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upsidedownwithsteve · 9 months

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Steve Harrington x fem!reader [14K] PART ONE OF TWO old money steve, an infatuated waitress, no labels, a disaster waiting to happen. some smut, some jealousy and too many mentions of monaco. 18+

And, baby, for you I would fall from grace

He came into the dining room of the club one Saturday afternoon. Sunkissed, tall, broad, stubble on his jaw and a gold chain glinting from the collar of his white shirt. He had a navy sweater draped over his shoulders, expensive sunglasses in his shirt's front pocket, an unassuming looking leather strapped watch on his wrist - but you’d learned well before then how to tell the difference between new money and old money.

And Steve Harrington was old, old money.

The watch cost more than your car and a year's rent on your apartment. Fuck, it cost more than you’d probably ever make working behind the bar of Hawkins’ country club. It cost more than the short black dress you were made to wear, the one that cinched you in at the waist and flared out over your thighs. It shone more than the gold plated name badge that was pinned on your chest, making your plunging neckline even more obvious. It cost more than the black heels that were part of your uniform, more than the five dollar balm that made your lips glossy and peach coloured.

But still, Steve Harrington and his old, old money noticed you.

—————

The restaurant was full, the bar even busier, the smoking lounge that sat through the double doors stuffed with leather chairs, studded couches, velvet footstools and table lined with cigars in wooden boxes. The full place smelled like bourbon and smoke, expensive cologne, perfume that cost even more.

The Lake House country club was Hawkins’ finest institute, an old Manor House that was built on the shore of Lovers Lake, across the water from where teens liked to lurk in their cars and between tree trunks. The Lake House was where the town's elite came to dine, to drink, to lounge and talk. There were brunches with champagne and whisky, afternoon tea with ladies who wore diamonds and pearls, dinners with wine from 1802 and business meetings on the golfing green. Money poured from the club and filled the cracks in the old bricks, men with their daddy’s money bringing in their daughters, their sons, their wives. And when the family drove home in their Bentley, girlfriend’s arrived in red bottomed shoes, perching on laps in the smoking lounge like it was their jobs.

Maybe it was. You weren’t supposed to ask.

Your job was to stay behind the bar, a huge mahogany thing that took up most of the back wall. Everything was dark wood and lined with green velvet, the bar stools suede and gold studded, the bottles of alcohol on the glass shelves nothing less than a month's paycheck each. Martini glasses glittered, whisky was in the air like car fumes and the lime you were cutting into wheels was making the cut on your finger pulse.

He walked in then, into the busy room like he owned it. The Harringtons were certainly wealthy enough to do so, but Michael Harrington and his wife simply liked to dine at the club on Sundays, take up on the tennis courts midweek and finish the day at the spa with a massage each.

Six hundred dollars a session to hire out the court, four hundred dollar scotch, three hundred dollar steaks (eighty dollars more for the potato dauphinoise), five hundred dollars for a couples massage. Oh, and a one hundred dollar tip for the fucker unfortunate enough to have to deal with them.

In cash, of course.

But their son? Steve Harrington moved out of Hawkins long before anyone could work out if he’d grow up to be as cold as his father. Away from small towns, rumour had it he went to New York, an apartment in Manhattan, a job on Wall Street where he started at the bottom and worked his way up on luck, expensive vodka and daddy’s money. But then again, others said he spent his summers in Europe, talks of Italian villas, vineyards in Tuscany, selling yachts to the elite in Cannes, spending his time trading money through casinos, long months in Monaco during the spring.

Seeing him back in Hawkins was unusual, uncommon, a goddamn rarity - but there he was, letting himself drop into the barstool in front of you like a Greek god etched from marble so expensive that you could barely afford to look at it. He sat with a friend, another twenty something that looked more man than boy because of their tailored trousers, crisp shirts, linen and cashmere and gold on their wrists, round their necks, family rings on their hands.

Steve Harrington didn’t click his fingers at you like other members of the club did when they demanded to be served, but he did rap two knuckles against the bar top, a gold band on his middle finger hitting the wood. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up, careful and cuffed just below his elbows, the top three buttons undone to show off tanned skin and a smattering of chest hair. More gold, a thin chain settling in the dip of his throat, stubble along his jaw that looked like it was there deliberately, not because he’d forgotten to shave.

You held your breath when you approached. You’d never served the youngest Harrington before - fuck, you’d never seen him here - but you knew who he was and the reputation dripped from him.

Old money, older estates, acres of land, shares in companies that were so ridiculously rich you didn’t know what they were for. Fast cars, scandals in Europe, yachts with his name on it.

Stomach in knots, you straightened up, smoothed down then front of your dress and put on the same smile you used for all the club members. “Gentlemen,” you greeted, “what can I get you both?”

Steve looked at you but his friend didn’t, his back to you as he surveyed the room, mumbling comments about the lack of skirt that showed up this early in the afternoon. You recognised him, a regular in the later evenings, Jonathan Byers, a fiend for a good cigar, an even bigger fan of the girls that held the poker events on weekends.

“Two Macallans,” Steve told you, already fishing out a money clip from his trouser pocket. The clip was gold, engraved with his initials: SMH. “Twenty year reserve, no ice.”

He really looked at you then, thumbing through one hundred dollar bills, eyes raking up and down your frame as you stood and listened diligently. Even when you turned to pull the bottle of scotch off the top shelf, you could feel him watching, one eyebrow quirked, full lips parted just a little, the top of his tongue peeking from between. Steve looked interested, intrigued. Maybe just a little less bored than before.

You kept your head down, polishing the tumblers before you poured, a three finger amount of the dark amber liquid and the smell of fire and smoke filled your nose. You’d watched enough men sit around the bar and swirl their drinks under the nostrils, waffling about notes of chocolate and spice before they sipped. It all smelled the same, no matter what price was on the label, like car fuel and burning. Steve downed the drink in one when you handed it to him, like he wasn’t swallowing liquid fire that cost him more than you’d make in a week.

You watched as his throat bobbed, his lips coming away from the rim of the glass a little glossy, how he licked over his bottom one to catch any alcohol that lingered. Then he grinned, all perfect teeth and charm before he passed you six hundred dollars in notes.

You nodded your thanks and went to the cash register, smiling what you hoped was politely as you tried to hand him back his change. Ninety dollars, pressed neatly in a pile of twenties and tens. The boy waved you off, still paying a lot of attention to the bare skin along your neckline, gaze running up the column of your throat. His eyes found yours when he finally spoke and god, they were the same colour as the scotch he just shotted.

“Keep the change, honey.” Steve smiled again, a smug thing that made you aware of how warm your cheeks were. Then he slid on a pair of sunglasses he took from his shirt pocket and pushed his hair back with a hand, nudging his friend to drink up before they both slid off the stools. “Just make sure it goes in your own pocket, okay?”

You gaped at him. The Lake House’s policy when it came to tips - no matter how generous - was for them to be placed in a jar in the back office, ready to be split between staff, however hard individuals had worked, or not worked, that shift.

The money burnt your fingers. “Um, that’s very generous but I can’t—”

Steve lifted a navy sweater he’d draped on the back of his chair, crushing the soft fabric with one hand. He used the other to reach out, plucking the bills from your fingers so he could fold them all together. His gaze met yours when he leaned back over the bar, unblinking, knuckles grazing the bare skin above your chest when he tucked the money into the neckline of your dress. It stayed there, hidden and you had to snap your jaw shut when Steve grinned at you before he pulled away.

He raised a finger to his lips, like you were sharing a secret and not a sackable offence and his friend snorted, like he’d seen it all before. Maybe he had.

“See you next time, honey,” Steve drawled, fishing keys out of his pocket. The silver logo of BMW glinted in the low lighting. “Thanks for the drinks.”

That was the first time you met Steve Harrington.

Just to touch your face

The next time, he was with a group of people in the smoking lounge, all of them loud, most of them dirty rich and he had a girl on his lap. A waifish thing, pretty and delicate with a ruby pendant that settled in the dip of her chest. She held a martini glass aloft, one that you had to refill and you cursed The Lake House and its rules as your heels taptaptapped across the marble tiles. The hem of your dress swished across your thighs, your hand held a gold tray and the fresh martini swirled in its glass atop it, a well practised movement that made sure none of it spilled. The olive inside tumbled around gin and vermouth.

Inside of the lounge, smoke billowed. Cigars and cigarettes poised between fingertips, hanging from lips that couldn’t help but spill secrets about their dirty businesses, the people they slept with before, the people they’d bed tonight. Nobody moved out of your way as you squeezed past tables and between the low sofas, leather and velvet brushing the backs of your thighs until you were able to present Steve Harrington’s lap warmer with her new drink.

She took it from your tray, replaced it with her empty glass and said nothing. It was her hand on Steve’s chest that caused him to look away from the men he was talking with, a hushed sounding discussion about money in Monaco, about the company and its takings for that summer. He frowned at the girl and her pawing until he caught sight of you, his lips lifting in a smile that seemed more dangerous than welcoming.

You smiled back, polite to a fault, throat going dry when you watched Steve’s gaze drop to that bare expanse of skin above your neckline. It wasn’t obscene, it wasn’t even suggestive. In fact, there was barely any amount of cleavage on show at all per the clubs rules but Steve was fixated on a freckle below your collarbone and the feel of his eyes on you made you fidget.

You tucked the tray under one arm and tried not to shuffle on the spot. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

There was something in Steve’s reaction to your question. Maybe it was the ‘sir,’ the way you tipped your head towards him when you said it, soft and gentle and pretty. He knew you had to call all the members of the club such niceties but Steve’s eyes flashed and his lips parted, the hand he had on the arm of the sofa curling around the leather a little tighter.

“A Macallan,” he asked, just like the first time. “No—”

“No ice,” you finished for him, nodding. “I’ll bring that right over.”

You blew out a breath when you turned, heels clicking on the marble as you made your way back to the bar. The lights were dimmed throughout the club in the evening, wall sconces letting out a warm glow, the huge fireplace in the main lounge roaring, popping and cracking with wooden logs. The whole place smelled like pine, like cedar and smoke and expensive leather. Women laughed softly, hanging off their husbands arms, dripping in pearls, in jewels, in false pretences. You smiled nicely at passing club members as you poured Steve’s drink, hands a little shaky from you out down to missing your lunch break, not excitement.

Definitely not nerves.

You placed the chilled glass back on the tray, amber liquid shining inside the crystal, and made your way to the smoking lounge. Steve was alone when you returned, his lap empty, the girl gone. Not just from his lap, but from the room entirely. You scanned the lounge, expecting to see her on her way back, maybe with a complaint about the drink you made her, just to make you feel small but no - she’d been removed. Your heart skipped, an awful stuttering feeling that you didn’t want to feel. Lowering the tray, you offered Steve his drink, gaze cast down as you felt his on you the entire time. Steve leaned up, too close, taking his drink and smiling at you.

You were just about to leave when:

“Why don’t you join me?”

The rest of the room was as loud as it was before, music under voices, laughter mixed with a saxophone record, conversations in the smoke. But Steve’s voice rang out almost too clearly from amongst it all. Still, you blinked at him, lips parting in surprise. “Sorry?”

Steve nodded at the seat next to him as he sank back into the couch, an arm thrown over the back of it as he took a sip of his scotch. The watch on his wrist caught the low light as he ripped the glass against his lips, cheeks flushed from the log burner.

He was dressed in what you assumed he’d deem a little more casual than the last time you saw him. A black silk shirt, short sleeved and with the top few buttons undone again. No visible label, no ostentatious brand name on the chest but you knew well enough by then to know that just meant it was even more expensive. Black trousers, tailored for him and a pair of black boots with a sharp toe. His hair was less styled, maybe from the way his lost friend had been running her fingers through it earlier. Strands of it fell into his eyes and you swallowed hard when you realised you were staring.

“Take a seat,” Steve asked again, lips curling up in amusement at your flustered expression.

You blinked at him before you remembered to stand back up straight, tucking the tray back under your arm and hoping that none of the club's managerial staff were lingering nearby. You’d already spent too long away from the bar. “I, um, I can’t. I’m sorry,” you pressed your lips together and tried not to look too regretful. “I'm working.”

Steve snorted, a sound that should’ve been more unattractive than it was but it only made you want to hear what he had to say. He took another pull of his drink, barely wincing when the burn of it trickled down his throat. You did the maths in your head, wondering how it felt to be swallowing seventy dollar sips. He raised his brows and shrugged, looking around theatrically.

“And?” The boy smiled, equal parts pretty and smug.

You were a little flustered, both at how nice he looked when he smiled and how bold he was being. You opened and closed your lips before parting them again, another polite smile there. “I need to get back to the bar,” you explained. “I’ll get into tr—”

“Trouble?” Steve finished. He shook his head and grinned, a megawatt thing that made you understand that, yes, all the rumours were true. That the famed Harrington Charm was very much a thing. But fuck, his father didn’t smile at you like that. In fact, he didn’t smile at all. “Oh, honey. No one gets in trouble unless I say so. Worried Frederick is gonna fire you?”

Steve dropped the name of your manager like they were friends. They probably were. He looked at you expectantly over the rim of his glass as he took another sip, licking the liquid from his lips. You wondered if he tasted as expensive as his liquor choices.

You nodded, shrugging, grasping for a reason to say no to this boy - this man. The line at the bar was growing, annoyed looking men clicking their fingers at a flustered looking new girl who was trying to pour champagne into a wine glass. Guilt gnawed at your stomach.

“He won’t fire you,” Steve assured. He patted the leather next to him, gold ring glinting in the warm light. “C’mon. Sit. I want to talk to you.”

You couldn’t help yourself.

“Do you always get what you want?” You said it quietly, watching Steve’s lips curl into a grin when he heard.

Another smile, mega watt, just for you. He tipped his head back and laughed, a pretty sounding thing that made the muscles down his neck stand out, chin tilted up to the gold leafed ceiling.

“Yeah,” he told you, eyes dancing, cheeks flushed from the fire, the lights, the scotch. “I do.”

You shouldn’t have done it. You weren’t allowed. There were strict rules about staff mingling with club members - fuck, it was written in red ink on your contract. You were too used to some of the clientele pushing the limits, trying to soften your boundaries with wads of cash, talks of a private plane to some European city where their wife didn’t like to visit. Older men, rich men, business men, family men. All looking for someone young and easily led and agreeable to have fun with between meetings and luncheons, someone to light their cigar and top up their drink for them. They liked to look at you like something to eat up, to chew up, to spit out when they were done and Frederick inevitably hired someone new and younger and prettier.

You’d seen it happen before. Girls sucked into the lifestyle they could never have, coming into work with new shoes, red bottomed heels with their uniform dress, a Chanel lipstick in their purse, a Porsche waiting outside for them after their shift finished and in the end, a scorned wife in the dining room ready to throw a drink over them.

You’d seen it all.

But Steve Harrington was looking at you with so much intrigue. A pretty smile behind his tiny glass of three hundred dollar scotch, messy hair, bright eyes, that black silk shirt that looked easy to slip your fingers into. He was younger, more subtle with it all but the easy confidence in which he spoke to you had you squeezing your thighs together and wondering if your chest would stop feeling as tight.

It didn’t.

You sat down.

Steve grinned, victorious and he moved against the leather sofa so he was sitting back against the arm, turned to face you fully. He brought one foot up to rest on his other knee, hand curling around his leg, and from there you could see the tiny brand on his loafers, a little gold insignia. Yves Saint Laurent. You wanted to laugh. His shoes cost more than you made in three months.

“What’s your name?” Steve asked.

You wore the same gold plated pin that every other staff member wore. The Lake House engraved on it along with the logo, a stupidly elaborate key. Underneath, your name was printed in bold letters, but Steve wasn’t looking at it. He was watching your face, brows raised expectantly. He wanted to hear you speak.

Pressing the tray to your lap, you lingered on the edge of the couch, eyes darting around for your boss, or worse, the girl this man was last seen with. Was it his girlfriend? Did he have a wife? You weren’t sure how old Steve was, but you didn’t see a ring on his wedding finger, not that that meant much in a place like The Lake House. Wedding bands frequented coat pockets more than fingers here.

You swallowed and told him your name, your voice cracking with nerves that you tried to laugh at but that came out wobbly too. Your shyness made Steve grin a little wider, his wide hands curling around his ankle as he lounged back against the cushions and appraised you with a look that shouldn’t have been proper for public.

He repeated your name back to you and it sounded so much sweeter on his lips. He said it slowly, a low murmur that made your tummy clench, like he was tasting it out, tasting it on his tongue. “That’s a pretty name,” he said. “I’m Steve Harr—”

You laughed, sharp and surprised. “I know who you are, Mr Harrington.”

If Steve was shocked by his news, he didn’t show it. It was your job to know the members, after all. Their names, their families, the work they were in. Their favourite table, their favourite drink, the time they liked to dine, their preferred slot for playing a round of golf. So instead he smiled and nodded before holding out a hand.

You took it and he squeezed gently, shaking it politely as he said, “well then, please call me Steve.”

You nodded, wondering if that was allowed. None of this was allowed. Fuck, you glanced around again, eyes a little wide, wondering if Frederick was in his office, god forbid, watching you through the cameras. Steve must’ve noticed this, because he swallowed down the last of his scotch and set the empty glass on the table. You’d have to move it soon.

“Relax.” His arm stretched out along the back of the sofa, tanned and corded with lithe muscles. His fingers tapped a beat on the leather, close to your shoulder. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

You laughed, a shaky, ironic sounding thing. You forgot who you were talking to, just for a second, your heart pumping. “That’s easy for you to say.” You swore then, a pained noise, because Frederick was marching out of his office, three piece suit right across his shoulders and his pocket watch swinging.

He was coming over.

You made a noise similar to a squeak, drinks tray clutched to your chest and you made to jump up but Steve’s hand stopped you. Warm and wide, it took up most of your knee and you blinked at it in surprise. He didn’t move it when you stared at him and he still didn’t move it when Frederick approached, red faced and nostrils flaring.

“Mr Harrington, sir, it’s so good to see you back at The Lake House,” your manager began, his voice a well practised purr. There was a slight British tinge to his voice, one you knew was fake. “Please take my sincerest apologies for you being bothered. I’ll be asking my staff to join me in the office for a much required conversation about professional boundaries. Please excu—”

“Fred,” Steve greeted warmly, his smile much more forced than the one he’d been giving you. Frederick twitched. “Nice to see you.” Steve’s hand still covered your lower thigh and squeezed slightly, in what you thought was supposed to be reassuring but his thumb on the inside of your knee made you too warm. “No need for anything like that, actually.” Steve said your name, wrapped it around his tongue and licked over his lip like he was savouring it before he continued. “—was invited to sit with me.”

The clubhouse manager hardened, a flash of annoyance going over his features and his neck grew more red in anger. He smiled through it, a tight lipped thing that Steve grinned at and you had to duck your head, panic ripping through your body. You couldn’t lose this job.

“How nice,” Frederick finally ground out. He clasped his hands in front of him and glared at you from the sides of his eyes before he smiled at Steve again. “I hope my staff is doing her utmost to keep you pleased, Mr Harrington. Do not hesitate to ask for anything.”

You hated the way he said it, like any club member could get anything they wanted from you, just because they had enough money to be here. It made you square off your shoulders and lift your head, emboldened. Steve was watching you, that look of intrigue on his face once more. He nodded at Frederick and then gestured to his empty glass.

“Actually, Freddie, could you be a pal and fetch me another?” His tone was too polite, bordering on patronising. Frederick’s tight smile grew tighter, a thin line that stretched across his ruddy face until you feared it might split. “A Macallan, no ice. Anything for the lady?” Steve turned to you and winked, a subtle thing that let you know everything was under control.

But you knew better than to rock the boat, better than that, you knew not to drink on the job. Especially from the club’s bar. The only thing you could afford from behind the mahogany counter was the one thing Steve always refused. Ice.

“No, thank you,” you murmured.

Your manager had no choice but to walk away, his back rigid, proverbial steam coming out from his ears. You watched him snap Steve’s order at a poor, unsuspecting barman who then brought it back over on another shiny tray. He raised his brows at you when Steve thanked him for it and you shrugged, not knowing what was going on either.

When he left, Steve turned back to you, leaning back into the sofa. He looked more tanned that the last time you’d seen him. Maybe it was the dim lighting, the warm glow from the sconces along the walls, the amber coloured shade on the lamp beside him. Maybe he’d just been back to Italy.

Monaco. France. Spain.

He took a sip, eyes dancing over you and when he brought the drink back down to rest on his knee, he spoke. “Have you worked here long?”

It took you a second to realise he was speaking to you again, his voice lower and softer than it had been with your boss. You noticed Steve has a habit of direct eye contact, always looking right into your own eyes as he spoke. It was a little jarring, the confidence, that bold type of charm that must come with always getting what you want.

“Uh, yeah,” you scrunched your nose, trying to remember months and years. “Three years now, or close enough.”

“I should’ve come back sooner,” Steve quipped back, his smile easy, his eyes roaming over you. His ring tapped against his glass of scotch and you didn’t know what to do. Was he flirting with you? “Do you live in town?”

“Couple miles out, smaller place near Sugar Creek.” You weren’t sure why you were telling him this.

“Yeah, I know it,” Steve replied. “Makes sense, why I hadn’t seen you around before. Did you go to school ‘round here?”

You felt like you were being interviewed. A handsome, rich man asking the questions, sitting easy in his throne and you had an awful, awful urge to please him with your answers. To do good. To be praised.

“I went to St. Mary’s High in Green Bay,” you swallowed, your tongue feeling too big for you mouth. Nerves bubbled in your stomach. “Then I was supposed to move to California— Berkeley.” You winced, remembering.

Steve looked surprised, eyebrows raised, nodding. “What was your major?”

“Social law.”

Steve hummed. “Smart girl.” There it was. That praise. You tingled with it. “What happened?”

You heard the words he didn’t say, the unasked question. ‘Why aren’t you there? Why are you here? Wearing that silly little dress and heels that hurt your feet and that fake, fake smile that makes your cheeks hurt so much you want to scream into your pillow when you get home every night?’

You pondered over what to say. How truthful to be. How blunt, how ugly and honest. Shit, you could’ve said. Family, parents, money, bad luck, worse circumstances. Housing, a broken down car, an apartment that fell through at the last minute, a scholarship that didn’t happen, an aunt that got sick, a mom who didn’t like to let go.

Instead you smiled politely and said: “life.”

Steve gave you a wry smile in return, one that told you he could see through it all and he knew exactly what you wanted to say. Like he knew you weren’t allowed to and you were playing by the rules. Frederick was at the bar, staring at your back until you felt your bones crunch with the weight of it.

Steve finished his drink, slid his glass onto the table and ran a hand through his hair. “It was nice to talk to you,” he said simply. He took your hand, not to shake it like last time, no. Instead he held it for a beat or two, and when he took his away, neatly folded bills were left between your fingers. They burned.

“For the table service,” he said as a way of explaining. You didn’t know if he meant the drink or you. “I’ll see you next time, honey.”

And then he left. You watched him saunter through the bar, nodding and smiling at people who greeted him, taking his jacket from someone at the door and then he was gone.

That was the second time you met Steve Harrington.

If you walk away, I'd beg you on my knees to stay

A week later you were clocking into work with the intention of heading to the staff locker rooms, ready to wrestle yourself into that black dress the club called a uniform. It was early afternoon on a Wednesday and The Lake House was quiet, a few greying women you knew to be part of the book club were sat having tea by a window, a group of men leaving the gym, sweat barely there, but the towels over their shoulders had designer logos stitched in the corners.

Frederick found you with your heels in your hand, a look of disgust on your face as you kicked off your sneakers. He wasn’t even supposed to be in the girls locker room, but he shook his head at you and took the stilettos from your hand.

“No,” he looked irritated, as if you should’ve known better. “You’re on the green today.”

You screwed up your nose at him. You were never on the green and you told him as such. “The schedule has me in the bar all day.”

Frederick huffed as if such questions were an inconvenience to him. He ducked, rooting around in your locker as his shoulder bumped your knee and he came back with the uniform you hardly had to wear. A white tennis skirt, bordering on too short with pleats that made the men tip well, even as their wives glared. A forest green sweater to match, the same colour as the club logo, white sneakers that were brand new from never being used.

“Special request,” your boss told you in lieu of a real explanation. “Get dressed, they’re waiting. Hurry.”

You gaped at him as he bundled the clothes into your arms. “Who’s waiting?” You called after him. “What hole?”

“Any of them,” Frederick yelled back as he walked out of the locker room and down the hall. His voice echoed back to you, a daunting thing. “He booked out the whole course.”

Driving the beer cart over the green was always a nerve wracking experience. The drinks rattled noisily and the breeze kept catching at your skirt, threatening to flip it up over your thighs as you tried to manoeuvre the buggy around the man made dunes and valleys. You weren’t sure where you were driving to, or who you were going to meet, but you kept an eye out at each hole for someone, anyone.

It could only really be one of two people, you guessed. Mr Donaldson was harmless enough, but he had a decade or three on your own age. Divorced and the owner of a film company in Atlanta, the man liked to frequent the clubhouse during the summers he spent back in Hawkins, pretending he was visiting his young daughter when he really preferred to lounge at the bar during your shift, trying to convince you that you just needed to see his condo in Georgia.

The only other person you could think of that would request you and you alone, was someone you haven't seen since the week before. You’d looked for him, watched the cars coming into the lot to be dropped off for the valet’s to park but you hadn’t seen any BMW’s. Steve didn’t visit the bar, didn’t spend any afternoons in the smoking lounge - you didn’t even see him with Jonathan Byers at the poker night on Tuesday.

You thought he might’ve left town again. Back to whatever European city he’d decided on for the week, for the month. Maybe he’d gone back to New York, maybe he had meetings. Maybe he had a girlfriend, one for each country.

Mr Donaldson was the harmless option. Annoying, sure. But bearable. Safe. Mr Harrington… he wasn’t harmless at all. You knew which one you wanted to see.

Sure enough, you turned the corner to hole eight to see a group of young men talking and laughing around their own golf cart. You saw some familiar faces, all known for being young, handsome and rich.

Billy Hargrove of Hargrove’s Vintage Motors. Crude, sharp witted, too flirtatious, he was the next in line to take over his father’s company and fortune, selling refurbished vehicles for prices that made your eyes water.

Jonathan Byers was there too, a young mogul who was up and coming in the art world. Once a critic, his photography had shot to fame after some black and white nudes of his then girlfriend were ‘leaked’ to the paper he once worked for. His family paid it all off as some sort of art nouveau exhibition, a look into scandal and sex in 30mm film. He lost his girlfriend but landed a gallery in the downtown neighbourhood of San Francisco.

Eddie Munson, someone you actually knew from high school. A decent guy, there because he worked for it, illegally, sure - but didn’t they all? One way or another? Selling weed and who knows what else to the majority of the population of Hawkins made for a popular man, but Eddie brought in bank when he started selling to the elite, the rich kids of Hawkins High who preferred powder at their parties. He got into The Lake House with cold, hard cash instead of his family name and he stayed in the background of it, usually.

A few other men lingered, clutching at clubs and practising their swings, Wall Street leeches that were stuck at the bottom of the totem pole but still decided they had enough money in their daddies bank to be able to click their fingers at you and smack your ass as their Rolex’s jingled.

Amongst them all, in black slacks and a white polo, was Steve Harrington. Sunglasses over his eyes, leather golfing gloves on his hands, he was smirking at something Eddie said before his head snapped to you. In fact, everyone was staring at you.

You tried to keep your head high and your expression neutral, turning off the engine to the golf cart and doing your best to swing your legs out without flashing anything you weren’t supposed to. You kept your hands on your skirt, smoothing it down, hoping that you could get through this shift without any embar—

A long whistle, salacious and eager, coming from Billy Hargrove. A few of the boy’s laughed and Billy grinned, sharklike, letting his eyes crawl from your toes to your tits. “Damn, Harrington. You paid for one of the good ones, huh? C’mere, Sugar, daddy needs a drink—”

You were frozen, standing awkwardly by the back of the buggy where the drinks were kept in a cooler, a thousand dollar pick ‘n’ mix of whisky, scotch and gin for the men to choose from. There wasn’t any Bud Light at The Lake House, not even on the green.

But Billy didn’t get much further into his catcalls, stopped by a hand on his elbow that tugged him away from you and the other men. The snickering stopped, a heavy silence falling over the group as Steve took Billy aside with nothing more than a touch to his arm. You watched as Steve slid his sunglasses off, his hard gaze on the other boy as he whispered something too low for you to hear. But Billy listened, albeit with a glare in his eyes, but he nodded, sharp and just once. His jaw flexed.

You didn’t know what was happening. You didn’t know what to do. You found Eddie’s gaze, saw his soft smile, knowing. He winked at you, twirling a club in his hand as he waited for the game to continue. And it did, once Steve seemingly dismissed Hargrove. The other men started talking again, easy and light like nothing had happened, requesting different drinks from you that you pulled out of the cooler, ice making your hands wet and numb.

And all the while Steve lingered at the back of them, sitting in the driver's side of the other golf cart, waiting with his eyes on you. He didn’t approach once Jonathan left with his glass of Glenfiddich, in fact, he didn’t make out like he wanted a drink at all. So you stood by the cart like you were supposed to and watched the men take turns at swinging a stick at a ball, yelling profanities when they missed, yelling more profanities when they didn’t.

You couldn’t help let your gaze wander to Steve, the picture of luxury as he leaned back in the leather seat, one leg out of the cart and stretched across neatly clipped grass. He was lighting a cigarette, held between his lips as he lowered his gaze to his cupped hands, gold zippo flickering with an amber flame. He looked up as he blew out the smoke, eyes finding yours, grinning when you startled.

Steve took another drag and asked, “you not comin’ to say hi?”

Three years of ingrained obedience made your feet move forward, doing as you were told at the words of another rich man. You felt unsure, walking across the green empty handed, but Steve hadn’t asked for a drink, so you stopped just shy of where his leg was stretched out of the cart. If you moved any closer, you would’ve been between his spread knees. You clasped your hands in front of you, pressed against your little, white skirt. It lifted a little with the breeze, a sharper wind than the day before that told the town fall was coming.

Steve watched the hem catch and fall back against your thighs, brown eyes tracking the movement to see what little new skin he could watch but apart from that, he didn’t make any of the lewd comments his friend had.

“Mr Harrington,” you said as a greeting. “Good afternoon, can I get you anything to drink?” You were polite to a fault, well trained, good mannered, an expert in making yourself small and only seen when spoken to.

Steve ignored your question. He inhaled his cigarette again, cheeks hollowing out, lips pursing, jaw sharpening. He smiled at you as he blew smoke out of the side of his mouth, the wind taking it away from your face. “I told you to call me Steve,” he said and his voice was quiet, a low thing that made your face heat up. You tried to apologise, but he kept talking. “How are you?”

You blinked, surprised at his question. You didn’t think you’d ever been asked that while at work. “Uh, I’m fine, thank you. How’re you?”

Steve nodded and flicked ash onto the grass, letting it sink into the course. “I’m great, thank you. Better now you’re here.” He grinned when you fidgeted, lips parting, hands unsure what to do. You twisted your fingers together a little tighter. “You okay being out here?” Steve let the cigarette balance between his lips and you watched it move as he spoke around it. “I can let you go back inside, if you’d like.”

Normally such words would be used as a trick, a trap, a warning. A subtle threat from an unhappy customer that would ensure you did as they wanted, even if it meant staying later than you were being paid for, adding extra time to their spa passes, even if it risked your own employment. But Steve looked and sounded genuine, his eyes watching you as you worked up the courage to tell him the truth.

“It’s okay,” you finally said, voice betraying how shy you felt. You sounded confident, in control. You felt nothing of the sort, especially when the boy grinned again, wider this time and god, he looked like he owned the world and everything in it.

“Excellent.” Steve flicked the stub of his cigarette away and pushed his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose. He tilted his head at the empty seat beside him and said: “jump in.”

You stuttered over an excuse, an explanation, eyes a little wide as you looked back over to the rest of the group, the drinks cart you were supposed to man all day. “I— I can’t? I’ve to stay with the cart all day, if I leave it I’ll get into—”

Steve cut you off with a tsk and a shake of his head. His voice turned to liquid gold as he spoke, rich and sweet and awfully condescending. It made you drip. “What did I tell you last time, huh, honey? No one’s gonna tell you off unless it’s me. Now c’mon, you don’t wanna spend some time with me?”

You could’ve stayed. You were sure Steve wouldn’t have been mad. You should’ve stayed. You were breaking rules. All of them. But Steve was grinning at you from the front seat of the golf cart, tanned arms flexed as his leather gloves gripped the wheel and all of his friends played pretend, like they couldn’t hear what was going on behind them as they took another swing.

You should’ve stayed. Maybe went back into the clubhouse, took off your sweater and skirt and played nice behind the bar in your usual attire, serving clients old enough to be your grandfather as they slipped fifty dollar bills into your hand just so you’d lean over for them again.

You got in the cart.

Steve positively beamed, a hot smirk that stretched across his pretty face and you barely heard the whistles and yowls of his friends as he sped away as fast as the buggy would allow. He went off course, cruising alongside the green and heading towards the path between the woods that took you to lovers lake.

“Feeling bad today, Berkeley?” The nickname caused your heart to jump, confirmation that he’d been listening the last time you both spoke, that he’d remembered.

But still guilt and worry gnawed at your chest and you looked around at the empty course, half expecting to see Frederick chasing after you both in the drinks cart you’d abandoned so carelessly. What did it matter, really? The price of everything in the cart was included in whatever it had cost for Steve to book out the entire fucking course for the day. A stolen scotch or two didn’t matter. Not really.

You didn’t know how to reply, so you didn’t say anything at all, just sitting by Steve’s side like a baby deer caught in headlights, like a good little girl that wanted to know if it really was true, if Steve really could keep you out of the trouble he was leading you into. The boy must’ve seen your bleak expression ‘cause he laughed, pushing back the hair that the wind blew across his forehead.

“Honey, it’s fine,” Steve glanced over at you as he turned down the dirt path to the lake. You could see his eyes shining at you through his shades, amusement making them glitter. “I promise.”

So you nodded and tried to smile, doing your best to relax into the seat and when the cart bumped over a fallen branch that Steve didn’t bother to avoid, the jostle of it made your thigh bump into his. He grasped at your knee as an apology of sort, murmuring something you couldn’t hear over the wind, but his palm engulfed your bare knee once more and fuck, fuck, you couldn’t think of anything else. His gold ring looked pretty against your skin, his tanned hand complimenting the dough of your thigh nicely and you tried to remember how to talk.

“Is there something you needed my help with at the lake, Mr Harrington?” You didn’t think Steve needed any help on how to work speed boats or jet skis, but still, you weren’t sure what else to say.

Steve laughed again, a pretty sound that made your toes curl and he slowed the cart to a stop at a shaded area along the shore, far enough away from the sandy embankment that the men on the lake in their fishing boats wouldn’t be able to see you. “C’mon now, I thought you were a smart thing,” Steve pouted at you as he turned off the cart's engine. His hand left your leg and you mourned the loss of it, heart jumping again when his hand curled around the back of your seat instead. “What did I tell you to call me?”

Your chest warmed like you were back in middle school, getting scolded by a teacher who you didn’t want to disappoint. It bloomed across your neck and face, only getting hotter as the entire sensation of it made you squeeze your clasped hands between your thighs. Steve’s gaze dropped to your lap, a quick glance down that made the corners of his lips curve up.

“Steve,” you said quietly, sounding shy, reserved. Your body was giving away too much, you couldn’t let your voice join in.

Steve nodded and the hand that was resting against your seat moved a little, brushing against your sweater until he could rub a thumb against your shoulder blade. “See, she’s a smart girl after all, isn’t she?”

You could only nod. What the fuck was going on? Hidden by the trees, on the edge of the water that was across from where you usually spent weekday afternoons. You could see The Lake House from here, could practically feel Frederick’s gaze out of the bay windows, boring a hole into the middle of your forehead as you sat with one of the most affluent clients on the rolodex. Steve Harrington had his arm around your back, his eyes on your bare thighs, his other hand ghosting along the hem of your skirt. He pulled at it, bringing it down the mere centimetre it had ridden up, knuckles skimming your too hot skin.

He didn’t look away from it when he asked you: “And if you are a clever, little thing, d’you know why I brought you here?”

If it had been dark, if it had been closer to night, if the grounds had been empty and the lake was still, maybe you would’ve felt more scared than you were. If it had been anyone else, maybe you would have been sitting there in the shadow of the trees and cursing yourself out for being so stupid. Going with this boy - this man - letting him take you off alone and away from prying eyes, letting him touch your leg and get too close. It was stupid, wasn’t it? Despite what Steve said, this wasn’t smart, was it?

But you found that you didn’t care. You really didn’t fucking care. Not one bit.

You shrugged, cheeks warm, too wary to say anything out of turn, too cautious to say anything too bold for fear of losing your job. Or worse, being rejected.

Steve pouted. “No?” He tutted and sighed, a dramatic sounding thing and he let his hand fell back onto your leg, higher this time. You held your breath as he skimmed his palm upupup until his fingertips disappeared under the hem of your skirt that he’d just pulled down for you. “Well, I wanted to personally invite you the poker game with me tomorrow night. You know the one, don’t you? It’s in the lounge, nine o’clock.”

You tried to steady your breathing, exhaling sharply from your nose as Steve’s fingers wandered, never going higher, going slow and soft enough that you could slap his hand away if you wanted to. You didn’t. “I’m working that shift,” you whispered.

His eyes met yours, his grin blinding. “Good, you’ll be there then.”

“Working,” you reminded him, the last syllable of the word hitching in your mouth as his fingers passed over your leg once more. You felt the cool metal of his gold band on the inside of your thigh. “I’ll be there to work.”

Steve nodded, like he understood, like he wasn’t planning to monopolise every minute of your shift, wondering how long he could keep you by his side at the poker table before you got too worried and scrambled back to the bar. “Of course.” He pulled back a little, his nose too close to brushing yours as you couldn’t help but lean in too, head tilted up to his like you did it all the time. “And then after that,” he took his hand from your thigh and you tried not to cry about it, ‘cause he used the back of his hand to push your hair away from your face instead. “You could come back to mine?”

Oh, fuck. You couldn’t help the smile that fluttered across your face, the giddy, shy laugh that followed. You were flustered and it showed, and as much as it made Steve smile back, it made him hard as a fucking rock.

“Shit, uh, god, sorry,” you shook your head, as if to clear it. You felt fuzzy, hazy, under Steve’s spell as he kept smiling at you, clearly entertained by your flushed face, your dazed expression. “I’m really not supposed to do that.”

You didn’t say no, Steve noted. You didn’t say that you didn’t want to. In fact, from the way your eyes dropped to his lips over and over again, Steve was pretty sure he could seal this deal with you faster than his last visit meeting with that winery in Sorrento.

That wasn’t to say you were easy, no. Just real fucking cute. He had a forty percent share in that vineyard and soon enough, he’d have you too.

“What?” He played dumb, all syrupy sweet smiles and his voice all soft. He traced a circle around your knee. “You can’t see me out of work? Surely Fredrick isn’t that much of a tyrant, honey.”

You squirmed under his gaze, the one that made you feel like he was undressing you. You were too warm and his innocent fingertips on your knee were making you wanna drag his hand back up your thigh and underneath the hem of your skirt. “We’re not supposed to involve ourselves with club members.” Your words felt dull in your mouth, heavy and cotton like.

Pointless.

Steve pouted, lips pursing like he was trying to get you to kiss him. He tutted; his warm, wide palm curling around your thigh again. He squeezed gently and your mouth fell open, panting, an invitation. “What if I want to be involved with you, hm? What then, honey?”

You let your head fall back a little, lips wet and parted, eyes closing briefly, because Steve let his fingers slide up a little further, the tips of his middle and pointer finger brushing, just fucking barely, across the cotton of your underwear. You knew you were wet and you knew that he did too. How could he not? The damp fabric dragged across his digits and you saw the realisation in his eyes, that flash of heat, that curl of his lips that made his smile a smirk.

“Remember what I told you?” He let his lips fall into ‘o’ at your small noise, an almost whine that sounded blissed out. God, he could have fun with you. “Do you? C’mon smart girl, what do I always get?”

You blinked at him, sucking in a breath as you fought the urge to grind down on his hand. Steve took his fingers away, the damp tips of them trailing back down the inside of your thigh as he waited for an answer.

“You told me,” you took another breath, looking around quickly, burning at the sight of the boats on the lake, the blurry people across the water by the clubhouse, sitting outside for afternoon tea. “You told me you always get what you want.”

That was the third time you met Steve Harrington.

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

The night after, you’d spent too long getting ready for your shift. Too long in the shower, letting the steam fill the tiny room, honey and peach scented body wash running in rivers down your bare skin, your razor chasing after it as you did your best to make every crevice of your body silky smooth.

You told yourself you weren’t going home with Steve Harrington. You told yourself you couldn’t, that you weren’t allowed to.

But you took the time to layer mascara on your lashes, fixing any smudges before finishing your makeup with a layer of gloss on your lips, tinted a rosy pink and drawing more attention to them than you’d usually want. Black dress, clubhouse mandated stockings and heels, freshly polished. You left for work with your heart in the back of your throat.

The Lake House was quieter than usual on poker nights, mostly because each guest had to buy their way in. All players had to place a ten thousand dollar deal in with the croupier, pockets emptied and jackets checked at the door. It made the smoking lounge feel bigger, men seated around a large poker table, the dealer in the middle, chips stacked high and cigar smoke lingering in the air. It smelled like tobacco, leather, expensive cologne and money, and god, the tips were good.

There were familiar faces around the table, Billy, Jonathan, Mr Donaldson, a few other men from the club that liked to order expensive drinks and call you things like ‘sweet cheeks’ and ‘sugar.’ The room was dimly lit, a soft amber glow that was kept in the room with closed drapes, velvet lined chairs, and bar staff that were trained not to speak unless spoken to. Everything was hushed and whispered, men talking money over glasses of liquor, cigars in one hand, their dealt hand in the other.

Then there was Steve, coming into the room a little late with another suit on, sharp and with a matching black shirt underneath, looking like he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t look at you as he took his seat, smirking at something Jonathan said and sliding a wad of stacked bills towards the dealer. He got his chips, he got his cards and the game began.

It took a whole twenty minutes before he raised his hand, a two finger salute that let you know he wanted a drink. You beat the other waitress to it, slipping in front of the new start - Vickie something - and your heels clicked as you made your way over to Steve. You already had a drink on your tray, poured the minute you saw his hand go up, his eyes still on his hand.

A Macallan, no ice.

You placed the tumbler on the table in front of him, knees bending slightly to make sure it didn’t spill. Without warning, Steve’s hand snuck along the back of your thigh as you placed your tray under your arm, ready to walk away. Fingertips traced over the crease of your knee, ghosting over your stocking. You watched his gaze flicker to the drink he didn’t have to ask for, a slight curve to the corners of his lips as he smiled his approval. He leaned back, head tipped up to you so you had to bend down slightly to meet him. His hand was slipping up the back of your thigh the whole time, hidden from the rest of the room, from the other players, your boss in the corner.

You bent at the waist, feeling your skirt rise up, feeling Steve’s hand do the same. His thumb ran along the crease below your ass, over the sliver of bare skin between your underwear and stockings.

“Smart girl,” he whispered in the shell of your ear, making you burn. His voice was low and a little rough from hardly talking, only communicating with nods to the croupier, dead face glances at his opponents. His chips were stacked high for his efforts. “You look pretty. How ‘bout you just stay beside me, yeah?”

You weren’t supposed to. But you did. You watched as your boss frowned, as Vickie looked surprised. Beside Steve, Jonathan snickered quietly and across the table, Billy narrowed his eyes.

“Breakin’ some rules?” He mouthed to Steve.

Steve ignored him.

The night came to an end close to one o’clock, once the bar was almost dry and Steve had most of the money. He accepted the passive remarks about his poker face, his ability to lie through his damn teeth, how he didn’t need all that money anyways. Then there were the handshakes and slaps on the back, good natured talks and invites to lunches, chats about business opportunities and stocks. And all the while you tidied, putting away empty bottles of thousand dollar whisky, pouring hundred dollar glasses of Malbec down the drain. Cigar ash on the table, white powder tipped dollar notes that everyone pretended to not notice. Heavy tips on the table top, damp from spilled drinks, pushed into your apron pocket while the men around you tried to get a peek up your skirt.

And then Steve was leaning over the bar top and still ignoring Billy. He was watching you clean, eyes tracking the way your hands slid the cloth over the mahogany, and while your cheeks warmed at his attention, you let him. You were off the clock, your shift over. Bar closed.

Home time. Maybe.

“—you even listenin’ to me, Harrington?” Billy sounded annoyed, words twisting on his tongue, whisky making them come out a little slower than he wanted them to.

“No.” Steve’s reply was short and bored sounding.

“I said, you fucker, that I need a ride. S’posed to be on a goddamn flight at five o’clock and this fuckin’ tequila is makin’ me piss like a fuckin’ racehor—”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off of you as he took his wallet from inside of his suit jacket pocket. Using two fingers, he offered Billy a fifty, holding the bill in front of the other man’s face. “Take a cab.”

Billy looked offended at the suggestion. Disgusted, actually. “A cab? What do I look like to you, huh? Huh? A fuckin’ peasant?”

Steve just shrugged and slapped the bill on the counter anyway. “I’m having company,” he told him. Then he drained the rest of the one drink he’d ordered from you all night and met your gaze straight on. “You ready?”

Not, ‘would you like to join me?’ Not, ‘would you like to come back to mine?’ No. Just a simple question. ‘Are you ready to go?’

You nodded. Yes, you were ready.

Billy laughed, a sharp and mean thing as he looked between you and Steve. Then his gaze turned salacious, drunk and lazy as he took in your short dress, your shiny lips. He nudged Steve and nodded towards you. “You not sharing this time, Harrington?” He tutted. “What a shame.”

You didn’t know what to say. If you’d been at a bar in town, standing on either side of it, you’d have listened to the twitch in your hand and lifted it, letting your palm meet Billy Hargrove’s right cheek, regardless of how much money was in his wallet. But Frederick was by the door talking to Mr Donaldson about summers in the Bahamas and you couldn’t do shit.

So you turned your back, polished another wine glass and slid it back onto its shelf.

“You know,” you heard Steve murmur. His voice was low, controlled. Dangerous sounding. “You keep letting your mouth run like that, and I’ll make sure you don’t have a reason to get that five am flight. One call and there won’t be no fucking meeting in L.A, do you understand?”

You didn’t hear Billy’s reply. In fact, you weren’t sure there was one. Instead, Steve walked to the side of the bar and brushed some invisible lint off of his jacket as he waited for you to untie your apron. You hesitated, watching as Fredrick disappeared into his office and then, and only then, did you step out from behind the bar to join Steve, letting him place his hand on the small of your back and guide you out of the clubhouse.

He made it too easy to break the biggest rule in the book.

—————

Steve drove you to a townhouse on the edge of town, the opposite direction from your own home. He took you there in his BMW, a shiny maroon car that looked brand new, with leather seats and shiny detailing on the dash. He didn’t touch you in the car, he just opened the door for you to get in and get out, only offering a hand that you took as you stood on his driveway.

His house was lit up by lights on either side of the huge garage, another by the double doors. Three floors, a water feature in the front yard, a security system at the entrance. Steve pressed some buttons before something buzzed and clicked, and he opened the door with no grand flourish, extending an arm for you to enter first.

Everything was sleek and polished, not quite the bachelor pad you expected, but luxurious all the same. Wooden floors and a large fireplace in the living room, the leather and suede of the clubhouse swapped out for a huge sectional, covered in cushions and throws. There was art on the walls, scenes of Greek tragedies, half naked women with dreamy looks on their faces, full curves and thick thighs. A shiny kitchen that looked barely used, bottles of scotch and whisky and gin on a golden bar cart in the corner, a full wall of books surrounding the biggest television you’d seen. The house smelled like Steve, like his cologne, like new leather and oak.

His footsteps echoed across the room as he strolled into the kitchen, an open plan thing that let you watch him from where you stood by the front door. Steve held up a bottle of wine. Red, a label you recognised from work, something that Frederick charged far too much money for. In your opinion.

“Drink?” Steve asked.

You nodded, stepping into the room a little more. There were a few lamps on, a warm flow from each that cast shadows over the floor, up the walls. The curtains were closed, heavy drapes that kept out the night, kept in the secrets. Like you.

Steve appeared at your side, passing you a glass filled with a little ruby coloured wine. He grinned at your quiet thanks and offered his own for a toast. The glasses clinked and you took a sip, dark cherries and bitter chocolate swirling your senses, or at least, you were sure they would’ve if you hadn’t decided to gulp it down. Steve laughed softly and took your empty glass, setting it on the coffee table with his own. There was a stack of big books in the middle of it, something about American architecture and cars of the sixties, a candle that had never been lit and a cigar box with his initials engraved on the lid.

“Here, sit,” Steve suggested and you sank into the sofa with him. The boy immediately lounged back into the cushions, arms stretched out over the back of it as he appraised you, head tilted to his side. “You don’t do this often, huh?”

You turned to him, puzzled, your hands sliding nervously up and down your bare legs. Your dress suddenly felt shorter than ever and with the way Steve was looking at you - hungry, predatory, bold - you weren’t sure if you wanted to tug the hem down to your knees or take the full thing off and drop it at his feet.

“Do what?”

Steve gestured to himself, to the huge living room you felt a little bit lost in. He smirked, “go home with guys you barely know.”

You swallowed thickly, wondering if it would seem rude if you reached out and stole the rest of his wine. If you’d feel braver and bolder if you were to gulp down more Malbec, if the price tag on the bottle would feel better on your tongue. “Not usually,” you said. You left out the part about how you’d be fired on the spot if your boss found out who you were going home with.

Steve smiled, eyes shining at you like he thought you were cute. He patted the space on the couch beside him. It felt like a million miles away from you. “Come over here,” he said softly. You noticed how he didn’t ask, or suggest. It was an order, as gentle as it was. “I won’t bite.”

You scoffed a little, enjoying the irony of his words despite how he’d looked at you all night, like he wanted to sink his teeth into you, like he wanted to just eat you up. “You won’t?” You asked him, doubtful, even as you slid closer, your thigh brushing his.

Steve dropped his hand to your knee, fingertips barely brushing your skin as she skimmed up and down, up and down. Each pass got him closer to the hem of your dress and you thought back to yesterday, in that stupid golf cart by the edge of the lake. How easy you made it for him, head thrown back, chest heaving, legs spread. You wanted that again, the feeling of his teasing fingers brushing up against the front of your underwear, lace this time, and already damp.

Steve flashed a grin, all teeth, more bite than a smile and you resisted the urge to clamp your thighs together, trapping his hand between. You’d never been this hot for a guy, never been this easy to fold. You felt delicate with Steve, ready to crumple, ready to fold.

“Not on the first date, no,” he assured you.

Your brows rose into your hairline. “This is a date?”

Steve flattened his palm against your thigh and squeezed, leaning into you, nose brushing your cheek until you ripped your head for him and it skimmed the line of your jaw. Your breathing changed too quickly, stuttering to a hitch until it picked up, your eyes closing as you felt Steve’s lips brush against you in the briefest of touches. It wasn’t even a kiss.

“What did you think it was?” Steve whispered, his words hot against your neck. You could smell his cologne, rich and peppery, could feel the slight stubble on his jaw scrape against your throat and you were desperate now, you needed him to kiss you. “What did you think I invited you here for, honey?”

His hand was higher now, fingers under the hem of your dress and you wanted to fall into him, you wanted to crawl into his lap and spread your legs, get properly dirty for him and pull your dress up around your hips and show him how you liked to be touched. Although, you had a feeling he wouldn’t need much help. “I, I don’t know—” you interrupted yourself with a gasp, Steve’s fingertips running along the lace edge of your underwear, teasing the crease of your thigh. “A one night stand, maybe.”

The boy laughed, a soft noise that was buried in the crook of your neck and he finally, finally, put his mouth on you. He kissed sweetly at the spot under your ear, grinned against it when you squirmed at the feel of him and then dragged his parted lips down the column of your neck. You felt the tip of his tongue, a tiny touch, teasing, warm and wet.

“Just one night?” Steve tutted, letting his fingers slip underneath the edge of your underwear. You were an elastic band now, pulled too right, fraught with unspent energy, ready to snap at the tension. “What if I wanted to keep you, hm?” His fingers ghosted over your folds, already slick and wet for him. If he was affected by it, he didn’t show it. He pulled at you gently, spreading you for him, a single digit touching your needy clit as he kept you open. It was filthy. “You’re too pretty for one night, aren’t you?”

You didn’t know what you were agreeing to, but you nodded anyway. You were sure you already looked wrecked, head slack and leaning against Steve’s shoulder, his lips now dotting over your hairline. Legs open, underwear pushed up and to the side by Steve’s hand, his one finger sliding up and down the seam of your cunt. The rubber band was getting tighter.

Steve hummed, a deep, warm noise that rumbled in his chest. “Look at me, honey,” he ordered and you did as were told, eyes heavy and haze unfocused as you turned your head to face him. He was so close, the only evidence he was as turned on as you were, were his blown out pupils, his heavy eyelids. “There she is, oh sweetheart, you’re gone, huh?” he cooed.

You thought he might kiss you then, you thought he might kiss you, finally. But he nuzzled his nose against yours - a surprisingly sweet thing - before he murmured, “take your clothes off for me.”

It was embarrassing, the way your lips parted and your cheeks went hot. You wondered if Steve felt it, the warmth that exploded from your skin at his words, the way your empty cunt clenched around nothing at his words. He gave you clit one more passing nudge before he moved his hands from you completely and sank back into the couch. One arm over the back of it, legs crossed, the other hand brought to his mouth so he could rub the finger he’d dipped along your pussy against his bottom lip.

It was obscene.

He nodded to the space between the sofa and the coffee table and licked his lips. “C’mon, honey, strip.”

You should’ve pulled down your dress and thrown what was left of his wine in his face before you slammed the door on your way out. This man, this rich boy with his big house and shiny car, was ordering you around like you were still at the clubhouse. Like he could flash his members only card and get what he wanted. He hadn’t even kissed you. He didn’t know your last name, and shit, the only reason you knew his, was because him and his family were at the top of the client list at the place you worked.

You could lose your job over this. Worse, you could get your heart broken.

Steve must’ve sensed your hesitation because he reached back over to brush your hair from your eyes, where it had fallen in a mess when you hid your face in the dip of his shoulder as he tapped at your clit again and again and again. He pouted, tsked in a way that sounded sympathetic. “Oh honey, are you shy?” Condescension dripped from him, words liquid gold, sticky sweet and trapping you. He ran the back of his knuckles down your cheek, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip. It was as close to a kiss as you would get. “It’s okay, hm? Am I not playing nice? Am I being rude?”

You didn’t know what to say. You were being sucked in by this man’s charm, his caramel coated words, the way his brown eyes turned soft as he took your hand and led you to stand up in the middle of his living room. “I’m sorry, honey,” Steve whispered. “How awful of me. Lemme try again, huh?” He kissed your cheek, a soft, lingering thing before he left you standing, sitting back in front of you once more.

Steve pushed back his hair and let his eyes appraise you before he rolled his shirt sleeves up and leant back into the cushions. A king on his throne. And the entertainment for tonight?

You.

“Take your clothes off for me, honey,” he tried again, his voice softer this time, lower, dirtier. And then he smiled at you and added: “please.”

With shaking hands and a held breath that made your chest burn, you pulled the material down your shoulders, reaching around your back to tug at the zip. And when it fell open, exposing your skin to the warm air, it was too easy to let the entire dress fall down over your hips. It pooled at your feet and you stepped out of it, heels still on, legs covered in the sheer black stockings that the clubhouse made mandatory for poker nights.

Steve’s lips made a little ‘o’ shape, an appreciative thing that made you pulse with need. You saw then how his dress trousers were tented at the front, an impressive bulge that twitched when you smoothed your hands over your upper thighs, a nervous reaction to being so exposed.

“Oh,” Steve exhaled as he let his eyes rake over you. Soft skin between black lace, thigh highs pulled taught against your curves, tits pressed up in a bra you’d chosen as you thought him. You hoped he wouldn’t embarrass you, you hoped he wouldn’t ask you to do something like spin for him, show off for him. Because you would’ve. “Aren’t you a pretty fucking picture.”

He didn’t need to talk after that. He just lifted his chin towards your chest and you were pulling off your bra for him. You hated how the control of it all made you wetter, the space between your legs fucking throbbing as you waited for your next instruction. “Unless you want those ripped,” Steve was gazing at your underwear, eyes seeking out every dip and line he could make our in the wet lace. “I’d take them off too.” He didn’t let them hit the floor with the rest of your clothes, instead, extending one hand and crooking his fingers.

A silent, ‘give them to me.’

And you did, watching as he slipped them into his trouser pockets, keeping his eyes on you, trailing them over your thighs that were slick with how wet he’d got you. He’d hardly touched you, you scolded yourself, not even a kiss. It was embarrassing, mortifying. It was the hottest thing that had happened to you.

“Keep those on,” Steve murmured, talking about your heels and stockings. “And come sit back down for me, honey, yeah?”

The fabric of the couch felt soft under your bare skin and you hesitated before you let yourself relax into it. There surely would be a wet spot underneath you, evidence of how turned on you were, but Steve didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s it,” he encouraged softly. “Get comfy, hm? Such an agreeable, little thing aren’t you?” Steve was sliding off the couch as he spoke, one palm pressed to his crotch as if to stave off some of his own need. He knelt in front of you, mouth parting in a sigh as he dropped to eye level with your cunt. “Think you can spread those legs for me? Let me see you, honey, there’s a girl—”

He cut himself off with a low groan as you brought your feet up, heels on the edge of the couch as you spread your knees, sticky thighs parting. He could see all of you, fuck, he could probably smell you. The low light made every part of you glisten, the heavy rise and fall of your chest cast in an amber glow.

“Oh she’s real fuckin’ pretty, isn’t she?” Steve asked you, eyes tearing away from your pussy to look up at you. “Spread ‘em wider for me, baby, can you do that?” Another moan from the boy as you let your knees fall apart, almost touching the couch. Steve smoothed his hands up your tights, bracketing your cunt before he did the same as before and pulled your folds even further apart. “Look at that,” he whispered.

You couldn’t. You let your head fall back onto the cushion, eyes squeezed shut as you let your own hands fall onto your knees. You dug in your nails, crescent moon marks on your skin as your tried to keep a grip on reality. You were almost certain you’d come with just one touch.

“Want my mouth?” Steve asked you and his voice was back to that sugar sweet drip, it was thick with an affection, like he was being so nice for taking care of you. You already wanted to thank him. “Want my tongue?”

His thumbs rubbed up and down your folds, keeping them spread apart, a dirty massage that made your clit pulse with each tiny movement. You nodded, letting out a uneven breath and Steve tutted.

“You gotta look at me then, c’mon, Berkeley.” He nipped at your thigh, teeth biting at the skin and it made you cry out. “Look at me and tell me you want me to eat you out.”

Dirty, filthy, obscene, sinful.

You were under no illusion that giving Steve an order made you the one in charge. He played you like a puppet, a boneless girl that wanted nothing more than to come all over this rich strangers sofa. You had a one track mind, no shame left, not when Steve was pressing his mouth over you folds, not licking into you, not yet. Just kissing. You wanted to cry.

“Eat me out,” you begged, eyes glassy as you tried to lift your hips but Steve pulled away. He grinned at you, waiting. “Eat me out, please, Steve. Fuck, want your mouth yeah, please?”

“Where?” He asked, dragging it out. His voice was unholy. “Where do you want my mouth?” His thumbs were still moving, up and down and up and down. “Tell me.”

“My pussy, Jesus Christ,” you whined. You couldn’t ever remember being this pent up. “Please.”

“Oh,” Steve cooed, “she’s so polite.” And then he gave you no other warning, dipping his head so he could lick a stripe through your folds, the hot, wet contact of his tongue making you cry out.

You were unraveling too fast. His thumbs had you taught for him, every part of you feeling his tongue, his lips. Steve groaned into you, a happy, pleased hum that told you whatever game this was, he’d won. He kept his tongue flat, slow, broad strokes of it going from your entrance to your clit until you were curling over him and clutching his hair, doing your best to not suffocate him. But Steve moaned louder and moved his hands to your hips, sliding down until they cupped under your ass and he encouraged you to grind against his face. Tongue still out, kept flat for you to rock yourself on. It was pornographic.

Then Steve was mumbling into you, voice a rasp. “Good girl, honey, that’s it. Keep going, make yourself come on my tongue, yeah?”

So you did, obedient as ever, letting out a gasping cry as your legs shook, cunt still clenching around nothing ‘cause Steve had broken you with just his mouth. It was dirty hot, the way he dragged himself from your sensitive slit, tongue running over your folds even as you whined, licking over the crease of your thighs to get everything you’d spilled for him. You watched as he appeared between your knees, hair tousled, lips and chin shining in the low light, his cheeks flushed. It was ironic, how he looked more boyish after he made you come, expensive black shirt creased from where your legs had pressed against him, his own gaze a little fucked out.

Logic would suggest that perhaps you’d get a kiss then, something soft and sweet to soothe you down before he fucked you senseless, before you got to wrap your own fingers or lips around him. Steve looked big, if the solid press of him against his trousers was anything to go by. Thick and still rock hard, an easy eight inches trapped taught against his thigh, just as impressive as his wealth and status. Your mouth watered.

He kissed the inside of your knee instead, his heavy lidded gaze on yours before he offered you his hands to help you sit up and then said, “I better get you home.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Home,” Steve repeated. He passed you back your bra, your dress. Not your underwear though, no. They were still in his pocket. “I gotta be at the airport in—” he checked his watch, the picture of blasé. “—an hour.”

You pulled on your dress, a little speechless. This boy had just made you come harder than you’d ever managed yourself and now he was busying himself with lighting a cigarette he pulled from the packet in his pocket. Your eyes wandered, he was still hard.

“What about,” you licked your lips, suddenly shy. You nodded towards his crotch, the absolute monster he packed in his slacks. “What about you?”

Steve grinned, bending down to peck your cheek as you wriggled into your uniform, trying to pull yourself back together. “I’ll live,” he told you, blowing out smoke as he spoke. “We’ll call it an IOU, huh? But my plane leaves soon, honey. I’ll cash that favour when I’m back.”

“When?” You blurted out. It sounded like something a girlfriend would demand to know and you cringed, but Steve kept smirking. He helped you slip on your heels, cigarette hanging from his lips that definitely tasted like you.

“Unsure,” he told you casually, “there’s things I need to wrap up in Monaco before I can go to Tuscany for a few weeks. There’s problems at the vineyard and there’s a new plot I want to look at in Alassio too.”

All you heard was money money money. So you nodded and gave him a small smile, legs still a little wobbly from his touch, his mouth, his tongue. And when Steve dropped you off at the door of your too small apartment, he took your chin between his finger and thumb and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your jaw, just below your ear.

The kiss goodnight to your lips didn’t come. You felt confused, a little stilted. But you got out the BMW and waved goodbye, wondering what you were supposed to do at three in the morning after Steve Harrington had tumbled your world upside down.

PART TWO

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington oneshot

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tteokdoroki · 9 months

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✩࿐TRACK 03: WAR WITH HEAVEN. izuku midoriya (2K)

about. upon spending time apart from your pro-hero fwb, deku, for a work trip — he quickly realises he wants it all with you. heaven, hell and life on earth.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! suggestive, sfw, slight angst, fluff, happy ending, sneaky links, long distance relationships, mentions of alcohol, mentions of sex, friends with benefits to lovers, journalist + fem!reader, pro hero!deku.

things to note. another saturday is upon us and so is another instalment!! i really like this one n can’t believe we’re half way through already !! anyways i hope you enjoy <3 - masterlist / series masterlist / series playlist ✩

whether you believe it or not, izuku midoriya has never been hopelessly in love.

like most people with an overexposure to romance saturated media — the number one hero has always had that nagging feeling, craving for something more. the person to come home to, the partner, the kids and the dog that chews through the white picket fence or makes a mess on the freshly cut lawn. he wants a family like most individuals. but with a schedule as busy and a lifestyle as reckless as his…there’s hardly any time for izuku’s dreams.

dreams were for losers, anyways.

after high school, izuku quickly learned that dreaming wasn’t enough to get by even if it had motivated him to become a hero. reality is harsh and full of hard truths — bearing the responsibility of future number one and being all might’s prodigy had taught him that. so his rose tinted view of the future he had planned for himself quickly collapsed, the stain glass window shattering above him while its shards nicked at izuku’s youthful, hopeful skin.

he wasn’t so pure and good after leaving U.A — at least not in front of the public. behind closed doors izuku was a pessimist. he was sly and maybe a little sleazy, always on the prowl for something or someone to toy with. little deku was all grown up, no longer baby-faced and bright eyed but instead buffer with an unfairly tiny waist and an angular sharpness to his jaw that could cut diamonds.

he was attractive and he knew it — his new found confidence bled into his sex appeal and sky rocketed his popularity and now…the number one controls the whole of Japan in the palm of his hand. everybody wants a taste of the new and improved izuku midoriya.

everyone including you.

mindless hookups, despite being easy stress relief, always left izuku with a sour taste in his mouth. conservations with the elite that happened to stumble into his bed never went further than superficial talk and the odd ‘lets do this again sometime’s. he hated how people would change around him, clinging onto him after a night in the sheets like deku owed them a piece of his soul.

being the number one was no longer enough for hungry mouths. sex no longer satisfied those in his circle.

that was until he met you. the first time deku encountered you (at a hero press junket), you had been a shy intern journalist forced to follow around her mentor with an extreme lust for the green haired hero. he felt bad for you, you were obviously there to learn and do your job but the senior professional they’d stuck you with couldn’t help but slobber all over him instead of teaching you.

half-way through the junket, izuku had managed to sneak away from the pestering paparazzi to get a moment to himself — and it seemed, you’d had similar ideas. his initial assessment of your character was way off too. you were quiet, sure, but observant and snarky as well. a realist just like him. and somehow, you’d managed to convince him to leave to conference; get drinks at a secret roof top bar for only the highest members of japanese hero society, and talk and talk for hours about everything and anything. from quirks to the best snack combinations at the only kombini open past three AM on your street.

izuku liked you, he hadn’t felt such a spark for someone since his rookie days. you were cute, he couldn’t stop looking at your eyes and how they sparkles. your lips when you sipped the drinks he ordered for you and the way you instinctively leaned up to deku just to hear what he was saying.

the way you ended up in his bed that night was no mystery to either of you.

except the sensual and sultry night you shared together didn’t end there — at every event, every occasion, where journalists were required to be present, you found yourselves gravitating towards one another. one moment you’d be sharing bedroom eyes with one another from across the room and the next deku would have you bent over in bathroom stalls, his hushed moans in your ear and his fingers deep in your mouth to keep you quiet.

months went by and the sex didn’t stop, neither of you wanted it to. you made izuku feel a little bit whole again, you made him feel good and made him laugh all in the same breath. he didn’t just like it when you left your claim on his neck bordering the line of keeping your rendezvous a secret and letting the whole world find out — but he liked it when you stayed over and wore his shirts around his luxury apartment. or came to hang out with him at his private gym with a bag of cheat-day take-out katsudon and an earful of gossip from your office.

deku really liked you, more than he should’ve for a girl who was meant to be just a fling, more than he should’ve for someone who didn’t have time in his day for a lover.

“did you get over me?” the hero pouts into the FaceTime call, watching you struggle to grab your luggage off of the conveyer belt in baggage claim. if he were there, he’d have gotten it for you by now.

despite not being anything serious to one another, izuku had made it a habit to weasel his way into your everyday life. you sent cute little good morning and goodnight texts to one another, along with other messages like ‘get home safe’ and ‘have a good day’ too. those text messages quickly escalated to phone calls once the green haired number one admitted to you that it’s hard to fight crime whilst looking for the right kao emoji to send you.

you roll your eyes, coy smile budding on the edges of your lips. “it’s only been two hours, izuku.” you say, finally managing to grab your bag before you head out to the main lobby of the airport.

one thing about that man, is that he’s clingy as fuck. all of your attention has to be on him or he’ll feel like he might die. with you being away for the weekend at a journalism conference instead of in his arms, izuku feels like he might burn the whole world down from the ground up. just to be near you.

either that or he’s just extremely pussy whipped.

“streets are sayin’ you might sleep with that guy from your team while you’re there, is that true?” deku fires back, running a scarred hand through the mass of curls atop his head. he lets it run down to smooth over his face, peach fuzz starting to grow through — but you made him promise not to shave until the day after you got back. apparently his light stubble against your inner thighs made you cum so much—

“—i don’t even like him like that, you big baby,” you tell him matter of factly, cutting through his train of thought and bringing your phone up to your face once more to let emerald eyes peek down your sweater. “and i think he’d get the hint if he saw all these damn marks on my neck.”

pink blooms underneath the freckles on midoriya’s cheeks at the sight of the purple hues decorating your neck and shoulders. he remembers the extra turtlenecks you had to pack because of it. “couldn’t help it, i needed to give you a reminder of what you’d be missing while you were away from me.”

“you’re so dramatic, deku.”

“oh, you wound me, angel.” he purrs into the mic with a sly grin, knowing that he’s affecting you just as much as he misses you. especially when you give him a pointed glare. izuku let’s the conversation wither out as you order yourself an uber that’ll take you the hotel. he can’t help but chuckle when you perk up and notice the amount of money he’s sent you to cover the costs of it. “yanno…” deku mumbles, resting his cheeks on his knuckles. “you’re like heaven away from hell to me.”

you won’t admit how sexy he looks, even if izuku is all googly-eyed and soft for you. even if his forest green locks curl over his pretty eyes and hide them. it almost pisses you off. that he’s so blissfully unaware of how fucking pretty he is and how that mere fact manages to ruin you you even though you’re miles apart. “what’s hell, then?”

“my work. this city. this apartment, without you.” he says smoothly, filling your stomach with butterflies. izuku has a away about him that makes you feel like you’re his entire world and only his — but there’s never been any strings attached, you’ll never fully be his and he’ll very much be the nation’s hero (and dick) until someone manages to tie him down.

“are you asking me to move in with you, izuku?” there’s no expectancy in your voice — you say it mostly as a joke because you have no idea how much the number one pines for you. how tonight, he’ll drink himself into a stupor with his friends and whine to them about how much he misses you. izuku may have changed on the outside, may be stronger and faster but he’s still that insecure teenager on the inside.

he has to force his knees to stop knocking whenever you’re around. he finds himself swallowing the lump in his throat whenever he thinks about the possibility of you being with someone who isn’t you. he feels sick to the stomach and panics at the thought of losing you. you mess with deku’s head in the worst of ways and yet he finds himself wanting more. nevertheless, he smiles, loving how his name sounds on the sweet glaze of your lips.

“you’ve got a place in my bed. you’re always here anyways.”

“you’d never let me leave it, if you had a say in the matter.”

“you’d never have to work again if you let the number one hero take care of you angel.” izuku sighs longingly, giving you his cutest pair of puppy dog eyes that never fail to make you swoon. “but you love your job.”

“i do.” your uber pulls up and you reply curtly so you can properly greet your driver. they aid you with your suitcase and you slip your headphones on while in the back seat to keep your special conversation private.

“do you love me?” he can’t help but ask. izuku is hopelessly enamoured by you, you’re like a virus that’s spread across his brain and controls his every thought or action. he needs you like his lungs need oxygen to breathe — you’ve changed him for the better, shown him that maybe he can have both work and luxury. a family and foundation. with you, if you’d want him.

“izuku.” you warn, but playfully.

“so it’s true,” the hero drawls across the line in faux disappoint though his eyes speak mischief. “you only like me for my cock ‘n my money.” you can practically hear the pout on his pretty plump lips.

a fondness takes over you and you can’t help but squirm happily. “and your pretty boy smile,” you squeal cutely, filling midoriya with the same amount of fondness “don’t forget.”

“so you do love me.”

“i can’t answer that until you ask what you want to ask me properly.”

“alright then,” sitting up, deku grasps at his phone between shaky fingers and holds it above his head — giving you the perfect view of his freckled and scared (and chiselled) body. he chews on the swell of his lower lip, dancing around the question he knows he wants to ask. “angel. i want you. more than just a fling. i want you to be mine.” he blurts, closing his eyes so that his thoughts come easy and he can’t see you reject him.

midoriya doesn’t know what he would do if he lost you, he’s seen what losing your love has done to his friends. kirishima and his partner had almost broken up with each other recently. he’d be a mess in that situation. izuku has faced too many hardships in his life, his career, to let this one good thing slip from between his fingers.

“will you? be mine?”

he sees you poke your tongue into your cheek, laughing as you pretend to think. “i will, izuku. i want nothing more,” you coo. “keep my side of the bed warm. i’ll be home soon.”

relief floods through deku’s body. “don’t be too long, gorgeous.” with a couple of blow kisses, he lets you go with the reminder to call him back once you’re settled in at the hotel (so he can pay for your room service). it’s only when you’re alone again that izuku realises he’d rip stars from the sky to be with you, pull the heavens right down to earth to be by your side.

you’re everything to izuku, and for you, he’d go to war with heaven.

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queercanon13 · 1 year

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The Karma music video is packed with queer and sapphic themes. But what’s with that yellow beret?

We all watched the Karma music video on Friday (or Saturday), right? And then we all watched it ten more times because there IS JUST SO MUCH THERE. Right?!

I can’t even begin to unpack the whole thing yet, but let’s talk about the yellow brick road scene.

Taylor is obviously wearing ruby slippers (“the rubies that I gave up”) alluding to Dorothy/the Wizard of Oz. But she’s not wearing the rest of Dorothy’s getup. That’s because she’s not Dorothy, but in fact a friend of Dorothy.

She’s holding a broom (lots of witchy themes from her lately) and blows a kiss of blue (iykyk) glitter to three grim reapers (the two SBs and…?).

She’s keeping her side of the street clean, which harkens to the YNTCD MV where she clearly shows which side of the street she’s on:

Other things of note: it appears there are daisies embroidered on her collar, as well as growing along the yellow brick road. Her braids are also looped (“your braids make a pattern”).

The yellow brick road itself may be a nod to Elton John and his album/song Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Here are some of the lyrics from that song, as well as a generally accepted analysis of the lyrics:

Seems like it would be super relatable to Taylor, right? Add in Elton John’s queerness/coming out journey, and the parallels continue.

There are probably a hundred other things I’m missing just from that scene alone, but what I really wanna talk about is the yellow beret, especially in light of current news surrounding Taylor.

When I saw the yellow beret, I furiously googled “yellow beret” + the names of Taylor’s muses, but I came up empty-handed. Because Taylor is specifically not wearing a Dorothy costume, I knew that fucking hat had to mean something. Then I remembered — isn’t yellow beret a military term? And we know she loves a good war story. To Google I went, and the results did not disappoint.

During the Vietnam war, all physicians in the US had a mandatory draft order. One of the ways to avoid the draft was to apply for a position with a Public Health Service program called the NIH Associates Training Program. Because the elite program was highly competitive, only a small percentage of doctors were able to serve their required military time without going to war.

Yellow beret was a self-deprecating and derogatory term used by and for doctors who avoided getting a green beret/going to war (yellow can be associated with cowardice, i.e. “yellow-bellied”) via the NIH program.

Sounding familiar? But wait there’s more.

Bob Seger wrote a song in 1966 called The Ballad of the Yellow Beret. It was written as a parody of the song The Ballad of the Green Berets. Here are some of the lyrics (I encourage you to read all of them!):

Verse 1: Fearless cowards of the USA // Bravely here at home they stay // They watch their friends get shipped away // The draft dodgers of the Yellow Beret

Okay, I’m seated.

Verse 3: Men who faint at the sight of blood // Their high-heeled boots weren't meant for mud // The draft board will hear their sob stories today // Only the best win the yellow beret

Oooookay.

Verse 4: Back at home a young wife waits // Her yellow beret has met his fate // He's been drafted for marching in a protest //Leaving her his last request

Are you screaming yet? Just wait.

Verse 5: Put a yellow streak down my son's back // Make sure that he never ever fights back // At his physical have him say he's gay // Have him win the yellow beret

And if that wasn’t enough, two of the last lyrics are “I've got a pimple on my trigger finger” (ew) and “well, we were planning on having children sometime soon” (devastating). These themes also align with The Great War, epiphany, etc.

But despite attempts to diminish their efforts through claims of cowardice, these “yellow beret” physician-scientists contributed to some of the most important and innovative medical research we have today. Dr. Fauci attended the training program, as well as nine others who went on to win Nobel Prizes.

Could it be that Taylor is trying to tell us that, while it looks like she dodged the draft (didn’t come out), she’s doing some important mastermind shit behind the scenes? Only time will tell, but since we are now at “dawn,” I believe daylight is soon to follow. ☀️

#gaylor #taylor swift #the eras tour #karma mv #karma taylor swift #karma is a cat #karma ft ice spice #karma remix #gaylor swift #swiftgron #kaylor

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mightyflamethrower · 8 months

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In the last 20 years, the Left has boasted that it has gained control of most of America institutions of power and influence—the corporate boardroom, media, Silicon Valley, Wall Street, the administrative state, academia, foundations, social media, entertainment, professional sports, and Hollywood.

With such support, between 2009-17, Barack Obama was empowered to transform the Democratic Party from its middle-class roots and class concerns into the party of the bicoastal rich and subsidized poor—obsessions with big money, race, a new intolerant green religion, and dividing the country into a binary of oppressors and oppressed.

The Obamas entered the presidency spouting the usual leftwing boilerplate (“spread the wealth,” “just downright mean country,” “get in their face,” “first time I’ve been proud of my country”) as upper-middle-class, former community activists, hurt that their genius and talents had not yet been sufficiently monetized.

After getting elected through temporarily pivoting to racial ecumenicalism and pseudo-calls for unity, they reverted to form and governed by dividing the country. And then the two left the White House as soon-to-be mansion living, mega-rich elites, cashing in on the fears they had inculcated over the prior eight years.

To push through the accompanying unpopular agendas of an open border, mandatory wind and solar energy, racial essentialism, and the weaponization of the state, Obama had begun demonizing his opponents and the country in general: America was an unexceptional place. Cops were racist. “Clingers” of the Midwest were hopelessly ignorant and prejudiced. Only fundamental socialist transformation could salvage a historically oppressive, immoral, and racist nation.

The people finally rebelled at such preposterousness. Obama lost his party some 1,400 local and state offices during his tenure, along with both houses of Congress. His presidency was characterized by his own polarizing mediocrity. His one legacy was Obamacare, the veritable destruction of the entire system of a once workable health insurance, of the hallowed doctor-patient relationship, and of former easy access to competent specialists.

Yet Obama’s unfufilled ambitions set the stage for the Biden administration—staffed heavily with Obama veterans—to complete the revolutionary transformation of the Democratic Party and country.

It was ironic that while Obama was acknowledged as young and charismatic, nonetheless a cognitively challenged, past plagiarist, fabulist, and utterly corrupt Joe Biden was far more effective in ramming through a socialist woke agenda and altering the very way Americans vote and conduct their legal system.

Stranger still, Biden accomplished this subversion of traditional America while debilitated and often mentally inert—along with being mired in a bribery and influence-peddling scandal that may ultimately confirm that he easily was the most corrupt president to hold office in U.S. history.

How was all this possible?

Covid had allowed the unwell Biden to run a surrogate campaign from his basement as he outsourced his politicking to a corrupt media.

Senility proved a godsend for Biden. His cognitive disabilities masked his newfound radicalism and long-accustomed incompetence. Unlike his past failed campaigns, the lockdowns allowed Biden to be rarely seen or heard—and thus as much liked in the abstract as he had previously been disliked in the concrete.

His handlers, the Obamas, and the Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren radical Democrats, saw Biden’s half-century pretense as a gladhander—good ole Joe Biden from Scranton—as the perfect delivery system to funnel their own otherwise-unpopular leftwing agendas. In sum, via the listless Biden, they sought to change the very way America used to work.

And what a revolution Biden’s puppeteers have unleashed in less than three years.

They launched a base attack on the American legal system. Supreme Court judges are libeled, their houses swarmed, and their lives threatened with impunity. The Left promised to pack the court or to ignore any decision it resents. The media runs hit pieces on any conservative justice deemed too influential. The prior Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer whipped up a mob outside the court’s doors, and threatened two justices by name. As Schumer presciently put it, they would soon “reap the whirlwind” of what they supposedly had sowed and thus would have no idea what was about to “hit” them.

Under the pretense of Covid fears, balloting went from 70 percent participation on election day in most states to a mere 30 percent. Yet the rates of properly rejected illegal or improper ballots often dived by a magnitude of ten.

Assaults now followed on hallowed processes, laws, customs, and institutions—the Senate filibuster, the 50-state union, the Electoral College, the nine-justice Supreme Court, Election Day, and voter IDs.

Under Biden, the revolution had institutionalized first-term impeachment, the trial of an ex-president while a private citizen, and the indictment of a chief political rival and ex-president on trumped up charges by local and federal prosecutors—all to destroy a political rival and alter the 2024 election cycle.

Biden destroyed the southern border—literally. Eight million entered illegally—no background checks, no green cards, no proof of vaccinations. America will be dealing with the consequences for decades. Mexico was delighted, receiving some $60 million in annual remittances, while the cartels were empowered to ship enough fentanyl to kill 100,000 Americans a year.

“Modern monetary theory,” the Leftist absurdity that printing money ensures prosperity, followed. It has nearly bankrupted the country, unleashed wild inflation, and resulted in the highest interest rates in a quarter-century. Middle-class wages fell further behind as a doddering Biden praised his disastrous “Bidenomics.”

Biden warred on fossil fuels, cancelling federal leases and pipelines, jawboning lending agencies to defund fracking, demonizing state-of-the-art, clean-burning cars, and putting vast areas of oil- and gas-rich federals lands off-limits to drilling.

When gas prices predictably doubled under Biden and the 2022 midterms approached, he tried temporarily to lease out a few new fields, to drain the Strategic Petroleum Reserve, and to beg the Saudis, and our enemies, the Iranians, the Venezuelans, and the Russians, to pump more oil and gas that Biden himself would not. All this was a pathetic ruse to temporarily lower gas prices before the mid-term elections.

Biden abandoned Afghanistan, leaving the largest trove of military equipment behind in U.S. military history, along with thousands of loyal Afghans and pro-American contractors.

Biden insulted the parents of the 13 Marines blown up in this worst U.S. military debacle since Pearl Harbor. He lied to the parents of the dead that he too lost a son in the Iraq war, and when among them later impatiently checked his watch as he seemed bored with the commemoration of the fallen—and made no effort to hide his sense that the ceremony was tedious to him.

Vladimir Putin summed up the Afghan debacle—and Biden’s nonchalant remark that he wouldn’t react strongly to a “minor” invasion of Ukraine if it were minor—as a green light to invade Ukraine.

When Biden did awaken, his first reaction was an offer to fly the Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelenskyy out of the country as soon as possible. What has followed proved the greatest European killing ground since the 1944-45 Battle of the Bulge, albeit one that has now fossilized into a Verdun-like quagmire that is draining American military supply stocks and killing a half-million Ukrainians and Russians.

Suddenly, there are three genders, not two. Women’s sports have been wrecked by biological men competing as women, destroying a half-century of female athletic achievement. Young girls in locker rooms, co-eds in sororities, and women in prison must dress and shower with biological men transitioning to women by assertion.

There is no longer a commitment to free speech. The American Civil Liberties Union is a woke, intolerant group trying to ban free expression under the pretense of fighting “hate” speech and “disinformation.”

The Left has revived McCarthyite loyal oaths straight out of the 1950s, forcing professors, job applicants, and students applying for college to pledge their commitment to “diversity” as a requisite for hiring, admittance, or promotion. Diversity is our era’s version of the Jacobins’ “Cult of Reason.”

Race relations hit a 50-year nadir. Joe Biden has a long history of racist insults and putdowns. And now as apparent penance, he has reinvented himself as a reverse racial provocateur, spouting nonsense about white supremacy, exploiting shootings or hyping racial tensions to ensure that an increasingly disgusted black electorate does not leave the new Democratic Party.

The military has adopted wokeism, oblivious that it has eroded meritocracy in the ranks and slashed military recruitment. It is underfunded, wracked by internal suspicion, loss of morale and ginned up racial and gender animosity. Its supply stocks are drained. Arms productions is snail-like, and generalship is seen as a revolving door to corporate defense contractor board riches.

Big-city Democratic district attorneys subverted the criminal justice system, destroyed law enforcement deterrence, and unleashed a record crime wave. Did they wish to create anarchy as protest against the normal, or were they Jokerist nihilists who delighted in sowing ruin for ruin’s sake?

Radical racial activists, with Democrat endorsement, demand polarizing racial reparations. The louder the demands, the quieter they remain about smash-and-grab looting, carjacking, and the swarming of malls by disproportionally black teens—even as black-on-black urban murders reach record proportions.

In response, Biden tried to exploit the growing tensions by spouting lies that “white supremacy” and “white privilege” fuel such racial unrest—even as his ill-gotten gains, past record of racist demagoguery and resulting lucre and mansions appear the epitome of his own so-called white privilege.

This litany of disasters could be vastly expanded, but more interesting is the why of it all?

What we are witnessing seems to be utter nihilism. The border is not porous but nonexistent. Mass looting and carjackings are not poorly punished, but simply exempt from all and any consequences. Our downtowns are reduced to a Hobbesian “war of all against all,” where the strong dictate to the weak and the latter adjust as they must. The streets of our major cities in just a few years have become precivilizational—there are more human feces on the sidewalks of San Francisco than were in the gutters of Medieval London.

The FBI and DOJ are not simply wayward and weaponized, but corrupt and renegade. Apparently the perquisite now for an FBI director is the ability either to lie while under oath or better to mask such lying by claiming amnesia or ignorance.

Immigration is akin to the vast unchecked influxes of the late Roman Empire across the Danube and Rhine that helped to finish off a millennium-old civilization that had lost all confidence in its culture and thus had no need for borders.

In other words, the revolution is not so much political as anarchist. Nothing escapes it—not ceiling fans, not natural gas cooktops, not parents at school board meetings, not Christian bakeries, not champion female swimmers, not dutiful policemen, not hard-working oil drillers, not privates and corporals in the armed forces, not teens applying on their merits to college, not anyone, anywhere, anytime.

The operating principle is either to allow or to engineer things to become so atrocious in everyday American life—the inability to afford food and fuel, the inability to walk safely in daylight in our major cities, the inability to afford to drive as one pleases, the inability to obtain or pay back a high interest loan—that the government can absorb the private sector and begin regimenting the masses along elite dictates. The more the people tire of the leftist agenda, the more its architects furiously seek to implement it, hoping that their institutional and cultural control can do what ballots cannot.

We could variously characterize their efforts as destroying the nation to save it, or burning it down to start over, or fundamentally transforming America into something never envisioned by the Founders.

Will their upheaval succeed? All the levers of the power and money are on the side of the revolutionaries. The people are not. And they are starting to wake to the notion if they do not stop the madness in their midst they very soon won’t have a country.

A perfect metaphor for what the progressives have done to America.

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volleypearlfan · 1 year

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On Cringe Culture, Kids' Shows, and Elitism

i'M nOt rEaDiNg aLl tHaT" Ok, scroll down for the TL:DR. (Also on SpaceHey and Blogspot)

The now ex-CEO of Disney, Bob Chapek, has stated the animation is only for children. Never mind that this is the same company that owns The Simpsons, and was founded by a guy who said, and I quote "You're dead if you aim only for kids. Adults are only kids grown up, anyway."

Naturally, this has caused universal backlash within the animation community, with many people defending animation as a medium for everyone, not just kids. However, the animation community was also mocked by outsiders for using kids' shows, such as Gravity Falls, to prove that animation is for everyone. In fact, the animation community (more specifically the western animation community) has always been cruelly harassed by outsiders for watching cartoons, especially ones aimed at children.

There is nothing wrong with watching children's shows AT ALL. Watching kids' shows doesn't make you immature, a pedophile, or whatever bullshit that outsiders want to spew. Remember the Walt Disney quote above; many kids' shows are designed to be appealing to multiple audiences, including adults. Kids' shows with adult appeal (or ones that don't annoy the living daylights out of parents, or are legitimately good for kids) are more likely to be praised and recommended by said parents than, say, Cocomelon.

However, because of the stigma attached to kids' shows, many animation fans feel the need to hate on/ignore slice-of-life or comedy cartoons, while only praising plot-driven or "dark" ones like Gravity Falls, The Owl House, and Avatar, and say that they are "not for kids." Again, there is NOTHING wrong with liking kids' shows (these shows do feel more YA-ish though, but that's another subject for another blog). All three of these shows are very high quality, and you don't need to justify your enjoyment of them to outsiders. The constant prioritization of dramatic cartoons over lighthearted ones in the cartoon fandom creates a sense of snobby elitism, and leads to...

...fans of lighthearted shows like Big City Greens and My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic being bullied for liking said shows because they are "childish." Which, in turn, leads to fans of lighthearted kids' shows trying to make their shows seem dark in order to make the elitists like them. Back in the day, many bronies made dark fan works based on MLP such as "Cupcakes," "Smile HD," and "Rainbow Factory" and put them out in public with no age restriction, resulting in a bunch of traumatized children. The bronies also acted like they were the target audience and not children.

Apart from the bronies' fan works, MLP also suffered from exaggerated darkness on TV Tropes subpages. Speaking of TV Tropes, there was a very infamous incident regarding the kids' show "Ready Jet Go!" Aside from the stigma surrounding general kids' programs, you also have the stigma attached to preschool shows that they are dumb and for babies (never mind that babies/infants are too young to watch TV, and if they watch it before they turn 2, it would really hurt their brain. Look up the Baby Einstein controversy for more info), especially with GoAnimate users making it hip to hate on Dora and Barney. Not every preschool/elementary show is the same as Cocomelon. There are many high-quality programs for the little ones such as Arthur, Cyberchase, Sesame Street, Bluey, Mister Rogers, VeggieTales, Oswald, Blue's Clues, LazyTown, Bear in the Big Blue House, and WordGirl. Can you really blame fans for liking them when they’re just so good?

With all this in mind, someone once made a Nightmare Fuel page for Ready Jet Go on TV Tropes in order to make it more popular, because the user felt alone in liking the show and it was a big comfort for them. They also cited the snobbery of the cartoon community as a reason for their making the page on the Nightmare Fuel cleanup thread. The page was eventually deleted because it was mocked cruelly by 4chan. It didn't make the show more popular, it gave it a bad reputation.

The user shouldn't have to had made that stupid page with examples exaggerating the show's supposed scariness. If it weren't for the cartoon community being a bunch of elitists, as well as the kids/preschool show stigma, this wouldn't have happened. The sad part is, even though the page is long gone, the page STILL gets brought up by RJG haters to mock the show, its' fans, and TV Tropes for "pissing their pants over Ready Jet Go" which is beating a dead horse at this point. Seriously, make like Elsa and LET IT GO. Please stop bringing it up, and if you’re reading this blog, please don’t look it up. Please have sympathy for Ready Jet Go fans. We’re actually a very nice fandom.

The 4chan bullying also ties into cringe culture. On sites such as DeviantArt, Instagram, Twitter, YouTube, Reddit, and 4chan, many people are considered "cringe" and cyberbullied for "crimes" like making a colorful character or watching cartoons. The cyberbullies in question are just a bunch of pathetic lowlives who bully people for being happy, because they think that bullying happy people will make them feel better about their disgusting selves.

As noted here, cringe culture affects autistic people the most. Autistic people tend to get really passionate about their favorite things, or "special interests," and like to talk about them all the time and make their own characters. But according to some unwritten rule of society, your OCs have to be as deep as Shakespeare, and you're not allowed to like 'childish' things even a little bit. (I think it's worth mentioning that the Nightmare Fuel person was autistic themselves). Many proponents of cringe culture participate in concern trolling, acting like they don't want so-called "cringe" people to be bullied and want them to be good artists/writers. Cringe culture doesn't make people become better creators, it makes them become boring creators and repressing their true passions.

Every autistic person is different, which is why it's called the autism spectrum. However, it is true that a lot of autistic people enjoy children's media, likely because of how calming and simple they tend to be. For example, Thomas the Tank Engine is very popular with autistics because the engines' emotions are easy to tell, and the show has a chill atmosphere (by the way, the Thomas fandom is a frequent victim of cringe culture). Plus, it legitimately has Tolkien-level lore dating back to the 1940s. I'm not even kidding, look up "The Island of Sodor: Its People, History and Railways." It always pisses me off when outsiders act surprised that "tHOmAs tHe tRaIn hAs A fAnDoM?!?1!" It's based on a book series that's existed since 1945, of fucking course it has a fandom, dumbass.

TL;DR - 'Animation is for everyone' and 'it's okay to like kids' cartoons/lighthearted cartoons' are statements that can and should co-exist. Also, autistic people can like whatever they want and those who harass them are the scum of the earth.

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loveneversleepss · 1 year

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Hyunjin as Yandere

Warnings: smut duh, cursing, stalking, obsession, angst, self-sabotage, arguments, unprotected sex, nipple play, teasing, spiked drink, nicknames.

Genre: Idol au, female reader x yandere!hyunjin, strangers to lovers, hyunjin falls first, one bed trope, not really much gore for romance sake.

"Your lips were made for mine. We belong together."

I think you are the most perfect girl i've ever laid my eyes on. The perfect portrait. I want you to be mine. You were made for me.

~~~

The 4 seasons. Everyone knows what that is; Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring. But in your world, it means something different. In a normal world when the season changes, the scenery changes. But in yours, you, the people change. Your appearance changes, your hair normally. Others can be different things. The colors are usually assigned to what kind of person you are.

You're probably thinking, can't we just dye our hair? No. You can't. It's physically impossible. Or so we thought.

The people who can are the elites, the leaders of the generation. They have special abilities, so-called talents. You're immediately known wherever you go due to having a different hair color than everyone. You are one of these people. You have the talent of singing, dancing and modeling. You are known for your unique face and hair. You have a scar on your forehead that changes with the season; a sun, leaf, snowflake, and a flower. So, wherever you go everyone can recognize you immediately which makes you so popular.

Summer represents breaking rules, freedom, lust and partying. You can always find people doing drugs, drinking and having sexual encounters out on the street. Purple is for the party crazed people, yellow for the drug addicts and green for the drunks. At this time, nothing ever gets done. Everyone is having too much fun to do anything meaningful.

Fall represents finding your meaning, disguises and distrust. During this time is when Halloween comes around. Which means a lot of trickery. The colors are very simple. Brown, gray and peach. This is where everyone distrusts each other because the hair hides our emotions and who we are. We can't tell each other apart.

Winter is the hardest, no one is happy in it. It represents depression, sadness, suicide and family. Which is why they desperately need entertainment. That's where you come in, to lighten up their dark, gloomy moods. Christmas helps a bit when everyone comes together with their families. For winter, the colors really help. White is for peace, it means they want to harm themselves. Blue is when they are really sad and need family love. Black is when they've reached the bottom, they no longer care or have emotions.

Spring is the time for new opportunities after the harsh winter. Everyone is happy, childlike due to finally accepting themselves. It represents new love, dreams and growth. During this time the colors are really bright. Pink is simple, when you're looking for love. Magenta for when they are pursuing their dreams. Red is for when you are in love, that you found your soulmate. Aqua-blue is when you are learning to love yourself.

This is how it is and how it'll always be.

Walking through the crowds, everyone's hair is either white, blue or black. Meanwhile yours is red. You get funny looks as you walk by, due to them immediately recognizing you. The scar on your forehead gives you away, the shape of a snowflake. You are starting to become known worldwide. You can hear the clicks and flashes of cameras. Murmurs and whispers as you hear your name being uttered.

But besides all that, you could care less. You are only doing this to survive, because like everyone. The season affects you, winter. Your performances keep you busy and it passes the time. So, you get your mind off on how you feel numb and how much you long for love. Even though your fans scream and shout that they love you. You sit and wonder, do they love you, actually?

You were recently invited to this fashion show it'll be a good opportunity to get you out of the studio. So you agree, although having to talk to new people makes you nervous. You're afraid to say the wrong thing, funny right?

"Don't worry about it. All you have to do is sit there and look pretty," your shitty manager tells you. All he ever cares about is his paycheck. He gets paid more when you make appearances at shows. So, of course he would encourage you to go to this show. "Who was the fashion designer again?" He rolls his eyes at you," Versace. Donatella Versace." Right. Guess i'll have to remember that.

You're dressed in a long, skin-tight white elegant dress. It has a large slit that reveals half your thigh. The bottom lining of the dress has a furry material attached to it. A pair of white sparkly heels and your hair half up, perfectly curled. All your hairstyles are meant to reveal your forehead, to be easily recognizable. You place a furry coat around you to cover your exposed chest, you're not the most comfortable in showing your curves. Although, you are forced to.

You get off of the white limo, a pair of hands welcome you quickly. You didn't expect such a big crowd awaiting, the lights blinding you. Your eyes adjust as you begin to pose for the cameras. You make a kissy face and blow a kiss and walk off into the entrance. You cringe internally at your pose. You always do the most and regret it later on. 'It's for the fans.' you think. As if that was a good reason.

You walk over to the check-in table and they tell you you're sitting at table 8. You begin to walk around the pool and hear a conversation. "It's so nice to see you again. How are you?" You hear a familiar voice. You turn in that direction to see Dua Lipa standing with who you assume is Donatella Versace. You can see them and not the man standing before them. He seems shy. He speaks so softly that you can't make out what he is saying.

He turns around for the photo and your eyes are blessed. The most perfect man you've ever laid your eyes. His black hair, his eye smile, his dazzling brown eyes, tall and fit with good style. He is all a woman could ever hope for in a man. You stop drooling over him and begin to walk to your table again. Then you hear your name, "Y/n?" You sigh and quickly turn with a fake smile plastered on your face. You walk over to Donatella, who was calling you.

"It's so lovely to meet you, you're gorgeous!" Her hand strokes her hair softly. You slowly push her off, feeling slightly uncomfortable but she doesn't notice. "I want to introduce you to somebody. This is Hyunjin." You turn to the man and he shoots a slight smile. You say hello to him and he talks with an accent. English seems to not be his native language. Just then Donatella tells you, "He's Korean but understands and speaks a bit of English. I hope you two get along!" How convenient. You speak Korean too due to your makeup artist who taught you.

"Why don't you two get to know each other," that's weird. Why is she pushing you two to have a relationship so much. "I don't mean to sound rude but, why must we? I mean we came to watch a fashion show." She looks shocked and surprised that you would be questioning her like this. She clears her throat, 'It'll make sense soon. Go on," she motions her hands for you to leave together. You two look at each other in confusion but turn away together.

You begin to wander into the garden, a silence overcomes the two of you. He clears his throat, "So what do you think of everything so far?" It takes you a while to process his question. His accent is a bit strong. Honestly, if you really think about it. You have no chance with him. So who cares about what he thinks about you. You sigh heavily, "It's so annoying. Everyone is so fake. Including you, being so obedient for what? Just to get in that rich lady's good graces? Please." You're not here to make friends, that you make clear.

He stops walking, he scoffs at you and rolls his eyes. "Hypocrite. I saw that little scene you did for the cameras. Your attention and fame craven like everyone you claim is so fake." You begin to get angry and cut him off, "You don't know anything about me!" He steps close to you now, "And you don't know anything about me! So, don't assume you do!" You jerk your head back when you realize his face is inches away from yours. The height difference is frightening.

"You son of a bitch," you mumble in Korean. He looks at you confused, "What?" he responds back in Korean. "You heard me. You son of a bitch!" He's taken back at your words. "How dare yo-" "What are you gonna do about it! Absolutely nothing!" You push his shoulder as you stomp past him. You hear him shout after you but you ignore him as you walk to your table. You sit down angrily and cross your arms. After a couple minutes you see him walk back and sit at the table next to yours. You roll your eyes and wait for the show to start.

After what seems like an eternity, the show finally ends. You get up to leave when Donatella calls you over once again. You go and show another fake smile. It quickly fades once you see Hyunjin. “Walk with me,” she tells you two and leads you into the garden. “What’s going on?” Hyunjin asks, which gets you annoyed because you were going to ask that. She smiles and sighs happily, “okay, I’ll finally tell you.” You and Hyunjin are paying very close attention on what she is going to say next. “I want you two to be the newest ambassadors for my brand!”

You and hyunjin look at each other in shock, mouths slightly agape. “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun! Just in time for the spring collection,” she squeals happily and awaits your answers. There’s no way that is going to happen. How could you just give everything to this stranger standing in front of you? “Plus that means you’ll be able to travel the world. Imagine all the possibilities!” You fidget with your necklace and glance at Hyunjin, who was already looking at you.

“I’m sorry but, I’ll have to say no,” Hyunjin strongly declines her and you can see her dreams being crushed. She looks at you, “and you? Are you declining?” You pause for a second then answer softly, “I’m so sorry. My singing comes first.” She nods her head and walks away sadly. Leaving Hyunjin and you alone. “About earlier-”“save it. I don’t want to hear it,” and with that you walk away.

It’s been a month since the fashion show. Spring has finally arrived. It’s the first day officially. Since it’s the first day, you’re hair color is aqua-blue. You haven’t had the chance to alter the color yet. The scar on your forehead has formed into a flower. Your manager has sent you to venture out into the abandoned territory due to the season change. It always happens because everyone wants to be where it’s more vibrant with the seasons. It’s a good opportunity for a idea for a song, lyrics always pop up when you’re wandering.

You walk through a forest of tree, the branches snap under your weight. You push aside a cluster of leaves and stumble upon an abandoned castle. You practically swoon at the sight, although vines are overgrown onto it. It can’t hide the beauty of it. Why would anyone abandon this? You swing open the double doors and find it be quite near inside. You find a ballroom filled with three sets of chandeliers. The room is enormous and your every move echoes throughout. You can’t help but giggle right when you begin to sing.

“The day started ordinary,” you begin to twirl around in your long flowy dress. “Boys walking by,” you lean against a statue of a guard. “It was the same old story,” you push the head of the helmet. “Too fresh or too shy,” you push the statue away and roll your eyes. “I’m not the kind,” you walk in the middle of the ballroom. “To fall for a guy,” your voice echoes throughout the room. “Who flashes a smile,” you make a vomit motion.

“Don’t usually swoon but I’m over the moon,” you place one hand dramatically to your head and the other to your chest. “And now I’m falling for ya!” You squeal out as you fall to your knees. “Falling for ya!” You lay on your back and smile brightly. “I know I shouldn’t but I,” you lay on your stomach while kicking your legs. “Can’t stop myself from falling for ya!” You sit up and look at the chandelier hanging above you. “Can’t hold on any longer and now I’m falling for you,” a sudden burst of wind brings petals of flowers Inside. It falls lightly onto you and you smile happily.

Out of nowhere you feel goosebumps on your back, feels like someone is watching you. You shoot your head in the direction and see Hyunjin staring down at you. His hair is the color of red, he's in love? You jump and fall back. “Hyunjin!” You squeal out from being scared. He smiles lightly, his eyes crease. His laughter begins to fill the room, it sounds so genuine. The most genuine laugh you’ve ever heard.

I wake up from my restless night, I couldn’t stop thinking about this sentence. It’s irritating me so much. ‘Do they love me, actually?’ It makes me spiral, I feel so alone. There’s no one here in this big, lonely castle. It’s all mine but I can’t bring myself to fix the outside. I don’t belong here. I sigh heavily as I get up and shower. The hot water hits my head and I can feel the aches in my body slowly fade away.

I dry my hair, apply lotion and get dressed. I hear mumbling coming from the ballroom, no one’s here. Who could it be? I walk out onto the balcony connected to the staircase and see the culprit. “I’m not the kind,” her voice shocks me. It’s so powerful. “To fall for a guy,” I feel as if the world had stopped. A girl with aqua-blue hair dancing with a long, flowy dress. Who is she? To my surprise she turns around, y/n. My mind jumps back to when I first saw her. She looked so beautiful that day. She was perfect and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

I felt like something was wrong with me, I felt obsessed. I kept watching her. Even after we fought, I couldn’t help but want to get to know her more. I want her to be mine.

“Who flashes a smile,” her expression makes me smile to myself. Ironic. “Don’t usually swoon but I’m over the moon,” I feel hypnotized. I can’t take my eyes off her. “Now I’m falling for ya!” Her voice radiates even louder through the room, like a siren. “Falling for ya! I know I shouldn’t but I,” I lean against the ledge now. Enjoying her little performance. “Can’t help myself from falling for ya!” I notice that I left one of the doors open, I can feel the cool air from the outside. “Can’t hold on any longer, now I’m falling for you.” The petals of my blossom trees fall inside. They land onto her head and dress. She smiles brightly, so genuine. I’ve never seen a smile like it.

This. This is what I’ve been waiting for. The perfect portrait. The most perfect girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on. She is what i needed. She was made for me. Now, I won’t let her go.

“Hyunjin!” She finally notices me. She falls back and looks at me shocked. I can’t help but laugh at her reaction. I hear my laughter echo throughout the room, lighting it up. “Nice little performance,” I tease her as I walk down the staircase. “What are you doing here?” She questions me in Korean, still sitting in the floor. I make a confused expression as I respond back in Korean, “I live here?” She looks at me up and down, “oh,” she whispers under her breath. I reach my hand out to help her up, She reaches up slightly and pauses, she accepts and gets up. “You have a wonderful home,” she slightly steps away from me. “Glad you like it,” I pick out a petal from her hair and notice she blinks fast three times.

She looks down at her hands and fidgets, “I’m sorry about how I treated you at the show,” she pauses and clears her throat as I listen intently. “I should’ve never judged you like that.. or cussed you out,” I smile to myself at the memory. "and i'm sorry for what i said too. I don't know you so I can't make assumptions either." I motion my head for her to follow me and she does. "Maybe we should get to know each other then," we walk into my hallway which leads into my indoor garden. "What do you mean by that?" I ask but she gets distracted by the garden. She runs inside and admires the flowers, waterfall and butterflies.

"I only mean that we should get to know each other. Spend time together," she catches a blue butterfly on her finger, color just like her hair. She pauses and turns to me, "being ambassadors would've been a good opportunity.." I grab a pink rose and set it on her ear, it's color doesn't clash with her hair. "Maybe we should be." She freezes, her eyes as big as a doe. Just then something bizarre happens, her roots begin to change into a pink color. It begins to grow but no, it isn't pink. It's red. She notices and steps away from me. She touches her hair and notices the red of it. "What's happening?" "You've fallen in love, y/n."

She steps closer to me and touches my hair softly, "You have, too." I pause for a second, "do you think we should be ambassadors?" She nods her head and smiles, not a fake one, "I think we should."

Today was a busy day for you and Hyunjin, as soon as you arrived in Paris. You two immediately went to do 2 photo shoots and make an appearance at the Versace Spring collection show. You two had walked down together in matching clothing as part of the show. Your hair colors had been alternated to a light purple, matching once again. It's 9:30 and You've finally checked into your hotel. Donatella has said the room has 2 different living spaces in one, to have our own privacy but still be near.

But to your surprise, as soon as the door flung open, you could tell this was the wrong room. You walk in and see there is only one bed and not 2 different living spaces. Hyunjin finally comes in and notices, he mumbles "No way," and walks straight out to go down to the lobby. Leaving you all alone. You unpack a painting, a painting of you. He had painted it and surprised you with us shortly after you agreed to be ambassadors. It’s a painting if you from when you were dining in the ballroom, petals and butterflies surround you. But your hair isn’t aqua blue there, it’s red.

After about an hour, you hear the chime of the door unlocking. Hyunjin appears with a tired look. "So, we have to stay here tonight. Tomorrow we'll be given a new room." You nod your head in understanding as you take a sip of juice, or what you assumed was juice. You can't read anything due to everything being in French. "Can I have some?" Hyunjin asks and points at your drink. You giggle and hand it to him, he takes big gulps nearly finishing it. You pout as you see the almost empty bottle. "I'll sleep on the floor," he says as he grabs a blanket. "No Hyunjin, just sleep on the bed. I don't mind."

He looks at you for a second then sets the blanket on the bed, "alright but if you snore I will stuff a sock in your mouth." You giggle at his words, "I promise I won't." Your head begins to feel woozy and you rub your forehead, feeling the scar. "You okay?" Hyunjin asks as you lay on your back. "I don't feel so good, like my body is becoming really hot." He places his hand on your forehead, "You don't feel hot." Your breathing becomes harsh and fast. "y/n? What's happening?" He backs away and checks the drink, "Ugh, you idiot. This increases libido, it makes you hot and basically super horny." You get up and look at the drink, "I didn't know, I can't read french!" Your head goes in your hands, "Wait, you drank some too." His eyes widen as he realizes too.

"Did the shower help?" You say as you lay in the bed. You ripped off your clothes, leaving you in your underwear covered by the sheets. He shakes his head as he gets inside the sheets, only in his boxers. You lay on your sides facing each other, you feel your heart beat fast. You're fighting the urge to touch him so, to help you turn over. You feel his hand lightly touching your hair, "turn over so I can look at you." Your heart skips a beat and you listen. "Come closer to me," his hand touches your waist. He slides you closer to him and his breathing is harsh too. His hand lays on your cheek as his thumb caresses you. "What are you doing?" It comes out soft, your body is aching which is making it hard to focus.

"Don't talk right now," he whispers as he pulls your body closer. His hand grabs your thigh and pulls it over him. You feel a tingle in your crouch as yours hits his. "My god, you're so beautiful," his lips look so kissable. It's so tempting. Your body begins to move on its own, grinding against him softly, getting a pleasurable friction. "Stop moving like that," his hand stops your hips from moving. "I can't, I crave you. Look, feel." Your hand brings his to your underwear, causing his fingers to graze against the wetness. "Fuck, i'm the same." His hand brings you to feel his hard-on, you feel how long he is. It makes your mouth water.

"I can't bear it," you say as you climb on top of him. The cool air hits your body but it doesn't help with your heat. "Please touch me, jinnie." You've never called him that, but you intend to say it more. Your body rocks against him, causing you to bite your lower lip. His hardness sliding against your covered folds feels so good. He curses under his breath as his hand wanders up to your hips then up to your breasts. It makes moan fall off your lips and you feel him squeeze softly. You reach behind your back and un-clip your bra, you throw it off as his hands replace it. "You're so beautiful," he praises you once again.

"I need you so bad, jinnie," you're practically begging at this point. "oh, yeah?"His finger pushes your panties to the side, he runs his finger across your folds. A whimper falls from your lips as you grind against his fingers, chasing the friction. "You need me so bad?" You nod your head fast, his teasing makes you go insane. He slides his boxers down, he glides against your folds. You can't take it anymore as you take him in your hand and slide down. "Fuck, there we go," he moans out as you take him completely. He fills you up so good and you can't help but start to ride him.

He sits up as you sink down onto him, his lips attach to your breasts. Circling around your nipples sucking and nibbling softly. You can't seem to get enough, his name falls off your lips in moans and whimpers. Just then, his phone begins to ring. You both look at it and he reaches to grab it. "Don't answer it," you beg and he tilts his head to the side and smirks. "Be a good girl and be quiet for me," he answers the call and keeps one hand on your hips. "Hey, Felix," He keeps you moving on him as his voice sounds slightly raspy but it won't be noticable on the call.

Whoever is on the phone with him must be a comedian because he keeps laughing, which makes him push up into you. You bite your lip to stop noises from slipping out your mouth, which is getting incredibly hard. How is he speaking with such ease, the person on the phone having no idea what is happening. His hand travels up to your breasts which pinches your nipples, you almost let a moan slip. You grab his hand to stop him but he swats you away and continues.

You can feel the knot in your stomach and you know your high is coming. "Jinnie," you whisper to him but loud enough for it to be heard through the phone. He looks at you annoyed and mutes his phone, "What?" His voice is harsh and makes you feel timid. “I can’t stay quiet for long,” you hands wrap around his neck, pulling his face close. “Please hang up baby,” you beg him. He smirks and pushes your arms off. “You want to cum right? You can handle it,” he unmutes his side and leans against the headboard.

You whine as he forces your hips to move again, this time he adds his thumb to trace circles on your clit. You squirm and bite your tongue to keep quiet. You begin to get tired and your hips begin to stutter when you feel the knot growing back. He sits up and covers your mouth right before a let a loud moan slip out. You feel your juices ooze out of you and onto him. Your breathing finally slows down and you feel the heat fade away. You know that he needs to finish too so, you start to move again, overstimulating yourself. It feels painful but you’re doing it for him.

Out of the blue, he groans loudly into the phone. “Hyun, are you oka-” Hyunjin hits the end call button and grips on your waist. “Fuck him, you feel so good right now.” You start to bounce up and down on him, a whimper falls from his lips. “Fuck don’t stop,” You feel your face redden when you finally realize how dirty everything is. How much you like hearing his noises. He pulls your chin in and finally, your lips connect. His lips are so soft and his tongue gently slides into your mouth. His kiss feels like heaven. He groans into your mouth as he has to pull away, his eyes look deeply into yours. “Can I cum inside?” His voice is so broken, whimpers fall every 5 seconds. You nod your head and your arms tangle around his neck.

You feel a warm liquid shoot inside you and his chest heaves. His breathing begins to slow and you slowly get off him. You lay next to him, slightly regretting what happened. Did you just get used? Did he not like it? What if he hates you know? Your thinking is interrupted by him, “come here.” His hand turns your face to look at him, he scoots closer to you. His lips press against yours, eliminating all the doubts you had. “I’m gonna make you mine, you can’t run away now.” His words make you smile, “I thought you would hate me after this..” He scoffs and sighs, “You’re actually stupid if you don’t realize how much I love you.” Love? He loves you.

“Love?” You mumble. “Yes, Love. Can’t you see that I’ve been waiting for you to realize ever since we met. I love you and only you.” You begin to develop tears in your eyes, “and I love you.”

#stray kids #stray kids stay #stray kids imagines #stray kids series #straykids hard hours #stray kids smut #skz scenarios #straykids smut #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz smut #skz #hyunjin #skz hyunjin #hyunjin smut

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youngbuckisms · 6 months

Note

Kenny Omega x Reader where they go to an arcade together?

Street Fighter ( Kenny x Reader ); drabble

Word count: 950

Warnings: none

Notes: I started to write this before the Elite drama started, so little refs of them. Also I didn’t proofread this (I never do), but enjoy!

Lately, it felt like you and Kenny couldn’t get a moment alone. You got to come to shows, but you were always surrounded by The Elite and if you weren’t surrounded by The Elite then you were watching Kenny to these shoots, which was always sort of fun. But it would be more fun to just spend time alone with your boyfriend.

Of course, Kenny knew that. And, of course, he felt bad for not having a lot of time alone to give you all of his attention. Especially when you two had been pulled into another conversation with the Bucks or Hanger — love the guys, but could you just get a minute to Kenny without them butting in?

“You’ll love it, I promise.” Kenny commented as he drove through the streets of a new city you had been brought along to, only to yet again get almost no alone time with your boyfriend.

“Love it more than hearing Matt and Nick bicker over a dumb little Starbucks debate and have you settle it?” He laughed at that, though there was a slight strain to it — embarrassment, maybe guilt, as the night getting go like he was hoping.

“Way more.” But he sounded confident enough and you just had to take his word for it.

The drive wasn’t too far, pulling up to a strip mall of a mix of different shops that didn’t look like they belonged together. A hair salon, next to a small Mexican restaurant that probably could only fit a handful of people, that was next to a record store, but in between all these shops was a slightly bigger unit with a neon red sigh buzzing with the word’s ‘Classic Arcade.’

“So, I know we haven’t had a lot of time to ourselves for the past couple weeks and at shows,” Kenny started, voice slow and unsure, an arm looping around your shoulders as he spoke and you two looked on at the building in front of you. “But I wanted us to have some time tonight and maybe play some arcade games with you, like our first date. If that’s okay, I mean —“

“Of course it’s okay, you idiot.” An affectionate jab from you, one that made him break into a wide smile as he kissed you on the cheek.

“Let’s go then. I cant wait to kick your ass.” He teased, tugging you along inside. It was dark, but it certainly looked nicer on the inside than te out.

The carpet that retro arcade pattern with random pink swirls, green triangles, and orange scribbles. The wallpaper almost matching. Then, of course, filling the area was various machines that made all sorts of noise that it was almost overwhelming.

“So, what are you going to ‘kick my ass at’ first?” You asked Kenny lead you over to a quarter machine, where he slid in a twenty for the coins to begin falling into the cup below.

“Street Fighter.” Instantly, the answer came. No hesitation and you could tell he had been planning this all night.

You knew all those quarters would be going towards Street Fighter, the game Kenny had taught you how to play on your first date, where he wouldn’t leave until you had won at least a round — the night a long one, but one neither of you would forget.

You both walked through two rows of games before spotting Street Fighter, stationed comfortably next to a Mortal Kombat machine. Two quarters were slotted in, and Kenny taking the right side of Player 2, leaving you two to officially begin your night.

Playful jabs at one another skills, some cheating on close rounds, Kenny often nudging you with his hip to throw you off, you throwing a few of your own gentle shoulder tosses his direction to distract him. A night of constant back and forth, laughter mixing with the sounds of the arcade beeps.

From how close you both were, you could feel the vibration of Kenny’s phone, yet it went completely ignored. Right now, the night about the two of you and spending time together. Another call came after that, but once it was ignored, it was silent for the remainder of the night. He would call later, worry about it at the hotel.

For now, he would happily continue laughing with you as you both played, smashing buttons and Kenny acting a little too dramatic when he lost — though you’re sure he threw a few games on purpose.

“Dammit!” Kenny huffed as the final blow was landed, taking his hands off the joystick to find another couple quarters in his pocket to go again. “You know, if I knew you were going to kick my ass, I wouldn’t have suggested Street Fighter.”

“I had a good teacher.” He smiled at that, flashing you this grin as curly hair fell in front of his face, for you to push aside for him. You can see him practically melt from the touch, always a sucker for physical affection. He was quick to shut the distance between you, placing a kiss to your lips as a hand came to rest on your hip.

“Closing up soon!” The lone worker that the two of you had forgotten about called from behind the ticket counter, causing you both to jump slightly. You could see Kenny’s cheeks turning pink, even in the dim lighting of the arcade.

“How about we say you won tonight, but tomorrow night, I’m really going to kick your ass.” Kenny suggested with a wide grin.

“I might embarrass you again.”

“You? Embarrass me? You make me laugh, baby. Let’s get out of here then.”

#Kenny omega #kenny omega drabble #kenny omega imagine #aew drabble #aew imagine #kenny omega x reader #gender neutral reader

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itsgrimeytime · 4 months

Text

Magnolia in May (Part Twenty Seven) || Rick Grimes (TWD) x Greene!f!reader Regency AU

Parts 1-20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26...

Taglist: @loliakeoghan23 @curlycarley @queenie32 @mgparker

rick grimes taglist: @golden-hoax @mgparker

AVAILABLE ON AO3

Inspiration (in honor of Speak Now Taylor's Version): Enchanted by Taylor Swift.

Summary: Your town was small, not the smallest you knew, but anyone of high fortune was the gossip of the week. Predictably, Richard Grimes was a thing of whispers -rumors of a search for marriage among the grassy hills. You weren't one to buy into town gossip, but something about him... just seemed a little too intriguing.

TW: none.

[[A/N: Live for this gif, it's the epitome of mim! Rick, except Judith is a bit older. Thanks for reading !!! ]]

The buzz of the street was comforting, a bit like the bickering of your home dinners -Headmistress speaking, Maggie biting back, and Beth and Father merely watching on. It was much of the same, just on a wider scale -words being said but you didn't listen not as though you were at home.

The stalls were busy and the street even busier, and it felt like Alexandria.

"You're Ms. Greene," someone spoke, you turned to listen, "-Mr. Grimes's courting you!"

That day at the ball, he'd asked you to stand by him -at the center of it all. All the eyes on you had been unnerving, but being by his side was important -he'd requested you.

In his concern, he must've forgotten the gossiping.

"I am," you hummed, moving along the space with certainty.

"Are you of great fortune?" The woman asked, not quite young but not quite old, "-Or perhaps you're pursuing him for-"

"I'm pursuing him to pursue him," you interrupted, turning to face her with a seriousness in your tone, "-nothing else."

Her lips pursed, dark brown hair framed her face and blue eyes staring rather intriguingly -like you were a sort of wonder.

"You say such a thing so firmly," she spoke, tilting her head, "-Do you truly believe it?"

"I much more than believe it, madam," you echoed, a bit distant -this battle was one you had won before, "-I live it."

She didn't follow you after such a thing was said, but the whispers that followed you only carried. Each crowd formed around you as if you were infectious -swerving and eyes downcast.

Oftentimes you missed old Alexandria, like the day you met Mr. Grimes where you could exist in harmony -no one of note. But you supposed now that you were here, you couldn't wish to be back there. He meant far too much to you to wish before him.

Far too much.

At the thought, something in your chest warmed, and you found something claws up your throat -you turned back to the woman, the crowd really.

"I love him-"

It wasn't an explanation, not really, and sure, they didn't need to know such things. But something in you wished to say it, to get it out -to tell people I love him and he loves me. He wishes to marry me-

"-if you must know."

The rest of the day went by rather uneventfully, no one chose to speak to you out of turn -only whispers followed behind you like a gust of wind. But by then, you didn't truly care.

You hadn't thought about the papers, not then anyway, but looking back on such a confrontation -you probably should have.

"Look at this darling," Headmistress motioned the paper to you, "'I love him,' says the lady of such elite courtship. Further comments to Mr. Grimes were made but he merely smiled at such words. The ring of a proposal is upon our ears, certainly, it will be the wedding of the century."

You peered over the paper, "The front page, it's certainly not worth such importance-"

"I beg to differ, my dear," Headmistress hummed, setting the paper in front of your Father without much other thought, "-Mr. Grimes being off the market is sure to be news."

"Very true," your Father echoed, "-upon his visit to Alexandria, all that could be talked about was of him being a bachelor. Your courting is bound to make the papers."

"Yes, okay," you started, "-but my own words? Truly, they must be inconsequential-"

"Not in this case," your Headmistress shook her head, absentmindedly adjusting the pin of your hair -it was falling from the day's work, "-you neatly confirmed the seriousness of such a courting. That's news-"

"Yes, but-" you spoke, curious, "-How are they not to assume I am not longing after the man?"

"Well, because he clarified," Beth spoke, looking over Father's shoulder, "Upon further pursuance, Mr. Grimes said, rather happily, 'I love her.' Silencing the rumors of a rather morbid affair for the public eye, he gave us no further comment."

"Where?" you jumped up from your seat -gathered by your Father's side, "-Did he truly-"

And there it was, written in ink -a confession to farther than even Alexandria, he'd done it. He told the whole town that such affections were mutual, that was- That was-

"Darling, why are you crying?" she echoed, still fidgeting with your hair -she decidedly smoothed it down, "-You certainly knew such affections before, haven't you?"

"I did, I do," you gasped out between your breaths -smiling, "-I just can't believe he'd say such things for the whole town to know like he's-"

"Proud of you," Maggie finished, ducking in from upstairs, "-which he very well ought to be."

"Maggie-"

"No, she's right," agreed your Father, matching your eyes, "-He's very well lucky to court you, my darling daughter. Through it all, you still find love in your heart for him, and he's very well earned that."

"Oh, Father," you smiled, wiping at your tears and pulling him into a hug -hands wrapped around his shoulders, "-don't make me cry more-"

You supposed the next time you went out, you should've expected it.

"Ms. Greene," his voice echoed over the crowd, and you spun in place to catch him, "-lovely to see you, out and about."

Mr. Grimes was grinning, the kind of grin that had a sparkle in his eye -playful. In his arms was Judith -dressed wonderfully for such a simple occasion, and Carl was tightly to his side -still overdressed, but suited it lovely.

"You say that as though I'm not out every morning."

"You are?" He hummed, "-I should join you more often. Speakin' of, may we? Join you?"

"I'd love the company," you smiled at each one of them, lingering on Mr. Grimes if only a moment.

"Certainly you would," he echoed, biting down a grin.

Ah, you noted, that's what this is about.

"Yes, and tell me," you began, looking at him -suspiciously, "-What exactly are you out here for? Grocery?"

"I simply love the company."

"You are ridiculous, you know that?" You laughed, out loud -improperly but it was with him, so you thought it alright.

He shook his head, following you through the shops and stalls -you lingered by the chocolates only a spare moment. But of course, he noticed such longing looks -he always did.

"Sir," he spoke, and you nearly startled in place, "-may I receive some of those strawberries?"

"Certainly, sir," the man spoke with high respect, only meeting his eye.

"What do you need those for, Mr. Grimes?" You quirked, basket neatly rested in the crooked of your arm, "-Not dinner, I suppose."

"For you," he stated, matter-of-factly -extending out the bag to your basket and squarely dropping them into it.

"Mr. Grimes," you relented, "-I cannot accept-"

"A gift," he smiled, "-We are courting, are we not? Accept a gift on my behalf."

"You certainly cannot gift me everything I long for," you echoed out, fingers lingering on the little packet -you had always wished to try one.

"I can," he hummed, "-and will, if you allow me."

"Only a little."

Mr. Grimes laughed at that, loud and boisterous, and something in your chest warmed that such a noise came at your expense. It was almost as if every shop turned to you, unexpectedly, looking more than they already had.

You began to gather the groceries for the house, sticking by every stall neatly and avoiding when Mr. Grimes wished to pay. You had the funds, and you could buy them, so you would.

"Let me get somethin'," he started, sighing -a little exhausted you could tell.

It was just then, that you rounded in front of Mrs. Sweets's shop -new dresses, beautiful dresses lining the windows. You always loved this part of the trip, eyes dashing along the stitching, the color, everything. Your dreams of seeing such things on your skin were just that, dreams.

You stalled in place, stopping as you always did, looking through the windows and Mr. Grimes continued, not noticing the stop. Until a few moments later, he rejoined you -tight by your side, eyes dancing along your face as you looked on.

"You like to-"

"Look at the dresses," you finished, they each were beautiful, but something in your mind lingered on one from weeks prior -lavender with lacy finishes, and detailing you could never imagine to own.

"They are rather beautiful," he conceded.

You started, a little dreamy, "One week, I saw such a stunning gown," you sighed, "-lavender with a bit of lace at the ends of the sleeves. It was far more beautiful than anything I believe I ever owned."

"And?"

"And what?" You laughed, "-I could never buy such a dress, the detailing costs much more than you can imagine. Plus, I know each dress is one of a kind here, and it is far gone."

You reached out to touch the glass, as if it was still there and you could feel it between your fingertips.

"A woman much better suited found the same beauty in it I did, I assume."

Mr. Grimes was rather silent.

"Now come on," you hummed, undeterred, "-I've got run by Wheatley's for some dairy."

He merely followed behind, silently playing with Judith as you roamed around what was left -stalls and shops, Mr. Grimes kept reaching out to pay. You kept beating him to it.

Every time you lingered on something, however, he'd have it within his fingers in a snap -you'd ended up with a new lavender ribbon (it reminded you of the dress), a pair of shoes, and the chocolate strawberries. You allowed him only those three, despite your heart aching for many different things -you did not wish him to spoil you.

Perhaps, one day but not now.

Perhaps, when he married you-

You stuttered in your step for a spare moment, and the thought split into your head -when? Would he do such a thing soon? You knew he planned it-

"Everythin' alright?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed and head tilted down to speak to you over the buzz of the stalls.

"Yes," you hummed, softened at such a tone, "-I am well, just thinking."

"Anythin' you want to talk about?"

You smiled, reassuring, "It's nothing, Mr. Grimes, I promise. Just thoughts of no note."

He pursed his lips as to ask more, but someone interrupted him.

"Ms. Greene!" A voice echoed, not one you knew -a man who seemed to speak to you with intention, "-You are in the courtship with Mr. Grimes-"

He spoke it as though you didn't already know.

"Did you have anything of note to say?"

"To say to who?" You questioned, Mr. Grimes still tightly by your side, but at the moment the crowd seemed to block them off.

"The town of Alexandria," he clarified, "-Courting such a man, you must have lots to say. Perhaps, to say to those who don't get such pleasantries."

"Are you asking me to brag sir?"

"Certainly not," he hummed, "-just wishing to know more details. Has such courting been elite? Does he spend much fortune on you?"

"You must certainly know not to ask that of a lady, sir," you started, a little stiffened at such questions.

"I was born to ask questions, miss," he spoke, "-With the courtship of Mr. Grimes, you'd think-"

"Excuse me," Mr. Grimes spoke, gently, pushing through to join your side clearly.

"You'd think what?" You asked, genuinely, "-That my privacy is disregarded upon the courting of a man?"

"Well, a man like Mr. Grimes-"

That was when he stepped forward, Judith and Carl by his side -his hand intertwined with his son's and Judith within his other arm, "A man like me?"

"Mr. Grimes," he tensed, and something in you soured -he took him seriously, "-lovely day, is it not?"

"Are you not listening to Ms. Greene?" He questioned, rather intently, "-I believe her privacy being questioned is her own issue, yet you don't listen to her?"

"Well, sir," he laughed, a little nervously, "-She's a lady-"

"My lady," Mr. Grimes corrected, "-I ask you to respect that, respect her, certainly."

"I understand," he echoed out, "-I apologize-"

"Not to me," Mr. Grimes spoke, tightly, "-To her, speak to her."

The man, still nameless, turned to you, "I apologize for being so intrusive, miss, I request you forgive me."

"Thank you," you spoke, strictly, still not quite settled. Mr Grimes brushed his arm against yours -sleeve upon sleeve, and something in you calmed slightly.

You wished you could hold onto his arm, but both were quite preoccupied.

It wasn't long after that Judith fell asleep, blond curls snug against her father's shoulder and eyes squeezed shut. You found it rather sweet, keeping such an image safely in your chest.

Your eyes lingered over the three of them, they stood a few steps ahead. You realized it then, such a thing as today was a rather family affair.

The group waltzing along the stalls, together, you playing with Judith, quietly speaking to Carl and playfully bickering with Mr. Grimes -it was as though you belonged. Like you were on an outing with your family-

Something in your heart shifted.

Maybe you were. The thought settled along your shoulders, and you began smiling -watching the three of them step forward, all wandering along the stalls. You grinned, you liked this little family, liked being a part of it.

You wanted to be a part of it-

And just then, Mr. Grimes turned around, blue eyes fluttering across your face, "You comin'?"

"Of course," you whispered out -stepping forward to join his side, "-Of course."

Perhaps, you already were.

#rick grimes #its griming time #stuff n' thangs #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes x y/n #rick grimes x you #rick grimes x y/n fanfiction #twd #twd rick #rick grimes fanfiction #rick grimes oneshot #magnolia in may

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adore-laur · 6 months

Text

JOYRIDE

— corruption in tokyo brings two partners together again to seek retribution while also fulfilling their desires🚦

ハリー

Midnight in Tokyo.

The city transforms into a neon jungle once the moon takes the stage. Illusionary indigo and hot pink advertisements scale the sides of skyscrapers, their vibrant pixels reflecting off the slick thoroughfares bestrewed with puddles. Cosmopolitan emporiums attract visitors like clusters of moths drawn to a flame, ranging from luxury retail stores to vintage boutiques that line the sidewalks. Many diverse eateries sit snug in the passageways, the limited seating where conversations are struck with writers and poets alike. Whimsical art sculptures placed in hidden spots showcase Japanese culture, and the expressive pieces greet tourists from around the world.

It's an urban utopia straight out of a futuristic fantasy.

Digging deeper into the complex metropolis, right in the heart of the infamous Kabukicho District, is where nightlife is most vivacious. Foreigners flock to clubs and bars for ritzy entertainment and exuberant thrills. Alleyways conceal doorways to more private establishments, their explicit thresholds exposed by flickering arrows that guide those who dare to enter. It's sinfully atmospheric, the smell of smoke and sex lingering past the brick walls lit by dangling paper lanterns.

The vicinity is two sides of the same coin. In the daytime, families wander through a maze of honorable restaurants and hotels, but at night, the devil comes out to play. Risqué signs lead to unlawful pleasure. Curtains cover hostess clubs of endless inebriation. Intimate shops are out in the open to pique the interest of innocents.

However, on this rainy November night, Harry Styles seeks only one unholy cove. He doesn't need to be lured into it by silhouetted street hawkers. Ignoring them is easy when the red light just around the corner holds his true desire.

As his polished dress shoes clack against the wet pavement, a black umbrella looming over his head, he fishes into his trouser pocket to snag a piece of chewing gum. He unwraps the aluminum, pops the green gum into his mouth, folds the rubbery substance using his tongue, stretches it between his two front teeth, and then bites down on it with his back molars. A refreshing burst of spearmint hits the back of his throat, crisp and cool. He begins whistling a catchy tune he heard on the metro subway the other day, the trill echoing off the narrow walls surrounding him. New graffiti on them catches his attention. Considering the city strictly prohibits street art, it's a rare find, so he admires the esoteric visuals before they're removed by patrolling police.

Taking a sharp left, the top of Harry's shadow reaches his destination before he does. He stops in his tracks and breathes in the hazy air. Smoke seeps under the rusted garage door, and the muffled bass coming from inside is a straight injection into his veins. The Japanese script, emboldened by neon red, spells out the name of the strip club.

ジョイライド

JOYRIDE

Guarded by a towering man in a black suit and maroon tie, it's the only barrier left. Luckily, Harry is well-versed when it comes to sneaking into elite establishments. He shakes his umbrella out, the droplets creating ripples in the asphalt pools beneath his feet. A step under the hipped awning saves his expensive clothing from becoming soaked. His long, houndstooth blazer of a dreary grey color and a dotted scarf wrapped once around his neck make him blend in nicely with the darkness.

Harry clears his throat and politely bows to the daunting watchman. "Kobanwa," he greets, hiding the gum under his tongue out of courtesy. (Good evening.)

"Kon'nichiwa," says the man with a reciprocated bow. "Anata no mōshide wa nanidesu ka?" (Hello. What is your offer?)

Opening the breast pocket of his blazer, Harry plucks out three bills. He unfolds the creased paper one by one, revealing the printed face of an esteemed writer and a five-digit number representing a hefty amount of yen. His desire is worth significantly more, but he'll undoubtedly be spending the rest of what's tucked in his wallet for reasons that will never be publicly disclosed.

"Sakura," Harry says with unwavering eye contact.

He only needs to speak a single name for the man to challengingly stare back for three seconds. He then takes the yen and inspects it for possible counterfeit, his nimble fingers flipping the banknotes over with a particular procedure. After an anticipatory moment of crinkling sounds and drowned-out electronic music, he raps a rhythmic knock on the garage behind him. It instantly lifts with a grinding creak, the smoke releasing from underneath and crawling up Harry's legs like ivy on a brick wall.

"Anata no norimono o tanoshinde kudasai." (Enjoy your ride.)

Harry gives the man a fixed smile and then enters his paradise. Weeks of lousy business trips that required him to globetrot across continents have led to this. Tokyo always has something sensational in store for him. He comes back to the sleepless city time and time again for the unpredictability.

Disappointment doesn't exist here — escapade does.

The metal stairs leading to the underground club are grungy and steep, so Harry uses the shaft of his umbrella as a makeshift cane to traverse down the dilapidated steps. Every footfall ends in a squeak until he reaches the velvet carpet at the bottom. Thumping music loudens, the scent of cigarettes grows stronger, and the beat of his heart pounds faster in anticipation.

Red curtains are suspended in front of him, and distant chatter that eclectically ranges from foreign to familiar dialect echoes from behind them. Harry sets his umbrella by the nearby coat rack, then takes his scarf and blazer off to hang them next to a pristine suit jacket. He takes a glimpse at his own suit. It's black cashmere with a contrasting white button-up underneath and a silk tie. He adjusts the collar, tugs on the lapels, and swiftly unclasps the single button. With a final ruffle of his flattened hair and a crack of his neck, he's ready for total immersion.

Pushing the curtains aside, he crosses the threshold. There's no turning back now.

The seductive ambiance immediately invades every one of his senses. There's red everywhere. The spacious room holds the key to subliminal distraction, from the ruby wallpaper to the vermillion leather booths. It's a sub-rosa room where players can have fun after dusk. Every soul that wanders in leaves with a newfangled perspective on the divine beauty of women. At least that's what Harry left with the first time he traipsed in as a fresh face from Europe, a wax-sealed invitation in his hesitant grasp.

He wouldn't call himself a loyal customer, per se. He's not dependent on the half-empty glasses of Yamazaki malt whiskey presented to him on serving trays, only to be respectfully declined. Nor does he come for the puffed cigars and joints perched between persuasive fingertips and lips.

No, it's the stage in his peripheral he floats toward. It's where his desire lies.

His Sakura.

She's on the round stage amid her nightly performance, one leg hooked around a silver pole protruding from the middle of the platform. A red spotlight shines down on her contorted body, her limbs reaching out like slender branches of a cherry blossom tree. Her long hair is snaked into six braids, four twisted up high and two tinier ones falling over her forehead. The audience of men, some standing close and some sitting in booths, piercingly whistle over the loud music while throwing wads of yen at her when she spins into an upside-down position with ease, gripping the pole using just her ankles. It gives everyone a full view of her leather bodysuit, the glossy black material with cutouts revealing peeks of smooth, brown skin.

Harry stuffs a hand in his pocket and lingers at the back of the club where no one can pester him with invasive questions about his intentions. They don't understand. He's not here to 'get some,' as they often assume. Sure, he'll leave the place feeling satisfied, but they don't know he gets to take home the woman they're currently fawning over.

Her pole dancing performance nears its end, with a final layer of smoke hovering over the circular platform. The mystique she exudes as she slides into an effortless split is tantalizing. Harry swallows thickly as his hand curls into a fist, every fiber of his being practically itching to be alone with her. He never grows tired of watching her, yet he's utterly addicted to what happens in their designated private room.

The red spotlight switches to a bright white, and his Sakura smiles dazzlingly while collecting the bills thrown her way. Harry smirks and applauds, then pushes off the wall to give her his own special offering. This part seems to always occur in slow motion for him. His eyes are locked onto her as he waits until she catches his hypnotic gaze. He weaves through the crowd while chewing on his now flavorless gum, mumbling apologies when he bumps into people's drunken sways until he finally reaches the stage. Slightly opening his suit, he reaches into the interior breast pocket and pulls out a plucked cherry blossom. Technically speaking, he breaks the law every time he acquires the pink symbolism of human existence, but it's of little consequence to his morals. He has much worse crimes under his belt.

Harry gently holds out the blossom amidst flying yen, a pastel pink delicacy in a sea of brown riches. The following moments play out like a scene in a movie. Time seems to freeze as he homes in on the sound of her high heels clicking closer. He steadily looks up, taking in her tall legs and heaving chest. She tucks a few yen in the tight seam of her bodysuit, then provides him with her undivided attention.

"For me?" she mouths over the deafening music.

His lips break into a wide smile at the sound of her euphonic voice he so longingly missed. "Always for you."

Bending down, she takes the cherry blossom from him and brings it under her nose. Her eyes flutter shut as she smells the fragrant flower. It's flattering that no matter how often she's received one, she still sticks it behind her ear like she does now.

The surrounding men marvel over her, but they'll be distracted soon enough. Two more poles emerge from the stage, and a group of stripper girls come out to continue the regularly scheduled show. Harry doesn't lose focus on his Sakura, simply backing away slowly and jerking his head toward the VIP rooms. It's a drill he aims to follow through with zero problems arising. Almost everyone here is a stranger, so that means they cannot be trusted in the slightest. It's why he doesn't speak to them. If any outsiders find out about the dirty business he deals with on the side, it's a downhill slope into deep trouble.

Harry stops at the opposite side of the room and faces another security guard, but this time, it's one he knows quite well. "Ryōji," he says while bowing. "O-genki desu ka?" (How are you?)

Ryōji bows and withdraws a small gold key from one of the ten hooks behind him. "Okaeri nasai," he responds. (Welcome back.)

Welcome back, indeed. Harry quickly glances around and then places a heavy hand on Ryōji's shoulder, leaning in so no one else can hear him. In English, he murmurs, "We've got another one out back. Do you think you can get some men to handle it before sunrise? I'll have the money sent to you by next week."

The deep inhalation Ryōji takes always makes him nervous. A dreadful silence passes before he says, "Yes, sir. Any special instructions?"

Harry gives him a friendly pat on the arm and takes the key. "Just the usual. She already took care of the hard part."

"As you wish."

With that, Harry gratefully nods and then walks into the back area, where several red doors, some open and some closed, present themselves in a semi-circular fashion. Steering to the right, he throws his gum away and goes to the door with a black '七' on it.

Lucky number seven for a joyride in heaven.

The room is a perfect size, with curtains hanging over the walls for a more intimate experience. Two velvet couches are placed on either side, and a table with glasses and a bottle of an unknown alcoholic drink sits nearby. And, of course, a red light emits from the low ceiling.

Harry gets comfortable, tugging his pant legs and sitting on the plush couch. Precious time ticks by, the songs slowing into more sultry beats as he waits. He checks his diamond-encrusted wristwatch — it's half past midnight, yet he doesn't feel tired. Maybe it's the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Only the mysterious aura of Tokyo can bring him an electric charge like no other.

At last, Desiree struts into the room and daintily falls sideways into his lap. Her stripper name is Sakura, but her real name is used when she's alone with him. She jumps right in and holds his scruffy cheek, kissing all over his face as the red lipstick she wears stamps evidence on his flushed skin.

"I've missed you," she whispers in his ear.

Harry holds her waist and rolls his hips for some relief. "It's all my fault, isn't it? I've been so busy."

Desiree takes the key from him and quickly locks the door. When she returns, she straddles him and says, "You came back to me, though."

He nips her neck, short and tender. "I got your text message and flew straight here."

She grips his chin. "That message wasn't about seeing me."

Harry swallows thickly, his throat suddenly parched. "We don't need to talk about that right now," he murmurs.

"But it will be dealt with?" she asks, her eyebrows dipping with concern.

"Yes, my love."

"Okay." She gently passes her thumb over his eyelashes like they're pages of a well-loved book. "That's all I need to hear."

Harry distracts himself from the dangerous subject by twirling one of her braids around his pointer finger. "I like it when you wear your hair like this, Desi. So pretty."

"Yeah?"

"Mm-hmm. I've gone far too long without you."

She begins loosening his tie. "Tell me what you need."

Sifting through his brain, Harry contemplates his options. The club doesn't allow actual intercourse inside its perimeters, so there are limited, albeit creative, methods that are used. Desiree once told him that the strippers are given a manual of all the diverse ways they can please a customer. There was a specific one he heard her briefly mention in passing. At the time, he was too shy to ask for more details, so he went home and researched the term. Needless to say, it sounded worthwhile.

"Can I have the... red light special? Is that what it's called?"

Desiree smirks and remarks, "That's new. You've never asked for that before."

He blushes with a lackadaisical shrug. "Sorry. Being edged just sounds really fuckin' good right now."

"Why are you apologizing?" She pushes lightly on his chest so he can comfortably lean against the couch. "Relax. Let me take care of you."

Harry couldn't possibly argue, especially when she doesn't waste any time and starts with a green light. Gripping his shoulders, she smoothly rocks into his body with quick movements. His hands knead her ass, the bodysuit bestowing the perfect amount of skin for him to grab. The tension in his muscles alleviates as she applies pressure to his growing bulge, every perpetual grind making him harder by the minute. His eyes and neck roll back, and he forgets why he was ever stressed hours prior and instead succumbs to the satisfying ache she provides him.

"Oh, my God," Harry moans, spreading his legs further apart. "Fuck, Desi, you feel so good. I'm all yours."

She bites her bottom lip and moves her hips counterclockwise. The switch has Harry gritting his teeth. Shuddering, he opens his mouth and pathetically whimpers while running his hands up her clenched thighs. He feels hot — sweaty, sticky, and salaciously hot. He's burning in a blitz of fiery passion.

Yellow light is when Desiree slows down, still grinding swivels over his pelvis. The throbbing of his cock ceases, and the buildup disappears momentarily. Her back arches as she uses her height over him to palm him with her hand. Leisurely, she squeezes where the head of his cock is through his pants, and a sensitive tingle rushes down his spine as he bites down on his knuckles to suppress his pleading noises.

"Does that feel nice?" she asks, kissing his slack jaw.

Harry's face crumbles in submission. "I need to come. It feels so tight, I- I can't take it anymore."

Red light. He knows he asked for it, but when she stops moving and stands before him, he reaches for her absent touch. "No, come back. C'mon, please. Stop playing around."

She ignores him and kneels on the ground. With one finger, she trails it up his inner thigh until it reaches his covered cock. She fondles with the length of it, erotically squeezing in all the right places while looking at him with eyes of a rich brown color. He often dreams of her mouth puckered around it, wet lips and hollowed cheeks making him fall apart.

Suddenly, his tie is removed, and Desiree holds it up. "Are you ready?"

"I'm so close," Harry breathes out. Inhaling sharply through his nose, he adds, "You're so gorgeous, do you know that? Got me... shit, I'm absolutely aching for you."

She stuffs the tie in his mouth and finally straddles him again, riding his thighs to bring him to his peak. His moans are muffled against the fabric as she gives him a lap dance, her body rolling to the R&B music from the distant speakers.

It doesn't take long for Harry to come, a damp spot forming on his pants shortly after. Every part of his body feels light as he spits his tie out, breathing heavily. He really needed this.

"Ready to leave this place?" he asks, touching himself until he's soft and able to walk.

Desiree kisses him, her tongue delving into his mouth, before nodding. "Are you taking me on another joyride?"

Harry smirks and wipes off the lipstick stain she left on the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. "Full throttle, baby."

——

デザレイ

The first thing Desiree sees when rounding the corner of the alleyway is a parked Kawasaki motorcycle.

The rain has let up, only a light drizzle now falling from the starlit sky. People still pass by with umbrellas, minding their business. The lights outside are stimulating, with signs above casting fuchsia pink and Prussian blue hues over her and Harry's faces. The air reeks of gasoline and smoke, vehicles racing past to hop on the expressway. It's a city of nocturnal souls who get off on cheap thrills, and she couldn't help but get hooked on the appeal. Night crawling on a high-speed bike through the neon streets is the most thrilling adventure she can imagine.

Harry rents out a different motorcycle every time he visits. When they first met, he told her he owned a marketing firm in London, so he had the money to afford such luxuries. The first time he walked into the club, she thought he would be like everyone else — a drunk and lonesome man needing attention. However, he was actually a man of innocence who stumbled upon an underground scene he wasn't expecting. She saw the intrigue in his eyes and taught him how her world worked. She let him choose what he desired without taking advantage of him. She trusted his intentions and let him see every side of her, saintly or sinful.

Their journey leads to the eager way he's looking at her now, one gloved hand holding out a helmet and the other gripping the motorcycle's handlebar.

"Ladies first," he says with a playful smile.

Desiree tightens the belt on her blood-red leather coat and puts the helmet on. It rubs uncomfortably against her hair, but she's not one to place beauty above safety precautions. She then hikes a leg over the back seat, and Harry does the same motions while straddling the front seat and starting the engine. It rumbles to life when he squeezes the clutch, and he attractively revs the engine three times.

"All good?" Harry calls out behind him, using the back of his shoe to kick up the kickstand.

She wraps both arms around his waist and props her chin on his shoulder. "So good."

Reaching back to squeeze her thigh, he speeds into the fast lane. For the next twenty minutes, the brisk wind blows in her ears, and the feeling of flying overtakes her entire body. She spreads her arms, and Tokyo comes alive just for her, blurry colors whooshing past as they accelerate through traffic on the winding expressway. They ride out of the district and towards Marunouchi, where the Shangri-La Hotel is located. With five stars and eleven floors of pure splendor, it's the best place to have a late-night rendezvous.

When they eventually pull up to the hotel, a rectangular building made entirely of glass panes, Harry parks the motorcycle and kills the engine. Desiree carefully removes her helmet and fixes her hair the best she can. Her makeup feels tacky against her skin, but the cool air of an autumn night is refreshing. She looks over to see Harry do the same, his hair sticking up every which way. He sheepishly grins at her and rolls his eyes.

"Hurry up," Desiree says through chattering teeth. She bounces on her heels, feeling the ache travel from her ankles to the tips of her toes.

"All right, all right," Harry mumbles jokingly, holding his hand out. "I'll have a word with Raijin about the inadequate weather."

"Studying Japanese deities, are we?"

Interlocking her numb fingers with his, they head inside the lavish lobby and take the elevator to the seventh floor. The ride is quiet, and exhaustion finally catches up to them. After six beeps, a more prolonged one sounds, and the doors slide open. They walk down the narrow hallway to the back, where the suites are located. Harry swipes his key card and twists the door handle to go inside, Desiree following closely.

The suite is as tidy and stylish as one would expect from a businessman staying there. Two designer-brand suitcases are stacked in the corner by the running air conditioner. A housekeeper must have cleaned and organized his belongings. Crisp white sheets on the king bed look quintessential for bundling up in.

Desiree removes her heels and flops on the firm mattress. She blearily watches Harry open the mini fridge by the door, hearing the clink of beer bottles. Her assumption proves correct when one is thrown beside her, yet her body has no energy left to open the cap and drink the bitter liquid.

Harry takes off his suit jacket and button up, then sits against the headboard and spreads his legs on either side of her sprawled-out body. He takes a swig of beer, his jawline sharp and his throat bobbing. His bare torso, decorated with tattoos, looks like the perfect pillow, so Desiree shimmies upwards to lay her head on his abdomen. She listens to his subtle breathing.

"So, how'd you kill him?"

Well, that's one way to initiate a conversation. Desiree snaps her eyes to his, staring at him a little funny due to her position. "Katana," she answers casually. "Quick and easy."

He hums, sets his beer on the nightstand, and then delicately untangles her two front braids. "Made a mess, huh? Ryōji's men won't be too happy about that."

She fidgets with one of her loose acrylic nails. "They've dealt with worse cleanups."

She knew what she was getting into when she decided to work in Tokyo's Red Light District. There's no way to sugarcoat what goes down in the alleyways. It doesn't feel like a crime to her if she's getting rid of the bad guys. It's justified in her mind.

Harry moves his hands to undo her bigger braids. "I know," he says softly, "but it's getting riskier. And more expensive on my end."

Sighing, Desiree replies, "Asphyxiation is so boring, though. I like my swords."

"Desi, I'm serious." He tilts her head to look at her straight on. "It worries me when you do those types of killings, and I'm not here to handle the outcome. What if something were to go wrong?"

She frowns. "We're a team. You flew out to me without hesitation when I told you my plan."

"Yes, but you act on impulse sometimes," he says, putting her elastic ponytail around his wrist. "I can't always do that with my job. You're lucky I was available."

"So, you only came to help with the repercussions? Not to see me?"

"You know that's not true. If it was, I'd be on a plane back to London right now instead of spending the night with you in Tokyo."

"Just making sure," she says with a hidden undertone of insecurity.

Once all six braids are out, her hair frizzy and free, Desiree sits up and takes her suffocating coat off. Underneath, she has a more comfortable outfit that she changed into before leaving the club. She internally debates whether she wants to go through the hassle of taking everything off, but before she can thoroughly weigh her options, Harry reaches over to open the nightstand drawer, pulling out something crinkly.

"I, uh, bought some makeup wipes," he explains while fidgeting with the package. "I didn't know what brand you use, but it's coconut, and I know you like coconut rum. There's no correlation, but it's the thought that counts, right?"

Desiree is speechless for a moment. This is the first time he's done something like that. "Th-thanks. Can you help me take it off?" she suggests quietly.

"'Course. Scoot over."

She takes one side of the bed and sits cross-legged in front of Harry as he plucks a wipe. He folds it into a compact square four times and then hovers it over her face. His gaze wanders a bit before he starts gently swiping under her eyes.

He speaks up again once the air conditioner clicks off. "Can I ask, pray tell, why you killed him?"

Desiree breathes out a laugh. "Funny," she says as he scrubs the pigmented blush off her cheeks. "I remember when you couldn't even stomach asking me that question. Now you do all the dirty side work."

Harry shrugs. "You're a bad influence."

Sage advice from two people who dabble in reincarnating as a more sadistic Bonnie and Clyde: It's remarkably more fun to have a loyal partner in crime than to be a lone outlaw.

"Let's see," she muses with a dramatic flair. "His name was... fuck if I know. All I was told was that he was a gang member who lured young girls in and brainwashed them into committing crimes around Shinjuku for money worth jack squat."

"Jesus. What about the other gang members?" he asks, wiping her smeared lipstick off.

"I'm not too worried about them. They would never suspect a stripper at Joyride killed one of their own. They'll probably assume it was another gang's doing."

"That's a relief." Harry yawns and tosses the dirtied makeup wipe into the nearby garbage. "All right, I've had enough of killer talk. Shall we get some sleep?"

Desiree grins tiredly and touches the smoothness of her bare face. "We shall. My body aches."

Stripping takes a toll on her joints and muscles, especially since she incorporates performance art into her dancing. Untreated strains and torn ligaments have been left in the past due to years of training, but residual pain still lingers each night when she steps off the stage.

Once they're comfortable under the sheets, Desiree curls into Harry's warm chest. "When do I have you until?" she asks reluctantly.

He wraps an arm over her back and says, "Tomorrow night."

She recounts all the times he's had to catch a red-eye flight immediately after they would arrive at the hotel. Tonight, she's lucky she gets him a little longer than usual.

"It's better than nothing."

Harry scrunches her hair and leaves a long kiss on her temple. "You can always come back to Europe with me," he murmurs. The scent of beer wafting in his breath is mouth-watering.

Desiree shakes her head solemnly. "I can't. I belong here."

"I understand." She feels him smile before kissing her head once more. "A cherry blossom should stay in Japan, right?"

"Very clever." She closes her eyes. There's an elongated pause of internal reflection before she continues. "Listen, I don't want you to feel trapped. I don't want you to feel like I'm using you."

Harry rubs the sore muscles around her shoulder blades. "I don't feel that way. I chose to get involved with how you live your life. If I'm being honest, I quite enjoy the danger of it."

It's easy for him to say when he only has to deal with the business side of it. A pipeline of recruitment occurred where Shyla loosely hired Harry to hire men who would dispose of the dead bodies she threw in the dumpster behind the club. No one dares to roam that haunted alleyway, which makes it the most adequate place to safely hide a killing. Then, he pays them handsomely in cash for successfully completing the treacherous deed.

Desiree cups his cheek and whispers, "Please... just tell me if it ever gets too much and you want out. I'll find someone else."

"It's never too much when your intentions are good."

It's not enough. His safety is her top priority.

"Tell me to stop, and I will," she says sternly. "Give me the red light, and I'll go to Europe with you. You can show me Buckingham Palace and that stupid clock—"

"Desi," Harry interrupts with a thumb against her parted lips. "I will tell you if it gets to that point, okay?"

She takes his large hand and holds onto it like it's the last time she'll ever touch his skin. "Promise me."

"Yakusoku." (Promise.)

His spoken oath doesn't mend the problem she has with herself. There's a constant battle whenever she thinks too deeply about what she participates in. She questions whether it was a mistake getting involved in cover-up assassinations and bringing Harry into it. He used to be innocent. Someone who discovered the darker side of Tokyo and is now stuck in the whirlwind of her immoral faults. Did she make him into a brand-new person? A monster? One that knows her crimes and prevents them from becoming exposed?

Is it wrong that she fell for him in the process?

She can never tell him. No, that would complicate things beyond the boundary lines she drew for herself long before she met him. There are too many risks when feelings are a factor — risks of turning on each other if there are relationship issues. Then there's the plain and straightforward risk of barely seeing each other in person. It's all too poisonous of a pool to dip her feet into. Her guard is up, and it's not coming down for anything or anyone.

However, as Desiree drifts into a dreamland, she realizes her guard is lower whenever Harry is around. With his fingers soothingly scratching up and down her aching spine, she doesn't feel the uncertainty that always clouds her mind when he's not beside her. It clears when she awakes to the smell of brewing coffee and room service breakfast on a cart before she can even open her eyes. It gnaws at her boarded-up heart until the pieces chip away. What's left is a vulnerable girl who seeks refuge but can't leave a place of fortune and frisson. She's a moon in broad daylight.

Does she want to be saved? Or does the red light call her name for a reason?

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles x oc #harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry styles #adore-laur #joyride

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gglitch1dd · 2 years

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I ADORE YOUR DEKU CONTENT BRO AND I HAD THIS IDEA IMAGINE VILLAIN DEKU CRUSHING/BEING IN A RELATIONSHIP W A MODEL READER HOW DO YOU THINK HE WOULD ACT !!! I COULD SEE HIM AS SUPER

POSSESSIVE BUT VERY SUPPORTIVE TOO🤍🤍

Well, first off thank you for loving my content so much!! I'm so glad that you love it so much. In all honesty, I wasn't going to respond to this because I REALLY don't want any requests right now, but I thought why not do these ones any ways. I've got some time. So I hope you like it.

Warning: Hinted stalking, breaking an entering.

Now Midoriya is an elite villain. He's a villain... but he has his ways of making it into top level society. One particular evening, he went to a runway show. He stood around with others who weren't either too terrified to go up to him or were sucking up to him.

It was a good night, warm, and he had a suit on to match him perfectly. With a glass of champagne in hand he mingled with others. However what really caught his gaze was you, walking down the runway with such confidence and grace.

You had him absolutely blown away. You instantly shattered his thoughts and consumed his being as if it was as easy as breathing.

And from the moment he saw you, it was the moment he knew he had to have you.

When you had gone back stage, back in your more normal and comfortable clothing away from all the bright lights, judging stares and flashing lights you sighed in relief at being away from it all. You loved your job. You really did. And you were good at it too. But often then not it could get overwhelming for you.

Ready to leave, you packed up your stuff and you left. It was a chilled night, perfect to walk back to your apartment. So with your jacket on, you exited the event, not noticing the pair of green hypnotizing eyes that were latched on to you.

When you entered your apartment, lights off and the smell of home flooding your nose, that's when you were truly glad to be back home. You locked your door and headed towards your room to change into some comfortable pajamas and head to bed.

"You looked amazing tonight."

"OH GOD." You jumped as you turned your head to your kitchen.

Sitting on your kitchen counter, a glass of apple juice in hand was Midoriya. His eyes were the brightest thing in the room. Green eyes, luring you in like that of the richest and most deceiving of poisons. Your blood went cold when you realized you knew him. Anyone with access to the news would know of the top ranking villain in Japan.

Deku.

Midoriya saw the realization in your eyes and found it intoxicating. He smirked as he tilted his head. He pushed himself off the counter, putting down the glass on the table. Your breathing increased. Before you could even think of running, he was already in front of you, blocking your way down the hall. His hands now sat in his pockets as he looked down at you.

"W-what..." Your voice was stuttery. In truth, you were afraid of him. Of course you were afraid of him. There was a villain in your home and you didn't know how he got there nor what he wanted. "What do you want from me?" You asked hesitantly. "I don't have much money on me and I don't know anyone affiliated with you. I'm sorry if I've upset you in any sort of way... sir."

He found you amusing. He chuckled softly, almost more of a light giggle than a chuckle. "There's nothing tangible you can give me that I can't take for myself, dumpling... However, I do want one thing from you." He told you. You nodded your head eagerly, ready to give him anything he wanted. "Your time."

For a moment you just stared at him confused. You tilted your head lost.

Midoriya turned his body away from you, walking to the windows of your apartment to look down at the street below. The room was still shrouded in darkness but at least now you could see more of his features. You noticed the dark freckles on his face as dim light from outside shone on his face. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows allowing you to see his muscular yet scarred arms.

He then turned back to look at you. "Your time." He gave you a soft smile, that you dare call cute. It gave him a sort of boyish charm. "Allow me to take you on a date. Just one."

You hesitated, looking around, expecting this to be some sort of prank of some sort. "You... You want a date... with me?" You pointed to yourself. He nodded with a smile on his face, the most sincere expression you could ever think possible plastered on his face. You hesitated. "Will you leave me alone if allow you to?"

He nodded his head. "Yep." He raised one finger. "Just one. One small date and I'll leave you alone. Unless you want another one." He looked around your apartment before looking back at you.

You didn't really have much of a choice now did you?

Now Midoriya isn't a bad partner. He was an amazing partner. Always caring for your needs, providing for you and caring for you in a way that made you feel as though you never knew love existed before him. He supported you in anything and everything you did (as long as it was good for you and wasn't causing you harm that is).

But there was one thing that he was rather two face about and that was your job as a model.

Now he loved your modelling career and wanted to support you so much in it too, but the only issue was that if he saw how beautiful you were, of course others saw it too. Which made him incredibly possessive over you.

Any meeting he had with his group and you would be in attendance, he would have you seated on his lap like it was the most natural place to be in the world. A single glance at you the wrong way would have someone's neck being wrapped around by blackwhip and a death glare from Midoriya. That or a knife in their skull. It really all depended on whether he felt like being merciful or not.

Anywhere you went you were always with him. Him or Shoto if he was busy. It wasn't that he didn't trust you, or that he didn't believe in you in protecting yourself.

He always believed in you.

He just didn't believe in the fuckers that eye-fucked you without your consent. So you have no need to fear. With Midoriya as your boyfriend there was never a dull moment.

Or a moment where he didn't have his arms wrapped around you. Because as a villains prize, how could he ever let you go?

#izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #mha x y/n #yandere deku x reader #yandere #yandere deku #yandere bnha #yandere izuku x reader #yandere izuku midoriya #villain izuku x reader #villain deku x reader #villain izuku #mha #villain izuku midoriya #villain deku

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toxinellebug · 3 months

Text

Shadybug’s Taste of Revenge- A Menu of Miraculous Misuse

What was that old saying about revenge and a cold dish?

That sounded too much like a single serving.

After YEARS of torture, Marinette Dupain-Cheng was planning on serving Chloe Bourgeois an entire buffet!

Thanks to The Supreme’s generous gift, she was finally able to put the meal plan in motion.

That evil, selfish, racist brat would FINALLY get what’s coming to her, and Marinette would savor every moment…

After receiving her Miraculous, kwami servant, and a tablet listing rules she needed to follow,

(See this post here) Marinette had spent the days of her weekend compiling a list of everything Chloe had ever done, and how she wanted to pay her back.

She spent the nights testing her transformation and the abilities that came with it:

Standing still, she didn’t really feel any different. But as she moved, she noticed her body felt lighter, took far less effort for motion, and required little stamina.

Having a room with roof access made sneaking out easy. Still, she had to really hype herself up to make that first jump.

But it was worth it!

Parkour was as simple as a video-game; as if the suit could somehow sense what she wanted to do- leaping from roof to roof was a piece of cake, there wasn’t even any strain on her muscles. It was insane how fast she could run without feeling out of breath. Plus, for the first time in her life, instead of being a klutz who could trip over air, she was nimble and sure-footed as anyone in Les championnats de France Elite de gymnastique!

The Yo-yo had been trickier to get the hang of; she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t disappointed- The Supreme, most powerful force on earth, gives her magic earring that grant her super-human strength and agility… and a yo-yo? Based on its use, a grappling hook would’ve made more sense.

Maybe The Supreme had a weird aesthetic?

Whatever.

The Lucky Charm feature was far more interesting…

The first time she summoned it, it granted her a small, red and black polka-dotted, hand-held device with a green screen showing a grid map of Paris, and dozens of blinking dots that seemed to move around the arrondissements in a pattern.

After zooming in to look at specific streets it clicked in… This was radar. It was showing her the real-time Enforcer patrol routes!

Being caught outside of your residence after curfew was a serious violation for all citizens.

Enforcers diligently policed the city-keeping an eye out for deviants, vandals, and other would-be criminals who would dare leave their homes after dark.

In the list of rules The Supreme had sent her, it was made clear that she was NOT to be seen.

Rooftop travel would make it easy to avoid most of them, but if she wanted to scope out the layout and security features of both the school and the Grand Paris Hotel, it would be better to do so after Enforcers had already passed those areas, and leave before they came back.

The Hotel had pretty tight security, and not knowing to limits of her Lucky Charm, she decided the School was the best option to start, at least until she was more proficient with her powers.

———————

That 2nd week of school is dedicated to research and spying, and by Thursday, Marinette has a better grasp of Chloe’s schedule than her underling, Sabrina.

(C’mon, if Marinette in the Prime universe can have a pull down chart in her room with the schedule of the boy she likes- a boy who has a bodyguard and an overprotective father- then emoMarinette could easily figure out the schedules of people she hates.)

Friday morning she is up before dawn; she needs to get to school before it opens to put her plan in motion, then back home again in time to “wake-up” as Marinette to avoid raising suspicions.

(She does not have a super-villain name yet, since she believes no one will see her or talk to her, why would she need to give her transformed look a name?)

Transforming and swinging from rooftop to rooftop with her yo-yo means she can get to the school in less than 3 minutes.

Just in time; Custodian M. Haprèle has just arrived and is making his rounds to get Francois Dupont ready before the rest of the faculty arrives.

Avoiding a single man is easier than trying to sneak past several teachers and students.

She waits until he exits the door leading to the boiler room, his first task of the day- she knows that now he will go to unlock each room, turn on the lights and radiators, before he does a sweep of the main courtyard.

Being a private school, those tasks won’t take long, so she knows she must move quickly.

Even though M. Haprèle is unlikely to return to the boiler room until his routine inspection at the end of the day, she can’t risk being noticed leaving the room if he happens to be passing by.

The stairs lead to an eerie hallway that is thankfully lit, but only just so.

Her heart races when she spots the aqua glow of her prize; the school boiler.

Responsible for heating not only water, but regulating the temperature of every classroom.

It was like a big pressure-cooker, and she would use it to prepare the apéritifs of her revenge.

Pulling up her yo-yo and activating the smartphone feature (which was odd because who would she even call??) she did a quick internet image search for comparison in order to identify the expansion tank and the pressure valve.

Summoning her Lucky Charm gave her a red and black polka-dotted pipe-wrench.

Normal Marinette was weak, but with the strength her transformation gave her, she was able to turn the filling loop all the way on, and shut the pressure release valve off, and twist it impossibly tight.

She couldn’t help her self-satisfactory smirk; she’d just turned the school’s heating system into a ticking time bomb.

Step one was complete. Now to go home so Marinette could get ready for a very exciting day of school.

——————————-

It is in the middle of second class when it happens…

The classroom radiator whistles and hisses violently, releasing scalding hot steam into the room that fogs Mme. Mendeleiev’s glasses.

Shrieks can be heard from nearby classrooms, but they are soon drowned out by what could be mistaken as a crash of thunder.

Directeur Damocles activates the intercom system and orders to evacuate all students immediately!

Despite teachers insisting that everyone remain calm and to leave in an orderly fashion, there is panic; sobbing over steam burns, anxious questions over what’s happening, students shoving to get through the door first, either out of fear or excitement to get out of class, and over all the din there is a distinct banshee wail of a certain blonde threatening to have her daddy sue the school over what the burst of steam has done to her hair!

…No one notices Marinette slipping away to the locker room.

Confident she is alone, she transforms.

She knows she has to act quickly, so she starts with the easiest target; Sabrina Raincomprix’ locker.

C’est du gâteau! Sabrina is completely brainwashed into being Chloe’s slave, so naturally her locker combination is that witch’s birthdate.

(A day EVERYONE knows by heart since every year Chloe makes a big spectacle of bragging how amazing her party will be since she is so rich.

Naturally, anyone foolish enough to ask if they could be invited was laughed at and insulted for having such audacity.)

Chloe Bourgeois had never done her own homework in her life. That’s what underlings were for…

In Sabrina’s locker sat an entire weeks worth of homework for both her and Chloe, including a science report they needed to present to Mme. Mendeleiev- the most unforgiving teacher in school- and it was all due TODAY.

There was no time for Sabrina to re-do all of it for herself, let alone a separate, slightly different set for Chloe.

Not only would the teachers be upset over so much missing work, but even an airhead like Mme. Bustier would have to be a little suspicious that both girls claim to have lost all their homework.

How many times had Marinette’s grades suffered because those two stole her notes, vandalized her locker and its contents, or dropped her textbook into a toilet?

How many times did the teachers blame her for not paying attention in class, forgetting to do her work, or just being a total klutz because anytime she tried to tell them who was really at fault, it was always her word against Chloe and Sabrina’s?

How many times did everyone decide that Marinette’s word meant nothing?

There was no time to count.

Marinette had one more fish she wanted to frire for this course; Lê Chiến Kim.

Summoning her Lucky Charm this time got her a red and black polka-dotted stethoscope.

It had to be magic. That was the only way she could explain being able to use it to crack the combination on Kim’s locker even quicker than what Marinette had seen in movies.

The school swim team had a meet after school today, and Kim was prepared with all his gear in his locker, including his goggles which just so happened to have his name printed on the waterproof label on the strap.

The only thing Kim loved more than swimming was practical jokes.

Let’s see who will have the last laugh~

———————————

Directeur Damocles is NOT happy.

He’d had to call in both the Enforcers AND the Fire Department, and the school budget was going to suffer a major cut in order to pay for it.

(Remember, under The Supreme there is no socialism, so receiving any kind of service from the Fire Department or law enforcement will cost you, as mentioned here.)

The Boiler had over-pressurized and exploded.

Not only would it have to be replaced, but there was sure to be a lawsuit or two from the angry parents of students who had been unfortunate enough to be seated close to their classroom’s radiator.

Thankfully, any burns were superficial at worst, and after some quick first aid, Captain Hessenpy had assured them that a simple store bought ointment would be enough and redness would fade in a couple days.

Though that assurance would probably do little to appease the ire of some parents.

The drawbacks of being principal of a private school were undoubtedly all related to the students’ parents.

Everyone enrolled came from a family that was well off, and a good deal even had family’s with a degree of influence.

Even worse, nearly every student’s parents believed their child deserved only the very best, which is why they enrolled in Collège Françoise Dupont in the first place.

As such, an incident as large as this was unacceptable.

People would demand answers and for someone to be held responsible… Which could lead to the school being shut down!

Never mind losing his job, at this rate, Denis Damoclés would never find work in the field of education again!!

What if he was arrested for gross negligence? What if the debt for property damage and personal lawsuits was so overwhelming he had to spend the rest of his life in a penitentiary labor camp to work it off?!

No, this wasn’t his fault…

Fred Haprèle; HE was Gardien d'école!

It was HIS job to inspect the boiler before and after school.

If anyone should be held accountable for this disaster, it was him.

M. Damocles interrogates M. Haprèle without mercy; He checked the Boiler room this morning and everything was fine? HA! A likely story! As if he’d believe-

But he is interrupted by Enforcer Raincomprix;

After some investigation, a suspicious item was discovered at the scene of the explosion.

A pair of swimming goggles.

——————

What a beautiful day.

The kind of day that left you feeling nostalgic;

Marinette remembers that day last year all too clearly…

She had mustered all the courage she could wring out of her tiny body to ask Kim out.

She steeled herself for rejection.

She wouldn’t blame him- she was the biggest loser in school.

She expected him to say “hard pass”.

She hoped he would turn her down gently.

She thought he’d think it was a joke.

She never dreamed he’d say “yes”.

But he did, and she was on cloud nine!

On the bus she couldn’t help but imagine all the dates they would go on once the school year was over.

In her head, she was already designing the gift she would make for Kim’s next Birthday, and the gift she would make him for Valentine’s day, for Christmas, for his next next Birthday…

Not that she didn’t still have some jitters- there was always the chance that Kim would change his mind and she would be stood up. Or maybe he never intended to show up in the first place but had felt too awkward and put on the spot to say “no” to her face??

But all that anxiety melted away when she arrived at the pool and Kim was waiting for her with a smile.

They’d had so much fun! The most fun she’d had in a long time.

They played pool games, and Kim showed off his dives and made her laugh.

Marinette felt so comfortable with him.

He was so nice… In fact, he was the only one who’d ever been nice to her.

It seemed so perfect, she’d been so happy that she couldn’t help herself-

She let the words slip out;

“Je t'aime.”

Those words came back to bite her in the form of dozens of spiders, crawling up her arms, her shoulders, her neck, even down inside her swimsuit, and they were actually biting her!!

She screamed and flailed about, hopping like some kind of panicked chicken, swatting madly at her limbs and torso while Kim laughed hysterically, before she fell backwards into the pool.

Even as she sputtered and swallowed a mouthful of chlorinated pool water, she still instinctively clawed at her own body, still feeling dozens of tiny, itchy, little legs crawling all over her.

When she finally came up for air, Kim was still laughing, and he wasn’t alone- Chloe and Sabrina were there, snickering and recording the whole thing.

All Marinette could do was crawl out of the pool like a wounded animal and scurry away to the changing rooms to pray the earth would split open and swallow her up.

It didn’t.

Chloe posted the video online, and by the time Marinette managed to get home, it had already gone viral.

The last two weeks of school were filled with new nasty names and insults, there was even a contest where boys tried to see who could do the best impersonation of her freak-out.

Someone took the original video and made a remix, complete with clownish sound effects.

She was a walking meme.

She cried herself to sleep every night, wishing that she had drowned in that pool.

Not that anyone would care, but with enough bad press, they’d have to at least pretend like they were sorry.

Which is why Marinette wasn’t sorry at all when M. Damocles expelled Kim in front of the entire school.

The moment Enforcer Raincomprix read aloud the name on the strap of those goggles, students began to whisper.

Kim was well known for stupid dares and obnoxious pranks.

As far as everyone was concerned, the evidence was incriminating enough to justify M. Damocles decision and have Enforcers escort Kim off school grounds.

Whether it was enough to have Kim sent to maison de correction and have his family foot the bill for property damages, who could say?

It didn’t matter if it was enough to convict him or not; the accusation alone would tarnish his reputation forever.

Forget getting accepted into a University, no job would be willing to hire him, considering how many kids had important families who loved to gossip.

Kim would have to move to another city, maybe even another country!

(Marinette also couldn’t help but notice that a few of the students complaining of burns were the same who gave her particularly nasty nicknames last year, including “water-phobic retard.” That had to be the power of the Lucky Charm, right?)

It was savory and satisfying.

But Lê Chiến Kim was nothing more than a hors d'oeuvres, and Marinette was far from feeling full.

With Kim out of the way, she could now devote her time and extra care to people who really mattered.

Speaking of which….

Despite needing to get back home to run the register at the Bakery, Marinette was willing to risk her mother’s lecture in order to hang back after school to catch a lovely show-

After determining the premises was safe, students were allowed to return to classes, and the fruits of Marinette’s labor paid off.

Now, Chloe was screaming at Sabrina, actually smacking the ginger haired girl’s head with her designer purse, and accusing her of being useless, utterly useless!

Not only was Mme. Mendeleiev unwilling to extend the deadline for the science report, she was planning to call their parents to let them know their daughters have been slacking off in school.

AND IT WAS ALL SABRINA’S FAULT! How could she forget to bring their homework?! Why does she even bother to keep her around?!

(Mme. Bustier was also very disappointed, and concerned that both girls somehow forgot an entire week of homework. She is willing to extend her deadlines, but she will have to deduct points away from their grade for being tardy.)

Sabrina insists she didn’t forget! She had everything done and ready to be turned in! She had it all in her locker this morning!

Chloe isn’t interested in excuses, and says that if Sabrina is going to be this incompetent, she can easily be replaced.

This leaves the other girl sobbing, begging on her knees for another chance, swearing she’ll do better!

Yes, this was what would make it all worth it, and it was only the beginning!

These two had done far too much for their punishment to be a one-and-done.

They deserved to suffer slowly, steadily, having their misery increase little by little until they were the ones crying till their eyes were swollen shut, wishing they were dead.

The very thought made Marinette’s mouth water.

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