✰. — 𝓱𝓸𝓷𝓮𝔂 / 𝕓𝕝𝕠𝕠𝕕 !

600 gifs of sophie thatcher in yellowjackets & the boogeyman— to acess the gifs, please click on the source link. all the gifs have been created from scratch by me so don't edit, repost in other hunts or claim as your own. a like or a reblog would be greatly appreciated.

content warnings include: gun, crying, drugs, knife, nsfw.

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there's no question he's thrilled to be introducing her to his world, but sometimes she can see him witnessing his own life through her eyes. he'll go tense, his teeth'll clench until his jaw feathers and that crease slices down between his brows. then comes the vape, the fidgeting and the nervous rush of explanations and disclaimers. they'd finally leveled off in the villa, but in the whirlwind since, both of their anxieties are ramped all the way up. yet another reason they should've just stayed in bed today.

her arms wrap around him from behind, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades that gets lost to his jacket, then squeezing herself flush against him. "don't call aoife, babe. it's fine," she murmurs, combing her fingers back through his hair, slow and gentle to his frantic thrumming. his sister is busy enough, minus the fact that jenny doesn't think she cares for her much. she'd seen the tweets. her tweets, his other sisters' tweets, his friends', the public's. the next hug is more for her own sake, focusing on the vibration of his voice to distract from the phone burning a hole in her pocket. "juuude, it's fine," she insists, half-grumble half-laugh that gets all mashed into his shoulder when he tucks her into his side. "what, the lingerie i brought from home's not good enough for you? hm... noted." but her stomach gives a flip that he wants to make her feel good. her hand sneaks up under his jacket, then opts for south, sinking down into his back pocket instead as they stumble forward. "what's thirty yards, anyway, like, a few feet?" wishful thinking. she's pretty sure the conversion goes opposite, which isn't the news her thighs want to hear. "hey, wanna carry me, big guy? big strong, strong man. so strong." she's tripping over their feet to slink under his arm like a limbo stick, coming around to his back with hands that slap onto his shoulders. "since i'm on such a roll with riding," and launches herself onto his back. "there we go. giddy-up, cowboy. to... what was it called? bewks?" she leans forward, hair splaying over his shoulder so she can drop a kiss against the column of his throat, working her way up to his ear. "what do you want to see me in then?" she purrs, voice low. "something lace-y maybe? or... something strappy? lots of pieces to snap or pull?" she nudges her nose against him. "or it is a color thing? what would you prefer, seeing me all dolled up in red or white?"

there’s a restless energy about jude in his hometown, like he reverts back to a younger version of himself. the arndale centre’s infinitely more ‘classy’ than the wheatsheaf precinct, where you can’t walk five seconds without bumping into some reprobate who knew your brother’s sister’s boyfriend and you’d rather not bump into, actually. still, he feels the need to point out the shit that jenny that she probably doesn’t ( and shouldn’t ) care about. the argos where he got his nintendo DS in the boxing day sales when he was twelve. the build-a-bear workshop that siobhan did her year ten work experience in. the holland and barrett aoife always ransacks for herbs and potions to align their chakras when one of them’s feeling slightly under the weather. his arm snaps up like a jack-in-the-box from her grip and points each of them out in turn, anecdotes that only half make sense in his feral tongue, an idiolect cobbled together from all of the people he’s ever met.

“ ah. pret a manger. that’s dead fancy, that. ” jude notes, pressing a kiss against the parting of jenny’s hairline. jude’s never actually been inside pret a manger, he just assumes it’s fancy ‘cos it’s in french, so saying it automatically makes you feel at least an income bracket higher. only the posh kids ever took GCSE french at his school. “ or you could get your clit pierced at claire’s, ” he notes, as she burrows her face into the space between his shoulder blades, hugging him from behind. “ they do it in the window and everything. well, not clits, but definitely ears and noses and shit. ” he still remembers the day he’d taken a fourteen year old siobhan ( against their mother’s wishes ) to get her tragus done at claire’s, a stick-on moustache stuck to his lip as he claimed to be her dad. “ ah, mate ! the works. ” cue another finger point to a gaudy blue and yellow store, easels propped in the windows alongside wooden mannequins. “ they’ve got absolutely shit craic books called shit like ‘please, daddy, put down the knife’ and loads of cheap tacky art supplies, but it’s like a right of passage, y’know. ” growing up, the works was a staple in the dempsey household, and come christmas his stocking would be packed with shite from the reduced section. foam bullets for a nerf gun he didn’t possess, acrylic paint he’d never use, the entire works of william shakespeare — to be fair, he did get some use out of that one. 

“ don’t put words in my mouth, jennifer. your stuff’s seriously fit, i just wanna treat you is all. ” by now, he’s spotted the lingerie store, one-track mind with a solo mission ahead, like an NPC without the programmed option to go anywhere else. his hands grasp at the coldness of her fingers beneath his shirt, footing clumsy as she stumbles her weight into him, the two of them teetering like one two-headed creature that’s only just learning to walk. ( there are twice as many stars as usual). she appeals to his ego when, spun like a doll in a jewellery box, she wraps herself around him, looping under his arms calling him her big strong man. if she hadn’t leapt when she did, jude would surely be throwing her over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, one hand on her arse ‘as support’. he fakes buckling under the weight of her slim frame, rising back up with a grisly laugh. “ i’m joking, i’m joking. christ, don’t go getting all body dysmorphic on me. ” if aoife were here, she’d be scalding him for even saying that. she lacks the shared language of inappropriate bordering on offensive that jenny and jude have in common. maybe jenny's the one purring, but jude’s the one who’s eyes are fluttering closed, a low hum in his throat as he arches catlike into her touch, the combination of her voice in his ear and her lips against his throat stirring him more than he’d like to admit. “ keep goin’ on like this and i'll wanna see you in nothin’. birthday suits only. ” perhaps a little difficult considering they're staying at his mum's.

his nose nudges hers back and his teeth snap against the air, narrowly missing her skin. he brushes the curtain of blonde from his face — like it’s his own, and he’s suddenly sprouted a kurt cobain mop of blonde overnight — to determine the walkway in front of him, a slight bob in his posture readjusting her position as he piggy backs her towards the store. “ what’s your favourite colour ? feels like that’s summat i should know. i bet it’s like, red or like deep purple or blue. ” his path is determined largely by his preoccupation with avoiding one of the three store attendants with cheshire cat grins, desperate to provide subpar 'help' in an attempt to ease the slow, crushing weight of working in retail. “ no thanks, hun, ” he says, low enough for only jenny’s ears. “ i don’t need you to help me pick which lacy little number i’m going to fuck my girlfriend in. ” the label's still novel enough that it sounds exciting and dangerous in his mouth. instinctively, he’s drawn towards the brighter colours, though he has no idea what any of these do. “ what do you usually go for ? there’s ones with like, padding and shit, but i like the ones where you can kinda see the outline of the tit through it and shit. y’know the ones without loads of wires in. ”  but it’s not about him — it’s about jenny. he needs to remind himself of that. “ pick whatever you want. i’m buying. ” so long as it’s under forty quid, which is the grand total of his monzo balance until he finally gets the payment he’s been waiting for three months for on a freelance videography gig. 

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chelsea g. summers, a certain hunger / ginger snaps (2000) / joan macleod, the shape of a girl / L’AQUART - jade medusa, 2020 / john collier - lilith, 1887 / florence + the machine, “howl” / battle royale (2000) / brenna twohy, “swallowtail” / caravaggio - judith beheading holofernes, 16th c. / herbert james draper - ulysses and the sirens, 1909 / william etty - the sirens and ulysses, 1837 / alicia ostriker, “in the 25th year of marriage, it goes on” / gone girl (2014)

in any case, he's sure it wouldn't have been this. mimi, groaning girlish, but still stubborn, circling her hips down onto him. both of them fighty, but game. this feels like a glitch in the system, an anomaly. there should be no reality where mimi confesses with fingers wrapped tight around his dick how much she wants him and he's not exactly keen to give any woman what she wants, but he pretends like she's strong armed him against the ground. the hand she's holding hostage tugs lightly to test her restraint, his hips jerk underneath her, suggesting he can flip this whole thing on it's head right now and, though he probably will, he doesn't yet.

it feels like a miracle to be rid of his shirt, he'd anticipated their patience would be ground too thin, that they'd just fuck around the clothes. all stretched seams and bunched fabric, the important parts already exposed to the air. most of them anyway, he shoves his free hand - the one she thankfully doesn't have enough grips to restrain - unceremoniously under her own waistband, sliding his fingers between the nonexistent space between their bodies and reaches for her center, but she's slid a little too far back on his thighs, he can't fully make it and he grunts with some frustration, a lot of pleasure. "baby, i been working since the second i met you," max argues, panting, thrusting his hips to goad her own. finally he recoils his hand from her pants and wraps it around her's, helps her stroke. there's a genuine laugh at her estimation, low and throaty. "you're a pain in my ass," he tells her, finding her eyes with his brows arched up, utterly matter-of-fact. "you're exactly what i deserve." spoke like a true masochist.

hands instinctively slide up her thighs, pinching the skin where her legs meet hips. "do it," max concurs, words half cut off by a ragged groan from deep in his throat. he's not really watching her face anymore, too preoccupied at the point where their bodies grind together. the fact that she's chosen his phone to film with makes him wanna marry her on the spot, but, then, who needs vows when you have a sex tape? it's a bit like a ouija board when she guides his hand, he's really moving on his own, indicates as much when he pinches down on her nipple. max barely minds the camera now, trusts her to take care of it, and charges himself with using both hands to push her shirt up to the bones of her clavicle. "i think you're submissive," he answers without missing a beat, showing the camera a smirk when he catches her nipple between his teeth then softens it with a wet kiss. one hand reaches around to smack her ass. "totally obedient." in truth, she's as stubborn as he is. "do you think i'd let you be bossy? guy like me?" not to forget the words she'd used to describe him, max would love her to expand on that. he finishes sucking on her skin before craning his chin up to look at her, lays it flat along the middle of her chest. "i would."

sometimes, mimi asks herself if it’s max she’s attracted to or the way max makes her feel. she’s attracted to sounds he makes when she touches him. she’s attracted to the speed at which she can get him hard, with her hands or down the phone, telling him what she’ll do to him when she’s home. she’s attracted to the way his lip shakes when she tells him not to cum, and the way he says her name when she eventually lets him. it sounds like praying. but his system of beliefs? the way he conducts himself in social situations? the careless habits that seem almost as intrinsic to him as his perpetual cigarettes? she can give or take most of those. luckily, when he’s fucking her, all of that context fades away. they’re just bodies. bodies are her comfort zone. bodies are easy. it’s the feelings that are hard. still, she’ll swear she feels nothing beyond the physical for him. still, it twists like a knife in the gut any time the flash of a notification appears. michelle. 

the pinch of skin brings her back to her body, a faint cry at the back of her throat as she arches into the touch. “ i’m not submissive. ” the words are groaned through gritted teeth. she could be, could be a lot of things if he asked, but he says it like it's a dirty word. if he'd aimed to rile her, he's succeeded.  “ fuck you. ”  cold hits her chest when he rolls up her shirt ( somehow hotter than stripping her of it entirely ), fabric gathered around her sternum, and suddenly it’s not enough to feel his hands against his skin. she wants his mouth. wants his tongue. he rubs the lamp of her desires and grants her wish, teeth against her nipple, and mimi groans, pitchy and needy as she shifts her hips to feel him, sinks her hand beneath his waistband and wraps her fingers around his length. there’s tenderness in the kiss he plants against her nipple, despite how dirty, and she returns that tenderness with a stroke of his head. there aren’t enough hands to touch him in all the places that elicit a sound. she wants his throat, his mouth, the back of his neck, his nose, his stomach, the curve of his cupid bow. she wants the left nipple that tastes like house keys, the ridge of a vein on his arm when he strums his guitar. she wants to leave her imprint on every part of skin.

“ right, sure. guys like you don’t care about anything. ” cue eyeroll, though sometimes, she wonders if max cares about anything but himself.  does he care about her, or is this just as superficial as his daily ‘lives’ on the gram, an attempt at clawing himself into the spotlight by allying his name with hers ? “ ugh. no. ” her tooth ticks against her teeth, irritation stirring in her, though she bottles it. “ can’t have been that memorable if you don’t even know who did it. or are you just sooo into me that i’ve like, eclipsed all other women for you now ? ” she asks, crawling towards him, her hands pushing back the floppy front of his hair, a homage to regina george. she kisses her teeth, his dig landing just south of the border of apathy. mimi hasn’t been perfect since she was a spritely sixteen year old, slipping in and out of basket tosses as easily as an old pair of tights, but that doesn't mean she doesn't want to be. “ baby, you don’t want perfect. you want fiery. spicy. ” and fortunately for max, she’s got that in spades.

breathlessness hangs in the pregnant pause between language, between bodies, until she closes the distance, throws her hair over her shoulder and straddles his lap, hips rising as she builds a slow rhythm, shifting against him. “ maybe we should ‘go live’ with this ? ” she teases, patting down the sofa cushions until she locates his phone, her thumb sliding over the display — she knows his passcode, obviously ; knows all her exes passcodes — but opens instead the camera app, keeping this between them, a memento to remember her by, pining, lamenting, when she's no longer his to play with. maybe they'll break up when rhys gets out. maybe she'll hedge her bets on josh when he stops wasting his time with naomi. maybe she'll drop a line to mr. santos himself, turn up with him on family day — you thought you could steal my guy ? well guess what, bitch. i stole your dad. not that her beef with naomi has ever been more than skin deep ; josh was never hers to keep. the same way max isn't, his mind elsewhere. hungry for his attention, mimi fastens her fingers around his wrist and slides his hand up over her thigh, over her waist, beneath the fabric of her crop top to rest over her chest, a spark of something challenging in her eyes. she watches him watch her through the display of the camera, phone held above her head, catching her best angle, eyes darting between the max that’s made of pixels and the real thing. “ d’you think i’m bossy ? ” she asks, thumb sliding over the hollow of his throat, the television behind them all but forgotten. 

“ don’t threaten me with a good time. ” her fingertip trails the length of his nose and flicks against the end. “ we’ve fucked in the bath, right ? or was that with jason… ” max doesn’t need to know that there is no ‘jason’, a name plucked out of her ass in the guise of making him work harder to keep her wavering attention, to remind him that she’s got options. maybe it’s manipulative, but sue her. if she wanted, she could walk into any club in the east village, find a leather jacket knockoff with a vinyl collection and a bad attitude, lure him back to her apartment with the dangled carrot of sex and end the night with him unclogging her dishwasher’s orifices. she’s plucked from her plumber fantasy ripped straight out of pornhub with the plugging of a different orifice — his hand between her thighs — a sharp gasp leaving her lips as her own hand chases it down, keeps it flush there against her cycle shorts ( ironic, considering she doesn’t even know how to ride a bike ; never had a dad to teach her that part ). “ max, ” she breathes, her voice a half-whined warning, though whether it’s max she’s warning or herself, she isn’t quite sure. she can see the way his eyes darken, that peter pan spark of mischief tucked into the tear duct, before he’s throwing his weight against her, chin scratching against her neck. “ max ! stop, oh my god ! ” her protests come as a series of pitchy screams, legs thrashing, her hands scrambling to grab at his wrists. soon, laughter dissipates, frustration spilling in its wake. “ stop it, max, i have a shoot on monday, you dick ! ” her hands splay against his chest and shove, the force exerted ( and his hands on her skin ) enough to send the both of them tumbling onto the floor. she’d laugh if she wasn’t so tense. something about watching their old ‘friends’ on a yacht twists in her stomach, or maybe it’s just the ick she gets from that jude guy. looks like the type to turn his boxers inside out instead of washing them. not that max is much better. “ sorry, ” she starts, moving to curl her fingers through his hair. “ just… ” her fist tightens, tugging at the tufts of his hair with an exasperated groan. “ be more fucking considerate. jesus. ”