#hes not even a pronoun to me hes my best friend

[rustedhearts]

just friends (again) (roommate!steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: you’ve convinced everyone around you that you and steve are just friends. now you just have to convince yourself—but it proves difficult when steve finally admits how he feels.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ just friends (part one) ✶ the library

tags: pining, yearning, they want each other so bad they're so stupid, little angst/hurt/comfort, oh steve harrington the man that you are. didn't proofread so ignore any mistakes oops.

buy me a ko-fi! (my blurb commissions are also still open!)

“I’m having a little carpet picnic.”

Julia Roberts’ voice filled the living room with a familiar warmth. The pinks and whites of the Beverly Hills hotel room from Pretty Woman coated the coach and the surface of your face with a gentle glow. The Chinese food you ordered a few hours ago was starting to stink. Even Ted, who was curled at your feet for most of your movie marathon, could no longer stand the vegetative life and scampered away.

It had been a week since Eddie broke things off. After Steve punched him, you spent the Sunday post-knockout calling and texting, hoping to sort things out. But Eddie never picked up. Eddie never replied. You figured stopping by the shop was a bit too far—if he wanted to talk to you, he would’ve by now.

So here you were, spending another weekend on the couch. Single. Broke. Lonely.

“He thought I was cheating on him,” is the excuse you have for getting dumped.

But the look on Theresa’s face when you told her is the first time it made you recoil. The first time you doubted that Eddie was 100%, entirely out of his mind.

Theresa winced into the overpriced lattes you were drinking at a curbside patio on Wednesday. “Well…I mean…”

And you gasped, mouth agape and heart hammering in your chest. What the fuck did that mean? Because you were just friends. All Steve ever was and is: your best friend. Why did everyone act like you were having a secret affair when the doors were closed on the public?

“You’ve gotta be kidding me—“

“I’m not defending the prick,” Theresa justified. “He was an asshole for talking to you like that. But I can see why he might have thought that. You and Steve are really close. Like…very close.”

“We’re friends,” you insisted.

And Theresa dropped it, holding her hands above her latte with innocent agreement. But her words haunted you the entire week. Every time Steve filled your coffee and had it ready on the counter for your commute to work (he even used your favorite travel mug). Every time he came home with a bag of peanut m&ms when he dropped by the store because it was the little treat you always asked for, but he didn’t even need to be asked anymore.

But like any other Saturday, the apartment was void of him for most of the day. He mumbled some excuse about going to the mall through your door this morning, and when he came home twenty minutes into Pretty Woman with an Abercrombie shopping bag, you knew he’d been date shopping.

“Hey,” he called to you, door clamping closed behind him. His keys jingled on their toss toward the table cluttered with half-opened mail.

Cheek squished against a throw pillow, body splayed flat on the couch, you cut him a glance sideways and adjusted the volume. “Hey.”

Steve kicked off his shoes and set his bag near the door, making your chest tighten when he immediately sauntered toward the couch. He turned to the tv with his hands on his hips.

He asked what he always asked, despite his eyes watching the very thing. “Watchya watchin’?”

“Pretty Woman.”

“Did you already watch Mystic Pizza?”

“Yep.”

Steve sighed. “Damn. Alright, well, scooch over.”

When he plucked your feet up and flopped down under them, he smelled like the sickeningly sweet butter of a soft pretzel, and the overwhelming stench of Abercrombie & Fitch. You couldn’t believe he still shopped there.

His hands were still resting on your ankles, bracing your feet against his jean-clad thighs. His touch was warm, soft, all-encompassing—and suddenly all you could think about even as Richard Gere came on screen. Steve's touch, his heat, the body those hands came attached to resting just inches away. He was wearing blue today. He looked so good in blue.

You swallowed and coughed, cheek rubbing on the pillow. Steve’s finger twitched around your calf.

“You okay?”

“Mhm,” you croaked.

His eyes bored into you for a moment before he turned back to Julia Roberts. "Notting Hill or My Best Friend's Wedding after this?"

Your lips parted to reply, but then his finger began tracing shapes into the patch of skin between the bottom of your pant leg and the elastic of your sock. Air choked in your throat. Your eyes bulged on the glowing television screen. The muscles in the center of your body knotted and squeezed like nausea.

In your stock-still state, it didn't even occur to you that Steve somehow knew your entire I'm-sad-and-can-only-watch-Julia-Roberts-movies marathon setlist, but it certainly crossed your mind later on. You and Steve are really close. Maybe Theresa had a point.

"Um..." Your tongue darted out to lick your suddenly-dry lips.

"You good over there?" Steve chuckled, head tipping to gauge the features and their current predicament on your face.

You buried it further into the pillow, as far as it could go without hiding completely. "Yes, Steve, I'm fine."

Steve pulled back, settling into the couch again. "Jeez, oh-kay."

He waited a moment, and you inched free from your pillow enough to bring your eye back to the television, doing your best to focus on the movie you'd seen a million times and not Steve's hand sweeping under your pant leg. He'd done that a million times, too. Touched you. Felt you.

He held your hand when you crossed the road like a child that needed guidance. He braced your back to move you which way he wanted, and to pull you close when public situational occurrences arose that made him uncomfortable. He brushed your hair once when you were victim to an ungodly illness that had you picturing death. He removed your makeup on your birthday last year when you got so drunk you puked in the doorway.

His hands were always so gentle. His touch was always so soft.

But, God, why did it feel so different right now? Why did it feel so good?

"Want a mall haul?" Steve asked, too uncomfortable in the sudden silence of the living room. He was already standing and placing your feet back on their own before you could reply.

In your periphery, he headed toward the door to retrieve the bags he neglected. "Got a couple shirts to try. Also, am I too old for that store? I swear, everyone in there was like a little Taylor Lautner wannabe from 2012—meaning they were fourteen and on steroids—"

"Steve!"

He stopped. Standing at the edge of the rug with both hands on the corded handles of his Abercrombie & Fitch shopping bag to pull it open. The snicker gathering in his throat hitched into a snort, smirk drooping into wide-eyed surprise.

You never yelled. Not at him. Not at anyone that didn't deserve it, like the neighbors when they were arguing too loud again and you were trying to nap. Like the guy that tried to steal Steve's package a few months ago that you nearly tackled down the hall.

But never Steve.

You shot up on the couch, hands flying to your pounding head. "Just...please! I don't want a mall haul, I don't want to talk, I just...—I just wanna be alone."

Steve blinked, cheeks colored pink. He closed the bag slowly, paper crinkling as he went. He took it in one hand and backed up, stepping off the rug foot by foot. He glanced at Ted, who skittered in surprise at your outburst and was standing with an arched back and black pupils near the tv stand.

"Uh...yeah, okay. Sorry," he mumbled, scratching at the nape of his neck.

Your shoulders slumped, deflating into the couch as Steve turned his eyes to the floor and tugged at the back of his hair. That stress tick again—the one you hated causing. He turned slowly, caution stiff in his spine. You watched his finger twist and wind into a lock of chestnut hair as he trudged into the hall. His door clamped closed a moment later.

A heavy, moaning sigh shuddered from your mouth as you flopped back on the pillow. Two arms locked over your head, pressing down on your eyes to blind them and the horror you created.

"Slippery little suckers," Julia Roberts snickered on the screen.

"It happens all the time."

✶ ✶

You ate dinner separately. It was the first time you'd ever eaten dinner separately within the same four walls. Even the night you moved in together, when you were nothing but a pair of strangers gauging how weird it might be to live with the opposite sex without something romantic or sexual in the undertones—even then, you ate a greasy cheese pizza together on the living room floor with an empty box as makeshift table.

He asked all the right get-to-know-you questions, and when he successfully made you laugh with all his snarks and quips, you knew Steve Harrington would be an alright roommate. You never figured he'd become your best friend.

Tonight, you pouted into the salad you regretted purchasing yesterday because a "healthy" lifestyle was born and had died within the span of your forty minute shopping trip. And now, you wanted nothing but another wet, shiny pizza, and Steve Harrington's dumb jokes.

He ate in his room. Shuffled out while you were finishing Notting Hill and made another bland chicken-rice-and-broccoli dinner. And then he shuffled past you, shut his door, and ate it alone. Never even giving you a chance to tease his unseasoned plate for the purpose of "gains." You thought he could remain just as toned and handsome with flavor on his food.

By the time you were showered, redressed, and gurgling with lingering hunger, you were properly sour with guilt.

And maybe the black sweatpants with the bedazzled jewels on your ass were pulled on with manipulative purpose before you shuffled to Steve's door. You lingered there a while, gnawing on the skin around your thumbnail and glancing between the wood grain of Steve's door and the plush surface of your yellow slippers. At this proximity, you could hear the low hum of his radio behind the door. He had a strange affection for the 70s and 80s station.

If only you knew that it was because Steve knew "the all time hits of the 70s and 80s" were your favorite.

The radio dimmed, and a moment later Steve's voice called through the door. "I can hear you lingering out there."

You jumped, stepping away from the door. Your thumb returned to your mouth, teeth piercing the skin to nibble it away. The shuffle of feet and jingle of the doorknob came too swiftly for you to evade, and then the door swung open to reveal Steve in grey sweatpants and a tight red t-shirt. He looked good in red, too.

"Oh. Hi," you murmured, hand instantly dropping to your side.

Steve caged the doorway, biceps bulging on either side. You averted your eyes with a swallow.

He sighed. "Hi."

Steve watched you sweep a slippered foot back and forth like sloshing through water. He tipped his head and bit away a smile when he caught the edge of a jewel on your hip. His favorite sweatpants.

"Are you mad at me?"

Steve sighed again, this time a little shaken with laughter. "No, kid. I ain't mad at ya."

To prove his point, he nudged the door open with his palm and motioned toward the bedroom behind him. "Come on in."

You flopped on the edge of his bed, bounced up and down by old springs. Steve swung the door closed and joined you, easing back against his wooden headboard to reassume his rumpled position. He reached toward the nightstand and turned the knob on the radio to lower the Elton John song playing.

Steve snatched the small plastic basketball from behind the radio and tossed it in the air. "So, what's goin' on?"

You watched the ball soar into the air and come back down into his palm. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I was just...cranky."

Steve quirked a brow, catching your eye over an orange blur when he threw the ball again. "Yeah? That all?"

The corners of your mouth pulled down. "Yeah...? What else would it be."

Steve shrugged, chin turned up toward the ceiling as he watched the basketball fly toward it. Elton John died down and switched to Def Leppard. "Hysteria" was one of Steve's favorite songs.

"You tell me. You were having a Julia Roberts marathon."

"So?" Your thumb returned to your mouth, teeth ripping at the skin.

"You only watch Julia Roberts when you're sad."

"Not true."

Steve fixed his head straight again, eyes narrowing into a pointed look. The basketball sat in his right palm against his chest. You huffed, angling yourself toward the door to glare at it instead of your roommate and his smug, all knowing expression.

He waited a while, like he always did—waiting out your stubbornness and refusing to let it break him. You could talk to him, you knew that. He wanted you to know that.

"I guess..." You sighed, throwing yourself back on the bed with your arms locked over your eyes. "I guess I'm just upset that Eddie still hasn't called. I've been calling and texting him, but...he doesn't wanna see me."

Steve immediately felt every blood cell in his body curdle. Like they were burning and festering, irritated under his skin. He swallowed, bringing the basketball to sit between his knees where he could pick at the design with blunt fingernails.

"And you want to see him?"

You dropped your arms, letting them plop to your sides. "I mean...yeah."

Steve couldn't help it—he scoffed.

The sound had your head turning, brows furrowed his way. His head was shaking, eyes focused distinctly downward to avoid yours. All the smugness of his expression dimmed into something distasteful and angry.

"What the hell was that for?"

"Nothing."

"You scoffed."

"I sighed."

"No, you scoffed."

"Well—"

This time, Steve did sigh. He took the basketball in his hands and chucked it toward the door, causing it to boomerang off the wood and catapult back toward the mattress again. The sharp smack had you jolting upward, and your eyes widened on Steve when he hopped from the bed and stood to his feet.

"What the hell—"

"He's not good enough for you!"

You paused on weak wrists used to push you upward. Steve stood a foot away from the bed with pink cheeks and outstretched hands. They curled back toward him to sweep through his hair and tug hard at the roots.

"Steve—"

"He sucks. Alright? All your ex boyfriends sucked, but especially Eddie. He didn't understand you, he didn't appreciate you. He made you cry, for fuck's sake, and you want him back? I just don't get it."

Your lips parted, but it felt like gulping for water on dry land. And Steve watched, helplessly, as you stammered for words in the face of his impending and inevitable confession. Inevitably painful, he knew, but he could no longer stomach the tireless routine of finding the body closest to yours in another dark bar, hoping she would comfort him enough to soothe the ache he had for you.

You, who slept across the hall and shared the sofa with your head on his shoulder. You, who looked at him like some sort of light source with those little round eyes. You, who made his heart pound and weep endlessly every second that you were near, and every moment you were away—leaving him in a constant, centrifugal loop of torture.

So—knowing it might ruin every bit of good the pair of you worked so hard to keep—Steve stepped closer to the bed and swallowed. He prepared himself to form the words he'd practiced a million times over in his head.

"I just figured that eventually...you'd get tired of all the wrong guys, and realize that...I'm here. That it was me, that you loved me. Because I love you—don't you love me?"

He paused, but it would never have been enough time for your mind to process his proclamation. He had a look of such anguish embedded in his features, all scrunched and screwed together with wet, shiny eyes.

"And I figured it was easier to sleep my way around than sit and watch you waste your time with these idiots. But they were never you. And I never bothered to get to know them, because I only wanted to know you."

Your breath hitched when Steve crowded your corner of the bed, hands clasped over his chest. You had to tip your head back to meet his eye, and you felt your arms shake in their locked position holding you up. The sight of him blurred with the onset of your own hot, salty tears.

Steve sniffed: a wet slurp proceeded by a tear slipping down his cheek. He wiped it quickly and sank to his knees before you on the bed, hands coming to cradle your bent knees.

"I just can't take it any longer," he whispered, and his hazel eyes were like shiny coins gazing up at you.

His lips were wet with his own tears. His tongue swept them away. Every breath inhaled rattled in his chest, and every exhale shuddered his cheeks full. He chuckled when he rubbed his palm into his eye and turned it red, sweeping his forearm over his face to clear the tears again but they just kept coming.

"Fuck, say something, please," he huffed, lacing it with laughter despite its absence of humor.

Your throat felt like it swelled to twice the size. Sickness rolled in your stomach. But it only grew at the thought of breaking Steve's heart with your silence. Because the longer he looked at you with those almond eyes, and the longer he sniffled and massaged your knees to comfort himself—the more your heart crumbled.

"I...I don't know what to say," you croaked.

Steve inhaled again, stuttering through a sniffle. He wiped his cheek on your knee and chuckled again. "Yeah. Yeah, of course—it's okay."

"Steve—"

"It's okay," he insisted, scrambling to his feet. He backed away toward the door and you finished pulling yourself upright.

"Steve, wait—"

"Really, it's okay, honey. I'm just gonna...—we ran out of ice cream, so 'm gonna g-go—go get some. Mint chip, yeah? Okay."

He sniffled again upon his exit, slipping through a small crevice he opened the door to. The front door slammed shut moments later, and you rolled onto your stomach to unleash a scream into Steve's mattress.

"Stay tuned for more all time hits of the 70s and 80s!"

✶ ✶

Steve did not return with the mint chip until nearly midnight. It came in a plastic bag that announced his arrival even before the clamber of keys. Yet, it was the squeal of old hinges that woke you from your couch slumber, and you jolted upright as the door swung open.

Steve closed the door and stood there for a moment, spotting you in the dimness of the living room. You rubbed your eye and he shifted on his feet. Ted scampered off the couch and butted at Steve's calf.

He held up the plastic bag. "Got the mint chip. It's uh...it's all melted now, though."

You wanted to reply, to make him feel better again. His eyes were still pink and puffy, and you hated the thought of him spending hours in his car or another dark bar agonizing over what you might be thinking. Worst of all, regretting any of what he said.

Because you spent the past few hours doing plenty of thinking. You laid in his bed, curled on your side, and looked at all the pictures pinned to a cork board above his desk.

The sepia toned film strip from a wedding last fall where you took him as your date. You were smiling in every one, and to the unbeknownst you might have already appeared as a couple.

The Polaroid from his most recent birthday, where you were sitting on his shoulders and clutching onto his hair for dear life. His sister took the picture.

The black and white he printed from his phone of just you on a park bench, feeding the ducks. You never even knew he had that one.

And when you shuffled to your room, you suddenly stopped. The clack of hard-bottomed slippers caught your attention, and you looked down at the plush yellow footwear around your toes—a gift from Steve.

You stood on the other side of your bed and stared at the windowsill full of miscellaneous yellow items all gifted from Steve. The movie ticket stubs shoved in your mirror and the hundreds thrown in a box on your dresser because you'd probably seen a thousand over the years with Steve, who loved movie theater popcorn and sitting close to you in the dark.

The birthday cards he wrote extensive messages of well wishes and gratitude for your friendship in with terrible penmanship. The purse he bought you for that you said you liked in passing but would never spend that much money on, and the note still tucked inside the zipper that came pasted to the bag on Christmas morning:

Because you deserve it.

Love, Steve

And then you ended up on the couch, falling asleep watching the door and waiting for it to open.

Steve trudged to the kitchen while you were lost in thought, and you hurried to catch up as he swung the freezer open. He wrapped the plastic bag around the pint of the ice cream and stuck it on the top shelf, hand reaching to close the door—when he was pushed forward by a force crashing into him.

And then there was warmth around his stomach: two arms curling around his ribs. Two hands pressing to his stomach and pulling him in. Steve stopped, immobilized in the open freezer door.

"I'm sorry," you breathed into his shirt, eyes closed tight. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything, I was just so stunned. And I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot, Steve, for letting this go on for so long. Of course I love you, of course you love me—God, I just never wanted to ruin everything. But you make me so happy, and I—"

Steve spun around, causing your head to lift off his back. You went to drop your arms, but he instantly brought them around his neck. Two hands, still frozen from melting ice cream, braced your cheeks.

"You mean it?"

You nodded in his hold, happy to see his hazel eyes free and clear of tears. "Yes. Yes, of course I mean it—"

"Oh, thank fucking God," Steve breathed, and then his mouth descended on you.

You curled to the tops of your toes to press into his kiss, whimpering at the warmth and softness of his lips. It felt exactly as you thought it would—anticipating their plushness every time he pressed his lips to your cheek over the years.

It lasted until the pair of you were breathless, and you heaved for air upon release. Steve brushed his thumbs over your bottom lip, smearing spit and hemming your airless grin.

He kissed you all night, and let his hands roam where they could not roam before. You fell asleep in his bed tucked under his arm, and when you woke you shared the refrozen pint of mint chip with one spoon.

And when Steve called his sister while you were showering to share the good news, all she did was laugh.

"Jesus, about fucking time."

[unboundprompts]

If it's not a bother, would you maybe consider doing some best/friends to lovers road trip prompts? Thanks!!

Friends to Lovers Road Trip Prompts

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

"I don't know why I let you navigate," he said, hands gripping the steering wheel, "because we are way off course." She just chuckled from her spot in the passenger seat. "I took it upon myself to take us somewhere much more fun." He shot her a side-eyed glance, lip smirking upward. She pointed ahead of them. "Take this next turn."

"Let's sleep in the car," she suggested. "It'll save us money on a hotel. We can both fit in the back seat if we cuddle."

"Take a nap," they told him. "I'll drive until you feel rested enough to take back over."

All the sights that they've seen on this trip, but somehow he couldn't seem to take his eyes off of them. They were the prettiest sight he had even seen.

"My favorite part of this trip was that I got to go on it with you."

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[bugsmunched]

" Toy and Owner " - Derek Danforth X Male! Reader

Summary: Derek gets off the phone with a particularly annoying employee and his pretty little toy knows just how to ease the pain.

Contents: AMAB! Reader, he/him pronouns used for reader, Oral sex (M receiving), drug usage mention, vaping, degradation, hair pulling, consensual hitting, choking, Derek is mean,spoiled brat Derek, Reader is just seen as an object, Dick piercings, spitting, face fucking,

SMUT UNDER THE CUT! MINORS DNI!!!!!

You weren't exactly sure what to call the relationship between you and Derek Danforth. You certainly weren't boyfriends by any means, as he simply saw you as a toy that should do nothing except sit still, look pretty, and pleasure him whenever he sees fit, which is quite frequent. But you weren't friends either, so you couldn't be friends with benefits, or even really fuck buddies. What the two of you were was simply Toy and Owner.

You tapped your fingers against the window of the limousine that the two of you were in together, trying your best to block out his angry words towards one of his many scum-bag employees.

"- maybe you should try and do your fucking job, and then it wouldn't be on the fucking line! If I don't see improvements in a week, you're done. " Derek threatened before he hung up the phone, letting it fall into his lap as he pulled out a vape. Typically the vapes were laced with some sort of drug that would send the sociopathic con artist to another dimension, but since you came along, he found the drug of you far more addicting.

You knew better than to say anything, knowing that the CEO couldn't give less of a shit about your opinion or advice. So instead of saying anything, you simply slipped out of your seat and crawled in front of him, sitting on your knees and looking up at him, placing your head in his lap. His free hand found its way into your hair, tangling itself in the strands.

"slut. " he spat, venom dripping from his words, making it seem like he truly hated you. You didn't really care if he hated you or not, after all, it wasn't your job to be liked by him, it was your job to please him, to make him forget about everything else.

He let go of your hair and shoved your head off of his lap, leaning back against the seat of the limo. He held the vape up to his lips and took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling, blowing the cloud directly into your face. " Well? Get to work. I can't wait all night. " He demanded, arrogance filling the air.

Your hands quickly fumbled with his belt, struggling with the stupidly expensive and quite honestly useless accessory. He always wore his pants too tight and never needed a belt, but to him, that stupid belt looked cool since it was expensive, so he wore it. Finally, you got the belt undone, moving onto the button and zipper of his pants.

He sighed exasperatedly, rolling his eyes at how long it was taking for you to just get his cock out. " You're a pretty useless sex toy, you know that? Can't even get me out of my pants in a timely manner, hurry the fuck up, bitch. " He huffed, smacking your cheek lightly, as a warning. You knew that if you didn't hurry up, he'd get far more impatient.

You rolled your eyes in response, going to pull his dick out when a hand went around your throat. " What the fuck was that? " He growled a little bit, squeezing the sides of your neck. As much of an asshole as he was, he would never hurt you past what you had agreed on. Would he purposely hurt others? Absolutely. But you? You were special. You were his property, and what was the point in damaging your own property?

"Sorry, sir. " You mumbled out an apology that both of you knew you didn't mean. He let go of your throat and huffed, taking another hit of his vape and blowing the cloud into the air.

"Good boy. Now, get to work, I expect to cum before we get to the event. " He demanded, a smug look on his face as you nodded in compliance.

You reached into his pants and pulled out his hard on, subconsciously licking your lips at the sight. No matter how many times you did this, it still mildly surprised you every time just how big he was. Jacobs ladder piercings ran up his length, each piercing designating an inch of length. Without hesitation, you leant forward, wrapping your lips around his tip. He gave a little whimper in response, his hand finding itself tangled messily in your hair once again.

Slowly, you began to push your head down, the ball ends of the piercings hitting the sides of your mouth. You were always careful to take him slowly, as to avoid any discomfort for the both of you. If you went too fast, you could accidentally tug at a piercing, which you learned he did not like. And although he didn't mind seeing you gag and choke on his cock, along with the mass amount of saliva, you didn't enjoy the bruises that showed up in your throat the next day.

After relaxing your throat a bit more, you pushed your head down even further and soon had your nose buried in the neatly trimmed pubes that rested at the base of his cock. Spit bubbled out from the sides of your mouth, running down his balls and pooling on the seat beneath him. He groaned and pushed down on your head, holding you there as he ground his hips upwards, the tip of his dick grinding against your throat causing you to gag even more.

" fuck, perfect little hole for me to fuck...shit I'm just gonna fuck your mouth, alright? Cause I know you hate having to do your job. So all you have to do is sit there and fucking take it. " He hummed softly. Guess you were going to get bruises after all.

He pulled your head up slightly, giving himself some room to begin thrusting up into your mouth, his tip slamming against the back of your throat repeatedly, which caused you to choke, drool falling down your face and onto the floor below you.

"God, you're such a messy slut, aren't you? You always make such a pathetic mess! It's hysterical how pathetic you are, dumb bitch. " He spat as he pulled you off his cock. You panted heavily, tears pricking in your eyes. Just as you managed to catch your breath, he shoved you back down onto his cock and began relentlessly thrusting in and out of your mouth once again.

He was using your mouth like a little fleshlight, and you both loved it. To him, you were nothing but an object for him to use for his pleasure. Once again, simply put, you were a toy and he was your owner.

Tears spilled out of your eyes, rolling down your cheeks and mixing with your drool on your chin and his cock. He loved seeing you cry because you couldn't take his cock. "pathetic. " He hissed as he pulled you off his cock again, just to spit in your face and force you back down.

After a little while of choking on his cock and nearly drowning in your own spit, the bleach blonde above you started to whimper and his breath began to get shaky, tell tale signs that he was close to cumming.

"fuck, little slut, if you get even a drop of cum on the leather interior of this limo, you'll have it coming. " Derek warned you, his thrusts becoming sloppy and less rhythmic.

As he got closer, he got louder and louder, not caring if the limo driver could hear him. That driver has heard everything that had ever happened in that limo, including the time Derek fucked you till you passed out on his cock.

He whimpered loudly, taking another long hit of his vape, exhaling with a loud moan as cum began to spill down your throat. You gagged a little bit at the suddenness, but managed to swallow each and every drop, not getting a single one on the leather interior.

He pulled you off his dick, whining a little bit at the loss of warmth. " At least someone knows how to do their job around here. " He cupped your face with his hand and pat it gently. " Good job, slut. " He hummed a bit. It was rare that he praised you, and often times when he did, it was because he was so sex drunk that he didn't realize what he was doing.

He stuffed himself back into his pants, rubbing the stubble on his chin, patting his lap. " Get off the floor and get back up here. " He commanded, watching as you scrambled to your feet and then placed yourself back in his lip, leaning against his chest. He held the vape up to your lips, offering it to you. Just as you took a bit, his phone began to ring. Once he picked up, he soon enough began yelling again. Looks like your job wasn't quite done yet.

[rosellacwrites]

I wanna be someone who believes

summary: Dieter knows it when he sees it.

pairings: Dieter Bravo x Reader

rating: teen maybe? I never know what to call this shit if it isn’t smutty 🤣

warnings: reader is a real estate agent and uses she/her pronouns but is otherwise undescribed; gratuitous use of double negatives; Dieter being Dieter

word count: 1650 (oops)

author’s note: posting late but written for the @dieterbravobrainrotclub May Drabble Challenge — the prompt was a meet-cute with “Do you believe in aliens?” Please be kind, I’ve never written for any of the Pedro boys before 🫣

Happy reading! ❤️

dividers by @firefly-graphics

“Please,” she coaxes you over the phone. “I’ll owe you big time.”

This is not the first time you’ve heard this from her, and you sigh. “What?”

“I need you to cover a big buyer for me this weekend. Dave got some kind of crazy deal through work, and he wants to take me to Cabo for the weekend, and my in-laws actually agreed to take the kids for once, but this is the only weekend he’s gonna be in LA between projects and I swear to God I’ll make it up to you, I’ll take your biggest pain in the ass buyer off your hands — “

“Danielle.” You take a sip of your coffee and rub the spot between your eyebrows. “Who is it?”

She takes a deep breath on the other end. “Okay — hear me out — he’s not quite as wild and crazy as you hear, more like… sexy eccentric? And the budget is good, all cash, I’ll send you his proof of funds — “

“Danielle,” you growl. “Who. Is. It.”

There’s a beat of silence, before she speaks. “… it’s Dieter. Dieter Bravo.”

“Are you fucking with me right now?” She’s your best friend in the industry, and you’ve watched her build her business, a solid roster of low-key celebrity clients who can trust her discretion, but this — this is the big time. “You really want to take a referral on this one?”

“It’ll be a healthy referral,” she points out. “He’s looking at five to seven, but he’s willing and able to go to eight for the right property. He won’t buy sight unseen, though — he’s gotta visit them all. The vibes, you know.”

You’re mentally calculating two and a half percent of eight million, minus referral, and you like what you’re coming up with, maybe even enough to genuinely enjoy this. “God save me from the vibes. Okay. Fine,” you say, exhaling. “I’ll do it — does he have a short list already?”

It’s her turn to sigh. “Vibes.”

“Vibes,” you echo, shaking your head. “Got it. Have fun in Cabo, you lucky bitch.”

“Have fun with Dieter,” she sing-songs. “You lucky bitch.”

*

As soon as you set eyes on him for the first time, you know you will. Everything about Dieter Bravo proclaims the fun kind of trouble, like sunshine that didn’t mean to burn you.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he greets you, looking like he just rolled out of bed and wants nothing more than to get back in it, preferably with you. “Do you come with the house?”

“Only when the earth moves,” you retort sweetly.

He looks stunned for a moment, and then the grin breaks over his face like sunrise and he laughs, long and loud. “I like you,” he proclaims. “Danielle said I would.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” His laughter is contagious, and you can’t help liking him too. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bravo.”

“Babe,” he says, looking pained, and you belatedly remember what Danielle had told you.

“Dieter,” you correct yourself, and he beams.

“That’s more like it,” he says cheerfully.

His assistant materializes from somewhere behind him, handing you a stack of papers. “Standard NDA,” they say. “I’m sure you understand.”

Dieter groans. “Do we have to do this?”

“I’m not offended, I promise.” You smile at him, and start to skim over the contract. It’s all fairly standard stuff, really, apart from the alien invasion bit inserted neatly into the force majeure clause. But it’s not the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen turn up in a legal document — this is Hollywood, after all — and you shrug, and sign.

“Amazing!” Dieter claps his hands like a child. “Let’s go buy a fucking house!”

*

Six showings later, you’re exhausted, your feet are killing you, and Dieter’s assistant looks as fried as you feel.

“Food?” Dieter asks hopefully. “Or weed? Or both?”

“I’m not feeling great,” his assistant says, rubbing their forehead. “I’m starting a migraine. Dieter, do you think you can manage without me for the afternoon?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll be fine.” Dieter waves a hand dismissively. “Go sleep it off.” He turns to you, and before he can say anything else, you nod and lead him away.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re seated at a tucked-away patio table at your favorite cafe, and Dieter’s looking much more relaxed, sunglasses pushed haphazardly up into his hair. “How’d you meet Danielle, anyway?” you ask him over the rim of your matcha latte.

“Hit on her in a club in West Hollywood,” he admits. “She was like ‘haha I totally would if I weren’t married, but hey, do you want to buy a house instead?’”

You can’t help laughing. “Yeah. That’s on brand.”

“It was fate,” he says. “Because I did want to buy a house, I just didn’t know it until she said it.”

“All that Cliff Beasts money burning a hole in your pocket?”

“I’m sick of hotels.” He shrugs, looking almost serious for once. “I travel all the fucking time, but — I want someplace I can come home to, you know?”

“Yeah. I do.” You look down at your drink and smile, toying with the already-disintegrating paper straw. “It’s such a stressful job sometimes, and the money’s not as great as everyone thinks it is, but when I can make that perfect match for someone, and I see their face light up when they walk in because they’re finally home — there’s nothing like it.”

“Yeah?” When you glance back up, he’s giving you the softest look you’ve ever seen, and it makes you wonder what his agent could possibly be thinking. The genuine sweetness he radiates is made for rom-coms, not half-assed action flicks. “Well, I’m glad you’re the one matchmaking for me.”

“Me too,” you say softly, your eyes locked with his, and you realize as you say it that it’s true.

It’s hard to remember that you’re working; you’re having more fun with Dieter than you have on any of the actual dates you’ve had recently. You linger at the table far longer than you should, talking about everything and nothing.

Finally, you crack, leaning forward and resting your elbows on the table. “I gotta ask,” you begin, and you see him tense, just slightly. “Do you believe in aliens?” He looks at you quizzically, clearly not expecting the conversation to take that particular turn. “It’s in your NDA. Alien invasion is one of the situations that gets me out of the contract.”

“Oh, I never read that shit.” He yawns and stretches, and you get an eyeful of his tummy when his shirt rides up. You try not to look — you’re sure there’s something in the realtor’s code of ethics about not ogling your clients, even if they are celebrities — but it’s impossible to look away from all that freckled golden skin. “But… I don’t not believe in aliens, you know? Who knows what the fuck’s out there? My lawyers know better than to leave my ass in the wind.”

“Fair enough, and I appreciate the loophole.” You shrug. “If aliens landed on the roof during one of our showings, you bet your ass I’d be calling TMZ real fast.”

“And I’d support that. Get your bag, babe.” He grins at you. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

You consider your next words very carefully. “I don’t not want to have sex with you,” you admit, and his face lights up. “But I have to do my job, first.”

“Okay, so let’s go do your job and get it out of the way.” He stands up, all business for the first time all day, and extends a hand to you. His hands are warm, slightly calloused, and big, and you find yourself praying that he gets good vibes from this last one.

“I’ve saved the best for last,” you tell him. “I think you’re gonna love this one. It’s been on for a while, and they just knocked the price down to seven-four. I think if you offered a little low, they’d take it.”

“What’s the vibe?” he asks.

“Think Zen, but casual about it. It was built ten years ago, but it feels a little seventies in a good way — lots of stone, warm wood, skylights. Indoor-outdoor living. There’s a koi pond that goes under the house.”

“Funky,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Go on.”

“Separate guest wing with kitchen, ideal for live-in staff — yoga room with adjoining massage area — detached guest house with art studio potential — “ you recite. He’s weakening by the minute, you can see it. “Pool and hot tub, of course — there’s like a waterfall thing, it’s pretty cool — “ His eyes go all dreamy and you know, you just know, he’s thinking about having sex there.

Almost there, you think; it’s time for the clincher. “Six minutes to the Whole Foods on Sepulveda.”

He whistles, reluctantly impressed. “That’s the good one.”

“It is indeed.” You nod sagely.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, tugging you by the hand he’s still holding. “Let’s go.”

*

A few weeks later, you surface to the sound of your phone ringing.

“Can you look and tell me who’s calling?” you call out, hooking your elbows over the side of the pool. “I’m all wet.”

Dieter wiggles his eyebrows at you and answers the call. “Hey, babe,” he says. “How was Cabo? Did you get pregnant?” He laughs. “Yeah, yeah — she knows I have her phone. She’s in the pool.”

“Tell Danielle I’ll call her back,” you shout.

“Yeah, she found me the perfect house,” Dieter says, ignoring you. “It’s fucking awesome. Moved in last week — you should come over and hang. Bring the kids. There’s this koi pond — ” He pauses for a moment to listen to her, and you shake your head fondly.

“Dee,” you warn. “Get off my phone.”

“You were right, you know,” he tells Danielle, grinning and blowing a kiss at you. “I liked her.”

Thanks to @freelancearsonist and @reallyrallyauthor for convincing me this was worth posting 😂

[buildingmycottage]

I saw a post here on Tumblr once that went something like "in a world where god, Jesus, and the apostles are all men, that has to do something psychologically to women" and it made me think: The Netflix version of the show "She-Ra Princess of Power" is a show that is HEAVILY women centric. We know maybe three guys in power, King Micah (who, after his return from Beast Island, wasn't *really* in power), the head sorcerer in Mystacor, Hordak/Horde Prime. (please do correct me if I am wrong) The show, albeit about princesses, has the princesses have actual roles. Even the ones that are "weak" or perceived to be weaker than the others (read: Perfuma), are extremely powerful.

The two men whom we consistently meet in the show other than Hordak, Bow and Seahawk, are not the "macho man" in most shows. Seahawk sings an entire shanty as to how lonely he is and how he just wants to be friends with Mermista, and Bow cries and even hugs frequently all the other characters in the show. Both talk about their emotions and work through them in /relatively/ healthy ways (the Dragon's Daughters 1-3 will be sorely missed). My point being, is that the women in the show are shown as strong, beautiful, muscular, fierce, sad, frustrated, loving, traumatized, hurt, laughing, and more. They all have different body shapes/ types of bodies. There are three openly gay couples: Bow's dads, Spinerella and Netossa, and Catra and Adora. Incredible! In a kids show (and adults too lets be real) there are three openly gay couples. No one treats them any different. Bow is one of 13 kids of George and Lance. No one bats an eye. In fact, according to She-Ra Wiki page (https://she-raandtheprincessesofpower.fandom.com/wiki/LGBTQIAP%2B), so many characters are queer. Besides the ones listed above: - Scorpia and Perfuma are romantically involved - Bow is Bisexual - Glimmer is Bisexual - Mermista is Bisexual - Seahawk is Bisexual (dated Falcon) - Falcon is Gay - Lonnie is Poly and Bisexual (dating Rogelio and Kyle) - by extension Rogelio and Kyle are queer - Entrapta is bi - Jewelstar is trans - Peekablue is gender non-conforming - Double Trouble is nonbinary and there is MORE In the show, as there are a ton of non humans, almost any time we meet someone, she/her pronouns are used (see episodes when Best Friend Squad are in the crimson waste). Can't you see how amazing this is? A show where there are no one-dimensional characters, women are constantly having intelligent conversation with one another, women are leaders, women working together, openly queer characters, and a beautiful plot line where there's magic???? When the princesses work together, they turn into the colors of the rainbow and their powers are enhanced. Little girls are getting to see themselves as normal. Women aren't treated as secondary citizens. Hell, almost every Bright Moon guard we see is female. How would the world be different if shows like this were the norm? Where women are able to be magical, and they aren't dressed to show off their bodies? Where women's armor actually protects them? Where they grunt and are sweating after they fight? Where womens' love wins? Why can't this be normal? (Happy Pride!)

[scattered-winter]

he/him not in a boy way but in a the words make a fun sound when you say them out loud way. hope this helps

[pisshandkerchief]

the obvious double standard with which we as a society treat amab nonbinary people and trans women who don't fit the level of feminity that they're expected to is actually disgusting.

[moe-broey]

ROSADO IN FEH LET'S GOOOOOOO 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉 🩵🩷🤍🩷🩵

[magentagalaxies]

vent incoming:

got my grades back for my courses last semester and most of it was to be expected, mostly A's, maybe an A-, etc. but i honestly can't get over the fact that my independent study (the buddy cole documentary) was for some reason given a B. like sure getting a B isn't bad per se, I usually get at least one B every semester and i honestly don't really care about what my exact gpa is as long as i can graduate, but come on. this school put me through months of psychological torment over this project and didn't even have the nerve to give me a B+??? i'm still coping with the self-doubt they forced on me and this bullshit is not helping!!

[mejomonster]

Being nonbinary and dressing feminine sometimes despite very much not being a woman is. Its like hello strangers hello new friends im making please dont immediately steamroll

[italictext]

Hurray!! My sister came out to my mum as bi/pan and told ma she had a girlfriend and it went well! She's not 100% supportive but we'll get there

[bitchapalooza]

Why do my parents ALWAYS have to put their 2 cents in :( now I’m worried my friend/coworker has other intentions of being my friend and if not that then people are gonna spread rumors about us. I’m already having trouble convincing myself that he does want to be friends, that he genuinely is nice and wouldn’t out me to my parents if something comes between us, why do they have to plant this shit into my head too…

[holyviolence]

omg i spent the whole day cleaning my entire apartment because my family was coming to visit and 1) so so so happy my adhd is being medicated now it's literally changing my life and 2) i FINALLLY got through to my dad about how he probably has ADHD too!!!!! he finally said Yeah i think i might have adhd. and my mom was like Me too (we've had this talk privately before, she knows she has adhd too lol) And my brother is literally transferring to a different school because he can't concentrate and isn't disciplined at his current uni. adhd family.

[theamazingannie]

Saw a list of songs gaylors think are queer-coded and people were understandably confused how they could be gay but many were like “INTHAF???” and I’m just like “…no they actually got a point there”

[theygender]

You know... part of the reason I had a hard time coming to terms with being a lesbian growing up was because I didn't want to be like my mom. I had been through a lot of trauma that was directly related to her choice in women, and there's definitely something to be said for the difficulties that that caused me, but that's not what this post is about

My point is, when I was a kid the idea of anyone ever thinking that I was like my mother made me angry, and that combined with the internalized lesbophobia that I developed made me especially sick at the idea of anyone ever thinking that I was a lesbian. Even worse, I felt like the homophobes in our family expected me to become a lesbian because of their bigoted ideas that gay parents "corrupt" children. I didn't want to be a lesbian because I didn't want to prove them right and I didn't want to be compared to my mother, so I fought hard against ever being interpreted that way

But now, as someone who's reconnecting with my mom on my own terms and finding out that she's changed for the better? As someone who's secure in their identity as a lesbian and grateful for the opportunities that I've had to engage with the LGBT community throughout my life? As someone who loves my mother in spite of her flaws and recognizes the struggles she faced growing up in the 1970s as the first out LGBT person in a homophobic southern family? I'm proud to be as openly gay as I am and I will not be apologetic for it

I WILL look as queer as possible at our family reunions. I WILL make you respect my girlfriend's pronouns. I WILL speak openly and honestly about the woman I love. I WILL be who I am with no compromises. And I will not engage with you if you don't accept this

My mom had to spend way too many years trying to conform to heteronormative standards for her family's acceptance. She had to hide who she was throughout her childhood, and she had to go through conversion therapy when she was outed. Even as an adult she wasn't able to present the way she wanted or speak openly about her partners. She was the first out lesbian in a family full of southern conservative christians, and she had to live through the hell that her family created for her all alone

...But I am the second out lesbian in a family that supports me for who I am. And I'm the first out nonbinary person in a family that supports me for who I am. And I openly and proudly love all the trans people in my life, who are also fully supported by my family. And there's nothing any of my conservative relatives can do about that. I'm accepted by the family that matters, and I have to be afforded the same respect as everyone else at family gatherings. The homophobes no longer have the power in this situation. I get to be who I am, and if they don't like it they have to leave. They spent decades making my mom's identity a problem for her, and now I'm going to make my identity everyone else's problem. Get with the program or die fucking mad

[fruixtii]

i fell deeply in love with your lil loser ass

oh……..my extremely charming loser nerd rizz is at it again