julz

"It's Not Like Anyone's 100% Straight Or 100% Gay." - Maddie Perez

[julzrulz-191]

about me...

my name is julz, my real name is julianna. she/her. brunette. esfp. capricorn. xix. gryffindor. cabin 10. I ♡ cats. extroverted. 90s enthusiast. pogue. antler queen. upper east side. final girl.

fandoms...

(stuff I will write for:) outer banks, stranger things, yellowjackets, tlou, arcane. any more if I remember, if you have any questions, just ask!

bot making

socials

requests┊open!

questions┊open!

[julzrulz-191]

GO SUPPORT MY OTHER ACC WHERE I MAKE ICONSSSS https://www.tumblr.com/julzmakesicons

[julzrulz-191]

srry guys im moving into my first apartment and life has been busy ill update sometime this week tho

[song-of-the-day-16]

"Day 2 today's song is Be Like a Woman" by Chris Rainbow

[julzrulz-191]

MY FAV SONG EVERRRRRRRRR

[julzrulz-191]

holy shit i keep getting FOMO every time i see someone playing tomodachi life on tiktok, i might just buy a Nintendo

[julzrulz-191]

Requests/questions are open if anybody has any!

[julzrulz-191]

PART 2 - JACKIE

𝐒ummery: The following day at Wiskayok High School, Jackie notices the lingering intimacy between the reader and Natalie from the previous day. Driven by jealousy and a need to assert her role in the throuple, Jackie corners the reader in a janitor's closet. 

𝐏airing: jealous!jackie x fem!reader

𝐖arnings:

Dubious Consent (Dubcon) (Aggressive cornering, lack of verbal agreement before sexual acts begin)

F/F/F Throuple Themes (Jealousy, boundary testing, and territorial behavior)

Rough & Possessive Sexual Content (School setting, high-risk environment)

Aggressive Oral Sex (Heavy, direct stimulation)

Anal Play & Penetration (Strap-on use, significant stretching, anal fingering/licking)

Impact Play (Hard spanking, resulting in stinging and marking)

Explicit Language (Clit, Ass, Asshole, Cum, Strap)

Overstimulation & Edging Elements

BASED OFF OF

The fluorescent lights of Wiskayok High School are practically giving you a headache, but the real tension is walking right next to you down the hallway. Jackie is in her full Yellowjackets varsity jacket, her hair perfectly coiffed, but there is a dangerous, sharp edge to the way her heels click against the linoleum. She doesn't even look at you as you walk past the rows of lockers, but you can feel her eyes burning into the side of your face.

She knows.

Jackie has an almost supernatural radar when it comes to you, and the second she saw you and Natalie standing near each other by the gym doors, she picked up on the shift. She saw the slightly dark circles under your eyes, the faint, hidden bruise near your collarbone that Natalie left behind, and the smug, quiet satisfaction radiating off Scatorccio. It’s driving her insane. Jackie prides herself on being the queen of this dynamic, and the realization that she was left out of the loop yesterday has her blood boiling.

Before you can even open your mouth to say good morning, Jackie’s hand wraps around your wrist. Her grip is tight—not enough to bruise, but firm enough to leave absolutely no room for argument.

"With me," she mutters, her voice a sweet, dangerous purr that promises trouble.

She yanks you sideways, turning a sharp corner and dragging you straight into the dark, cramped confines of the janitor's closet before anyone in the crowded hallway can notice. She slams the heavy wooden door shut behind you, the click of the lock echoing in the small space. The closet smells like industrial pine cleaner and old floor wax, but the second Jackie steps into your space, she completely overrides it. She smells like expensive vanilla perfume and pure, unadulterated jealousy.

She shoves you back against a shelf of stacked towels, pinning you there with her body. Her eyes are narrowed, a stormy, furious brown as she stares down at you.

"You smell like her," Jackie whispers, her voice shaking slightly with rage as she grabs the lapels of your shirt. "Don't even try to lie to me. You let Natalie have you yesterday, didn't you? Without me. You just... forgot all about me."

She doesn't wait for your explanation. She’s too angry, too desperate to reclaim what’s hers. Jackie leans in and crashes her lips against yours, her mouth hot and punishing. It’s completely different from Natalie’s chaotic roughness; Jackie’s kiss is calculated, possessive, and dripping with a demand for submission. She bites your lower lip just hard enough to make you gasp, using the opportunity to slide her tongue deep into your mouth, claiming you with a fierce, frantic energy that says she’s going to make you forget yesterday ever happened.

Jackie’s hands slide down from your collar, her fingers digging into your waist with a bruising grip that pins you ruthlessly against the metal shelving. The clatter of mops and buckets echoes in the tight space, but she doesn't care. She breaks the kiss just long enough to look down at you, her chest heaving, her perfectly glossed lips parted as she takes in your flushed face and swollen lips.

"She doesn't get to have you all to herself," Jackie property growls, her voice a sharp, venomous whisper that leaves no room for negotiation. "You belong to both of us. But today, you're going to remember exactly who does it better."

You try to mutter an excuse, a plea about the warning bell that’s bound to ring any second, but Jackie cuts you off by shoving her hand down the front of your skirt. She doesn't ask. She bypasses your underwear with a rough, impatient hook of her fingers, finding you already damp and sensitive from the sheer adrenaline of getting caught.

"Look at you," Jackie taunts, a dark, jealous smirk flashing across her face even as her eyes burn with insecurity. "You're already slick. Is this from thinking about her, or are you just scared of what I'm going to do to you?"

Before you can answer, she drops heavily to her knees.

The floor of the janitor's closet is cold and dirty, but Jackie doesn't hesitate. She grips your thighs, her manicured nails digging deep into your skin to yank your legs wide apart. She buries her face straight between your thighs, her mouth hot and ravenous as she crashes onto your clit.

It’s an aggressive, punishing assault. Jackie isn't trying to ease you into it; she’s eating you out with a fierce, desperate hunger born of pure jealousy. Her tongue is stiff and flat, lapping at you with heavy, upward strokes that grind relentlessly against your sensitive nub. She sucks your entire clit into her mouth, creating a tight, dragging vacuum that makes your knees buckle. If she weren't holding your thighs so tightly, pinning you against the shelves, you would have collapsed onto the floor.

"Jackie, please, someone's gonna hear—" you gasp out, your fingers tangling in her perfectly styled hair, trying to pull her back, but she only uses the grip to anchor herself deeper against you.

She lets out a muffled, defiant hum against your wet skin, her tongue flicking faster, ruthlessly driving you toward the edge. She wants to mark you. She wants to hear you scream her name in the middle of the school day, completely indifferent to the risk, just to prove to herself—and to Natalie—that she still holds the ultimate power over your body. She uses her teeth, grazing the engorged skin just enough to make you sob, forcing a raw, overstimulated ache through your hips as she commands your submission with every wet, heavy stroke of her mouth.

Jackie breaks away from your wet skin with a heavy, breathless gasp, her face flushed and her lipstick completely ruined. She looks up at you from the floor, her eyes dark and frantic with a volatile mix of fury and desire. She isn't done punishing you—not by a long shot.

Before you can even catch your breath, she stands up and grabs you by the waist, using her full weight to rip you away from the shelves. She spins you around with a rough, uncompromising jerk, slamming your chest and palms flat against the cold, industrial tile of the closet wall.

"Lean into it," she commands, her voice a sharp, breathless snap near your ear. She grabs your hips, violently arching your back and tilting your pelvis upward, forcing you into a completely vulnerable, exposed position.

The cold wall shocks your skin, but the heat coming from Jackie behind you is suffocating. Without a second of warning, she brings her open palm down across your bare ass cheek with a loud, resounding CRACK that echoes off the concrete walls. The sharp, stinging heat explodes across your skin, making you let out a high, startled cry that she immediately smothers by pressing her forearm against your upper back, pinning you flat.

"That's for yesterday," Jackie whispers venomously, her breath hot against your neck before she delivers another heavy, stinging spank to the opposite cheek. "You don't get to slide out from under me and think there aren't consequences."

Your skin is burning, glowing a bright, furious red in the dim light, but Jackie doesn't give you time to process the sting. She drops back down to her knees behind you, her hands gripping the undersides of your cheeks to pull you open.

Without a shred of hesitation, she buries her face straight into the crease of your seat, her wet, flat tongue driving directly against your asshole.

A completely different kind of shock paralyzes your body. It’s a deep, incredibly taboo sensation that has you whimpering into the drywall, your fingers clawing desperately at the smooth tile for purchase. Jackie is ruthless, using her tongue with a heavy, swirling pressure that probes the tight, sensitive ring over and over again. She isn't being gentle; she’s claiming every single inch of you, marking the places Natalie didn't touch, asserting her dominance with a messy, wet intensity.

Every flick of her tongue against your ass sends a frantic, electric jolt straight to your already throbbing clit. She pairs the wet, driving pressure of her mouth with occasional, hard slaps to your thighs, keeping your nerves entirely fried between the sharp sting of her hands and the deep, overstimulating heat of her tongue. You're shaking violently, trapped between the wall and the sheer, unbridled jealousy of a girl determined to make you her absolute captive.

Jackie’s breath is coming in short, ragged pants against the back of your thighs as she finally pulls her mouth away. You’re trembling against the cold tile, your skin burning from the slaps and slick from her tongue, completely undone. But she isn't even close to finished with you.

"Look at me," she commands, her voice thick and commanding as she stands up behind you.

She reaches down to the waistband of her pleated Wiskayok skirt, unzipping it with a sharp zip that sounds like a gavel dropping in the quiet closet. She shoves the fabric down along with her panties, letting them pool around her ankles. When she presses back up against your backside, the texture against your skin isn't smooth thigh—it’s the heavy, cold weight of a big, thick strap-on, already slicked with a heavy layer of lube she must have prepared the moment she decided to corner you.

The sheer size of it presses right against the crease of your thighs, a blunt, uncompromising promise. Jackie grips your hips with both hands, her manicured nails digging deep into your flesh to anchor you flat against the wall.

"You thought Natalie could give you everything you need?" Jackie whispers, her voice a dangerous, possessive purr right against your ear. "She doesn't know how to take care of you like I do. She doesn't own you."

Without giving you a second to brace yourself, Jackie aligns the thick head of the shaft against your throbbing, freshly prepped asshole and plunges forward.

The sudden, massive stretch forces a loud, shattered scream from your throat, your forehead slamming against the tile wall as your body tries to reject the fullness. It feels absolute, a heavy, blunt intrusion that opens you up completely, stretching the tight walls of your anus to their absolute limit. Jackie doesn't wait for you to adjust to the ache. Fueled by pure, unadulterated jealousy, she immediately begins to fuck you against the wall with a brutal, driving rhythm.

The sound of her hips slapping against your bruised ass cheeks fills the tight closet, a frantic, messy rhythm that matches the wild beating of your heart. Every time she drives her weight forward, the thick strap hits your internal wall, sending a white-hot jolt of overstimulating pleasure-pain straight to your brain. You’re clawing at the smooth tile, your boots slipping on the floor as she ruthlessly pins you, using her forearm against your upper back to keep you from escaping the depth of her thrusts.

"Say my name," Jackie gasps out, her breath hot and ragged against your neck as she jacks her hips harder, the pace turning frantic. "Tell me who owns you. Tell me it's me, not her."

She’s relentless, her strokes long and deep, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in to the hilt. The friction is intense, creating a liquid heat inside you that has your vision swimming with static. You’re completely trapped between the cold, unyielding wall and the furious, possessive heat of Jackie’s body, entirely at the mercy of her need to prove she’s the only one who can make you lose your mind.

Jackie’s pace is relentless, her hips driving the thick shaft into you with a brutal, single-minded focus that leaves you completely breathless. She can feel the way your internal walls are tightening, the frantic clenching of your ass telegraphing that you are right on the verge of splintering into pieces.

"You're so close, aren't you?" Jackie pants, her voice thick with a triumphant, possessive heat. "Good. Look what I did to you."

To drive you completely over the edge, she frees one hand from your hip and brings her open palm down across your burning, red-hot skin in a series of heavy, rapid spanks. The loud CRACK-CRACK-CRACK echoes off the concrete walls, the sharp, stinging pain mixing with the absolute fullness inside you until your brain completely short-circuits.

The pain-pleasure overload is too much. You let out a shattered, high-pitched wail into the drywall as your body completely gives out and you cum. Your vision goes white as a violent, uncontrollable climax rips through you, your internal muscles seizing and pulsing in tight, desperate waves around the thick plastic.

The very second she feels the first tightening pulse of your release, Jackie stops her movement. With a sharp, heavy exhale, she grips your waist and pulls out in one swift, wet motion, leaving you completely empty and trembling against the wall.

You sink forward, your forehead resting against the cold tile as the aftershocks rumble through your thighs. Behind you, Jackie stands in the dim light of the closet, her breathing ragged as she looks down at the mess she made, entirely satisfied that she just successfully rewrote every memory of yesterday.

Jackie stands there for a beat, her chest heaving as she takes in the sight of you trembling against the wall. The storm of jealousy that had driven her into the closet finally begins to clear, leaving behind the girl who, beneath all the sharp edges and royal territory marking, just wants to be secure.

She sighs, a soft, breathless sound, and steps back to pull up her panties and zip her pleated skirt back into place. Reaching over to the industrial shelves, she grabs a stack of clean paper towels and dampens them under the small sink in the corner of the closet.

"Come here," she murmurs, her voice losing its sharp, commanding bite and softening into something genuinely tender.

She gently pulls you away from the wall, guiding you to sit on the edge of a plastic crate. Jackie drops back down to her knees—not with anger this time, but with a quiet, focused attentiveness. She gently wipes away the sweat, the lube, and the messy remnants of the encounter, her touch surprisingly light and careful against your stinging, flushed skin.

Once you’re cleaned up, she helps you pull your clothes back into order, smoothing down your shirt with the palms of her hands. She stays on her knees for a moment longer, looking up at you. Her stormy brown eyes are wide, vulnerable, and completely open.

"I love you," Jackie says softly, her fingers reaching up to cup your jaw, her thumb tracing your lower lip. "And I love Nat. You know that, right? Even when we’re like this, and even when she drives me completely insane... it’s always been the three of us."

You nod, still a little dazed and breathless, the lingering warmth of the climax humming under your skin. Seeing the reassurance she needs, you lean into her hand.

Jackie smiles, a genuine, small curve of her lips that completely erases the Queen Bee persona. She stands up, leaning over you to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—sweet, deep, and completely devoid of the punishment from earlier. It’s a promise that the truce is back in place.

She turns the handle, unlocking the heavy wooden door, and peeks out into the hallway to make sure the coast is clear. Satisfied, she slips out first with a quiet glance back at you, leaving the closet behind as the afternoon bell echoes through the halls of Wiskayok High.

[julzrulz-191]

PART 1 - NAT

𝐒ummery: After a day of high-tension and suburban unrest, Natalie Scatorccio arrives at the reader's house alone, driven by a restless "anger" that she needs to release. What follows is a raw, high-intensity sexual encounter fueled by Natalie’s characteristic roughness and competitive streak. She dominates the scene with an aggressive focus on the reader’s pleasure, using deep fingering, heavy nipple play, and torturous edging to push the reader to a shattering, drenching climax. The encounter concludes with a rare moment of soft aftercare, where Natalie dismisses the reader’s guilt over Jackie’s absence, choosing to prioritize her singular, possessive connection with the reader.

𝐏airing: angery!nat x fem!reader

𝐖arnings:

Aggressive/Rough Sexual Content (Anger-driven, high-intensity)

Deep Penetration (Three and four fingers)

Detailed Oral & Manual Stimulation

Nipple Play (Pinching and pulling)

Edging & Overstimulation

Squirting & Multiple Orgasms

Explicit Language (Pussy, Clit, Cum, Fuck)

Emotional Rivalry Themes (Jealousy and territorial behavior)

BASED OFF OF

The air in your bedroom is heavy with the kind of suburban quiet that feels like the calm before a storm. You’re sprawled across the mattress, the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds and casting long, golden slats across your sheets, but your mind is anywhere but peaceful. It’s hard to find a moment of stillness when you’re the literal center of gravity for two of the most volatile forces in your life.

Jackie Taylor and Natalie Scatorccio.

On paper, they shouldn't even be in the same room. Jackie is the quintessential crown princess of the suburbs, all polished perfection, high-waisted skirts, and a "Queen Bee" authority that she wears like a second skin. Natalie is the jagged edge to Jackie’s smooth surface—dark hair, heavy eyeliner, and a defiant, restless energy that seems designed to burn down everything Jackie stands for. They’ve spent most of their lives circling each other like stray cats in an alleyway, trading sharp barbs and icy glares that could freeze the blood in your veins.

The only thing they have in common is you.

It started as a competition, a frantic race to see who could claim your attention first. But somewhere along the line, that rivalry morphed into something much more complicated and much more physical. They don't like each other—in fact, on most days, they can barely stand the sound of the other one breathing—but the shared obsession with you has forced them into a fragile, high-tension truce.

Every time the three of you are together, the atmosphere is electric with a dangerous kind of friction. They don’t touch each other with affection; they touch each other to mark territory. If Jackie leans in to kiss you, Natalie is right there to pull you away, her eyes flashing with a "watch this" intensity as she claims your mouth even harder. If Natalie’s hands find their way under your shirt, Jackie is quick to intervene, not to stop the fun, but to make sure she’s the one providing the better sensation, the deeper pleasure.

They are constantly trying to outdo one another, using your body as the ultimate scoreboard. It’s a game of psychological warfare where the prize is your undone, gasping surrender. Jackie wants to prove she’s the one who knows you best, the one who can make you lose your mind with a single, calculated touch. Natalie wants to prove she’s the one you crave most, the one who can make you scream in a way that Jackie never could.

And right now, as you lay there in the silence of your room, you can practically feel the countdown. You know the peace won't last. Any minute now, the door is going to open, and the two of them are going to walk in, bringing that suffocating, competitive heat with them. They aren't coming over to hang out; they're coming over to fight for you, using their mouths and their hands as weapons in a war where the only thing that matters is who makes you come first—and who makes you come the hardest.

You reach for your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a harsh glow that cuts through the dim afternoon light. A notification from Natalie is sitting right at the top.

Nat: can i come over? i’m losing my mind and i need to get some of this anger out.

You know exactly what that means. When Natalie is wound tight, she doesn't want soft words or a shoulder to cry on; she wants to lose herself in you. She’s the friction to Jackie’s polish—all teeth, bruised skin, and desperate, heavy breaths. She plays rough, pushing you right to the edge of what you can handle, but the silent trade-off has always been the aftermath. The second the storm passes, she becomes someone else—quiet, gentle, and almost heartbreakingly attentive, as if she's trying to apologize for the marks she left without having to say the words.

You tap out a quick reply, your heart already picking up speed.

You: sure

You toss the phone back onto the pillows and let out a long breath. You know the routine. Natalie will be here in minutes, probably smelling like smoke and leather, her eyes dark with a restless, hungry energy. She’ll want to claim you before Jackie even thinks about showing up, marking you with an intensity that says you belong to her and her alone.

You lay back, staring up at the ceiling, listening for the sound of her heavy boots on the stairs. You know she’s going to be relentless today, and despite the "anger" she needs to release, you find yourself bracing for the heat of it. It’s only a matter of time before the front door clicks shut and the quiet of your room is replaced by the jagged, beautiful chaos that only Natalie Scatorccio can bring.

The house is eerily quiet, the kind of empty that makes every floorboard creak like a warning. You’re standing by the window when the door finally swings open, and there she is. Natalie looks like she’s been vibrating out of her skin—her hair is a tangled mess, her eyeliner is smudged, and she’s wearing that oversized leather jacket that makes her look twice as sharp as she already is.

She doesn't say a word. She doesn't have to. The air in the room shifts the second she locks eyes with you, turning heavy and charged with that familiar, restless static. You stand up from the bed, your legs feeling a little heavy, and meet her in the middle of the room.

Natalie closes the distance in two strides. She grabs the front of your shirt, her knuckles grazing your chest, and yanks you into her. The kiss isn't a greeting; it’s a collision. She tastes like a frantic need to forget everything outside these four walls. Her mouth is hard and demanding against yours, her tongue forcing its way in with a jagged, hungry rhythm that steals the air right out of your lungs. It’s messy and desperate, the kind of kiss that leaves your lips stinging and your head spinning.

She groans into your mouth, a low, frustrated sound, and shoves you backward. Your calves hit the edge of the mattress, and before you can catch your balance, Natalie’s hands are on your shoulders, pinning you down. You fall back against the pillows with a soft thud, and she’s over you in an instant, her weight a solid, grounding pressure that shuts out the rest of the world.

She doesn't break the kiss as she settles between your thighs, her leather jacket cold against your skin, but her body is a furnace. She grips your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, while her other hand finds the hem of your shirt, her fingers digging into your waist with a grip that promises she isn't planning on being gentle.

Natalie doesn't bother with a warm-up. She’s past the point of teasing, her eyes dark and clouded with a restless, jagged hunger that demands an immediate outlet. She tears your shorts down your legs with a violent tug, her breathing coming in short, sharp hitches against the crook of your neck. You’re already slick, your body reacting to her frantic energy, but she doesn't care about finesse right now.

She catches your gaze for a split second—a look of pure, unadulterated desperation—before she bunches three fingerstogether and plunges them deep inside you in one heavy, decisive motion.

The sudden, thick stretch makes your eyes roll back, a shattered cry escaping your throat as your hips jerk upward off the mattress. It’s a massive, blunt intrusion that fills you completely, hitting your G-spot with a force that sends a shockwave of white-hot pleasure straight to your brain. Natalie doesn't give you a second to adjust; she starts a brutal, driving pace immediately, her knuckles thumping against you with every relentless thrust.

"Fuck," she gasps against your skin, her teeth grazing your collarbone, marking you. "I needed this. I needed you so bad."

She’s moving with a frantic, uncoordinated power, her thumb finding your clit and grinding into it with a broad, heavy friction that matches the rhythm of her fingers. Every time she drives her hand back into you, you feel the walls of your pussy stretching and gripping around her, trying to keep up with the pace she’s set. The wet, suctioning sound of her movements fills the quiet room, a messy, rhythmic beat that makes your face flush with heat.

You’re clawing at her leather jacket, your nails digging into the tough material as she ravages you. She’s pushing you further than you’ve ever gone, the friction of three fingers creating a searing, liquid heat that has you on the verge of a total meltdown. Natalie is relentless, her brow furrowed in concentration as she watches you unravel, using your body to burn off every ounce of the anger that brought her here.

"Don't you dare stop me," she growls, her pace getting even faster, her fingers hooking upward to catch that deep, sensitive curve over and over again. You’re shaking, your legs trembling so violently they’re kicking at the sheets, but Natalie just leans her full weight into you, pinning you down and driving you toward a climax that feels like it’s going to shatter you into pieces.

Natalie is a whirlwind of frantic, heavy motion, her breath hot and jagged against your ear as she continues to drive those three fingers into you. She’s not satisfied with just one way to make you lose your mind, though. With a frustrated growl, she momentarily releases her grip on your wrists, her hands flying to the hem of your shirt. She yanks it upward, the fabric catching on your chin for a split second before she tears it over your head and tosses it somewhere into the shadows of the room.

The cool air hits your damp skin, but it's immediately replaced by the searing heat of her palms. She cups your breasts with a possessive, rough weight, her fingers digging in as if she’s trying to merge your skin with hers. She stares down at you, her eyes wide and dark, watching your chest heave in the dim light.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this," she rasps, her voice a wrecked, broken sound.

She doesn't wait for a response. Her hand moves with a sharp precision, her thumb and forefinger catching your nipple—already swollen and hard from the adrenaline—and pinching it with a firm, authoritative pressure. A sharp jolt of electricity shoots straight down to where her fingers are still working you, and you let out a high, thin whine, your back arching off the sheets.

She begins to play with you with a restless, agonizing intensity. She rolls the sensitive peak between her calloused fingers, tugging and twisting it just enough to keep you on that jagged edge between pleasure and pain. Every time she pinches you, she drives her fingers deeper inside your pussy, timing the internal stretch with the external sting.

The dual sensation is too much; your brain is short-circuiting, your vision blurring as Natalie ruthlessly coordinates the assault on your senses. She’s using you as her anchor, her hands mapping out every inch of your reactions, her teeth catching her lower lip as she watches you come apart under her touch. She’s marking you with every pinch and every thrust, making sure that when the anger finally leaves her, you're the only thing left in its place.

Natalie’s breathing is a series of ragged, desperate hitches now, her forehead leaning against yours as she feels your body reaching that volatile, vibrating breaking point. She can feel the way your internal muscles are starting to twitch and seize around her hand, telegraphing the climax that’s about to hit.

But she isn’t ready to let the fire burn out yet.

"Wait, wait," she pants, her voice cracking with a mix of hunger and command.

She pulls her hand out just enough to reposition, and then, with a slow, deliberate pressure that makes your eyes bulge, she forces a fourth finger inside you. The stretch is absolute. You let out a muffled, strangled sound against the pillows, your entire lower half feeling full to the point of bursting. You’re stretched so wide it’s an ache, a deep, heavy fullness that makes every nerve ending in your pussy scream.

She starts to move again, but she’s changed the rhythm. Instead of the frantic, angry pace from before, she slows down to a torturous, tectonic crawl. She drives all four fingers in to the hilt, holding them there until you’re whimpering and begging for the friction, then draws them out until they’re just barely hovering at the entrance.

"You want it so bad, don't you?" she whispers, her thumb hovering just a hair's breadth away from your swollen clit, refusing to touch it.

Every time you try to buck your hips to force the contact, she pushes you back down with the weight of her body, pinning you into the mattress. She’s edging you with a cruel, calculated precision. She’ll give you three hard, fast thrusts—making you think the release is finally coming—and then she’ll abruptly stop, leaving you suspended in that white-hot, agonizing space right before the cliff.

She reaches up, her fingers finding your nipple again and giving it a sharp, grounding pinch to distract you from the build-up below. Your breath is coming in short, high whines, your vision swimming with static. You’re so close that the air moving against your skin feels like a touch, but Natalie stays relentless, keeping you hovering in a state of pure, overstimulated tension, making sure you feel every single second of the desperation she’s forcing into you.

Natalie sees the way your eyes are rolling back, your fingers digging into the mattress so hard the fabric is bunching under your nails. You’re a mess of shaking limbs and broken gasps, completely at her mercy. The anger that brought her here has melted into something else—a raw, focused adoration that she only shows when you’re completely undone like this.

She leans down, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear, her voice dropping into a low, gravelly whisper that vibrates through your entire skull.

"That's it," she rasps, her breath hot and shaky. "Break for me. Right now. You can cum, babe. Give it all to me."

The second she gives you permission, she drops all pretense of restraint. She plunges all four fingers back into you with a hard, relentless rhythm, her thumb finally crashing down onto your clit with a heavy, grinding friction that sparks behind your eyelids.

It’s like a dam breaking. You let out a long, shattered scream that’s muffled only by the pillows as you cum. It’s a violent, full-body earthquake that starts in your core and radiates outward until your toes are curling and your back is arched in a rigid, beautiful bow. Your pussy seizes around her hand in a series of tight, desperate pulses, milking her fingers as you squirt, a hot, drenching rush of cum soaking Natalie’s hand and the sheets beneath you.

The world goes white. You can’t breathe, you can’t think; there is only the rhythmic, soul-shaking throb of your climax and the solid, grounding weight of Natalie pinning you down.

As the peak finally begins to fade into a tingling, exhausted haze, Natalie doesn't pull away. She slows her fingers to a gentle, pulsing vibrato inside you, her forehead coming down to rest against your shoulder. Her breathing is just as wrecked as yours, her heart hammering against your ribs. The jagged edge she walked in with is gone, replaced by a quiet, heavy stillness as she holds you through the aftershocks.

The room is thick with the scent of sex and the fading adrenaline of Natalie’s release. The frantic, angry energy she walked in with has completely dissolved, leaving behind a heavy, quiet tenderness. She slides her hand out of you with a slow, careful drag and immediately pulls you into her side. Her leather jacket is discarded on the floor now, and she draws you flush against her chest, her arms wrapping around you with a possessive, protective weight.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just rests her chin on top of your head, her fingers tracing idle, ghost-like patterns over the skin of your arm. It’s that rare, soft version of Natalie that she only ever lets you see—the one that doesn't need to fight the world for five minutes.

You lie there for a moment, listening to the steady, slowing thrum of her heart against your ear, but a nagging thought finally pushes its way to the surface.

"Nat?" you murmur, your voice still a little wrecked and airy from the climax.

"Yeah?" she rasps, her thumb smoothing over your shoulder.

"I kind of... I feel a little guilty," you admit, shifting slightly to look up at her. "Doing this without Jackie. We’re supposed to be a throuple, you know? It feels like we’re leaving her out."

Natalie doesn't tense up, but she let’s out a short, dry huff of a laugh that vibrates through her chest. She doesn't look at the door or check her phone; she just keeps her eyes on yours, her expression completely unbothered. She knows exactly how much Jackie loves to be the center of attention, and she knows exactly how much this would irritate her if she walked in right now—which, for Natalie, is half the fun.

"Whatever," Natalie mutters, her voice dropping back into that familiar, dismissive shrug of a tone. She pulls you even tighter against her, burying her face in the crook of your neck as if to seal the conversation. "She’ll get over it. Or she’ll just make us make it up to her later. Honestly? I don't care. Right now, I just wanted you."

She presses a final, lingering kiss to your temple, her eyes closing as she settles into the pillows, leaving the guilt for another time and another person.

[julzrulz-191]

𝐒ummery: After a high-energy arena show, Billie Eilish selects a "calm" fan for a private encounter in her dressing room. What begins as a grounding moment evolves into a high-tension, overstimulating sexual encounter. Billie uses her control to edge the reader, pushing them to a massive, vocal climax before offering a rare glimpse into her private life by inviting them back to her personal home.

𝐏airing: celeb!billie x chosen!reader

𝐖arnings:

Hardcore WLW Smut

Explicit Language (Pussy, Clit, Cum, Fuck)

Detailed Fingering & Oral

Edging & Overstimulation

Squirting

Post-Sex Vulnerability / Aftercare

The arena is still ringing with the residual bass of "BIRDS OF A FEATHER," a massive, humid cavern of twenty thousand people coming down from the high of the HIT ME HARD AND SOFT tour. You’re standing near the barricade, ears buzzing, feeling a little out of place next to your best friend, who has spent the last two hours screaming every lyric until her throat went raw. You weren't even supposed to be here; you were the "plus one," the skeptical tag-along dragged along for the ride, mostly just there to make sure your friend didn't pass out from excitement.

But then, the tradition happened.

Toward the very end of the set, the house lights dimmed to a hazy, electric blue, and Billie leaned over the edge of the stage, her sweat-dampened hair clinging to her forehead. She has this ritual on this tour—picking one person from the crowd, not for a quick selfie or a high-five, but for "sanctuary time." It’s become a legend in the fandom: one fan gets brought back to her private "Puppy Room" or her dressing room to just exist with her away from the cameras and the screaming, a way for her to ground herself after the chaos of the show.

Usually, she picks the girl in the front row with the most elaborate handmade outfit or the guy who’s been sobbing since the first chord of "SKINNY." But tonight, her eyes skipped over the neon signs and the reaching hands, landing directly on you. Maybe it was because you were the only one standing still, looking at her with genuine curiosity rather than desperate worship, or maybe she just sensed the calm radiating off you in the middle of the storm.

She pointed a gloved finger, whispered something to a massive security guard with a headset, and before you could even process what was happening, you were being hoisted over the barricade. Your friend’s jaw dropped so low it nearly hit the floor, and now, as the crowd filters out into the night, you’re being led through the concrete labyrinth of the arena’s underbelly, past crates of equipment and scurrying stagehands, toward a heavy door with a simple piece of tape that reads: B. EILISH.

The dressing room is surprisingly quiet, a stark contrast to the earthquake-level bass that had been rattling your ribs just twenty minutes ago. It smells like sage, expensive laundry detergent, and a faint hint of eucalyptus. You settle onto a low, plush velvet couch, feeling the strange weight of the silence. It’s a weirdly vulnerable space—Polaroid photos of her friends tucked into the corners of a mirror, a few discarded oversized flannels draped over chairs, and a bowl of fruit that looks untouched.

You’re just starting to wonder if you should have followed your friend to the parking lot instead when the heavy door clicks open.

Billie walks in alone. She’s already shed the heavy stage layers, now just in a massive, threadbare black t-shirt that hangs halfway down her thighs. Her hair is a mess of damp, dark tangles, and her face is scrubbed clean of any stage makeup, leaving her looking younger and infinitely more tired.

She stops for a second, her ice-blue eyes landing on you. There’s no "pop star" persona here—no bravado or rehearsed smiles. She just looks relieved. Without saying a word, she crosses the room, her sneakers squeaking softly on the linoleum, and sinks onto the couch right next to you.

She doesn't sit at a polite distance. She drops down close enough that you can feel the residual heat radiating off her skin. She leans her head back against the cushions, letting out a long, shaky exhale that seems to deflate her entire frame. She stays like that for a moment, eyes closed, just breathing in the same air as you.

"God," she mutters, her voice a low, raspy velvet that’s even deeper than it sounds on the monitors. "My brain is like... static. Total static."

She finally opens her eyes and turns her head toward you. She’s staring at you with that same singular, heavy intensity she had on stage, but now it’s curious, almost searching. She leans a bit closer, her shoulder brushing yours, and she doesn't pull away. She just watches you, taking in the fact that you aren't screaming or reaching for a phone.

"Thanks for not being weird," she says, a tiny, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I just needed a human for a second. Just a regular person who isn't gonna ask me for a favor."

You just nod, a small, grounding smile playing on your lips. "No problem," you say softly, your voice steady despite the fact that the most famous person on the planet is currently using your shoulder as a leaning post. "I get it. It’s a lot."

Billie hums in response, a low vibration you feel in your own chest. She shifts, turning her body fully toward you, propping one leg up on the cushion so she’s facing you head-on. Her eyes track the movement of your lips before jumping back up to yours. "You’re really calm," she observes, her voice dropping into that familiar, husky register. "It’s hot. Most people are vibrating out of their skin by now."

She reaches out, her hand lingering in the air before her fingers graze the side of your neck. Her touch is electric—cool but firm. "I saw you in the crowd. You looked like you were somewhere else. I wanted to know where that was." She leans in closer, the scent of her eucalyptus and soft skin becoming overwhelming. "What are the chances the prettiest girl in the arena was the one who didn't even want to be here?"

Before you can come up with a witty retort, she closes the gap.

The kiss is soft at first, almost tentative, as if she’s testing the waters. But the second you melt into it, she lets out a sharp, needy breath and deepens it. Her hand moves from your neck to the back of your head, her fingers tangling in your hair as she pulls you flush against her. It’s a slow, heavy melt of a kiss, tasting like the adrenaline of the show and something deeply, purely Billie.

She pulls back just an inch, her forehead resting against yours, her pupils so blown out they’ve nearly eclipsed the blue. "I knew you’d taste like that," she whispers.

Without breaking eye contact, she places her hands on your shoulders and firmly, but gently, guides you backward. You sink into the deep, plush velvet of the couch, and she follows you down, her weight a warm, solid pressure that pins you to the cushions. She settles between your legs, her knees anchoring her as she hovers over you, looking down with a raw, hungry intensity.

She leans down again, her hair falling like a dark curtain around your faces, sealing you both into a private world. This kiss is different—it’s demanding, her tongue sweeping against yours with a possessive rhythm that makes your toes curl. Her hands slide down to grip your waist, her thumbs hooking under the hem of your shirt as she claims your mouth all over again, the silence of the dressing room replaced by the frantic, wet sounds of her wanting you.

Billie’s breathing is heavy and hot against your skin, a jagged rhythm that matches the frantic pounding of your heart. Her hands, still gripped at your waist, slide upward with a sudden, needy urgency. She bunches the fabric of your shirt in her fists and tugs it up and over your head in one fluid motion, tossing it blindly toward the floor.

The cool air of the dressing room hits your bare skin, but the chill doesn't last for more than a second before Billie is leaning over you again. She stops for a heartbeat, her icy eyes dropping to your chest with that same heavy-lidded, obsessed stare you saw on the bus. She looks completely entranced, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip as she drinks in the sight of you in the dim light.

"God, you’re so perfect," she rasps, her voice breaking. "I've been thinking about this since the second song of the set. Just... needing to see you like this."

She reaches out, her palms warm and steady as she cups your breasts, squeezing them with a possessive weight that makes you let out a soft, shaky breath. She thumbs your nipples until they’re aching and hard, and then she finally leans down.

Her mouth is a shock of heat. She takes your left nipple into her mouth, her tongue swirling around it in a broad, wet circle before she sucks you deep into her throat. The suction is intense, a rhythmic, dragging pressure that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. You bit your lip to keep from crying out, your fingers digging into her shoulders as she ravages you. She’s greedy, making a low, hungry sound in her throat that vibrates against your skin.

Suddenly, she pops off with a wet, echoing sound that seems way too loud in the quiet room. She leaves the skin glistening and dark, the nipple swollen from her attention. She doesn't give you a second to catch your breath before she shifts her focus, her head moving across your chest to give the other side the exact same treatment.

She’s even more relentless this time, her teeth grazing the sensitive tip just enough to make your hips jerk upward against her. She swirls her tongue over the peak, sucking you in until you’re whimpering into the crook of your arm. She’s completely lost in it, her hands never letting go of your soft curves, kneading and marking you as if she’s trying to memorize the feel of you through her palms.

Billie’s mouth leaves your chest with another wet, reluctant pop, but she doesn't move far. She begins to trail a line of slow, heavy kisses down the center of your stomach, her tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin with every inch she gains. She lingers at your navel, her hot breath fanning over your skin and making your muscles twitch in anticipation.

She reaches the waistband of your skirt, her fingers hooking into the fabric with a firm, decisive tug. She peels it down your legs along with your underwear, tossing them aside until you’re completely exposed to the cool air and her burning gaze. Billie doesn’t get up; she stays right there, kneeling between your thighs, her eyes blown wide and dark as she takes you in.

"You have no idea," she whispers, her voice a gravelly, wrecked sound. "I’ve been wanting this all night."

She doesn't waste another second. She leans forward, her hands sliding under your thighs to pull you right to the edge of the plush cushions. Without any warning, she plunges two fingers deep inside you. The sudden stretch makes you gasp, your head thumping back against the velvet as she finds your rhythm instantly. She’s not being gentle; she’s driving into you with a hard, steady pace that mimics the heavy bass of her own music.

As her fingers work you from the inside, her mouth finds your clit.

Her tongue is broad and incredibly wet, swirling over the sensitive, engorged nub with a relentless, flicking pressure. The combination is overwhelming—the deep, rhythmic stretch of her fingers and the sharp, electric friction of her tongue. You try to lift your hips, your hands tangling in her damp hair to pull her closer, but she grips your legs tighter, pinning you in place.

"Not yet," she mumbles against your skin, her voice vibrating through your entire lower body.

She slows her tongue just a fraction, teasing the very edge of the sensation, circling the peak without quite letting you over the cliff. She’s building the tension until it feels like your nerves are frayed, her fingers continuing that deep, driving ache inside you. You’re shaking, a low, broken whine escaping your throat as she keeps you hovering right on the brink, perfectly in control of exactly how much pleasure you can handle.

Billie feels the frantic shift in your body—the way your thighs start to tremble against her shoulders and the hitch in your breath that signals you’re about to break. She lets out a dark, knowing hum against your skin, but instead of pushing you over the edge, she abruptly slows her pace.

She keeps her two fingers buried deep inside you, but she stops the driving motion, leaving them still and pulsing within your heat. Her tongue, which had been flicking relentlessly over your clit, transitions into a agonizingly slow, broad lap that just barely grazes the center of your pleasure before moving away.

"You're getting ahead of yourself," she rasps, her voice vibrating through your hips. "I didn't say you could go yet."

While her lower hand keeps you anchored and aching, she reaches up with her free hand, her palm dragging over your ribs until she finds your breast. She cups the soft weight of it firmly, her thumb and forefinger catching your nipple—still sensitive and swollen from her mouth—and giving it a sharp, authoritative tug.

The dual sensation is a total system override. The dull, heavy ache of her fingers inside you and the sharp, electric pinch of her play on your nipple keep the tension coiled tight in your gut, but she refuses to give you the friction you need to release it.

"Look at me," she commands, lifting her head just enough to catch your gaze. Her eyes are blown wide, a hazy, electric blue in the dim light of the dressing room.

She starts to move her fingers again, but it’s a slow, torturous crawl—drawing them nearly all the way out until you feel the loss of her, only to plunge them back in just as slowly. At the same time, she rolls your nipple between her fingers with a rhythmic pressure that makes your vision swim. You try to buck against her, trying to force the climax, but she just squeezes your thigh, keeping you trapped in that white-hot space right before the fall.

"Stay right there," she whispers, her thumb hovering just a hair's breadth away from your clit, teasing you with the promise of what’s coming. "I want you to feel every second of this."

"I can't... Billie, I can't stay here," you sob out, your head tossing back and forth against the velvet cushions. The tension is so thick it feels physical, a high-voltage wire stretched to the snapping point. You're begging for the release, your body arching into her hand, trying to find the friction she’s cruelly withholding.

Billie’s eyes are fixed on yours, dark and heavy with a possessive heat. "Don't," she commands, her voice a low, jagged rasp that cuts through your haze. She pinches your nipple just a little harder, grounding you in the ache. "Don't you dare go until I tell you to."

She keeps you there for a heartbeat longer, watching the way your chest heaves and your eyes roll back. She waits until you’re literally shaking with the effort of holding back, and then she suddenly relents.

"Now," she whispers against your thigh. "Go for me now."

She plunges her fingers deep, hitting your G-spot with a hard, rhythmic hook as her tongue crashes back onto your clitwith a wild, uninhibited force. The world simply disappears. You let out a shattered, high-pitched cry that echoes off the dressing room walls, your pussy clenching violently around her hand as you break. You’re squirting, a hot, desperate rush of cum drenching her fingers and the couch as your climax ripples through you in wave after agonizing wave.

Billie doesn't pull away. She stays right there, drinking in the sight of your undoing, her hand staying deep inside you to feel every last pulse of your release.

As the tremors finally begin to subside, she softens completely. She slides her fingers out with a wet, lingering drag and crawls up your body, her weight a comforting, solid presence. She doesn't let you drift; she pulls you into her arms, tucked under her chin, her damp hair cooling against your forehead.

She helps you sit up, her hands steady as she finds your shirt and gently helps you pull it back over your head. She’s quiet now, the "performer" completely gone, replaced by a girl who looks like she doesn't want the night to end.

"Hey," she murmurs, her thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. She looks toward the door, then back at you, her expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. "My bus is leaving for the next city in a few hours... but I have a place not far from here. My own place. No crew, no cameras, just... quiet."

She takes your hand, lacing her fingers with yours, her palm still warm from your skin. "Come back with me? I don't want to say goodbye to you in a dressing room."

( a/n ) should i make a pt2 or a fluff/smut series?

[julzrulz-191]

Requests/questions are open if anybody has any!

[cherrycolapepsi4u]

[julzrulz-191]

𝐒ummery: After a violent breaking point with her father, Sarah Cameron arrives at the reader's shack drenched and devastated. Following a raw, uninhibited sexual release that serves as her only escape, she confesses that Ward has officially disowned her. In a moment of deep vulnerability and "Pogue" solidarity, the reader offers her a permanent sanctuary, cementing their bond and Sarah's transition into a new, uncertain life away from Figure Eight.

𝐏airing: poguegirlfriend!reader x kookgirlfriend!sarah

𝐖arnings:

Hardcore WLW Smut

Explicit Language (Pussy, Clit, Fuck, Cum)

Detailed Fingering & Oral

Family Conflict / Disownment Themes

Emotional Fluff & Aftercare

The rain is coming down in sheets, a relentless tropical deluge that turns the marsh into a blurred world of grey and black. Inside your shack, the tin roof is screaming under the weight of the storm—a frantic, metallic drumming that usually lulls you to sleep, but tonight, the air feels too charged for rest.

When the knock comes, it’s weak, nearly lost to the wind. You’d think it was just a branch hitting the siding if it weren't for the specific, hesitant rhythm of it.

You pull the heavy bolt back and swing the door open, the damp heat of the night rushing in to meet you. Standing there, drenched to the bone and shivering, is Sarah Cameron. She looks nothing like the "Kook Princess" the island expects her to be. Her blonde hair is plastered to her forehead in dark, tangled clumps, her expensive silk top is ruined and clinging to her skin, and her eyes—usually so bright and calculating—are rimmed with a raw, exhausted red.

The drama with Ward, the suffocating expectations of Figure Eight, the constant tightrope walk of her double life—it’s all written in the way her jaw is set, trembling just slightly.

"Sarah?" you start, your voice barely a whisper. "What are you doing—"

She doesn't let you finish. She doesn't explain how she got here or why she’s out in a gale. She just lunges forward, her hands flying up to cup your face with a desperate, freezing grip. She pulls you into her, her mouth crashing against yours with a force that almost knocks you back into the kitchen table.

It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a collision of frustration and relief, tasting of saltwater and the frantic need to find a place where she doesn't have to pretend. She’s kissing you like you’re the only thing keeping her from being swept away by the storm, her fingers digging into your hair as she moans into your mouth—a broken, needy sound that tells you everything she isn't ready to say out loud yet.

The storm outside is a violent backdrop to the desperation inside the shack. Sarah doesn't pull away for even a second, her tongue pushing into your mouth with a frantic, messy hunger that tells you exactly how close she is to breaking. She’s shivering, her wet clothes soaking through your own, but the heat radiating off her is a fever.

You stumble backward, guided by her hands as they slide from your face to your waist, gripping you with a strength that leaves bruises. You lead her blindly toward the small bedroom in the back, your sneakers squeaking against the floorboards until your calves hit the edge of the mattress. You tumble back together, the old springs groaning under your weight, but Sarah is already moving.

She’s done with the talk, done with the Kook etiquette, and done with the rules. She shoves your pants and underwear down your legs with a jagged, impatient energy, her breathing coming in hot, shallow hitches. She doesn't even bother taking off her own soaked clothes; she just dives between your thighs, prying your legs wide and burying her face in your heat before you can even catch your breath.

"God, you're so fucking wet for me," she rasps, her voice a raw, unhinged growl against your skin.

Then, she opens her mouth.

Sarah isn't being the "Kook Princess" tonight; she’s being a Pogue’s girlfriend, and she’s being absolutely filthy. Her tongue is a broad, heavy muscle as it licks a thick, wet stripe from the bottom of your opening all the way up to your clit. You let out a shattered scream that’s swallowed by the thunder outside, your fingers clawing at the damp sheets as she sucks the sensitive nub into her mouth.

She’s greedy, her mouth creating a vacuum as she swirls her tongue over you in relentless, sloppy circles. The sound is loud and crude—the wet, suctioning noise of her face pressed against your pussy, mixed with the rhythmic slap of her tongue against your folds. She’s tasting the salt and the sweet, heavy musk of your arousal, drinking you in like she’s been starving for days.

"I've been smelling you on my skin all day," she mumbles, her words muffled by your swelling flesh as she looks up at you with dark, blown-out eyes. "Thinking about how much I wanted to just bury my face in this and forget everything else."

She slides two fingers deep inside you while her mouth stays locked on your clit. She’s driving into you with a hard, unforgiving pace, her knuckles rubbing against your opening with every thrust. She’s stretching you out, her internal movements matching the frantic, wet rhythm of her tongue. You’re shaking, your hips bucking off the bed as the pleasure turns into a sharp, jagged ache in your gut.

Sarah only gets more aggressive, her teeth grazing the side of your hood, sending a jolt of white-hot lightning through your nerves. She’s relentless, her face slick with your juices, her blonde hair matted and messy as she works you toward the edge. She wants you loud, she wants you messy, and she wants you to forget the rest of the world just as much as she has.

"Come on," she hisses, her fingers curling upward to hit your G-spot with a heavy, rhythmic thud. "Take it all. Fucking scream for me."

You’re still shaking, your breath coming in jagged, shallow hitches as the aftershocks of your climax finally start to settle into a dull, warm hum in your bones. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her close, the weight of her body acting as an anchor. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that seems to finally catch up with her.

She buries her face in the crook of your neck, and for the first time tonight, she’s quiet. No more frantic kisses, no more desperate hunger. Just the sound of her shaky breathing and the rain.

"I can't go back," she whispers, her voice so small it’s almost lost to the wind outside.

You pull back just enough to look at her, your hand sliding up to brush a damp strand of hair from her eyes. "Sarah? What happened?"

She lets out a bitter, hollow laugh, her eyes welling up with the tears she’s been holding back since she stepped onto your porch. "Ward. We had it out. Everything—the lies, the gold, the way he looks at me like I’m just another piece of property. He told me if I left tonight, if I came to see a 'Pogue' like you, I shouldn't bother coming back." She pauses, a single tear tracking through the salt and sweat on her cheek. "He kicked me out. I have nowhere else, I just—I didn't know where to go."

She looks at you with a vulnerability that makes your chest tighten. The Kook Princess is gone; there's no trust fund, no mansion, no safety net. Just her and the storm.

"Can I stay?" she asks, her voice cracking. "Just for a while? Until I figure out what’s next?"

"Sarah, hey," you murmur, cupping her face and forcing her to meet your eyes. "You don't even have to ask. Of course you’re staying. This is your home now. As long as you want it."

She let out a long, shuddering sob of relief, melting back into your arms. She clings to you like a lifeline, her fingers knotting into your shirt. You pull the thin, salt-worn duvet over both of you, shielding her from the draft and the darkness. Outside, the world is falling apart, but inside the shack, tucked away in the marsh, she’s finally safe.

[weakwness]

[kiricumber]

[wildnickk]

[kiricumber]

[vampjreswillneverhurtyou]

help i’m alive