——— fan0908: lying is a sin joe...wbk what you did 😄

——— y/n_y/ln: did you? that's not what i recall..

—————— bigreputation910: Y/N WHAT 😃

y/bsf_21: i need a cold shower immediately 🤤

y/bsf2: YOU’RE GOING TO JAIL OMG??? GORG

sabrinacarpenter: i would simply pass away if i looked this good 😍

jesshubbard: so when’s the joe & y/n thirst trap calendar dropping?

——— y/n_y/ln: we'll include it with our christmas card this year

keke: what in the seductive southern summer sorcery is THIS

fan28488: joe is the luckiest man alive idc

haileybieber: obsessed. unwell. not breathing.

fan10233: this post made me bite my knuckle like a cartoon character

madelyncline: someone call the fire department 🚒

vogue: the blueprint for every slip dress from now on.

dovecameron: girl. GIRL. 😵‍💫

fan90128: can you link the dress or is it exclusive to heartbreakers only???

billieeilish: im on my knees.

fan02238: joe burrow really won the whole universe huh

fan4930: the tan lines…the caption…this is criminal

fan88910: girl be fr 😭😭😭😭😭😭

y/ncollective: the content of the century. thank you for your service.

fan093: she's feeling herself this month yall. WE ARE SOOOO BACK

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--The End--

[arachine]

thinking about predator/prey dynamics with hiccup in which you run from him while he tracks you through the forest, and when he finally finds you he's so pent up from the adrenaline of the chase that he has to fuck you there and then...Oh My God 💔💔💔

pairing: hiccup haddock x f!reader

contents: explicit sexual content, first time creampie, mentions of overstim, not proofread bc i'm tipsy

+ note: long overdue so sorry, but thank you for sending this thirst!! i love himmmm ughhhh ;(

it's his favorite form of foreplay, and honestly yours too—but it's especially fun for him because he likes to let you think you've got the upper hand. he'll even give you a head start, sometimes. let's you run around for a bit until he finds you in the thicket of surrounding greenery, or behind one of the several waterfalls in the area.

when it's suspiciously quiet, though, and you've gone too long without so much as hearing the snap of a twig in the distance, you think he's lost you. and you're always so confident that you've outsmarted him this time. that you've bested him at his own game—but your celebration is always premature, because in those few moments of self-proclaimed victory, you usually end up giving away your whereabouts in one way or another.

"no fucking way," you whisper, though terribly. "i actually lost him this time!"

"lost who?" a voice echoes through the trees, seemingly belonging to no one. you tilt your head to the sky in search of its owner, but find nothing but fleeing birds instead. then, the voice speaks again, only it sounds much closer than before.

"and..." the voice drawls, "i've got you."

before you can even attempt an escape, you're up and off the ground in a second, clinging onto your boyfriend's side as he uses a vine to swing across one spot to another. he's got you held captive in his embrace, and it only gets tighter with every squirm, which he gently admonishes. eventually, the vine slowly comes to a stop, and the two of you drop to the forest floor with a soft thud.

"what's the count now? ten? twenty?" he starts, holding up his hands to count on his fingers, "don't know, lost track. but that's another win for hiccup, and...another monumental loss for milady."

you roll your eyes, feigning annoyance.

"tell me, how does it feel to lose to someone so smart, so handsome, so—"

you interrupt his victory spiel, "so...dead? because if you don't stop talking that's what you're gonna be in the next few seconds."

he throws his hands up in the air as if to surrender, and begins walking backwards. clumsily, he missteps and trips over his prosthetic leg, falling to the ground in an awkward manner. the sight alone is enough ammunition to hold over his head for weeks. it takes the strength of odin to not laugh as he looks up at you with a pained, yet embarrassed expression. for someone so cocky, he had the agility of a newborn dragon.

you take one more look at him before you erupt into a vicious fit of laughter, eyes closed shut as you keel over while clutching your stomach for dear life. in your distraction, the mischievous look he gives you goes unnoticed, and when you finally begin to settle down, he's sporting a frown.

"ha, ha, very funny," he says dryly, sitting up, "laugh at the amputee. it's okay, though, you see, because i actually happen to prefer being on the ground."

"oh, c'mon, don't be a big baby," you tease, extending an arm to pull him up. he accepts it obligingly, and just as you're about to pull him up, he yanks you down on top of him.

"ohhhh," you say, as if suddenly enlightened, "so this was your plan all along, huh? wanted to be close to me? well, hiccup haddock, you are quite the little mischief." smoothly, you maneuver yourself to where you're straddling both sides of his hips.

you let a single hand rest atop his stomach, and inch your fingers up slowly until they stop at the crest of his chest. teasingly, you move your face closer, stopping just a centimeter away from his lips. the finger on his chest swirls in purposeless circles, and he glances down once, before flipping your positions. now it's you who lies on the forest floor.

"it's cute when you act clueless," he breathes, whispering in your ear. his hands are impatient, already making quick work of the ties and lacing on his pants. "you know it always ends like this."

"yeah, but the pretending is what makes it fun, right?" you query with a raised brow.

"like, when we pretend that you've almost lost me? yeah, i guess that is pretty fun," he smirks, head dipping down to kiss your neck. you tug on his hair to pull him back up, earning a soft groan in response.

"i did almost have you!" you counter, pointing a finger in his face. he squints his eyes at you as if to say 'really?', but decides to play into your delusion.

"i know, baby," he says, resuming his assault on your neck, "you'll win next time."

and you know it's a lie. he'll win the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that one, too. he'll have you spread out just like he does now—stripped bare and begging, head thrown back in pure, unadulterated bliss.

in your haze, all you can focus on is him—his breathing, the whimpers he kisses into your skin, the feeling of his cock as it drags in and out of you, heavy and warm. it's debilitating, intoxicating. how he somehow manages to turn you into a liquified puddle of flesh every time. something to be made pliable, that he can build up and take apart effortlessly, like it was nothing.

swiftly, you reach up, encircling your arms around his neck. you pull him down forcefully, and capture his lips in a searing, impatient kiss. despite his inexperience, hiccup's always been a good kisser. he likes to take his time, you see, kiss you real slow, lick into your mouth and drag his tongue across every surface of your teeth—because that's how he learns, by feeling, tasting.

but right now? right now he's insatiable. his hands are all over the expanse of your body, touching, kneading, pinching, leaving marks for you to find come morning. they wander aimlessly before settling on the bundle nerves nestled between your legs. when his callused fingertips make contact with your clit, you arch into his touch, whimpers and curses slipping past your lips.

"think it's time for my prize," he says, fingers rubbing in circles with purpose, "think i've earned it." you know he's teasing you, talking sweet into your ear to get you to come all over him—and it was working. there was no in the whole archipelago more persistent than hiccup. even while chasing his own release, he still prioritized your own, making sure to sync his thrusts with the ministrations of his fingers.

"you're so beautiful, so tight, so—shit—all mine," he mumbles, burying his head into the interstice of your neck. everything he was saying was coming out in unintelligible jumbles. in between his mumbles, you could make out a few clear words, most of which were obscenities and praises. his thrusts, once rapid and powerful, were slowly starting to become irregular. you knew both of your climaxes were teetering on the precipice, you just needed one final blow.

"go ahead, i've got you. let go, love." and with that, your climax came over you like liquid lightning. hot, fast, and powerful. you arched into his body, limbs jerking, hands grasping onto his arms, hair, back—anything to ground you. bring you back down from the stratosphere. for a few moments, everything around you stilled—got quieter. much like the quietness during first snowfall.

it didn't register to you that hiccup had been talking to you until his fingers snapped in front of your face. then, his voice came, and the buzzing in your ears subsided.

"there's my girl," he coos, bringing a gentle hand up to cup your cheek, "almost lost you there." he leans down, kisses the centre of your forehead. lets his lips linger for a few before pulling back to rest his head against yours.

"did so good for me. sososo good," he praises, emphasizing each word with a lazy rut of his hips. the overstimulation is almost too much to bear, so much so, that you have half a mind to push him off—but you don't. somehow you're able to find the mental fortitude to ignore the ever-growing pressure in your core.

motivated, you wrap your legs tighter around him, digging your heels into his spine to bring him impossibly closer. in an attempt to coax both of your releases, you begin to grind down onto him, squeezing your walls around him with every movement. he gives a disgruntled moan in response, accompanied with a few curses.

the little energy he had left was fading. the one arm situated on the side of your head was shaking, threatening to collapse, and the other was beginning to tire. you knew his release would ensue shortly after yours.

"inside, d-do it inside," you nodded, "wanna feel it."

his eyes go big, pupils blown entirely. he almost thinks he's misheard you, actually, he's certain he has—but then you repeat it again, and there's not an ounce of uncertainty in his bones. never has he finished inside of you, he usually opted for finishing on other body parts. parts that didn't end in pregnancy.

but now you were giving him the go ahead, and dear odin, he didn't know what he did for the circumstances to change, for the scales to tip in his favor—but he wasn't complaining. and he wasn't going to deny you, not when you were squeezing on him like that, looking up at him through hungry lashes. no, he could never deny you. hiccup was many, many things, but never cruel.

then, with a few more lazy thrusts, he spills his seed inside of you. thick, white ropes of hot semen fill your hole, and the two of you moan in perfect synchronization at the sensation. he collapses on top of your body immediately after, and you pull him tighter into your embrace. when the two of you gather your wits, he rolls over, turning his body to face yours.

"same time tomorrow?" he jests, shooting you a cheeky, shit-eating grin.

"don't push your luck, i just let you put your seed inside of me." he flops onto his back, puts his hand over his chests and makes a gurgling sound as if he's been fatally wounded.

"you've just killed me, do you know that?"

you squint your eyes at him, waiting for him to correct himself.

"yeah, fair. but you can't blame a boy for trying."

[tadc-and-md-sideblog]

I actually love this comic so much

Even if it was just supposed to be kinda silly with creepy in there for good measure, there's something so sweet and tender here. I've seen some of this AU around, though I don't know a ton about it. Still, it's just cool seeing N as this even bigger and creepier Eldritch creature, and yet he still loves Uzi just as much as in canon. And Uzi still is apparently quite comfortable and familiar with him.

I love how he's not even talking at all here, and is just looming over her all creepy, and yet Uzi's not freaked out at all, all she's worrying about is "wait where'd your teeth go" and is just taking his face in her hands and asking him to "open up" (like a dog hehe) just to make sure nothing's wrong or figure out what happened. The familiarity and the clarity that she feels safe with him, even in this humongous Eldritch form, is really sweet. And sure, the ending jumpscare is kinda funny, but it's still clear he's not going to hurt her. 🥹💛💜

Spooky Eldritch N time

Teeth (1/2)

N is is secretly Toothless or something...

i know i know he doesnt have teeth like that in the video, but uhhh its been stuck in my head like this sooo