#lovers turned enemies

[x3no9]

Animated GIF (sketches) for my latest Harper x Hackett fic. I am really enjoying this fic, so fun to write.

I know it's fluffy.

[kaahmbem]

legend has it that the young witch circe and the once beautiful nymph scylla shared a complicated past...

[ihavesomejays]

on first loves yunqing lol they are silly that's it that's the prompt anyways i think this is like the first thing i've posted here that has an actual background which is kind of insane. i think you can tell i don't draw backgrounds very often. anyways yunqing is so ponytail puller annoying each other even though they've realized they like each other core and it's satisfying my peepaw heart

bg only/closeups under keep reading

[stevie-petey]

moron

I own you.  The words practically drip from your rose coated lips, meant only for Steve, and he knows he’s lost.  “Yeah, whatever.” And it’s agreed. Come this Saturday, you and Steve will be working together. No one else, just the two of you, for eight long, maddening hours. 

Summary: steve really hates his coworker, but you know who he hates even more ? your shitty ex boyfriend (who he just so happens to share jacket preferences with)

Rating: general, violence, lots of swearing

Warnings: allusions to abuse, use of bitch as derogatory language towards women, shitty ex boyfriend, violence, enemies to lovers (more friends), fem!reader, use of y/n

Words: 3.9k

Before you swing in: hey gang !! long time no stevie blurb, so here yall go <3 please, read the warnings for this one. theres a really shitty character in this and he may be triggering, so please be safe.

-

Steve doesn’t consider himself a bad guy.

Sure, he had the whole “King Steve” stint back in high school where he was an asshole to everyone, but he chooses to ignore those four years of his life. They were a brief lapse of judgment. 

A very long, brief lapse of judgment. But whatever.

The point is that Steve opens the door for strangers. He greets everyone with a smile and a polite nod of his head. When Robin forgets her lunch at work, Steve always gives her his. He walks his neighbor’s dog, he offers to carry groceries for the elderly. Hell, he even waves at babies. 

By all accounts, Steve would consider himself a goddamn saint. 

Except when it comes to you. 

Steve isn’t holding open any fucking doors for you and if you ever asked him to walk your dog, he’d laugh in your face. The moment you stepped foot in Family Video for your first shift, you made Steve’s life a living hell. He doesn’t know why or how you manage to dig so deep under his skin, but he’s convinced you do it on purpose. 

The movies you stack on the shelf always somehow manage to land on Steve’s head. The jokes you make with Robin are always at his expense. You never clock in on time, extending his shift by one more minute every goddamn time. The way you laugh pierces Steve’s skull, the sound rings in his ears and blinds his senses long enough to feel nauseous. 

Steve likes everyone, he isn’t a hard guy to please, but he truly, deeply, hates you. 

“Y/N wanted me to ask if you’d cover her shift this weekend,” Robin scans a beat up copy of Grease, trying to feign indifference as she brings the topic up. She absolutely doesn’t want to be doing this, she knows that any mention of you to Steve makes his eye twitch, but you called her crying and Robin is far too sympathetic for her own good. 

Predictably, Steve’s eye twitches and he snatches the movie from his coworker. “What, did she fall and hit her head this morning?” He scoffs, he can’t believe you even thought he’d consider the idea. “She knows I’d rather her show up with a broken arm and matching black eye to work before ever covering her shift.”

“Okay, that’s psychotically cruel. You know that, right?” Robin scans another movie and shakes her head. Steve hates you, she gets that, and while she doesn’t understand why, she also doesn’t like how much of an asshole he is about it. You’re her friend, too. Robin really likes you. 

“Good, I meant for it to be.”

“Steve, she’s going through a hard time right now–”

“No, I don’t wanna hear it, alright? I don’t care if her grandma died and left her an orphan,” the sound of the bell above Family Video’s front door rings, but Steve is too lost in his rant to hear it. “There’s no way in hell I’m ever, ever helping that demonic witch of a human being.”

Robin’s eyes widen and she tries to cover the teen’s mouth, hissing his name, but Steve bats her hand away and keeps going. “Y/N is a fucking moron for thinking otherwise, and that’s her problem. I mean, I know she’s your friend, which I still don’t know how she even managed to do that, but–”

“Steve!” Again Robin tries to get her friend to stop talking, but Steve is on a roll now. He’s fired up, tired of biting his tongue for the last six months. 

“She makes me want to physically tear my skin off and shove it down my throat every time she opens her mouth. And I’m being nice right now. I mean, I will gladly say this all to her tiny, annoying face–”

“Oh, you would?”

Immediately Steve’s voice dies and his words fall down upon his shoulders. He doesn’t dare turn around. He’s frozen. He’s convinced himself that if he doesn’t move then he can linger in the remaining few seconds where he hasn’t just said all those horrendous things with you standing right behind him. 

Robin drops her head onto the counter and groans. “You’re an idiot, Harrington.”

“Well, are you going to turn around?” Your breath almost fans Steve’s neck, you’ve walked up to him. He can practically envision the curl in your eyebrows whenever you get angry. An expression Steve has become familiar with. 

He gulps, still refusing to turn around. “You know, I really don’t think I can turn around.” His legs shake. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever fucked up this horribly before, and he’s fucked up a lot in his life. 

“Robin,” you turn your attention to her, the edge in your voice is the only indication of your anger. “Please inform our coworker that it’s inappropriate to use that language in a workplace, and please also inform him that I will no longer be needing him to cover my shift.”

“You… Don’t?” Robin looks between you and Steve. He still hasn’t looked at you yet, his face stares straight as if he’s trying to somehow disintegrate. You, however, face her with a steely look in your eyes, which surprises her. She thought there’d be more heartbreak in them. “I-I mean, are you sure? All things considered…”

“I’m fine.” The way you say it leaves no room for arguments. It’s already been decided, and Robin knows not to try and reason with you. She deflates, and you’re pleased with this. Even though her sympathy is unneeded, you can use it to your advantage. You’re going to make Steve pay. “In fact, I think you should inform our coworker that he’s covering your shift this weekend.”

Robin chokes on her spit, startled, while Steve finally turns to face you. “I’m sorry?”

“Aw, it’s okay, Harrington.” You pat his chest, albeit with more force than probably necessary, which he huffs at. “But I think the apology will work even better after spending some quality time together.”

You’re going to spend the entire eight hour shift making Steve’s life hell on earth. And he knows it.

“But–” 

“Say, Robin. What’s the company policy on harassment of employees?” You tap your finger against your chin with a menacing smile on your face. You’re enjoying this, and Steve hates you even more for that. “Doesn’t it say something about verbal insults?”

Steve sends the girl a pleading glance, begging her not to respond, but she can only shake her head at him. He’s the one who couldn’t keep his goddamn mouth shut. Sighing, Robin nods. “Yeah, it does.”

“I thought it did! Thanks, Buckley.” You wink at her before facing Steve again. He almost flinches at the coldness in your eyes. He’s so, so fucked. “Harrington, I’m sure you simply forgot, and I’m sure I can let bygones be bygones after you cover our dear friend’s shift. Yeah?”

I own you. 

The words practically drip from your rose coated lips, meant only for Steve, and he knows he’s lost. 

“Yeah, whatever.”

And it’s agreed. Come this Saturday, you and Steve will be working together. No one else, just the two of you, for eight long, maddening hours. 

–

When Steve arrives at work Saturday, you’ve already clocked in. 

He finds you sitting at the cash register, looking over the shipment for tomorrow. Sundays are the restock days, and the lists of orders are a pain in the ass to get through. It can take hours, sometimes even days, to comb through. When you see Steve walk in, you give him an icy smile. “Oh, perfect timing!” 

“We’re supposed to get here at eight.”

“And being early never hurt anyone.” Although you’re never early, you’re always late, and both of you know this. You scratch something off from the list, eyes never leaving Steve, and he can’t help but feel that the rough scratch of the pen is meant to symbolize his face. 

“What do you want?” Steve is too tired to play your games. He recognizes that he was a grade A asshole to you a few days ago, but this is going too far. 

You flick your hair behind your shoulder and straighten your posture. The gesture casts a cloud of a sickly sweet pomegranate scent over to Steve, causing him to sneeze violently. He’s always hated the perfume you wear. Smiling at the desired effect, you finally shove the restock lists towards him. “I need you to start sorting through next week’s orders.”

Steve looks at the lists and nearly cries. There’s at least thirty pages in the stack, doubled sided, with five columns and fifty rows. This is the largest shipment order he’s ever seen since working at Family Video, he can’t even believe it’s real.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Nope!” You hop down from the counter and walk over to the cart of returned movies. “Now, I’d get started if I were you. You know how much Keith hates it when we don’t get Sunday’s orders in on time.”

Your figure disappears behind a shelf of movies and Steve pretends to strangle you with his bare hands. You planned this. He doesn’t know how, but you did. If he didn’t have a reason to hate you so much, now he does. 

Hours pass by, you don’t at all speak to Steve as he labors over the shipments. Family Video requires the employees to manually input all the orders into the computer to send to the supply chain. The process alone is impractical and takes longer than it should, but pair that with the shitty computers that Keith refuses to upgrade, it makes Steve contemplate running into the road. The browser crashes three separate times. At one point he loses track of which movie he’d been on and has to restart an entire row at number forty-three.

It’s the worst fucking five hours of Steve’s entire life.

Meanwhile, all you do those five hours is browse through some online catalog on the other computer and help a total of two customers who come in. 

By the time Steve has finally finished inputting everything, words float around his vision and he can feel the beginning stages of a headache forming. The pressure sits right behind his left eye, dull and throbbing. 

All because he couldn’t keep his goddamn mouth shut.

Steve should really learn to listen to Robin. 

“Are you all done?” You materialize next to Steve, startling him and he lets out an embarrassing shriek, which you snicker at. “Wow, Harrington. You’re really tense today.”

He rolls his eyes and steps away from you. “Gee, I wonder why.”

“Yeah, who knows!” Steve glares at you and you smile right back at him. “Anyways, since you finished up so fast, why don’t you sort through the backorders next? It shouldn’t take you that long.”

The backorders. 

Steve wants to fucking scream.

The backorders are all the movies that the store can’t input into the system. They’re orders that get messed up, misplaced, and abandoned in Keith’s disgusting office. The pile of discarded movies has grown so large that it rivals Steve’s height and build. It’s its own entity at this point. A terrifying, breakdown inducing entity. 

You’re a fucking evil genius. 

But if Steve even looks at the backorders, he thinks he might actually murder you. 

“No,” he crosses his arms, trying to look more dignified and intimidating than he really feels. Awkwardly placing his weight on his left foot, he purposely ducks his head down to emphasize how much taller he is than you. “No way in hell am I going through the backorders.”

“I wonder what Keith would say when I tell him all the wonderful things you said about me on Wednesday,” you step forward, angling your head up to get a better look at Steve. You want him to see all the hatred you have for him in your eyes. 

What he said about you hurt. There’s no other way to put it. His words had been venom upon your skin, searing the flesh as it left a nasty scar. The wound has festered ever since, making your already shitty week even worse. 

Steve had called you “fucking moron”. Just like he had. 

“Oh, screw company policy and whatever that asshole Keith says!” Steve doesn’t care anymore if he has a job by the end of today. He’s had enough of your shitty mind games and power plays. He may have been a dick, but he doesn’t deserve any of this, either. The strenuous labor and migraines. “I’m done, alright? You’re being such a–”

“Bitch?” A gruff voice chuckles, interrupting. Steve, surprised to hear another male voice in the store, quickly turns around. 

The guy is tall, taller than Steve. That’s the first thing he notices. Then he notices the cold blue of his eyes and the way your entire body freezes in fear when you see him. Steve moves your body behind his, unconsciously putting you out of harm’s way, protecting you from whoever the hell this guy is in front of him. It’s instinctual, he doesn’t hesitate.

Who the fuck does this guy think he is, calling you a bitch?

“I would never call her that,” Steve squares his shoulders, putting ice into his words as he does so. He wouldn’t. He was going to call you a child. Steve would never call a woman a bitch, his mother raised him better than that and Robin would hit him if he ever did.

The guy laughs again. “You sure about that, buddy?”

“Jack,” Steve almost doesn’t hear you, you’re barely audible. He’s never heard your voice so soft before, so weak and scared; he decides he never, ever wants to be the cause of this voice. “You can’t be here.”

“Says who? I don’t see anybody kickin’ me out.” The guy, Jack, shrugs indifferently. He stuffs his hands into his jacket, it’s made of a nice, suede material that Steve is ashamed to admit he’d wear himself. “I wanted to see you, sweetheart.”

Jack tries to step closer to you, but Steve blocks him. “Funny, I thought she was a bitch?”

“Bitch, sweetheart, easy fuck, fucking moron.” Jack laughs, only this time it’s cruel. “It’s all the same when it comes to Y/N.”

Fucking moron.

Steve had said the same about you. A heavy weight of shame crushes his chest. He should’ve never called you such a cruel name. He knows that, now. 

“Don’t fucking talk about her like that,” Steve sneers, hand now coming around your arm as if terrified Jack will pull you away from him. “What the hell is your problem, man?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business? This is a conversation between me and the sweetheart over here.” Jack tries to reach for you again, but Steve shoves the guy away. He stumbles back, a wicked smile on his face. “Oh, the pretty boy can fight?”

“Steve,” You finally speak again, trying to shove yourself between the two men. The room grows hot and you don’t want anyone getting hurt. Not here, not with Steve. “Just leave it alone, walk away–”

Only Jack grabs your arm and viciously pulls, causing a pained yelp to escape you. A nerve pinches in your shoulder, he sends your body flying forward. His grip is harsh, it will leave bruises tomorrow, and you’re weak against him. Fear chokes you, he always does this.

“Don’t touch her.” Steve’s fist collides with Jack’s face, starbursts of pain explode in his wrist but he doesn’t care. All he sees is red now. Jack hurt you. He caused you to cry out in pain. Steve punches him again, the sound of pain you made rings in his ears, turns his blood cold and his anger boiling hot. 

Jack recovers from the punches quickly and he raises his fist, but you try to get him away from Steve. “Stop!” 

The fist comes down, you brace for impact, helpless against it, but the sound of skin hitting skin is all you’re met with. You open your eyes, Jack’s fist is in Steve’s palm. Stunned, Jack is too slow to pull away before Steve wraps his arm around his and twists it behind his back. The muscles strain, the ligament cries in pain as Jack’s arm is pulled dangerously far back. 

“Fuck!” Jack screams, contorting his body desperately to get out of the death lock he’s in. 

“You’re going to leave,” Steve hisses into his ear, “and you’re going to never, ever come back. If you even look at Y/N again I swear,” he mercilessly pulls even harder on Jack’s arm, the bone threatens to snap, but he doesn’t care. “I will break every bone in your fucking body.”

And with that, Steve finally releases Jack, who crashes pathetically to the ground. The moment he’s freed, he scrambles to his feet and cradles his sprained arm. He’s panting, no longer the confident and arrogant asshole he once was when he walked into Family Video ten minutes prior.

“Fuck you,” Jack spits out at Steve, but he’s already walking backwards towards the door to leave. “That bitch isn’t worth it, anyways.”

The door slams closed. 

Silence fills the void that the violence left behind. 

Steve shakes out his wrist, wringing out the pain from the punches. His knuckles are red, raw, bruising with every passing second. He brings the injured hand closer to inspect it, wincing at the inflamed skin. 

“You’re hurt.”

Your eyes linger on the blood that leaks from his knuckles. The skin has split, but the pain that the nerve endings scream over soothes Steve. He shakes his hand out again as he shakes his head at you. “I’m fine.”

But you don’t believe him.

Carefully, slowly, you bring your uninjured hand over Steve’s injured one. Your touch is gentle, hesitant. The pads of your fingers skim over the bruising that litters Steve’s skin. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, no.” Steve pulls his hand away, he doesn’t like what the image of his injury is doing to you. He’s not used to your tenderness, the sympathy you blanket him with. Besides, he isn’t the only one who got hurt. Steve instead brings your hand up, holding your wrist delicately as he sucks in a breath seeing the bruises Jack left. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

You don’t say anything. 

Steve kisses the damaged skin, he feels you shiver beneath his lips. He isn’t sure why he does it, he just knows that he wishes he could physically remove the burn of the bruises from your memory. 

Minutes pass, the silence is all that is spoken. 

Eventually the two of you get back to work. There’s still two more hours before either of you can leave, even if the thought of staying in the store suffocates you. No other customers come in. It’s just you and Steve, matching bruises to keep you guys company. 

When four in the afternoon comes along, Steve clocks both of you out and locks the store up. He doesn’t let you do a single thing. He insists on having you sit by the window as he finishes the last restock orders and closes the door. His hand softly guides you outside, lingering on your waist as he locks the store’s doors for the night. 

“Alright, well…” Steve clears his throat. He doesn’t know what else to say to you. “Guess I’ll just, you know, leave–”

“Please don’t leave me alone.”

His breath catches. You stare up at him, eyes wide with fear and vulnerability and despair. “I…”

“Please,” you can’t walk home alone. Not tonight. Not after everything that happened today. “I just…”

Without saying anything, Steve’s hand finds yours, and he walks you to his car. He opens the door for you, closes it softly behind you once you get in. He gets into his own seat, turns the radio on and fiddles with the stations until he finds the one he knows you like. Every time you have a shift together, you play the same station and sing along to all your favorite songs.

It used to drive Steve insane.

Now he’s relieved he can do this one thing for you.

The drive is quiet. The only conversation that is made is mumbled directions to your house. It isn’t a far drive, but Steve takes his time anyways. He doesn’t know if you have anyone to go home to, he knows you haven’t stopped shaking quite yet. 

“Turn here,” your voice is hoarse from lack of use.

Steve listens, turns into a neighborhood he’s unfamiliar with. He thinks he’s nearing your home and he isn’t ready to let you go just yet. He knows you have to talk about what happened today. The bruises on his knuckles will fade, but the memory of Jack’s cruel words won’t. 

“So,” He clears his throat. He’s doing the right thing, he knows he is. “Jack. He was…?”

You’re quiet for several moments and Steve is afraid he’s ruined everything, pushed you too far, but eventually you respond. “Ex boyfriend. Broke up a week ago. He didn’t take it well.”

“I hate him.”

Despite the fatigue that weighs upon you and the dread that Jack will come back, you can’t help but laugh at what Steve has said. “Yeah, I guess I do, too.”

Silence falls again. Steve pulls into your driveway, he turns the car off, the headlights die, but neither one of you move. 

“You’re not, you know.”

You finally face Steve, confused as to what he’s referencing. “What?”

“You’re not a ‘fucking moron’. And you’re definitely not a bitch.” He clarifies, eyes meeting yours. You’re almost breathless by how brightly they shine with remorse. You’ve never known a man who felt such an emotion. “Jack is a dick, and so was I.”

“Steve…”

He doesn’t let you pity him. He knows what he did was wrong, the words that fell from his mouth about you will haunt him forever. Steve may not have liked you, but he didn’t have any right to say those things about you. “I really am sorry, Y/N.” 

There’s nothing to forgive.

Steve isn’t Jack. You know that, now. 

“It’s okay. I think I made you go through enough today, anyways.” You nudge his shoulder with yours, risking physical affection just this once. “First the restock orders and then defending my honor? I think we’re even.”

“I was pretty heroic, wasn’t I?” Steve tries to laugh, play along, but it’s bitter on his tongue. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for how much he hurt you. 

Noticing his darkened expression, you poke Steve’s cheek. “Hey, you’re not allowed to brood. I’m the one whose crazy ex showed up at work today.” But it doesn’t work, he doesn’t laugh and you know he blames himself for everything. “Look at me, Steve.”

Night has fallen and the honey brown in Steve’s eyes resembles darkened ash. You place your hand on his, careful not to disturb his bruises. “I forgive you, but if you insist on being such an annoying jerk about it, then you can make it up to me by being my friend.”

“Your friend?” Steve doesn’t pull his hand away from yours, and it’s a start. 

“Yup, think you can handle that?” 

“‘Friends’,” he lets the word roll over his tongue. Tests it out, gets a feel for what it would be like to call you his friend. He thinks he likes the way it feels, the weight that accompanies it is one that settles his chest, soothes his wounds. “I guess I can be okay with that.”

He smiles at you, then, and you smile back.

You’re beautiful when you smile; warm, angelic.  

Steve doesn’t consider himself a bad guy, but by all accounts, he considers you a goddamn saint. 

-

⌑ writing masterlist

⌑ please feel free to like, reblog, and comment. i adore hearing from you guys :)

[bouncytrait]

A culinary school graduate still shares this apartment with her ex-boyfriend, a san myshuno-based artist, because they're broke af.

[bluewolfangel01]

I feel uhhh so silllyy for requesting this but what if sheep mc snapped at like the brothers cuz there’s no way their 100+ year old asses are still acting like angsty teenagers (MC has a delusional joy moment😔😔😔)

It's okay, this is a very interesting request and I'm glad to do it 😁

I will specifically be writing Mc as a sheep like in the manga cause tiny pissed off sheep going off on tall and powerful demons is hilarious (sorry for the wait btw)

angy Mc is funny Mc and you can't change my mind

(I headcanon that the brothers sense their sin on Mc/you btw)

-Angy Mc-

Satan was the first one to sense something was up after a few minutes after his brothers and him started arguing

At first he wasn't sure what he was sensing, until he realized that he felt his sin, pure festering wrath

The worst part? He realized that it coming from Mc, who oddly enough was just sitting quietly on the couch, blankly staring at their phone in front of them

Satan went quite

Which caught the attention of the other brothers, who also turned their shouting at Satan, and even though Satan was very tempted to strick back at them, he held his tongue for once

Mc: "Can you all not fight, argue, or yell FOR ONE DAY?!"

It was at this point the brothers knew, they f#cked up (and went silent)

Mc: "Honestly, I know yall are brothers and demons so this kinda stuff is bound to happen but for Diavolo's sake this is getting ridiculous!"

Mc: *points hoof at Belphie* " Belphie. I know you're the avatar of sloth and therefore sleep a lot, but you can't solve all your problems and grief by sleeping the time away constantly, and the youngest brother brat thing doesn't always make you endearing!"

Mc: *points hoof at Beel* "Beel. I know you have survivors guilt but Lilith ended up living with humans like she wanted, Belphie doesn't need you standing up for him all the time, and you needn't continue to try to fill the hole inside you by eating in a restaurant that has no more food when you could just go down the street to another food place!"

Mc: *points hoof at Asmo* "Asmo. I know you ~get it on~ mainly to distract yourself from your troubles, to make yourself forget even just for a bit, sometimes but you can't push those feelings down forever, so actually talk with someone, anyone, about whats bothering you rather then trying ignore it! And stop hitting on your brothers, it's kinda weird!"

Mc: *points hoof at Satan* "Satan. I know you have an inferiority complex when it comes to Lucifer, but for the love of Diavolo, you wouldn't be called Satan, avatar of wrath, if you were like Lucifer in the first place. You have blonde hair and like cats, Lucifer has black grey-ish hair and likes dogs. AND THATS JUST THE START OF THE CONTRASTS! You are your own person, get that through your thick skull!"

Mc: *points hoof at Levi* "Levi. I know that it's easy to compare yourself to others and not at least feel somewhat bad about yourself but how do you not realize that you're the best tech wiz we got, an amazing gamer, and the most dedicated being I've ever seen in my life! So if you think that you're not good at something think again!"

Mc: *points hoof at Mammon* "Mammon. How in the whole Devildom is the Avatar of Greed almost always poor?! Also I know you are a material gorl, but items and things can't fully fill the void that you feel, so stop acting all emotionally constipated and just ask for affection if you want it!"

Mc: *points hoof at Lucifer* "And you Lucifer. I know you're the eldest and the prideful one, but there is such a thing as shouldering too much and being stubborn to a fault! Ask for help and for Diavolo to lessen your workload every once in a while! And stop not telling your brothers important things, rather then being all secretive to try to 'protect them' youre just hurting yourself and them cause of it!"

Silence was all that could be heard in the House of Lamentation, the brothers still as statues with varying amount of widened eyes, staring at the small being that they cherished that had just ripped into them so aggressively

After a minute ofa dead silent pause, Mc turned off their phone, hopped off the couch and started walking to the living room exit

Mc: "Honestly, I didn't expect to become a therapist for demons when coming here, and now I can't even read my enemies to lovers book in even somewhat peace.... I don't get paid enough for this."

They then disappeared from the brothers' sight, left to wrap their heads around what just happened

And the arguement that started it all? Who was going to make dinner that night

[murdockparker]

Roses and Regrets - Part 1

Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Freshly out of mourning, Lady Barlow, née (Y/L/N), makes her re-debut in society. If only she could simply ignore a certain viscount...

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: none. enemies to lovers!!

A/N: I didn't expect this lil requested fic to turn into such an event, let alone a multi-part story! so, you're welcome or I'm sorry?

next part

__

She was perfectly happy. 

Well, supposedly right now she wasn’t. 

Her husband, Lord Barlow, had passed away ten months ago, leaving her with an empty estate, a shiny title and more money than she knew what to do with. Lord Barlow was an old viscount, desperate for an heir and willing to do anything to get one. 

In came Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N).

Young, beautiful and well-bred, she was the perfect choice for any man of the ton. If only her father hadn’t a penchant for gambling. Perhaps she’d be married to a man more suited for her rather than the oaf of a dustbin she was forced to be with. She was no fool in believing in a love match for herself, rare and far between as they were, no, but she did have half a mind to imagine a kinder man as her husband. A man who perhaps cared even a little bit for her wellbeing. 

No matter. 

A dead man cannot care for her wellbeing either. 

“Lady Barlow,” a maid knocked, entering the ornate drawing room.

“Yes?” (Y/N) did not look up from her reading—the newest edition of Whistledown had just been delivered. While she herself was never one to gossip terribly, it was quite fun to keep up with the circus of the season. 

“Do you plan on attending the Danbury ball this eve?”

“I do not see the point,” she scoffed playfully, “after all, Meg, I am but a widow in mourning.”

“Perhaps her ladyship should reconsider?” Meg asked gently, placing a new pot of tea next to her lady. “I rather think it has been a socially acceptable amount of time since your husband’s passing.”

“If I am not to enjoy the perks of being a widow,” (Y/N) sighed, finally looking up at her favorite lady’s maid, “whatever is the point?”

“Perks that Viscount Barlow has graciously allowed you to use during your time of mourning—”

“The current viscount is all but twelve,” (Y/N) reminded. “He has no use for this estate in Mayfair until he himself becomes an adult, in which, I am sure he and his mother will come to make use of it. I believe if my maths are correct, that leaves me all of six years or so to use this home.”

“Forgive me my lady, but should you not be looking for a new husband, then?”

(Y/N) smiled at Meg. She enjoyed their friendship, her maid being only a handful of years older than herself, it made for a likely pair. “No one wishes to marry a widow,” she said simply, “widows are damaged goods. Every sensible man of the ton will be wanting a pretty little virgin instead.”

“My lady!”

“What?” She barked a laugh. “You know it to be true.”

“Regardless,” Meg said, clearing her throat. “Lord Barlow passed nearly a year ago, the period of mourning is rightfully over. You are expected to rejoin society.”

“Dreadful.”

“It is expected,” Meg repeated.

“It does not make it any less dreadful,” (Y/N) said. “Very well. Pull a dress and prepare a bath, it seems the ton gets to see my dreary face once again.”

—

Anthony Bridgerton was a man scorned. 

Particularly by his own mother in this very instance. How foolish he had been to share his intentions of marriage this season with her—for now she spread the news like a wildfire. Every desperate mama and her equally desperate daughter came flocking to him like bees to honey. 

It was only now, in the dark corner of the ballroom, that he found a respite.

“Looking a bit green, Lord Bridgerton,” a voice beside him called out. 

“I am not—” Anthony had huffed a reply before even knowing whom he was speaking to. “Lady Barlow.”

“I am shocked you can recall my name,” (Y/N) laughed over her champagne flute. “Considering how many new ones you’ve had thrown at you this eve.”

“You are out of mourning.”

“Is that a question?”

“It was an observation,” Anthony corrected.

“What gave it away? My bright dress? No tear stains left on my cheeks?”

“You are here, out and about,” Anthony said. “And, forgive me for not playing along with your delusions, but I do not think you cried much at all for Lord Barlow’s passing.”

“How dare you assume such a thing,” (Y/N) faux gasped. She had intended on pressing a hand to her chest. Intended, anyway. Somehow she forgot all about the champagne currently residing it her grasp. “Damn… this was a new dress too.”

“Good God,” he laughed. “First you are spilling all over yourself like a child and now you are cursing—tell me, do all married ladies act like you?”

“I am a widow,” (Y/N) had found a cloth and begun dabbing up the spill. It had only dribbled at most, but still, it was a new dress. “I rather think I can act the way I please.”

“Like a drunkard?”

“Like a free woman,” she said, fighting every childish urge to stick her tongue out at the viscount. “I am only here to show my face, prove I am still alive and I shall go about my merry way.”

“Lady Danbury is a widow,” Anthony noted. “Yet she still mingles with society.”

“I am not Lady Danbury.”

“You are not.”

“Do you not have young misses to go and woo?” (Y/N)’s eyes hardened. “Take your pick from the litter, Lord Bridgerton, any of them would be pleased to spend such valuable time with you.”

“Are you insinuating you are not?”

“I rather thought it was a statement, yes,” (Y/N) said.

Anthony’s eyes went only a fraction wider, nostrils flaring. “Well, if that is what you wish—”

“It is not a mean of wishing,” she laughed, “but really a necessity.”

“Good evening, Lady Barlow,” Anthony sneered, smoke practically coming out of his ears. If (Y/N) had half a mind she’d call for the authorities to put that fire out, instead, she simply finished her drink and smiled wistfully at the dancing ballroom, feeling fulfilled. 

—

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The season is in full swing thanks to the mark of Lady Agatha Danbury’s ball, a notable and traditional first event of the London scene. Eligible young ladies now on the Marriage Mart were enjoying their first taste at what fine society has to offer, however taxing or daunting it may be. 

Our resident Capital ‘R’ Rake, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is finally deciding on a wife, surely making him the finest catch of the season. Matchmaking mamas and their young ladies alike were seen flocking to him like petulant children asking their parents for pin money, thanks to his own mother, Lady Bridgerton’s declaration of such an idea last night. The viscount seemingly had enough of the attention, taking like a wallflower and hiding away in the back of the ballroom near the end of the evening. 

His company? None other than Lady Barlow, evidently out of mourning as of last night. While the this Author is under good authority that the match between Lady Barlow and the late Lord Barlow was not a love match, given their fourty or fifty year age difference, it has taken the new dowager viscountess longer than most anticipated for her to get back into the season. A woman as young as Lady Barlow would be eager to find another husband to support her, but something tells me that she is quite enjoying her time as a widow and will not easily give that up. 

While this Author has very little idea of the actual nature of the relationship between Lord Bridgerton and Lady Barlow, it is only to be assumed that it is simply not a favorable one. The two were seen making a scene by the refreshment table, a scene that went unnoticed by many prying eyes of the ton, leaving Lord Bridgerton storming away and Lady Barlow with the winning hand. 

Good show, Lady Barlow. 

Lady Whistledown Society Papers

—

“Brother! You are in Whistledown!” Eloise sang to no one in particular. 

“I have no care that I am in that gossip rag,” Anthony ground out, rustling his newspaper. “I can only imagine it is just another advertisement of my search for a wife this season.”

“Er, yes, however—”

“However?” Anthony’s attention immediately shot up to his sister, newspaper be damned. 

“Who is Lady Barlow?” Eloise asked. 

“No one of importance,” Anthony could feel his temperature rising. 

“Lady Barlow?” Benedict laughed. “Is that who you were talking to last night dear Brother? Is she not still in mourning?”

“No.”

“No it is not who you were talking to, or no she is not still in mourning?” Benedict gave his brother an amusing glance.

“Oh, according to Whistledown—”

“Sister—”

“Eloise, you may not recall Lady Barlow, given you only just came out this season,” Benedict began, deciding that this conversation was very much worth his time this morning. “But she used to go by Miss (Y/L/N) before her marriage to the late viscount.”

“(Y/L/N)…” Eloise looked to the ceiling, finding nothing in particular. “Oh! Is she not the woman who—”

“I am taking my leave,” Anthony said abruptly, newspaper all but forgotten. 

“Escaping, Brother?” Benedict asked. 

“I have calls to make,” Anthony sneered, ignoring the pleased face his brother was making. “Excuse me.”

“It seems Lady Barlow is a touchy subject,” Eloise noted as her eldest brother left the drawing room. Benedict snorted. “What?”

“You do not even know the half of it, dear Sister.”

Anthony Bridgerton, did not in fact, have any calls to make. He had no impressionable interactions last night to warrant such a visit to anyone—the Queen was still in need of naming her diamond, after all—but he had no desire to stay and be berated by his family this morning. He truly had no plan, no thought in his head on where he was going, he just simply was. 

Apparently he was going to the park.

It was still early in the day, few people graced the park at such an hour. The few who did, however, were too busy reading the latest Whistledown to even notice him. Anthony saw a handful of post boys running opposite of his direction on his way here, it was only natural they scoped out this location. He knew it was going to be a problem the minute they finished reading—if Lady Whistledown truly wrote about him, which he had no reason to believe his sister was lying about, all eyes would be on him.

“Might as well enjoy the peace and quiet for now,” Anthony exhaled. He took a quick glance at his watch—half past eight. Hardly could he recall a time he took a turn about the park on his own, usually he was in the company of his family or holed away in his study worrying about expenses and the like, never did he take a moment to actually enjoy the grand weather such as the kind today. Determined to enjoy it, he sat down on a favorable bench and watched the birds swim across the pond.

“Unbelievable.”

He turned his head, only to find Lady Barlow dressed in a rather pleasantly pink dress and matching hat, a look of distaste on her face.

“I didn’t take you as the park-going type, Lord Bridgerton,” she nodded, folding her hands. She had been carrying a small red book in one of them. “Especially at such an early hour, too.”

“Lady Barlow,” he nearly sneered. “Can a man not enjoy the park?”

“Oh surely a man can,” (Y/N) agreed. “But you? You are no man.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It seems to me that you’re sitting in my spot,” she ignored his quip, readjusting her stance in annoyance. “This is where I come to read.”

“Can you not read elsewhere?” Anthony asked. “There is an entire park at your disposal.”

“No,” she hummed. “Afraid not.”

“No?” He laughed. “Surely out of the entire park you can find a suitable spot to read your—let me guess—romantically inclined fodder?”

“Poetry,” she corrected, “and no, I cannot simply read elsewhere. The shade is just right under this tree and I rather like overlooking the pond between my chapters.”

“Shame I got here first, then,” Anthony clicked.

“You…!” (Y/N) scoffed, fighting every urge in her body to stomp her foot. “You are an impossible man, surely you know that?”

“I thought you said I was no man?” Anthony’s brow quirked. “Or perhaps I misheard?”

She scowled. “You are not amusing.”

“On the contrary,” Anthony leaned back on the bench, stretching his arms and taking his claim. “I find myself very amusing.”

A duck quacked from the pond, either laughing at the viscount or agreeing with him—it was hard to tell. 

“You leave me no choice,” (Y/N) said sternly, taking a seat on the other end of the bench—feeling worlds apart from the man on the far side. In actuality, it couldn’t have been more than two feet, three at most.

“Truly?” Anthony laughed humorlessly. “You cannot be serious.”

“Hush,” (Y/N) said, opening her book in earnest. “I am trying to read.”

While there had been no guns drawn, this was a duel, in every sense of the word. Both parties sitting still as statues, Anthony’s gaze trained on the pond, (Y/N)’s on her book. Occasionally, she’d flip her page to the next, huffing every time Anthony still did not get up and move on. 

Stubborn. Both of them.

“Will you be quiet?” Anthony said, growing exasperated. “I cannot think when you are breathing so loud—” 

“You wish for me not to breathe?” She shut her book. “I never anticipated you’d wish me dead—”

“Please,” Anthony said. “You know that is not what I mean at all.”

“I never know with you. You, Anthony Bridgerton, are an enigma and I hope I never have the pleasure of truly understanding you,” (Y/N) said, fingers whiting from her grip on her book.

“So you admit it would be pleasurable?”

She wanted to wipe that grin off of his face, how, she was unsure. Idly, she thought about how a good smack to his cheek would feel. Painful in the moment but oh-so wonderful after, cathartic, probably. “I am not getting up.”

“Neither am I.”

“I am willing to die on this bench,” (Y/N) spat.

“Funnily enough,” Anthony’s voice dropped, “so am I.”

“How are you to find your viscountess on this bench?” She asked, angling her body towards the torturous man. “Surely you do not expect her to just walk past?”

“I am sure I can manage,” Anthony said calmly. “Many young ladies will walk this way when they see me sitting here."

“Even with another woman sitting beside you?”

“I rather think they’ll find you easy to ignore, I know I do.”

“Ha! You are truly something else, Lord Bridgerton,” (Y/N) sat straighter. “Insulting a polite woman in public?”

“You are the furthest thing from polite,” Anthony leaned in. “Rude, ostentatious, quite full of herself—”

“Might I offer you a mirror?” The grip on her book tightened, cover bending from the force. “Or are you afraid you’ll see horns?”

“Oh, do they match yours?” He nearly sang. 

“Funny,” she clicked, finally setting her book down, lacing her fingers together in her lap. “You should run a comedy act at the circus, seeing as you are a right clown.”

Anthony stood up, whether by the force of his breath or sheer spite he will never know. “You are the most ridiculous woman I have ever met.”

(Y/N) met his height, now standing as well. “And you are the most irritating man I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.”

“I am going to walk this way,” Anthony said, forcefully pointing to his right, eyes not leaving hers. She did have the most remarkable eyes.

“And I will walk this way,” she pointed to her left, less force in her action but seething all the same. “Have the day you deserve, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Why you little…!”

She had already turned and stomped away, a fuming smudge of pink against the greenery of the park, growing further away with every step.

“What a wretched woman,” he mumbled, looking down at his watch again—nine on-the-dot. In the corner of his eye, something bright red caught his attention. Her book. She had left it behind.

Perhaps he would burn it.

Perhaps he would just put it in his pocket and carry about his day.

In the pocket it went. For now.

[lyctorism]

#they really did that

[itwoodbeprefect]

the thing about bad buddy is that calling it enemies to lovers is not entirely wrong and is a very succinct and easy way to indicate the general plot, but also one of the only moments that the two main characters are actually personally in conflict with each other lasts about four minutes and is expressed mainly through upset shirtless xylophone playing contrasted with a montage of happy moments that features a time there was triumphant shirt-wearing xylophone playing. and then they both say sorry at literally the exact same time

[kcrra]

no thoughts, just "where is duty, where is sacrifice" and the way that alicent clings to abstract constructs like religion, honor, duty and sacrifice because her material life is so concretely terrible and empty. to have loved someone so dearly, and watch them be what you perceive as free while your entire personhood is reduced to a womb and made to serve the realm, a vessel for the rotting king to use and abuse. to not exist as a person for yourself but in only in service to others as you are ordered by your father under a patriarchal structure..........and then the contrast of that quote, which summarizes all of alicent's anguish and agony, to the classic, "what is honor compared to a woman's love? what is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms...we are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love.".................but alicent doesn't have love, not anymore. duty, honor, these concepts - they're all she's got, and the lack of the very elements that make them meaningful has corroded her inside and out. so: honor, duty, sacrifice, all without love. and here we are.

[hysteriafossil]

guess who finished tlok tonight and immediately had this come to him in a vision!!!!

[hadesisqueer]

I like how Violet is so used to having dramatic ass children that Francesca marrying with no drama was too odd to her lmao. And thinking about how her story will unfold is actually kinda hilarious because it's gonna be like:

Violet: Well, that's it. John is a very good man and Francesca is comfortable and happy with her choice and if this is what she truly wants, it's all that matters💜

Violet: Also, it's kinda refreshing to finally have a normal child that doesn't do any dramatic or scandalous shit.

Francesca a few seasons later after her husband passes: *fucks and falls in love with her husband's cousin -who is a woman-*

Violet:

Violet: Honestly, I should've seen this coming, none of my children will actually ever be normal.

[slut4thebroken]

“Childhood Enemies Turned Lovers?” - part 2

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Robert Fischer × reader

Summary | Robert punishes you for almost messing up the next date.

Warnings | Smut, semi public sex, degradation, humiliation, praise, dry humping, orgasm delay/denial, vaginal fingering, sir + daddy kink lol, more slut shaming but in a hot way.

Words | 3k

Notes | Enjoy some smut before things get super angsty :)

Ao3 link | <3

Fic Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Part 1

There was some speculation that this was all so sudden and obviously fake, so they waited two weeks before staging another date. 

This time, you went out during the evening. The PR team thought it might be a good idea to kill two birds with one stone and stage a fake date, as well as start to fix your reputation. Your father was reluctant to agree, but— obviously— trusted Robert more than you to keep you in check. Which is how you found yourself at a nightclub. His attire was slightly more relaxed than normal; he left the tie and suit jacket at home, and opted for a darker colored suit, leaving the top button undone. You were practically fucking salivating just looking at him. Especially when he complained about how hot it was and started rolling his sleeves up. 

You on the other hand we’re told to dress for the occasion, but more modest than what you’d normally wear. They even had you send a picture of you in the dress to confirm, which you thought was a little overkill. What sluttiness you lacked in the dress though, you made up for with the heels. They were tall and strappy and Robert told you he’s not helping you if your feet start to hurt, which you thought was cute. You’ve been wearing heels like this for years now and even if your feet do start to hurt, you’ll just take them off. 

You both ordered drinks and after a while you suggested he dance with you, but he refused. So you went alone. As you were dancing among the other flushed, barely covered bodies, you realized that this is probably the first time you’ve gone to a club and not been able to go home with someone. Not that it wasn’t frowned upon before, but now it’s strictly off limits. 

When the first pair of hands grabbed your hips, you reluctantly batted them away and were severely disappointed to find out how hot he was when you turned around. After two song changes, you were approached again. 

“Can I dance with you?” A woman asked— it was so refreshing being treated like a person sometimes— and you bit your lip, thinking. You looked over at Robert who was looking at his phone. Technically you’re supposed to be photographed leaving the club, so no one should find out. And if they do… people are homophobic enough to believe that this was platonic. 

You nodded and she smiled. She grabbed your hips and pulled you closer and you were suddenly engulfed in her intoxicating scent— something vanilla-y. You gasped when she suddenly turned you around and pressed her front flush with your back. Even with your heels she was still taller than you. You danced lazily for a while, letting your head fall back on her shoulder as you closed your eyes, choosing to get lost in the moment. But of course it was interrupted. 

Robert called you name loudly from in front of you, trying to get you to hear it over the music, and you lifted your head to look at him. 

“What?” His expression was pretty neutral and you tried to hear him, but you could only make out a few words. “What?” You yelled, trying to convey that you couldn’t understand. He just rolled his eyes and grabbed your wrist, pulling you from the dance floor. He stopped in the hallway, but the volume level was the same because of how small the club was, so he pushed open the bathroom door and practically dragged you inside, then locked it. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” You spat, wrenching your arm free from his grasp. 

“You know you shouldn’t be doing that. Anyone could see.” You huffed and crossed your arms over your chest. 

“What are you, my daddy? You don’t tell me what to do.” You sneered. 

“I do when it concerns people other than yourself. This isn’t about you, so grow up.” You scoffed and looked away from him. “I think you’re forgetting that we’re in the same boat. But I’m not risking fucking everything up because I’m horny.” 

“Screw. You.” You spat, pushing at his chest. 

“Oh so that is it, then? You don’t get fucked for a few weeks and you just turn into an insatiable little whore? No matter the consequences?” You wanted to deny it, but the arousal building in your stomach from his words and tone was unmistakable. You clenched your jaw and looked away, prompting him to grab your cheeks in one hand and turn you back to him. Despite the ferocity of his gaze, he kept his grip light. 

“If you need to be fucked so bad, buy a dildo. Or if the issue is you’re too much of a pillow princess to do it yourself, buy a machine— god knows you can afford it.” Your cheeks heated up under his hand and you did your best to steady your breathing. “See how many options you have that don’t end with you screwing everything up?” He cooed mockingly and you closed your eyes, swallowing down a whimper. 

“What, now you finally shut up?” He scoffed and you couldn’t hold the sound in any longer. 

“Robert…” You whined, pressing your thighs together. He let out a dark chuckle and you shivered in response. 

“So fucking pathetic.” The sweet tone almost fooled you. “You’re really desperate enough that you’ll take it from me?” He scoffed a laugh, making your blush burn darker. His hand suddenly fisted your hair, then yanked your head back, forcing a startled moan out of you. “Answer me.” He growled. 

“Fuck— Robert, please.” You whimpered, squeezing your thighs together even harder. The second he noticed, he was forcing a leg between your own, pressing this thigh against your heat, making you mewl and grab at his shirt. 

“Show me how desperate you are. Show me how much this little pussy needs to be filled.” He said quietly. You nodded with a whimper and started rocking your hips, pushing your clit against his thigh, as you started panting. “That’s it, good girl.” He cooed and you let out a choked moan in response. He looked down to watch you grind on him, but suddenly pulled away when he saw the dark patch on his pants. 

“Fuck— These cost more than your fucking phone.” He huffed and you would’ve made fun of him if you weren’t so damn needy. “Get on the floor.” You looked around the bathroom and whined, not wanting to kneel on the floor of a public bathroom. “Kneel or we’ll go back out there and finish our drinks.” He warned, so you tentatively dropped to the floor. 

“There you go.” He cooed, petting your hair. “Grind on my shoe.” 

“What?” You choked out, now infinitely more embarrassed than a few seconds ago. 

“Unless you’d rather leave?” 

“No! No—” You clutched onto his pant leg, not letting him make good on his threat. 

“Then stop wasting my time.” With a whine, you looked down at his shoe, tentatively shuffling forward. You looked up at him one last time before lowering yourself onto the smooth leather. The friction was less than his pants, but the stimulation still had you panting and whining regardless. 

“You look good on your knees.” He said with a smirk, making you blush. “Can’t believe I have to let you hump my shoe like a bitch in heat just to keep you from fucking all of this up.” He muttered and you let out a low, embarrassed whine. 

“Robert,” You whimpered, needing more. You wrapped your arms around his leg and leaned your chin on his thigh as you looked up at him. He cursed under this breath and bit his lip. “Please.” 

“This not enough for you, princess? Need more?” You nodded with a pout, wanting his fingers, his mouth, his cock— anything. “That really is too bad, isn’t it?” He cooed empathetically, making you have to repeat his words in your head before you realized that what he said was actually a bad thing. “I can’t believe I have to marry a pathetic little slut. Are you going to be like this until the divorce? Humping any part of me, every chance you get?” 

“Robert…” You whined, eyes watering with tears of desperation and humiliation. “Fuck— please.” You both froze when his phone started ringing. 

“Take off your underwear.” He said quickly, then, when you didn’t move fast enough, “Now.” You scrambled to remove them and place them in his hand, then he was shoving them in your mouth before you even registered what was happening. “Continue. You don’t want me to tell you again.” He warned before answering the call. 

You tentatively wrapped your arms around his leg again and picked up where you left off, but with a little less enthusiasm this time, not wanting to be too loud. Based on his tone and how much he was talking, it seemed like an important call. Which confused you even more on why he’d want you to keep going. 

His free hand suddenly gripped your hair, then wrenched your head back, and you couldn’t stifle the startled moan in time. You looked up at him with wide, fearful eyes, worried you had upset him because of that. 

“Do better.” He whispered, barely audible. You nodded and he released you, letting you bring your head back down to a more comfortable position. You started moving faster, grinding down harder. Too embarrassed to keep looking at him, you turned your head and rested your cheek on his thigh, but your breath caught in your throat when you finally noticed the bulge in his pants. You tentatively brought one hand up, but before you could touch him, he roughly grabbed your wrist to stop you. So you wrapped your arm back around his leg and kept going, staring at his crotch almost longingly. 

“You saw that, did you?” He cringed and the sudden change of tone caught your attention. “Yeah I know our history has been… rocky at best.” He paused as the person on the phone presumably cut him off. 

“Has she fucked me yet?” He chuckled, making you whine and bury your face into his thigh more. “No, not yet… I know— I was just as surprised.” You whined and pulled back to stare up at him, silently pleading with him to end this humiliation and just give you what you need. His eyes bored into yours as he pet your head, making you mewl and grind down harder. 

“Yeah… She’s actually.. less of a bitch than I thought— I know. Don’t get me wrong, she has her moments,” He cut off again and waited a few seconds, then chuckled under his breath. 

“Get up.” He mouthed to you and you stood on shaky legs, holding onto him for balance. He guided you over to the counter and bent you over it, making you gasp at the feeling of the cold marble pressed to your flushed skin. When he pushed your dress up enough to expose your ass, you whined and buried your head in your arms, making him grab your hair to lift you back up. “Eyes on me.” He whispered. You nodded tentatively, then he went back to the task at hand. 

“Oh yeah. Spoiled too— and she acts like it.” He placed a hand on your ass and pulled it to the side for a better view of your drooling hole. “I know, I know. But you’ve seen some of those photos that circled around a few years back,” He suddenly pushed two fingers inside you and you jolted forward with a strangled moan. 

“Yeah I’m actually out with her now, she’s in the bathroom. You should see the fucking dress she’s wearing.” He curled his fingers against your walls slowly, making you whine and push your hips back. When he chuckled quietly, you stared at him through the mirror with furrowed brows and he hummed in agreement to whatever the person on the phone just said. “Exactly as you’re picturing it— her tits are practically out.” You glanced down at your chest through the mirror, finding his statement correct— your breasts were spilling out of your dress in this position. 

“And alcohol makes her so fucking needy apparently. She’s been all over me since we got here.” His fingers suddenly hit a spot inside of you that had your knees buckling as you whimpered, holding onto the counter. “Hang on, she’s coming. I’ll call you tomorrow?” His choice of words was not lost on you and he wasn’t even wrong— your orgasm was rapidly approaching. “No, I’m not going to send you pictures.” He scoffed a laugh and you whined quietly, your whole face heating up at the thought. 

“You did a.. surprisingly good job staying quiet.” He commented, putting his phone back in his pocket. “You ready to come now?” He cooed and you nodded desperately. “Yeah? Did listening to me talk about you like that make you even needier?” You whined and averted your gaze, but made sure to keep your head up. 

“Of course it fucking did.” He scoffed, quickly removing his fingers, making you whimper. He turned you around fast enough to make your head spin, then lifted you onto the counter and roughly shoved his fingers back in, working much more enthusiastically than before. You placed one hand on the counter behind you and the other to his shoulder to ground yourself. When he removed your panties from your mouth and placed a hand on your neck, you let out a loud moan, making him tighten his grip to cut off the sound. The action was sending you barreling toward your orgasm now and since you were able to beg again, you did exactly that. 

“Fuck— please... Sir, please let me come.” You gasped out, getting closer and closer. 

“Sir?” He smirked, making you blush. 

“Please make me come, I need it.” You whined loudly and his grip on your neck tightened even more as he forced a third finger inside you. 

“Fuck you’re wet.” He spat, almost disgusted. “Can you hear that, princess? You hear how messy your pathetic little cunt is?” He cooed and you sobbed out a moan. 

“Please! Please make me come,” 

“Yeah? You’re ready?” He asked as he tilted his head, and you nodded eagerly, panting and closing your eyes to focus on the feeling. When he suddenly pulled his fingers out, your body flinched forward and you cried out, making him push you back by your neck, pressing on your windpipe a little to silence you. 

“Please! I was so close!” You sobbed, clinging to his shoulder as your eyes filled with tears. 

“Whenever you think about misbehaving, I want you to remember this. If you start acting like a good little girl, then maybe next time I’ll make you come.” You let out another choked sob, on the verge of crying from desperation now. 

“No— Sir, please…” You cried. He shushed you softly and you whimpered in response, letting your eyes flutter shut. 

“I know. You’ll be okay.” He cooed, but you were pretty sure he was mocking you. When a tear finally escaped your waterline and slid down your cheek, he cursed under his breath and moved his hand from your neck to gently wipe it away. You had one last thing that you thought could work. 

“Please-” You whimpered pathetically, looking up at him with wide, glossy eyes, “please, daddy.” You were so grateful when another tear fell just as you finished talking. 

“I thought you said I’m not your daddy.” He smirked, making you whine and give him your best puppy dog eyes. “You’re going to be severely disappointed if you think calling me daddy and giving me those ‘fuck me’ eyes will do anything.” He said teasingly. You frowned in response and he gave you a sympathetic smile. “I know, princess. I’m sure you’re not used to being denied, but if you behave and listen to me, I can give it to you.” He brushed your hair behind your ear, then cupped your cheek. “Can you do that for me?” He whispered and you nodded hesitantly. 

“Good girl.” He chuckled when you let out another whimper. “Listen to me very carefully, okay? When you get home tonight, you’re not going to get yourself off. You’re going to be a good girl and get ready for bed, then go to sleep. Trust that I’ll know if you disobey me and that the consequences will be much worse than just this. Do you understand?” You pouted and looked away from him, trying to stop crying. When you let out a quiet, “yes” he gave you a proud smile. 

“You’re such a good girl, aren’t you? Just need to be put in your place.” His gaze dragged over your face with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. He gave you a small smile, then stepped back, pocketing your underwear. 

“Fix your makeup and hair before you leave. I’ll be waiting by the front door, okay?” You nodded dumbly, barely registering his words. He unlocked the door and walked out, leaving you there to catch your breath and get rid of the floaty feeling in your head. You hopped down from the counter on shaky legs and adjusted your dress before smoothing out your hair and wiping away the smudged mascara from under your eyes. Once you looked… slightly more presentable, you walked out and found him standing by the entrance to the club, waiting. 

“You still look like you just got fucked.” He chuckled, making you blush. 

“There’s not much else I can do about that.” You huffed, still feeling bratty from being denied. 

“Okay, just—” He brushed your hair back and wiped under your eyes some more, then sighed. “Try to keep your head down I guess.” He opened the door for you and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into his body. 

You kept your head slightly angled toward the floor and did your best not to trip in your heels but the alcohol and horniness were making it pretty hard. The paparazzi were right outside unfortunately, but there were only two of them, so it wasn’t that bad. His car was already waiting— he must’ve texted while you were still in the bathroom— and he opened the door for you, letting go of your waist to let you slide inside. 

Part 3

(ik It’s cut kinda awkwardly lol but this is technically just a really long one shot. Also very much sad in the next part so get ready for that lmaoo)

Taglist (join here)

@pedrisgatorade @lunyyx @faebirdie @cillianscrybaby @ceruleanrainblues @brooklynscherry-z @d1lf-loverthinqs @butlersluvbot @mandowhatnow @baekhyunstruly @halleysc6met @babaohhhriley (y’all were tagged in part one which I posted before updating my taglist system. Lmk if you want to be removed otherwise I’m going to add you to the google doc for this fic)

[bythepen98]

Doodles || 🐍🦁💚

Since I'm not done with the tomarry digital art thing yet, here's a few doodles I've made [of them] at work although not on my sticky notes this time. I happen to have a small green colored stack of paper which were supposed to be for my notes but ended up becoming a makeshift sketchpad. Gotta make use of whatever's available.

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

Hero had noticed that Villain seemed a little distracted during their fight—not bantering as much as usual, fighting back halfheartedly. Still, they had expected Villain to dodge their attack in time. But when Hero sent out another blast of their ice powers, it hit Villain square in the chest, knocking them into the wall behind them. 

Hero gasped as they watched Villain crumple to the ground, clutching at their chest. “Oh my god.” 

Villain groaned, staring down at the ice spreading across the front of their suit. “Fuck. You got me good, huh?” they forced out. The laugh that followed was on the verge of hysterical. 

“God, Villain, I’m so sorry,” Hero said, rushing to them. They knelt down in front of Villain, pushing their shaking hands out of the way so Hero could inspect the damage. Ice had pierced through their suit, seeping into Villain’s chest. Thanks to their own fire powers, it most likely wouldn’t be fatal—Villain's body heat had already begun counteracting the ice. But it looked like it hurt. 

Villain’s eyes were distant when they looked up at Hero, and their lips were tinged blue. “My fault,” they said, teeth chattering. “Should’ve been paying attention.” 

Hero shook their head. “No, no it’s not your fault. Shit, I'm sorry, I knew you were having an off day and I still…” 

Villain wrapped their arms around themself as shivers wracked their body. “S-so cold. And tired.” 

“You have to stay awake,” Hero instructed, though it came out as more of a plea. “Keep your eyes open, okay?” 

The ice was beginning to melt away already, but the effects would probably last longer. “You’ve g-got your chance to t-turn me in now,” Villain said, forcing themself to keep their eyes on Hero. 

Hero sighed, pushing Villain’s hair back. “Not gonna happen. I’m taking you home where you can have some hot soup and lots of blankets, and then rest. And maybe when you’re feeling better, you can tell me what had you so distracted today.” 

“Why?” Villain asked incredulously. 

“I did this. Now I'm going to fix it.” Hero didn’t tell them about the guilt and the looming fear that always followed them. The constant underlying threat of their powers being too strong. Or that they might lose control, like they had today. One of their worst fears had just come true and it was only by luck, or maybe a miracle, that Hero had hit the one person who couldn’t be killed by their ice powers. 

“If you w-wanted me to c-come home with you, you c-could've just asked,” Villain joked. 

Hero couldn’t help but smile—at least Villain was with it enough to still tease them. “Don’t fool yourself. Once you’re all better, we go back to being enemies.” 

“Yeah. Obviously.” Hero pretended not to notice the way Villain’s smile faltered. “You’d have t-to take me to dinner f-first, anyways. I’m not that easy.” 

“Well,” Hero said, “I can at least make you chicken noodle soup, so hopefully that counts for something. Now, come on, let’s see if you can stand…” 

[me-and-my-gaster]

An art fight revenge for beckimation!