Also I don’t mind making new friends, so messaging me is okay.
————————
Also please don’t feed my work to AI or anything like that! Thank you..and do not repost my writing or translate it on any other platforms. (reblogs are appreciated.) 💕
using ai to write fanfiction is so fucking embarrassing like the only way to get better at writing is practice and fanfiction IS the practice lmao. fym you’re using ai to write yaoi just do what everyone else did and work until you get better ?? actually insane shit
This is your unfriendly reminder that grooming, sexual assault, and rape of any kind can absolutely happen to the older person in the situation rather than the younger person.
Sincerely, a very angry victim who was a couple years older.
Stood in live at the merch shop for the hayley Williams concert with SCOLIOSIS at both the start and the end of the show and didnt get jackshit bc people who already bought merch went into the line again after the show. And I had a fucking train to catch bc i had exam preparation the next day so l had to go home. Some of you guys really fucking suck and are definitely not considerate.
ALSO THIS PROVLEM COULD’ve EASILY BEEN SOLVED IF THE PPL BEHIND THE SHOW PUT THE MERCH STAND OUTSIDE BEFORE THE DOORS OPENED
I just wanted to hold on to a memory and own cute clothes /:
Any witches or pagans that can tell me why the hell my ex is on my mind sp much even though she traumatized me and ruined my reputation at school? I think im getting paranoid but any theories. And what do i do to heal and move on?
Calling all the pagan witches! because i am seeking wise words and advice.
I'm really stressed lately and it's making me depressed aswell.
I think the biggest factor is because everyday at school I have to be around this girl who spread rumours about or shared personal information about me because we got into a huge fight.
And I would explain why we got into a fight but it's a long story and I don't think most of you would care that much. So I'll explain it shorter.
We dated for two weeks but she was extremely overwhelming. hugging, kissing me, talking to me in a baby voice, constantly yelling at me in that voie when she saw me, stuff like that. Most people know that I don't like physical touch. Im just not great at opening up but i managed to say that it was very rushed and that we needed to slow down. That didnt change anything. I break up with her and a day after she tells our mutal friend that she has a new crush. I was hurt so i blocked her online bc i was blinded by rage. Then we dont speak for weeks. But we start talking again and she starts cuddling me, touching me under my blouse, stares intensly at me and pretended to kiss me by my ear. I bottle it up inside but i really wanted her to stop. It was really difficult to set boundaries with her bc she's very dramatic and twists my words. One day she called me evil and i asked why she did that. Apparently i was evil bc i finally tried to set a boundary. I get really hurt and upset and i start scolding her for all the things she did to me. She calls me childish, gross, overreacting and all that. I block her bc i was overwhelmed and tired of fighting bc it led to nothing. (which i told her) the enxt day she read our text messages out loud to the entire class when i wasn't there, started talking about how i was getting checked for autism and painting me as crazy.
This still affects me every day at school bc we are in the same class. Half the class have talked bad about me behind my back and blah blah. I lost two friends bc of this aswell and it hurts to see how they 'chose her'. Which is really devastating to me bc i dont feel like i got my justice or the good gymnasium experience that it started out with being. I wanna hear what you witches would do in this position? We are both witches and worship Aphrodite so i dont know if i could ask her for help or how i would do that. Any advice on what i can do in my practice to get my justice or to have people figure out the truth? ( or atleast both sides of the story). OR maybe even get her kicked out? I'm a little nervous messing with that part of paganism where you damage or affect other peoples lives without good intentions or consent. I really need some help and advice you guys. <3 i'd really appreciate a good talk.
For info i worship Apollo, Aphrodite, Athena & Dionysus. I've also been feeling drawn to Hekate for example bc i've been seeing black birds and spiders alot. I have been seeing them since september and now its returned alot again.
My bedsheets are ablaze
I've screamed his name
Building up like waves
Crashing over my grave
You can't stop thinking about Steve Harrington when having sex with your boyfriend.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 7k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) porn with a plot, female masturbation, oral (fem receiving), p in v, protected penetrative sex, dirty talk, pet names, reader being a bit of a perv and listens to steve having sex, lots of fantasying about steve, best friend/roommate!steve, use of y/n, female reader, she/her pronouns for reader, emotional cheating (i guess??), inclusion of ronance because why not!! eddie is also alive and well and also bi!!
author's note: it is finally here!! i've been banging on about this fic a lot and i'm glad that part one is here. you guys have been just as excited about this fic as me so i’m so happy that i’m finally sharing it as i thought of this idea in january!! full transparency, this was meant to be just one part fic but then i realised that i wanted much more of a story and sooooo here we are!
rec account: @moonstone-recommends
to be added to my 18+ taglist | masterlist | requests page
“Oh—fuck—I’m so close, babe. Tell me you’re close, tell me you’re—”
You wished you could say you were. You wished your moans falling from your lips were genuine—that you were right there with your boyfriend but you’d be lying. You weren’t even close.
“Yeah, super close,” you tell him in a not so breathless voice.
James was too busy chasing his release to even notice.
You felt his cock twitch inside of you and you knew it was over before it had even begun for you.
Your boyfriend spills into the condom, with a loud grunt of your name—pressing his face right into the crook of your neck as his hips stuttered against yours.
You keep your hands on his shoulders, trying to keep the disappointed look off your face as James pulls his softening cock out of you.
James was—well, he was objectively a perfect boyfriend. He was kind, attentive, always there when you needed him. He loved your family and in return, your family loved him. But in the bedroom? He left you pretty high and dry.
He never took his time—seemed to look at foreplay as an obligation rather than something to be enjoyed. He never spent more than a few minutes with his mouth between your legs. He never let you set the pace, never made sex about you. It was always about him. And after care? Well, that was a foreign concept to James. He tended to fall asleep less than five minutes after finishing.
It wasn’t that he didn’t care about your pleasure because he did—for all of ten seconds before his own needs started to outweigh yours. He’d press his fingers inside you and the moment it started to feel good for you—when you would let out a few soft moans or start to move your hips, he’d take it as a job well done. Or worse—instead he would start pumping his fingers too quickly, pistoning them in and out of you as fast as he could. As if it did anything for you.
You had tried to tell him this—gently, of course. Trying to let him know what felt good for you but he just wouldn’t retain the information. Or perhaps, when it came to your pleasure over his, he didn’t want to listen. You had tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t the latter.
As James rolled over in bed—you felt that familiar sense of guilt build. The one that reminded you of the date he had taken you on tonight. How much money the fancy dinner had cost and how he had refused to let you pay for it. The guilt was a reminder how lucky you were to have a guy like James. In the past, guys weren't so great to you. In fact, you had dated some downright assholes. Guys who weren’t kind. Guys who didn’t respect you. Hell, some guys you were sure didn’t even really like you. And James was great. Really—he was. You were sure you loved him—sure that he was the kind of man you could marry. The kind of man who was a smart, sensible choice.
But as you looked over at the man you should love unconditionally—already falling asleep with the condom still on—you were beginning to question whether smart and sensible was the right choice.
A year ago, you had been in dire need of a roommate. Your previous roommate, Rachel, had moved out after landing her dream job in a different city. You had been happy for her but it had left you with a two bed apartment that you could not afford on your own.
James hadn’t wanted to move in at that point—you had only been together for a few months back then and neither of you were ready to take that big step yet. And so, you were without a roommate and a monthly rent that was haemorrhaging money from you.
That was until your co-worker Robin Buckley told you about Steve Harrington.
“Wait, Steve as in Steve?” You had asked her, a skeptical look on your face. “As in your girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend—that Steve?”
Robin had rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the mug of coffee she had been in the middle of making. The sound of Every Breath You Take by The Police drifting into the radio station kitchen from the booth. You still had two minutes and a couple of ad breaks before you needed to be back inside for the remainder of the Rockin’ Robin breakfast show. You were tired from the early morning but mostly, you were stressed out about your current living situation and Robin could tell.
“Yes—that Steve,” she says, stirring in an unholy amount of sugar. “C’mon, it’s not weird. We’re like best friends. I can vouch for him. I’m like ninety eight percent sure he isn’t a murderer.”
You grimace a little, tired eyes flickering over to Robin. “Ninety eight percent isn’t enough for me.”
Robin huffs, turning to face you fully now with her hands on her hips. “C’mon (y/n)—you trust me right? You can trust him.”
You think about it, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet.
“But he’s a guy, Robs,” you say finally. “I don’t want to live with a guy.”
Robin lets out a snort of laughter despite herself.
“Point taken,” she says before looking at you again carefully. “Just—just think about it, yeah? His parents just kicked him out and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s been sleeping on my couch for the past week and I gotta say, I don’t think it’s good for mine and Nance’s sex life if her ex-boyfriend is snoring in the other room every night.”
You falter—make the mistake of looking at her face—at her big blue eyes that looked just the right amount of pleading to make you reconsider.
“I’ll think about it,” you told her.
Steve had moved in that Friday.
The first week had been a little awkward—tiptoeing around each other in the hallway and trying to keep out of each other’s space. But after Steve had returned from picking up the last few bits from his parents house—coming back empty handed with red rimmed eyes—you had wordlessly handed him a bowl of homemade macaroni and cheese and suggested watching a movie together.
After that, you stopped tiptoeing.
And living with him? It was pretty great. He was surprisingly neat and an excellent cook. He always took the initiative to go out and do the food shopping when you were running low on the necessities. He didn’t mind that you had way too many houseplants, that the refrigerator had too many magnets on it or that the couch was baby pink—Steve was just happy to be living with you.
Somewhere between making coffees for each other in the morning and watching old movies together on the couch—you had formed a friendship that was built out of a genuine connection to each other rather than out of convenience like it had with Rachel. You had even finally accepted Robin’s offer of going out with her friends now that you lived with Steve. You had met her girlfriend Nancy in the past but Jonathan Byers and Eddie Munson had been complete mysteries to you. They turned out to be just as Robin had described—Jonathan a little quiet but once you got to know him wouldn’t shut up about his short films when you asked how they were going. And Eddie was—well, Eddie was the kind of person who people noticed when he walked into a room.
In time, they had met James. You had a feeling that they didn’t think much of him. The way Eddie rolled his eyes when James started talking about sports. How Robin would yawn when he bought up his job as a stock broker. How Nancy would bristle when James tried to explain the stock market to her as though she was stupid. How Jonathan would go quiet around him. How Steve glared at James when he would talk over you and would interject to say “actually, (y/n) was talking”.
And so, you had never told your friends about your borderline terrible sex life. Never told them that James had only made you come once. Never told them you had to get yourself off in the bathroom after he had gone to sleep. And you probably never would tell them.
“You know what I love?” Eddie asks the group one Friday night at your and Steve’s local bar. It was grimy, located only a few yards from your apartment—hence why it was your local haunt—but it was yours. Warts and all.
“Weed?” suggests Jonathan.
Eddie clicks his fingers, smiling at Jonathan.
“You know me, Byers,” Eddie says but shakes his head. “But no—that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Something Eddie Munson loves,” Robin muses, tapping the table gently as she considers the question.
“D&D?” Steve puts forward.
“Nancy’s mom?” You say with a wry smile—Nancy shooting you a glare as Steve tries to hide his laughter.
“That deli shop by the record store that is totally going to get shut down for health violations?” Robin offers.
Eddie groans, looking pained as he looks over at Robin.
“Why do you have to remind me?”
“Eddie, that place has given you food poisoning like five times,” Nancy points out.
“And it was worth it. Every damn time.”
You laugh, smiling at Eddie’s dramatics. Sometimes you wondered why he had never considered theatre.
“So what is it you love Eddie?” Steve asks, leaning back in the booth beside you. His arm resting behind your head—comfortable, easy, just like it always was between you two.
“Oral sex,” Eddie says simply.
You choke on your drink while your friends laugh at Eddie’s admission.
“Giving or receiving?” Steve asks while you try to regain composure, face warm and looking anywhere but at your friends. Any talk about sex you tended to not engage in—not wanting to admit to your friends that you rarely enjoyed sex with your own boyfriend.
“Both,” Eddie says, smiling.
You tried your best to keep a neutral expression—to not involve yourself too much with the conversation. Trying not to recall the last time James had gone down on you—how it had lasted barely two minutes. How you had been thankful it was over. How you had ‘returned’ the favour with all the enthusiasm that James didn’t possess.
“What about you, (y/n)?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows wiggling as you look up at him.
“About me, what?” you ask, because you hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation for the past two minutes, too busy thinking of anything beside how terrible your boyfriend was at giving head.
Eddie laughs—loud and without much care who heard. “Oral—do you prefer giving or receiving?”
Your face warms—you’re sure that your friends can all tell how flustered you were by the question.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve tells you, glaring at Eddie as he pats your shoulder gently. “Eddie’s just being intrusive—”
“Oh, come on,” Eddie groans and nudges your knee under the table with his. “We never hear about your sex life, (y/n).”
“Not everyone is as open as you, Munson,” Nancy says.
Eddie huffs—grabbing his beer and taking a swig. “I’m just curious to know which she prefers,” Eddie says innocently, hands up in surrender.
Your leg bounces beneath the table as you consider giving Eddie an answer or not. Generally, you didn’t discuss your sex life with James with anyone. You were too scared to give away your dissatisfaction with it. It made you feel shameful for even thinking of complaining. To actually voice those complaints? Well—that felt like opening Pandora’s Box. But there was a large part of you that couldn’t help but feel left out.
“Giving,” you say finally without looking up. It was the honest truth. You don’t tell them that the reason for this was because you hated when James tried going down on you. Hated to pretend he was good at it. Hated how much he clearly disliked doing it. “I-I prefer giving.”
You were not sure why you felt the need to answer anyway. Maybe it was how left out you felt during these conversations. How much you wished you were having as good sex as all your friends were. Maybe because you just wanted to be included for once. You feel your face warm but you try not to shy away as you look up at your friends—all looking at you in slight disbelief.
“What?” You ask, eyes flickering between each of your friends before landing finally on Steve.
“Nothing,” Steve says, blinking in apparent shock at your admission. “It’s just—”
“I’ve never known a girl who would choose giving head over receiving it,” Eddie interjects before glancing at Robin and Nancy. “Not a straight one anyway.”
Your face warms, taking a long swig of your drink and wishing you could blend into the furniture.
“I just—prefer doing it, I guess,” you say quietly with a small shrug.
“Well,” Eddie begins with a small smile and a wink sent your way. “Either you’re incredibly giving or James isn’t doing a good enough job.”
Everyone laughs and you know you should stand up for James—for your boyfriend, the man you supposedly loved—but instead, you go quiet. Your face somehow feeling even hotter than before. You seem to shrink back further in the booth. No one seems to notice how you don’t defend your boyfriend—Eddie was too busy already recounting the tales from his latest hookup with a bartender. But Steve’s eyes linger on you for a moment. Noticing the way your jaw tenses, your fingers flexing as though wishing to grip onto the table.
He doesn’t comment on it. Not just yet anyway.
At one in the morning, you walk back with Steve to the apartment as you always did. Both a little bit tipsy and laughing at things that weren’t that funny—the fact Steve had been wearing his shirt inside out the entire evening, how you had tripped over the curb outside the bar.
“Careful,” Steve warns you, laughing as his hands gently steer you away from the curb for a third time. “What would you do without me, huh?”
“Be miserable,” you reply with a tipsy giggle. Steve smiles, hooking an arm around your shoulders as you approach your apartment building. Being the slightly more sober one—Steve is the one to fish out the key from his pocket and open the door. He’s the one to drag you away from the front desk before you could get too distracted by the notice board (“but Steve apartment 9A is selling their microwave!”). He’s the one to manoeuvre you into the elevator and to stop you from pressing all the buttons.
“Okay—next week, I’m the one who is getting drunk and you can take care of me,” Steve huffs as he guides you down the hallway towards your apartment. One arm around your shoulders so you don’t try to escape.
“M’kay,” you murmur as you watch Steve unlock the door.
Once you’re in the safety of your apartment, Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He watches as you wonder over to that damn pink couch—flop down onto it and kick off your shoes.
“I’m going to get you some water,” Steve announces, taking off his own shoes and leaving them carefully by the front door before heading into the kitchen.
You simply hum in acknowledgement, head titled back and staring up at the ceiling.
Steve returns with two glasses of water a few moments later. He sets them down on the coffee table before leaning down to pick up your discarded shoes. You bite back a smile as you watch him place them neatly down beside his own shoes near the front door.
“I was going to put them back eventually,” you tell him as he sits down on the couch beside you, the couch dipping a little under his weight.
Steve shrugs, as though it wasn’t a big deal before he picks up your glass of water and hands it to you.
“Drink,” he tells you gently. You send a small, grateful smile before you take the glass from him and take a generous gulp of water. Steve watches, amused before he sips from his own glass.
It’s quiet then between the pair of you—you tilting your head back up to glance at the ceiling while Steve thoughtfully taps his fingers against the glass in his hands.
“Hey, (y/n)?”
“Yeah?” You ask, turning your head to look at Steve.
He looks back at you, a slightly apprehensive look on his face—one that indicated that he was carefully considering his next words.
“I just—I noticed that you—that you didn’t say anything back to Eddie earlier.”
Even though you were still a little tipsy, still feeling the alcohol hum through your veins—Steve’s words cut through you. Instantly, you knew what he was referring to. That little comment Eddie had made about why you had said you preferred giving oral over opposed to receiving it. You swallow—you knew you had to play dumb. The truth was too embarrassing. It made that guilt take residence in your chest again.
“When?” You ask finally. “Eddie talks so much shit that it all kind of…blurs into one.”
Steve chuckles, leaning back against the sofa—his elbow knocking against yours. “Yeah, no—you got that right,” he says with a quick nod and another glance at you. “I just—it was that dig at James he made. You didn’t—you didn’t say anything. You didn’t—I dunno, stick up for him, I guess.”
You don’t say anything, you just stare wordlessly down at your lap as you try not to react.
When you say nothing, Steve hesitates for a split second before he presses on, “I just—I wanted to check if—you know, if everything was okay between the two of you?”
“Yeah,” you say, a beat too quickly as you look down at the glass of water in your hands. “We’re good. Why wouldn’t we be?”
Steve doesn’t look convinced. He looks back at you with an expression that plainly told you that he did not believe a damn word you were saying.
“Because you just let Eddie say…what he said,” Steve says. “That James isn’t good in bed.”
Again—you say nothing. Not for any other reason than because you suddenly had the overwhelming urge to be honest. To tell Steve everything. How James couldn’t make you come. How he no longer seemed to care if you finished. How his pleasure was always placed above yours.
Steve seems to understand something in your silence—his eyes on you, watching you with careful consideration, as though he was choosing his next words carefully.
“You know you deserve better, right?”
The words pull at something deep in your chest. The alcohol makes it difficult to control the cocktail of guilt, shame and embarrassment swirling in your gut.
“I don’t,” you murmur finally—the words that deep down, you didn’t really believe. Because you didn’t truly feel as though you deserved James. He was good—not like the assholes you had dated in the past and you felt immensely guilty that you were doubting him all because he couldn’t make you come.
Steve looks at you in utter disbelief, opening his mouth as if he was ready to argue but you silence him by unsteadily getting to your feet.
“M’going bed,” you tell him, clumsily making your way into the kitchen with your glass of half-drunk water. Steve follows—just to make sure that you didn’t break anything (whether that be the glass in your hand or even an arm or a leg).
He watches you tip the last of the water into the sink and he continues to watch as you leave the empty glass on the drying rack.
“You know you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” Steve suddenly says, making you turn to look at him—eyes unfocused due to the alcohol and your world just a little bit wobbly. “Like seriously. Even if it’s about—you know.”
Your face warms, you avert your eyes.
“Just drop it, yeah?” You murmur back, not meeting his eye. “It’s fine—I’m fine, Steve.”
Despite how tipsy you were—the words were final and Steve understood that. He looked at you for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay,” he says simply before he forces a smile. “Get some rest, yeah? I’ll make sure to have a hangover breakfast ready for you.”
You manage a smile—a genuine smile—because Steve always did thoughtful things like this. Even if you were drawing a clear line in the sand on the conversation.
“Thank you,” you say, finally looking at Steve’s face and seeing the concern in his eyes which did not help the guilt you felt deep in your gut. Because now you felt awful for not being honest with Steve. And so—before you head to your room, you give Steve a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
You slip away before you see how Steve’s face flushes.
The thing about living with Steve Harrington meant that you heard him have sex. Like, a lot.
The moment you heard loud moans coming from his bedroom, you would grab your walk-man, some headphones and drown out whatever unholy sounds were coming from the other side of the wall.
Tonight was no different. It was a week after that evening at the bar and after a long day at work, you were in your room when the moaning started. You knew he had been out on a date and you also knew—judging by the giggling that you had heard when Steve had returned ten minutes ago—that him and his date had retreated to his room. And so, what you heard next was inevitable. Your hands reached for your walk-man and—
“That’s it, pretty girl,” you hear Steve say in a low voice. “Soak my fingers—just like that. Do you hear how fucking wet you are for me?”
The words shock you. Hearing Steve say such filthy words makes your breath hitch and then—
To your absolute horror—the words go straight to your core.
Your thighs squeeze together without permission.
Holy fuck.
This is wrong. This was so fucking wrong—
“That’s it. God—keep squeezing my fingers just like that, baby. You’re going to feel incredible around my cock.”
You bite the inside of your mouth. Your fingers closing around the walkman, eyes on the headphones and—
“You want my mouth?”
“Yes, Steve—please—oh, oh god—oh—”
The moans coming from behind the wall had become obscene. High pitched, mixed with Steve’s own muffled groans.
You closed your eyes, imagining Steve’s thick head of hair between your thighs as he sucked on your clit, your slick dripping down his chin—
Oh god, no. You couldn’t fantasise about that, about him—it was wrong, it was—
“You taste so fucking good.”
Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt warmth spread through you at those words. Hot—like lava seeping through your veins.
You felt an ache between your legs you hadn’t felt in a long time. As you squeezed your thighs together to try and ease the feeling, you let out a small gasp when you realised you were wet. Like really fucking wet.
Your fingers seem to have a mind of their own—dancing down your thighs until you feel your own slick coating your inner thigh from where it had trickled down from your cunt.
The urge to move your fingers higher was overwhelming. To plunge your fingers into your aching cunt and get off like you desperately needed to. The moans coming from the woman who was being eaten out by Steve Harrington was all you could hear.
And that mental image of Steve—your roommate, your friend, the guy who was most certainly not your boyfriend—lapping at your soaked cunt was too much.
Your fingertips danced over the delicate lace of your panties before you knew what you were doing. That tiny bit of pressure was enough to make your hips buck up instinctively, stopping the whimper that threatened to fall out. You repeated the action, moving your finger around the damp spot in your panties and focusing only on Steve’s muffled groans. You have to bite down on your free hand to stop yourself from moaning as your fingers begin to circle your sensitive bud over the lace.
The nameless woman’s moans were only getting louder and louder.
And that’s when you gave in.
Your fingers slipped beneath the lace material of your panties. The first contact with your bare, wet pussy sent shock waves of pleasure through your body. You try not to think about how James never made you this wet as you slide your index and middle finger through your wetness.
You try to imagine James—your sweet, caring boyfriend between your legs. How his big blue-green eyes would look up at you sweetly. You wished it was enough to get you off. You wished he was good. As good as—
“Steve! Oh—fuck—don’t stop!”
And that was it—all thoughts of your boyfriend gone. The image of James replaced by Steve. And the thought of Steve using his mouth on you was enough to make your head fall back in ecstasy as your fingers worked faster—using your wet slick to coat your clit. The sensation sent a surge of white hot pleasure through you. You bit back a moan—your first orgasm in weeks right there. You were so close, you just need a little more—
“That’s it, pretty girl,” Steve’s voice rumbles through the wall. “Come for me.”
That voice—that fucking voice—is what pushes you over the edge. The wave of pleasure was so intense, so sudden that you almost failed to muffle your moan with your hand. You feel it in every nerve in your body. Your legs shake and you feel your release dripping onto the sheets beneath you.
You lay there, chest heaving, the bliss you felt moments before slowly slipping away as the sounds of Steve and the nameless women were drowned out by the shame that had started to creep through your body. You felt it in your very bones—you had just gotten off (for the first time in a long, long time) by thinking of someone other than your boyfriend. And it wasn’t just someone, it was Steve. Your roommate. Your friend. Sweet, kind and caring Steve.
You shouldn’t have done it—you know you shouldn’t have. And yet—you already want to do it again. Especially when you could hear the sound of skin slapping against each other in the next room. It made that feeling in your gut return. Hot, aching where your fingers had just been.
No. You couldn’t. It was wrong. So very wrong.
One time. You told yourself. Just one time.
The next time James went down on you, you were determined to come.
You had decided that the morning after you had been listening to Steve and that woman.
James’ roommates were out and that meant you weren’t confined to his room as you usually were.
He had laid you down on the couch—his shirt half off and belt unbuckled. You could tell he just wanted to fuck you. But you just wanted to see if he could—
“Eat me out,” you murmur against the skin of his neck. “James—please.”
James wasn’t one for talking dirty. Not because he disliked it but because it seemed to affect him too much. At your words he groaned and his hand that had been massaging one of your breasts stilled. You could feel his hardened cock through his jeans pressed against your thigh—swear you felt it twitch at your words alone. Admittedly, it turned you on. That was a start.
“Okay,” James says, leaning back to look at your face. “Okay—I can do that.”
You try not to think that he sounds like he’s talking business. As though going down on you was a meeting—an afternoon meeting? ‘Sure, I can do that’. Need that report by Monday? ‘Sure, I can do that’.
James didn’t take his time—you knew he was aching painfully from how hard he was—and so he just pushed up the skirt of your dress, hastily tugged down your panties before his mouth met your barely soaked folds. You felt his tongue slide between them and you let out a breathy moan. It was nice—not unpleasant just…nice.
His mouth is working overtime, altering between kitten licks and slow, languid licks at your entrance. Again, it’s nice but you get this feeling that he isn’t as into it as you want him to be. It takes you out of the experience entirely. You know he’s just doing it because you asked—that he’d rather be fucking with you with his cock rather than his tongue. He’s not moaning and groaning between your legs like Steve had been with that woman. The memory of your roommates’ groans was still hot in your mind and you were trying not to think about it, trying not to—
But when you look down, you find yourself imagining that James’ shaggy blonde hair was a mop of thick brown locks.
No, no, no—you shouldn’t be thinking about Steve right now. You should be focusing on your lovely, caring boyfriend who has his head between your legs. Not Steve—not Steve.
But your mind went there anyway. Thinking of Steve’s moans, those filthy words you had heard him whisper. The way the woman he was with had reacted—
And suddenly, your hips were moving. Chasing friction, needing more. Bucking up to meet James’ mouth. Your fingers sunk into James’ hair and he groaned against you—sending a vibration through you that made you feel a spark of something. It was all the encouragement you needed, you moved his head slightly so that his nose would brush against your clit and the effect was instant.
You moaned out, unabashed and barely recognisable from your lips. Not exaggerated for once.
Again, you moved his head so his nose nuzzled your clit as his tongue continued to work in and out of you at a torturous pace. It worked—oh, god it was starting to work. Your head tilted back and moans fell from your lips without your say so. Hips following the movement of his tongue. Heat building in your gut, James’ own groans vibrating in a way that only added to the white hot pleasure that was building, building and—
James lets out a strangled moan against you that could only mean one thing. You blink as he pulls his mouth away from you. A hot look of embarrassment on his face as he glances down at his lap—a damp spot beginning to spread on his jeans.
“It’s okay,” you tell him quickly, breathless as you try to take his hand. “James, it’s—”
But he’s already pulling away from you entirely, face warm and determinedly not looking at you.
You don’t try to stop him as he gets up and heads in the direction of the bathroom.
You should go after him. Reassure him it was okay. But part of you—the part that had been so desperate to finish—was tired of pretending it was okay.
And so, for the second time in a week, your fingers slip down between your folds—soaked from a mix of your wetness and your boyfriend’s saliva and think of Steve Harrington. You came right there on James’ sofa in less than three minutes.
Never again, you told yourself. Never again.
But it happens. More than you care to admit.
The next time it happened, it had been while James was inside you.
Your legs were thrown over his shoulders as his cock thrust in and out of you in a polite manner. He was holding back on his groans—his roommates were in the living room watching some ice hockey game. You wished that he didn’t give a fuck when his roommates were home. Wished he was proud to fuck you.
You tried not to notice how quiet it was in the room. The only sound being the squelching between your bodies—not due to your wetness but due to the lube you had needed to use. The sounds of his roommates jeering at the TV in the living room was distracting. And the fact James was making next to no noise while fucking you left you feeling a type of way. It wasn’t that he was doing anything wrong—the angle should be enough to make you feel good. But it was everything else.
And it was enough for your mind to wander into dangerous territory. Back to the guy you lived with who you shouldn’t be thinking about—shouldn’t be—
But of course, you do. You think of Steve as your boyfriend fucks you. It shouldn’t turn you on but it does. Shouldn’t make your walls clench around James’ cock. Shouldn’t make you moan out and claw at your boyfriend’s back.
“Oh fuck,” James groans out quietly, still mindful of his roommates as you lost your ability to keep quiet. “Sweetheart, you need to be quiet—”
But you don’t hear him over the moans you were now letting out. Too in your own head as you imagined Steve slamming his cock in and out of you—imagining him calling you pretty girl and telling you how fucking good you felt.
You should stop, you knew it was wrong. But as you felt that white hot pleasure build and build in a way it had never with James, you didn’t have it in you to stop.
And when it was over and James was looking at you in awe, you felt good. Confident. Sexy. Things you hadn’t felt before. James had even managed to fuck you a second time that night.
You’re aware you shouldn’t be thinking of someone else when you’re being intimate with your boyfriend. But it was the only way you could finish with James. It made you feel guilty after—immensely so. But it was the only thing that worked.
You were also painfully aware that you were fantasying about your roommate—of all people. But things between you and Steve remained normal. He still made you coffee every morning, still sat beside you on the couch while eating dinner and brushing his teeth by your side, completely unaware that you were fantasying about him during sex in order to get off.
You didn’t even feel awkward about it—not really. Not when your sex life was finally good. Not when you finally had your own fun sex stories to tell your friends.
And so, you didn’t stop. Weeks passed and you kept thinking about Steve as your boyfriend fucked you. Kept choosing not to put the headphones on when Steve had a girl over—your fingers pumping in and out of you as you listened to his moans and occasional whimpers. Your juices soaking your sheets and your body practically thrumming with pleasure. And then—the next morning you would accept a hot mug of coffee from your roommate.
And he had no idea what you had been doing the night before.
Steve was out—you think he was at baseball practice—and you had decided to make the most of it.
You invited James over and it didn’t take long before clothes were shed. You were on top for once, moving yourself up and down on his cock at a rhythm that had your head thrown back and listening to James’ muffled groans—his lips busy with your breasts that he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from as they bounced in his face.
Your hands were in his hair, his cock was inside you and yet—your mind was on Steve. Again. You found yourself wondering how big Steve was. You remember Nancy once being so drunk that she had told you just how big Steve was. “Monster cock,” Nancy had giggled to you as she poured herself another shot. Had told you how during her first time with him she had briefly wondered if he was going to split her in half with his cock.
The knowledge was coming back to you now—imagining Steve’s cock filling you so well that you would feel it in your stomach. Even imagined the stomach bulge it was cause—the outline of his cock nearly visible as he fucked up into you.
The mental image had your walls squeezing James’ not-so monster cock—a shameless, wanton moan falling from your lips as you grew closer and closer—
“I’m gonna come,” you gasp out, fingers gripping onto James’ shoulder as you try to keep yourself tethered to the image of Steve—of his cock splitting you open as he whispers the dirtiest words imaginable into your ear. “Steve, I’m gonna come.”
Your orgasm hits you hard. It hits you so hard in fact that you don’t feel how James’ thrusts cease entirely. How his hands fall from your hips. You don’t notice as your head falls into the crook of his neck, your body thrumming, legs shaking.
But you certainly notice how quick he was to pull out. How he didn’t finish.
You blink—heart still hammering, still a little blissed out from your orgasm—as you let him lift you off him a little more hastily than you were used to. You watch James, confused, as he hastily grabs his boxers and begins to tug them up his legs.
“Do you want me to—”
“No,” He snapped suddenly. “No, (y/n). I don’t want you to do anything.”
Bewildered, you began to grab your own items of clothing from the floor and started to dress. James had never snapped at you before and you were utterly confused at the sudden change of tone.
“What—what did I do? Is something wrong—”
“Gee, I don’t know, (y/n),” James resorts, a derisive laugh falling from his lips as he pulls up his jeans. “Does moaning out your male roommate's name while I’m inside of you count as something wrong?”
“I don’t—”
“Cut the bullshit ignorant act,” James interjects harshly as he looks at your face. “You just moaned out Steve’s name. Not my name. Steve’s.”
For a moment, there’s utter confusion. You don’t remember what you had said while you were mid orgasm. You want to deny it, laugh even but you can’t. You knew exactly what you had been thinking about, about Steve and you knew it was entirely possible you had accidentally moaned out Steve’s name in your moment of ecstasy.
“James, I’m sorry. It was an accident. It didn’t mean anything. It was—”
“Bullshit!” James cuts across you, his voice slightly raised. His face was flushed in anger—you could see that he was still hard through his jeans. You could practically feel the embarrassment radiating from him and you couldn’t really blame him. You feel awful—truly awful, feeling as though you wanted to be sick. “You don’t just accidentally say someone else’s name during sex. Especially Steve’s.”
You swallow, your face hot with embarrassment, shame and a growing sense of panic that you couldn’t control. You try to conceal it by pulling on your t-shirt over your head before you look at James again.
“James, I—”
“Save it,” James mutters, pulling on his shirt and not even bothering to button it up before grabbing his jacket and shoes by the front door. “I’m not going to embarrass myself a moment longer. We’re done.”
“James—”
But your boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend now, rather—was already slamming the door to your apartment behind him.
What shocked you most was that you didn’t cry. You had the overwhelming urge to but not because James had left, not because he had just dumped you but because felt so embarrassed by the situation—by the fact you had moaned out Steve’s name instead of James’. Too deep in fantasies about your roommate. And so—when you began to cry you told yourself it was because you were sad. That it was because you had just been dumped by your boyfriend of nearly two years and you were heartbroken. But you were far from it—in fact, there was a part of you that felt relieved.
The tears of embarrassment—now mixed with a sick feeling of shame—had only just started falling when the apartment door opened again. You turned around, a small part of you hoping it was James who was returning to tell you it was all some stupid joke—but of course, it wasn’t.
Steve stood in the doorway, his eyes wide at the sight of you crying on the couch—only in a t-shirt and panties, your jeans slung over a nearby chair, your bra hanging over a lamp. But your state of undress doesn’t even seem to cross Steve’s mind as he rushes over to you—the bag he took with him to baseball practice falling to the floor beside him in his haste to reach you.
“Hey, hey—I saw James storming out—he looked—oh honey, what happened?”
The shock of Steve walking in at precisely this moment had left you lost for words. Tears flowed down your cheeks, your face still felt hot from embarrassment but you couldn’t speak. And Steve, seemingly taking your lack of being able to talk as heartbreak, gathers you into his arm and shushes you gently while you cry into his chest.
“It’s okay,” he tells you, his hand cupping the back of your head in an effort to soothe you. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
And because you felt too much shame and guilt to be honest with Steve, you simply nodded. Clinging to Steve as though your heart was shattered into a million pieces—as though James leaving have devastated you. When in actuality, you were making a silent promise to yourself. A promise to never—never ever tell a soul about what had just transpired between you and James. To never reveal the name you had subconsciously moaned out during your moment of bliss.
call me insane but the jancy break up would've been better if it was about jonathan learning to do things for himself like not going to emerson for nancy but also not going to lenora community to stay with his family.
it would make the "sudden" nyu attendance make more sense bc last we see he wants to stay with his family not move to new york even if that's what he's been dreaming of since he was 6.
it wouldve been a good near end to his arc of the boy who sacrifices everything for everyone else to finally understand that he's allowed to want things too.
the fact that it's framed as nancy needing to find herself when she already knows what she wants and nothing about her really changes after the break up is why it doesn't work imo. she still wants to be a journalist and she goes to emerson which jonathan was never holding her back from. even though she drops out it's because of the trauma from the upside down not because of a relationship.
i don't think breaking them up was a good idea because it made no sense and they still love each other but if it was at least framed to be more focused on why jonathan lied and why he was struggling with college and getting high and nancy realizing why he's suffering so much then it would've been better or at least made sense.
i’m dyinggg to know if you’ve ever thought about writing a part two for the neville fic you wrote recently
★┊[ study session
aka… you getting a chance with the boy of your dreams
warnings ~ none, all fluff, probs poorly written!
w/c ~ 1200+
── .✦ a/n ~ ugh he's so cutie, send in more reqs for him!!
You weren't a nervous person. Ever.
From the moment you were born, your parents would describe you as nothing short of a ray of sunshine, constantly beaming with a grin on your face. Such adjectives haven't been lost to you.
Even today, most people at Hogwarts see you as a ray of sunshine.
Kind to everyone, patient, willing to provide help, just an overall wonderful girl
And throughout the the years, this has drawn in plenty of suitors for you — especially after you began going to Hogwarts.
But you only had eyes for one.
One specific, wonderfully amazing boy.
Neville Longbottom.
You remember vividly, in your first year, hearing his name on the train. He'd lost his toad. Then, in the great hall when everyone was being sorted, you watched as he stepped up and was sorted into Gryffindor. From that point on, your adoration of him only grew.
Now, you've come upon your first year as a fourth year student.
It's the year of the annual Tri-Wizard Tournament, you finally get to take good classes, you get to see your friends, and your life is genuinely going good.
Especially when you walk into your Herbology class and see who is in it.
What makes it even better? You sit by him. You sit by him! For the next however long — weeks, maybe? Months? — you'll get to sit by Neville Longbottom himself.
You're already feeling giddy, but this boosts it by a million percent.
You take your seat, ignoring the fact you're (more than) fairly late and Professor Sprout just scolded you in front of the entire class; which is easy due to the person you're sitting beside.
Your heart practically leaps into your throat.
Christ, he's even cuter up close. His nose is dusted with freckles and his eyes are the most beautiful shade of ocean blue. You could spend hours simply looking at him. Alas, that would be incredibly creepy. He doesn't know you, and you — admittedly — don't know him.
Yet.
As the weeks pass, you learn more and more about your little desk buddy.
You learn that he bites his lip when he concentrates. You learn that he mutters the words that the Professor writes on the blackboard. He always uses blue ink. He never misspells a word. He chews on his nails.
Your friends also learn about him.
"Oh my god, Hannah, he's just so precious!" You beam, grinning like an idiot as you gush about him to your best friend.
"C'mon, girl, you've gotta make a move on him already." She replies, shaking her head in exasperation — despite the fact she's grinning too.
"He doesn't even like me! Probably doesn't even notice me…" You're blissfully ignorant.
"Are you kidding me?! Everyone likes— ugh! Never mind!" She sets down her book, grasping your hands in her own to get your full attention. "Listen to me. I've seen that boy make the most obnoxious googly-eyes at you. So I better hear about you asking him out tomorrow night, or else."
"Or else what?"
"Never mind that! Just do it!" Hannah shoves your shoulder, but there's no malice behind it.
"Okay, okay! Jeez!" You smile back at her.
The following day, you do exactly as she told you.
Except it doesn't go quite to plan.
You'd been hoping to speak to him during Herbology and ask for help — which you actually need — and use that as an excuse to hangout with him.
Of course, though, you're caught.
But it doesn't stop you from slipping him a note.
And just like that, you have a study date planned for the upcoming Friday. Well. It's a study date to you, he just thinks he's tutoring you.
That night, you arrive at your dorm with the widest grin on your face.
"Oh my god, you finally did it!" Hannah exclaims, practically yelling in spite of the calmness of the common room.
You can only nod vigorously in response.
"He said yes, I presume?"
"Mhm! He's gonna help me with Herbology in the library of Friday!" You can't stop smiling; your face almost hurts.
"Tell me all about it, please!" She drags you to a nearby couch, where you spend the rest of the night gossiping about Neville over tea and sweets.
When Friday rolls around, you're giddy beyond belief. Though, you don't act like it… mostly. Whenever you're in the halls, you act as you normally do. When you go to Herbology, you act like you're not going on what's practically a date with the boy sitting next to you. But when lunch comes around? You spend the entire hour gushing over him — much to the dismay of your friends.
And then, when it finally comes time for you to meet him in the library, you can't contain your excitement.
In the hour beforehand, you had meticulously chose your outfit; indecisive on what sweater to pair with what pair of jeans. It all needs to be perfect. You don't know what you would do if you arrived in a terrible outfit. He'd probably see you as a loser…
So, you decide on a fitted sweater with autumnal stripes, your favorite boot-cut jeans and converse. Truly, you couldn't have spent longer picking out such a simple outfit.
Finally, when you enter the library, you waste no time finding Neville.
When your eyes meet his from across the room, your heart does flips.
There he is, sitting at a table with a massive pile of books sitting atop it, a notebook laid neatly before him.
You smile and immediately rush over to him.
"Hi!" You beam, taking your seat beside him.
"H-hey," he murmurs back with a sheepish grin.
"So… where are we starting?"
"O-oh! Uhm, well, what exactly are you struggling with?"
"Kinda everything… Herbology isn't my strong suit…" You rub the back fo your neck.
"Okay, uh, then I guess we can start with what we're doing right now?" Neville suggests.
"That sounds perfect!" You grin back.
And just like that, the next four hours of your life are spent, chatting, laughing and smiling with the boy of your dreams. He does teach quite well, and you just adore seeing him ramble on about specific topics with such a wonderful glimmer in his eyes.
You can't imagine not loving him.
By the end of the night, you're ten times more infatuated with him than you were before.
When you pack up your things and go to leave, you find yourself wishing you could just bring him back to your dorm and kiss that smile off his face. Instead, you settle for something much simpler.
"Thanks for studying with me, Neville. I had a really fun time." You tuck your hair behind your ear.
"Yeah. I-I did too." He replies back, a flush covering his cheeks.
"I'll see you tomorrow, alright?" You say with a nod.
"Uhm, yeah! Sure!" He nods along with a smile.
You grin right back, and without thinking, you lean up onto the tips of your toes and press a kiss to his warm cheek.
"Bye, Neville." You mutter, before turning on your heels and walking off, leaving an extremely flustered Neville in your wake.
BONUS:
You burst into the common room, panting, hair a mess.
Hannah's gaze snaps up to you immediately.
"What the hell hap—"
"I kissed him."
"You what?!" She practically yells.
"I mean, it was only on the cheek, but I still did it! God, he probably thinks I'm a complete weirdo! Why would I—?!"
Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor common room…
"She KISSED you?!?!"
"I know! And I just stood there and said nothing!"
"I mean, she kissed you for a reason!"
"Seamus, she probably thinks I'm a loser, for the love of Merlin's beard!"
'Neville, come on, mate!"
[ 🏷️ : none yet, send a dm or ask to be added <3 ]
Category: just platonic fun. (Some crushing & pining.)
Summary: Elle, Reader and their friends have been invited to a 1920s themed party at the BAU. At the party things unravel.
English isn't my mother tongue, so there will probably be some mistakes. I guess this fic is a little goofy but here we go.
__________________________________________
The BAU had arranged a 1920s themed party, for the people in your department. Everyone who was in your unit had been talking about it, everyone on the same floor as you. People were talking about going shopping for their outfit and how excited they were for the party. You had gotten a very well thought invitation, which had been decorated and written with cursive writing.
However, this party included a game of murder mystery. When you arrived at the party you would get a little file with your characters name, background and the basics. You would get some time at the gathering to talk and mingle with the other people. It was gonna be interesting for all of you profilers at the party. Putting the profilers in a murder mystery is already a little insensitive to you who experienxe horrors everyday but also just the pure advantage it gives you.
You had dressed up in an elegant dress with heals matching, jewelry and head accessories. You were ready to go.
At the party you were handed a file, and as you read through it you found out that your new temporary name was: Roselyn Thorne. It was said that your character grew up in a middle class home. You didn't seem to be married, or involved with anyone which maybe could mean your character wasn't the guilty one. Mostly the motive would be: Revenge, money or jealousy.
And as you went into the large area where the party would take place, there was old music playing from a grammaphone loud and clear. People dressed in old couture, decorated with jewelry and everything else you could spot at a 1920s party outfit. There were fancy glasses filled with champagne and other bottles of alcohol standing on one of the long tables.
There was decorated with all kinds of party things, as you looked around at it. Soft jazzy music played in the background and it was almost like you could feel the bass underneath your feet. You walked up to one of the tables with snacks and drinks on it. Spencer stood by one of them, when you approached the table. He stood with his back turned to you, as you came nearer.
You grabbed a cup as you got yourself something to drink. "Hey Spencer" He hadn't noticed you at all, for when you spoke up he looked up at you in surprise. He stopped what he was doing, looking at your outfit. He then looked back at the table, grabbing more snacks, stuffing them in his mouth as he tried to hide a small smile. "Hi Y/N. You look really good" He nodded along with his words. You let a small smile show. So small it could be classified a smirk.
"Thank you, Spence" You hid your lips behind your cup, before you took a sip. You looked around the room, noticing all the people who were already in conversation. You looked back at Spencer and saw he had one of those monocles in his pocket. Without thinking, you grabbed it and looked up at Spencer through it. "How'd you get one of these, huh?" You said, with a teasing tone, smiling at him. His cheeks grew red, as he let out a nervous, breathy laugh. You held it up before you, looking at him through the glass, squinting an eye playfully.
"It fits the theme" He was about to take it from you, when you lowered it yourself as you stared in one specific direction. Your lips parted slightly, as your eyes shined at the new appearance in the room of the BAU. Spencer stared at your admiring face, before turning his head the same direction. You stuck the monocle in Spencers palm, as he took it with furrowed eyebrows. You sat your cup down, before walking over to the woman in the black vintage dress. Her dark hair was curly and her lips painted a soft red. She was looking around, as her hands pulled her dress down, her head staring down to see if it was too short. You smiled and touched your cheek, as it felt like something warm was there. You took small steps at first, but then she saw you. Her eyes lit up, and her face softened. Before she had been tense holding her arms close to her body. Her shoulders fell, with a sigh. It didn't feel like Elle. Elle was confident and always held her head up. Crossed arms or relaxed figure, with no stuttering. She walked towards you, when she saw you heading her way. She rested her hands on her waist, as you stood before her.
"Hi" Elle greeted you shortly. Your eyes roamed on her figure, before they landed on her chocolate brown eyes. "Hi" You responded with same soft and calm tone. Elle gave you a look with her eyes, you couldn't quite read. "You look amazing tonight, Elle" You said, gesturing to her look. She looked down at herself with a curt chuckle. "Yeah, thank you. You look great too, really" She pointed towards your own outfit, her cheeks growing pink. "But my names not Elle." She said. "Oh right..Well, then what is your name fine lady?" You said playfully. "I'm Kate Nessglass" She responded, and held her hand out for you. "Nice to meet you. I'm Roselyn Thorne." You shook her hand. Normally, roleplaying wasn't that weird when it was with one of your best friends out of work, but roleplaying with someone you worked with on a daily who just also admired was just a tad bit strange. But because you went to the party and knew what it was about and so did Elle, must mean that she thought it was interesting. Or maybe she just didn't want to feel left out. To be honest, you weren’t even sure why you went yourself.
Silence fell upon you and your head grew dizzy as all the noises around you, started getting to you. The music, the chattering, the heels claking against the floor and- “Hey, my sweet ladies.” Morgan. You turned your heard around to see Morgan walking up to you. He wrapped his arm around you shoulder giving you a casual smile. “You two look great.” Morgan was wearing an actually stylish hat. For the time period too. “You should wear hats more.” You say ignoring his compliment. Elle giggles and nods. “Thank you, Morgan.” Elle decides to be the one to acknowledge Morgans playboy talk.
Morgan kept looking into your eyes since you commented on his hat. He squinted at you finding your statement unreadable. You shrugged and with a curt laugh you slap his hat down softly. You turn around and slightly playfully runs away even in your heels. You run back to Spencer who watched the whole exchange. His eyebrows are lifted. He looks back at you with a more neutral look after having watcjed Morgan and Elle continue talking.
He studies you as you stuff your mouth with gummies ignoring eye contact. You can sense something lingering in the air as you feel his eyes burning into you. You give in and lock eyes with him. You stop chewing on the gummies, freezing entirely. Spencers eyebrows are furrowed. He’s toying with his monocle as his brown eyes search yours. “You know, i might be autistic but i am a profiler.” He shrugs at you, telling you so many things with that wording. That he’s onto you. He saw the way you were breathless at Elles entrance.
You slowly start chewing again as your eyes look away to the rest of the room. “Well, good for you?” You say high pitched. You shuffle on your feet as your heart beats faster. Spencer sighs. He grabs a drink and swirls it staring down into the drink for too long.
“I’m not trying to tease you. I just want you to know that you don’t need to hide things from me. Not even your feelings.” He explains it with a good mix of hesitation and softness. You look at him and nod very slowly. It was too much of a sweet and genuine thing of him to say at this time and place that you felt the need to hide anyway.
After running off and greeting many new characters the first murder happens, and you’re all called to a meeting. Everyone testifies what they can but it’s too early to point fingers. You were all just meeting each other not ready to conclude anything. You were all let go and you for a moment just stare into the air. How long was this gonna take? And how were you gonna make the most of it? You open the card to your character description again only to find out you were just a young stylish woman living the big city life and since you wanted to be a model, you needed to gain a connection a mister Edward Wyse. Luckily it said who that was. Anderson.
You never really talked to him but he seemed nice. You approached him when you finally laid eyes on him. Anderson was of course quite confused by your approach, but he didn’t mind.
“Heyy Anderson! Or what should I call you? Edward? Mister Wyse?” You joked and flashed a huge smile leetting your eyes almost shut together. He smiles back and nods slightly. “Whatever you prefer.” He opens his arms out before they land by his sides again. As a way to show you welcomness. You hobestly never really knew what Anderson did at the office but he brought a good energy and sometimes was ordered to help you profilers out. It’s hobestly a bit of a shame you never chatted.
“I’m Roselyn Thorne. From the big city. You’re a well loved name in the big city.” You pointed to the folded paper of your character description, hinting at the fact your characters were linked. His eyebrows rose. “Oh!”. He smiled again. “Well, I can’t help it. What are you looking for?” He asked before taking a sip of his drink. That reminded you of the drink you had in the start that made you bubbly and yours limb feel like gummy.
“I don’t know if you heard but I am quite the showgirl. In all kinds of ways. But you see I know you’re great at finding talent for models.” You move your left hand around a little as you talk. Ending your sentence with a pointed finger at his chest. He looks down and raises an eyebrow at you. You removed your finger and look around the room as you bob up your hair with your hands. Feeling kinda self-aware now. Anderson nodded at you. “But you found me.” He teases. You turn your head back to him. You stare at him for a good couple of seconds before your gaze falls down. “Well, is that so bad now? Maybe you got lousy at finding talent, the talent had to find you.” You giggled and open your arms up like your asking him a question.
Anderson fully laughed now and he nodded more. “Okay okay, you got it. I’ll get you somewhere. But from what I heard it’s not easy. Miss Jelling got ahead of you.” He shrugs as you frown. Seriously? He’d let you talk on like you actually meant it? Like you actually were Roselyn Thorne in the 1920s just for him to say you had competition?
“What her first name?” You look up through your eyebrows. Your fingerpalms getting sweaty from feeling just a tad humiliated. “Tammy.” He says and then slamming his lips shut into a thin line. You roll your eyes turning around to scan the room.
“What she look like?”
“Blonde hair, blue eyes, kinda short.” He describes nothing remarkable.
“JJ.” He finally gives it to you.
“Thanks”.
—————-
After talking to Tammy Jelling aka JJ, you didn’t get much further. Another murder happened and people started fighting more intensly. The first murder had seemed too random since the character had no big status or relations.
This time a woman who was married to the local politician was found dead. Political murder?
Well whatever it was you didn’t care all that much anymore. You wanted to get drunk and then admire all the beautiful costumes. When everyone decided to vote someone out and they no longer could play as their character, you all split again.
Suddenly you feel a cold hand on your upper arm and you jump, looking behind you. Your met with freckles splattered all over, deep brown doe eyes and curly hair. Elle. Your face went from tense and confused to relieved and happy. “Hi El.” You smile lightly. Her lips are parted and her eyes are studying yours.
She lets her arm rub down your upper arm before she lets go. “Sorry.” She breathed out. “I just knew you were gonna get lost in the crowd. I couldn’t find you last round.” She rubbed her fingers and hands against each other. She was very close and you could almost feel her breath on your neck. Goosebumps spread on your arms. You bit your bottomlip subtly as your eyes quickly scanned the floor. “Sorry.” You mumbled. You couldn’t help but feel a specific warm feeling inside of you at the fact that Elle had been looking for you.
“Maybe we should find somewhere quiet?” Finally you could get a break from the overwhelming party.
you were sprawled all over jonathan’s bed, hair going opposite directions. his hand went up to your face, brushing against your cheekbone, then down to your bottom lip.
his camera sat on top of his nightstand, besides the lamp, which brought out a soft light into the room.
he studied your face for a second longer than necessary. his hand lingered at your jaw, he was close enough that you could hear his soft breathing, and you were sure he could hear your heart thumping against your chest.
his grip on your jaw tightened, ever so slightly. he leaned in and kissed you, slow and careful, not wanting this moment to end.
when he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breath uneven, nerves all over the place. he didn’t move right away, keeping close to you.
his gaze shifted from you, to his nightstand. his camera sat on the nightstand, within reach.
he hesitated, just for a second. he planted a soft kiss on your cheek, then let go.
he reached for the camera.
you hadn’t moved, still stretched across the bed, hair fanned out and cheeks flushed.
he lifted the camera slowly, then stilled.
“sorry- just… one second”
jonathan’s hand made its way to your face, clearing out the stray hairs, gently, before holding the camera with both hands again.
You literally can’t make a single post about respecting trans people’s chosen names without some rat coming out of the woodwork to say “umm but what if they name themselves a slur?? what if they name themselves adolf hitler am i supposed to respect it then???” brother that sounds like a problem you just made up I’m just trying to get you to respect a tguy named Aiden without calling him a theyfab trender.
psa! here are some signs that a fanfiction is written by AI! These aren't sure signs, but common threads i have noticed. if a fanfiction has any of these, that doesn't mean it is automatically AI, you have to use context clues.
updated every day/every few days with more than 1k word chapters
all characters speaking in the same voice(basically they all sound the same)
excessive m-dashes where another sentence pattern would do the job just fine
"not a, not c, but b" sentence structure is overused
"adjective. adjective. adjective." thingy used a lot
many sentences as their stand alone paragraph. ie:
So the tokio hotel fandom just died for good. Alteast on tumblr. Seems that we’re all annoyed by them and dont support their actions. Anyways i was thinking about that and then I just started missing the fandom we once were..in like 2023-2025. It started dying in 2025 but shhh. Yeah I miss it 🧍♀️<3
