⛧ ━ not spoiler free. ageless + blank + minor blogs will be blocked. dividers by @cafekitsune, @adornedwithlight, or by me. do not use any of my works for AI.
sending Caleb pictures of your panties as you wait for him to get home, and they’re absolutely soaked to the point he can practically see your pretty cunt thru the fabric. you’re wet from just the excitement of him coming home after being away from for you several weeks, he can’t help but press a little harder on the gas as each of your texts pop up on the car screen
‘drive faster, Caleb :((( I miss u so bad’
‘see?? m so excited to see you !!’
‘only 5 minutes left?? can I touch myself just a little bit before you get here?’
‘calebbb hurryy my brain s leaking outta my pussyyy’
“Jesus fucking Christ,” is all he can mutter out, trying to be responsible with his driving but also desperate to burst thru the front door and kiss you, your mouth, your cheeks, your forehead, all before ripping those sticky panties off and making out with his other pretty girl who’s crying because she misses him so much
Sometimes I question if I should remake my blog but im so lazyyy but I miss my interactions from my mutuals and anons before I disappeared for health stuff 💔💔
BUT just gives me motivation to keep pushing until I get my babies back muah muah
Sometimes I question if I should remake my blog but im so lazyyy but I miss my interactions from my mutuals and anons before I disappeared for health stuff 💔💔
BUT just gives me motivation to keep pushing until I get my babies back muah muah
ENJIN has a big dick. And honestly, it shouldn’t be a surprise.
All tall and broad-shouldered and muscular, your eyes widen when he pulls his pants down for the first time.
“Hey, what’s that look for?”
He eyes you with a raised brow and half a smirk. “Never seen a dick before or what, sweetheart?”
“No, it’s just…”
You gape at his member. His heavy, leaking tip is pressed against his belly button, standing tall and erect against his chiseled abs.
Shit, it’s thick, too.
With an accusing finger, you jab at his chest.
“You’re way too big!”
But no matter how much you complain and whine and grumble at him for the size of his dick, you still end up taking it like a-
“Good girl.”
His voice is condescending, teasing, cocky. Per usual.
He loves your size difference, the way he towers over you, the way he can pin you down to the mattress to pound your stretched pussy.
He loves seeing your tits bounce and the way your eyes roll back and mouth falls open when he finally bottoms out in you.
And he loves making you work for it, laying on the bed not breaking a sweat while you writhe and squirm on top of him.
“C’mon, doll,” he grins, eyes glinting. “Ride me like you mean it. I wanna see those tits bounce, hehe.”
You moan. “I- I’m still tryna fit you, Enjin, you- fuckin’ horse,” you gasp out.
Looking down, you see the imprint of his dick on your abdomen and suddenly it makes sense why you can feel him in your stomach.
“That’s not very nice, sweets,” he pouts. His long fingers draw circles idly on your hips as you shudder, slowly sinking down inch by inch on his cock.
And when you finally manage to take it all, his balls pressed into your pussy and tip kissing your cervix, he’s leaning up to you, placing a kiss to the tip of your nose.
“Good job, baby,” he coos.
And he snaps his hips up into you.
You shriek. Head thrown back, spine arched, jaw open and tongue lolling, you’re seeing stars from one thrust.
“I’m so proud of you, my girl,” he groans, biting his lip. “You’re taking me so well—just look at you.”
The kisses he presses down your neck are so gentle compared to his vicious thrusts.
The bed frame is rattling, floorboards creaking, headboard thumping against the wall as his swollen head pounds into your cunt.
He can barely take this—your warm, wet cunt feels so good, so tight, so soft around him. It’s unbearable. And he knows you feel the same, with the way you’re drooling and babbling nonsense as he slams his dick up into you.
“Oh- ungh- y-you- s’ good- hah, Enjin!” You slur out. “Feels s-soooo good- your dick- ah- hah- feels s’ good!”
Enjin’s cheeks are flushed red, his tongue gliding over his bottom lip with a lopsided smirk.
“Yeah, pretty girl? You love my big dick, huh? Naughty thing.”
“Hngh, I- Enjin, I’m cumming!~”
And he finishes with you with a groan, swallowing thickly as his cum spurts into your poor, stretched pussy.
Gasping for breath, you flop over, muscles twitching with exertion as his seed drips out of you.
“Fuck you and your giant dick,” you groan, weakly smacking his chest.
He laughs before planting a wet, sappy kiss to your forehead.
"MY LITTLE DOLL" just a woman who loves her girl too much...
╰┈➤: ̗̀➛ headcanon
࿐*ೃ feat : semiu grier
࿐*ೃ fandom : gachiakuta
࿐*ೃ extra : fem!reader, lesbian/yuri
࿐*ೃ trigger warning : nsfw hc
Girlfriend! Semiu who would have you under the front desk eating her out while she takes calls or talks to fellow Cleaners. She would have one hand resting against your head, caressing your hair gently while praising you, calling you her "good little whore."
Girlfriend! Semiu who can no longer alleviate her lust merely from adult magazine after committing in a relationship with you. She couldn't help fantasizing it was her pretty little doll instead in those positions while she cums to the thought of you.
Girlfriend! Semiu who is very experimental and you are her little guinea pig in bed. She's never ashamed of admitting to liking "questionable" things. She might casually bring up a new idea to gauge your reaction before she ever tries to implement it. She likes to be prepared.
Girlfriend! Semiu who when she wants to try something new, she starts with a "test run." She’ll increase the intensity slowly, her yellow eyes fixed intently on your face. She isn't looking at your body—she’s reading your expressions, looking for that split second where pleasure turns into genuine discomfort.
Girlfriend! Semiu who even when she’s in the middle of a dominant, heated moment, she has a built in "safety protocol." She might order you around, but then immediately soften her voice at the slightest hint of actual discomfort. "You still with me, baby? Too much, or do you want more?" She wants to push you, but she never wants to break you.
Girlfriend! Semiu when you successfully push through a limit that she helped you explore, she rewards you. She’ll make you feel like the most important person in the world, showering you with intense affection that proves just how much she admires your strength.
Girlfriend! Semiu who is really impatient. Because she spends all day waiting for calls, managing files and people, her patience is nonexistent in the bedroom. If you’re teasing her for too long, she’ll let out a frustrated, needy huff and simply take control. She’ll pin your wrists and ruins you without warning, leaving you trembling and unable to work for days.
Girlfriend! Semiu whose love language involves a bit of a bite. She isn't trying to hurt you, but she’s definitely not gentle. Expect firm grips on your hips, hair pulling that tilts your head back just right, dark hickeys adorning your skin and deep, bruising kisses. She likes the feeling of possessing you after a long day.
Girlfriend! Semiu who occasionally likes to play with the power dynamic. She might use her authoritative, "office woman" voice to give you commands telling you exactly how to move or how to look at her only to melt into a needy, desperate little slut the moment you actually obey her.
Girlfriend! Semiu who is a very visual person. She loves to watch your reactions—the way your eyes flutter shut or the way your breath hitches. She’ll often demand you look her in the eye so she can see exactly how much she’s affecting you.
࿐*ೃ my first gachiakuta post and it's of my f/o aka my wife, semiu! thanks for reading this headcanon! likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated ♡
You've been a brat all day up until your actions cause real consequences. Gris takes your punishment into his own hands
MINORS DON'T INTERACT
Kinks: Brat / Extreme Brat Taming, Punishment / Discipline, Spanking, Public Humiliation / Outdoor Exposure, Dominance & Submission, Daddy Kink, Manhandling / Physical Restraint, Humiliation + Guilt Play, Light CNC / Resistance, Voyeurism (light), Aftercare with Emotional Distance
You are such a pain today.
The words leave your mouth sharp and venomous every time someone so much as glances your way. Poor Follo barely gets a full sentence out—something sweet about sharing the last of his lunch—before you snap at him like a cornered Trash Beast, teeth bared and eyes flashing. He shrinks back with a wounded-puppy look, golden eyes wide, and you feel a twisted little spike of satisfaction that only makes the restless itch under your skin burn hotter.
By that afternoon, Gris and Enjin have had enough of you. They decide fresh air and a change of scenery might cool whatever storm has you snarling at the entire Cleaner HQ. Before you can protest, strong hands grab you—Gris’s large, calloused palm firm around your upper arm, Enjin’s tattooed fingers digging playfully into your waist—and you are half-dragged, half-tossed into the back seat of the old jeep like a misbehaving sack of supplies. The door slams. The engine roars to life. And just like that, you are barreling away from headquarters toward a distant city a few hours out, dust kicking up in thick clouds behind the tires.
It doesn’t help. Not one bit.
The Ground’s cracked, uneven roads jolt the jeep constantly, every pothole and chunk of debris sending you bouncing hard against the worn leather seat. You bite at Enjin’s fingers when he reaches back between the seats to ruffle your hair in that lazy, teasing way of his. He yanks his hand away with a low chuckle that sounds more amused than annoyed, but you catch the way his yellow eyes narrow in the rearview mirror, that infuriatingly smug grin sharpening at the edges.
You bark at Gris next when he tells you—calm and measured as always—to quiet down because your aggravated shouting is echoing too loud inside the cramped shop they are browsing for spare parts. He turns his head just enough to pin you with those steady blue eyes. “Sweetheart,” he rumbles, voice gravelly and patient even now, “you’re pushing it.”
Both of them are being worn thin, their usual easy dominance fraying at the seams under the weight of your nonstop attitude. Gris keeps one big hand on your knee for a while, thumb stroking slow, grounding circles like he is trying to soothe the beast inside you. Enjin cracks jokes, offers you the last cigarette from his pack, even tries to feed you a piece of street vendor bread with those long tattooed fingers. Nothing works. If anything, their attempts only stoke the fire higher, turning every kind gesture into fresh fuel for your brattiness.
The ride back is worse.
Enjin sighs heavily, forehead dropping to rest against the top of the steering wheel as the jeep bounces over another stretch of ruined terrain. You have been kicking the back of his seat for the last twenty minutes straight—sharp, rhythmic thuds that make the whole vehicle shudder. He gave up asking you to stop after the tenth kick, jaw tight, knuckles white where they grip the wheel.
He lifts his head again, shoulders slumped, those tired yellow eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. Gris watches you too, quiet and unreadable in the passenger seat, one thick arm draped over the backrest so he can keep those calm blue eyes locked on you the entire time.
“Y’know, you’re acting more childish than Guita and Dear right now, trouble,” Enjin comments, voice laced with that familiar lazy drawl even as frustration simmers underneath.
You huff, folding your arms tight under your chest and sinking deeper into the backseat until the worn fabric creaks. “If you didn’t drive so stupidly, I wouldn’t have to kick you.”
Enjin lets out another long sigh and fishes a cigarette from his coat pocket with one hand, the other staying steady on the wheel. The lighter clicks. A small flame sparks to life just as you slam your foot into the back of his seat again—harder. The jolt makes the flame catch the tips of his fingers. He hisses, drops the lighter into his lap, and the jeep swerves sharply for a second before he regains control.
“You okay?” Gris asks, already leaning over to check the other man’s hand, voice low and steady.
Enjin shakes his head, slowing the vehicle as he examines the fresh red mark blooming on his fingertips, the unlit cigarette still clamped between his lips. “Little brat’s got some fight in her today.”
Gris turns in his seat then, slow and deliberate, those broad shoulders filling the space as he fixes you with a look that makes heat coil low in your belly despite the defiant scowl on your face. “Apologise. Now.”
“No.”
“Bunny,” he says, voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that always sends a shiver racing down your spine, “you could have really hurt Enjin.”
“So?” You shrug, arms still crossed, thighs pressing together on instinct as you feel their combined attention settle heavy on you. “We have Eishia back at base. He’d be fine.”
The silence that follows is thick, charged. Gris turns back around without another word, eyes facing forward, jaw set. Enjin follows suit, his facial expression now stern as he flexes his burned fingers around the wheel. The air inside the jeep feels suddenly too warm, too small, the engine’s growl vibrating up through the seat and you realise you’ve finally poked the bear too much.
The rest of the drive home is thick with a heavy, suffocating tension that wraps around the inside of the jeep like smoke. Your pulse hammers in your throat, a messy cocktail of anxiety and dark, electric anticipation twisting low in your belly. Every bump in the ruined road sends fresh jolts through your body, but it’s nothing compared to the way Gris’s steady blue eyes keep finding you in the rearview mirror. Those eyes—calm, unblinking—don’t hold their usual warm patience. They pin you in place, heavy with promise. This punishment is going to be nowhere near a funishment.
The tires screech to a sharp halt outside HQ, gravel crunching under the wheels as Enjin kills the engine with a low growl of the motor dying. The sudden silence feels louder than the drive ever did. He flips his palm up in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, inspecting the fresh red burn across his fingertips again. The skin is already blistering faintly at the tips. When he drags his thumb across them, he winces—sharp, involuntary—and that tiny sound hits you like a punch to the gut.
Guilt floods hot and immediate through your chest, souring the defiant spark that had been fueling you all day. You fumble with your seatbelt, fingers suddenly clumsy, heart sinking straight to your stomach.
You try to slink out of the jeep unnoticed the second the men climb out from the front, keeping your head down and your steps light across the dusty lot. Their low conversation drifts back to you—casual on the surface, but edged with that familiar undercurrent of control.
“You should get that checked out,” Gris suggests, voice low and gravelly as he rights his belt. The long drive has his pants riding up uncomfortably, the fabric stretched tight over those powerful thighs. He rolls one broad shoulder, looking every bit the steady, exhausted dom who’s about to put you back in your place.
“Nah,” Enjin replies, voice flat, the usual easy drawl stripped away. “Some burn gel and I’ll be back to a hundred by tomorrow.” He’s not smiling. He closes the driver’s side door with a solid thunk, the sound final. No smirk, no joke to ease the worry etched into Gris’s face. Just quiet, simmering displeasure.
You’ve nearly made it to the heavy doors of HQ, boots scuffing softly against the ground, when Gris’s voice cuts through the night air like a command you can’t ignore.
“Bunny.”
The single word stops you cold. Your spine snaps straight, skin prickling as both men turn toward you in perfect sync. Gris’s large frame is silhouetted against the jeep’s headlights, arms crossed over his broad chest, jaw set like stone. Enjin stands beside him, shoulders tense, yellow eyes narrowed with none of their usual lazy warmth. The air between the three of you crackles—thick with everything they haven’t said yet.
You suddenly feel the need to run — a raw, animalistic panic that screams if one of them catches you right now, it will be a one-way ticket straight to hell.
You whirl on your heel, boots scraping against the gravel as you lunge for the heavy HQ door handle with sheer desperation, fingers outstretched, heart slamming against your ribs like it wants to claw its way out. But before you can even brush the cold metal, a large hand clamps down on your forearm like a steel vise. The grip is bruising, unforgiving, yanking you back so hard your shoulder twinges and your feet skid uselessly on the ground. You twist and struggle against the assailant, yanking, shoving, nails digging into the thick forearm that refuses to budge an inch. It’s like fighting a wall. The hold only tightens, planting you exactly where you stand.
You finally snap your head up, chest heaving.
Gris towers behind you, expression carved from stone. No warmth in those steady blue eyes. No fond rumble in his gravelly voice. Just an emotionless stare that pins you harder than his hand ever could, jaw locked tight. You can feel the disappointment rolling off him in waves — thick, heavy, suffocating — the kind that settles deep in your gut and makes your knees want to buckle. He exhales once through his nose, calm and controlled, but the air between you crackles with the weight of everything you broke today.
Then Gris begins to pull you back, his large, calloused hand sliding from your forearm down to your smaller one. His fingers trap your digits in an iron fist—no give, no gentleness, just the unyielding clamp of someone who has run clean out of patience.
You begin to struggle again, yanking hard against the hold. “Gris—please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to burn him, I promise.”
Your boots scraping across the gravel as you try to plant them over and over again, pleading for forgiveness over and over again like it would help your case.
He suddenly stops dead beside the jeep. The abrupt halt nearly yanks you off your feet. Before you can draw another pleading breath, Gris spins you hard and slams your front against the warm metal hood with a dull metallic thud. His broad palm lands heavy between your shoulder blades, pinning you there like you weigh nothing.
“Enough.”
The single word drops from him in that low, gravelly voice you know so well—but there’s no warmth in it tonight. No “sweetheart.” No measured patience. Just flat, exhausted steel. His usual calm has finally cracked, jaw locked so hard the muscle jumps.
Enjin leans against the side of the jeep, arms crossed, cigarette lit between his fingers. He says nothing. Just watches, yellow eyes dark and unforgiving, letting Gris take the lead in some kind of silent agreement.
Gris’s free hand yanks your skirt up over your ass in one rough motion. Cool night air rushes over your skin, and your cheeks burn with fresh humiliation as your tiny panties are left fully exposed — thin fabric stretched tight across the plush curve of your ass, the crotch clinging obscenely to your folds. You feel the weight of both men’s stares on you, bent over the hood like this, but the shame only makes your thighs press together harder.
His palm comes down hard — no warm-up, no teasing sting, just a measured, punishing crack that echoes across the empty lot and makes your whole body jolt.
“Count,” he says, voice low, gravelly, and perfectly calm. The usual steady composure is still there, only now it’s edged with quiet authority that leaves no room for argument.
You cry out, legs trembling, trying to push up onto your toes, but his broad palm between your shoulder blades keeps you bent and exposed exactly where he wants you. “I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I swear—”
Another firm smack lands, precise and unrelenting, the heat blooming deep across your cheek.
He waits, hand hovering. “Count, Bunny.”
You whimper, hips twitching uselessly against the hood, voice cracking. “O-one…”
“Good girl,” he murmurs, steady as ever. “You’ve been way too bratty today.” His palm comes down again, heavier this time.
“Two,” you choke out, tears already pricking at your eyes as the sting sinks in.
“Three.” Another measured crack, right where your ass meets your thigh. “Snapping at everyone. Kicking Enjin’s seat. Biting at him.”
You sob against the cool metal, thighs shaking, still trying to twist away even as slick heat soaks through your panties. “Gris, please—not out here, someone could walk by—I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll do anything— Four!”
The smack is deliberate, controlled, letting the burn settle deep before the next one falls. “Nearly wrecking the jeep because you couldn’t control that attitude.”
“Five,” you whimper, legs trembling harder, the heat building between your legs into a deep, throbbing ache. “I’m sorry—I’m really sorry, Gris, please, it hurts—Six!”
His hand never falters, steady and unhurried, each strike precise so the lesson sinks in without crossing into real harm.
“S-Seven.”
He pauses just long enough for the sting to bloom fully, thumb brushing lightly over the warm fabric of your panties like he’s checking his work.
You keep struggling, twisting your hips, voice breaking on desperate little sobs. “Gris, please, I know I was awful, I’ll never do it again— Eight!”
Another firm smack.
“Nine.”
Your breath hitches, tears slipping free now as the tenth lands — heavy, deliberate, the final one that leaves your ass glowing hot and stinging under the thin barrier of your panties.
“Ten,” you gasp out, voice shaky and small.
Gris stops. His large hand runs slowly over your ass, smoothing across the heated skin and the thin fabric of your panties, admiring the way your cheeks glow red beneath them. Even after a long day of dealing with your nonstop attitude, even with the fresh burn on Enjin’s fingers still fresh in his mind, he remains perfectly composed.
He gives your sore cheek one last firm squeeze, then lets his fingers drift lower, pressing the damp crotch of your panties against your soaked folds.
“You took your ten like a good girl,” he murmurs, voice low and even, thumb rubbing slow circles over your clit through the soaked fabric.
“Thank you, Daddy…” you moan softly as Gris’s thumb draws slow, lazy circles over your clit through your soaked panties, your thighs twitching weakly against the hood.
He replies with a deep, rumbling groan of his own, the low sound vibrating straight through his chest — a wordless praise that says he is no longer mad at you.
But what about Enjin?
You try to push up from under Gris’s heavy hand. He lets you, though he only allows you to lift onto your elbows. You blink through clumped lashes, searching for the other blond. Enjin is looking down at you now, that cold stare finally gone, replaced by a content, shit-eating smirk that makes your stomach flip. Your heart skips hard, a soft, relieved murmur slipping out when you realize both of your men are happy with you again.
But then Enjin moves. “Don’t think I’ve forgiven you, trouble. Those spanks were for Daddy’s temper, not mine.”
You whine, a sad little sound that catches in your throat because the giver is still possibly upset with you.
Gris’s thumb on your clit stops. His hand moves to smooth over your burning ass one last time, steady and deliberate. His voice stays low, gravelly, but the raw edge of exhaustion is still there. “He’s right, sweetheart. That wasn’t cute. It was dangerous.”
Enjin exhales hard through his nose, still staring at the fresh blister on his fingers. The that cocky, dimpled smirk has disappeared again. Now he just looks tired. “Yeah. We’re done playing for tonight.”
He doesn’t say it mean, but the words land heavy. No round two. No carrying you to bed like a spoiled princess. Gris helps you stand on shaky legs, tugs your skirt back down, and presses a kiss to your temple — gentle, but distant.
“Go to your room, Bunny. Get some rest.”
You blink up at them, the high from the spanking crashing fast. The guilt hits different this time. Not the cute, horny kind that leads to more dick. The real kind — the kind that sits heavy in your stomach and makes your eyes sting for a whole new reason.
“I… I’m sorry. For real.”
Enjin nods once, but he doesn’t smile. “We know you are. We’ll talk tomorrow when heads are clear.”
Gris gives your shoulder one last squeeze, then they both walk you back to HQ in silence. No teasing. No possessive hands on your ass. Just the quiet weight of two men who are genuinely disappointed in you for once.
CWS: Mentions of physical child abuse. Past grooming. Mentions of statutory rape. Inappropriate relationship (adult/minor). Underage drug use. Underage drinking. Toxic relationship. Domestic violence. Flashback chapter.
WC: 4.6K
Bro rushes into the kitchen as he fights to put his backpack over his shoulders, struggling like its shrunken three sizes over night. His shoes are still untied, scuffed sneakers squeaking against the shiny, tiled floors over the kitchen.
He pauses immediately at the sound and winces, his eyes darting to his parents bedroom door. He waits a beat, and when no sound comes from the other side of the door he continues fighting with his bag, finally figuring out what the problem is when his hands slide up and find that the straps have been tightened all the way. He fixes it quickly, the bag finally settling over his shoulders and laying against his back, and pulls a banana free from the bunch laying on the counter.
He glances at the time displayed on the microwave, peeling the banana open as he does, and strides over to the trashcan to dump the peel in it. With his attention split between the digital clock and his makeshift breakfast, he misses the barstool at the kitchen island that hadn’t been pushed in all the way. The toe of his shoe catches it, and his body falls forward as his hand shoots out to brace his fall. The barstool comes clattering down beside him, the loud noise echoing throughout the house, and he groans as the old springs in his parents bed creak underneath shifting weight.
“Fuck.”
-
Bro smooths out the wrinkles in his uniform top as he walks down the street, occasionally wincing as he brushes over the sore spot in the center of his chest. His mother had ironed his uniform for him before she had left for work that morning, and he feels a bit bad that the effort had gone to waste because his dad was an angry fuck in the morning—he was always an angry fuck, but doubly so before the hours of seven am.
He spots a familiar tall body a bit of ways down the street talking with a shorter one, and the two clasp their hands in a handshake, a small baggy passed as they do. The shorter person crosses the street after the transaction, and Bro calls out to the one remaining, a smile spreading across his face as they raise their hand in greeting.
“What’s up, Arkha?” Their hands dap each other up before they fall into step beside each other. Corvus shrugs a shoulder, hand moving to reach for something in the side pocket of his bag. He retrieves a bottle of hand sanitizer and applies a generous amount to his hands. “You know they’re still doing bag checks at the door, right?” He looks over at Bro, head slightly angled down due to his tall height, and Bro internally glowers at the difference in height.
“My cousin switched over from Prestman so it’s cool. He’s gonna be working the door from now on.” He puts the bottle away, the strong smell of the hand antiseptic fading away until he smells of a mix of laundry detergent and moisturizer. He straightens his already crisp shirt out, flicking away invisible pieces of lint, and Bro tries to smooth his own wrinkled shirt out once again.
“The one with the shit on his teeth? The barnacles?” Corvus huffs out a laugh, his own straight, white teeth flashing, and the two of them round the corner and spot yet another familiar body leaning against a stop sign.
“It’s called Tartar, Bro. And yeah, that's the one. He’s gonna help me push the rest of what I’ve got so I can go to class. My mom has been on me about missing so many days.”
Corvus would eventually stop selling drugs when his supplier would start cutting fentanyl into the batches, and he’d sell those laced drugs to his classmates and the people in his neighborhood that he had grown up with, which would lead to their deaths if they were lucky. If they weren’t, they’d end up strung out until they eventually OD’d in dirty bathrooms and crack dens, but not before losing themselves first. He’d go on to take school seriously and go off to college to study law, then to graduate school, and then he’d be hired on as a criminal defense lawyer and make The Forbes list.
Enjin joins the duo, his uniform more wrinkled than Bro’s and no backpack in sight. He’s got a joint tucked behind one ear that’ll more than likely be smoked before they reach the school, and there’s dark bags underneath his eyes that have been there since they first met two years ago when he was placed in the rundown foster home on the rougher end of the city.
“You’re such a fuckin’ mama’s boy, Arkha. You still on breast milk, too?” Bro barks out a laugh when Corvus reaches out to hit Enjin’s shoulder, and then laughs again when Corvus has to pull the hand sanitizer back out and douse his hands in it yet again. Enjin groans, rubbing at the sore spot, and falls into step as well. “You really shouldn’t hit me around Bro, man. You’re gonna give him war flashbacks from his dad or somethin’.” Bro’s laughter stops abruptly, and before he can make Enjin’s other shoulder just as sore, a voice is shouting at them from up the street.
They’ve officially reached the more bougie rows of houses, and sitting on the stoop of a three story home is none other than Gris. He stands up as they near, the phone that he had been typing on pushed down into his pocket. Just as they reach the staircase, the front door to the house opens and his dad comes rushing out, tie undone and briefcase tucked underneath his arm as he takes the stairs two at a time.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night, Gris.” He spares a quick ruffle to his son’s hair as he passes him by, and Bro thinks back to how his own dad had sent him off this morning with a fist to his chest and spittle in his face. “Stay out of trouble – and that goes for all of you. Especially you, Enjin. If I get another call from your caseworker begging for another pro bono because you got into something I’ll wring your neck myself.”
Enjin rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah, Hank. Don’t act like you don’t love me.” His joint is plucked from behind his ear, and he groans and hangs his head down.
Hank stops in front of Corvus, and like routine he fixes the man’s tie with quick, sure movements. “It’s not an act, you spindly bastard. But this kid,” he juts his chin at Corvus as he heads to his car that’s parked on the street. “Fuckin’ love ‘em. Once I get my firm up off the ground I’ve got a spot for you if you keep your nose clean.” He tosses his briefcase into the passenger’s seat before pushing the door shut. “And you.” He points to Bro. “You know you’re free to come over whenever shit gets dicey. Take advantage.” He gives him a sincere look, and Bro nods as he gives him a grateful, albeit embarrassed, look. “Alright, boys. Stay safe and stay out of jail.” He angles his head up and cups his hands around his mouth as his voice booms down the empty street. “Bye, sweetheart! I love you! Don’t let the milkman in while I’m gone, alright!?”
“So the mailman is free game, then?!”
The older man laughs as he gets into his car, and Bro watches the mustang peel off down the street. He’s always liked Gris’s dad, his mom too, which wasn’t a surprise. He found that he liked everyone’s dad as long as it wasn’t his own. He spent most of his summers split between their house and his own, something that would stop a year down the line when Hank would come home early from a business trip to find his wife dead in the bedroom and his son comatose, both of them the victims of an act of revenge from a case everyone had told him not to touch.
Gris would end up hating his dad for a long time because his grief would turn into anger, and it’s easy to throw blame to whoever is closest, and his dad would hate himself until he eventually took his last breath as he succumbed to stage 4 cirrhosis of the liver due to drinking his sorrows away. He’d leave his law firm to his most trusted attorney, and his assets to his son, and he’d be missed by everyone who loved him.
“Your dad is such a dick, man. He took my joint.”
“Chin up, twiggy. I’m sure you’ll have another by the time lunch comes. Bye, ma! I’m leaving!”
“Okay, love you! Don’t be late!”
The group continues on their way, and soon enough they all come into sight of the school, the last two members of the group, Semiu and Mildretta, joining up with them as they reach the line building outside the entrance. They make conversation, laughing and cursing and drawing the attention of the others around them, and when it’s their turn to have their bags searched and their pockets turned inside out, Corvus’s cousin makes sure to look past the drugs snuggled up against his chemistry textbook and waves their group in.
Before everyone breaks off to go to their classes, Enjin slings his arm around Corvus’s shoulders, ignoring the way he pointedly looks at him and tries to shrug him off. “You got me with a free bag after school?”
“No.” He finally manages to get Enjin off of him, and Semiu shakes her head before grabbing him by the collar and proceeding to pull him down the hall.
Corvus would give him a free bag like he always did, and a little later down the line he’d unknowingly give him a laced one, and Enjin would find himself a resident of a slew of rehabs paid for by both Corvus and Gris, and occasionally in prison when Corvus wasn’t able to win his case. He’d eventually get clean and use the skills he had learned when he was locked up to work in an autoshop. He’d get chummy with the owner, the older man taking him under his wing, and when he eventually passed on he’d leave the shop to Enjin and he’d take it to new heights and eventually expand the business into other cities and then states.
Mildretta and Gris go off to class together, and when Corvus gets a nod from someone two grades above that slips into the boys bathroom he goes off, too, leaving Bro to head in the opposite direction by himself.
They’d all meet back up tonight –save for Corvus who had to make up for lost sells due to school, and Semiu and Mildretta due to their dads being hard-asses and keeping them on short leashes– since it was Friday, and that meant his house was the place to go to sneak liquor and smoke outside behind the shed while the adults got drunk off their asses and stopped caring about what the kids were getting up to.
—
“Your mom is so fucking hot, man.”
Bro can just barely make out the words over the thumping sound of the music, the bass emitting from the speakers seemingly shaking the floor underneath their feet, but when he finally processes it, his face twists into a disgusted frown as he shoots a hand out to smack the back of Enjin’s head.
“Shut the fuck up, gringo.”
Enjin grins, his eyes not straying from where they watch Bro’s mom who dances in the center of the room, his dad not too far off as he drinks straight from a bottle. His usual frown is gone, instead replaced with a grin, and he laughs at something Marlo, a neighbor from down the street, says. It’s a rare sight, one that he’s never seen directed at himself, and a wave of jealousy briefly flares up at the fact that some guy who practically counts as a stranger gets the best from his father opposed to his own flesh and blood.
Most of the people attending could count as strangers in Bro's book, only a few being vaguely familiar. There’s Lynette, the widow from the apartments three blocks over that his mom met at the hair salon. She’s a sad, reclusive lady so she rarely comes, but he guesses his mom had done some begging to finally get her to show up. Bro steered clear of her, never knowing what to say when she broke into a sad spiel about her late husband. He’d nod and give her sympathetic looks, before guiltily forcing out a few lines of broken English to get her to go and find a more fluent party.
Mr. O from next door was a middle aged Asian man who genuinely didn’t speak a lick of English or Spanish, but a liquor bottle and music transcended language barriers and he found himself at every gathering they hosted. He was nice enough, and he always brought over some kind of dish when he came so he was a party favorite.
There was Dolly, an older white woman who was missing a few teeth but didn’t let it stop her from smiling in your face and telling story after story. There were a few men from his father’s job, along with some of his mother’s coworkers as well. Some people were just randoms from the street that had been drawn in by the music and the open front door, and he even recognized a few super seniors from school with red solo cups in their hands.
Yet another group comes creeping through the front door, and Bro writes them off as yet another group of stragglers and turns to head over to the unoccupied drink table where Gris currently lingers, but then a brand new face is grabbing his attention and keeping him rooted in his spot. She’s beautiful. And he’s not the only one that thinks so. Multiple heads turn to look as she enters, and Bro tracks her with his eyes as she seemingly floats into his home.
She nears him, and before he can think of looking away so his gawking isn’t so obvious, she’s meeting his stare and tilting her head at him. She smiles, dimples popping up in her cheeks, and Bro gives her a wave that Enjin will absolutely give him shit for later.
She opens her mouth to say something, but then Enjin is shouting something about ‘Gris’ and ‘out back’ and dragging him away, leaving Bro to give the woman an apologetic look as the distance between them grows.
—
The door to Bro’s bedroom softly clicks shut behind him, and he immediately heads over to his dresser that’s pushed against the wall, various gaming magazines lazily tossed on top. He tugs open the second drawer on the left, and with a last, cautious glance to his door, he begins to move his clothing aside in search for the reinforced ziploc bag of weed hidden inside. Enjin had managed to smoke all of his own to no one’s surprise, and Bro had resigned to giving up his own when Enjin kept bitching about losing his high.
His shoulders stiffen when his bedroom door suddenly swings open, the squeaky hinges that had ruined his many attempts at sneaking out announcing someone’s arrival, and Bro quickly shoves the ziplock bag of weed back between his clothing before stepping back and taking a seat on his bed in an attempt to look casual.
He wasn’t sure who he had been expecting, but it definitely hadn’t been the girl from earlier. She looks around the room before her eyes finally land on him, and she looks surprised before giving him a smile that makes him give a natural one of his own, his throat suddenly feeling dry.
“Oh, sorry, I was looking for the bathroom.” She says, and Bro nods, his mind trying and failing to come up with something to say. He’s never been bad with girls, and he’s had a few almost girlfriends before he fucked up and said something to piss them off, but Bro can tell that she’s not like the girls he goes to school with. She doesn’t have the braces, or the pimply faces, or the silly bandz on the wrist that he’s currently trying to yank off of his own wrist before she sees. She’s got makeup and long lashes, sharp cheeks and sharper eyes, tattoos that peek out from the hem of her dress. “Are you Marlene’s son?”
“Huh?” His eyes lift from where they had been unconsciously trying to decipher what her tattoo said, and when her question finally registers in his head he gives a quick nod. “Oh, uh–yeah. I’m Bro.”
“Bro.. Your mom named you that or is it just a nickname?” She slips into his room, casually shutting the door behind herself, and Bro completely forgets that she had originally been looking for the bathroom because holy shit she’s in his room.
“A-A nickname. I’m named after my dad, but I don’t—people just call me Bro.”
“That’s cute.” He lets out a nervous laugh, lips rolling into his mouth before he releases them. She looks around his room, lingering on the magazine pages he’s got pinned on the walls featuring a slew of shiny, classic cars. Then she shifts to the shelving, which hosts small replicas of cars that date back as far as the early 1900’s. She reaches out to touch one, and Bro makes a noise of complaint before quickly swallowing it down, but she hears it nonetheless. Her hand pauses before she touches it, head turning over her shoulder to look at him, and she quirks a brow at him. “What, I can’t touch it?”
“No, no, you can. It’s cool.” He says, and he clenches his teeth and presses his lips firmly together as she lets out a chuckle. She picks it up from the shelf and brings it closer to her face, and he’s torn between being happy at the fact that a pretty girl like her is touching his stuff and being annoyed that a pretty girl is touching his stuff.
He doesn’t have to switch between the two emotions for long before she’s placing the car back down, waltzing over to him, and plopping herself down onto the bed beside him. He stiffens up immediately, even more so than he already was, and his hands move to rest on his thighs, clammy palms subtly wiping themselves dry on the material of his pants.
She notices his stiff posture and playfully bumps her shoulder against his, her knees turning inward so they brush against his leg. He shifts away without thinking and she notices, shooting him a mock offended look.
“What? You’ve got a girlfriend or something, guapo?” Her smile widens as she says it, and Bro’s skin heats at the compliment. He was used to being complimented, really, but always by his mother or the aunties in his family and the abuelas at church, and the occasional rumor that went around in the school halls about what girl thought he was cute that month. He had never heard it from someone like this.
He glances off to the side, hand idly reaching up to twist at the dark, wavy hair that only just reach the back of his neck, only to immediately drop it back down, muscle memory kicking in as his body remembers all the times his father had swatted his hands to try and break the habit.
“No, not yet, but–I mean I’ve had one. A bunch.” He rushes out in an attempt to save face, voice cracking as he says it, and he clears his throat right after to try and cover it up but she laughs as she notices it anyways. The sound is teasing, similar to how his older cousins laugh and poke at him whenever he tries to insert himself into their dealings, and he grows defensive without meaning to, body tensing and eyes unconsciously going to the shut door of his bedroom.
“Aww, don’t pout. I didn't laugh in a mean way. I just think it’s cute.” Fingers suddenly sift through his hair, and Bro whips his head around to look at her, lips nervously twitching. “You’re almost bigger than your dad but you’re still just a kid.”
“I’m not a kid.” His ‘pout’ turns into a frown as he rushes the words out. He had just turned 15 three months ago, and he had been mistaken for an adult more often than not when he was out in public. His mom sent him to the liquor store four blocks whenever the party ran dry and he never got carded. His father tasked him with buying his cigarettes, and if he was drunk enough he’d pretend not to notice the lack of change and the extra carton in his son’s back pocket. He got stopped on the streets by asshole cops whenever they felt like harassing someone, and he’d have to practically shove his school ID down their throats for them to believe he was still a minor. And she had thought he was older too, initially, hadn’t she? That’s why she was sitting here, smiling and touching him and talking to him. “I’m already in highschool.”
“Yeah?” She giggles, leaning in closer, and he stiffens up and swallows as her chest pushes against his arm. “What are you? A freshman?” He jerkily nods, palms growing sweaty, and his eyes drift over to the door again.
“A-Are you a senior?” She shakes her head. “You’re in college?” Another shake of her head, and then her hand is on his thigh and Bro jumps in his body as he swallows again, this time harsher.
“I graduated college six years ago.” She squeezes his leg. “That’s why I said you’re just a kid. Compared to me, anyway.” Her hand drifts upward, and Bro watches as it settles over the bulge in his pants and smooths back and forth. His gasp gets caught in his throat, and he has to switch to manual breathing as flaming hot heat settles in his face. The only other time he’s had someone else touch him below the belt, it had been his seventy year old doctor during his yearly physical while his mom stood behind the privacy curtain to make sure he wasn’t a cochino.
She presses against him harder, and his heart slams against his ribcage, pulse thumping in his ears, and his hands fist the Hulk comforter bunched underneath him. “Mm, or maybe not.” She laughs again, the sound making gooseflesh appear on his arms, and just as she reaches for the button on his pants the doorknob rattles.
She pulls away from him quickly and rises from the bed, somehow still graceful as she does it, and Bro is still sitting frozen as the door is shoved open to reveal an annoyed Gris, a drunken Enjin hanging off his shoulder.
“Brooooo, where the fuh–” He wretches, head dipping forward, and Gris makes a disgusted face before shoving the lanky boy forward so he lands on the beanbag in the corner.
“He found your dad’s moons—” Gris cuts himself off at the sight of the woman still in Bro’s room, and then he looks back to Bro, and then back to her. “He’s actually sober, by the way. He just has low blood sugar right now.” Gris grins, and Bro snaps out of his stupor to snag a pillow from the head of his bed and lay it across his lap.
“Don’t worry, Güerito.” She smiles, and then her gaze swings over to where Bro is still sitting, smile widening when she notices the pillow over his lap. “I won’t tell if you won't." He reaches up for his hair and stops short again, instead settling on picking at a loose thread on his pillowcase. “Text me sometime, Bro.”
His head whips up, eyes shining and cheeks warm. “I-I don’t have your–” She points to his nightstand, and he reaches over and snags his math journal that he had left open. A number is scribbled right underneath Geometry equations, followed by her name written in cursive.
Angel.
When he looks up she’s gone and Gris is standing over him, mouth agape and eyes wide as he slams his hands down on Bro’s shoulders and shakes him.
“Her number? What the fuck? And look at your fucking boner – did y’all fuck?”
“With my pants still on, dumbass?”
“Brooo.” Gris gives a giddy laugh, the beer he drank earlier making him more animated than he usually is, and Bro can’t help but join in on his laughter. “Did you see her tits?” He makes motions over his shirt to signify breasts, and Bro snorts and raises up to his own feet. The two teens are leveled shoulder to shoulder now, but that will change in the next year when Gris gains six inches over his best friend seemingly overnight. “There’s no way she goes to Westman. She must go to the school over the tracks - Jacobi. They get all the pretty girls.”
“Nah, she’s not in school.”
“She dropped out?”
“She graduated already.” Bro walks over to Enjin and kicks the beanbag he’s on to check if he’s still up, and when he doesn’t get a response he squats down and flips him over. “So I guess she’s working now, or something. Did he take something? Enjin. Hey, pendejo.”
“Nah, man, just the weed and that shit your dad keeps under the counter. Sem took his pills before we got here, remember?” Gris walks over next, closing the door as he does, and bends down to give a series of light smacks to Enjin’s cheek. “Hey, En. Corvus is here with his dick out.”
“That’s not gonna work, you—”
“...huh? Arkha?” Enjin comes to life for a second, head managing to lift and eyes staying open long enough to give the room a scan. Once he sees that Corvus is nowhere in sight he passes back out, head flopping down and body going limp. Gris and Bro meet each other's eyes, and the laughter that follows after is loud enough to drown out the music beyond his bedroom door.
The two of them won’t laugh like that for a long time, and Bro won’t hang out with him or the rest of his friends either. He’ll date Angel and he’ll fall in love, and she’ll tell him that she loves him, too, and he’ll believe her despite all the guys in the videos on her phone. Despite the names she calls him when he makes her mad. Despite the smacks she lands on him. Despite all the lies she told him. Despite the men twice his age that she had instigated fights with in attempts to see if he could protect her when it came down to it. He’ll stay with her until Dear is born, taking everything she dishes out because that’s all he’s ever known, and he’ll even stay when Angel gets pregnant again despite him not having touched her since he held his son for the first time. He’ll only leave when the abuse that had been directed at him attempts to shift towards his son. She’ll threaten to fight for custody, he’ll remind her of the maximum prison time for a person convicted of statutory rape, and he won’t hear from her for months at a time until she wants to parade around as a mother to her friends and family on social media.
Bro will raise his son with the support of his childhood friends, and he’ll struggle in the beginning, doubly so when Dear is diagnosed with Autism, but he’ll do his best and that’ll be more than enough. And then he’ll meet you, eventually, but that part of his life has yet to be written.
sending Caleb pictures of your panties as you wait for him to get home, and they’re absolutely soaked to the point he can practically see your pretty cunt thru the fabric. you’re wet from just the excitement of him coming home after being away from for you several weeks, he can’t help but press a little harder on the gas as each of your texts pop up on the car screen
‘drive faster, Caleb :((( I miss u so bad’
‘see?? m so excited to see you !!’
‘only 5 minutes left?? can I touch myself just a little bit before you get here?’
‘calebbb hurryy my brain s leaking outta my pussyyy’
“Jesus fucking Christ,” is all he can mutter out, trying to be responsible with his driving but also desperate to burst thru the front door and kiss you, your mouth, your cheeks, your forehead, all before ripping those sticky panties off and making out with his other pretty girl who’s crying because she misses him so much
