#writing blurbs is hard

[duckprintspress]

Given how common it is for book posts that say "just give me the book blurb! stop with all the other things!" to get tens of thousands of notes, I feel the need to say, as a tiny micro-publisher: if only sharing the book blurb sold books, trust me, we wouldn't be wasting our time with all the other shenanigans.

But just sharing the blurb doesn't work. Most people scroll right by.

And so we try every single method we can think of, including sharing the blurb among them, to try to get whatever eyes we can on the book.

Of course the description of the story is the best way to sell the book and get people interested, but it only works if y'all actually read it. And getting most people to the point where they'll read anything that isn't already immediately and actively part of their existing interests is fucking hard, so we use splashy graphics and short hand to try to hook people, and then hope that when they read the blurb, that hook will go from "oh, that's worth a glance" to "oh, that's worth a buy."

Also: just because the exact post you saw promoting a book didn't include the blurb doesn't mean other posts about the book don't!

Sorry. I just have seen so much of that recently (and not just because of that poll about "what convinces you to buy," I actually found that whole poll extremely interesting and informative) that I'm kinda losing patience with it.

Just posting the blurb doesn't work.

Signed, someone who sells books for a living, or at least tries to.

[chrissv4mp]

billie accidently gets turned on while you trace her tattoos ᝰ.ᐟ

soft morning sunlight spills through the open curtains of the living room, warm rays shining on the hardwood floors in the hallway down to the master bedroom—where you and billie slowly wake from under the cozy comforter, limbs tangled in limbs, soft cotton sheets rubbing soft against your bare bodies.

it was a lazy morning—the type of morning where neither of you had to be anywhere to be, and for once, your schedules didn't matter. all you had to do was relax and hold each other, enjoy the presence of one another quietly.

that's all you had in mind when you let your head rest on your pillows the night prior—and now, as the gentle breeze flows in through the open window, the only thing running through your head is the feeling of billie's hands around your waist, so snug even in her half-asleep state.

her leg was thrown lazily over your waist in the middle of the night, only using it as leverage to pull you closer in her sleep, nose nuzzling softly against your neck, huffing quietly.

a ghost of a smile plays on your lips when you feel her fingers tighten at your waist. "...want'chu closer," she mumbles.

"m'already as close as can be," you giggle, stroking your fingers through her dark sleep-tousled hair.

she groans loudly, drawing it out and eliciting another round of giggles from deep in your chest. a few moments later, her head peeks up from the warm crook of your neck, a heavy pout clear on her pretty lips.

"hi," you greet quietly, leaning close to kiss her forehead.

her reaction is instant—shoulders dropping, eyelids fluttering shut momentarily. pout softening and replacing itself with a content grin like that simple action fixed everything and more. when you pull away, she leans in again and presses her lips to your own, meeting so softly, so sweetly.

the kiss lingers for a few long seconds before you reluctantly pull away, eyelids opening just quick enough to notice the way billie chases after you.

then her eyes open, soft ocean blue depths staring lovingly into yours. "hi, beautiful."

a dopey smile curls at the corners of her mouth, growing wider with every passing second that she continues to stare into your eyes. the tiny spark in her eyes has butterflies forming in your lower abdomen, a spark of your own just as apparent to billie the longer she examines your face.

your fingers trail down her body, nails dragging gently down her neck, her shoulder, then her back. you trace the lines of the tattoo on her back, humming quietly, eyes drifting down to where the covers deny you the view of anything below her stomach.

billie shivers at the ticklish sensation of your fingertips, eyes flicking away from yours, turning her head to follow the direction of your hand—though her view is also obstructed. but her sense of feeling isn't.

actually, it feels rather heightened this early in the morning.

"what're you doin'?" she mumbles, voice barely there, the syllables dying down in her throat near the end of her question.

you shake your head. "just feelin' your tattoos."

she takes that answer without another word, humming in reply and resting her head back into your neck. she breathes in the faint, lingering scent of your perfume, the mixed sensations of your touch and smell enough to lull her back into sleep.

the small, meaningless touches go on for nearly an hour before the warm air blowing in through the window starts to get to the both of you. billie kicks the covers down her body, letting them dangle off the edge of the bed and revealing more of her smooth, milky skin in the process.

the action has your eyes moving instinctively, flitting over her smooth stomach and the delicate curve of her hips. your gaze trail back up her body, landing on one of your favorite tattoos—the one that reads "EILISH" in big, bold letters on her sternum, perfectly placed between her pretty tits.

after a minute, your eyes drift lower, pausing over the ink of a detailed dragon on her bikini line. your fingers trail around her body, sneaking lower until you reach the sharp edge of the tattoo. she jolts.

you don't think much of it. maybe she fell back asleep, had that dream where she felt like she was falling.

so you continue on with your touches—hardly noticing the change in billie's breathing pattern, definitely not noticing how she was still wide awake.

your fingertips trace the outline of the dragon, gaze locked on how intricate it was—mind running with the question of how tattoo artists acquired that level of skill, limbs too lazy to move in an effort to look it up on your phone. you finish up tracing the dragon slowly, irises following your fingers as they searched her soft skin for any other traces of ink.

"so pretty," you whisper mindlessly as you find another tattoo just bordering her hip.

the lettering was in perfect cursive, reading the title of her most recent album, "hit me hard and soft." the font was more than pleasing to the eye, especially since the ink was embedded into her skin—the skin you loved worshipping, kissing, touching, and everything in between.

you're just picking up on the trembling of her body when you hear it—a sound so small you weren't even sure if it was real or if it was simply your imagination, something between a broken whimper and a low moan.

billie.

her hips moved slowly, grinding—or, at least trying—against your thigh. you pause your touch on her hip, and that's when she lets out another noise. this time it's a whine. maybe from disapproval. or lack of friction against her core. or both.

"bil?" you murmurr, free hand still raking slowly through her hair. when she doesn't reply, you add. "baby, what're you doing?"

the echo of her words from earlier paired the slightest hint of amusement in your tone causes billie to let out that same broken sound from earlier, fingers curling into your waist, twitching helplessly.

"m'sorry..." she mewls, voice muffled. "didn't mean to—jus' sensitive, i—m'sorry, i didn't—"

"shh," you shush her, and billie listens immediately, lips pressing into a small pout against your neck as her hips continue to move with a mind of their own.

shifting closer, you press your knee between her legs, urging billie to spread her legs wider—not that she wasn't thinking of doing that in the first place, you just finally gave her a logical reason to.

her breath is hot against your neck, nails digging into your sides now to ground herself. when your knee comes in contact with her core, you realize how soaked she really is, a small gasp escaping your lips. billie whines.

you lean in closer, lips grazing her ear. "what got you this worked up?"

the way her fingers curl tighter into your sides is enough of an answer—but with how humiliating it feels for her to grind on your knee and helplessly whine, she feels like she owes you a verbal answer.

"didn't mean to," she murmurs, the words trembling against your skin. "you were just—" she cuts herself off with a gasp when your knee presses harder, "—touchin' me so soft..."

you hum, the sound low in your throat as your fingers resume their path, this time trailing back up her ribs, dancing along the line of her "EILISH" tattoo once again. the shiver that runs down her spine is anything but subtle.

"mmh? was just tracing," you coo, feigning innocence. "didn't hear any protests against it."

her pout deepens, eyes fluttering shut as she breathes through her nose, trying to keep quiet. but her body gives her away—hips rolling faster, chest rising and falling in a shallow, uneven pattern, the way her thighs clench around your knee.

you're hardly doing anything.

and that's what's driving her crazy.

"please," she whimpers softly—a quiet, broken sound that hardly reaches your ears. "please, ma—need you. i just—"

a loud moan cuts through her throat before she can finish, your thumb pressing firmly against her throbbing clit. her hands burn against your skin, breath warm and uneven, legs trembling already.

her hips buck instinctively against your touch, squirming at how sensitive she feels. your free hand roams around to her waist, urging her onto your lap. she complies quickly, hovering over your lap and waiting for you to sit up straight.

when your back's against the headboard, billie doesn't waste another second before lowering herself onto your thigh. your hands find her waist like second nature, eyes zoned in on the way her head tilts back, mouth parted to let out the prettiest noises—noises that were especially made for you. only you.

"feels so good, doesn't it, pretty girl?" you murmur, voice firm and taunting.

billie just whines, fingers curling against your bare shoulders, hips rutting harder against your thigh, clit bumping on your skin so perfectly she swears she sees stars behind her eyelids. her head falls forward after a moment, forehead resting on your shoulder, breathing labored and coming in short, sharp gasps.

"can't—mmph, can't do it by m'self," she cries softly, lips brushing on your neck as she speaks. "please—please, need your help, mommy."

you tsk, shaking your head in faux disapproval. however, when you feel her hips stutter and her body begins to tremble harder, your grip tightens on her hips possessively.

"like this?" you whisper, roughly moving her down on your thigh. by the throaty, high-pitched moan that passes by her lips, you're sure she's close.

"yes," she manages through a string of whimpers.

her hips pick up their pace with your added help, eyes rolling shut, nails digging deep into your shoulders and nearly breaking skin. you hiss quietly, though the pain only pushes you to finish her off quicker.

the wetness of her arousal drips down your thigh, seeping into the sheets and forming a light patch on the fabric. billie doesn't have a care in the world for it, too lost in the pleasure and feeling of your hands wrapped securely around her hips mixed with the euphoric feeling of her throbbing pussy sliding so sweetly against your skin.

before she can even utter a warning of her impending orgasm, you flex your thigh—that simple action makes her forget her words, pussy fluttering around nothing as she cums over your thigh, a barely-there moan of your name falling into the open air of the room.

"oh my god," she whines, hips starting to slow—but your hands don't let her stop. "mommy! s'too much—please, can't—mm, fuck."

"it's okay, bil," you speak softly, grip slowly loosening on the warm, burning skin of her hips. when you stop your movements completely, billie collapses into your arms.

silence envelopes the room soon after billie relaxes, thighs still twitching from the aftershocks, breath slowly starting to even out again. her lips press gentle, open-mouthed kisses along the expanse of your throat, fingers mindlessly curling into your hair.

"mornin'," she mumbles, scooting closer on your lap. she winces, gasping quietly.

you grin, soft. genuine. "good morning."

letters. kinda hate this cus i got lazy near the end 💔

tags. @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @love4madii @livvydunneness @chxhir0 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @bilsdillldough @47lake @hopingforgoodblogs @mybluebossanova @strwberrybils @justtr @greenbttrflyy @billsbaby @bilsova @lottiepierce @northlndnisred @asterisk-eyes @dragoneyelashart @xxangelfarrlzxx @ilomiloblohshh @kittymarrow @meliciousmel13 @jul3esz @rightarion @svelish @eilishssiennaa @skinnyhmhas @dragoneyelashart @thinkshespretty @cnnibalize @canthelpit0 @hailwiggly @karaaeilish @bilswifee @drunkinyourbenz @aka-persephone @bitchesbrokenpromises @jayjaywetforbils @slvt4subchratt @cantlandonmyfeet @tezzzzzzzz

[dragoneyelashart]

greedy ★⋆˙

smut ୨ৎ warnings: g!p billie, oral (billie receiving), unprotected sex, breeding kink, sub!top billie, daddy kink summary: billie needs a little extra money for the summer, and you decide to let her help out around your house.

wc: 2.6k

you didn’t mean to answer the door like that. well. that’s a lie. you knew what you were doing when you slipped into the bikini this morning, thin straps barely there, the fabric hugging your curves like a secret whispered against your skin. the color, a deep, sultry maroon, made your sun-kissed skin glow, the kind of shade that caught the light and held it, teasing without revealing too much. the top was simple but perfect: a triangle cut that lifted and framed you just right, leaving your collarbones and shoulders exposed to the summer sun.

around your hips, you tied a lightweight, sheer coverup skirt, soft, translucent chiffon that fluttered with every step, teasing glimpses of your bikini bottoms beneath. the skirt hit just above mid-thigh, swaying and shifting in the warm breeze like it was made to move with you, effortless and a little bit dangerous. the whole look was casual, sultry, and absolutely you, a subtle invitation, wrapped in sun-soaked confidence.

you didn’t expect her to look quite so wrecked, though. she stands on your porch like she forgot how her legs work. her  hair is messy, loose strands falling over her face, catching the sunlight in wild, unruly waves. she’s wearing a simple tank top, soft and slightly worn, stretched just enough to hint at the lean muscles beneath. her baggy pants hang low on her hips, practical and loose, with the hems just brushing the tops of her scuffed sneakers.

in her hands is a tool kit, the kind she probably borrowed from her dad without asking, and her eyes flicker around nervously, down at her own pants, then back up to you, like her brain hasn’t quite caught up with the way her dick is already reacting to the sight of you.

“i—uh,” she stammers. “hi.”

“hi sweetheart,” you say, soft and amused, leaning on the doorframe just enough to make your chest rise a little higher. “billie, right?”

she nods, but she’s not making eye contact anymore. her eyes flick to your thighs, to your chest, to where the strings of your bikini tie tight at your hips. you can practically feel her getting hard. no, see it, once you glance down.

her pants do a terrible job of hiding nine inches of anything.

“you’re right on time,” you add, giving her a slow once-over. “you want something to drink before you get started?”

“water,” she says, voice cracking just slightly. “please.”

you step aside to let her in. her shoulder brushes yours, and you swear you hear her breath hitch.

she follows you inside like a puppy, quiet, a little too eager, trying not to stare at the sway of your hips as you walk ahead. the kitchen’s cool from the A/C, but her skin’s already flushed. nervous, maybe. or just hot in all the wrong ways.

you open the fridge, bend at the waist just a little more than necessary, and hear it, sharp breath behind you. you smirk.

you hand her a cold bottle of water and lean back against the counter, sipping your own. her eyes are everywhere except your face.

“you sure you’re good to work in this heat?” you ask, tilting your head.

“yeah—yeah, totally,” she mutters. “just, uh… gotta get used to it, i guess.”

her voice is tight, and she keeps adjusting her pants. the fabric’s doing nothing for her anymore—it’s stretched high and obvious over the hard line of her cock, thick and pulsing and definitely not something she can hide.

you let your eyes linger.

she sees you looking, and freezes.

“sorry,” she blurts, color rushing to her face. “i—it just—happens sometimes. i didn’t mean—”

“don’t apologize,” you say, and your voice is low now, smooth like honey over warm skin. “it’s flattering.”

she blinks, mouth slightly parted. she doesn’t move.

“you ever get distracted like this doing yard work before?”

she shakes her head, stiff. “no. never.”

you take a slow step forward. then another. she stays rooted in place, but her eyes are wide now, caught between panic and something needier, darker, lower.

“you’re cute,” you murmur. “do people tell you that?”

she nods. “not like this.”

you smile, wicked. “not when they’re old enough to be your—?”

“don’t,” she says, voice cracking again, this time with need.

you reach out and tug at the hem of her hoodie, lifting it just enough to see the outline of her abs, the pale strip of skin above her waistband.

“what if i do?”

her breath shudders out of her, and you know you’ve got her now. you’ve had her since the moment she walked up your driveway.

your hand grazes the waistband of her shorts, and she twitches.

“this okay?” you ask, even though her cock is straining so hard against the fabric she probably couldn’t speak if she tried.

“please,” she whispers.

you palm her over the shorts, slow and firm, and she nearly folds in half. her hand shoots out to grip the counter behind you like she needs something to hold onto.

“fuck,” she mutters, voice rough.

“you’ve been hard since the porch,” you say softly. “poor thing.”

she whines. actually whines.

you tug the waistband down just enough to free her cock, and fuck, fuck, it’s big. thick, flushed, leaking already. you wrap your fingers around it and she jerks like she’s going to come already.

“been a while?” you ask, pumping her slowly, teasing.

she nods again, rapid and desperate.

“how long?”

“months,” she gasps. “i—I didn’t think—”

you hush her with a look.

“you’re doing so well,” you murmur. “so good for me.”

you drop to your knees, slow and smooth. the tile floor is cool beneath you, but all you can feel is heat, radiating off her, thick in the air between you, pulsing under your skin.

she’s panting now. hands still braced on the counter like she doesn’t trust herself to stand.

her cock twitches once, hard, and you glance up at her with a lazy smile.

“shy all of a sudden?” you murmur, lips barely an inch from her tip.

“n–no,” she breathes, but her voice breaks on the edge of it.

you tilt your head and lean in, licking a slow stripe up the underside. she chokes on her breath, hips jolting forward like she didn’t mean to. her cock is hot and heavy against your tongue, salty-slick from precome, and you hum as you taste her.

“fuck—fuck,” she whispers, like a prayer, like she’s already overwhelmed.

you wrap one hand around the base and take her in, just the tip, wet and swollen and trembling against your lips. her knees buckle slightly and she whines again, desperate and already losing control. you flatten your tongue and let her slide a little deeper, sucking slow and steady while your hand strokes the rest.

“holy shit,” she mutters, eyes squeezed shut. “i can’t, fuck i can’t—”

“yes you can,” you say, pulling off just long enough to murmur it against her skin. “you will, baby. be my good girl c’mon”

you take her deeper this time, relaxing your throat inch by inch until she hits the back. her thighs are shaking, and her fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter, white-knuckled and straining.

you moan around her, and the sound makes her curse, low and guttural.

“oh god” she rasps. “you’re—so good, oh my god—”

you bob your head slowly, rhythm steady and slick. spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin as you work her deeper each time. you can feel her pulsing under your tongue, twitching in your hand, already close and fighting it.

she looks down at you like she can’t believe this is real, as if she’s  dreamt it before but never dared to imagine it this vivid. your mouth on her. your eyes locked on hers. your lips stretched wide around her cock.

you pull off again just long enough to stroke her faster with your hand, letting her glisten with spit.

“you’re gonna come for me, baby?” you whisper, voice thick and dark. “gonna let me taste you right?”

she nods, frantic. “yes. yes—please—i’m gonna—fuck—please—”

you suck her deep one last time, hollowing your cheeks and humming like you want her to feel it in her bones.

and she breaks.

her whole body goes rigid, and she lets out the quietest, most wrecked sound you’ve ever heard, a broken whimper as her cock jerks in your mouth, thick ropes of come hitting the back of your throat. you take it all, swallowing without flinching, hands never stopping their pace.

you stay there a second longer, licking her clean, letting her breathe.

when you finally pull back, she looks like she’s about to collapse.

you smile up at her, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“good girl,” you say softly. “so sweet for me.”

her knees give just a little, and you catch her hips in your hands like it’s nothing. you watch her try to recover.

she's pink in the face, still trembling a little, like she hasn't come down from it yet. there's a drop of sweat at her temple, her lips parted, breath shallow. you give her thigh a soft pat and rise to your feet, brushing your fingers through your hair like none of it even fazed you.

"now," you say, sweetly, "didn't you have a list of things to do today?"

she blinks at you like she doesn’t speak english.

“you can start with the side gate. it sticks.”

you press a water bottle into her hand, smirk still curling your lips, and gesture toward the back door.

“chop chop.”

she looks stunned. dizzy. her cock still half-hard and damp in her shorts, clearly aching. but she nods and stumbles outside, and you watch her go with a smug little roll of your hips.

you rinse your mouth at the sink, pour yourself a cold glass of sweet tea, and head to the living room. the air feels sweeter now. heavy with satisfaction. you flop down onto the couch and scroll through your phone, every now and then catching glimpses of her through the back window.

she's not getting much done.

mostly she’s just… pacing. fidgeting. adjusting herself constantly. at one point, you see her press her palm flat to the wall, forehead against her arm, like she’s trying not to scream.

pathetic, you think, lips twitching.

but you don’t realize how far she’s slipping until you walk into the kitchen again an hour later, barefoot, glass in hand, and she’s suddenly there, behind you.

you barely hear the screen door shut.

then it’s heat. weight. her, right up against you, her chest pressed to your back, her breath ragged in your ear as her hips grind against your ass, slow and desperate.

“i—i can’t,” she whines. “i can’t take it. please.”

you let out a breath, startled but not surprised.

“billie—”

“please just the tip,” she begs, rutting against you like she’s lost her mind. “just for a second, please, please—i need it, i need it.”

her cock is hard again, throbbing against the curve of your ass. she’s leaking through her shorts, and you can feel it. sticky. wet. your thighs clench before you can stop them.

you turn around, glass thunking against the counter.

“you couldn’t last a full hour?” you taunt, raising an eyebrow.

she whimpers, shakes her head.

“no—no, i can’t—i tried—but you—your mouth—fuck—please let me in, i’ll be good, i swear—”

you glance her over, eyes trailing from her flushed cheeks to the twitch of her hips. her hands are gripping the counter on either side of you now, trapping you between her arms. she’s trembling. full-body, wrecked.

“fucking pathetic baby, go on then, just the tip,” you warn.

“yes—yes, just the tip—i promise—”

you grab her hand, drag it between your thighs.

“then make it quick, baby.”

you don’t even get your bottoms off all the way, just push them aside and let her fumble for her cock, already dripping. the moment she slides in, it’s like she breaks.

you gasp at the stretch, even the tip is too much, thick and hot and swollen from earlier, but before you can tell her to stop, she’s already moving. grinding. inching deeper without permission.

“oh my god,” she moans. “you’re so warm, so soaked, i can’t— daddy i can’t—”

“billie—baby—just the tip—”

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry daddy” she gasps, “but i have to, please—fuck—”

and then she thrusts.

hard.

you choke on your own breath as her cock sinks in deeper, too deep. she’s not slow, not gentle, not asking anymore. she’s fucking you like something snapped inside her. like her brain shut off and her body’s only got one gear now: ruin.

you brace yourself on the counter, eyes wide, mouth open. she’s panting behind you, moaning shamelessly, hips slamming into yours like she needs to break you open.

“you feel so good—so tight—i’m gonna lose it—fuck—”

“b–billie, wait—slow down—”

“i can’t,” she cries out. “been waiting so long daddy, tr—tried to be your good girl but —fuck — your mouth, your body, need it—” your knees nearly give out from the force of her thrusts, your legs trembling beneath you, muscles locking and then failing with every brutal snap of her hips. the counter edge bites into your palms as you scrabble for something solid, anything to hold onto. the countertop, the cabinet handle, the slick curve of the sink. all of it feels too far, too smooth, too useless.

and she just keeps going, fingertips slipping on the smooth tile. her cock drives into you again and again, relentless and wild, dragging shocked little gasps from your throat each time she bottoms out. the sound of it, skin on skin, wet and obscene, bounces off the walls like it means something. every slap is a sharp echo, every thrust a gut-punch of pressure and heat. your slick drips down your inner thighs, pooling where her hips meet yours, and she’s using it, gripping your waist like it’s the only thing tethering her to reality, slamming into you so hard the cabinets rattle. 

your stomach brushes the counter now with each thrust, the hard granite cold under your skin, grounding you just enough to feel how badly you're unraveling. your mouth drops open, but the only sounds that come out are gasps, high-pitched, desperate little hiccups of breath that feel like they don’t even belong to you anymore.

“fuck, baby, you’re so deep, gosh—”

the words fall out of you, shaky and half-slurred, barely coherent through the moans clawing their way up your throat. your voice wavers, pitch climbing, your whole body twitching with every brutal snap of her hips.

but she’s not listening.

she’s gone somewhere else entirely now, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, her face twisted in something dark and wild. there’s no trace left of the nervous, soft-spoken girl who stumbled in this morning. no hesitation. no shame. just raw, animal hunger bleeding out of her in every brutal thrust.

the shy energy she clung to earlier has shattered, scattered across the tile floor like broken glass. what’s left behind is something messier, darker, needier. she doesn’t just want you, she wants to own you. carve herself into your body, leave a mark that won’t wash off. she’s gripping your hips like you might disappear, dragging you back onto her cock with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. 

you’re soaked, dripping. stretched so full you feel like you might split open around her. her cock slams into you again and again, thick and relentless, and your legs tremble like they can’t decide whether to hold you up or collapse beneath you.

she fucks you through every word. every gasp. every shaky plea. like she wants to fuck the dominance out of you, needs to. and she does.

bit by bit, thrust by thrust, she tears it out of you.

until all that’s left is the slick sound of skin slapping skin, her ragged breath at your neck, and your whimpering, fucked-out voice breaking as you try to keep up with her.

within seconds, you’re gasping, broken open around her cock, your voice going high and panicked.

“please—too much—slow down—i can’t—i can’t—”

she moans, deep and rough.

“you said just the tip,” she pants, “but you’re taking me so deep daddy, feels so good.”

you’re drooling. you’re soaked. your thighs are shaking and your dominance is gone. completely stripped away.

now it’s you who’s begging.

“billie—fuck baby—m’ gonna come, m’ so close—slow down”

but she doesn’t.

if anything she fucks you harder. relentless. like she’s wrapping her whole body around you, locking you in place with the sheer force of her need. every thrust is deep and perfect, hitting that soaked, sensitive spot inside you that makes your legs kick uselessly under you. you can’t even stand anymore. you’re just there, pinned between her and the counter, your body open and helpless and trembling.

you feel like you’re being devoured. her cock fills you so perfectly, thick and throbbing, sliding through slick heat like she was made for this, made for you.

your moans dissolve into incoherence, little high-pitched gasps and garbled sobs of her name. your nails scrape the counter. your forehead drops to the cool tile. every inch of your skin is burning. every thought in your head is gone.

and billie?

she’s gone, too.

whatever sweet, nervous girl showed up this morning doesn’t exist anymore. she’s feral now, needy, obsessed, completely unhinged in the way she chases her pleasure through yours. her mouth is at your shoulder, breath hot and open, teeth dragging across your skin like she wants to bite. her voice is thick and wrecked, each moan a promise that she’s not slowing down.

“daddy, feels so good” she groans. “so wet, want you to cum for me mama, please”

your orgasm crashes into you, your whole body locking up and then shuddering violently, mouth open in a silent scream. your cunt pulses around her, soaking everything, dripping down both your thighs as your body milks her cock for everything it can give.

she moans behind you, a desperate, needy sound, and her hips stutter. “billie, baby, cum in me, please,” billie’s breath hitches, her hips slowing just enough before she finally releases inside you, warm and heavy, every movement softening as she collapses against your back, whispering “thank you’s” profusely.

you squeeze her gently, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “i think you’ve earned that summer money, princess”

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonneilish @chrissv4mp @too-sapphic-to-function @thebluediner @aka-persephone | send an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

[ruinix]

God I might get in trouble for saying this but when I say I need to worship the man that is quinn hughes I mean it!

Hello, lovely. Here, you will never be in trouble, coz it is Quinn who will be in trouble for existing and being hot. 🙂‍↕️ This should be a simple thought….but….it became a full drabble. [This thot is also inspired by an excerpt i saw in Instagram (see at the end)] Severely no BETA. It is 3AM when i finish it.

Burning Touches

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Hurt/Comfort (slight), Body worship (m!receving), Teasing, Unprotected Sex (protections, please. It’s important, lovely), Overstimulation (m), Quinn is being pathetic (kinda subby if you squint. He is definitely. / Switch notes) or he is just too weak for you 😉

Count: 1716 words | Masterlist | Taglist

Quinn shivers the moment your hands finally touch his skin after hours of you tracing soft circles over his shirt. His hands grip the sheets to prevent himself from breaking his promise not to pounce on you and let you do what you want to do, because he will. He’s so close when all he can see is you on top of him.

Your eyes are glazed as you pour every bit of your attention on him.

The longer this goes on, the more he yearns for it. Every second, every minute, every hour, every day. That is all he wants. Him occupying your mind, because you occupy his. Every fucking day of the year.

When your finger slips under the hem of his shirt, he groans, nearly jumping at how quickly your eyes meet his, falling to his throat like you’ve marked the very sound that came straight from his fucking soul. Because it truly did. He’s fully bare. All his soul. All his body even fully clothed. All his mind. Every inch of him is at your mercy.

Then up, up and up, your hand travels. You purposely scratch your nails on his skin, marking and staking your claim with streaks. Physically temporary. Mentally permanent. Do you realize that? Every scratch you’ve made on his body is forever ingrained in his soul. Every single one.

All he can do is moan, pathetically thrusting his hips up for relief that he’s not at all getting because you aren’t sitting on his cock. Just on his thighs. His fucking thighs that are covered by his fucking sweatpants. Damn it.

‘Just why didn’t he just wear his boxers? Why did he pick these sweatpants after the shower? Just why?’ he hounds past self.

"Take it off, Quinn," you order, bringing him back to his reality.

You don’t need to expound. He understands, quickly sitting up, tugging his shirt with one hand, whimpering like a fool when you climbed off him so he can also remove his pants and briefs. His heart is aching at the smallest distance from you standing off the bed, your hands behind you. Too far. You’re too far. You shouldn’t be this far away from him. This shouldn’t be allowed.

You’re just two feet away, but it feels like you’re on the other side of a cliff where the connecting bridge has rotted and broken from the middle, effectively not letting him cross when all he needs is to be stuck to your skin. It won’t matter to him if there will be a deadly drop of sharp stone edges or a raging river. He will climb down—jump down if necessary—and crawl his way up to get to you. He needs you.

Despite his need, he only stares as he burns. He’s on fire as your burning-yet-dazed eyes soak in every detail of his body, taking your time. From his tousled hair, to the strands falling on his temple, to his slightly overgrown beard, to his shoulders, to his chest, to his abs, to his leaking cock, to his legs, down to his fucking toes. That makes him squirm, sitting back down with weak knees, his breaths coming in harder and harder.

His cock twitches when your eyes land on it. When your tongue darts out to sensually lick your lower lip, he falls further down steps of insanity. It hurts. His cock aches. So much. He needs to be touched by you. He needs to be fucked by you. He needs you more than ever.

Yet he sits, because he needs you to see how good he can be. For you.

 So good as he silently gazes at you, yearning for nothing more but your slightest touch.

"Just one touch. Please. Please. My Love," is the plea that got stuck at the tip of his tongue. The plea that he hopes you can see in his eyes, in the way he trembles. You must see him. He begs you to see.

The relief he feels when you step forward, crossing the impossible distance, is overflowing. Then you touch him, your palm meeting his chest, pushing so gently yet firmly. He fucking whines. You touched him. Now, he’s shaking even more. Too rattled. The anticipation is getting too much that his eyes burn from unshed tears. He can barely think as he follows your wordless order. He moves back to lay down. He gasps when you mount him. A lazy smile on your pretty face makes his chest tighten.

Why are you so beautiful? You are literally glowing. It’s probably the warm light of the lamps that you’ve carefully picked that made his house a home for both of you.  Yeah, the lights. But it’s you. You glow because you’re you. You glow because you are the light of his life.

A beacon that saves him in the darkness of nights.

No matter how exhausted he is—from the game losses, from the harsh speculations about him leaving, from the coldness of his teammates, his friends, being moved, from the cruel reality that his happiness doesn’t—or won’t ever—matter in the team after he gave everything for the team—you’re there to make it all better.

Oh, he’s lucky to have you.

His love.

He only realizes that he is silently crying when your thumbs brush away his tears, when you lean down and start to kiss the falling drops. You’re here. Always.A broken sob finally escapes him when you press your forehead against his. No words or permissions need to be said. He brings his arms around you as he seeks more comfort. The heated moment takes a pause. He cries because he needs to let it out and you know that.

“Don’t leave me,” he pleads. “Ever.”

“I won’t,” you immediately reply with no hesitation. “I’m here.”

“Again.” He tightens his hold.

“I’m here.”You squeeze your thighs against his sides, putting your weight on his chest, to ground him. It works. It always does. You repeat, “I’m here, Quinn.”

He cries and cries. He feels so vulnerable and so safe. He can be who he is, feel what he feels, break when he needs to, because you will always walk beside him, stop with him, wait with him as he gathers his pieces back together. You see him. All of him.

And he sees you.

He loves that he matches everything you give him. He will never be tired of doing so.

For minutes you two stay like that. Holding one another. Until his tears dry. Until he purges all the negativity with the help of your light that guides and that incinerates what needs to be gone. Until all that’s left is him still being absolutely fucking horny. His cock is begging for release as you softly rub your pussy over him, so slowly, so deliberate, because you know that his need is now different.

You press soft kisses all over his face, neglecting his lips where he needs it the most. Your hands slowly guide his to the headboard where he understands it should stay. He gulps and grips the bar. Shivers run down his spine because you don’t move to secure his wrists with the shackles dangling there for him to use on you or for you to use on him. Now, it’s for the latter, but you don’t use it. You simply trust him to keep his hands there. He won’t betray your trust. Not ever.

You kiss him lower. To every part of his body that you took your time drinking in earlier. He burns and burns and burns. So much more that you are touching him. Your lips ignite goosebumps on his skin, your tongue darting out to taste every bead of sweat that appears.

Your silent yet so loud repeated and cycling murmurs strum the strings of his soul, “You’re beautiful. You’re handsome. You’re strong. You’re amazing. You’re clever. You’re tenacious. You’re the very best.”

So affirming.

So touching.

He feels worshiped. Every kiss, every lick, every word affirms him. He feels loved. You love him. Only fool would be blind to that fact. Quinn is not a fool.

So, for every compliment, he answers, “I love you.”

Even if you don’t need to, once or twice, you reciprocate, “I love you too.”

When you kiss every exposed inch of him except for his lips and cock, you move up his body with more. Only now, your kisses are more of bites than kisses like you want to eat him.

You are eating him.

And instead of ‘I love you’s, while his knuckles are turning white as he grips the bar harder that he feels his arms cramping, his soul reverberating with every beat of his heart, he says “Please. Bite down harder.”

He needs you to leave bruises.

He needs you to break into his skin and make him bleed.

He needs you to swallow the slightest drops of blood of him.

He needs it so much.

Then, instead of compliments, you chuckle against his skin. Your eyes twinkle as you meet his pleading eyes. You murmur, mocking him, “Oh, you would like that, huh, Handsome?”

You won’t leave marks.

Not even the slightest imprint of your teeth. Not even the slightest discoloring for a hickey.

Not when he begs and whines and whimpers. Not when you sink your pussy down his cock. Not even when you fuck him after telling him not to move. Not when your pussy clenches around him so hard that he comes for you.

Over and over again.

However, when his mind is raw and fuzzy from how much you milk his cock that he can’t physically come anymore and when a tear of frustration escapes him, you finally bite down hard into his neck until his skin breaks.

Pain and pleasure shoot down his exhausted body. His cock twitches, aching and wanting to come but nothing comes out.

He is blacking out, his hands letting go of the bar, falling on the bed, not even going around you. He’s so spent.

Any noise is getting muffled, yet he hears your breathless and exhausted words so clearly.

“Such a good boy, Quinn. You did so well for me.”

The excerpt (I fear I got no link to source because I only screenshotted it days ago and it didn't leave my head one bit):

Good night 💙💙💙 I love you, sweeties, lovelies.

[stevie-petey]

lonely hearts club

You kiss her forehead and pull Steve up from the couch, putting your jacket on and tossing him his. “Our Valentine’s day wouldn’t be the same without someone crying or throwing up. We’re going. Dinner can wait.” Steve wraps an arm around your waist. “She’s right. This is just tradition for us. A sacred thing we look forward to every year.” “You two confuse me so much.” Nancy laughs wetly, overwhelmed by your kindness.  “We get that a lot.” Steve kisses your temple. “C’mon, angelface. The lesbians need us.”

Summary: ten valentines days with steve. some years it's romantic, some years it's heartbreaking, but for better or worse, he's your forever valentine.

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, mentions of vomit, pregnancy, cheating (steve doesnt cheat)

Words: 11.9k

Before you swing in: happy valentines day !! is this a day late ? sure. but we're going to ignore that ! heres a cute little fic of valentines day with steve throughout the years. joe touring really influenced this because i made steve a rockstar but honestly it fit tbh. anyways, hope you enjoy !

-

Somehow it’s always Steve who you spend Valentine’s day with.

In high school it’s because of academic obligations. You’re student body president and Steve is the president of the key club. Each year when February rolls around, the two of you are responsible for hanging pink streamers in the gym and selling enough tickets to afford a decent DJ.

Thanks to the infectious Valentine’s day yearning for love and potential makeouts under the bleachers, the Lonely Hearts dance always manages to draw in a crowd. That, and Steve promises that anyone who buys a ticket is guaranteed a dance with him.

It’s gross and highly exploitative. And also quite brilliant. 

You never cash in your ticket, though. While Steve spends the night spinning around girls dressed in pinks and reds and whites, you’re manning the punch bowl to make sure no one spikes it.

Each year, Steve finds a way to sneak gin into the cherry liquid behind your back.

“I’d stop serving little Benny there that punch of yours.” Steve slides next to you, dressed in all black with a rose pinned to his ribbed vest. He reeks, a terrible concoction of every perfume worn by the girls he’s spent all night with. 

Benny, a small, frail fourteen year old with eyes too big for his comically small glasses, hiccups. His hand is extended towards you, empty cup waiting for more. His face is flushed and he sways ever so slightly.

You sigh. “How much gin did you pour in this time, Harrington?”

“An entire bottle.”

“I hate you, you know.”

Steve laughs. “Not my fault that you never catch me.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you glare at him. “I still hate you.” Then, remembering that a severely intoxicated Benny is still waiting for his drink, you gently tap the kid’s arm. “Why don’t you go sit in a corner, buddy?”

Benny hiccups again and stumbles away. Steve snickers, but his laughter turns into a yelp of pain when you kick him in the shin. “Don’t you have girls to dance with?”

“Not if you keep kicking me like that,” he winces, rubbing his quickly bruising injury. “Jesus, are those heels made of steel?”

“Why are you still talking to me?”

“Can’t a guy talk to his most consistent girl?” 

A snort masks the reddening of your cheeks. “Real flattering, Harrington.”

“I’m serious!” Steve nudges his shoulder against yours. He’s smiling wide at you, charming as ever. “You realize this is like, our third year spending Valentine’s day together, right?”

You roll your eyes. “We’re only spending it together for a school dance.”

“Still makes you my longest running Valentine, Y/N.” He winks, smug, and you want to stain his pretty face with the cherry red of the punch before you. He’s close to you now, close enough that you can smell his expensive cologne under all the perfume that taints it.

Suddenly your mouth goes dry. You look up at him and find that he’s already staring down at you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t shy away from the proximity that only seems to be growing smaller and smaller between you.

“Steve!” Heather Morgan stomps over, the ruffles of her lilac dress swishing with her forceful steps. She stops in front of you and him, though she doesn’t bother to acknowledge you. “I thought I was guaranteed a dance?”

Three Valentine’s days with Steve Harrington, countless prom committee meetings and club organization conferences, shared lunch periods and classes, all have led to the intimate knowledge of the lines of his face and how every miniscule twinge of muscle reveals everything he’s feeling.

The forced smile that he gives Heather, eyebrows drawn together and eyes dim, is nothing like the bright and overwhelming smile he gave you only moments ago.

“You’re absolutely right.” Steve holds his hand out to the girl and walks towards her. “With all the hard work Y/N put into this dance, it’d be a shame if I let it go to waste and not abide by my promise.”

Your cheeks burn at the indirect compliment and Heather simply rolls her eyes. She yanks Steve’s arm and he gives you one last weary, yet shy and gentle, smile that’s etched alongside his freckles and moles. 

–

After graduating and moving to Chicago for college, you figure that maybe your first Valentine’s day in a big city will be spent with someone who doesn’t get freshmen drunk and dance with demanding girls. 

Then, your first week in intro to philosophy, you meet Oliver. 

He enters five minutes late, out of breath and frantic, and blindly throws himself into the first seat he finds. In his rush, he doesn’t see you until he’s thrown his jacket off and hears your quiet, “ouch.”

“Oh, my god.” His blue eyes are wide as he stares at you in horror, taking in the scene before him. He’s completely thrown his jacket on top of you. “I-I am so sorry!”

His British accent nearly sends your brain reeling. Oliver is tall, his black hair makes his skin appear almost luminescent, and there’s a dimple in his cheek that softens the harshness of his accented vowels. 

“It’s fine,” you shrug the jacket off, too shy to say much else. He’s arguably the most perfect man you’ve ever met and it’s eight in the morning and you’re not quite sure if this is a dream. “Just… caught me by surprise?”

“Christ, I’m genuinely so sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I-I overslept and I only just switched into this class quite literally twelve hours ago and–”

“Top row,” your professor clears her throat, glaring at you and Oliver. “Is Aristotle really so interesting to you that you decide to interrupt my class in glee?”

You’re beet red, frozen in shame and fear, but Oliver simply laughs and ducks in head. “My apologies, Miss. Please, continue.”

Even the professor is charmed by his accent, and she shakes her head with a slight chuckle. She carries on with the lecture and Oliver is quiet next to you. You don’t speak for the rest of class, but during the last five minutes, a note slides across your desk.

Coffee? 

– Oliver (the dunce who threw his jacket on you)

A second coffee date follows the first. Then a third. A fourth. A fifth and sixth until they slowly turn into dinner dates. Sneaking into each other’s apartments when your roommates aren’t home. Kissing as you lazily study together in bed. 

Late January comes and you think that you’ve finally, finally, found someone to spend Valentine’s day with. Someone real and yours and lovely. 

Oliver tells you to meet him at his apartment at 7:30 for dinner. He’s promised you homemade roast, a recipe from his mother. Valentine’s day will be a quiet dinner with only candlelight as your company. No streamers or spiked punch; it’s everything you could’ve ever wanted.

“The potatoes need a few more minutes, then we can eat.” Oliver kisses your forehead as he wipes his hands with a towel. The kitchen is warm, the smell of herbs and garlic infiltrate the air. On the counter the beef is resting, its aroma enough to make your mouth water.

You take a sip of wine. “Thank god.”

“Hungry, are we?”

“A home cooked meal by my hot boyfriend?” You raise your glass. “Of course I’m hungry!”

Oliver laughs, kissing you again. “Well, good thing I have all night to feed you–”

The front door slams, startling the two of you, and someone calls out, “Sorry! Sorry, please ignore me!”

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your wine glass hearing their voice.

Oliver groans, “one second, babe.” He leaves your side, but you don’t follow, too afraid to face what’s waiting for you on the other side of the wall.

“I thought I told you I had the apartment tonight?” You hear Oliver hiss at the intruder.

“You did! I just-I kinda left my guitar here and Robin will kill me if I–”

“Hurry up!”

“What, your date can’t wait five seconds?” A laugh, pleased with his own joke. You close your eyes, imagining the scrunch of his nose and tilt of his lips; you haven’t forgotten the details of his face, even after months of not seeing him. 

Oliver mumbles something and you strain your ears to listen. He sounds upset, anxious, arguing with the other person in the room, and something akin to unease creeps into your stomach. 

“Relax, man. Just go finish that bizarre British dinner for Bianca.”

Silence. 

You set down the wineglass and finally walk into the living room. The click of your heels is the only evidence of life within the apartment. Oliver stands near the door. His eyes are closed, he doesn’t want to face you just yet.

Steve’s back is turned to you. His posture is relaxed, natural. He isn’t aware of what he’s just undone. 

“Long time no see, Harrington.” Your arms are crossed, shielding yourself from what’s to come. Your voice sounds more confident than you feel. “I guess you’re the roommate I never got to meet.”

He spins around quickly, almost falling over, recognizing your voice immediately. His childish stumbling tells you that he almost doesn’t want to believe it. When Steve’s eyes land on you, they soften, warm brown filling with fondness once more. 

“Y/N!” 

Steve steps forward as if to hug you, but then seems to remember where he is, what he had previously been talking about with Oliver. He stops, the fondness in his eyes diminishing to confusion, then slowly to anger. 

“You’re… not Bianca.” 

“Evidently not.” Your laugh is bitter. 

Steve narrows his eyes at Oliver. “What the hell, man? You told me you were dating some chic named Bianca.” He points a bewildered finger at you. “This is Y/N.”

“In my defense,” Oliver sighs tiredly, clapping his hands together in a defeated manner. “I didn’t think you’d know either one of them, so. This is just brilliant.”

“Are you dating them both?” Steve’s eyes bulge out of his head. If you weren’t on the brink of crying and throwing up, you’d laugh at his poor state of shock. 

“That’s how cheating works, Steve.” You say weakly.

Oliver tries to say something, but he’s drowned out by Steve’s yelling. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Steve–” He tries again.

“No! I-I was unknowingly an accomplice in your cheating?”

“I did try to hide them both from you–”

“You’re such a jackass! I thought the British were supposed to be posh and all that-that bloody bullshit!”

You touch the back of Steve’s elbow. You’re mortified and embarrassed and you really want to cry right now. No words come out. Your mouth won’t open. All you can do is hope that your touch is enough.

Immediately Steve stops yelling. He tugs you against his chest, understanding everything the touch meant. He doesn’t care that it’s been six months since he’s seen you or that you were never particularly close in the first place. He wipes the tears that have started to fall from your eyes with a tenderness you didn’t know was innate within him. 

“I’m taking you home,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Go get your things, alright?”

Weak and numb, you do as you’re told.

“Y/N, wait–” Oliver tries to reach out for you.

Steve steps between you. The look on his face is violent, almost frightening. You’ve never seen him like this. “Don’t.”

Oliver stumbles back. It’s enough of a distraction for you to quickly grab your purse and keys, vision blurry from tears as your body shakes. Every nerve, every fiber of your skeletal body is screaming at you to run. 

When you’re ready, Steve uses his body to prevent Oliver from looking at you. His hands are gentle as he guides you to his car. He whispers reassurances, rubs circles into your back, and allows you to cry the entire way home. 

It doesn’t surprise you when Steve doesn’t leave after parking in front of your apartment. It also doesn’t surprise you when he walks you to your door and lets himself in. 

“Stay here,” he all but shoves you onto the couch before making his way to your kitchen. He walks through the apartment as if he’s done so his entire life. “I’ll be right back.”

“What are you–”

“Less talking, more crying!”

You curl yourself into a small ball, too tired to argue with Steve. While you have no idea what the hell he’s doing, you’re relieved that your roommate, Jane, is out with her boyfriend for the night.

At least someone is having a happy Valentine’s day.

Steve returns with two pints of ice cream and spoons. He’s already opened one of them and hands it to you as he plops onto the couch. “Figured you’d have a stash.”

The ice cream he hands you is your favorite flavor. You don’t remember ever telling him this. “How did you–”

“This is our fourth Valentine’s day in a row, Y/N,” Steve pokes your side. “When are you gonna stop questioning my loyalty to our sacred tradition?”

Mouth cold from ice cream and face hot from crying, Steve manages to pull a laugh out of you. It’s feeble and small and more of a grimace than something joyous, but it’s more than you ever thought was possible.

Steve laughs with you, knocking his own pint of ice cream against yours. “To Valentine's day, angelface.”

“To Valentine’s day,” you sniff, laughing again. The moment is bizarre and not at all how you envisioned spending the day, but somehow it’s wonderful and reminiscent of the years before. There’s only one thing missing. “I miss the pink streamers.”

“I’ll hang some up next year.” Steve promises, winking at you as he always seems to do, falling back in familiarity. 

You rest your head against the couch, warm, and hum thoughtfully. Steve always keeps his promises, and you can almost envision the messily strewn up streamers and tacky holiday decorations he would find and insist on using. The apartment would be full of light and warmth, and the thought makes you smile.  

“I’d like that.”

– 

Inexplicably, Steve becomes your best friend.

He all but declares Oliver dead to him and refuses to step foot in their apartment unless it’s to eat or sleep. He cuts off all contact with the guy without even blinking. You try telling Steve that he doesn’t have to jeopardize his relationship with his roommate and he scoffs at you.

“I’m giving that motherfucker the coldest shoulder known to man, Y/N. Whether you like it or not.”

And there isn’t anything else to talk about, really. 

Slowly Steve starts spending all his time at your apartment to avoid his, and you find yourself actually enjoying his company. He doesn’t stray far from your room and he always brings over extra napkins from the restaurant he works at, saving you an extra five dollars a week in household supplies.

Plus, Steve introduces you to his coworker Robin, and she’s so enthralling and chaotic and vibrant that it’s only natural that when she becomes your best friend, Steve does, too. 

Spring semester ends and Jane announces that she’s moving out to live with her boyfriend come summer. The first person you call is Steve. He moves in a week later. 

“Have you looked over the sheet music yet?” Robin has her legs tossed over your lap as the two of you sit on the couch. Steve sits on the floor, leaning his head against the couch, his hair tickling the bare skin of your leg. 

You’re watching some movie that Steve had been dying to see. It’s Valentine’s day and he’s begged you to let him watch some cheesy romance movie he saw an ad for. He claims it’s to get into the holiday spirit, but you know it’s because he has a crush on Patrick Swayze.

Robin tagged along because she has a crush on Jennifer Grey.

“Hey, doofus!” She throws popcorn at Steve’s head when he doesn’t respond to her question. 

“Can you at least aim for my face?” He flicks the popcorn out of his hair, cringing. “The butter makes my hair feel gross.”

You ruffle the locks, shaking his head in the process and he swats you away, albeit without any cruelty or malice. “Could be from all that hairspray you drown it in.”

“I’m with Y/N on this one,” Robin leans forward, invading Steve’s space with ease. “Anyways, did you read the music or not? Kelly wants your opinion before our gig tonight.”

“Why does she care what I think?”

“Because you’re the lead singer?” Robin looks at you. “Do you think all that hairspray has rotted his brain?”

You shrug. “Probably.”

Steve flips the both of you off and you giggle together at his annoyance. Ever since meeting Robin, making Steve’s life as miserable as possible has become your favorite thing to do together. 

Robin then asks again about the song and she and Steve fall into a conversation about Kelly and her obsession with their other bandmate Connor and whether or not the song is actually good or if it’s just another attempt for her to win him over. 

You watch them talk with a lazy smile. They become so animated when they discuss music, and you admire how well they work together. It doesn’t surprise you that they formed a band together after only being friends for two days. They take music seriously, obsess over it in a way you don’t think you’ll ever quite understand, but that you will always admire.

“You’re coming to our gig tonight, right?” Steve suddenly turns to you, eyes pleading and hopeful. 

“Where is it again?”

“The Vexture. We go on at ten.”

Robin has turned her hopeful eyes to you as well and you shift uncomfortably. The Vexture is a grungy club that’s always packed with people looking for someone to call their own, and given the fact that it’s currently Valentine’s day, it’ll only be worse.

The thought makes you nauseous. 

Steve sees you grimace and he immediately throws himself into your lap. “No. Absolutely not. You have to come.”

“I haven’t even said anything–”

“You were going to bail!”

“I–I wasn’t!” 

Robin pinches your cheek. “You’re a terrible liar, dear.”

You try to argue but Steve covers your mouth. You thrash underneath him, completely opposed to his body weight on you and his grimy hands covering your mouth, but he’s freakishly strong and Robin is a traitor who helps him hold you down.

“Look, Y/N.” Steve’s hair falls in your face. “We all know that last year was rough.”

“Fuck Oliver!” Robin shouts, wringing her hands together as if envisioning choking him. 

“What she said. Anyways, you took a hard hit. It’s understandable. But I refuse to let you spend Valentine’s day all alone, alright? You haven’t dated anyone in months. You’re coming tonight.”

You want to bite him, to kick him off and pinch his skin, but you know he’s right. Deflating, you cross your arms and reluctantly nod. 

Steve and Robin cheer, jostling you around, and despite the annoyance and fear you’re feeling, you can’t help but laugh at their childish joy. 

“Love the enthusiasm, but can you guys get off me now?” You croak out in between laughs. 

They scramble off the couch and Robin helps you up. She fixes your hair and kisses the tip of your nose. “We have three hours to make you irresistible tonight.”

“I’m not dressing up–”

“You have no free will when it comes to me.” Robin smiles wickedly and grabs your hand, pulling you to your room, having long forgotten about the movie that’s still playing in the background.

“Can I join?” Steve calls after the two of you.

Robin slams the door in his face.

The Vexture is loud and overflowing with people by the time you get there. The lights are dimmed and Robin has to hold your hand as she guides you through the crowd. Since they’re performing, they’re allowed to cut the long lines and are able to get you the best seats in the house: backstage.

“You made it!” Kelly throws her long and lithe arms around you. She smells of vanilla and honey and her hair is tied in loose knots. Glitter adorns her eyelids and pink hearts dot her cheeks. 

“I’m being held against my will,” you shout into her ear, hugging her tightly. “But I’m here.”

Connor pats your back and chuckles. He’s matching Kelly’s heart theme with a pink heart painted on his own cheek. “Well, at least you’ll have a good time!”

Steve hands him a guitar and checks his hair in the mirror. Robin dressed him in a white button down and demanded that he leave the first four buttons undone. The exposed strip of skin from the base of his neck to the swell of his chest burns your lips. 

“We ready?” Steve pulls you by the waist, flush against him, and winks at his bandmates. 

Kelly and Robin cheer and Connor slams his drumsticks together. A cheer of your own tumbles from your lips, allowing your body to lean against Steve’s, and his fingers dig into your side as his chest rumbles with pleasure. 

The crowd erupts when they get on stage. They all get into their places. Robin with her keyboard. Kelly and the bass. Connor behind his drum set. And Steve, front and center of the stage, smiling into the mic as his fingers pick at his guitar. 

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” He’s a natural on stage. People scream his name and he plays into it with such confidence and charm. Steve smirks, knowing he has the audience in the palm of his hand. “That’s what I like to hear!”

He plays the first few notes of the song they’re starting with tonight. Easy and light. He’s setting the audience up, tempting them, leaving them wanting more. 

Steve grabs the base of the microphone and tilts his head at the crowd. “Who’s here with their Valentine tonight?”

Almost everyone cheers and whistles. Hands get thrown into the air and lovers kiss the smiles off each other’s face. 

“Hell yeah!” Steve laughs, high on the energy in the room. He plays a few more notes, turns his head away from the crowd as he does so. You watch him, curious, and find that he’s looking at you. 

When he has your attention, Steve laughs again and goes back to the mic. He’s smiling wide, cheeks pink. “You know, I’m also here with a Valentine tonight.”

The audience gasps and cheers and claps for him. Robin wolf whistles, loud and obnoxious, teasing eyes looking only at you. Kelly snickers and Connor points one of his drum sticks at you, clutching his heart dramatically.

The apples of your cheeks pinch together a glorious red and Steve can’t take his eyes off you. His eyes, soft as they always are when he looks at you, are like molten earth. He smiles into the mic again, unable to look away from you.

“This is our fifth Valentine’s day together,” he tells the crowd, smiling so much he’s almost slurring his words. “I kinda hope that this angelface will always be my Valentine.”

Robin whistles again and the roar of the Vexture is so loud now that you can’t hear anything besides the blood rushing in your head. Steve screams along with the crowd and Connor counts the band in and there’s music all around you and dancing and Steve’s sweat drips down his chest and there’s a burning deep within your stomach.

He’s beautiful. 

You hope that he’ll always be your Valentine, too.

– 

Sophia enters your life early junior year. You find her in your kitchen one morning wearing one of Steve’s old t-shirts, and you make her a cup of coffee.

She’s nice. Her hair is bronzy and she has incredible green eyes and an angelic laugh. She studies English and she’s the only other person besides your classmates who has read Plato, so you’re honestly quite fond of her, and you can see how Steve falls for her hard and fast. 

Robin, however, has other thoughts.

“I don’t trust her.” She says one day in January. Steve is at Sophia’s, so you invited Robin over to bake cookies and watch the latest episode of a show you both enjoy. 

You frown at her. “Why not? I think Sophia is nice.”

“Ever notice how the only way we can all collectively describe her as is nice?” Robin shivers. “What kind of psycho only has one personality trait?”

Well. There isn’t a lot you can argue with there. Sure, everyone who has met Sophia has liked her, but when you think about it, Robin’s right. They’ve all described her as nice, maybe quiet, but always nice.

“I think you’re just overprotective of Steve.” You try to defend. You like Sophia. She’s become a very loose, very distant, acquaintance. “Just give her some time.”

“They’ve been dating for months now, Y/N. She creeps me out.”

“Sophia isn’t some off putting creature, Robin–”

“Guys!” Steve barrels through the front door. You and Robin both scream, but he ignores your terror and throws himself at the two of you. “How much do you guys love me?”

Robin responds with, “how much money do you want?” while you reply, “depends on the day.”

Steve breathes heavily, grasping your hand. “I need you guys to please, please do me the biggest favor.”

“Did you kill someone?” You pull your hand away, weary of the scene before you.

“What? No! I just–” Steve inhales sharply. “It’s Sophia.”

“I knew it!” Robins screeches, but you jump and cover her mouth. She tries to scream through your silencing, but her words are muffled and jumbled. 

You smile at Steve awkwardly. “Don’t mind her. What’s going on with Sophia?”

“She wants to go on a double date for Valentine’s day.” You and Robin stare at him as if he’s insane, and Steve groans. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, alright? But she-uh. I guess she’s had some shitty Valentine’s days in the past and thought it’d be better if we had other people with us? As a safeguard?”

“That’s…” Concerning, you want to say, but Steve is staring at you, pleading, and you really don’t feel like dealing with his anxious monologues. “Interesting.”

He rubs his face. “It’s insane, I know, but I just… I really like this girl, you know? So if one of you could just–”

“I’m out.” Robin raises her hands and you shoot her an incredulous look. “I’m sorry, Y/N, but I actually have plans this year and I really don’t feel like spending them with Steve.”

“And you think I don’t have plans?” You ask them, offended, and Steve looks at the ground and Robin suddenly finds the tile very interesting. “Okay. At least pretend that I have some dignity.”

“I’m sure you have a lot of dignity, angelface.” Steve tries to amend. “And you’d have even more dignity if you went on a double date with me and Sophia. I’ll even find someone to be your date!”

In theory, it sounds like your worst nightmare. Spending a night with a loved up Steve and Sophia while you’re with some guy you met only hours ago. All because Steve’s girlfriend doesn’t feel comfortable enough spending Valentine’s day alone with him.

But Steve has had to hold your hand through a nasty breakup and other horrific dating exploits since then. He’s held your hair up when you’ve been sick. Makes you your favorite snacks during busy exam seasons. He cleans your room when he knows you’re exhausted. 

Steve is your best friend. The least you can do is this. 

“Fine,” you finally give in. “But the guy better be hot.”

The guy Steve finds you is, in fact, incredibly hot. His name is Max and he meets you and Steve outside the restaurant dressed in a well tailored suit. 

“Where’d you find this guy?” You whisper to Steve while Max isn’t looking.

“He knew Connor in high school.” He whispers back. “Makes a lot of money. Works in finance.”

Your mouth drops, but you quickly cover it up when Max opens the door for you and Steve. He’s a perfect gentleman and rests his hand on the small of your back. “You guys been to this restaurant before?”

“A few times together, but I don’t think my girlfriend Sophia has been here yet.” Steve sits down and grabs a menu before checking his watch. “Actually, she should be here by now.”

Max’s face twists slightly. “Her name is Sophia?”

“Max?” Sophia, rushing towards your table, stops and gasps out his name as if she’s been stabbed.

“Oh, dear.” You set down your menu. Something tells you that there won’t be any eating tonight.

“Sophia?” Max nearly falls to his knees in front of her, eyes shining at the girl as if she’s hung all the moon and stars with her delicate fingers.

They stare at one another, neither moving, and Steve looks between them with a bitter taste in his mouth. “So… you guys know each other?”

Sophia winces and Max coughs.

You grab your purse. “Steve, why don’t we head home–”

“What’s going on here?” His voice is strained. He looks at Sophia and you see the upset he tries to suppress. The clench of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. “Soph, who is this guy?”

“He’s no one, I promise–”

Max steps forward. “We dated for a few years.”

“Years?” Steve exclaims.

“Broke up on Valentine’s day last year, actually.” He looks at Sophia with a pained expression. “I… I missed you.”

Steve falls against his seat in disbelief. Sophia holds the base of her throat in a weak attempt to soothe herself.

“You’re really not helping, Max.” You glare at him, rubbing your friend’s shoulder as he sits at the table, mourning. Steve’s mouth doesn’t seem to be able to close and he’s looking at Sophia as if trying to silently plead with her to tell him that none of this is real.

Except is it, and Sophia closes her eyes. “I-I can’t do this, Steve.”

Her apology sends the chair flying back as he stands abruptly, desperately reaching for her in the crowded restaurant while you and Max remain silent. “Wait, can’t we just–”

“I should go.” She’s crying and the green of her eyes are a startling shade of brilliance. She really is quite lovely; the beauty breaks your heart. Steve calls after her as she leaves. 

You hold him back. He screams at you to let him go, but you know that this time you have to be the one to break his fall. To catch him as he caught you the year Oliver broke your heart. There are tears in his eyes and his hoarse voice begs the girl to stay, but she’s long gone. 

Max stands there in the wreckage. He doesn’t know what to do or who to follow. 

“Just go,” you tell him, pulling Steve back down to sit. He collapses into your side, too ashamed to cry and too exhausted to care. He’s weak against you and your arms encase him. Max doesn’t move, and your voice raises before you can stop it. “Go!”

He listens, and the other patrons in the restaurant watch as yet another person runs from your table. A waitress gives you a pitying smile that you don’t reciprocate.

Steve hides his face in your neck and you gently cup his cheek to make him look at you. “Hey,” you say when his eyes finally focus on you. “Let’s get you a drink, okay?”

He drops his head on the table with a defeated sigh. “Give me whatever liquor they got.”

“The stronger the better?”

“Yes.”

“Coming right up.” You wave a waiter down and order four shots and two beers. Steve doesn’t say anything while you order, but he does shift closer to you once the waiter is gone.

The buzz of the restaurant is low, though full of laughter and conversation. You sit with Steve, fingers stroking through his hair as his head remains on the table. He lost all sense of pride the moment he begged Sophia to stay, so he allows your nails to scratch his scalp.

Drinks get set on the table and Steve throws both of his shots back before you can even pick one of yours up. He wipes his mouth and cringes at the taste. You stare at him, slightly concerned. “Alright over there?”

“Need more liquor.”

You stroke his cheek. “How cute. You think I’m going to let you drink your sorrows away.”

He bats your hand away. “I don’t know if you’re all caught up, but I just got dumped on Valentine’s day, Y/N.”

“And?” You laugh at him. “That happened to me too, buddy. You’re officially a part of the lonely hearts club. How’s it feel?”

Steve drops his head back onto the table. “It feels like we’re fucking cursed.”

“I’ll drink to that,” you clink your beer against his. “Cheers.”

It’s quiet for a while. You finish your shots and sip slowly at your beer. Steve remains hidden away at the table, refusing to sit up and face the reality of heartbreak. You allow him to take all the time he needs, replenishing his drinks when he runs low. He’s quiet, but he knocks his knee against yours every time you squeeze his hand. 

I’m here.

Thank you.

The chatter in the restaurant dies down and you pay the tab and help carry Steve home. He’s significantly more drunk than you are, and you’re relieved that you chose to eat somewhere close enough to walk. He stumbles the entire way home and you have to cling onto his hand so that he doesn’t fall.

Steve drags your body onto the couch the second you open the apartment door. He collapses on top of you. His arms hold your waist and his nose presses against your neck. You bring your hands to his hair and sync your breathing with his. 

“Think it’ll always be like this?” Steve murmurs after a while. “You and me and goddamn Valentine’s day?”

Six years of sharing the holiday together. Six years of being each other’s person to spend the day with and draw cheesy cards for. Six years of laughter and tears and secret glances and inside jokes. 

Six years, and yet it still doesn’t feel like enough.

“We’re best friends, Steve.” You whisper into his ear, lips brushing skin. “Of course it’ll always be like this.”

He shivers at the sensation of your lips. Alcohol burns through his system. He finds himself upset that he drank tonight. He wonders what would’ve happened had he not met Sophia. If he had taken you to the restaurant alone and left sober.

Steve wonders if he would’ve kissed you then. If you would’ve let him.

But he had met Sophia. He’d taken you to the restaurant to have dinner with her. He got drunk tonight to forget the way she tasted. You walked him home because you couldn’t trust him to take care of himself. And now he’s too afraid to kiss you because he knows it could ruin everything he’s so carefully built with you.

He falls asleep to your heartbeat.

– 

“Who gets married on Valentine’s day?” Robin tugs at her dress in disgust. “I mean, that should just be illegal.”

You help her fix her dress and shrug. “I don’t know. I think it’s sweet.”

“That’s because Steve’s walking you down the aisle tonight. You’re biased.”

“He’s the best man and I’m the maid of honor,” you poke her stomach. “It’s quite literally tradition to walk down the aisle as a pair.”

Kelly, who has been fixing her makeup the entire conversation, peeks her head from behind the mirror. “To be honest, Connor and I did intentionally plan for Steve to walk you down the aisle.”

Your jaw drops. “Kelly!”

“The two of you are just so cute!” She laughs. “You’re two of our closest friends. We want what’s best for you, so Connor and I figured we’d just give you guys a little push.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Believe me. I’ve been trying to get them together for years now. What is this, your eighth year of being each other’s Valentine’s?”

Your head whips to her. “It’s only our seventh. And what do you mean you’ve been trying for years?”

“I’m practically the reason Steve moved in with you. He wanted to live with me months before you asked him to move in. Naturally, I’m a prophet, and I told him no. Now here you guys are, walking down the aisle together. Tada!”

“Oh my god.”

“I mean, it worked!” Robin frowns. “Well. Sort of.”

You’re speechless and Kelly takes pity on you. She walks over and rests a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Y/N, I love you. Connor and Robin love you. Steve loves you. You know that, right?”

“I…” You’d be a liar if you said the thought never crossed your mind. Especially after the breakup with Sophia. You’ve always been close with Steve, but in the last year there’s been this shift that you haven’t been able to describe.

There’s coffee waiting for you every morning. He holds your hand and strokes his thumb against your palm. Steve ends up falling asleep in your bed most nights now, wrapped around you as his breath warms your skin. His own room has slowly been turned into a makeshift studio for his music. 

Sometimes you catch Steve staring at you, and sometimes the heat of his gaze doesn’t scare you. 

But sometimes it does.

“Why are we even talking about this?” You deflect, setting your eyes on Kelly and her gorgeous veil. “You’re getting married in less than an hour. Can’t we talk about that?”

“Babe, all I’ve done for the last year is talk about this goddamn wedding. I’m the bride and right now I demand that we gossip.”

Robin laughs at you and you’re about to make up some excuse about needing to go organize the roses again when the bride’s door opens. Kelly yelps and covers her dress as you and Robin step in front of her to block the intruder’s view.

“Relax,” Steve holds his hands up. “It’s just me. Unfortunately, I’m not the groom.”

Kelly shakes his head at him fondly. “What do you want, Steve?”

“Connor sent me here because apparently I lack the ability to shut the fuck up and it was stressing him out.”

You snort and Robin hunches over as she giggles. Kelly smirks. “Yeah. I believe that.”

Steve sticks his tongue out at the three of you, and the conversation from earlier gets dropped. He helps you and Robin with the rest of Kelly’s makeup. He irons her dress, showers her with compliments, and your heart constricts every time he touches the edge of your silk dress with childlike wonder. 

“You look beautiful, Y/N.” He whispers when it’s just the two of you. The door to the aisle hasn’t opened yet. The rest of the wedding party stands behind you, waiting. 

A blush coats your cheeks. You loop your arm through his and bask in his fondness. “Thank you,” your hand rests on his chest. “You look quite handsome yourself.”

And he does. Steve is cruelly beautiful in his suit. His tie matches the lace of your dress and you want to pull the end of it and bring his lips to yours. He stares down at your lips and you wonder if he’s thinking about yours, before the music starts.

The door opens. Down the long, carpeted length of the church stands Connor. There are flowers everywhere and Steve grabs the hand that rests against his forearm. He squeezes it, takes a deep breath, and together you walk down the aisle. 

During the wedding Robin cries. The vows are exchanged and she has to cover her mouth to contain the sobs that spill from her. Steve catches your eye from across the pew and the two of you smile at your friend, your love for her forming into one. 

Sometime late into the night Steve finds you. He hands you a drink before promptly dragging you to the dancefloor. You protest, shy, but he doesn’t listen.

“I told myself I’d dance with the prettiest girl at this wedding, angelface. And it just so happens that that girl is you.”

You laugh at him, following his hands as he guides you through the motions of dancing. “Don’t let Kelly hear you, otherwise she’ll strangle you.”

“Let her,” Steve spins you, eliciting more giggles to fall from your pretty lips. “I’ll die a happy man now that I’ve danced with you.”

“That was disgusting.”

“And charming. Don’t forget charming.” He spins you again before bringing your bodies even closer together. “You know what this reminds me of?”

You gaze up at Steve. “What?”

“The Lonely Hearts dance.”

Exasperated laughter follows his confession. “You’re really thinking about our high school dance right now?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Every year I was dying to dance with you.” Steve’s thumbs stroke up and down the sides of your waist. His grip on you tightens. His voice lowers and you recognize the adoration that paints his brown eyes. The air between you stills. Steve dips his head, his forehead brushes yours. “And now I finally got that dance.”

You don’t breathe. If you do, you’re afraid that the exhale would shatter the fragility of this moment. 

“Was it worth it?” You don’t recognize your own voice and the breathy way it comes out. Your hands move up Steve’s chest and snake around his neck. His head knocks against yours, your noses centimeters apart, lips separated by inches.

You feel Steve’s smile more than you really see it. “You tell me.”

He kisses you, cradling your body as if it were made to fit into the crevices of his palms. Lips move against lips and your skin hums at the sensation of finally welcoming him home. His skin greets you with a soft tenderness and your lips coat his mouth with sugary sweetness.

“Get a room!” Robin throws a napkin at the two of you, forcing you apart, and when you come up for air you see the biggest smile on her face. 

You hide in Steve’s neck, embarrassed, though not enough to not leave small, fluttery kisses on every mole your lips can find. You’re already addicted to feeling him shiver beneath you.

“Seems we have a wedding to plan for next year!” Connor raises his beer and points at you and Steve, cackling loudly. 

Kelly is next to him and she kisses her husband’s cheek and beams at him. “It took ‘em long enough!”

“Do you guys mind?” Steve pulls you away from the dancefloor, glaring at his closest friends who all love him endlessly and whom he loves even more, and basks in your giggling as he whisks you away. “I’m trying to kiss Y/N here!”

“Use protection!” Robin calls out while Connor and Kelly whistle and cat call. 

Steve finds an empty closet and no one can find you for the rest of the night. Kelly never lets you live it down, Connor commends you for the bravery, and Robin has to wipe away her tears.

– 

Your first semester of senior year, Steve and Robin’s band gets signed. The record label is apparently legendary because they collapse onto the ground screaming when they get the phone call. Twenty minutes later, Connor and Kelly are at your apartment screaming alongside them.

Two weeks later they book tickets to New York and you help Steve pack his bags. Everything happens so quickly and it’s almost nauseating trying to keep up.

“We’re in the studio from nine to five every weekday, so I’ll call you every day at six.” Steve folds a pair of jeans and hands them for you to place in his suitcase. “Weekends I’ll call you at five so that we can eat dinner together.”

You give him an odd look. “Don’t you want to go explore the city while you’re there?”

“I mean, sure. But I can do that during the day. The moment the clock strikes five or six, it’s my girl’s time.”

“Steve…” You’re so stupidly in love with him sometimes. “I don’t want you worrying about me while you’re there. This is a huge opportunity for you.”

“Who said anything about worrying about you?” Steve walks up behind you and kisses your neck. “Angelface, I’m worried I might die after the first week without you.”

Your hands brush through his hair. “You’ll be fine, Stevie. I guarantee that in five days tops you’ll be having too much fun to miss me.”

“Wrong. I will be talking everyone’s ears off about you and will probably get banned from a lot of bars because of it.”

Sighing, you turn and face him, pressing a soft kiss to his brow. “Steve, it’s only for a few months. Each day we’re apart will be one day closer to being together.”

“How about no days apart and every day together?”

You kiss him, slowly and drawn out, as if time is on your side and you’re in excess of it. Steve hums against you, tightening his arms in a lazy hug, and you know that you’ll miss him forever.

The first few weeks are hard without Steve. You’ve never lived on your own before and you’ve never really spent a day without him since you were eighteen. Now you’re twenty-one and there’s no one to kiss you awake or make faces in the mirror with you as you brush your teeth.

What’s worse is that Robin is gone, too. And Kelly. And Connor.

Their absence makes you realize that you direly need other friends who aren’t in a literal band together. 

Steve keeps his promise and calls you every day. He always asks about how your day has been, he tells you every detail about his. He tells you that he’s started writing all his thoughts down in a notebook that he wants to tell you so that he doesn’t forget, and it makes you ache even more. 

The months pass by slowly. December drips into January and then February greets you with her winter’s kiss. There’s snow in Chicago and even more to come, and you know Steve will be excited to see it when he gets back.

Which coincidentally happens to be Valentine’s day. 

And also the day you get violent food poisoning. 

After months of being apart, the first time Steve sees you again is with your head in the toilet bowl, hacking up your lungs and dying. 

“Oh, Jesus.” He drops his bags and comes running over, immediately gathering your hair so that you don’t get it dirty as yet another wave of nausea hits you.

“Welcome home.” you say in between bouts of bile. Truly, you think this is a new low that you’ve reached. Here you are, deathly ill and incredibly sweaty, while your lovely boyfriend has just arrived home after months of missing each other. “Sorry that you have to see this.”

Steve rubs your back and sits with you on the ground. “Don’t be ridiculous. Even spilling your guts out I think you’re hot.”

“That’s sweet,” you throw up again. “Would you be a dear and kill me now?”

He laughs, massaging your tender body, and doesn’t once leave your side. He flushes the toilet for you when needed. He gets a rag and soaks it in cold water and rubs it across your forehead to help regulate your fever. He hums to you when your stomach twists in pain. 

Eventually the nausea settles enough for you to ask Steve to carry you to bed. He does, and he sets you down gently before crawling in next to you. He fits your body against his, hand on your stomach as if he himself can ease its ache. 

“I’m sorry,” your voice is raspy, the acidic bile still lingering. “I’m sure this isn’t the grand reunion and Valentine’s day that you had in mind.”

“I’m laying in bed with you and you love me.” Steve kisses your overheated forehead. “That’s all I ever want for Valentine’s day.”

Your eyes fall shut and you exhale shakily. “I just… I wanted our first Valentine’s to be special. I had it all planned out. I rented your favorite movie and bought all the ingredients to make the gnocchi you love so much, and then as I was folding the laundry I just-I died.”

“Food poisoning. America’s silent killer.” Your laugh rings in Steve’s ears and he smiles, kissing your face again and again and again. He runs his nose down your chin, brushes the hair out of your face. “Besides, this isn’t our first Valentine’s. I’m counting all the ones we spent together single and lonely whether you like it or not.”

“The fifth one wasn’t so bad,” you muse. You still remember the roar of the Vexture as Steve announced that you were his Valentine. “You were annoyingly charming that night.”

“That was me declaring my love for you, you know.”

You turn to him, startled. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope.” Steve clutches his chest. “There I was, telling the love of my life that I wanted her to be my Valentine forever, and then in the end she friendzones me. Truly brutal stuff.”

“But that was years ago! We were nineteen, there’s no way in hell you were actually in love with me.”

He grabs your hand and kisses it. “Y/N, I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen. I was just waiting for you to like me back.”

The idea of Steve being in love with you since you were kids nearly sends you back to throwing up. You’re overwhelmed by it. By the idea that someone could’ve loved you for as long as he has. That he still loves you now. For nearly a decade.

“Y/N? You got all quiet over there. You alive?” Steve pokes your cheek and it’s then that you know that there was never anyone else for you. You were his from the moment he walked into student council and demanded cleaner mirrors in the men’s bathroom.

“I love you.” You tell him. They’re the only words created for what you have. 

Steve scrunches his face in an endearing manner. “I love you, too.”

“Now tell me all about New York.”

And he does.

– 

Robin tells you that tour life is romanticized and that within the first week you’ll strangle her and Steve to death, but you don’t believe her. When you see the size of the bus the five of you will be staying in for months on end, you start to second guess what she’s said. 

“It’s… cozy?”

Connor huffs at you. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“It’ll be fun, guys!” You try again to make light of the situation, though really you also don’t believe what you’re saying. “I mean, think about how much closer we’ll be after this.”

“Weren’t you a philosophy major?” Connor looks at you skeptically. “Isn’t the whole schtick of those old white dudes pessimism?” 

Steve throws an arm around you. “She graduated top of her class, actually. And yes. Those old white dudes loved being bitter bitches.”

“I think Y/N’s right.” Kelly joins in now. “We’re a family. It can’t be that bad.”

“Famous last words.” Robin mutters.

They are, in fact, famous last words. 

Connor learns that he gets car sick easily on day two. Kelly learns that she has a fear of car sickness on day three. Robin leaves her keyboard at one of the venues they play at the second week and doesn’t realize it until you’re already at the next venue an entire state away. Steve loses his voice after the sixth show and spends the entire bus ride to the next venue sulking.

You, however, are honestly having a great time. You didn’t get to travel with the band last year due to school, and now that you’ve graduated, you’re enamored with seeing places that aren’t native to Illinois or Indiana. 

“Steve, if you gargle salt water in my ear one more time, I will shave your head in your sleep.” Robin threatens during week four. Her eye is twitching and you truly do believe that she has a razor hidden somewhere.

“I have to protect my voice.” He argues, pouring more warm water into a cup before mixing salt in. “I can’t lose it again!”

“That was a pretty rough show.” Connor says from his bunk. Being nearly 6’4, he barely even fits in it. His legs hang off awkwardly and he’s been complaining about his back for weeks now.

“I thought Robin sang pretty well.” Nancy, the band’s tour photographer, says quietly from the makeshift kitchenette. She joined during the third show and you think Robin’s been in love with her since the fourth one. 

“Uh, thanks. I guess.” She squeaks out, hiding behind you in a not so subtle manner. You pat her hand, sympathetic. 

Steve gargles and spits the water into the sink. “Robin has an incredible voice, I agree. But that’s besides the point. We’re on the clock full time, even if we don’t have a show tonight.”

“And tell me, my dear wife, why we don’t have a show tonight?” Connor sings to Kelly.

“Why, my dear husband, I do believe it’s because it’s Valentine’s day and Stevie over here demanded the night off so that he can court our beloved Y/N.”

Steve rolls his eyes at them and you laugh. “In our defense, we haven’t exactly had a normal Valentine’s day together. We’re in dire need of one normal night.”

Nancy tilts her head at you. “But aren’t you guys together?” 

“Yeah, but we weren’t for a while.”

“One Valentine’s day Y/N found out her boyfriend was cheating on her, who also just so happened to be my roommate.” 

Robin throws her head back and shouts, “Fuck Oliver!” And Connor and Kelly join.

“Thanks, guys.” Steve turns back to Nancy. “Another year I made Y/N go on a blind double date with me and a girl I was dating at the time. Turns out, the guy I brought for Y/N was also the ex boyfriend of my girlfriend. So that was fun.”

“One year we actually walked down the aisle together. Before we were even dating.” Nancy’s eyes widen and you shrug at her. “We were in the same wedding party.”

“Happy anniversary, babe.” Connor blows a kiss to Kelly and she catches it, blowing him one back.

“And last year I got horrendous food poisoning and Steve had to drive me to the hospital since I was so dehydrated. He cried filling out my paperwork.”

“I did.”

Nancy looks between you and Steve. “And this year, you guys will…?”

“I’m taking Y/N out to a nice, totally normal and totally romantic dinner. I’m going to wine and dine my girl and then we’re going to cuddle in our way too small bunk bed and sleep.”

You beam at everyone. “It’s a pretty good plan.”

Except you and Steve don’t even make it to your reservation. Later that night, right before you call a taxi, Nancy bursts through the bus door with a frantic look in her eyes. You drop the phone and rush to her. “Woah, hey. What’s going on?”

“Have you seen Robin?” There are tear stains on her delicate face. 

Steve’s body tenses. “Last time we saw her was when she left with you guys, why?”

“I–” A broken sob prevents Nancy from telling him anything else, and you take her into your arms.

You soothe her, your own worry for your friend setting your body on edge. Steve shares a look with you, both wondering what the hell is happening. Robin left with Nancy and the others hours ago to go check out some local bar, and now here Nancy is, crying in your arms, with Robin nowhere to be found.

“Nance,” drying the girl’s tears, you try to get her to calm down enough to speak. “I need you to breathe with me, okay? Take a deep breath and then let it out slowly.”

You inhale, so does she, and after several seconds you exhale long and slow. Nancy’s breath stutters and her tears soak the white blouse she looks so delicate in, but still she breathes.

Steve stands over the two of you, arms crossed with his eyebrows pinched together in worry. He taps his foot and you know it’s taking everything within him not to tear down the entire town to find his best friend.

“What happened with Robin, Nance?” Steve gently asks her, crouching down to her eye level. “Is she okay? Are you okay?”

Nancy wipes her face and sniffs. She can’t look at you or Steve. Her eyes face only the ground as she picks at her nails. “We… We kissed.”

“That’s…” Steve looks at you, silently asking if he should be elated or concerned, and all you can do is shrug helplessly at him. “That’s-that’s great, right? I mean, you two were totally love at first sight. Like, Romeo and Juliet but without the, you know. Death. I mean, at least I hope there’s no death, but seeing as you’re currently crying I’m a little nervous–”

“What my boyfriend is trying to say is that we’re happy for you guys, but also a little concerned.” You interrupt Steve’s ramble. “What happened after the kiss?”

Nancy continues picking at her nails. Her crying has subsided but her face remains broken and anguished. Her eyebrows knit together and her mouth draws into a thin line. “I-I kissed her, and then she just… She ran.”

“Shit,” you sigh, dropping your head.

Steve throws his own head back and curses as well. “Another category five.”

“Yup.”

Nancy turns to you. “Category five? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You wince, grabbing her hand in hopes of quelling her sudden anger. “Look, Robin is…”

“A gem.” Steve finishes for you, and you nod at him.

“She’s my best friend, and she’s incredibly brave and charismatic and bold. I’ve seen her punch men five times her size. She always speaks her mind and never takes no for an answer, but she’s also vulnerable. She hides a lot behind her humor.”

“When I first met Robin, she was going through a pretty rough breakup.” Steve sits next to you and Nancy now. “And since then she’s become the worst person imaginable when it comes to dating. She always freaks out and leaves the relationship before they can leave her. And a category five freakout is… bad.”

“We’ve only seen it once before with some girl she met at a gig a few years back. They kissed and Robin locked herself in the bathroom and refused to leave until the girl was gone.” You tuck Nancy’s hair behind her ear. “We aren’t telling you this to scare you, we’re telling you this because you clearly love Robin, and she loves you. She’s just… she’s been hurt before.”

Nancy slouches on the couch. “But I don’t want to hurt her! I didn’t even mean to kiss her, but she looked so pretty under the purple lighting and was laughing at some stupid joke I made and-and suddenly we were kissing and it was incredible and then–”

“Category five.” Steve mimes an explosion with his hands. You glare at him.

“How about this, we’ll find Robin for you and bring her back here. I think the two of you just really need to talk about this.”

Steve raises his hand. “I personally think they just need to makeout.” You elbow his side and he groans in pain. “Yeah, okay. That was fair.”

“I can’t ask you guys to do that.” Nancy sniffs. “You were so excited for your date tonight and you’ve already done enough.”

You kiss her forehead and pull Steve up from the couch, putting your jacket on and tossing him his. “Our Valentine’s day wouldn’t be the same without someone crying or throwing up. We’re going. Dinner can wait.”

Steve wraps an arm around your waist. “She’s right. This is just tradition for us. A sacred thing we look forward to every year.”

“You two confuse me so much.” Nancy laughs wetly, overwhelmed by your kindness. 

“We get that a lot.” Steve kisses your temple. “C’mon, angelface. The lesbians need us.”

Nancy nearly chokes on her laughter and you giggle as well. The bus door closes and it’s just open road before you. You’re in the middle of Wisconsin with nothing but grass and dirt for miles ahead. Wherever Robin ended up running off to, you sincerely hope it’s close.

In the end, you and Steve end up walking nearly two miles to a nearby gas station and find Robin face deep in a pint of ice cream. Her cheeks are smeared in chocolate and her puffy eyes are red. The moment you find her, Steve throws himself into her arms and you hold them both as she starts to cry.

It takes several conversations, many tissues, and a few threats before you’re able to convince Robin to walk back to the bus with you. She freaks out the entire two miles and Steve has to fully pick her up at one point to prevent her from fleeing, but eventually you’re standing in front of the bus door with Robin’s iron grip on your hand.

“I-I can’t do this.” She chokes out, short of breath as panic sets in again. “Please don’t make me do this.”

“You can,” Steve pokes her cheek, though his hand rubs her shoulder with affection. “And you will.”

“What if she hates me now?”

You hook your chin over Robin’s shoulder, butting your head with hers. “Then we’ll be here to catch you, dummy. But we won’t need to, because Nancy is currently pacing the bus waiting to kiss your pretty face again.”

Robin’s body tenses and she gets ready to run, but Steve swoops her into his arms and you yank the door open so that he can throw her inside. She screams, but you slam the door shut and Steve helps you keep it closed as her fists pound against it.

“Let me out!” Robin screeches, throwing her body against the door.

“Kiss and make up! Those are the rules!” You scream back, clenching your teeth to keep your footing. 

Robin screams again and Steve has to throw his entire body weight back to keep her inside, but eventually her anger exhausts her and soon there’s only silence within the bus. You and Steve press your ears to the door, breaths held so as not to miss anything, and faintly, very faintly, you hear Nancy’s soft voice mixing with Robin’s embarrassed tears.

Stepping back, Steve holds his hand for you to high five, which you gladly accept. “God, we’re great.”

“The best matchmakers this town has ever seen.”

Steve tugs you against him and holds you close to his chest, inhaling your scent and humming in content. You melt into him and he holds you for a while, just the two of you, swaying softly together as the gentle February wind dances around you.

“I think year nine went pretty well.” You murmur into Steve’s skin.

He buries his face in your hair. “I have a feeling year ten will be even better.”

–

The band’s breakout album, Angelface, becomes an instant success. It tops every chart, critics praise it, fans scream along to all the songs, and Steve claims that you’re the reason for it.

“I name an album after you and suddenly it sells a million copies overnight.” He nips at your neck, humming when you writhe beneath him. “You’re my good luck charm, angelface.”

You want to tease him and call him crazy, but when his hand comes up to massage your breast through its thin fabric, your moans drown out the noise in your mind. 

Connor and Kelly buy a house with a studio built inside of it. The band rehearses there every day in preparation for their next album. Robin brings Nancy along, the two of them always giggling quietly to themselves in between sessions. Nancy becomes the band’s official photographer. All the photos are of Robin. 

Steve surprises you one day with the keys to your own home. He tells you that the second the money from Angelface was his, he went out and bought the house the next day. The home is much bigger than the apartment you once shared together, though small enough to still feel intimate. There are mahogany floors and a bay window in your bedroom and you couldn’t be more in love with it.

February comes and Steve sits you down at the kitchen table with a pen and paper in front of him. 

“Alright,” he says, setting his hands on the table with an air of authority to him. “Valentine’s day is approaching. We know what that means.”

“That disaster is ahead.” You nod solemnly, following along.

“Exactly, so here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to make you a fancy dinner without anything that can possibly get you sick. No eggs. No meat. No dairy. Nothing prone to yacking.”

“Not sure what that leaves you with, but I’m listening.”

Steve writes everything down. “There will be only electric candles because I’m now terrified that the only disaster left is a house fire, and I spent a concerning amount of money on this house.”

“I fear the same.”

“Perfect. I’ll get us some wine and a movie to rent. Our landline will be turned off so that absolutely no one can contact us. We’re going AWOL here, Y/N. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

You lean forward and place your head in your hand. “What if Robin tries calling, though?”

“I love her, but we landed her a girlfriend last year. She owes us this Valentine’s day.”

“Touché.” 

Steve looks down at his list. “Okay. Am I missing anything?”

You think for a moment. “No, I think that’s all, just don’t forget I have a doctor’s appointment that day so I won’t be home until a bit later.”

“Already accounted for that. I’ll be buying undisclosed decorations for the house to surprise you with.”

“Undisclosed? How many spy movies did you watch before this?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

True to his word, Steve does decorate the house while you’re gone. You get back from your appointment and your home is an explosion of pinks and reds. There are streamers everywhere and a small disco ball hangs from your living room ceiling. Music from your high school years plays softly in the background and the house smells of acidic tomato and garlic. 

“Steve?” You call out, breathless as you walk towards the kitchen. He’s spared no expense. The floor is littered with roses and there’s wine waiting for you on the table with small electric candles flickering in the darkness.

“Do you like it?” You turn around and find Steve holding a bouquet of roses, dressed in a familiar tuxedo. It’s all black and his ribbed vest has the same rose pinned to it that it did back when you were in high school trying to stop him from pouring gin into the punch. 

Your heart beats wildly and an overwhelming mix of emotions simmer in your stomach. “You’re…”

“The best boyfriend in the world? I know.” Steve grabs the wine and pops it open, pouring you a glass. He hands it to you with a wink, but you don’t accept the drink. He tilts his head in confusion. “I thought you loved red wine?”

“I-I do.” You’re quick to reassure him. “But after my doctor’s appointment today, I’m not so sure I should have any.”

Your heartbeat spikes again and Steve sets the glasses down immediately. He’s at your side a second later, worry for you written all over his handsome face. “You said it was just a regular checkup. Are you alright? Are you sick again? I-I can drive you to the hospital, just let me turn off the stove before we actually do have a house fire–”

“Steve,” your voice cracks with love and warmth. He looks up at you, pink lips parted in a small frown that you want to kiss better. “I can’t have wine for nine months.”

“Nine..? That’s an oddly specific number.” His lips turn downwards. “Is it like, some type of allergy now, or–?”

“No, Stevie.” You cup his face with a smile. Grabbing his hands, you bring them to your stomach. His palms lay flush against your abdomen, warm, and something in his face shifts. His eyes widen slightly, soft air escapes him, and your face burns from how wide you smile. “It isn’t an allergy.”

“You’re–?” He doesn’t want to say it, afraid that if he does, that if he’s wrong, his heart would be broken in an irrevocable way.

You nod, brushing his hair back. “I’m about ten weeks along.”

Steve sinks to his knees, dropping his head to your stomach and staring at it with an innocent gaze of love. His eyes fill with wonder, with tears. “Y/N.”

He whispers your name like a sacred prayer, lips pressing to the flesh over and over again as your fingers tangle in his hair and your joy coats his skin. 

“I know we’re young, but…” You whisper down to him. “I want this. I really, really want this.”

“I want this, too.” Steve slides his hands up your body and stands, cradling you in his arms while his face buries itself into your neck. You can feel his tears wet your skin, the slight trembling of his body. “God, I want this.”

Your lips ghost the shell of his ear, down the veins in his neck, the crest of his collarbones and the lines of his jaw. Steve pulls you, closer and closer and closer, until your skin is his and his breath is yours. 

“Happy Valentine’s day, Stevie.” 

Steve smiles down at you. His face has changed since you first met ten years ago. The lines around his eyes have deepened slightly, his boyish smile is now more charming than endearing, and his jaw has become more defined.

His eyes, however, are the same eyes you fell in love with all those years ago. The toffee brown still reminiscent of the student council meetings you always bickered in. They’re still soft when he looks at you, open and lovely as they were at the Lonely Hearts dance. 

There is still so much love that is embedded in Steve’s hand woven features for you. His hands stroke your stomach and your lips are against his. The excess of love is syrupy thick. 

All it took was ten Valentine’s days.

-

⌑ writing masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

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

[diceroll65]

unexpected guest - b.e

billie eilish x fem!reader

a/n: little blurb for u 💋

summary: you walk to the kitchen after a long night, where you are met with billie's mom dropping off leftovers of billie's favorite from the night before. billie was already aware of her mom coming over... clearly you were not!

warnings: mention of previous sexual encounter, sensual acts, second hand embarrassment, indication of smut, etc

it is 10:12am, you wake up, looking under the covers rediscovering the evidence of last night's activity of choice. you look over to see the top of billie's bare back, the rest of her figure covered with the off-white duvet. you look over to realize your glass of water is now empty, so you decide to go to the kitchen. billie's house is freezing, so you grab the closest piece of attire. billie's red jersey hangs loosely on your shoulders, your hair now in a rushed updo. you grab the glass on the side table, and open the door to billie's room.

you go straight for the fridge, holding your glass under the water dispenser. all of a sudden, you hear keys being inserted into the door lock, instantly freezing. you quietly set your glass down on the adjacent counter. you then hear the familiar footsteps of none other than maggie, billie's mom. she whips her head to see you standing there, in nothing but billie's jersey. of course, it was long enough to cover everything but you still feel exposed. "hey y/n! just dropping off some noodle soup for billie" she says, with a sweet smile. you can't help but to smile back, despite your feeling of indecency. "aw that's sweet! i've heard such great things about that soup. i'll let her know you dropped it off" you say, twiddling your thumbs. "i assume she's still sleeping" she laughs, looking over to billie's bedroom door. "oh yeah, she is sleeping like a baby" you giggle, not realizing what you said and now leaving room for maggie to wonder why she is sleeping so well. she smiles and reaches out to grab your arm. "well it was wonderful seeing you, honey. i have to run some errands, tell billie to call me!" she says, bringing you into a tight embrace. you rub maggie's back, giving a little "i will" as she turns to face the door.

you hear the door the latch of the door, and immediately run back into the bedroom. your face is now beet red, as you begin to shake billie gently, but vigorously. "hmmm" billie mumbles as her eyes slowly open to reveal her glassy orbs. "your mom just saw me... like this" you say, dipping your head down to emphasize your lack of clothes. billie eyes widen a little "oh yeah, she did mention dropping by this morning on the phone last night" she says, as she slightly tilts her head remaining eye contact. "you didn't think to mention this maybe i don't know, last night?" you say, in a frightened shriek. while you are mortified, billie is amused, letting out a soft chuckle. "billie that was so embarrassing, oh my god" you say, your hands falling into your hands. billie sits up a little, stretching while simultaneously reaching for your hands. "babe, we're adults" billie laughs "plus, this is my place it's fine"

"just let me know next time maybe?" you ask softly, gazing at her with a plush expression, evident through your eyes. "mhmmm" she says, taking in a deep breath, leaving prolonged pecks along the side of your neck.

"i would've loved to seen how flustered you were" billie says, biting your shoulder. "how are you still horny?" you ask, laughing as you turn around to wrap your arms around her neck.

@bitchybananaflower to be added to taglist, comment ⭐︎

[thinkshespretty]

౨ৎ 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃!𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐄

y/n.y/l/n made a post!

y/n.y/l/n can someone please convince her to stop putting bras on her head

♥︎ liked by madisonbeer, janedillonhorner, billieilish, and others

finneas Y/n you said you were going to make sure she behaves on tour while I’m not there.

y/n.y/l/n IM TRYING MY BEST FINNEAS.

madisonbeer you guys are so adorable

y/n.y/l/n madison!!!! my angel i love u sooooo

billieilish I TOLD YOU NOT TO POST THE EIGTH PHOTO

y/n.y/l/n ma’am there’s no need to yell. and i couldn’t resist :,( you look too cute

billieeilish you’re lucky i love you

avahorner can you guys not do this here

alexwolffoffical I agree

y/n y/l/n can u guys stop being such haters

niccolassturniolo Crazy lit movie

y/n.y/l/n yes nick exactly

billieeilish i still don't understand what the little furry things you made me buy are supposed to be

y/n.y/l/n i literally already told you, IT’S US

janedillonhorner “can someone convince her”, as if you aren’t the only one who can persuade her to do everything and anything. that women would lick the bottom of your shoes if you asked

y/n.y/l/n why’d u have to clock me like that

billieeilish i’m not licking the bottom of anyone’s shoes btw

y/n.y/l/n not even my mary janes u love so much?

billieeilish y/n.

billieeilishtours so cute!

♥︎ liked by author

quenblackwell GAG

♥︎ liked by author

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫: woah hi guys 😳 long time no see hehe. i don’t know if anyone is going to see this but i thought this concept was soo cute and i wanna give huge credit to @chrissv4mp who heavily inspired this from her new years post with billie! these are so cute and i would love to make more if u guys had requests, or not lol! anyway i have something in mind for a fic that i may or may not be posting, idk we’ll see!!

[yuwuta]

please feed us some yuuji blurbs there’s a lack of him rn :(

ofc… sweetest boy all time… here’s something was was meant to be a longer project but got lost in the editing whirlwind… love him so bad... 

NEVER LOST IN TRANSLATION, BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT I WANT 

notes: reader is implied to be american/english-speaking, yuuta and megumi are bilingual, yuuji, bless his soul, is not. i didn’t use italics for conversations between yuuji and megumi because it would all be in japanese, but when they get mixed later in the scene, japanese is differentiated with italics. hope that’s not too confusing lololll

Honestly, Yuuji tried his best in school. Some things came easier than other, but with a bit of hard work, and help from his friends, he always managed to pull pretty good grades. But right now, his biggest regret is not taking english more seriously in high school, because it’s been about three weeks since he met you, and he’s only been able to say maybe five full sentences to you without the help of Yuuta or Megumi translating. 

He was excited when Yuuta said his friend from abroad would be coming to visit and study, but god, he didn’t expect you to be so pretty. To have such pretty eyes, and pretty lips, and pretty hair, to have the prettiest voice in the world despite him only understanding every eighteenth word you say. You’re beautiful to him, and Yuuji thinks that even if he could speak your language fluently, the words would still get caught in his throat. He’s so lovesick, it’s embarrassing—his friends have been harping on him blushing and stuttering over you for the past month, and he can’t even blame them.

“What does she say to you when you guys talk,” Yuuji whines, hovering around Megumi, and not-so-discreetly looking back at you where you’re still sat in the living room laughing with Yuuta, “Does she ever say anything about me? I mean—probably not right? Which is fine! Actually, dont tell me—no, do. Or maybe—”

“She asks about you,” Megumi says, matter-of-fact in delivery, as he places a bag of popcorn in the microwave, but that doesn’t curb Yuuji’s enthusiasm. He’s practically bouncing, if he weren’t already—begging Megumi to spill the details, “What did she ask? Tell me! Tell me!” 

“She once asked if you dye your hair.”

“That’s it?!” Yuuji screams, heartbroken, and visibly deflating.

Megumi shrugs, “Yuuta probably knows more. She’s his exchange buddy friend thing, so ask him.”

“I can’t ask him, he’s right next to her!” Yuuji pouts, “Wait, what does ‘exchange buddy friend thing’ mean? You don’t think they’re more than friends, right…? I can’t blame her, senpai is really pretty, too, and he can actually talk to her… so unfair.” 

“You know, she’s not fluent, but she can understand some Japanese,” Megumi reminds him, “So, she can definitely hear you, and probably understand you.”

Yuuji’s shoulders slump, and once again, he turns around to look back at you. This time, you two make eye-contact, and that instant, Yuuji’s cheeks go pink, a nervous hand raised to wave at you, and instant internal regret at his actions; but, then you smile, and wave back, and Yuuji stays like that, dumbfounded and lovestruck and on autopilot as he waves with hearts in his eyes until Yuuta looks up from his phone and catches him.

Embarrassing. He knows he’s not the brightest, but he’s at a record high of self-embarrassment since he’s met you.

Yuuta finds himself chuckling when Yuuji spins around and goes back to prodding Megumi with questions. When you turn to face him again, it’s with a shy smile.

“I told you you’d like him,” Yuuta grins—the kind that seems sweet and innocent, but has just a kiss of that all-knowing tease to it; the kind that reminds you that he’s truly related to Satoru.

“Oh, be quiet,” you grumble, tucking your legs in and resting your chin on your knee. You spare another glance in Yuuji’s direction, for once, grateful for the language barrier between the two of you, when you turn back to Yuuta to proclaim: “I can like someone and not do anything about it. You’re real good at that, aren’t you?”

Yuuta’s slightly cocky grin falls into a scowl, and now you get to smile when he argues back, “We said not to bring up he who shall not be named in the presence of my friends!”

“Then don’t bring up my he who shall not be named in the presence of him!”

“Aren’t Americans all about forging new frontiers and chasing after your dreams?” he taunts, “Well, your dream is right in front of you.”

“My dream right now is to kill you.”

“Lucky for me, you’re going to have to hold off on that because your lover boy is approaching.”

You don’t have time to argue back with Yuuta when Megumi and Yuuji approach the living area with snacks in tow. Yuuta scoots to the tail end of the couch under the guise of giving Yuuji space to place the popcorn and nuggets in the center of the coffee table, but he has just enough time to flash you a wink before Yuuji settles in between. Megumi opts for the loveseat closets to Yuuta’s end of the couch, and you do your best not to reach over Yuuji and strangle Yuuta.

The boys decide on watching a movie you’ve never heard of, but Megumi reassures you it’ll be easy to follow and has English subtitles. You don’t mind, settling in to your corner of the couch with a handful of popcorn just as the title-screen for Human Earthworm 3 rolls across the TV.

You can follow along well-enough—even without subtitles, you get the gist of the movie. What you really find entertaining is Yuuji, who occasionally blurts out a comment or exclamation, or audibly coos whenever something sad is happening on screen. He’s almost as animated as the characters; you’re more of the silent-watcher type, but you find yourself endearing by this commentary, even if you can only understand parts of it.

You particularly appreciate the way that after every comment, he either motions to Megumi, or turns to you himself to repeat his thoughts in his best broken English, and even when you don’t understand his words, you understand him. His emotions are all on his sleeve: frustration, happiness, confusion, curiosity—communication between you two should be more difficult, but Yuuji makes it easy.

It gives you the confidence you cough out your own observation, “You, um… you’ve… seen the others? You seem to like this series.”

Across the room, Megumi and Yuuta hold their breaths, opting to not translate for you when you switch from Japanese to English. Yuuji is quiet for a moment, turned to face you with a slightly confused look on his face that makes you nervous, until his eyes brighten up and he smiles and begins nodding fervently—“Yeah—yeah, I do! It’s my… hm how do I say it… Oh! It’s my favorite!”

Between the smile on his face, the blush on his cheeks, and sincerity in his voice, you feel like you’re wrapped up in his world. It’s a little confusing, and scary, but it’s not all that bad. Maybe you can do something about it, eventually.

“I.. I think I like it, too.”

[amara-eilish]

can you write a fic based on billie wanting to film r and her having sex (but like with sub!top!billie pleassee) i love ur work and i'm sooo happy ur backkkk

kind of not proofread sorry!

"but baby what am i gonna do so far away from you!" billie says in front of you. the both of you were both lying in bed while billie brushed her fingers through your hair. billie had just brought up the fact that the two of you were going to go without sex for 2 months on her first leg of tour.

you laughed at how much she needed you but brushed off the topic. the topic changed, and the two of you talked about random things before it got quiet. you could hear billie's breathing getting heavier.

"what's wrong pretty? what's got your head thinking so hard?" you ask

billie smiled softly, "i want to record us, make a video. something to keep me company when i'm missing you." her eyes sparkled with joy and you could see how much she wanted it. " a video, hm?" 

your voice was quiet as you whispered in her ear softly running your fingers down her back. "what kind of video do you want to film sweet girl?"

billie whined burying her head in your neck, "you know what i mean baby" she mumbled.

"do i? can you remind me baby?" you tease.

"wanna film us having sex," billie whispers clawing at your clothes.

you laugh quietly and nod at her to go set up the camera. she shot up quickly running to set it up.

she propped the phone up on the bedside table, angling it to capture the entire bed, ensuring everything would be captured. the camera lens stared back at them, a silent witness to the scene about to unfold.

"gonna show you what a good girl i am for you" billie says excitedly. "yeah? gonna be good for me?" you breathe out in anticipation.

your breath caught as billie's lips brushed against your core. the feeling of billie's tongue sending shivers through your body. your back arched, pushing your hips upwards, as she ate you out. billie's mouth was relentless, her tongue flicking and probing, driving you to the brink of ecstasy.

"fuck baby" you gasped, your hands gripping the sheets tightly. "doing so good f'me, making me feel so good, pretty."

billie's moaned at the praise, the vibrations adding to the pleasure. she could get drunk off the taste of you and bathed your continuous praise.

as your moans grew louder, billie slipped two fingers inside curling them to find that sweet spot that would send you over the edge. your body tensed, muscles clenching around billie's fingers as you cried out in release.

"yesss baby. so good for me always. always been my good girl" your voice echoed through the room, pushing billie to continue, savoring the taste of your orgasm.

billie crawled up your body, leaving a trail of kisses along your chest. before kissing your lips passionately.

you laughed, a playful glint in your eyes. "can't wait to watch it back. maybe we should make a few more, just to be sure."

tags: updating my tag list let me know if you want to be added!

[karaaeilish]

★ video games; b. eilish

★ sheriff!billie x bad girl!reader

the thick air carries the scent of strong coffee, sweet vanilla, and the pungent smell of her men's cologne. her presence makes your blood boil under your skin, and your eyes burn with sparks bright enough to set an entire city on fire. she was the reason for your sleepless nights and your endless arguments with your father, when you screamed "but daddy, i love her!" while being admonished about god. your father told you that you were a sinner, that every lewd thought you had about her was a new sin that you'd have to kneel before god to absolve. but it was no big deal when her eyes were fixed on you. no matter how much she denied it, she only had eyes for you.

as soon as a strong odor pierces your sinuses, your head immediately turns towards the door she appears in. billie. to you. to the others she was 'ma'am'. wide jeans hang low, the patch you sewed on her left thigh after she was shot, too stubborn to grab another pair of pants. a large plaid shirt hangs loosely over her body, the sleeves carelessly rolled up, exposing her forearms, covered in tattoos-rather partakes of tattoos inflicted when she was young while drinking beer at john's bar. a polished revolver rests dangerously in its holster, drawing your attention, and her hand hovers over it steadily in quiet menace, a warning, as if it should scare you, as if butterflies flutter in your stomach at the mere sight of her.

"for the second time this week" her voice is as professionally calm as ever, not giving away a drop of the nervousness that actually sat in her heart when she noticed how confidently you look at her. as if she's already yours, body and soul belonging to you. as if you know exactly what you are doing to her, wearing such short skirts and such slutty shirts, exposing your skin that she longs to touch. but she's silent. silent because she has no right to touch you, to spoil you. she's just afraid that she can ruin what seems not to exist.

you sit still, lazily, arms out in front of you, the handcuffs secured around your wrists glistening in the sunset light. billie takes a few steps forward, almost awkwardly, removing a bunch of keys from the loop on her jeans. her hands tremble as she touches you, deftly turning the right key to undo the handcuffs, leaving them lying a few inches away from you. just so you'll always remember them.

"petty theft… at a gas station. are you serious?" she reads your two-page file. as if you were a member of a drug gang instead of taking a few candy bars and a can of soda off the shelf just because you knew the hysterical clerk would throw a tantrum, screaming and calling the sheriff's office about how you'd 'trashed' his precious gas station again. it doesn't matter if you did it on purpose. just to see her beautiful face again.

a playful smile adorns your face, your arms tightening to your body so that you can rest your chin on them as if you were a work of art that came down from heaven instead of an ordinary girl always getting into trouble, to see billie looking at you time after time, skillfully hiding the beating of her heart. but unfortunately for her, your gaze has already fallen to her neck, noticing the frantic beating of her heart.

"i heard that you like the bad girls?" you lean forward slightly, eyes fixed precisely on her own, but even still, you notice how hard she swallows, trying to make eye contact and maintain professionalism without showing you the weakness oozing through her skin. "honey, is that true?"

your body no longer listens to reason, and your hands slide forward until your fingertips meet her skin, soft and hot, drawing a line from her hand to her elbow, causing goosebumps all over her body that can't be hidden even with the greatest desire. billie almost gasps, but after a few seconds pulls her hand away, covering her face.

"you're gonna drive me to my damn grave" she whispers and you can't help but giggle, slowly standing up and walking around the wooden table to be inches away from her body. your hand comes down to touch her face and she looks like she's gonna cry. out of desperation and fear, like she's almost given up, but no.

her body rises lightning fast from the creaking chair, and now her silhouette towers over you until she pushes you against the concrete wall, burning holes in your heart with her gaze. there's nothing in her eyes but a frantic desire to finally shut your mouth with hers, sliding her wet tongue past your lips as you whimper silently, begging for more. but before you both can say anything, her palm shuts you up, preventing you from uttering a word.

"stop. just fucking stop doing that until i lose control."

the game has moved into your hands. and so has her heart.

౨ৎ tags; @billiesbabygirll, @amara-eilish, @st0nerlesb0, @bxllxebxtch @mystiquemm, @bilswifee, @dragoneyelashart, @bilssturns, @chrissv4mp, @allyeilishh, @bitchesbrokenpromises, @too-sapphic-to-function, @thefeverburningalive, @peytonglazesbillieeilish, @1nn3rthOughts, @thebluediner, @xiletay, @eilishsfantasy, @ariieeesworld

[powerfultenderness]

Me: tbh I love Soap fluff fics so much.

My daydreams: Soap is a manwhore slut bastard that thinks you're perfect wife material, only he's not ready to get married yet. Tells you he won't commit to an exclusive relationship before the first time you fuck, and it's such a good fuck that you go back to him whenever he calls.

He uses you to calm down after rough days/missions, cuddling you in the warmth of your home, head buried in your bosom as you gently scratch his scalp. LOVES your cooking and often stops by just to see what you made for dinner (you always make enough to share with him) or to raid your fridge for leftovers.

All while he's fucking other women too. Sure on his drunkest nights, he leaves them and barges into your home just so he can cuddle with you, but you know where he's been. He smells of their perfume, has their lipstick staining his skin, has their teeth and nails claiming what should be yours.

He knows you're in love with him. He knows that you're waiting for him, that you'll wait for him for forever. He knows that just because he's sleeping around doesn't mean that you are. You barely even look at other men.

It really is the best of both worlds for him. He gets to taste every pretty thing he sets his eyes on, then turn around and live the (fake) domestic life with you. It's perfect.

Until he gets too confident, too assured in your not quite a relationship with him. He invites you out with the lads, usually a night like that ends with him in your bed, so you happily meet them at the pub. You dress up pretty, do your make up how you know he likes (he likes when you wear mascara on your bottom lashes, likes to watch it run during the night). But when you get there, he's already wrapped around a pretty woman, arms caging her against a pool table as he teaches her how to shoot, as her ass presses right up against his crotch.

You sigh as you sit at the bar instead of meeting the group. This isn't the first time this has happened, him picking up other women right in front of you. You know this night will end with another piece of your heart breaking. His friends will look at you with pity, and you're not sure you want to face that right now.

So when a stranger slides up to the bar next to you and offers to buy you a drink, you think, fuck it, why not?

You face him, to offer a polite smile and thanks, only to be met with a startling mask. The only part of this man's face you can see are his eyes, beautiful pools of blue slightly down turned. He introduces himself, "König," and while his voice isn't as deep as his stature would suggest, it's pleasant and dripping with an attractive accent.

He pays attention to everything you say, tells you that you can do better than that little man across the pub, then changes the subject when he sees you get a little sad when you glance at Johnny. Most of all, he makes you feel like the only woman in the world. (Maybe you just have a thing for pretty blue eyes, cute accents, and big muscles).

THAT'S when Johnny finally notices you, with his arm still keeping the other tucked to his side, he's about to wave you over to the group ("just a friend" he tells her) when you stand up and leave with König, your arm wrapped around his massive bicep.

Gaz let's out a low whistle, "she did look pretty. No wonder that PMC bloke made a move."

"Lucky him." And "Good for her." Are said somewhere beside him, but Soap doesn't hear it over the ringing in his ears.

How could he pay attention to them when he just watched HIS woman walk away with another man?

[goodnight-whore]

He’s literally so adorable I love him so much RAHHHHHH

[houseofpsychoticwomxn]

౨ৎ⋆ ˚ ❆ from a city that’s colder, but damn it he’s so hot — Gregory Eddie. ⋆ ˚ ❆ ౨ৎ

it’d been a rough day. the cold made it difficult as ever to get up and dressed, harsh winds of philadelphia soon chilling your bones as you rushed to warm up your car. the ends of your much needed scarf got caught on your door, leading the way for hot coffee all over your arm. one of your students’ parents had left a rather rude voicemail for you to come back to about a bad grade you’d tried to contact them about times before. not to mention the complete influx of runny noses sweeping your classroom. winter mornings were always the worst.

“I didn’t expect you to actually beat mine, wow.” he shook his head as his arms uncrossed, reaching deftly into his pockets for the five dollars you were promised.

“I told you. it was pretty bad.” you were happy to have someone to vent with like this, a good excuse to laugh it off if nothing else and gregory always seemed to have the advice you didn’t know you needed.

“no yeah, you weren’t kidding. some parents are just like that, its really not your fault. a lot of colds going around with mine right now, too. you know I always have extra clorox if you-“ he motioned to his classroom door behind him, stopping himself short when he saw mr. johnson out of the corner of his eye making a face at him. you turned and waved at him, laughing to yourself when he started whistling and moving down the hall.

“doesn’t he have anything better to do? surfaces to wipe or..” you joked, attempting to cut some of the tension suddenly in the air.

“right, yeah, I have tried to tell him.” one of his hands moved to the back of his neck, a tell-tale sign of his discomfort, ending with both of you talking at the same time.

“so-“

“well-“

you both shook it off, time before class started dwindling as other teachers began shuffling down the halls.

“anyway I should get back. you know, surfaces to wipe and all.” he suggested, mentally patting himself on the back for the smile on your face as he walked back to his room.

by the time you’d gone to the teachers lounge and walked back to your own classroom there was a neatly ribbon-wrapped clorox bottle waiting for you on your desk, an incentive not only to help prevent a runny nose of your own — but to give you proof that the day was beginning to go better than it had started.

[dragoneyelashart]

under investigation

smut ୨ৎ warnings: g!p billie, daddy kink wc: 2.1k

the case board stretches wall to wall, red string tangled in chaotic brilliance, notes scrawled in billie’s narrow, slanted handwriting. names, timestamps, surveillance photos, scribbled quotes, and maps pin together like the nerves of a monster only she can tame. her eyes flick across it like she's reading something no one else sees.

she stands before it now, half-lit by lamplight, black slacks riding low on her hips, the sleeves of her white button-down rolled up to her elbows. her dark hair’s been pulled back messily, loose strands stuck to the sheen of sweat along her neck. one pen rests behind her ear. another twitches between her fingers, not because she’s nervous. billie never gets nervous. she vibrates on a different frequency. always calculating. always coiled.

you’re supposed to be working.

instead, you’re watching her hands. the way they flex when she gestures. the way her fingers twitch when she’s mid-theory, when the storm is building behind her eyes. you’re watching how her mouth wraps around words like “staging” and “intent.” they way she chews on her pencil when she’s trying to think. how, sometimes, when she forgets you’re in the room, she murmurs thoughts under her breath, fast, obsessive, brilliant. the sound always makes your skin prickle.

you’ve spent enough time in her orbit to know this isn’t just case energy. tonight, she’s restless in a different way. controlled tension radiates off her like heat from the pavement after rain.

and she knows you’re watching her. she’s letting you.

“the victims weren’t meant to be found when they were,” she says suddenly, slicing through the quiet. she lifts one arm and gestures to a map dotted with red pins. “the watches weren’t trophies. they were time stamps.”

you shift slightly on the couch, the leather warm under your bare thighs. you’re cross-legged, your notepad forgotten in your lap. “and the barefoot thing?” you ask, voice low, measured. you’ve learned to keep your tone steady around her. she pounces on anything that cracks.

she turns to you. sharp. that signature, hungry smile curls at the edge of her mouth, the one she uses right before she proves someone wrong or pulls a confession out of thin air. “that’s where you come in, y/n.”

you roll your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself. “you say that like i’m not the one who flagged that both scenes had talcum powder near the bodies.”

she hums, low, approving,  and strolls toward you, slow and languid, like a cat circling prey it already owns. “mm. my brilliant little assistant.”

her voice dips on the last word, almost a purr.

heat flares in your stomach.

you don’t move as she approaches. you don’t have to. billie likes to close the distance herself, likes to see if you’ll hold your ground, if you’ll let her invade your space without protest.

you always do.

she stops just in front of the couch, towering over you even without heels. her gaze flickers to your lips, your throat, your exposed knee. she leans in, one hand bracing against the wall behind the couch, the other ghosting near your temple — not touching, just close enough to feel the air shift.

her knee presses between yours. your legs part instinctively. she notices.

“you know,” she murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “you’ve been sitting there for over an hour looking like you want me to pin you to the board.”

your throat tightens. your heart kicks hard in your chest.

you wet your lips. “maybe i do.”

she studies you, unreadable, calculating, for a beat that stretches too long.

then her mouth is on yours.

it’s sudden. fierce. a collision of heat and want and unspoken understanding. her hands grip your waist, strong fingers digging into your hips as she pulls you up, off the couch, with practiced ease. your notepad falls to the floor. her body is already flush with yours by the time your back hits the edge of the desk, cool wood biting through the thin fabric of your shirt.

you gasp into her mouth as her hips slot between your thighs. her kiss deepens, harder, wetter, and you feel yourself unraveling by the second.

she breaks from your lips to trail kisses down your jaw, biting lightly just beneath your ear. her breath is hot against your skin.

“you always taste like trouble,” she murmurs, voice low and ragged.

you try to reply, something witty, sharp,  but your brain short-circuits as her hand slips beneath your shirt, palm splayed across your stomach, fingers sliding upward, dragging the fabric with them. her mouth is at your throat now, kissing, sucking, nipping.

and then her hand moves lower.

she doesn’t bother with finesse, not now, not with the way your breath’s hitching. she presses her palm firmly between your legs, cupping you through your clothes, and rubs slow, deliberate circles that send white-hot sparks up your spine.

you moan, hips jerking forward.

her voice darkens with amusement. “so eager, already?”

“billie— daddy—” you try to catch your breath, try to stay present, but her touch is a fuse, and you’re already burning.

she grins against your neck. “that’s what i thought.”

she kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand gripping your ass, the other slipping beneath your waistband to press where you’re already soaked. your legs tremble. her fingers stroke lazily, expertly, teasing you right to the edge of losing control.

then, just as your breath hitches, just as your knees nearly give out—

buzzzz.

the shrill ring of the desk phone slices through the tension like a blade.

you both freeze.

billie exhales a low groan against your neck. “oh, for fuck’s sake—”

her hand stills, but doesn’t move away.

you blink, dazed. “ignore it,” you whisper.

but she’s already turning toward the phone, lips parted in irritation.

the caller id flashes.

inspector heller.

you groan. “tell him to get a life.”

billie reaches for the receiver, but she doesn’t move her hand from your waistband. if anything, her fingers press harder.

as the phone rings again, she glances at you with a look you’ve come to recognize: cold calculation, tempered by something far more dangerous.

a smirk.

she picks up the receiver.

“heller,” she says crisply, voice cool and composed, as if her hand isn’t currently shoved down your pants, as if her thumb isn’t making slow circles over your most sensitive spot.

your breath catches.

you try to squirm, to hold back the moan threatening to escape, but billie pins you with a look that says don’t even think about it.

then she frees herself.

long. thick. flushed at the tip, already dripping.

you’ve felt it before, pressed into your thigh, your stomach, teasing between your legs. but seeing her like this, cock heavy in her hand, shadows flickering over her skin, voice smooth on the call, it knocks the breath out of your lungs.

she jerks her chin.

“under,” she mouths.

your heart skips.

you slide down slowly, knees hitting the hardwood, and crawl beneath the desk. the space smells like cedar and paper and sex. her thighs part. her cock rests against one, throbbing faintly, sticky with pre-cum.

you don’t hesitate.

your lips wrap around the head, soft and warm. leaving soft kisses on her sticky tip. her taste is clean, faintly musky, and your tongue swirls slowly, deliberately. above you, her breath catches.

but her voice doesn’t falter.

“yes,” she says smoothly into the receiver. “tox reports from both scenes. what about blood panel analysis?”

your mouth works rhythmically, your hand stroking the base in time with your tongue. her fingers slide into your hair and tangle tight, not pushing, just holding, a leash made of want.

her hips twitch forward once.

you hum.

billie’s breath stutters.

“timestamp data,” she says, almost too quickly. “i want the autopsy reports cross-referenced with the surveillance pull.”

you take her deeper, hollowing your cheeks, your hand stroking faster. she pulses against your tongue, leaking, jaw tight. her hand tightens in your hair.

she snaps suddenly, “no, i didn’t mean you, just send the fucking files heller.”

she covers the mouthpiece. looks down.

her voice drops lower.

“gonna make me cum on the call, fucking pathetic,” she rasps. “so fucking desperate to please me. come on keep going.”

you moan around her, wet and needy, pushing deeper until your throat burns. her thighs are shaking now. you know she’s close, her grip in your hair tightens, her breath going ragged, jaw flexing.

she finishes the call just barely holding herself together.

the second she hangs up, she pulls you out from under the desk with one hand and hauls you into her lap. you’re straddling her now, her cock hard and slick between your thighs.

“oh, poor baby,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “you’re soaked. look at you. wet from just sucking me off under my desk. that’s fucking pathetic, princess.”

you whimper, grinding down on her. her hands find your hips, bruising grip.

she slides your panties to the side and drags the head of her cock through your folds.

“beg for it.”

“daddy, please,” you breathe, barely coherent. “just want you to ruin me.”

she slides inside, slow and deliberate, filling you inch by inch. you cry out, the stretch, the fullness, the heat. she holds still for just a second, letting you feel it.

then she starts to thrust.

deep. slow. controlled.

each stroke sends shocks through your core. her hand slides to your throat, cupping it lightly, not squeezing, just there. claiming.

“taking me so good, baby,” she pants against your mouth. “so fucking tight. so perfect.”

“please, daddy, cum in me. please. need it, need you” you whimper, the words slipping out, raw and messy.

she growls.

“gone that fucking dumb on my cock, baby? just need me to fill you with my babies, hm?” she murmurs, soft and low in your ear.

your head nods fast, broken strings of “yes’s” falling from your lips.

your nails drag down her back as your orgasm crashes through you. she holds you tight, fucking you through it, hips relentless, voice hoarse.

and when she spills inside you, hot and deep, she bites your shoulder to keep from moaning too loud, your eyes rolled as far back as possible.

you’re both panting.

“next time heller calls,” she breathes, voice rough, “i’m putting him on speaker.”

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonneilish @chrissv4mp @too-sapphic-to-function | send an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

[crsssie]

frog - jinshi x reader (Spoiler Warning for Chapter 63 of the manga)

"hng." Jinshi whimpers, face flushed as you freeze.

It's a frog. You fucking swear it's a frog. You didn't just accidentally grab and squeeze Jinshi, a fucking eunuch's, dick. You did not. You are hallucinating. That was the frog that jumped on you and knocked you off balance— nOT Jinshi's dick or whatever. He shouldn't even have one!

"Sorry." You sit up, legs still straddling Jinshi as you get off of his chest. "I saw a frog and fell."

Jinshi sits up with you, face flushed in embarrassment as you pray you can play stupid out of this one. It was hard enough that he literally witnessed you hurl a rock at the assassin with eerie precision, but you would rather die than have to die with Jinshi because you found out he wasn't a eunuch.

Every day your loyalty is tested when around this man.

"That makes this way easier." Jinshi sighs, grabbing you by the shoulder as you tense up to lean back from him. "I have a confession to make. I—"

"I think I killed the frog." You mumble, face pale. You're acting. You have to. You are not following Jinshi to the grave and cleaning up the aftermath of his ass getting someone pregnant.

"No, listen, that wasn't—"

"Oh my god, I'm not gonna make it to heaven." You mumble again, staring at your hand before wiping it on your chest. "Master Jinshi, I'm going to hell."

"No, that wasn't—"

"I'm going to hell because I crushed a frog..." You mumble.

Jinshi gets fed up with your acting, pushing you backward into the dirt as he cages you in, lifting your leg as he presses his clothed erection into you. You yelp, trying to crawl away, but he holds you in place, eyes staring through yours to your soul as you shake underneath him. Playing stupid didn't work this time.

"That was not a frog," and he rolls his hips against yours for emphasis, watching as you mentally restrain yourself from moaning. God, since when were you this lewd?! "Stop playing stupid, pretty one. You gave it a good squeeze too."

You freeze up as he lowers himself ever so slowly, and you blurt your thoughts out before you can think of what the best choice is at the moment.

"I am not having my first kiss on the dirt in a cave!" You cry, praying that it's enough. Seriously, you aren't following Jinshi to the grave. He may be hot, and women may throw themselves at him and men turn gay for him and nations go to war for him but you are not following him to the grave. Your loyalty does not lay that strong. You don't want to die just yet.

Jinshi leans in anyway, lips brushing yours as a bark sounds above you as you call back, and you sigh in relief when you hear Maomao's voice.

You're saved. Oh heavens, you're saved.

[hatsbuckets]

Small spoon John Price my beloved

Who lets Nik hold him and cuddle him and put him back together after a mission gone south

Who lets Simon wrap two arms around him from the back in the privacy of his office, masks, literal and figuratively, coming off

Who lets Gaz sit in his lap and lets Gaz's hands wrap around his head (John's arms secure around the smaller's back) and don't be fooled it's Gaz doing the holding

Who lets Soap collapse into his arms when the Scot catches him sleeping on the couch in his office (again don't be fooled, it's Soap doing the holding, even if Soap doesn't realize it)

Who comes home to his missus to just fall apart in her arms, head buried in her neck, arms squeezing her mid section, carrying her up with a soft hearted grumble for mandatory cuddles in their bed, where he curls into her chest and buries himself in the warmth of her. And maybe, come morning, there's soft, slow, gentle sex that's better than anything else she has with him.