#literally will just bounce from a high to a low for hours

[elytrafemme]

THERAPY ACHIEVED!

[444sturns]

⋮ munchies .ᐟ - chris sturniolo x reader ⓘ heavy mentions of weed. smut. oral (f!receiving) chris being needy when he's high.

the room is dim— just the LED strips glowing a soft, moody blue that bounces off the white walls of chris’s bedroom. his speakers hum low in the corners; something by ysb tril that you can’t quite make out. you’re sitting cross-legged on his bed, back pressed against the headboard, hair a little messy and hoodie slipping off of one shoulder like you couldn’t be bothered to fix it. chris is sprawled out beside you, head tilted lazily against a pillow, just watching you with that soft little grin he gets when he’s too in love to hide it.

“could watch you do this for hours.” he mumbles, voice low and gravelly, tired from the long, draining week he’d had before. “you always look so pretty all focused like that.” 

you smirk without even looking up at him, thumbs moving slow and practiced over the pink wrap as you finish sealing the blunt, “you say that every time.”

“‘cause it’s true every time.” 

he sits up when you lick the edge of the paper, eyes zeroed in on your mouth, lips parted just slightly. the look on his face is nothing short of sinful — the lazy kind of look that creeps onto his features when he’s high or almost high, mind already halfway to wanting to pull you apart.

when you hand him the blunt, he holds it like it’s art. like he can’t believe his girl can do shit like this. “you spoil me.” 

you shrug, grinning as you nudge his thigh with your toes, “light it.” 

he doesn’t need to be told twice. the spark of the lighter flares, casting a golden glow over his features, and then there’s smoke, thick and sweet between the two of you. you pass it back and forth, legs tangled under the blanket that somehow ended up in the mix even though it was far too warm to be necessary. the world slowed down to nothing but deep inhales, quiet giggles, soft music and your hand brushing his every time you’d pass the blunt back to chris.

by the time it’s burning low, chris is leaning against your side like you’re his lifeline. his pupils are blown, mouth pink and soft, dry as fuck from the cotton mouth, tongue darting out to attempt to wet his lips every now and then. you catch him staring and you can’t help but giggle, “what’re you starin’ at?” 

he doesn’t even try to hide it. when he’s this blissed out and he can’t even think of anything but you? he never tries to hide it.

“lemme eat you out.” he states, all too blunt, literally. your breath catches in the back of your throat and there’s a pause, like the air thickens between both of you, heat curling at the base of your spine. his fingers dip beneath the blanket, skimming across the warm, bare skin of your thigh. “i mean, you’re sittin’ here lookin’ like that and i’m high as all fuck and i just wanna taste you. please?”

you don’t even try to act coy. not when he’s looking at you like that, with his hand already halfway between your thighs, there’s absolutely no point in acting. you shift, part your knees a little, and his breath hitches. 

“alright.” you murmur, “fuckin’ go for it.”

he’s on you in seconds, blanket tugged away and tossed to the edge of the bed before he’s laying in between your legs. his hands move gently, but they’re eager, one pushing your hoodie up while the other pulls your panties down your legs with skilled fingers. his lips work soft kisses against your inner thighs, slow and hot, breathing you in like he needs you more than air in his lungs. 

his lips stop just when they reach your already sensitive clit, just the warmth of his breath whispering against you making you twitch. “holy fuck, look at you.” he groans, mouth hovering, “soaked already.” 

you hum, eyes heavy as you shift yourself to lay back a little more, threading your fingers into his hair, “wonder why.”

chris doesn’t say another word— just drops his mouth to your waiting cunt like he’s starving.

the first swipe of his tongue is slow, dragging from your entrance up to your clit with purpose. he moans against you, hands gripping the back of your thighs as he starts to devour you, tongue circling, lips sucking, every motion sloppy. 

he’s high and it shows— he’s messy with it, needy, groaning everytime you writhe and cry out underneath him and tug on his hair. he pulls back only once to look up at you, eyes hazy and lips slick with you and he murmurs, “y’taste so fuckin’ good, baby. could do this all night.” then, he dives right back in. he’s obsessed. 

your breathy, sweet moans mix with the music and chris swears it’s the best sound he’s ever fucking heard in his entire life. you buck your hips up and his grip on your thighs tighten, just to make sure he can get his tongue right where he knows you need him. his tongue flattens against your clit, rolling and flicking rhythmically with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch in your throat. 

“fuck, chris,” you whimper, thighs trembling and threatening to clench around his head, and he groans in response, pulling you closer. he ruts his hips against the mattress for any sense of relief to the rock hard ache in his sweats. all he can think about is how good you taste, how pretty you sound, and fuck, he swears you taste like the sweetest candy he’s ever had. 

you cum with your fingers clenched around his brunette locks, your grip like a vice, hips sputtering, broken moans falling shamelessly from your lips. “fu-uck, chris!” you all but yelp, pleasure mixing with overstimulation in a fast blur. chris doesn’t stop — not until you’re pushing him back by the top of his head, far too sensitive and breathless. 

when he finally pulls back, mouth and chin shiny, he looks up at you like you just gave him the universe. 

“you good?” he asks, voice hoarse and eyes so full of awe that it makes you laugh. 

you nod slowly, dazed and spent, “you’re fucking insane.”  chris grins, that stupid, goofy, high grin he had from before, while he climbs up to hover over you. his mouth crashes against yours without hesitation, letting you taste yourself on his lips, “yeah?” he whispers, all too proud, “can’t help it that good weed gives me the fuckin’ munchies, kid.”

© 444sturns

taglist! ￤ഒ·°,

@zenithsturniolo @chrissbows @sturnsrecord @courta13 @sturns-mermaid @ifwdominicfike @moond0llie @bambisturns @madie4sturns @that1fangirll @conspiracy-ash

[twiishaa]

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋‎♪ kuroo x reader ; wc approx 500 warnings spoilers if you haven't watched haikyuu dumpster battle !! i fear kuroo is ooc here ,, also my writing warning pls i literally cringed at myself multiple times through this

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 AFTER the match with karasuno came to its end and everyone had cooled down in the hotel, you, kai, yaku and kuroo were chatting into the late hours of the night about your memories in the club. it was a hard pill to swallow, that the match that had just been played out against karasuno was the last match you’d get to watch from the bench, the last time youd see the current nekoma team, as they are now, on the court. 

the others had gone to sleep; it was just the third years left lingering in the lounge, reminiscing about your three years spent here. you had been with the team since your first days at the high school– a confused first year you had accidentally run into the volleyball gym instead of the music rooms, but you stayed; one year became two, and two quickly became three. as their manager, you’d seen them through their highs and lows— the calculated wins and the sweltering summer heat. you were there for every moment, experiencing it like part of the team itself, part of the blood in their veins. all the memories flowed like water and had accumulated over the three years; and now, you were standing underneath the waterfall, soaked through. half of you was still left in the tokyo metropolitan gym, still watching in disbelief as the ball dropped and bounced off. it felt surreal— it probably hadn’t yet sunk in for some of the team yet— it’d hit them tomorrow, after the adrenaline wore off. 

you’d only gotten with kuroo, the captain now, in your second year, when you two accidentally applied for the same part-time job. you two, and the third years, now were practically inseparable.

“-and remember the time last year kenma and yamamoto were fighting?” yaku said, barely able to contain giggles. the four of you burst into laughter. 

“and fukunaga threw water on them!! oh my god,” you said, in between laughing fits. 

“we ended up staying late to mop it up,” kai added. kuroo sniggered at kai’s comment. 

despite the darkness outside and the late hour it was, inside the room was bright. the door was hastily shut to not disturb the rest of the team, but still left slightly ajar. it was only at least an hour later, when yaku and kai went off to sleep, leaving you and kuroo downstairs, still chatting. 

“i just wonder…” kuroo started, uncharacteristically melancholy.

“if i could’ve done anything better, if there was something i should’ve done to win, you know?” he hid his face in his hands. your eyes widened a little, they started to sting with tears. softly, you shifted closer towards him on the sofa. 

“you did your best. you had fun right? that’s all that matters, the results are just a byproduct.” barely a whisper, you tried to comfort him. it felt strange, you weren’t used to seeing him like this. 

kuroo chuckled a little. “hey, that sounds familliar. has someone said that before?” 

“it’s just a popular phrase, i guess,” you caught his laughter. 

kuroo looked up at you, his eyes glossy and unwavering, but still soft. 

“we did well, right?” he asked, his tone breathy and raw. 

wrapping your arms around him, you replied. 

“i’ve never been more proud of you, tetsu. i’ve been blessed with having been able to watch you guys for this long, and for having you by my side.” 

note first time writing for kuroo... gulp Σ(°ロ°) also most of this is descrition but like... kinda bad description HAHA

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ like what you read? here’s the masterlist! ٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶

[romanoffsbish]

Double the Trouble

Yelena Belova x F!R (Platonic / Focus)

Natasha x F!R / Wanda x Yelena (Romantic)

Warnings: Drugs (Weed) | Alcohol Referenced

When your girls are off to save the day, you and Yelena have plans to stay and play. | WC: 1,852

Behave; this is what your girlfriends said when they left for their mission this morning, it was offensive and truth be told, only likely to warrant the opposite.

Who were they to tell you what you and Yelena should do? They being Wanda and Natasha, who lived their life off of some moral code, whereas you two didn't.

Quite the contrary really, at your cores you two were on the right side but you both also craved mischief.

To behave is to concede, and you two were far too stubborn to; to see their intentions weren't malicious.

——

Which is why neither of you listened to your lover.

There was a distinct odor to the room, bouncing off the cement walls of your garage that was decorated to look like a lounge. In one corner sat a record player that currently spun a random vinyl of Natasha's to fill the otherwise quiet space. An unlikely find when the both of you were usually in the same room together, but you were rather preoccupied and the blonde was irritated.

"Cyka," Yelena groaned, "stop hogging the blunt!"

You smirked around the damp filter, rolled your eyes then continued on, sucking on the burning stick until the smoke circling your chest sufficed you enough to allow Yelena a turn. "I am not giving this back."

"Whatever," you chuckled as you pulled another joint from the pile you'd spent an entire hour rolling. To be honest there was no reason to share the blunt, but in your sober state you'd deemed it the cautious play.

Now though, with the weed already infiltrating your mind you decided to throw all caution to the wind and sparked up another in mere seconds of losing the last.

The lack of conversation was no longer a concern, the tense atmosphere gone as you both settled into your highs... "Do you think babies can understand us?"

You snorted harshly, nearly choking on the inhale you just took in but you somehow managed to turn the cough into a burning sensation instead. "What?!"

"Listen to me Y/N Y/L/N!" Yelena pointlessly shouted, your attention was already on her. "What if when we are born we have the ability to just understand? Like, maybe our soul is still attached to our old lives?"

You hummed, "interesting," then took a final hit before putting the nearly finished blunt out so you could shift to face the blonde, with the amusingly low tolerance.

Yelena pouted, her signature expression. "What?"

"Oh, it's nothing serious Lena, it's just—I didn't really peg you for the type to believe in reincarnation."

"I don't fully," she replied with furrowed brows, and pursed lips, "I think old souls live in us momentarily before they leave to their afterlife. Leaving only a small part of themselves behind so we can be individuals."

You nodded, though you didn't quite see it the same.

"I think the ones that look like old people understand us—like, a two month old fella with hella wrinkles."

Yelena cackled, "Oh no, those babies are so ugly!"

You slapped her shoulder that had jerked off the couch with just how intensely her amusement had flowed.

"Hey, they need time to grow into their features!" You shook your head, "You can't call a baby ugly, asshole!"

"I did," Yelena flatly replied as she took another drag, smoke following her next words, "and I always will."

You looked at her astonished and she shrugged her shoulders. "What? You Americans need to face the cold hard truth, not everyone thinks your living, breathing potato looks cute. Some babies are ugly, it is simple."

You huffed, "but they're just babies, you can't—."

"Why can you call adults ugly?" Yelena cut you off.

"I don't," you groaned and she laughed, "Y/N, you literally told Bruce he was uglier than a pile of shit."

"That's different," you whined, "he flirted with Nat."

"Potato, po-tato, either way babies can be ugly."

"But-."

"Move on, I have more thoughts to explore."

"Are they all offensive?"

Yelena smirked. "Oh, most definitely..."

"Then I'll need another one of these," you concluded, one hand rubbed at your temples while the other reached for a packed joint. "Give me one too, cyka."

You passed the blonde another one then moved off of your bean bag so that you could lay on the furry rug. A shiver ran down your spine as the cold material rubbed against your bare arms where goosebumps rose. You giggled as you released a cloud of smoke and peered up at your pouting best friend. "Why so glum, chum?"

Another giggle left you as she grunted and dropped to sit down beside you, her legs crossed over one another. A rough hand gently caressed your cheek but you knew better than to trust the moment to remain sweet. In less than a seconds time she squished your cheeks and laughed maniacally as you struggled in her grasp.

"I hate you," you spat, words slurred as she hadn't let go yet. Once she did you continued to bitterly rant on, tone full of faux resentment, "I don't know why I even put up with you Belova. Wanda must be a saint."

"Because my bud is premium," she deadpanned, then her lips upturned softly. "And I'm your best friend."

You grinned then sighed, reluctant to admit, "You are."

"Come on," she shook your shoulders as she jumped to her feet. "We cannot let the weed slumber kick in yet!"

Reluctantly, you stood to your feet and wobbled over to the blonde who was stood waiting by your foldable table. Just like every time before you faced her and settled your elbow down on your side of the table.

"I am tired," you grumbled but the blonde didn't care. Her jacket was shrugged off and her hand linked with yours. "We have to be stronger than the weed loser."

"But why?" You exasperated, hand slamming hers into the table in the heat of the moment. "Oh my god!!!"

"No," Yelena immediately negated, "I wasn't ready."

"I don't care," you squealed and did a lap around the couch to release your excitement. "I finally won!"

Yelena shook her head, afraid of what you were about to say. "I get to pick your wedding entry song!!!"

"No," she growled, knowing damn well what this likely entailed. Your love for jokes superseded your loyalty.

A fight ensued as you turned the record player off and spoke, "Hey Siri, play my Yelena's entrance playlist."

"Y/N, I swear to god," she groaned, her arm swung out to swat your phone from your hand as a universally familiar tune played—clown music, how funny; not.

Yelena chased a giggling you around the room for several minutes before you started to slow down. Giving her the perfect opportunity to tackle you onto the same carpet she forced you to vacate earlier.

"Say sike right now or I will do it," Yelena threatened, her hands par curled beside your sides, you gulped knowing exactly how ruthless of a tickler she was.

"Hey siri," you squeaked, "play Lena's wedding song."

Yelena's eyes widened as she recognized the familiar tune of her favorite song, American Pie, but it was not the exact same. Instead it was void of the usual lyrics, slowed down on a piano alone and pitched upwards.

It brought tears to the blonde's eyes and she dropped to the floor beside you with a warm smile. "I hate you."

"I hate you too," you yawned, lips smacking almost dramatically as the cotton mouth hit you full force.

In contrast to the both of your baseless words you didn't let go of the blonde, you actually only held on tighter and she cuddled up to you as well, as sleep consumed the both of your drugged up minds entirely.

—

On a bed, only a city over sat your fiancé with a hand on her stomach as she came down from her laughter. Wanda was on the bed beside hers in a similar state.

"Do you think she'll call our baby ugly?"

Natasha smirked. "Oh, most definitely..."

"Shut up," the witch groaned then averted her gaze back to the screen where the tomfoolery took place.

"Do you think they'll be mad when they find out?"

Natasha blinked away her tears of amusement and shrugged, this was truly their favorite past time. Every month, without fail, the women announce an overnight mission knowing you and Yelena would use that time to unwind together with your favorite substances.

Most of the time you two smoked weed, but on the rare occasion, her birthday, Yelena could convince you to down a bottle or two of pure vodka. Those times were usually under semi-supervision though. The one time Natasha or Wanda didn't they found the both of you passed out on the rooftop in clothes bigger than you.

No explanations were given, and quite frankly they preferred not knowing. Fortunately weed slowed the two of you down more than anything, so for a few hours they'd get endless laughs before you succumbed to the glorious sleep that always follows a dank sesh.

"Honestly, I think they know us enough to expect this. Y/N's even hinted to me that she knows, but this is harmless and helpful since they respect us too much to engage in their nefarious activities when we are there."

Wanda smiled, feeling more confident as she settled back into the plush pillow that lined the hotel bed. It was foreign to her to experience such comfort when Yelena insisted on hogging the pillows so that the witch had no other choice but to use her chest as a cushion.

Normal partners just ask to cuddle, but Yelena says, "I'm pretty sure I have scoliosis, I need them," and yanks the brunette into her embrace without fail.

With the two of you in your weed induced slumber the witch found herself near the same outcome. Then as if annoying others ran in the family, Natasha spoke tension into the peaceful air, "But since you lost our bet, and will be playing these clips at your wedding reception next month Lena will most definitely make you sleep on the hotel couch on your honeymoon."

"I hate you," Wanda groaned and threw her pillow at the smirking redhead who caught it with ease. "And yet you're signing on for a life of being my sister in law."

Natasha winked then laid the witches pillow beneath her head, "thanks for the extra cushion, I needed it."

Wanda fell back on her mattress with a sigh, "Cyka." Then a soft smile followed as she felt warmth in her chest at the reminder that she had a family, again.

Natasha flipped her off, but as she laid on her side with her phone propped on the stolen pillow she smiled just the same. Yelena was cuddled into your side and you unconsciously held her with such care that it made the redhead thankful as she reminisced your relationship.

This was all she ever wanted, her little found family.

[noorpersona]

Dry humping meian shugo 😈

Literally say less

--

Anon Asks: Meian (NSFW)

He was supposed to be working.

Head down, glasses sliding low on his nose, fingers tapping against the keyboard with focused precision. The glow from his laptop screen bathed him in blue light, casting shadows over the sharp line of his jaw, the furrow of his brow. His hair was slightly tousled from running his hands through it, tension in his shoulders from hours of sitting still. He hadn't said a word in over an hour, only the steady clack of his keys filling the quiet room.

And you couldn’t stop staring.

You’d tried to behave. Really, you had. But every time he shifted in his seat or exhaled through his nose in that sharp, focused way, it made heat curl low in your belly. You watched the way the muscles in his arms flexed with every movement, how his thigh bounced occasionally under the desk, thick and strong where it stretched the fabric of his joggers.

He was so close. So focused. So completely unaware of how much you were squirming on the couch across from him.

You padded over quietly, slipping behind him with a slow smile.

“Baby,” you whispered, hands gently landing on his shoulders.

He didn’t look away from the screen. “Working, sweetheart.”

You hummed, bending down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the side of his neck. “Thought I could help you relax.”

“You relaxing usually ends with me not getting anything done,” he muttered, though his voice had already dipped a little lower.

“Then you better finish fast,” you teased, sliding your hands down his chest.

Before he could argue, you climbed into his lap, straddling one of his thighs. You didn’t straddle him fully—just perched on the broad muscle of one leg, your arms wrapping loosely around his neck. His fingers paused above the keyboard as your weight settled over him.

“You're distracting,” he said flatly, but his hands found your waist anyway.

You leaned in and kissed him—soft and slow at first, lips brushing his with teasing patience until he tilted his head and deepened it. His tongue slid along yours, slow and claiming. You whined into the kiss, rocking your hips forward just slightly, testing.

The pressure was perfect.

Your thin shorts did nothing to hide how wet you already were. You could feel the fabric of his joggers rough against you in the best way, feel the strength in his leg as it tensed under your movement.

You rolled your hips again. His hands tightened on your waist.

“That needy, huh?” he murmured, breath hot against your lips.

You nodded, eyes glassy. “Please, Shugo.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw clenching. Then—

“Ride it. Go ahead. Take what you need.”

Your breath caught.

You started moving, slow at first, dragging your core along the firm curve of his thigh. The pressure, the heat, the drag of your slick fabric against the muscle he kept deliberately flexing—it sent shivers shooting up your spine. Meian tensed his thigh even harder, locking it in place, and you nearly cried out.

“There you go,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “You feel that? All for you, baby.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you rocked harder, faster, the friction building with every shift of your hips. You couldn't stop the sounds leaving your throat—little whimpers and gasps, punctuated by desperate moans every time he tensed his leg and gave you just a little more.

“Fuck,” you gasped, forehead pressing against his. “I’m gonna—Shugo, I’m…”

“Then do it,” he growled. “Make a mess on my thigh. Let me feel how much you want it.”

It snapped something in you.

You came with a high, breathy cry, body seizing up as pleasure exploded through your nerves. You rode it out, grinding helplessly through the aftershocks, fingers clutching at his shirt like you were afraid to let go.

He held you there, solid and unmoving, breathing heavy as he watched you fall apart.

But even as your body sagged against him, spent and shaking, you felt the tension still coiled in his muscles.

You felt the hard line of him pressing into your hip.

And then his hands were gripping your ass, pulling you against him with a growl.

“You think we’re done?” he muttered, low and dark.

He stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms as your legs wrapped weakly around his waist.

“I let you come once. That was me being patient,” he said, mouth brushing your ear. “Now it's my turn.”

[starry-eyed-wild-child]

🤍 clyde boyfriend headcanons 🤍

clyde x reader

a/n: these have been a longgg time coming, been so busy recently and trying to get back into writing. hope y'all enjoy 💕

. such an absolute sweetheart, the best boyfriend and practically husband material. made a post awhile back about clyde being the PERFECT "indie" boyfriend and I stand by this

. loves, loves, loves an artistic and creative girl - one who loves to paint or whatever, and is an absolute sucker for getting little handmade gifts. WILL stick your drawings to the fridge and that's that on that

. definitely a bit dyslexic and that's canon. like, borderline can't read but it's adorable - yet will still watch movies with subtitles on

. is an absolute caffeine addict - starts his day with about three mugs of coffee and drinks about three redbulls a day

. also headcanon that clyde LOVES sweet tea - specifically peach or lemon and so asks you to buy bottles and bottles of it

. late night drives and sitting in parks to watch sunsets because this boy is an absolute hopeless romantic

. loves jigsaw puzzles - date nights are literally just eating pizza with music on as you spend the entire night doing puzzles

. I got sent an anon ask a while back that said when clyde is being grumpy he turns off his hearing aid 💀 as someone who does that, can confirm that clyde definitely does

. is such a golden retriever boyfriend fr - like, forehead kisses and wakes up early just to make you breakfast type vibes

. HOWEVER, clyde can't cook if it was the last thing on earth that would save his life - this boy would find a way to burn cereal, oh my goodness

. very brazil by declan mckenna vibes

. y'all know what it is, nsfw underneath the cut

. oh, is the biggest giver of givers - will, and has, spend hours and hours between your legs until his face is covered, his eyes are glazed and you're practically passing out

. would say his favourite positions are probably reverse cowgirl or missionary, really depends on the mood

. will have you bouncing on his lap as he takes hit after hit from a joint, one hand lazily holding your hip to help you, DEAR LORD

. I'd say that clyde is a switch but leans more towards being a sub - he just loves watching you do your thing

. music on while having sex is a MUST - clyde's got a playlist consisting of hundreds of songs that he's put together just for those moments

. loves, loves, LOVES mutual masturbation and making you watch yourself in front of a mirror hehe

. isn't overly vocal but he likes to let you know that you're making him feel good - usually a little high pitched whine when he's about to cum, or low groans when he first slips inside WHOOPS

. isn't really super kinky either, he's more into the intimacy side of things - HOWEVER, clyde is a secret sucker for roleplay

. like I said, absolute boyfriend material and definitely pushing husband status and if you disagree did we even watch the same movie?! solid 9.5/10

[luna-thecreator]

Chapter 1

Any Questions Ask Here

Paring: Roman Reigns x Black!Fem!Reader x Jey Uso Chapter 1 Plot: A glamorous night turns into something far more unforgettable for you and your best friend Rue. What starts as sneaking into a high-profile gala quickly spirals into unexpected attention, high stakes, and one very unexpected invitation.  Word Count: 3.7k Content Warning!!!!: Bite is a psychological thriller that explores the abuse of power. It includes mature themes and contains depictions of violence, including sexual violence. Chapter 1 Tags: 18+, Plot Twist, slow burn, Mysterious MMC, Secrets unfold, Celebrity AU (Outside of WWE), Fictional World. A/N: Hey babes! Just a heads-up—this story is inspired by the movie Blink Twice. Jey's scenes won't really kick in until Chapter 2, so hang tight and enjoy the buildup. Have fun reading! 💋✨

You and Rue had been hyped all day, literally counting down the minutes until your shift finally ended. Both of you were chefs—like, not just your average cooks, but the ones running the kitchen for those huge, fancy events where everyone’s dressed to the nines and the pressure’s always sky-high. After hours of slinging plates and dodging drama, you knew tonight was gonna be different.

Because tonight? You were about to sneak into the event — the one everyone whispered about but only a few ever got close to. Roman Reigns and his bloodline—Jimmy, Jey, Solo, Paul, and Sami—were throwing a celebration, and it wasn’t just any party. Nah, it was major. In their culture, this wasn’t just some random get-together; it was a tradition, a huge deal. Like, family legacy level, where respect and loyalty are everything, and everyone’s tied together by that unbreakable bloodline energy.

You and Rue had your secret plan locked down. As soon as your last plates were cleared, you’d bounce out the back, slip past the velvet ropes, and slide into the celebration like you owned the place. The excitement was unreal—your heart pounding like a bass drop, your mind racing with all the possibilities. You knew this night would be lit, filled with moments you’d never forget.

And honestly? Being part of something so real, so deep-rooted, felt like you were stepping into your own story — a moment where culture, family, and respect all collided in one unforgettable night. You and Rue weren’t just crashing a party. You were stepping into a legacy.

“Y/N, we’re still waiting on the palusami—what the hell is taking so long?” your boss snapped, storming over to your station with that all-too-familiar look of panic on his face. His voice cut through the noise of the kitchen, and a few heads even turned.

What he didn’t realize? You were way ahead of him.

You’d already laid down that first layer of spinach leaves, sprinkled the corned beef just right, then repeated it again—spinach, corned beef, careful hands, focused mind. You’d poured in both cans of coconut milk like a pro, letting it soak into every layer, and sealed the dish tight with foil before sliding it into the oven. It was practically singing in there now, just five more minutes away from perfection.

You wiped your hands on your apron and turned, calm but firm. “Just five more minutes, Chef. It’ll be out and ready—”

He didn’t even let you finish.

“This is the Anoa’i Gala, Y/N. The Anoa’i Gala. The most important event of the year,” he said, low and intense, like you needed reminding. “You can’t afford to slack off like you did last year. I need you focused. On point. Do not disappoint me tonight.”

You blinked, jaw tightening slightly. Your fingers curled under the edge of the prep counter. You wanted to clap back, just a little—maybe remind him that you’ve been killing it all day, that the palusami was literally already in the oven—but you swallowed it down. This event was huge. Roman Reigns and his entire bloodline didn’t show up for just anything.

You gave a short nod. “Yes, Chef.”

Because tonight wasn’t just about good food. It was about showing up, being seen, and proving that you belonged in a room full of legends.

The gala was nothing short of stunning—draped in crisp white linens with rich red accents woven through every detail. White roses spilled from tall centerpieces like waterfalls, and gold-rimmed glasses glittered under warm, golden lighting that made every guest glow. It felt like stepping into a dream—one that was expensive, exclusive, and laced with legacy.

The atmosphere was thick with pride and power, a quiet buzz of conversations layered over the soft music echoing from the string quartet near the front. Everyone looked like they’d walked out of a magazine shoot—flawless makeup, suits, heels clicking across marble floors. Even the waitstaff had been told to keep their backs straight, voices low, and movements polished.

You moved carefully between tables, your black serving attire blending you into the background—right where you needed to be. As you topped off another glass of champagne, your eyes flicked to the stage.

Paul Heyman had stepped up to the mic, adjusting it with that slick, practiced ease like he was born to command rooms like this.

“Let’s get serious, people,” he began, voice low and smooth, cutting through the soft murmurs. “I want to take a moment to thank everyone for being here tonight. Not just for showing up—but for what you’re showing up for.”

You slowed your pace, bottle in hand, tuning in fully now.

“We’re not just here to celebrate,” Paul continued, his eyes scanning the crowd like he was weighing every soul in the room. “We’re here to honor something bigger. This family. This legacy. So that the Bloodline can continue to rise. Continue to be great.”

People nodded, murmured agreements. You could feel it—the weight of something sacred in the air.

“And none of this, none of this”—he gestured broadly around the room—“would be possible without the one man who holds us together. The one man who leads, protects, and reigns.”

The crowd was already stirring, some standing, glasses lifted in quiet anticipation.

“I want a round of applause for the one and only—the Head of the Table, our Tribal Chief—Roman Reigns.”

Applause broke out instantly, filling the room like a wave. You glanced up just in time to catch the back of him—Roman—standing still among the sea of movement. His hand lifted subtly at Paul’s words, a simple gesture, but it said everything. I hear you. I accept it.

His black suit was cut sharp, shoulders squared, his presence enough to hush a room even without speaking. And from where you stood, champagne bottle poised mid-air, you couldn’t look away.

Something about him—the quiet control, the history written into his name—commanded attention without ever asking for it.

You blinked, snapped back into the moment by the feel of condensation slipping from the neck of the bottle onto your fingers. A guest cleared their throat gently, waiting for their glass to be filled.

You gave a small, polite nod, but your eyes drifted back—just once more—toward Roman.

After your shift finally wrapped, you made a beeline for the back hallway, slipping into the break room where the locker buzz had already died down. Your feet were aching, hair slightly frizzed from the heat of the kitchen, but none of that mattered now. You swung open your locker, already grinning to yourself—because the real night was just beginning.

Rue popped in a second later, moving like a woman on a mission, eyes wide with adrenaline. She looked around to make sure no one else was lingering, then leaned in close with a smirk.

“Bitch... you ready?” she whispered like it was a secret only you two were allowed to share.

Without missing a beat, you turned toward her and pulled out a folded bundle from the top shelf—two sleek dresses, one for each of you, and a well-loved makeup bag bursting at the seams.

“Bitch, I came ready,” you said, flashing her a grin that matched the electric buzz in your chest.

Rue gasped like you’d just pulled a magic trick, snatching her dress like it was a lifeline. You both burst into soft laughter, hearts racing, then took off down the hallway, heels in hand and adrenaline in your step.

The bathroom door slammed behind you, and just like that, the transformation began. Aprons and kitchen sweat traded for lashes and lip gloss, hair let down, curls fluffed, eyes lined with sharp precision. In that cramped little bathroom, under flickering fluorescent lights, you and Rue were about to turn into entirely different women.

And tonight?

You had every intention of being unforgettable.

Your heels clinked sharply against the marble floor, echoing just enough to make heads turn as you made your entrance, arm locked tightly with Rue’s. The two of you moved like you belonged there—like the night had been waiting on your arrival.

You were wrapped in a silky red dress that melted against your curves like it had been sewn onto you. The slit hit just high enough to tease, and the fabric shimmered with every step you took under the gala lights. Rue matched your energy effortlessly, rocking the same design in pure white, the contrast between you two loud and intentional. Fire and ice. Trouble and elegance.

Your heels—sparkling with fake diamonds—caught the light like they were worth something real, even if they came from the clearance rack. They did the job. They looked the part. That was all that mattered.

But elegance came at a price.

You hit one slick patch of flooring and immediately wobbled, your ankle tilting like a baby deer learning to walk in stilettos.

“Whoa—be careful,” Rue hissed under her breath, catching your arm and steadying you with a grip that was way too calm for the situation.

You nearly broke into laughter, but she kept you grounded, whispering close to your ear like she was training you for a runway.

“Remember—right, left, right, left,” she said, then exaggerated her steps, swaying her hips as she dramatically walked from right to left like she was giving a lesson on fierce.

You mirrored her pace with a grin, locking back in.

“Shit—Jessica,” Rue hissed under her breath, grabbing your arm.

Your heads snapped down like clockwork, hands flying up to shield your faces as you both shuffled past her. Jessica, another chef from the back kitchen, stood near the bar with a drink in hand, looking just a little too comfortable for someone who was supposed to be off-duty like y’all. If she clocked you two in full glam, dressed like you belonged to the guest list instead of the staff roster… it was over.

“Act natural,” Rue muttered, lips barely moving.

But all your fake confidence came to a halt the second your eyes landed on him.

Roman Reigns.

He stood right in the center of the floor like gravity worked differently around him. Dressed in white with a hint of deep crimson at the collar, broad shoulders squared, he was laughing low with his cousins like the whole room bent itself around their little circle of power.

And just like that, it hit you—this wasn’t nerves. It was pull. Like something magnetic.

Your body started moving before your brain could catch up.

One step. Then another. Then faster.

Faster.

The silk of your dress swayed like it knew where you were headed.

You couldn’t hear Rue calling your name anymore. All you could hear was the rush in your ears. Roman’s laugh. The beat of the music somewhere behind you.

And then—

Your heel snagged.

Your ankle rolled.

And your whole body tilted forward in a slow, almost cinematic fall.

The last thing you saw before your hands went out to catch yourself was Roman Reigns turning toward the sound of your stumble.

Of course he would. Because if the universe had any kind of sense of humor—it would make him the witness.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

The voice was deep. Rich. The kind that settled in your chest before you even registered what was said.

You blinked, dazed for a second, your hands still planted against the cold floor. Your eyes followed the sound upward—black leather dress shoes, polished to perfection… tailored black slacks that didn’t dare wrinkle… a fitted tux that hugged every inch of muscle like it was stitched by the gods themselves.

And then—him.

Roman Reigns.

He was towering over you, hand extended, brows slightly furrowed in concern. And that smile—God, that smile—it wasn’t just breathtaking. It knocked the breath clean out of your lungs. Effortless. Charming. Dangerous.

Your fingers slid into his palm, and he pulled you up like you weighed nothing. You barely found your footing before you felt it—a wobble. You looked down, and there it was: the heel on your right shoe had completely snapped off in the fall. Of course it had.

“Damn,” you muttered under your breath, about to tug the broken shoe off—but before you could, Roman knelt down. Just dropped to one knee like it was second nature.

“Let me see,” he said gently.

You froze. His large hands wrapped around your ankle with unexpected care, fingers warm against your skin. And with one clean motion, he reached for your other foot and snapped off the second heel like it was nothing more than a twig.

He looked up at you then, eyes locked on yours, the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That should help.”

And for a moment, you forgot where you were. Forgot the gala. Forgot Rue. Forgot you weren’t supposed to be here.

Because all you could think about was the fact that Roman Reigns was holding your foot like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And somehow, that felt more dangerous than the fall.

“My Tribal Chief!”

Paul’s voice rang out across the gala like it had weight—like it meant something. And apparently, it did.

Roman turned his head at the sound, eyes locking on Paul Heyman, who was already moving toward him with urgency in his stride and reverence in his tone.

“Wiseman,” Roman replied, nodding once as they met in the middle.

But then—Roman turned right back around.

Back toward you.

He came strolling over with Paul beside him like this was the most casual thing in the world, as if your entire universe hadn’t just flipped upside down.

“She’s with me,” Roman said, looking straight at one of the coordinators who had started to side-eye your dress like you didn’t belong.

Then he turned to you, brow raised just slightly. “Didn’t ask your name.”

You blinked, the question snapping you back into reality. “Y/N,” you said quickly, voice a little breathless.

Roman repeated it under his breath—Y/N—like he needed to hear how it tasted before deciding if he liked it. A small smirk curled at his lips. He liked it.

“This is Paul,” he said, nodding toward the older man beside him. “My Wiseman.”

Paul gave you a charming little smile, already extending his hand like a gentleman. “Very nice to meet you,” he said.

You shook it, keeping it polite despite the butterflies in your stomach. “Likewise,” you replied, trying to sound like your knees weren’t still weak from Roman snapping off your heel like Prince Charming with a twist.

After a few more laughs shared between the three of you—mostly Paul making quiet little jabs that made Roman chuckle under his breath—Paul eventually gave you a wink and stepped away to tend to something else.

Roman stepped back into your space like he belonged there, eyes scanning you from head to toe again before reaching his hand out.

“Come on,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers slid into his palm, and just like that, you were moving through the crowd beside him, the floor gliding under your broken heels like it had softened just for you.

As you passed the crowd, your eyes caught Rue in the distance.

She was beaming.

You tried to keep it cool, but that inner scream slipped out of your face just a little—you hit her with the look. That yas bitch face. Lips pursed, brows raised, like girl, can you even believe this is happening right now?

Rue did a little fist pump, mouthing “period.”

A few sips of champagne deep and glowing with that post-heels-snapped-by-Roman energy, you and Rue trailed just behind him through the crowd like you belonged there—which, at this point, kind of felt like you did.

“Rue, Y/N,” Roman said smoothly over his shoulder, motioning ahead, “this is my cousin Solo.”

Solo stood tall and serious in a sleek black suit paired with a bold red tie, giving quiet power. Roman patted his back as he passed, and Solo gave the two of you a small nod—stoic, but respectful.

You and Rue exchanged a look, then giggled behind your flutes of champagne.

“And this is Jey,” Roman said next, wrapping an arm around one of the twins as he walked by. “My right-hand man. One of the twins.”

Jey’s whole vibe shifted when he turned toward you. The nod he gave Roman turned into a lowkey smolder when his eyes landed on you and Rue.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, taking your hand with a firm but soft grip—thumb gently grazing over your skin like it was second nature. His eyes held yours just long enough to make your breath catch. Then he did the same to Rue.

You glanced at her and instantly knew—y’all were both fighting for your lives.

Roman kept moving, like none of that tension had just happened. “Naomi and Bianca,” he said casually as you passed two gorgeous women with matching glows and perfectly styled curls.

They waved sweetly.

You and Rue waved right back, like the polite pretty girls you were trying to be. Internally? Screaming.

Then Roman glanced around. “Where’s Big Jim at?” he called out, spotting the other twin across the floor.

Jimmy grinned and walked over, dapping Roman up like they hadn’t seen each other in months.

“Wassup, Uce,” he said, voice warm and bright. His eyes flicked over to you and Rue. “Nice to meet you ladies.”

You both smiled, still sipping champagne like it wasn’t starting to feel like a fever dream.

Roman turned toward one last person standing off to the side, someone with sleek waves and eyes that could cut glass.

“This is Rue and Y/N,” Roman said. “Ladies, this is Sasha.”

You smiled and stepped forward first. “Hi,” you offered, holding out your hand politely.

Sasha didn’t take it.

She just glanced down at your hand, unimpressed, then back up at you. Her voice was cool, her eyes unreadable.

“Cute nails,” she said, the corners of her mouth barely twitching into a smile.

You held the smile on your face like a champ, but whew—okay, girl.

Rue side-eyed you slightly like damn, not the shade, but you just took another sip of your champagne and kept it cute.

Because at this point? You were already walking through the fire.

And it was still giving.

After getting the full tour and meeting the whole crew, you and Rue somehow ended up at the table. Their table. The Bloodline. You were sitting right in the middle of it all, champagne glass in hand, surrounded by laughter, side-eyes, and wild stories that had everyone hollering.

Rue was already two giggles away from tears, bouncing off something Jimmy said, while Jey kept leaning in with these low jokes that had her clutching her chest. You were smiling, laughing, soaking it in—but the whole time, you could feel it.

Roman.

He sat across from you, but his energy? All over you. Every time you looked up, his eyes were already there, watching you like you were dessert and he’d skipped the entrée. There was something about the way he looked at you—like he knew something you didn’t, like the room was full of people but he only saw you.

You pretended not to notice.

You failed at pretending not to notice.

Then—cue the interruption.

“Sorry to interrupt…” a voice rang out politely but firmly.

You turned your head to see Stephanie McMahon walking up to the table with a clipboard in hand and that executive posture like she could shut this whole place down with one look.

Roman didn’t blink.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t even glance at her. His eyes? Still glued to you.

“Stephanie, Y/N. Y/N, Stephanie,” he said casually, like y’all were just two girls meeting at brunch.

Stephanie blinked at you for a moment, her expression unreadable. “Oh… hi? Nice to… see you,” she said, voice trailing into awkward air. Then her eyes flicked back to Roman with a pointedness that screamed business.

“Mr. Reigns, I know…” she started, hesitating as she glanced at the table, clearly trying to keep things cute. “But you should… wrap it up,” she added, making a little circling motion with her hand like this was all running on borrowed time.

Roman gave her a slow, deliberate nod, not even looking phased. “Got it.”

And just like that, Stephanie dipped out, heels clicking, clipboard swinging.

Roman finally looked away from you—for half a second—then leaned back, sipping his drink like time wasn’t real.

Rue leaned over with a grin, whispering behind her glass, “girl… what is going on right now?”

You just stared at Roman across the table, his gaze already back on you.

“Gotta be somewhere important?” you asked, watching him slide his suit jacket over one arm, still looking way too good for someone who said he was leaving.

Roman glanced at you, calm as ever. “Going to my island for a couple of days.”

You blinked, a little caught off guard. “Oh… got your own island,” you said, trying to play it cool but internally screaming.

He didn’t miss a beat. “The Island of Relevancy,” he corrected, smirking.

Of course. Of course it was.

He stepped back slightly, looking at you one last time with that unreadable expression that made your stomach flip. “It was nice to meet you, Y/N.”

The way he said your name made it sound heavier. Like a secret.

Then he gave you one final smirk, turned, and started to walk away, slow and smooth. Like a movie character walking off into the next scene.

Rue popped up in the empty space he left behind, eyes wide as hell. “You saw that? He was literally staring—at me,” you whispered-shrieked.

Rue stared at you, deadpan. “Girl, after all that—”

But her sentence was cut off by the soft, expensive tap of dress shoes returning.

You turned, and sure enough—there he was again. Roman. Back. Hands in his pockets, brows raised just a little, like he wasn’t used to second-guessing himself but was about to do it anyway.

“Hey, uh…” he started, glancing between the two of you. “Don’t wanna sound too forward or anything but… y’all wanna come?”

You didn’t even think.

“Yes,” you blurted, too fast.

Rue was right behind you with, “Hell yes.”

Roman gave a little nod, lips curling into something between amused and intrigued.

You definitely weren’t expecting this. But here you were.

And suddenly? The night wasn’t even the wildest part of the story anymore.

It was just the beginning.

Chapter 2 - In progress

🏷️ @skyesthebomb @morgshope @fearlesschimera

[katsu28]

Steve and hugging from behind would be so cute 🥺

anything for u my dear nova <33 the hugging from behind part is literally just a speck in all this fluff oopsie but pls enjoy

steve harrington x reader, 1.4k

There was something about Steve Harrington that made you unbelievably nervous. A good kind of nervous, of course—the kind that sent your stomach into a fluttery mess and made your fingertips tingle every time he touched you.

You shouldn’t be nervous around him, but you’d been together for three months and still found yourself fighting the urge to unabashedly stare at him whenever you spent time with each other. 

Another reason to be nervous—you were spending the night at his place for the very first time.

It wasn’t unusual for the two of you to spend a whole day together, but you always went home at the end of the night (much to Steve’s dismay). So a few hours ago when he casually suggested you just stay the night instead of leaving and coming back in the morning, you almost freaked out. 

Now you were here, standing in his bathroom fresh out of the shower, staring at yourself in the fogged up mirror and willing yourself to just be normal. It was Steve. There was nothing to worry about. 

Steve was sprawled out on his bed when you finally mustered up the courage to make your way to his room, tossing a raggedy baseball above his head and catching it.

Well, trying to catch it was a more apt description. His focus immediately shifted to you as you padded in, the ball bouncing off the mattress next to his head and nearly hitting him in the face in the process before rolling onto the floor. He scrambled to his feet, ball forgotten. 

“Hi.” He said softly, smiling at you with the brightness that rivaled the sun. You echoed his greeting, clutching at the towel around you. “Uh, here. This is for you.” He held out a well worn looking shirt, soft cotton brushing against your fingers as you took it gratefully. “I can—I’ll turn around while you get dressed.” 

“Thanks, Steve,” You mumbled, suddenly feeling shy. There were those damn nerves again. Steve turned around like he said he would, rocking back and forth on his heels while you pulled the shirt over your body. It smelled like laundry detergent and cologne and so very Steve you decided right then and there you were definitely keeping this shirt. “You can turn around now.” 

He whirled back around, letting himself take in the sight of you in his clothes. It was something straight out of a dream he’d had a few times. “You’re so pretty.” 

“You’re not so bad looking yourself.” 

Steve preened at the compliment, looking mighty pleased. He’d already changed while you were in the bathroom, clad in only a pair of old Hawkins High sweatpants slung low on his hips. 

His chestnut hair was free of product, fluffy and a little all over the place with a artful curl hanging over his brow. You had to fight the urge to brush it out of his eyes, though you suspected he probably wouldn’t have minded one bit if you did. 

“C’mere,” He murmured, stretching out an arm towards you. The look in his eyes held so much warmth, so fond and sickly sweet you wouldn’t be surprised if you’d ended up with a toothache come morning time. It spurred you forward, folding yourself into Steve’s embrace like it was second nature. Like it was where you belonged. His nose dipped into your hair and he inhaled, arms wrapping around you tight. 

“Did you just sniff me?”

“You smell really nice.” He defended meekly, cheeks turning an embarrassed pink. You kissed him to remedy it, smiling against his lips when he kissed you back immediately. His hand rubbed along your back whilst he maneuvered the two of you towards the bed without managing to break the kiss, but the need for air unfortunately won out. 

Steve pulled the covers over the two of you swiftly, settling close—but not too close, in case you liked to have your own space while you slept. 

You tucked yourself snug against his side instead, cheek pressed against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you again, and you were content there. The sound of his heartbeat hammered a million miles a minute in your ear, and it made you feel a little better knowing that he was just as nervous as you were. It actually eased your own nerves a tenfold. 

“Is this okay? Are you comfy?” Steve asked worriedly. It was cute how attentive he was. You wanted to tell him that being wrapped in his arms was one of the comfiest places in the world, but just opted for a nod, nuzzling a little closer to him in lieu of an answer. Steve still got the message loud and clear, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

It didn’t take long for either of you to fall asleep, you because of the steady rise and fall of Steve’s chest, and him because of the soothing warmth you radiated. He could fall asleep like this every night and still never get tired of it. 

-------

You were expecting Steve to be next to you when you woke up the next morning. But when you opened your eyes and rolled over to look at him, the space beside you was empty. 

He was in the kitchen when you finally found him, standing at the stove when you padded in, humming along to the song playing softly from the radio over on the other counter. His back was towards you as he poured batter into a pan on the stove. 

A sizeable stack of perfect pancakes sat on a plate beside him, with crispy edges, just the way you liked it. You wondered how he knew that, seeing as you’d never told him before. Then again, Steve always seemed to know what you liked. 

You crossed the room quiet as a mouse, sliding your arms around him once you were close enough. 

Letting out a surprised noise at the feeling of your embrace, it only took him a second to realize it was you.

“Morning, sweetheart.” He hummed, settling his free hand over your linked ones at his navel. You pressed your forehead between his shoulder blades, reveling in the warmth of his freckled skin and stayed there for a while, feeling him inhale and exhale with every breath he took. It was quite soothing. “How’d you sleep?” 

“Good. Really good.” 

“Sure sounded like it, what with the way you were snoring in my ear the whole night.” 

“I was not!” You gasped, rearing back. Steve’s body shook with laughter, and you realized he was just poking fun at you. “You’re an asshole.” 

“An asshole who’s making you breakfast right now.” He pointed out, flipping the pancake for good measure.

“True. You’ve been promoted to just a little shit then.” 

“Lucky me.” Steve snorted. “As much as I love this, you’re kinda cramping my style. I don’t wanna accidentally elbow you when I try to wow you with my triple pancake flip. Go sit at the counter and do what you do best—look pretty.” 

You obliged, but not before sighing overdramatically. “Trying to get rid of me already, Harrington?” 

“Dunno…is it working?” 

“Just for that comment, no, it isn’t working.” You huffed, propping your chin up in your hand. 

“Oh, good. Was kinda planning on keeping you around for a while.” 

“Just a while?” 

Steve shrugged without turning around. “Maybe forever.” 

You sat in silence with his words, maybe a little longer than you meant to, because Steve whirled around, brows crinkled with worry. 

“I’m sorry. Was that—that was too much, wasn’t it?” He blurted, shuffling over to where you were. “Did I just make things super weird? I didn’t mean like forever forever, I just thought it sounded smooth. Which, obviously it didn’t ‘cause—” 

Leaning over the counter, you slid your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss. This one was sweet and firm and had Steve melting faster than the pad of butter he’d placed atop the pancake stack. 

You let your forehead press against his when you pulled away. “I like forever.” 

“I do too.” He grinned, nearly going cross-eyed trying to look at you up close. He dotted another kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Y’know, I’m really enjoying the whole shutting me up with kisses thing you’ve got going on lately. I think you should keep doing it.” 

“Oh, do you?” You chuckled, sitting back down in your seat. Steve came around the counter to slide onto the stool next to you, scooting your own stool close enough to his that his knees bracketed yours. Now it was his turn to bring you in for a kiss instead of an answer. 

Forever with Steve suddenly seemed like the best idea in the world, especially if it meant you’d get to have mornings like this all the time. 

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post new fics :)

[leejenowrld]

Nipple clamps??? Girl don’t leave us hanging

(Also the vibrator in public too thanks, you’re the best)

back to you — y/n and jeno smut

you’re already spread out on the bed, wrists bound with silk to the top corners, knees parted, breath shaky. jeno kneels between your legs, cock hard and untouched, but his focus is on your chest—on the soft rise and fall of your tits, the way your nipples are already hard from the cold air and the way he’s been teasing you for what feels like hours. the clamps are delicate, silver-tipped, connected by a thin chain that glints when he lifts it.

“you sure?” he asks, even though he already knows.

your thighs twitch. your eyes flutter. “yes,” you breathe. “just—please.”

he smiles. not cruel. proud. he clips one side first, slow, letting the tension build. your back arches, the sharp pressure hitting like a jolt to your core, nipple swelling instantly as your breath stutters. then the other. your moan breaks the silence—raw, high-pitched, desperate. he doesn’t say anything at first. just watches. the chain lies softly between them, swaying slightly with each breath you take, and when he tugs it once—light, teasing—you almost cry out.

“fuck,” he murmurs, reaching down to rub slow circles over your clit with two fingers. “look at how your pussy clenches when i do that.”

your body’s already trembling. the clamps don’t hurt exactly—they ache. every movement you make pulls on them, every shift of your chest tightens the pressure. he leans in, tongue flicking over one nipple with the clamp still on, then gives the chain a slow, steady tug. you moan so loud it echoes off the walls, hips jerking up into his hand.

he doesn’t fuck you right away. he toys with you—literally. mouth on your tits, hands between your legs, sometimes both. the clamps stay on. your nipples are red, swollen, throbbing with need, and you’re soaked, dripping onto the sheets while his tongue drags across your chest like he’s worshipping the ache he gave you.

when he finally lines his cock up and pushes in, slow and thick and steady, your head tips back. the shift in your chest pulls the clamps again and your pussy clenches around him like it’s too much, too full, too good.

he fucks you slow at first. deliberate. every thrust moving the chain, every bounce of your tits dragging the clamps just enough to make your breath catch. he holds the chain in one hand as he fucks you harder, using it to pull you into every thrust, groaning, “such a good fucking toy. taking everything i give you.”

your orgasm builds sharp, fast, overstimulated and stinging, nipples aching, clit swollen, pussy tight around his cock. you’re crying by the time you cum, wrecked, gasping, your whole body twitching under him.

jeno pulls the clamps off mid-orgasm. you scream. it’s pleasure and pain and release so overwhelming your legs kick, your hands yank at the restraints, your cunt pulses so hard around his cock he nearly loses it inside you.

he cums with his head buried in your neck, cock pulsing deep inside your soaked, ruined pussy, still twitching around him as you sob through the aftershocks. he kisses your tits after. softly. tenderly. whispering, “you did so good. gonna ice them for you, okay?” he means it. but he licks them one more time first.

the gala is cold in the way all rich events are—perfect lighting, polished marble floors, and people who smile without warmth. strings play low from the far corner of the ballroom, and the crowd moves in slow, expensive circles. you wear navy, floor-length, slitted high on one thigh with a neckline too delicate to be trusted. jeno hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you walk in.

he looks unfairly good—tux sharp, hair pushed back, tie loose like he’s already ruined something. he stands with his hand on your lower back, guiding you through conversation after conversation with professors, donors, rival players, anyone who could matter, and all the while he whispers soft, indulgent things into your ear that don’t match the tone of the evening at all. things like “you’re not wearing panties, are you?” and “no one knows you’re soaking through that slit dress but me.”

you have no idea when he slips the vibrator in. it happens fast—just before entering the ballroom, when you’re adjusting your lip gloss in the mirror and he crouches down behind you, kissing the back of your knee while lifting your dress. his fingers are so gentle, his voice so steady, and the small silicone plug with its remote slides inside your already-wet pussy like it belongs there.

you don’t expect him to actually use it.

you’re mid-conversation with a law professor when he turns it on. just a pulse. nothing obvious. your fingers tighten around the flute in your hand, breath catching quietly, and jeno just raises his glass to his lips, completely still beside you, like he isn’t already watching your thighs press together.

“you okay?” the professor asks, smiling politely.

you nod. “mhmm—sorry, just a little warm in here.”

jeno turns the setting up. not a pulse this time—a hum. a low, maddening thrum that settles right into your clit, deep inside your cunt, pulsing upward until your knees go soft. you turn toward him, eyes wide, throat dry, and he smiles like a man who has nothing to hide.

“you wanna leave?” he asks softly, his voice brushing your neck. “or do you wanna cum in the middle of this conversation?”

your body jerks slightly when the setting shifts again—stronger now, focused, sharp. the vibrator moves inside you with every shift of your hips, every breath, the friction against your walls too precise to be ignored. jeno’s hand slides lower, resting fully on your ass now, thumb tracing the curve just above where the vibrator is buried deep.

you try to excuse yourself. “i—i need the restroom—”

jeno clicks the setting off.

your pussy pulses around the absence like it misses him. you stumble slightly, knees weak, and he catches you by the waist, pulls you in closer, and whispers, “you cum when i say, remember?”

you don’t make it to the restroom. he guides you to a quiet hallway near the coat check, dimly lit and deserted, backs of velvet curtains brushing your arm. the second he closes the door, he presses you against the wall, lifts the slit of your dress, and slips two fingers inside you—right past the vibrator, cunt clenching around both.

“so fucking wet,” he breathes, dragging the toy out slowly. it makes a slick, obscene sound, and you whine when he replaces it with his cock.

he doesn’t undress you. doesn’t bother. just presses your chest to the wall, lifts your leg, and slides in from behind—thick, deep, so achingly full you gasp, cheek flush against the plaster as he fucks you slow, hard, grinding his hips into your ass like he can’t get deep enough. your hand comes up to brace the wall. his comes up to cover your mouth.

“quiet,” he murmurs, fucking you rougher. “someone could walk in. that what you want? want me to fuck you dumb in the middle of a fundraiser?”

your pussy clenches hard around him at that. he groans low, pulls out until only the tip remains, then slams back in, balls slapping your cunt, your moan strangled against his palm. he fucks you like that for a long time—slow strokes with the threat of noise in the back of your mind, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot until your thighs shake and your hands slip against the wall from sweat.

“you can cum now,” he whispers. “you earned it.”

you cum so hard your knees buckle, your whole body going soft as he fucks you through it, your slick coating his cock, running down your thighs. he follows seconds later, pulling out to cum across your ass, breathing heavy against your neck, kissing your shoulder like nothing about this is wrong.

he cleans you with his tie. tucks the vibrator back into his jacket pocket. “you were perfect,” he says, helping you smooth your dress.

you return to the ballroom with your mouth swollen, your cunt aching, and a little smug smile that makes every girl in the room wonder what he said to you.

they’ll never know but your body remembers it for days.

[dojae-huh]

The human brain constantly produces impulses of neural energy, kind of like a mini power plant or inner engine. People differ in the intensity of these impulses. Some have a high "voltage", others - "low". And this generated neural energy (excitation) needs to be spent on some type of activities. This energy can reflect in how "jumpy" or visibly energetic a person is, but not nesessary.

Both Mark and Doyoung have strong power plants within them. However, the way this energy is processed and spent varies significantly. Mark spends his a lot in a direct way - through work (long hours, big load), physical activity (the way his dance is super energised), loud voice and laugh, creativity (contemplating and writing, brainwork). I guess Christianity and faith help him to streamline his path as well, there are deep grooves to run along without unnesessary worry. He wants k-pop to be known around the world, the horizon is wide and there are many more mountains ahead, so he has no problem how to channel his energy. He juggles three teams, heh.

Doyoung is not a physical type, spending neural energy through pure physical activity (running, dancing) doesn't work for him. It tires him and the cells in the brain and muscles, eats up sugars, of course, but doesn't let him dispell the neural charge.

A normal active brain.

Doyoung's

The energy still sips through the body in physical manifestations: a bouncing leg, walking on heels, cracking of knuckles, chirps, jumps, poking of others. However, it's not an outlet, just the energy leaking through cracks. Doyoung can't sit still and can't tolerate boredome. He needs to make himself busy and active.

I actually started to write this post because of this 2Dongs moment. An example of a very happy Doyoung unleashing his positive energy on a person nearby. Literally rubbing off the excessive charge, lol.

These last couple of shows gave us a new Doyoung - a Doyoung free of worries in his pure excited and content form. His solo career progresses well and he is working on his second album, WayV and Wish are doing well (NCT as a brand), 127 as well (the motivation of the members) despite the absence of Jae and Tae. Evidently currently there is a good dialogue with SM (A&R team, a good director for the concert, Mark and Hyuk getting their solos, (I assume) an appropriate budget for 127, etc). Also, Jaehyun should be settling well and also not complaining.

In the past Do demonstrated his energy through sassiness and wit (self-protection, he was establishing his position in the group, fought in the hierarchy games), worry and irritation (127 had troubles and didn't progress in popularity as quickly as Do hoped, a constant burden to succeed with every comeback, a chance to change the tide that had to be seized), nagging and micromanaging (the desire to move things, to get to the destination), even a burn-out and tears (when the body couldn't take the high voltage that wasn't spent properly, and a dam had to be broken for a forced release).

Doyoung spends his energy through reshaping the environment, influencing it somehow, making it better for people around him. He is the most grounded when he controls or affects in other way (singing, empathically) a large crowd. Not for the power, for the feeling of others being taken care of/doing well. Then his brain energy is properly channeled, the outflow is big (and there is none to remain and damage him from within). He is social and society oriented, his drive is to interact not with the natural world (nature, animals) or inner world (art, knowledge/science), but the society, other people.

When he talked of being bored being a child, his way out was to join clubs (like an art club), become a class president and run for the school student body. He cooked and invited friends to his house. He was hurt by being ostracised a lot and found salvation in singing (not a musical instrument or computer games, animals). Already then he demontrated how it was most natural for him to apply his energy.

When Do doesn't have things to worry about and people to micromanage (who do everything the right way without the need for him to intervene), his energy naturally emanates in a positive way: goofiness/playfulness, wide smiles and giggles (in the end), lightness, being hyper and extra, and boldness.

This moment (when Do asked the crowd of this size to repeat "2 Baddies" after him) especially demonstrated well the "expansion" (of his kekkai, lol) he does when he is in a right place mentally and occupationally.

It's important that Do told in public during his award speech that he worked hard. He is a perfectionist, he can easily find fault in anything, he is very demanding of himself, it's the first place or you are a loser mentality. So the fact that he is truly proud of himself and content of his own achievements (enough to praise and thank himself) is a sign of him being in a good mental shape and generally satisfied with how everything is going, with his life.

Even the eyes became rounder, hehe.

[dragonologist-writings]

Title: Shake the Dust Fandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous Rating: G Status: One-Shot Main Characters: Knight-Commander Piper Chanterelle, Woljif Jefto Additional Notes: Friendship, Companion Quests, Woljif Gets A Hug Word Count: 1.1k Summary: Woljif has some mysteries to unravel and decisions to make. Piper's not about to let him go through any of that alone.

read below or here on ao3

“I’m coming with you.”

Piper doesn’t use her ‘Commander Voice’- she knows with Woljif, that’s likely to do more harm than good- but her tone still invites no argument. And there is no argument to be made, not even from Woljif, that could convince Piper to let him tackle whatever’s waiting for him in the city all on his own. To his dubious credit, Woljif still tries.

“You really don’t have to do that, chief!” His tail flicks back and forth, betraying the anxiety he’s so obviously trying to mask. “This is my business, and I can take care of myself. No need for you to waste your time getting all mixed up in it!”

Piper crosses her arms, unrelenting. Maybe he’s right: it’s his business, his family, his shadow whispering sinister directions in his ear. If he really wants to handle this on his own, she could easily let him. But Piper knows Woljif, and she knows that if he really didn’t want her involved, he could have easily left in the middle of the night with her being none the wiser. He could have come up with some excuse, however flimsy, that didn’t reveal his shadow’s growing power.

But he didn’t. He came to Piper with truth, and if that’s not a plea for help from somebody like Woljif, nothing is.

Besides, the thought of him wandering off on his own through this demonic city is too much to bear, and Piper knows she’d never forgive herself if something happened to him.

“Well, you didn’t have to drag yourself into the literal Abyss just to keep helping me. But you did.” Piper tilts her head, giving him both a smile and a sharp don’t-argue-with-me-on-this look. “So now it’s time to let me help you. Fair’s fair.”

“You sure?” Woljif’s expression flickers between relief and worry, and he’s obviously trying to hide both behind a veneer of nonchalance even as he bounces on his feet in nervous energy. “It’s not like you owe me anything.”

“I know. But what else are friends for?”

“Friends?” With a laugh, Woljif looks away, waving a hand at Piper’s words. “Aw, come on, chief. You know I don’t believe in stuff like that. But I guess if you really wanna come, I ain’t gonna fight you on it. Always a good idea to have a bodyguard, right?”

And Piper might be offended, if she didn’t catch the embarrassed smile on his face.

Much later- it feels like years, although in reality it can’t have been more than a few hours- Piper and Woljif are standing in the middle of an abandoned mansion with a dead demon and a broken amulet at their feet.

Piper lets out a long, low breath. “Well, that was…a lot.”

“Was it?” Woljif’s voice comes out slightly high-pitched. “Lemme think…” He drops to the ground gracelessly and begins ticking off points on his fingers.

“I found out I really am some sort of prince- guess I owe a lotta people their gold back, huh? I met my grandpa. I killed my grandpa. I coulda gotten myself some grand powers outta the deal, and instead I got this!” He holds up the amulet- or setting, rather, as the jewel Woljif once treasured is now gone.

“A shame we couldn’t save it,” Piper says lightly, kneeling down besides Woljif and tracing a finger over the chain. “But it’s still pretty.”

Woljif chuckles. “Yeah, it’s not so bad. I bet I’ll find an even nicer jewel to fill it once this whole crusade is done with.” He pauses, wrapping and unwrapping the amulet’s cord around his fingers. The repetitive motion seems to calm him, and after a moment he hesitantly adds, “And the funny thing is, I don’t regret getting rid of it. I don’t regret saying no to my grandpa. I think…I think I made the right call, for once.”

The statement is made with quiet confidence- not the loud, brazen picture Woljif usually presents to the world, but something far more sincere.

Piper smiles, and lightly bumps Woljif’s shoulder with her own. “That’s good.” And it is- Piper knows how it feels, to be offered power beyond your greatest dreams. Perhaps it was hypocritical of her to advise him against it; perhaps the fact that he turned it down means he’s stronger than she ever could be. “Woljif?”

“Yeah, chief?”

“I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, chief. For everything.” Woljif blinks a few times, and if Piper didn’t know any better she might say those are actually tears in his eyes. He continues on, stammering in a shaky voice as if trying to get the words out before he loses his nerve. “I really dunno why you’ve treated me so…I mean, I’m nothin’, and you’re…but yeah, you were right. We’re friends. Actually friends. And you’ve been there for me, more than my own family ever was. So, yeah, thanks, and- I mean, even if I’m not all good with words like you are…”

“Are you kidding? You’re perfect!” Piper exclaims. “Look, everyone else…they mean well, and I love them for it. But with all the politics and angels and royal assholes, you’re one of the few people who’s been keeping me sane.”

“You mean it?” Woljif asks sheepishly, and Piper’s heart nearly breaks. She knows this is all something new for him. And the truth is, it’s new for her, too. Everything in her life has been transient and temporary, and even now she can’t help but wonder how fair-weather her friends are. And Woljif, for all his flaws, understands that- understands Piper- better than anyone else.

“Of course I do. Demonspawn stick together, yeah?” She holds her fist up, and Woljif gives a watery chuckle as he bumps his knuckles against hers.

“We sure do.” Woljif wipes at his eyes and shakes his head. “Look at us. Sittin’ here sniffling like a couple of saps. Must be all the dust floatin' around here. Least we should be doing is robbing this place, right? I know it’s abandoned, but it’s still a mansion, and we’re not leaving a speck of gold behind!”

Piper laughs, and on impulse leans over and wraps Woljif in a hug. She pulls back quickly, slightly embarrassed as she says, “Sorry, I know you don’t really do that-”

But her apology is interrupted when Woljif pulls her back in, clutching her tightly with shaky arms.

“I’ll make an exception for you, chief,” he mutters, his voice thick. “But don’t you go telling nobody.”

Piper grins and hugs him back, trying not to make it obvious that she herself is now starting to tear up. “Wouldn’t dream of it. We came, we killed your grandfather, and we robbed this place blind. No crying at all. Typical thiefling business.”

“You know me well, chief. Guess that’s why we’re friends, huh?”

[theamateurhimself]

Out of Stock at the End of the Universe

“Yep, we didn’t get that either.” Stakely sighed, rolling her eyes. Her frazzled teal hair bounced across her brows as she shook her head. Nearly everything on the manifest was highlighted in red, and there wasn’t much more to go.

“So,” Boss Korak leaned back in the creaking swivel chair, removing his spectacles and rubbing the bridge of his nose. His eye lids were discolored from back to back half-rotation shifts, something that the even the Company tried to avoid forcing. “What is it that we did get? Might be a shorter list.”

She scrolled down through the list, seeing more red than clear, the light-pen gliding silently across the screen, catching once or twice on the hairline cracks that spidered their way across the screen. Stakely’s tongue darted in and out of her mouth, muttering a count under her breath as she tallied up just what would be in the vacuum proof shipping crate slotted into the back of the restaurant.

“According to this,” she started, breathing deeply as her mental math wrapped up, “6 cases of buns; 36 bottles of ketchup, 12 Terran, 12 Fromeni, and 12 K’loaren; 2 cases of tomatoes, 2 of onions, and 60 drums of... heavy... duty... mayonnaise?”

“SIXY DRUMS?” The Boss nearly flew out of his chair, snatching the manifest from Stakely’s hands. As he scrolled through, noting that in the attached copy of the ordering form, he found that it was, indeed, filled in for 60 200 liter drums of heavy duty mayonnaise. Without looking up, he made off for the loading airlock in the back of the restaurant where the shipping crate was locked in. Stakely followed, looking towards the nearly empty stainless steel racks in the dry storage. The kitchen was clean, she noted, and it would probably stay clean for a while.

Punching in the airlock’s code, the pneumatic door slid up into the ceiling in an instant, revealing the airlock door of the BX-155 type vacuum-proof food-grade refrigerated that was dropped off an hour ago, emblazoned with the red and gold Stardust Diner corporate logo. That door required a special key, one kept inside the manifest touchpad itself. Boss Korak scanned his retina with the manifest, and the red and gold anodized card popped out of the top like a switchblade. Within a few seconds, the door’s seal broke, and swung inward.

“Holy Jesus,” the Boss exclaimed, as the realization that there wasn’t a mistake on the manifest washed over him. Stakely remained silent, wondering just what was to be done at all today or for the next half-cycle until the next shipment.

Along the back wall of the container, stacked three drums high, five wide, and four rows deep, were sixty massive 200 liter transparent aluminum drums of heavy duty mayonnaise. Nearly half of the six meter container was taken up by the egg and oil based sauce, with the remaining stock of buns, onions, ketchup, and tomatoes stacked humorously in front of it, a testament to the absurdity of the shipment.

Boss Korak slowly turned to look up at Stakely, his expression grim, an uncharacteristic look for the pudgy round face to take. She looked away, hoping to avoid the wrath that is usually imparted to messengers when they deliver bad news. But instead of a booming yell, he spoke in quiet, calm tones. It scared her more than the yelling.

“Do we have any protein in the store?” he asked.

Fetching another pad, this one clipped to her belt like a piece of combat armor, Stakely quickly pulled up the latest inventory, the one taken last night. Korak held his breath, and only the quiet light pen and the low rumble of the restaurant’s life support could be heard.

“Oh, shit!” Stakely exclaimed, and turned heel before Korak could ask her what. He followed her lengthy strides, arriving at the store’s own walk-in refrigerator. Pulling the door open, she gestured inside to a single box marked in a long trinary code.

“That’s it. That’s all we have.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Nope. One box of 60 Grade D, IAUFD Certified, Part GMO, Ham-Type Burgers.”

The both of them paused, and Korak glanced up at Stakely, the metaphorical gears grinding his his head. Darting glances between her and the box of Ham-Type Burgers, he spoke. “You think it’ll last us?”

[miraculousystuff]

Corey Curse Aftermath Pt 5

Marinette’s knee wouldn’t stop bouncing. In approximately one minute, the liar herself would walk through the oak doors and most certainly would try to guilt trip herself out of it. But what made it so much worse is that while the people around her, Nino, Kim, Alix, Nathaniel, Rose, Juleka, and most importantly Adrien were the only people that mattered in this courtroom, it sent a fresh wave of anxiety through her as she stared at her former friends, the people she went to the edges of hell to help, on the other side. They were defending the person that made her life hell. She made brief eye contact with Mylene, who looked at her with a mixture of uneasiness and discomfort before shifting her gaze. As her eyes panned across the room, she finally met the chocolate brown orbs of Alya Cesaire. She almost flinched at how familiar she looked; the same flannel and jeans, her wavy hair with blonde tips so meticulously kept yet messily arranged, her trusty phone already recording the biggest scoop. Except for the stark difference between them is that this time, her former best friend was recording her. It was Marinette Dupain Cheng, not Ladybug, that was the item of the Ladyblog, and as she looked away, Marinette’s heart cracked just that little bit more. The way that a girl who had defended her so diligently, had quite literally taken her through the highs and lows of life, had so easily switched sides for a pathological liar. Which brought Marinette’s attention back to why she was here. Her breath became even more erratic as she attempted to calm herself down, but she couldn’t. As she looked back at the defendants table, she could see that there was a chance that Lila’s pity party and guilt tripping could convince the jury. And if she was allowed to walk free…Marinette shook her head from the thought, trying to come back to her senses but it wasn’t working. Lila Rossi was capable of killing. She had tried to kill her. Multiple times, Her knee bouncing sped up as her thoughts ran at a 100 miles per hour, until a warm hand was placed on her thigh. She looked up immediately, and was met with Adrien’s smiling face. “Mari. I promise, you’ll be fine. There’s enough evidence to get her arrested. There’s no need to worry about the likes of Lila.” he whispered softly, to which Marinette responded with a weak smile. Just then, the doors crashed open as the devil herself walked in.

[kennedys-lvr]

TENNESSEE WHISKEY, STRAWBERRY WINE — CHAPTER 27 (AO3)

if u read the cliffhanger at the end of friday's chapter then u know where this chapter is going. 8k words of smut baby lets GO.

full chapter here! enjoy the snippet hehe. i do love writing leon as a mischievous lil dick. idk why it's so fun to me.

Fucking traitor.

I stare down at the hot pink toy in abject horror, watching as it bounces towards me in slow motion. The slap of silicone against hardwood floor is like a fucking crack of thunder, and by God do I want to scream, or cry, or plead to whatever god may listen to me to open up the ground—or the ceiling—and swallow me whole right now.

Just so that I don't have to stand here in front of Leon—who is holding my pillow with a mixture of confusion and utter fucking delight—with a goddamn dildo at my feet.

A dildo that, around the time when he was throwing pebbles at my window like we were in a cheesy rom-com, I had been using to get myself off, repeating that familiar pillow-riding technique that I had been getting rather fond of recently.

Something that, it now seems to me, he’s figured out.

I’ve never felt more ashamed in my life. But also, at the same time—fuck if it isn't quite the turn on. But I’m only thinking that because I had been about three seconds from orgasm before that pebble had started hitting my window.

Leon had caught me at both the worst moment, and maybe the most opportune too.

That smirk on his lips twitches, the crinkles around his eyes like cat whiskers as those oceanic eyes sparkle at me. I watch his tongue dart out to wet his lips, and a little strangled noise leaves my throat as my blush crawls from my burning cheeks down my body at a lightning speed.

“Sweetheart,” he croons after a few moments of him trying not to burst out laughing. Because it's bad enough Leon catching me like this—why not get my whole family involved too? “What is that?”

“Nothing!” I squeak, bending down so fast to grab that sinful contraption that I loved so fucking much that I give myself whiplash. I swipe up the toy, coming back to full height and hiding it behind my back like a little kid getting caught with something they shouldn't have, trying to hide it before the other person could figure out exactly what it is.

“Really?”

Please stop fucking smirking at me like that.

Time moves in slow motion again as Leon reaches behind my back, and I feel powerless as he grasps my silicone friend and pulls it back into view. I let go, and now he's got both the dildo and the pillow in his hands.

And I just have my fucking dignity crumbling to the floor. Leon looks at both items with interest, letting out a low hum as he forces me to watch the cogs in his head turn, forces me to try and react, if only so that he can hold this over my head.

Literally. I reach for something—anything—and he rears back with a sultry chuckle, holding both items aloft over my head, high enough where he knows I can't reach them. Curse my short stature, curse his fucking height. “Ah, ah. No snatching. I'm still looking at them.”

“Why do you need to look at them?” I whine, a pathetic whimper leaving me as I try to jump up—knowing it will just bring attention to the way the shirt on my body rides up and exposes more of my cotton panties, and makes my boobs jiggle.

Leon hums teasingly, enjoying the sight as he dangles the items close enough for me to reach before snatching them back at the last second. “Because I'm trying to figure out just why this pillow had a dildo in it.”

“None of your business.”

“Oh, I'm making it my business.” Leon says, and I groan in defeat. This’ll get us nowhere. Jumping up and down like this is exhausting when he has his arms up at least six or seven feet into the air. My feet hurt from feeling them thump back onto the hardwood floor, and a part of me has a fear of Grandpa wondering who the fuck is stomping about at this hour and coming to look.

“Care to share with me?”

“You’re gonna laugh.”

“I guarantee I won't. I'm far from laughing. I'm more likely to enjoy it, actually.”

“But you’ve got that stupid fucking grin on your face,” I pout. Leon’s eyebrows raise, as if he’s daring me to try and fight him. I both hate it, and love it all the same. Feeling embarrassed and ashamed like this—degraded—is quite hot. I feel tingly, and my adrenaline is shot.

“Fuck,” I wheeze, covering my face with my hands to hide myself away. Or, at least, I attempt to until Leon clears his throat in a way that has me peeking at him through my fingers. His arms are folded across his broad chest, muscles rippling through his t-shirt as his grip on the items tighten which hang from each hand, drawing my eyes to pinball all over him as my blush worsens. I wonder how I'm not on fire from how hot my skin feels, or how I haven't gone into cardiac arrest due to how fast my heart is racing.

“Okay—” I concede, hanging my head shamefully as I mutter out my pathetic explanation. “So.. that night in the club—”

“Uh-huh.”

“When we.. made out. Against that wall. You had me in your arms and your—your thing—”

“My cock.” He grins proudly like the Cheshire Cat, and I let out another pained groan, not missing his erection as my gaze drops from that sick little shit-eating grin at how much he was enjoying this back to studying the slats of my hardwood floor and the way my toes flex against the cold surface.

“Yes, your… your cock.” I feel disgusting saying that word, a shudder rolling down my spine. It’s as if I’ve been caught watching porn, and I’m getting reamed out by an adult even though I'm a grown fucking woman, I should be allowed to masturbate if I want to. Shit. It’s a god given fucking right.

But for him to know who I do it over—for him to find out what I do over thoughts of him—makes me wish I’d never done it in the first place.

“And..?” He prompts, waiting for me to continue. Like he can't already figure out what I had been doing.

“Well, that night, it was pressed against me. Right up against my, uh—”

“Your pussy.”

Christ. His bluntness is going to kill me, but it’s a fucking rush all the same. “You might as well figure it out from that—”

“No, sweetheart.” He croons in a saccharine sweet way that’s so totally fucking fake right now. I don't know if I want to punch him in the face or kiss him so hard he stops talking. Either way, I want him to just stop talking. “I wanna hear it from you. So—as you were saying, that night, you felt my cock up against your—”

“Yes, yes!”

I sigh, rolling my eyes and throwing my hands up into the air as I flop down onto the edge of the mattress. Beneath me the mattress is firm, holding me up and not making a sound that might just throw me further under the path of the bus that’s headed my way with a cut brake line.

“So.. yeah. We did.. that, and then when you told me to stop and that we wouldn't be doing this—” I motion between the two of us. “—I was just feeling.. frustrated. Like.. that kinda frustrated—”

“The word you’re looking for is horny, sweetheart.”

“Fucking asshole.”

“Just trying to help you use your words.”

“Dick.”

“That’s a start.” He grins, still holding onto the dildo and pillow like prizes. At this point I'm contemplating just letting him keep them so that he can stop forcing me to recount this horror story. But he still persists. “So, you were feeling horny that night, and—”

“And I used that—” I thrust my hands at the pillow and dildo, glaring at the devilish items. “To help, okay?! I.. I recreated your fucking erection and I…”

I flail my hand in the air, circling the air in a motion that tells him to figure it out for himself because I’m done trying to talk to him about this. Nervous nausea bites at my tightly clenched stomach, and for a moment it feels like I could melt into a puddle of goo. I wish I was a puddle of goo. A puddle of goo wouldn't be interrogated over performing something total fucking normal—

Leon starts laughing again, rolling his lips together as his cheeks puff out like a chipmunk. Those crinkles appear by his eyes again, which become shrink-wrapped with tears as he tries to contain his laughter to nothing more than a near-silent chuckle. Once again, I get the warring feelings of punching him in the face and kissing him senseless to distract him from all of this and make him stop.

“I fucking hate you so much right now.”

[littlesmokesceenfan]

smokey headcanons (some are angsty, does contain spoilers)

Every time he goes out to perhaps patrol a perimeter with whoever (Arcee, Bumblebee, etc) he gets interested by something and gets distracted. For example a shiny rock, a cool looking lizard, a tree bent in a weird way, doesn't matter. If it catches his intrest, nothing else matters.

If he's mad, he'll sit in his alt form for hours just outside of base. Just sits on the side of the road, pounting.

Since he has a pretty flashy alt mode, he has likely had a human try and break into him. And he's definitely revealed his form because of that. Imagine waking up and some dude is shattering your windows.

He really, really hates bugs. They look like scraplets, and he hates scraplets. (More angsty part on that later.)

Jack showed him subway serfers, and now he'll occasionally watch him play subway serfers.

Literally a menace to the Decepticons. He enjoys going out and finding Decepticons wherever he can, just to troll them. Like Miko would help him make glitter bombs or really thin magnets with stupid stuff on them and he'd just troll the cons.

He takes stuff too seriously. I mean, Raf could call him a smart cookie maybe one time and that's all he'll think about. Like, 'What is a cookie? Is it smart? Am I a cookie?' and eventually he'll just go ask Raf what it means.

He really likes the rain. If it's raining out, he's also out. Just driving on the road in the rain, and that's it. Maybe he'll take one of the kids, but he's just driving out on the road while it's raining probably listening to something by Glass Animals or Panic! At The Disco.

Whenever he's excited, he'll bounce around a little. Flappy doorwings for sure, and he just won't stop talking. And this goes for any emotion, it's the doorwings that will give you the signs (I'll add a little drabble at the end)

He's definitely tried running on a frozen over lake whenever he's groundbridged to somewhere he needs to be. And he falls through. And someone has to save him. And he has to go back to base because he's shivering like a leaf, but he just sits in there with his heaters on pounting with his arms crossed because he wants to go back out.

Now for the angsty headcannons >:)

He cannot stand being ignored whatsoever. Like he gets really sad whenever he's ignored, and then he just shuts up until someone acknowledges him but his mood is down for the rest of the day.

Claustrophobia. After spending that time held captive by the Decepticons, he hates enclosed spaces. Just being in one makes him anxious, but being locked in one might make him have a full on panic attack. And bringing weapons in while he's in there is a big no no.

I headcannon he was interrogated, and potentially tortured in the hands of the Decepticons. Fighting Decepticons, he's alright. But being threatened by a ally, not so much.

Because of that, he might wake up sometimes at night and then go to someone else's room. Mostly he goes to Ratchet, surprisingly since he's always awake. Perhaps Ratchet is actually in the main section of the base, and while he works he talks to Smokescreen about other stuff from before the war until he falls asleep from exhaustion. And then Ratchet just stays in the main section of the base with Smokey until he wakes up.

He hates heights. Panicked of falling down, constantly observing and watching his step if he's near a ravine. In that case if he's with Bumblebee, Bee will hold his hand. He just takes his hand which does calm him down a little. Maybe Bee also hates heights, so he does this to comfort them both.

Now for some doorwing drabbles

Doorwings held real high either means he's shocked, on edge, or spooked.

Doorwings held low either means he's sad, scared, or trying to be sneaky.

Doorwings flapping shows happiness, or excitement for something.

He'll hold them up really high and extend them outwards to make him self appear bigger if he's fighting a enemy larger than him.

Similar to what Bee does, and also kind of like Starscream.

Thank u for having me 👏 I may or may not be back with more Smokescreen drabbles in the future (if that's alright with you)

Oh my goodness. Smokey Flapping his doorwings when he's happy or excited is just so perfect for him. Also him can't standing being ignored is so sad. I accept these as Canon op

[jrpneblog]

Journey`s End

Saturday sees the 48th and final competitive game of the season when North End travel to play off hopefuls West Bromwich Albion. Following on from Monday evenings defeat against Leicester City it would be no surprise to see the opposition fans celebarting again while the North End faithful just reflect on what might have been. To be fair the Leicester result was hardly unexpected as the Foxes are clearly the best team in the Championship and I don`t really understand how it got to league game number forty five before they clinched the Championship. For West Brom it has started to get a little edgy after they have been in the play off spots for most of the season. A little wobble near the end means the Throstles need to beat North End to be absolutely certain of the end of season lottery although a point would probably do unless Hull get a cricket score away at relegation threatened Plymouth.

On Monday North End welcomed the champions elect to Deepdale and for the travelling fans it never looked like they were going to be disappointed. North End held their own for just over half an hour but were always chasing their opponents. Once Vardy had scored the opener the result was never in doubt as North End looked like a side from a different division, literally. Vardy added a second early on in the second half and when McAteer made it three with twenty five minutes to go the game was all over as Leicester became Champions and North End were poor also rans. Lowe showed his class, or lack of it, when substituting Alan Browne near the end, not in a single move to give the crowd a chance to show their appreciation, but in a triple substitution with the Mawene brothers. It was pathetic by Lowe who clearly thinks the club is all about him and not about a lad who has played over 400 times for us.

Saturday lunchtime sees the final sufference for the North End faithful when we visit the Hawthorns in what is sure to be a White hot atmosphere in the Wesy Midlands. At the time of going to press North End sold around 1,200 tickets which is amazing considering some of the dross we have been served up recently. I suppose on the birght side North End can relax and play their game while the home fans will be keeping a close eye on what goes on at Home Park. Whilst the game itself is a free hit for North End to lose the last five league games on the bounce would not reflect well at all on the manager. Mind you plenty of North End fans are done with Ryan Lowe and the club face a huge decision once the season has ended in whether to retain Lowe or make a change for the long term benefit of the club.

And finally this week:- the Sunderland Echo, on its digital page, was saying that Ryan Lowe is 10/1 to be the next manager at the Stadium of Light. Blimey, perhaps there is a God after all.

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MATCH PREDICTION -

WEST BROMWICH ALBION (A) League - Home Win

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JR`s HIGH FIVES

Liam Lindsay to score at any time for Preston v West Brom 25/1

A £5 Stake returns £130.00 on bet365

SEASONS STATS

Returns £101.00 Stake £195.00

Percentage profit+/-loss - 48.20%

Predictions 39 won 10 lost 29