#Mirror Glass Charm

[ohproserpine]

v. deer dolly

see all chapters here tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, heavy warning for violence and bloof, graphic descriptions of injuries, manipulation, allusion to death, grey morality, references to alcoholism, twisted view of love, gorey descriptions of love, murder

"THAT SLAG!"

Velvette's piercing scream echoed through the meeting room, slicing through the air. Vox and Valentino jolted, turning their gazes toward the source of the disturbance.

"Good-for-nothing piece of shit twat assistant!" Velvette paced the room, her movements agitated and frantic as she angrily tapped away on her phone.

In a sudden surge of anger, she flung her device across the room, sending it flying above Valentino's head. A crash punctuated the air as it collided with a window, the impact shattering the glass into shards that rained down onto the floor.

"Velvette, darling," Vox raised an eyebrow, his voice calm as always, "What's got you so worked up?"

He took a sip of his coffee, the rich aroma wafting up from the steaming cup as he idly scrolled through his laptop. "Is it that showgirl situation again?"

"Oh, bloody hell!" Velvette rolled her eyes. "Of course, it is, you git! It's been literally the ONLY thing I've been banging on about this week!"

Valentino's sigh cut through the conversation as he adjusted his sunglasses. Holding his glittering firearm up to his face, he pressed rhinestones on it with tacky glue, unfazed by Velvette's anger.

"It's just some performer, babydoll. We can find a replacement."

"Are you out of your mind?!" Velvette seethed as she stormed toward them, her heels clicking loudly with each step. With a forceful slam of her hands against the table, it shifted forward, jolting the items on its surface. With a hiss of pain, Vox recoiled, his hand jerking back from the scalding coffee he had spilled on himself.

"The boutique opening is in three days! How on earth am I supposed to find a girl who's got the looks and a set of pipes in time?!" she exclaimed.

Valentino looked up from his bedazzling, a raised eyebrow visible above the rim of his sunglasses. "Have you tried one of my models? I got a lot of pretty little chicas who can charm the socks off anyone. No need to stress yourself out."

"Your models? Do you have any idea how much time and effort it's going to take for me to wrangle those little amateurs into something remotely resembling a professional performance?" Velvette scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Sod off!"

Valentino snarled in response but turned away with a huff, muttering under his breath, "Have it your way."

"If I may," Vox spoke, wiping his hand with a grumble, the sting of the burn still lingering. He tilted his head slightly, raising a single brow. "Have you tried scouting?"

"Have I tried scouting?" Velvette mocked, her hands waving around in frustration. "Of course I have! All I've come across are bloody singers around here, and they all look like they've been dragged through the dirt backwards!"

"Well, have you tried the back district?" he offered, tapping his claws on the long glass table. He watched as Velvette pulled out a pocket mirror from her purse, visibly cringing at his suggestion.

"Why in bloody hell would I go there?" Velvette grimaced as she re-applied her dark lipstick. "I'm not about to waste my time scouring the back district for some dime-a-dozen talent. I need someone who's got class, not gutter scraps."

"Well, there's this performer," Vox insisted, snapping his fingers. A screen materialized with a whiz, displaying a video of a figure in a sparkly silver dress singing and dancing. As the video drew to a close, the camera zoomed in, capturing a close-up of the woman's face. Her features were radiant, a smile gracing her lips as she gazed out at the audience.

Velvette snapped her mirror shut with a flick of her wrist, interest sparking in her eyes. She leaned in closer, studying the performer's features.

"Who's this?" she quipped.

"Dolly, at least that's what they call her," Vox hummed, sliding the screen over to Velvette. "She works at Mimzy's Lounge."

Velvette's expression darkened, strands of hair falling over her eyes as she took the screen in her hands, leaning down to view the image again. The glow of the projection illuminated her face, casting shadows that danced across her steely expression.

"Mimzy?" she uttered the name slowly, her lips dripping with venom. "That's the cunt who tore up my best showgirl!"

"Drama," Valentino chuckled, spinning his bedazzled gun around his fingers.

"Well, this Dolly girl is her biggest star, and she's been making quite a name for herself there," Vox drawled, gesturing toward the screen. With a tap of his claw on the screen, he zoomed in closer. "She's got the looks, the voice, and the stage presence you're looking for."

"And she's managed to shine even in the shadow of that cesspool," he added with a sardonic grin as he sipped from his coffee.

A flicker ignited in Velvette's eyes as she straightened. "Then it's settled. I'll pay her a visit."

"Sounds like you've got a plan brewing, my dear. Care for some company?" Vox spoke with a smirk playing on his lips.

Velvette shot him a knowing glance before a grin tugged at the corner of her lips. "Why not? I could use some of your charm."

.

"Cher? Dearest? It's time to get up," the radio atop your bedside table rumbled, your husband's voice crackling through the air.

Grunting in protest, you burrowed deeper into the warmth of your blankets, seeking refuge from the harsh bite of the morning. But Alastor's persistent calls refused to be ignored.

"Mon cœur? Cher? W̷A̴K̶E̴ ̶U̸P̷!̶" it blared, the words amplified by hissing static, demanding attention like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

With a heavy sigh, you reluctantly peeled yourself away from the cocoon of comfort that had enveloped you. Sitting up, you felt the blanket slip from your shoulders, pooling around your hips. Memories of last night flooded in, and the remnants of Alastor's romantic gesture still adorned your room. The bouquet sat atop your dresser, with scattered white roses delicately strewn across your bed like whispers of affection.

Despite the tender atmosphere, a throbbing headache reminded you of an unwelcome guest that accompanied you into the morning—the hangover.

Dragging yourself to the side, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and sat for a moment, rubbing your temples in a futile attempt to ease the discomfort. Then, pushing yourself to your feet, you padded across the room, the cool floorboards sending a shiver through your bare skin. You picked up the radio, its incessant blare akin to an annoying alarm clock, with Alastor's voice still grating on your nerves.

"Alright. Alright. I'm up, love," you grumbled, rubbing at your eyes which still felt thick with sleep.

The radio rumbled with delight at your response.

"Hellish morning to you, my dear!" Alastor's voice boomed through the speakers, his jovial tone slicing through the early morning gloom. Despite your grogginess, a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips at the sound of his voice.

"Hellish morning to you too, darling," you returned, laced with affection.

"I trust you had a restful sleep?" Alastor questioned.

"As restful as one can get with a noisy radio blaring in their ear," you sighed, already feeling the weight of the day bearing down on you.

"Hah!" Alastor laughed, the sound making you roll your eyes. "But where ever would you be without my dulcet tones to serenade you awake?"

"Probably catching a few more precious minutes of sleep," you muttered, already regretting the start of another day. “You are insufferable, you know that?”

"Ah, but that's why you love me."

Back in his hotel room, Alastor chuckled to himself as he shrugged on his suit jacket. From his microphone, he caught the rustling of your clothes, followed by the gentle rush of running water.

With a flick of his wrist, Alastor summoned a gramophone, its boxy form materializing atop his dresser with a soft thud. Soon enough, the needle gently descended onto the spinning vinyl record, releasing a soft, nostalgic melody that filled the room.

I'll never smile again Until I smile at you I'll never laugh again What good would it do?

As Alastor began to sing along, his smooth voice seeping through the rusting speakers of the radio, you paused in the middle of washing your hair, caught off guard by the unexpected serenade.

"Stupid, stupid man," you muttered under your breath with a shake of your head. And yet, despite yourself, a smile tugged at the corners of your lips, warmth creeping into your heart.

For tears would fill my eyes My heart would realize That our romance is through

Exiting the bath, you toweled yourself off and approached your wardrobe, humming softly as you selected your attire for the day. After scanning through the hangers, you settled on a vibrant red hooverette dress. With matching stockings and white heels, you completed the look, the final touch being a few roses plucked from the bouquet Alastor had given you, tucked behind your ear.

I'll never love again I'm so in love with you I'll never thrill again To somebody new

Dressed and ready to face the day, you returned to the radio, the soft strains of music and Alastor's voice still lingering in the air. As the final notes faded into silence, you stood for a moment, savoring the fleeting illusion of domestic bliss for a moment longer.

With a pang of sadness, you glanced at the clock, realizing that it was time to go.

"I have to head out now, darling," you spoke into the radio, feeling a tug at your heartstrings. "My shift starts in a while."

"Ah, until we meet again, mon cher," Alastor's voice replied warmly. "Do take care of yourself."

In response, you leaned down to press a kiss against the speakers, a gesture of your affection. The soft sound of the kiss was barely audible, but Alastor's ears perked up and caught the gentle touch against the metal surface. He chuckled softly, then, with a soft click, the radio fell silent.

As you slipped your purse over your shoulder, a thought crossed your mind—should you bring the radio along? The temptation to have Alastor's voice with you throughout the day was strong, but the risk of further damaging the precious device gave you pause. With a sigh, you decided against it, opting to leave it safely in your room, where it would patiently await your return.

Heading out of your room, the lounge was already buzzing with the hustle and bustle of customers and staff. Although no singer graced the stage yet, the speakers blasted with the familiar tunes of Hell’s Top 10 Hits.

"There you are!" Mimzy's voice cut through the lively atmosphere, her smile failing to reach her eyes as she bounded towards you.

"Mimzy," you greeted flatly, acknowledging her with a nod.

"How are ya doin', doll? Just the person I was looking for," she purred with a bat of her eyes. "Alright, listen, I've got a marvelous idea for a performance."

You sighed inwardly, bracing yourself for whatever scheme she had cooked up this time. Mimzy's requests were as extravagant as they were challenging, always pushing the boundaries to maintain her club's "reputation" and squeeze every last dime from these sinners' wallets.

"Let's hear it," you replied, mustering a polite smile.

"So, I was thinking," Mimzy began, tapping her finger along her chin, "how about a duet? A throwback to the good ole days, sharing the spotlight. It's bound to be a performance these wayward fools are going to talk about for ages!"

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by the relatively tame suggestion. The blonde wasn't exactly known for her subtlety or restraint when it came to showmanship. At most, a duet with Mimzy was sure to be a spectacle, for better or for worse.

"And when is this going to be held?" you grinned tensely, hands at your hips. There was bound to be a switch somewhere.

"When else? Prime time tonight!" Mimzy giggled as she threw up her hands with a flourish.

And there it was.

"Tonight?" Your eyes widened, shoulders squaring in shock. "Miss Ma'am, that's cutting it a bit close, don't you think?"

"Bushwa! We'll make it work," Mimzy replied dismissively, waving off your concerns with a flick of her hand. "And I've already got the perfect song in mind. It'll be a real humdinger, mark my words."

"Alright," you sighed, hoping for the best but bracing yourself for the chaos that was sure to follow. "Tonight it is."

"That's the spirit! Hell, why don't you take the morning off?" Mimzy grinned as she hurried off down the hallway to make preparations. "I'll see you tonight! Make sure to be here by sunset!"

Standing by the stairs as stiff as a pole, you watched her skip off with an unusually chipper air. It struck you as odd, but you pushed the thought aside, eager to have the morning to yourself. As you turned away, however, your head throbbed once more, the reminder of your hangover cutting through the moment.

"Looks like a ciggy is in order," you muttered to yourself, rubbing at your throbbing temples. Making your way outside, hoping to smoke away the edge of discomfort.

Trudging along the filthy backstreets, you did your best to avoid the muck and other questionable liquids that lined the roadside. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air, assaulting your senses with each step you took.

No one spared you a glance as you passed; the citizens of hell were absorbed in their own pursuits or concerns, and you blended into the backdrop of the grim landscape. 

Finally reaching a clearer stretch of street, you took a seat on one of the benches, the worn wood groaning under your weight. The city bustled around you, a mix of sounds and movements that seemed to blur together.

With a weary sigh, you reached into your bag in search of company—nicotine.

Fingers fumbling through the contents of your purse, you felt the familiar shape of the roll, and with a hum, pulled it out. However, as you continued to rummage through your belongings, a sinking realization settled in.

Your matchbox wasn't there.

Dropping your head into your hands with a scowl, you could feel the stress mounting within you, bubbling up like a simmering pot ready to boil over.

Wallowing in your misfortune, you failed to notice someone approaching you from behind. A sudden tap on your shoulder jolted you, and as you turned, you found yourself face to face with a tall and slender spider-like demon. His frame was practically drowning in a plush white fur coat, the color almost blending into his skin. It contrasted sharply with the sleekness of the black bodycon dress clinging onto his curves underneath.

"Need a light?" he asked casually as he held up a pink-colored lighter.

You eyed him skeptically for a moment.

In hell, kindness often came with a price. Whether it was a favor owed, a debt to be repaid, or simply a hidden agenda waiting to be revealed, nothing came for free. However, when your head throbbed again, you sighed and relented with a nod, accepting the offer despite your reservations.

Angel Dust ignited the lighter, the flame pirouetting gracefully and flickering in the wind. Drawing closer, you leaned in, offering the tip of your cigarette to the flame. With a gentle hiss, the tobacco caught fire, wisps of smoke curling into the air like ethereal dancers. As you took a deep, shaky inhale, the saccharine poison of the smoke flooded your lungs, leaving a bittersweet taste lingering on your tongue. Shutting your eyes, a sense of calm washed over you as you leaned back, letting yourself be carried away by the fleeting tranquility of the moment.

Remembering you had company, you grounded yourself and opened your eyes. "Thank you ever so much, dear. Can I have your name?" you asked, tilting your head up at him. The stranger moved to sit down next to you, the worn wood of the bench creaking under his weight.

"Angel Dust," he said, and your eyes shot wide open, lips forming an 'O' shape.

"The porn star?" you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

"Didn't take you as the type to watch my shit, toots," Angel laughed heartily as his grin widened from ear to ear in response, his golden tooth gleaming at you like a wink.

"Well, I may not be your typical fan, but your name does tend to make its rounds in conversation," you chuckled, shaking your head in amusement. Taking a drag from your cigarette, you gestured with it casually. "I saw you in my husb—erm, the Radio Demon's commercial. Hazbin Hotel, was it?"

"Yeah, and don't worry, I know. Dolly, was it?" Angel Dust replied smoothly, his demeanor surprisingly nonchalant given the situation. Extending his hand for you to shake, he continued, "Nice to finally put a face to the name."

His confession caught you off guard, but you shook his hand firmly nonetheless. "How did you—did Alastor tell you about me? You two must be close."

Angel Dust hesitated, a grimace crossing his features. His crimson eyes darted away briefly, as if weighing his words carefully.

"Let's just say... word gets around in our circles," he replied vaguely, tugging his coat closer around himself.

"I don't know him that well, though," Angel Dust admitted with a shrug, his gaze drifting off momentarily. "Sometimes he can be a bit..."

"A pompous dick with a sadistic streak?" you suggested, exhaling smoke as you raised an eyebrow at Angel Dust, testing the waters.

Angel Dust laughed genuinely, throwing his head back. "Something along those lines, toots," he grinned, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"Well, it's good to know I'm not the only one who sees it," you remarked, a wry smile playing on your lips.

"Believe me, ya ain't alone in that," he agreed. "So, ah—What brings ya out here? Aside from the obvious need for a blow."

"Just needed some fresh air," you admitted with a shrug. "Plus, I may have indulged a bit too much last night and woke up feeling like death warmed over."

"I hear ya," Angel Dust replied, nodding sympathetically as he raked his eyes over your worn-out form, noting the slump of your body and the dark circles under your eyes. You looked so different from the sparkly performer he had seen on stage days ago.

"Hey, I actually caught one of ya shows the other night," he piped up, attempting to shift the conversation to a lighter topic.

"Did you?" you cooed, surprise evident in your voice.

"Yeah," Angel nodded, stretching out on the bench, spreading both his arms across the back of the wood. "Gotta say, ya put on quite the show up there. I mean—ya had the crowd eating out of the palm of ya hand."

A faint smile crept onto your cheeks at his praise, a swell of pride rising within you.

"Well, thank you," you bowed your head in gratitude, momentarily forgetting your fatigue in the warmth of his words. "It means a lot coming from someone like you."

Angel Dust waved off your thanks with a casual flick of his hand, lips jutting out in a playful pout.

"Ah, c'mon. I call it like I see it," he grinned with a shrug. "N'trust me, I've seen my fair share of performances."

Lost in the easy flow of conversation, you surrendered to the comfort of the moment, finding solace in the presence of your spider companion. Hours passed, and before you knew it, the sun dipped below the horizon,  painting the park in hues of golden warmth.

A jarring ringtone shattered the moment, causing Angel Dust to glance down at his phone with a whistle. His brows furrowed as he scrolled through a flurry of notifications, irritation flashing across his features.

"As much as I'm enjoying our little chat, duty calls," he sighed, flicking away ash from his cigarette. "Can't keep the boss waiting."

You nodded in understanding, offering a wave as he rose from the bench. "No worries, Angel. Catch you later."

"Looking forward to it, dollface," he replied with a wink before sauntering off into the city streets, leaving you to enjoy the peace alone. After a few minutes of watching the sunset, you decided it was time to go. You stubbed out your cigarette and rose from the bench, making your way out.

As you approached the streets leading to the lounge, the neon lights of the city burst into life, casting vibrant reflections on the pavement. Climbing the stairs to the entrance, you were enveloped by the familiar sights and sounds of the establishment. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and cigarette smoke, mingling with the pulsating rhythm of the music from within.

Mimzy was nowhere to be seen, which came as a welcome relief. And with a last scan to ensure she wasn't lurking anywhere nearby, you made a beeline straight to your dressing room, eager to ready yourself for tonight's performance in peace without a certain blonde talking your ear off.

Taking a seat at the vanity, you began to prepare for the evening ahead, carefully applying your makeup and fixing your hair into place.

A sudden knock broke your routine, prompting you to rise from your seat and stride over to the door. With a quick twist of the knob, you swung it open, revealing an imp demon. White blotches adorned his skin, and he sported sunglasses perched high up on his nose. In his hands, he held up a box, his expression expectant as he waited for your reaction.

"May I help you?" you murmured, tilting your head at him, curiosity coloring your tone.

"Yeah. Are you Dolly?" the imp asked, his tone curt and impatient.

"Yes?" you replied, a brow raised.

"Great. This is for you, lady," he said, thrusting the box of jewelry toward you. "If you could just sign here so I can get the hell out of this shithole, that'd be great."

You accepted the box from the imp demon's outstretched hand, eyeing him warily as he thrust a pen and clipboard in your direction. With a resigned sigh, you reluctantly took the pen and scrawled your signature on the dotted line, handing the clipboard back to him with a curt nod.

"Thanks," he muttered, barely sparing you a glance as he turned on his heel and hurried away, disappearing into the crowded hallway of the club.

Interest piqued, you turned your attention back to the box in your hands. With a gentle touch, you ran your fingers along the surface and lifted the lid of the box. Nestled amidst folds of satin lay a pearl necklace, the orbs gleaming as if moonlight itself was captured and trapped within. At its heart, a rose pendant bloomed, its petals of silver. 

Taken aback, you reached for the small card tucked within the box. Gently retrieving, you turned it around to see the words "From Al" penned gracefully in elegant script.

"Oh, you cheese…"

With a soft smile pulling at the corners of your lips, you delicately lifted the necklace from its satin-lined cocoon, feeling the cool weight of the pearls in your palm. As you draped it around your neck, the pendant nestled against your collarbone.

Feeling as giddy as a teenager in love, you turned away from the vanity, your heart fluttering with excitement. With a skip in your step, you crossed the room to the wardrobe, fingers dancing over the array of neatly hung dresses.

Before your fingers could grasp onto a dress, a sudden deafening explosion tore through the air. The sound was thunderous, shaking the walls and causing the ground beneath your feet to tremble violently. The shockwave slammed into you with palpable force, knocking you off balance and sending you crashing to the floor amidst a cloud of dust and debris.

Alarm flashed across your features as your heart pounded in your chest, the adrenaline coursing through your veins like a raging river. With trembling hands, you pushed yourself up from the ground.

What in hell was that?

Staggering to your feet, you ran out into the lounge. As the dust settled, you could see the entrance of the lounge now reduced to a gaping maw, the doors blown open by the force of the explosion. The familiar sights and sounds of the club were replaced by a scene of utter devastation, with debris strewn haphazardly across the floor and smoke billowing out into the night air.

Two ominous figures cast dark shadows amidst the panicked frenzy of staff and customers.

Struggling to discern the figures amidst the chaos, you squinted, trying to make out the details. One of them was a slender demon, dressed immaculately, with cedar-brown skin and long, fiery red curls tied into neat pigtails.

A sinking feeling settled in your chest as you recognized her as one of Hell's infamous overlords. Your heart plummeted further as you caught sight of Mimzy, ensnared in Velvette's vice-like grip, fear twisting her features as she struggled against her captor.

But it was the presence of the figure behind Velvette that truly sent a shiver down your spine.

The TV Demon, Vox.

His gaze swept over the room with a detached coldness, as if the pandemonium were of little consequence. Suddenly, his icy eyes locked onto yours, freezing you in place.

"Mimzy, dear," Vox's voice buzzed with deceptive sweetness as he addressed the shaking blonde. "Why don't you go and have a little chat with your esteemed employee about our... conditions?"

Wide-eyed with fear, Mimzy frantically nodded, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Make it quick," Velvette scoffed, releasing her grip on Mimzy's throat. The blonde stumbled toward you, her movements shaky and unsteady.

"What is—" you started, but Mimzy cut you off, panic evident as she began to drag you backstage. Without a moment's hesitation, she pushed you into your dressing room, swiftly locking the door behind you.

"Mimzy, what in hell is going on out there?" you demanded, leaning down to her height and shaking her by the arms.

Mimzy's breaths came in ragged gasps as she leaned against the door, her eyes wide with terror. She struggled to find her words, her entire figure trembling as she tried to compose herself.

"It's Velvette," she finally managed to choke out.

"Why is she here? What does she want from us?" you pressed, urgency creeping into your tone as you searched Mimzy's face for answers. But her response only added to your unease.

"You need to go with them," Mimzy decided abruptly.

"Go with who? What are you talking about?" you asked, your voice turning breathless with disbelief.

"She's out for payback, see? And she won't stop until she gets it," Mimzy explained, her tone grave yet determined, like she had some ace up her sleeve. "I gotta level the playing field, doll. She wants a replacement, and she's chosen you."

"I can't just go along with this!" your voice rose to a shout as you began to shake her again, nails digging into the chiffon of her glove. "My contract with you ends in a year. If I go with them, I'll be their pawn for all of eternity!"

"I can't just risk Velvette destroying everything I've built!" Mimzy defended herself, her tone devoid of remorse. "Do you have any idea how much work it took for me to get this place running?!"

Anger surged within you, fueled by betrayal and fear. "What about me? What about Alastor?"

"Oh, him again!" Mimzy shook her arms away from your grip and pushed herself off the door. "You've been so obsessed with that radio fool, you've forgotten who's been with you since the very start! Ever since you got hitched to him, you stopped caring about a damn thing!"

"I cared! And I still bloody well care, Mimzy!" you shot back, your voice rising with anger. Your eyes blazed with fire, cracks beginning to form on your face as your demon form threatened to break free. "But you were an empty, hollow shell of a woman with naught in her head but money! You'd sell out anyone, even me, to get what you want!"

Mimzy recoiled slightly, her façade momentarily cracked by your words. "You-You think you're any better? Running off with your precious Alastor, pretending like he's the savior of your life. But I know you've heard his broadcasts. I know you've seen the news. He's no better than me, playing you like a puppet while hiding behind his façade of being a good man!"

Enraged, you lunged forward, tackling her against the wall. As fury consumed you, your form contorted and twisted, taking on a monstrous semblance. Your features morphed, sharpening into angular lines, while cracks spiderwebbed across your skin like shattered porcelain. Limbs stretched and warped, turning jagged and broken, resembling the joints of a marionette. Teeth elongated into razor-sharp fangs, and as you bared them in a snarl, your lips curled back in a grotesque mockery of a mouth. "Say that again! I fucking dare you!"

"I'll say it as many times as I damn well please!" Mimzy spat, her voice trembling as she locked eyes with your hollow gaze. "Until you get it through your fucking thick, cracked skull!"

The blonde's hand darted to a nearby object, seizing hold of a picture frame within reach. With sudden, fierce motion, she swung it, the weighty wood and glass connecting with your transformed flesh in a sickening thud.

"Mph—!" Biting your lip to stifle a scream, you staggered backward. Thick blood dripped from the wound, pooling on the floor and mingling with the cracks in your porcelain-like skin.

"You've got some nerve!" Mimzy's voice thundered as she stood over you, her pale face flushing crimson with anger. "You wanted that fame, and I made it happen. Now you don't?! Fuck! Some ungrateful brat you are! Willing to throw it all away for some man! Do you really think what he feels for you is love?!"

As Mimzy's tirade continued, her words cutting through the haze of pain and anger, a sense of disorientation washed over you. Her words struck a nerve, stirring up memories that you had long tried to suppress.

.

Rain poured down, drenching your hunched form. The world around you blurred into a chaotic whirlwind of colors and shapes, disorienting and suffocating. 

Beneath the fabric of your dress, your knees throbbed painfully, raw from the harsh scrape against unforgiving concrete. Your hands desperately fumbled in the darkness, searching for something to anchor yourself to. Then, finally, your fingertips brushed against the familiar texture of rusting metal.

With a ragged sigh of relief, you realized you had found the gate of your house. Summoning all your remaining strength, you clasped both hands around the cold, wet metal bars and attempted to pull yourself up.

Through the haze, you felt rough hands sneak around your waist, and as your vision cleared slightly, your husband's face emerged from the blur. His once impeccable suit now clung to him like a second skin, soaked through by the downpour. Strands of his usually neat hair stuck to his forehead, dampened and dripping onto his glasses. Cursing like a sailor under his breath, he scooped you up into his arms, expression turning tense as he felt the icy chill of your body against his own.

If you weren't moving he would have thought you a corpse.

"Cher?" Alastor's voice cut through the fog in your mind, but your response was sluggish, your gaze glassy and dilated. "Merde. Did you drag yourself here all alone?"

Without waiting for an answer, he moved, cradling you in his arms as he hurried back toward your house. Once inside, he wasted no time in laying you down on the sofa.

"Al," you finally spoke, whimpering softly as you raised a shaky hand towards him. Alastor immediately moved towards you, hushing your cries as he pressed a deep kiss on your lips.

Your husband moved to cradle your face in his rough hands, and what he saw shattered whatever fragments of his heart were still intact. Bruises and dried blood stained your body, your skin clammy and pale. Streaks of mascara carved paths down your tear-stained face, and your limbs twitched involuntarily. The taste of whiskey still lingered on your lips, and the fearful haze in your eyes mirrored the terror of a rabbit cornered by a wolf.

"Who did this to you?" he growled, his pupils dilating with anger as he knelt before you, gently slipping your torn stockings and muddy heels off your feet.

"Mimzy," you sobbed out, curling into yourself, the weight of it all feeling too heavy on your shoulders.

"I tried to quit. She didn't let me. The bar. She gave me a drink. More and more. I couldn't stop. I was just so upset." Your words were fragmented, broken by the wrenching sobs that shook your fragile form, vulnerability laid bare before him.

"Mon cœur," Alastor hushed, rubbing circles into your ankle with his thumb. "Calm down. Take your time."

You made an effort, though the first few attempts were shallow and rushed. Eventually, you managed to draw in a deep breath, releasing it in a rush before taking another. And another.

"That's it, my dear. Now, what happened?"

Summoning all your strength, you opened your mouth and began to recount the harrowing events of the night.

Earlier this evening, you had mustered up enough courage to hand in your resignation letter to Mimzy. However, her reaction was far from pleasant. An argument erupted, filled with less than savory words being thrown around like daggers.

Before you knew it, Mimzy's rage boiled over, and she tackled you, raining blows upon you with a fury that bordered on madness, beating you with an inch of your life. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

Her demeanor shifted drastically, morphing from a raging storm into a gentle breeze. With a sickening sweetness, she offered you a hand up, as if nothing had happened. Weak and disoriented, you allowed her to lead you to her private bar, where she poured drink after drink, urging you to indulge.

As per habit, you found yourself consuming the alcohol with reckless abandon, the burning liquid dulling the pain and blurring the edges of reality

Alastor's heart clenched at the anguish in your voice, his expression darkening with a mixture of concern and simmering anger. Slowly, he rose from his seat and lifted you onto his lap, cradling you gently in his arms.

Taking your hand in his, he leaned in close, his voice a soft murmur.

"Let me take care of everything, doll," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. "She won't ever bother you again."

The tenderness in his voice caused your breath to hitch, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to fall into the reassurance of his presence. It offered a fleeting sense of security amidst everything surrounding you. Yet, slowly as the puzzles fell into pieces, a gnawing sense of dread clawed at your insides.

"Alastor, no," you whimpered, withdrawing your hands and pressing them against his chest, pushing him away with trembling fingers. "Please don't tell me it means what I think it does."

Your gaze pleaded with him, searching his eyes for any sign of reassurance, any glimmer of hope that what you feared was not true. However, your husband's smile remained unchanged—comforting yet chilling—as he pressed another kiss to the corner of your lips.

"I would kill for you," Alastor murmured against your skin, his thumb tracing the contours of your wedding ring. Bending down, he pressed a tender kiss against the golden band, sealing his vow with the promise of bloodshed, lips lingering against the cool metal. As he drew back, you found yourself ensnared by the intensity of his gaze, pools of brown reflecting a manic fervor.

"Please let me kill for you."

Tears blurred your vision as you bowed your head, the weight of his words sinking deep into your soul. You knew Alastor's devotion knew no bounds. Whether it meant causing pain, shedding blood, or delving into the darkest corners of his being, he would do it for you without a moment's hesitation.

A warmth trickled down your cheeks with each blink, tracing a path along your skin. Your eyes burned fiercely, tears cascading down your flushed cheeks and silently dripping from your chin like dewdrops. As you attempted to draw deep breaths, your body shook with a desperation to escape, though you couldn't quite grasp what it was you were fleeing from.

A ragged sound echoed through the room, grating against your senses. It took you a moment to register that the noise came from your own lungs, your breaths torn and jagged as they struggled to find a rhythm.

"Okay," you whispered, the weight of that single word heavy with the burden of guilt and a future tinged with blood.

There was a soft chuckle, accompanied by the gentle touch of a hand moving to caress your cheeks. "Good girl."

.

Snapping back to the present, you found yourself staring at Mimzy as she raged around the room, her fury unleashed on the surroundings, wrecking anything and everything in her path.

A man who kills for you. A man who dirties his hands for you. Is that not love?

A kick from her sent your vanity toppling over, causing bottles of your perfume and whiskey to crash from its surface. The glass shattered upon impact, releasing splintering sounds that pierced your ears. As the bottles broke, the air filled with the pungent scent of flora, mingling with the rich aroma of spilled whiskey.

It must be love.

With a hand trembling from adrenaline, you ran your fingers through your hair, the sticky feeling of blood staining your palm. Rising unsteadily to your feet, you turned to face Mimzy, strands of damp, bloodied hair falling over your cracked porcelain face.

"You ornery washed-up bitch," you rasped out in a laugh, voice breathless and laced with venom. "I should have left you to rot in that forest."

Mimzy froze, her wide eyes locked on you.

"What did you say to me?" she seethed, her voice trembling with anger as she extended her hand toward the shattered liquor glass and the spilled liquid, her fingers curling into fists.

With a flick of her wrist, the whiskey began to swirl and solidify, forming chains that snaked around your limbs, binding you in place. Your muscles tensed against the restraints as Mimzy manipulated you like a puppeteer. Slowly, you reverted back to your regular form, forced to your knees before her.

The blonde bent down, her grip firm on your face, nails digging deep into your skin as she pulled your head up to face her. "You're here because of me! Everything you've ever achieved was because of me! I made you a star, and this is how you repay me?!"

You recognized the anger in her tone, but beneath it lurked a deeper pain and desperation. The poor gal was fighting to reclaim control over a situation slipping through her grasp.

A sudden knock at the door startled Mimzy, causing her to tense. The door creaked open to reveal the imposing figure of Vox filling the doorway. As he entered the room, a wave of static filled the air, crackling and sending goosebumps cascading over your skin. His gaze swept over the scene, taking note of your restraints and bloodied head before settling on Mimzy.

"What is the meaning of this?" 

Under Vox's gaze, Mimzy's confident demeanor faltered, replaced by a nervous tremor in her voice. "I-I was just… settling some unfinished business, mistah," she stammered, attempting to regain her composure.

"You've just damaged the merchandise, sweetheart," Vox stated matter-of-factly, gesturing to you with a wave of his hand. "And we can't have that, now can we?"

With a casual snap of his fingers, the wires from the stage lights above writhed and twisted, tearing free from the ceiling with a deafening creak. They snaked through the air like serpents, wrapping around Mimzy's torso and dragging her away from you with a forceful yank.

With Mimzy taken care of, Vox then turned his attention to you.

"Dolly, was it?" he smiled, voice disarming. "I've got to say, I have always wanted to see you up close."

"You've seen me," you replied with a cold edge to your voice, slowly backing away and pressing yourself against the wall. "I'm here."

"Charmed," Vox smiled, his gaze heating as he drank you in, every detail of you like candy to his eyes. As Vox strode towards you, you instinctively curled into yourself, shrinking back deeper against the wall. He chuckled softly, noticing your reaction, and halted his advances. Instead, he took a seat on the cushion by your toppled vanity, glowing eyes locked onto you.

Pretty Dolly Heart.

Your lips were painted a vivid red, pouting slightly in a frown. Damp, glossy curls framed your face, shimmering in the light and tempting him to reach out and run his fingers through them. Rivulets of blood marred your temple, staining the delicate white flowers nestled into your hair.

The TV Demon was interested in you, and he wouldn't let go until he went home with you tonight, that much was clear.

"I have a deal in mind," Vox turned to Mimzy with a look in his eyes that screamed trouble. "Are you willing to trade your soul for hers?"

Your blood ran cold with fear.

"As Velvette and I are business partners, our souls contracts are intertwined. I'm sure there would be no issue if you signed the deal with me instead," he added with a chuckle, his eyes swirling with a dangerous allure.

Panic clawed at your insides, urging you to flee from the impending doom that loomed before you. But rooted to the spot by fear, you found yourself unable to move.

"Yes! A-Absolutely!" Mimzy's words shattered the heavy silence, her voice trembling with desperation as she nodded frantically. Her eyes remained nervously glued to the crackling electricity of the torn wires still wrapped around her, the fear in her gaze mirroring your own.

With a clap of his hands, Vox conjured a new contract and a strong burst of wind swept through the room, ruffling curtains and causing objects to tremble on their surfaces. Blue light flooded the walls, casting eerie shadows and filling the room with an ominous glow. The atmosphere crackled with electricity, every hair on your body standing on end as if charged with static energy.

A tablet materialized and floated before you, its screen pulsing with a faint, golden glow.

"Make her sign here, and it'll be done," Vox instructed, his voice carrying an air of finality as he handed Mimzy a stylus, tapping his clawed finger along the screen of his tablet.

With a trembling hand, Mimzy took the stylus and held it out for you, the strings of her magic wrapping around your limbs once again. You attempted to shout out, but Mimzy's magic stitched your lips shut, leaving you unable to utter a sound.

Helpless, you watched as your hand was forced to reach out and take the pen into your grasp, your fingers moving against your will as Mimzy guided them to sign the contract. With each stroke of the pen, a wave of despair washed over you, a muffled sob bubbling from your throat as your name appeared on the screen, sealing your fate.

Vox's grin widened, a glint of triumph dancing in his eyes as he held up your old paper contract with Mimzy, the words now rendered meaningless. With a swift motion, he tore it to shreds, the sound of paper ripping echoing through the tense silence of the room.

"Welcome to VoxTek, Dolly."

#next chapter will explain all of their background :DD #sephiewrites #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #hazbin imagine #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x you #hazbin x you #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin hotel vox

[perlelune]

Hunger | Coriolanus Snow

From the moment your husband introduces to President Snow, you're untethered, as if the very floor was ripped from underneath you.

Warnings: NON-CON, District 12! Reader, Covey! Reader, Housewife Kink, Manipulation, Somnophilia, Breeding Kink, Chasing

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Nervousness wrenches your insides as you peer at the proceedings from afar. Another gala to raise funds in order to quell a budding rebellion in the Districts. The second one this year. 

They always leave you feeling sour. It’s not like the Districts have no reason to start an uprising. The next reaping is fastly approaching and you’d rage too if your family was to go through that again.

You take a tiny sip from your glass of posca, mindful not to overindulge. The diluted, aromatic wine is far stronger than one would imagine. But a slight dash of intoxication is the only way you can see yourself getting through the night. Crowds always made you anxious, but a gathering of Capitol citizens stirs a particular discomfort in you. 

You’re not one of them and you often wonder if they can tell, sense a whiff of District 12 on you. The foul stench of unbelonging. Perhaps in the manner you speak or your stance. You’ve never managed to perfectly mimic the way Capitol ladies carry themselves, born from a lifetime of practicing poise and etiquette. After all, you are an outsider, and always will be.

Regardless of how many galas you attend, fashionable dresses you order to match the quickly changing trends of the Capitol, effort you exert to erase your thick Covey accent…it seems someone can always tell there’s more to you.

It’s in that mocking glint in their eyes, that sneering lilt in their voice.

To them, you’ll never be more than District rabble. 

Which is exactly why you despise these events. But your husband insisted. He’s working hard to impress his boss, the most important man in all of Panem, and you can’t let him down.

You must be the picture of charm. Laugh at every joke, nod your head when a serious topic is being broached, display interest when personal stories are being shared.

You place a hand on your roaring stomach, a frown creasing your brow. You haven’t swallowed a bite the entire day, too anxious about how tonight would go.

Your gaze darts about the room. The tantalizing spread of appetizers in the middle of the room seems to be calling your name. Your mouth waters.

Without a thought, your feet glide across the marble tiles. A little self-conscious, hesitation tingles at your fingertips as they drum by one of the silver platters. Another pang of hunger pierces your insides at the sight of the food. You cave in, picking up a tiny sandwich from a plate. Your eyes close, angels singing in your mouth as delicious aromas trickle on your tongue. 

“Sweetie, there’s someone you must meet,” your husband chimes at your back.

Still chewing on a mouthful of meat and bread, you whirl. Your eyes bulge. Startled, you nearly suffocate on your food.

You quickly wipe your mouth as heat rushes to your cheeks.

You’ve seen his face before. The murky screens do not do justice to his dashing looks.

“President Snow. It’s a pleasure. Apologies, I was…”

A smile ghosts over his lips as he drinks you in, his cerulean gaze dragging over your frame. “No apologies,” he answers silkily. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the food. At least someone is.”

He picks up your hand and presses an ephemeral peck on the back of it. You turn to Henry. The shock adorning your husband’s face mirrors yours.

President Snow’s lips curl skywards.

He lets go of your hand and adds, “It’s nice putting a face to your name. Henry is always raving about you.”

You shake your head, eyes bashfully finding the floor. “Oh, I’m sure he isn’t,” you mumble.

The blonde hums as if to disagree. He bends close to your ear.

“He’s always lauding what a wonderful wife you are, dutiful, sweet…”

…Makes me almost jealous.

Your head whips up.

You blink at the whispered words, barely above a breath. Maybe you heard wrong. It’s hard to tell, the way Snow gauges you, that subtle smile still decorating his handsome face.

He asks you trivial questions about how you’re settling in and how you’re enjoying your life in the Capitol. You answer every time, ignoring the chill dancing at the base of your spine.

His scrutiny swells your unease.

So as soon as the conversation veers away from you and towards the topics of lawmaking and taxes, you snatch the opportunity to excuse yourself.

You give an apologetic smile to your husband.

“Henry, maybe I should go. I’m not feeling too hot.”

He scowls at you. “You want us to leave already?” Disappointment bleeds in his tone. A thick layer of shame settles in the pit of your stomach. You’re being a bad wife.

“You can stay, even if I go,” you try to offer.

“There’s still so many people we haven’t talked to…” Henry argues.

You deflate. You suppose it would be uncouth to leave too early.

To your surprise, President Snow’s smooth lilt interjects, “If your wife is unwell, you both should go.”

You gape at him. A strange glint bounces in his cerulean orbs and unease flutters through you once more. 

Henry sighs, grabbing your hand.

“Alright. I’ll go fetch the car.” 

He gives the blond a formal salute before dragging you away.

As the two of you leave, the heat of Snow’s attention prickles along your spine.

“Did he say something to you?”

Gasping, you turn to your husband. He pointedly looks at you and you shift awkwardly in the passenger seat. 

“What?” you say, taken aback by his sudden question. 

He studies you for a while before his gaze drifts back to the road.

“Snow. He said something to you, didn’t he?”

Your chest clenches. Faking nonchalance, you shrug and reply lightly, “Just a joke but I didn’t understand it.”

The days soar by, humdrum and uneventful. You file away the strange moment at the gala and return to your everyday life. Henry occupies most of your time but when you’re not catering to him, you tend to the house and read. And during stolen moments…you play and sing. Henry doesn’t know, of course. It’s a life you left behind, or are supposed to at least. 

You’re the wife of a Capitol official, not some District balladeer peddling song for coin.

But you can’t help it. 

Singing reminds you of home. Of endless green meadows and lazy afternoons by the river. Your life from before may have been uncertain but you find yourself missing it at times. Missing the freedom to do and act as you pleased.

An orphan like so many others, the Covey were the only family you ever knew. Then you met Henry. Henry who spoke so sweetly to you and gazed at you with warm brown eyes. And he became your family. He didn’t care that you were from a District or that your manners were lacking. He embraced you.

And now you wish to support him in all that he does. Even if it means tossing away parts of yourself.

The front door cracks open, halting the path of the needle between your fingers. A smile blooms on your lips as you place Henry’s shirt on a nearby table. You can resume fixing the buttons on it later. You rise from the armchair and make your way to him. You help him out of his coat, noting the excitement radiating off his frame.

He’s not usually this ecstatic after a day of work. You tilt your head in puzzlement.

He hugs you before announcing, “We have a guest tomorrow, a very important guest.”

“Oh,” you reply, tamping down your concern. The apartment isn’t exactly ready for guests, much less important ones. The fridge needs to be stocked and the furniture requires thorough dusting.

“Yes, I was mentioning what a wonderful cook you are and he said he hasn’t had a home cooked meal in a while.”

“Who?” you ask, your curiosity peaking.

“President Snow,” Henry replies with a victorious grin.

Dread and confusion collide inside you. Why would President Snow visit you and your husband of all people? While Henry’s been rising in ranks quite fast, you can’t picture the leader of the country making time for people like you.

But you don’t voice these thoughts, instead you inquire, “Are you sure my cooking will be enough for him? His palate is used to those fancy meals at the Capitol.”

He cradles your face and plants a kiss on your forehead.

“Don’t doubt yourself, honey. You’re an amazing cook.”

“I just don’t want to let you down,” you confess, anxiously chewing on your lip.

“You won’t,” he assures. His chestnut gaze dives into yours. “This could be a great opportunity for us. Imagine what being close to Snow could do for our lives. He could promote me. We could even move to a bigger place.”

Your brows knit. “I love our place.”

Henry laughs. “Yes but the day we expand our family, you have to admit it’ll be a little small.”

You peer at your surroundings. Every corner of the little house harbors a beloved memory. You’d hate leaving it behind, but you suppose he’s right. You might outgrow it one day.

Henry frames your chin to draw your focus back to him.

“Just be yourself,” he says. “Your kind, sweet, wonderful self and all will be well.”

Nodding, you give a feeble smile.

“Understood.”

The next day is spent meticulously cleaning every inch of the house. For hours you’re anxious, wondering what to say or do, how to behave. You don’t have the natural wit and charm to impress someone like Coriolanus Snow. You keep worrying you’ll speak out of turn and embarrass Henry. Preparing dinner is the only time your mind is at rest. You stir the vegetables in the stew, smiling as the delectable scent fills your nostrils. It’s simmered for hours to create a rich flavor. It’s only your second time trying this recipe so you’re a bit nervous. Henry adored it but he’s your husband. You don’t know if President Snow’s delicate taste buds will find your meals to his liking.

You’re slightly more confident about your strawberry cake. While you struggled with it at first, the frosting never quite coming out the way you wanted, it’s now turned into one of your specialties.

The doorbell rings and you freeze. You glance up at the clock hanging near the stove. Already? Time has flown and you didn’t notice.

As you approach the door, you smooth out the wrinkles in your apron and straighten your spine. You take a deep breath before opening the door. 

A wobbly smile cants your lips upwards. 

“President Snow, it’s an honor,” you greet cheerfully.

The tall blond crosses the threshold after your husband. You take him in, trying to girdle your apprehension. He casts an imposing figure with his slicked back silver locks and tailored purple suit, the signature white rose pinned to his left breast pocket as always.

An aura of authority seems to follow him wherever he goes. 

“Please, the honor is mine,” Snow says. His sky gaze roams across the living room. His expression is unreadable and you feel a bit self-conscious. It’s likely not as luxurious as what he’s used to. But to your surprise, he looks right at you and says, “What a lovely abode.”

His nose twitches as he hums, “I smell something heavenly, for me perhaps?”

You nod.

“I made beef stew.”

“Wonderful.”

Your cheeks warm at the compliment. 

“Shall we sit?” Henry says, escorting him to the dining room.

You rush to the kitchen and throw your apron on a chair. Inhaling a lungful of nerve, you slip on gloves and grab the pot from the stove. Slowly, you bring out the food. Your skin tingles with the weight of Snow’s eyes on you. 

You ladle out the stew on each plate. When you circle the table to serve Snow, you feel the faintest brush of fingertips over your hip. You flinch.

When you look at him, an almost imperceptible smile hovers on his lips. You blink and it almost seems like it’s gone, as if you dreamt the entire instant. The ladle wavers in your hand.

Did he mean to do that? Once again, you question your own senses, your sanity. It was a fleeting touch, the accidental kind that occurs everyday. But somehow your nerves are agitated with this mere, insignificant second.

Quickly, you round the table and plop down in the chair next to your husband. He squeezes your hand beneath the table, his brown gaze spelling “good job”. Relief sits inside you. You spent all day agonizing over every aspect of tonight so it’s nice to know Henry appreciates your efforts at least.

Everyone starts eating, your husband and Snow engaging in topics you only listen to with half an ear. Instead you focus on your plate, swallowing tiny bites of the stew. 

The flavor is nice and rich, just like you hoped, and pride trickles inside you.

“You’re so silent. Are we boring you?”

Snow’s abrupt statement yanks a sharp gasp from you. Your head snaps up. You realize both he and Henry are staring at you. Your face warms.

“N-No, I just don’t have anything interesting to contribute,” you stammer, your head dipping. 

“My wife has no mind for politics, I’m afraid,” Henry chuckles. 

Your mouth screws shut, your fingers tightening around your spoon. It’s more that your opinions differ vastly and there are things Henry prefers you don’t say aloud.

A crooked smirk blooms on Snow’s lips.

“Ah, a pretty, silent one. I believe you lucked out with this one, Henry.”

Your teeth grind as your brows twitch. Pretty and silent. You don’t know why the words chafe you, cutting into you as deep as a knife. 

You rise from your chair and grab your near empty plate. 

“I should go clean the kitchen,” you announce with a terse smile.

You don’t look back as you walk away, berating yourself with every step.

This isn’t how one should behave in front of him. But you also don’t think you can spend another second in his presence.

You rub the sponge over the top of the stove, satisfaction trickling inside you as the grease and sauce stains are wiped away. You bask in the calm, concentrated on your task. 

A warm breath tickles the shell of your ear.

“You seemed peeved before.”

Sucking a sharp breath, you whirl on your heels. Your hand spreads over your chest as your vision is filled with the towering frame of President Snow. His stance is relaxed as he peers at you curiously.

“You scared me…President.”

He ignores your reaction, continuing his statement from before, “When we were discussing the next reaping.”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t peeved.”

“Your face, it did that thing.” Your forehead creases. He inches closer. The scent of roses, thick and heady, coats your senses. Your head starts spinning. “Like now. It bothered you.”

Panic flutters through you. This is a man who could have you hanged or jailed for saying the wrong thing. But something about his expression tells you he won’t relent, that he'll only take the truth and nothing else.

So your heart spills out of you.

“In an ideal world, we wouldn’t need the Hunger Games. They are…” You trail off, remembering yourself, who you’re speaking to. You bite down your feelings and go quiet.

But Snow bends over you, crowding your space as your back hits the edge of the stove.

“What? Barbaric? Cruel?” He chuckles and goosebumps rise on your flesh. “But we do need them, dove. Every single year. So the districts never forget their place, and most importantly ours.”

Your lip quakes. Snow’s gaze follows the motion, his lips slanting lopsidedly.

“Such a sweet soul,” he whispers.

He suddenly backs away from you. Air rushes back to your lungs.

“It’s late. I should take my leave. Thank you for a most…enlightening dinner.”

You resume your life and, for a while, everything is normal. Henry doesn’t talk about that night again and neither do you, the both of you bonded by that silent agreement. Maybe he saw Snow talking to you in the kitchen, maybe he didn’t. You’ll never know as he keeps his thoughts to himself, throwing himself into his work and acting like his usual self. 

And if there’s a bit more distance between the two of you in the marital bed, you try not to let it bother you. With time, the strangeness will fade and you and Henry will be back on track, trying for a child and enjoying marital bliss.

Though one evening, things are anything but normal. In fact, the world all but ends.

Your husband peruses the notice letter for rent once more. The blood seems to leave his face.

He runs his fingers through his dark curls.

“I don’t understand.”

Hands resting on his shoulders, your heart skips a beat as you read the neat printed letters.

Rent in your building has doubled overnight. If you and your husband do not pay up by next week, you will be evicted. Houseless.

Hell, you might even be sent back to your district. Your heart plummets to your feet. Your knees buckle underneath you. Henry catches you before you fall, leading you to the sofa as panicked breaths rush through your lungs.

He hunkers in front of you and holds your hands.

“I promise you I’ll find a way. Take out a loan or-”

“A loan we won’t be able to pay back?”

His jaw clenches. “Just let me handle it, okay?”

Though doubts creep inside you, you nod.

The days race along, tension growing each day as the deadline is approaching. Only three days. In just three days, you and your husband will be evicted unless a miracle happens.

And you conclude from the dark circles under Henry’s eyes and the way he barely answers when you speak to him, that he’s as clueless as you are.

There is no solution. Once again, the Capitol and its arbitrary rules strike.

So you come to a decision.

A decision that leads you in front of the biggest mansion in the entire Capitol. President Coriolanus Snow’s house. You suck in a wide lungful, quelling a shudder at the sight of the blue-clad peacekeepers lining the walls.

You stride towards the massive entrance gates. White roses twine around the wrought iron, their thorns seeming as sharp as knives. 

You gather your nerves and lift a tremulous hand towards the intercom.

Before you can even state your matter, a disembodied, feminine voice rises from the device.

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asks stiffly.

Hasty words pour out of you. “No, but I just need a minute-”

“President Snow doesn’t accept any visitors,” she responds harshly.

Your heart sinks. Of course he doesn’t. It was naive of you to cling to the illusory hope he’d see you anyway. Just for one dinner he likely forgot about. He’s the president. There are crucial matters that perpetually call for his attention. A myriad of things bigger and more important than a single Capitol citizen’s rent issues.

Still, you elect to try again, remembering the imminent deadline.

“Please,” you beg. “It’s very important.”

A distorted sigh ripples from the intercom.

“If you do not leave the premises, we will be compelled to remove you from the property, miss.”

One of the peacekeepers posted at the gates looks straight at you, his hand tightening over the rear of his machine gun. A wave of ice spreads through your veins.

You swallow and step back, accepting your defeat. Burning with shame, you start walking away from the mansion.

But you’re hardly a feet away, as the same voice from before erupts again, much softer this time. 

“My apologies, miss. I didn’t realize you were a close friend of President Snow.”

Your jaw hangs slack as you turn.

A woman with long dark hair appears through the open gates.

“Please, follow me,” she says as she approaches you. “The president will see you right away.”

Still steeped in utter shock, you acquiesce. You trail behind her. You can’t help but allow your eyes to wander as the woman escorts you through a dizzying series of hallways. While the front of the mansion is impressive with its lavish gardens and striking architecture, the inside is just as grandiose. You feel small as your gaze rests on all the sculptures and paintings decorating every corner of the house. Everywhere you look, there is something beautiful and eye-catching. The entire house is like a museum, meant to be admired rather than lived in.

Eventually the woman halts in front of a mahogany door. She tugs on the brass handles and stands to the side, making room for you to walk in. You mumble ‘thank you’ under your breath as you stumble inside the office.

President Snow’s blue eyes crinkle when they rest on you.

“Hello, dove. Why don’t you have a seat?” he offers, pointing at the chair before his desk. 

Licking your lips, you do as he says. Despite the softness of the plush upholstery you sit on, your nerves flare up. You had an entire speech ready, one you practiced on the way here. 

But now that you’re here, his intense focus pinned on you, you’re at a loss. 

Shaky words trickle out of your mouth.

“President Snow. I know you must be so busy…”

“Nonsense,” he interrupts, leaning back in his leather chair. “I always find time for my friends.”

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“T-That’s a relief to hear,” you stammer.

A maid brings a kettle and biscuits on a silver platter. 

“Tea?” Snow asks as he picks up the kettle.

“No, thank you.”

As Snow pours himself a cup, you ponder your next words. You don’t want to seem greedy but you can’t think of an elegant way to state your purpose.

So you settle for the truth.

“I came because…my husband and I are in a bit of trouble.”

Snow scrutinizes you for a while. Your stomach tightens. 

He then gives a sluggish nod, bending forwards as his fingers lace together.

“Do tell me everything, dove.”

You do exactly that. Snow is silent as your trembling voice fills his office. No word leaves his mouth while he listens. You don’t skip out a single detail, making a point to emphasize what consequences could befall upon you and your husband should you fail to meet the deadline. 

When you’re done, he sips from his tea cup and hums, “How unfortunate.”

“Can’t it be undone? I mean, couldn’t you…”

He chuckles along the porcelain rim of his cup. “I’m not responsible for every law and charter. I approve them, of course, but there are committees, councils. Each law serves the betterment of Panem as a whole. I can’t undo what has been done. I mean, how would this look to the rest of the Capitol? Like I have a different set of rules for my friends? I have to look impartial.” Heaving out a deep sigh, he sets his cup down.  “Apologies, dove, my hands are tied.”

The world seems to collapse around you. Your stomach sinks.

You surmise it was too big an ask, even for the President of Panem. You can’t expect special treatment. It was silly of you to even come hoping for anything resembling that.

You were foolish. Now you must collect the pathetic remnants of your dignity and take your leave.

Gulping down the tears pressing at the back of your eyes, you nod. 

“I’m sorry I asked,” you croak, already beginning to rise from your chair.

His deep lilt pauses your motion.

“But I suppose…there could be a solution. An alternative.”

Your brow furrows as you drop back on the chair.

“An alternative?”

“I could cover the difference.”

Your mouth nearly hits the floor. Snow using his own funds to help? It could be the very miracle you and your husband waited for. You would have to pay him back over time, of course. But for now, it would allow you and Henry to keep the apartment.

It’s a godsend.

“You would do that for us?” you mutter, shock stealing your air.

His reply is nonchalant. “Yes. I’d simply file it under my own personal investments.” Slanting his head sideways, he studies you. “I’d just ask for a small favor in exchange.”

“A favor?”

You wonder what kind of favor you could do for someone like Coriolanus Snow, the man who has everything and more. Gaping at him, you wait for him to elaborate.

He leans forward, crossing his arms over his desk.

“It’s not much but it would mean the world to me. The house needs some upkeep. Just a few light chores here and there. No cleaning, of course; I have an entire staff in charge of that. But the garden needs tending.” His inflection softens as he takes you in. “A home cooked meal every now and then would be nice, and I might sometimes ask you to join me for tea and conversation…” Mirth sways in his cerulean orbs. “As dreadful as that may sound.”

You move your head in assent.

“I think I can do that. But w-why me?”

He gives a long exhale, resting his jaw in his hand.

“Honestly dove? You’d be the one doing me a favor. All day, I’m surrounded by vultures.” Snow rolls his eyes skyward. “Sycophants who placate me with false smiles and honeyed lies.” His tone warms when his gaze falls back on you. “I simply wish to return home to someone genuine, someone who would never lie to me. And you wouldn’t, would you?”

“W-What?”

“Lie to me.”

Your skin heats under his scrutiny. 

Trying not to squirm, you sputter, “Never, sir.”

“Music to my ears,” the young president croons.

It’s not sounding like more work than what you do at home. You can already hear Henry’s discontent echoing in your head. You won’t have as much time for him. That too will be yet another adjustment.

But what other option is there? Even the family of four above yours had to move, unable to keep up with the sudden rent increase. You and Henry could be next.

“I…W-When do I start?”

The corners of Snow’s lips tug upwards.

“How does tomorrow sound?”

“You’re going to work for him?”

Henry’s displeasure ripples through you. You twine your hands and cast him an apologetic look. He despises that you went behind his back; you know that. But Henry ran himself ragged trying to come up with a solution. You didn’t want him to carry the burden on his own. That is not what a marriage is.

“He needs a housekeeper, of sorts. And he paid this month’s rent and the next upfront.”

Henry’s brows crumple. “Still, that’s…” Shoulders sagging, he crashes onto the sofa. The built-up exhaustion of the last few days seems to return all at once. You know he hasn’t slept a wink this whole week. Heart squeezing, you join his side and cradle his hand in your lap. Henry’s voice is dripping with shame and regret. “The entire reason I moved us here is so you never have to want for anything, so you wouldn’t have to work or suffer another day in this life.” His head dips. “I failed you.”

You cup his face, plunging your eyes into his.

“You didn’t fail me. And I won’t suffer. Sometimes life throws you lemons and you just have to squeeze those suckers dry.”

A hollow chuckle slips through his lips.

You run your thumbs over his growing beard.

"Listen, I know this wasn’t in our plans, but it’s just for now. In time, we’ll figure something out but I have to do this.” You lean your forehead against his. “For us.”

“Okay,” he belatedly concedes. He pulls your hands to his chest, kissing your knuckles.

“Just come home when you’re done.”

“I will,” you promise. 

The first day slogs forth without a hitch. A car picks you up in the morning and drops you off at President Snow’s estate. The dark-haired woman from before welcomes you, introduces you to the staff and walks you through your duties. You learn her name is Ariadne. 

You spend most of the day busy in the garden and library. Snow’s garden of roses might be one of the hidden treasures of Panem. Taking care of it is a pleasure and you even give yourself some minutes to bask in the sun’s warmth. 

The library shelves need dusting and you tend to this task as well, humming familiar tunes to yourself while working. It is no harm if no one is around to hear you sing. 

You don’t get bored as there’s always a task requiring your attention in the massive house. 

When stars begin to dust the darkening sky, you rush to the kitchen. You get started on dinner. Staff members give you space to work and you’re grateful. You don’t like being ogled while you cook. You marvel at the gold, high-end appliances as you knead your dough. The kitchen is pristine, like everything else in the house. You settle for something simple, hearty and warm. There is no point in pretending you’re some fancy chef when you’re not. If it’s what Snow desired, he’d have hired one. There’s a plethora of them in the Capitol for him to choose from after all. And they’d all line up outside his house in a heartbeat if he requested it.

You stand nervous, hands folded in your lap as the meal you prepared is brought out onto silver plates. You spent hours on it. Hopefully he likes it.

“This smells like heaven,” Snow purrs.

He then points at the chair next to his on the long table.

“Have a seat.”

Your eyes bulge. Not only are you stunned by his request, as there are so many other chairs on the gigantic dinner table, but you were hoping to return home to Henry once dinner was served.

 “Oh, I thought…”

He smiles at you. “I hate dining alone.”

You consider arguing. But as you remember all that you owe him, your mouth squeezes shut. You give a meek nod and drag your feet to the chair.

“Of course.”

You pick up your knife and fork…one of the knives and forks. You choose at random, unsure what purpose each of the cutlery items serves.

A smile waltzes upon Snow’s lips as he watches you. Shame pools in your gut. You feel like you’re making a fool of yourself.

He takes a bite of food and hums low in his throat, his eyes closing.

“Your cooking never fails to amaze, dove,” he lauds. Blue eyes search your face. “Are you hiding other talents from me?”

Your eyes lock onto your napkin, following the swirl of the flower patterns sewn in the corners. “I don’t think so,” you mumble.

Dinner continues in silence, only occasionally shattered by Snow’s sounds of delight and words of praise. Your own bites are small. While you’re glad it turned out the way you wanted, you’d rather save your appetite for home.

When a maid brings tea after the meal, Snow raises a dismissive hand.

“We’ll have tea and cakes in the study,” he announces.

Your face scrunches. “But it’s getting late. I should-”

“I must insist,” he interrupts. He rises from his seat and offers you his outstretched hand. 

His smile broadens.

“You would rob me of your company so swiftly, dove? How cruel of you.”

Reluctantly, you accept the hand he gives you. He helps you out of your chair and motions at you to follow him.

The both of you end up in his study, sitting by the fire. Tea is placed on the small table between you. Coriolanus takes a slow sip while you fiddle with your hands.

His cerulean gaze locks with yours.

“That song you were humming earlier.”

Your chest seizes.

The loud thudding of your heart fills your ears. You swallow thickly. 

“A song?”

“Yes,” he says absently, adding another spoonful of sugar to his cup. He gives a small stir before bringing it to his lips again. “I heard it as I walked by the library.”

You try not to let your panic show, cloaking yourself in false nonchalance. You thought you were discreet, quiet almost.

“Ah, that. It’s nothing,” you elude.

“No, it was lovely. You have the voice of an angel.” 

The compliment leaves you speechless.

But his next words tie your stomach in knots.

“I want to hear it again.”

“I don’t really…perform for audiences.”

“You mean since you left the Covey?”

Mouth agape, you stare at him. How did he find out? You don’t remember ever bringing it up. In fact, you wouldn’t. You expend great effort to hide your past on a daily basis.

Your reaction draws a snort from him. Amusement bounces in his orbs.

“Come on, dove, that accent…It might fool others but not me.”

“I don’t sing anymore,” you state firmly. 

Even if you did, you wouldn’t do it for Coriolanus Snow. Not of your own free will.

He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His inflection becomes sharp, all softness evanescing. “Remember when I told you that I hated lies?” His pointed gaze sends chills through your body. “Sing for me, dove.”

Your mouth goes dry as sand. 

You understand his words for what they are. An order from your president. A strange order…but an order nonetheless.

You don’t get to refuse. You’re to sing for him, whether it pleases you or not.

Like a bird in a cage.

So you do it. Your lips fall open and clear, soft notes rise out of you. A traditional song your mother taught you. It tells the story of a girl who meets a boy with ocean eyes, how she drowns in them but the fall is like rising to heaven. 

As your voice fills his office, Snow’s scorching gaze doesn’t leave you.

When the song is done, he doesn’t applaud or praise you.

Instead, his eyes bear into you for what feels like an eternity. You try not to move, though your heart thunders in your chest. 

“See, was that so hard?” he asks, that cocky smile still adorning his lips. You don’t reply, your throat ablaze. It felt as if you didn’t belong to yourself just then. And it terrifies you. He slides your untouched cup towards you. “Drink your tea before it gets cold. Then, you can go home.”

Without a protest, you lift the cup to your mouth. One measly cup of tea and you’ll get to go home. Then this uncomfortable evening can end. Finally.

But as the liquid trickles inside your mouth, tendrils of darkness lurk in your vision. Your body gets heavier. So heavy you can’t hold the cup anymore, or even yourself. The porcelain dish vanishes from your hands. You sag into your chair.

Progressively, colors dim around you. 

Then sleep drags you down into a rabbit hole of utter oblivion. And all is blackness.

Softness like you’ve never felt before greets you when you awake. Like being embraced by fluffy clouds. For a while, you linger in the comfortable sensation, humming against the plush blankets. But as your eyes land on the thin slice of sunlight spilling from the window, you unleash an audible gasp. 

You bolt in a sitting position. 

Your eyes widen as you find Ariadne observing you between the velvet curtains at the end of the bed.

Gripping the side of your head, you glance at your surroundings. Clearly, you’re in a room. But how did you wind up here? No matter how hard you try, you can’t summon a single memory from last night.

“Ariadne? What happened?” 

She circles the bed to take a seat next to you. Her gentle tone alleviates your rising panic.

“You fell asleep,” she explains. “Master Snow brought you here so you can get some proper rest.” 

You sigh. It does make sense. Though you can’t stamp out the trickle of embarrassment sitting inside you with that knowledge. You dozed off on the job, on your first day. Hopefully, Snow isn’t too offended. 

“I must have been more tired than I thought,” you mutter, looking down.

“He’s gone now; he had urgent business at the Justice Building. But he insisted you eat a proper meal before you go.” She points at the golden food cart near the bed, every tray brimming with pastries, fruits, meats and cheeses. Way more than you could eat in a single meal.

The kind of decadent abundance the Capitol likes to indulge in. 

You politely decline. 

“I can’t…I have to return to my husband. He must be worried sick.”

Ariadne puts a hand on your arm.

“Word has been sent to him that you were simply tending to Master Snow’s needs last night.”

You purse your lips. It’s not ideal but at least he knows you were working. 

“Good,” you reply, nodding.

You yank the blanket off your body, determined to stand up and leave. But as soon as you’re on your feet, you crash back down on the bed, a strange ache awakening in your limbs.

Your forehead creases. You hug your stomach, a vicious cramp creeping there too.

Ariadne’s immediately at your side, placing her hands over your arms.

“Take it easy, miss,” she warns. “You exerted yourself a great deal yesterday.” She beams brightly. “In fact, Master Snow has given you a few days off. He was very satisfied with your work and expects you in three days’ time.”

Your brows rise. “Oh, that’s very generous.”

Her grin expands.

“He is exceedingly pleased with your performance.”

Over the next few weeks, Snow keeps summoning you sporadically. The days you work for him are pretty much the same. You attend to your daily tasks, you cook for him and then the two of you have tea in his study. He has you sing for him sometimes. You’ve learnt to swallow your feelings and perform according to his whim. You don’t even sing to yourself anymore, the exultation you drew from it all but gone. It was a way to stay connected to your Covey roots, to keep your family close to your heart. Now you can’t do it without his icy gaze invading your thoughts.

You often end up incredibly tired on those days, your body aching and sore for hours afterwards. You never imagined working for Coriolanus Snow would drain you so much. Falling asleep in his house even turns into a regular occurrence, happening almost every time you show up for work.

Naturally, Henry isn’t thrilled with that. Every time you come back home, too tired to wait on him hand and foot like you used to, his displeasure grows.

But he’s also yet to find a way to fix the issue, so the two of you must keep working. You’ve already sold everything that you could, clothes, any belonging of slight value. 

The gap is still too vast. 

And the city won’t allow you to apply for another place to live, claiming the waitlist is already sky-high.

Though you resent it, Coriolanus Snow is your only hope.

“You’re not in charge of dinner tonight,” Ariadne announces one night as you fire the stove.

You turn the burners off, your eyes rounding.

“I’m not?” 

A bright smile blooms on the brunette’s face.

“Master Snow is inviting you to dine with him as his guest, to express gratitude for your outstanding work.”

Your lips part in surprise. In the many weeks you’ve worked for President Snow, this has never happened. You have shared meals, of course, but you’ve never received such a formal invitation.

You suppose it’s all a game to Snow, and he simply changes the rules whenever he feels it.

She astonishes you further when she urges you to follow her to one of the guest bedrooms.

Utter dismay fills you.

A white dress lies atop the bed. The sleeveless evening gown looks more expensive than any dress you’ve ever laid eyes on. The delicate white silk flares at the waist, the gigantic, fluffy layered skirt making your head spin already. You imagine how hard it'd be to move in such a dress. Though you surmise it won’t be too much of a concern as you only need to sit through dinner with it.

“Master Snow expects you to wear this tonight,” Ariadne chimes.

She helps you slip on the dress, a task you undoubtedly would have struggled to complete on your own, the many layers of tulle, silk and lace of the huge skirt alone their own challenge.

Eventually, you’re dressed. 

She escorts you to the dinner room. Curious eyes dart about the halls, noting their unusual emptiness. Not a single footman, maid or Avox in sight. 

You’re alone.

“The house is very quiet,” you point out.

Ariadne beams at you from above her shoulder.

“The entire staff’s been sent home. Master Snow wants to wait on you himself tonight.”

Your stomach knots, a foreboding feeling swelling within you.

Still, you glide forward. It’s a little late to turn back.

When you enter the diner room, Snow’s face lights up. He makes his way to you. As usual, he’s dashing, his platinum blonde locks neatly combed back and his crimson suit highlighting his tall frame.

His gaze twinkles as he drinks you in. 

“You’re a vision, dove.” He lifts your hand and brushes his lips over your knuckles. His eyes slam into yours. Time seems to hang still for a few seconds. “As I know you would be.”

Keeping your hand in his, he escorts you to your seat. He pulls your chair for you and you fumble with your skirt a little before finding a comfortable way to sit. 

“So…no maids today?” you say lightly. 

His lips slant. He removes the lid off one of the pots. The mouthwatering smell instantly reaches you. 

“I thought it’d be nicer to enjoy a quiet, private dinner together, as a way to celebrate.”

Your face contorts into a puzzled expression. 

“Celebrate?”

“Your last day as my housekeeper,” he replies cheerfully.

Your heart misses a beat. Is he firing you?

You attempt to tamp down the quake in your voice. You fail miserably.

“Really?”

He gauges you and his smile grows.

“Yes. In fact, you and your husband will never have to worry about rent anymore. Him  especially. Everything’s settled.”

An audible exhale slips through your mouth. 

“This is…I don’t know what to say.”

“You can say thank you.”

“Thank you, President Snow.”

His laugh resonates in the near empty dining room.

“Please, call me Coriolanus.” He ladles soup onto your plate before bending close. You tense as his warm breath ghosts over your temple. “We’re quite…close now, aren’t we, dove?”

You gulp down the lump in your throat.

“I suppose we are…Coriolanus.”

You wince. Uttering his name feels wrong, forbidden almost.

Satisfaction doesn’t part from his handsome features as he regains his seat. He gestures for you to start eating. You feel a bit self-conscious as he observes you intently. 

Still, you do as he heeds, not needing to be told twice. 

The quicker you eat, the quicker you’ll get to be home and out of the uncomfortable dress. 

You groan as your lids flutter, a blurry shape rocking back and forth in your vision. Fatigue tugs at your heavy limbs as you stir. Your forehead scrunches. Your body’s hot, like a furnace, like you’re burning from the inside out. Tingles spark somewhere in you and you keen sharply, leaning into the sensation. Feverish whispers surround you, words you don’t comprehend in your daze.

The pull and tear. The pleasure mingling with the pain. You’re in a strange dream, maybe a nightmare.

Deep-chested grunts land in your ears. You awake further. It’s a voice you recognize, from somewhere…but not like this. Never like this. Something’s wong. Your forehead wrinkles. Something’s wrong but you’re so tired. So so tired. Your mind’s like cotton. Your limbs are as rocks.

As your lids sag, something slams into you. Fast, hard and vicious.

Your heart bounces. Your eyes snap open.

Your stomach drops.

A sinister smile you know too well by now welcomes you.

“Hello, dove. Awake, finally,” Snow whispers, his hips snapping into yours. Your breath catches as his cock grazes against your sweet spots. You clench around him and he chuckles darkly. “That angle always does it for you.” Smugness oozes off his hoarse timbre.

You look up at him. Sweat dots his brow, his tousled blonde locks clinging to his forehead. His blue eyes are cloudy with lust. His white shirt is half open, revealing a glimpse of the bare, glistening muscles underneath.

And as your gaze travels lower, horror flares inside you.

You gape with wide eyes as his veiny length disappears inside you. Again and again. The fluffy white shirt is bunched around your waist, your panties torn, exposing your lower body to President Snow’s lewd scrutiny entirely. His large hands dig into your hips, trailing crescent bruises in the shape of his fingernails.

Your shocked gaze finds his.

His smile expands.

“P-President Snow, what are you doing?” 

You know it’s a stupid question…but you have to make sense of this. Because none of this can be real. Maybe it’s a nightmare and you’re still sleeping.

You gasp as he pushes you into the mattress, piledriving into you at an angle that has you seeing stars.

“Taking what’s mine, of course,” he says matter-of-factly, hooking his arm under your thigh.

He lifts you and spreads you even more. His darkened gaze follows the motion of his cock as he pounds into you, an insatiable look twisting his handsome features. 

Reaching between your tangled bodies, he pinches your tender heap of nerves. He rubs against it, teasing it with maddening circles until your legs quake. You come apart beneath him, crying out as your back arches against the soft sheets.

“Please, stop,” you whimper, tears gathering in your eyes.

Snow’s pace quickens. Ragged moans tear from your throat. Your vision flickers.

He bends over you to lick one of your tears, humming in satisfaction at the taste. 

His lips drag against yours as he asks, “Is it truly what you want? Because it’s kind of hard to tell the way your pussy hugs my cock.” His mouth curves upward against your cheek. “Like it does every time.”

A wave of ice spreads through you. 

Every time? Realization hits you, knife-like as it pierces through the veil of denial. 

Every time…

The pieces fall into place as you remember all those times you fell asleep, unable to recall how you ended up in bed. Tired, confused…sore.

A shudder shoots through your frame.

You twist your body as panic seizes you.

Coriolanus growls when you clamber away from him, heading for the edge of the bed. You curse the pesky gown and the way it hinders your movements.

He yanks you back with ease, gripping the back of your head and shoving you down into the mattress.

Lips graze your earshell as he snarls, “Where are you going? We’re not done. We have to make sure you carry the next Snow heir.” In one stroke, he sinks into you from behind. You choke on your breath, the pain snatching your air. With one hand cinched around the back of your neck, he starts rutting into you. Your bruised folds ache at the blunt invasion. Still, your core clings to him in a way that stirs shame in your gut. “Although after all these times…” You hear the smile in his conceited inflection “It’s a given, isn’t it?”

Your eyes swell with tears. Your lips part in a silent scream. The sick song of flesh against flesh fills the room, mingling with his feral moans. 

Each time your walls tighten around him, bile rises up your throat. 

“What have you done to me?” you sob against the drenched silk sheets.

“Oh, I think you know,” he purrs. His warm breath fans over your scalp. “You can feel it, can’t you? How well your body knows me now, dove.”

His hips stutter, his thrusts getting sloppier. His cock twitches inside you. As warmth trickles alongside your walls, you feel sick again. He remains nestled inside you a while, panting above you and shoving the excess back in as you remain still.

As you feel his digits poke and prod, a chill runs through you. 

You can’t let him touch you again.

You keel over the edge of the bed, heading straight towards the floor. Pain ripples through your knees as they hit the carpet. You’re forced to ignore the crack resounding through your bones, awkwardly getting to your feet and dashing to the wooden swing doors.

Coriolanus’ wicked laugh echoes behind you. 

“Oh, dove, if you wanted to play hide and seek, all you needed to do was to ask,” he taunts.

Terror grips your throat. You ignore it alongside everything else. Alongside the pain, alongside the uncertainty, alongside the fact that you can still feel him inside you. Like you never left the bed. Like you’re still caged in his embrace.

Your legs carry you, barefoot and panicked, as you run through the palatial hallways as fast as the bothersome white dress will allow.

The president’s deep voice bounces against the ornate walls.

“Ready or not, here I come, my darling.”

The blood rushes to your feet. Your head spins and your feet tangle. You trip. Immediately, you gather yourself. You lift the skirt and dive hastily towards the living room. You duck behind a sofa. 

It’s a pathetic place to hide; you know it. But the lavish mansion is nothing but open spaces doused in sunlight. 

There is nowhere to hide.

The clamor of your heart is deafening in your ears as you hear objects crash to the floor a few feet away from you. Hand over your mouth to keep every sound in, you jerk every time the racket grows on the other side of the sofa. 

His frustration coats the air.

“Come out, come out wherever you are, dove,” he calls, his tone icier than before.

You freeze, holding your breath and wishing he doesn’t think to look where you are.

The minutes pass, agonizingly slow. The flimsy hope that he may have left even begins to bloom inside you.

Hot air suddenly breezes over your nape.

“Found you.” 

Your heart leaps to your throat. You go still. Coriolanus hauls you from the floor, half-carrying you and half-lugging you across the living room. You try to bite and claw any part of him you can reach but his hand locks around your throat.

He slams you harshly against a wall. Your head rings, the lines of his face momentarily doubling in your vision. You bite his hand. Cursing under his breath, he bangs your head against the wall again. You go limp.

Through your hazy sight, you note the scarlet trail streaking the back of his hand. You drew blood. Even if you’re lost, you bask in the ephemeral second of victory.

He carries your unmoving form the rest of the way back to his bedroom. You loathe yourself for your stillness. You want to put up a fight. You want to claw. You want to bite. You want to kill him with your bare hands. 

But all you can do is simmer in helplessness as he brings you right back to the very place you tried to escape.

He gently releases you on the bed then climbs over you. Goosebumps erect on your flesh as he caresses the side of your face, a strangely fond gesture considering everything he put you through.

“Please,” you mumble weakly. “You can have anyone you want. I have a husband.”

His face contorts into an expression of pure mockery, as if what you said was beyond ludicrous.

“I don’t want just anyone.” He lifts your chin, scorching blue gaze diving into yours. “I want you.”

“As for your husband…” His voice trails off as he traces your trembling bottom lip with his thumb. A crooked smirk drags his lips skyward. He leans over you to whisper, “Well I did say he’ll never have to worry about rent ever again, didn’t I?”

Your heart sinks. You can’t believe you trusted Coriolanus Snow. A foolish mistake. A dangerous mistake. One you’re now paying dearly. He not only trapped you…he also hurt Henry.

All because of you.

You will never forgive yourself.

“What did you do to him?” you ask, anger and heartbreak making your voice wobble.

A chill-inducing glint dances in his orbs.

“I haven’t done anything.” He cocks his head. “Rebels are criminals of the state and shall be sentenced as such.”

The world collapses around you.

A chasm of despair swallows you whole as quiet tears stream down your face.

As sobs shake your frame, President Snow plants soft kisses on your wet cheeks. You feel him grow hard against your belly as he hums, as if the taste of your hopelessness was ambrosia to him. Heavenly sweet.

He cups your face.

“Do not fret, dove. I’ll make sure you don’t miss a second of his execution.” The emptiness of his blue eyes staggers you, their depths as icy as a frozen lake. “It’s important for all citizens of Panem to learn from watching.”

The expression on his face turns downright diabolical. His knuckles sweep over the apple of your cheek.

“And I want you to learn as you watch the light go out in his eyes, dove, that this was inevitable, that I always win.”

His tone softens as his hands drag over your hips.

“I wonder how many children you’ll give me. Will they all sing as pretty as you?” The hurried rustle of his pants as he frees his cock freezes your blood. He bites his lip, lust already misting his gaze as he prods impatiently at your entrance.

“I suppose we’ll just have to find out,” he croons.

#dark!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunger games #tbosas fanfiction #dark!coriolanus snow x reader

[luxurychristmaspudding]

listen

summary: you’ve been serving frankie and his friends at your bar for months. despite your wishing and wanting, the shy pilot doesn’t work up the nerve to ask you out before santi introduces you to his buddy, joel.

swept off your feet by the sweet southerner, and charmed by pope, the boys come together to show frankie exactly what it is he’s missing.

read part 2, watch, here

grouping: f!reader x joel miller x frankie morales x santiago garcia

rating/warnings: 18+. MDNI. no outbreak (tlou) - but based after the tf mission. softdom!joel, softdom!santi, sub!frankie, sub!reader, voyeurism, exhibitionism, maybe MFM?, sharing the luuuurve, praise kink, one (1) count of spitting in mouth, dirty talk, daddy kink (heavy, sorry lmao), oral (f&m receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it!), creampie, come eating, pussyjob?, so many orgasms i started to lose count, maybe a tiny bit of angst, m!masturbation, light choking, f!overstim, bad spanish, right okay we’re done.

wc: 14.7k. we aren't gonna talk about it.

an: this is fucking filthy. i’m sorry. don’t ask.

When you first started to hang out with them all, Will told you that Frankie was useless with women. What you didn’t expect was for him to be this fucking oblivious.

You had been bartending when you met him at a bar downtown - all industrial steel, burnished mirrors, and low light. Frankie and the boys would come in every so often, and you warmed to them immediately. It was hard not to. The four men were always respectful, always polite. They never overstayed their welcome, or their tolerance, and always asked how you were. 

Of course, it helped that they were also handsome, and you quickly fell into the trap you were sure they wove for all hospitality staff. The lingering glances from their table, the crooked smiles at the bar. The competition they seemed to enjoy amongst themselves of who could lather you with the most attention.

Will and Benny did particularly well. The elder brother saved a special, particularly mischievous smile and a wink for you every time he came to order, and saved a special, bruising elbow to the ribs for his brother every time he caught Benny staring. Benny was always a hoot considering his sore ribs, the air never seeming to have been knocked from him as he chatted away to you across the polished wood.

But it was the quieter two, Frankie and Santi, who piqued your curiosity. Santi - often cool, detached; who offered little information in the way of his life but seemed to want to be wrapped up in yours. Who would watch you over the rim of his glass of whisky, drop his eyes to your lips, dip his mouth in a smirk, and say he’d see you later. And Frankie, who could do almost nothing but watch you from his corner of their booth, his Standard Oil cap sunk low on his brow, both hands around his bottle. His deep swallow when you’d catch his eye. The blush that would crawl up his neck, threading through his cheeks when you smiled.

Over the months they came to the bar while you worked there, the five of you became friends of sorts. Once in a blue moon turned into once every two weeks, turned into every Saturday night. And you made sure you were always there, sacrificing the time you would have spent surfing social media on your sofa for time spent flirting with your favourite regulars. Enjoying their eyes on you. Enjoying Frankie’s blush when you called him sugar as you asked if he needed anything else. 

One day, you hoped he’d gather enough courage to give you the answer you hoped for.

You.

But he never did.

When the time came for you to move on from the bar, you made sure to let them know. Your new job further into the city was a step exactly in the direction you wanted to go, and though the men shared touching groans of disappointment, they congratulated you wholeheartedly. 

They also invited you to their Saturday night drinks. You gladly accepted. 

On your last shift, Will slid you Frankie’s mobile number, explaining that he was the most reliable member, the one most likely to know what was going on with the group at any given time. When you ribbed him about how he must always be on his phone, Frankie shyly admitted it was because he had a daughter. He was constantly on the lookout for updates, sweet little pictures and messages his ex would send over. They had a good relationship, and his kid - Lucia - was gorgeous. They just live a little far away, Frankie had admitted, a sad little frown glazing over his features. 

You had softened to him even more, asking him questions about his daughter over the bar while you poured his drinks, propping your chin in your hand and listening to him as he continued to talk after you were finished. You found yourself trying to make Frankie laugh, to hear his sweet chuckle, to brush a touch against his arm, see the sparkle in his eyes beneath his cap - similar, you imagined, to how your own eyes glittered back at him. 

The conversation only stalled when Benny called for him - Fish, where are those drinks? - earning himself a thump from Will, who muttered something about Frankie finally finding the courage and Benny’s big fuckin’ mouth. Frankie’s cheeks had heated, and he'd cleared his throat, thanking you before gathering all the drinks in his large hands and heading back to the booth.

What you had overheard heated the tips of your ears and rattled around your brain, looming in the back of your mind when you joined them the Saturday after. 

But Will's words must have just been a silly little joke, because no matter how hard you try, Frankie will not bend. No matter what you wear, no matter what you do, the curly haired pilot remains firmly out of reach.

And it’s not like you don’t have fun together. You join them on nights out. You’ve been invited over for poker games and parties. You share glances with Frankie, jokes, tales, hell, sometimes he even puts an arm around you. But it’s always the same. The end of the evening is always frustratingly uneventful. 

Crowded into sweaty bars and packed living rooms, you’re caught in a never ending circle of wanting and longing. Maybe that’s why, one night, you find yourself exchanging heated glances with Santi. 

Frankie never really touches you beyond a hug and a kiss on the cheek when you arrive, and remains a staunch gentleman no matter how much he drinks. Santi seems to strive to do the opposite. He finds you in the kitchen one night, trying to cool off after watching Frankie laugh and lean into another woman’s conversation, feeling foolish, immature, but trying to blink away tears anyway. 

He talks to you like you’re the only interesting person he’s ever met, standing a little too close for a friend, only moving away when you’re interrupted by one of Benny’s buddies searching for a beer. When you return to the living room, Frankie notices. Notices how Santi pulls you in close when you’re near, presses a kiss to your hair, places a casual hand on your knee when you’re sat next to each other. And how you let him do it. 

When Santi drops you off at your house, he looks at your lips for a long time. His eyes are burning as he tucks your hair behind your ear and wishes you a good night. But he doesn’t go further. 

It’s driving you fucking insane.

You were sure you hadn’t imagined the chemistry between the three of you before, so what was wrong now? Whose starting pistol were they waiting for? You can’t help your desperate huffs of frustration every time you close the door at the end of another night - alone, sopping wet, with only your hand to help.

Until one night, when you really believe, truly believe that it might end differently.

Frankie has been sat next to you in the booth all evening, laughing and chatting away. His arm is slung over your shoulder, his thigh against yours, your body pressed into his side. It feels good, it feels right, and he’s looking at you in such a way that you begin to teeter dangerously close to pressing your lips to his in the middle of the bar. 

You and Frankie take the opportunity to talk about anything and everything. Catching up on your jobs, how he’s re-received his licence, your families, future dreams and aspirations. It’s almost funny how perfectly everything seems to realign. You think this is the turning point - this is when you realise how perfect you are for each other, this is when you take the leap. The only hiccup seems to be when Frankie says he’ll be away for the next three weeks - working, and then visiting Lucia. Your heart crumbles a little - just a little - before you try to sweep away thoughts of him dying in a helicopter crash or falling back in love with his ex. It feels like you’ve waited so long for this moment that the universe might just try and be that cruel. Just for shits and giggles. 

But it won’t. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great.

Santi seems to notice. He’s quieter than usual, watching the two of you cosy up together. He looks pleased, if a little put out, and when he thinks you aren’t looking he exchanges a look with Frankie. A raised eyebrow, a dipped head. A fucking finally.

As you move to leave the bar at closing time, Frankie touches your arm.

‘Mind if I walk you home, querida?’ He asks, holding out your coat. You take it and swoop it on over your shoulders, grinning at him.

‘Thought you’d never ask.’ You say.

Frankie walks you home like a gentleman. 

Too much of a gentleman.

You bump shoulders every so often, but he doesn’t move to take your hand. And he’s all bashful smiles and throaty laughter, compliments and flirty asides, but you return them tenfold, wrapped up in a blinding smile.

You’re making it easy for him. Obvious. But he still isn’t taking the bait.

Maybe he doesn’t want you.

It’s an uncomfortable thought, but it bounces around your skull the whole way home. And it rumbles even louder when you get to your door and he pulls you in for a hug, a light hand barely lingering on your waist, before he wishes you goodnight. 

You stand there, a little dazed before your brain catches up and decides to deploy your last ditch attempt. Just to see. Just to find out. 

He’s halfway down your front path when you call out to him.

‘Frankie. Do you want to come in?’

He turns, limbs coming to a clumsy halt. His brows are high on his forehead, mouth a little ‘o’. Then he frowns.

Fuck. You’ve never felt like such an idiot in your life.

‘I - er,’ he starts, and you look down at the floor, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the concrete. ‘I have an early start tomorrow.’ He says. 

You look back up at him.

‘Sorry,’ he continues, ‘Any other time and I’d be - I’d be right there. Y’know. Just - timing, that’s all.’

You try to soften the bite that wants to creep into your words at his rejection, but barely manage it.

‘It’s cool,’ you say, trying to smile. ‘No worries. I just - I bought that film you said you watched the other day. Paddington 2? The one Lucia likes.’ A slow smile lights his eyes. ‘Just wondered whether you wanted to come in and watch it with a beer. But yeah. No worries,’ and then, because you just can’t help yourself, you add - ‘Wouldn’t have been any funny business, just so ya know.’ 

You force out a laugh, and Frankie drops his eyes. Disappointed, confused. You feel bad for a second, but then you remember how embarrassed you feel, how stupid. It makes your skin crawl. Nevermind.

You clear your throat.

‘Anyway. Get home safe, Frankie,’ you say, ‘See you soon.’ 

You rush in and close the door before he can reply.

---

Your phone buzzes with a text early the next day.

You open your eyes with a groan, clutching unseeingly at trinkets on your nightstand until your stomach lurches at the thought that it might be Frankie. You sit up to grab it.

It’s not Frankie. It’s an unknown number.

Hey. Do u want to head to the bar 2night?

You frown, confused, fingers dancing over possible replies before another text flies through.

Got a friend Id like u to meet.

And then another.

Its Santi btw. Cant remember if u have my no.

You breathe out, type a quick sure. Fuck it. What harm could another of Santi’s friends do to your pride? Your sex drive? What harm could a night with Santi do? You follow it up with -

Who else will be there? Are you setting me up?

You chew on your thumb anxiously, waiting for his reply.

Just the 3 of us. Might be ;)

You snort at his reply, shooting back -

God. Am I really such a charity case?

 - before getting out of bed to make breakfast. Halfway through your pancakes, you get a text back.

Nah. Just cant stand seein a good girl like u go to waste.

You put your phone back down on the table, slowing your chewing. Good girl. The two words send a lick of heat curling up your spine. A good girl like you going to waste. 

A slow, smug smile spreads across your lips. You pick up your phone again and begin to tap out a reply. A risky move, one which would surely harm your chances with Frankie, but fuck it - 

If you don’t want me to go to waste, you could always have me to yourself.

You stare at the blinking cursor for a second before deleting the message, instead asking him for a time. No need to be hasty. 

You don’t know what his friend looks like yet, anyway.

As it turns out, Santi’s friend might be exactly who you need to forget about Frankie.

Joel Miller is older, in his fifties. Greying, tall, broad, gorgeous, and a true southern gentleman to boot. The kind of guy - you imagine - who would drive you to work the next day if you couldn’t walk after seeing him the night before.

And it’s going well. Really well.

You, Joel, and Santi chat easily around your little table, swapping jokes, telling stories, brushing touches to each other here and there. Joel works in construction - runs his own company with his brother, Tommy - and has a grown up daughter called Sarah. He’s worked on Santi’s house - actually knows most of the group - but is usually too busy (or too tired, he tells you) to come out and join them. You think about how unlucky it is that he hadn’t come around before you made such a fool of yourself last night. And then you vow not to think of Frankie again for the rest of the evening.

Joel is easy to be around - warm, safe - earthy and masculine. And maybe it’s something to do with the way his chocolate brown eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles, but you don’t know what’s wrong with you. You can’t seem to stop thinking about what it would be like to run your fingers through his curls, feel the scrape of his stubble between your thighs, what his arms look like beneath his flannel, what his fingers - what his cock - would feel like inside of you. Something about the man is making your toes curl in your seat, and he hasn’t done anything more innocuous than thumb the charm hanging from your necklace. It’s agonising. 

And to make it worse, Santi knows. You don’t know how, but he does. Maybe you’re just that easy to read. 

In the blur of Joel leaving to go to the bathroom and get more drinks, Santi leans over to you.

‘What do you think?’ He asks.

You shrug, trying your absolute hardest to play it cool.

‘He’s nice. I like him. You should bring him out more often.’ 

Santi’s eyes glint with something molten, something teasing and knowing and sharp.

‘You want to take him home.’

You baulk at his words, cheeks flaming in response. You open and close your mouth as he leans in and laughs.

‘I never said that -’ you splutter, but Santi takes your hand.

‘You don’t need to, querida,’ he says, ‘I can see it written all over your face.’ 

You groan, forehead falling to his shoulder. 

‘If it helps,’ he continues, ‘I think he wants to take you home, too.’ 

You look up from his shoulder into his eyes, and they glimmer back at you. You bite your lip.

‘Ya think?’ You ask.

‘Yeah, baby,’ he teases, ‘I do.’

You hum against him before tilting your face further back.

‘You know…’ you say, lips loosened by the alcohol. Santi tips his head to the side, waiting for you to continue. ‘'S not quite how I imagined the night would end.’

His lips quirk in a smile again. Ah, fuck.

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. I kinda thought you’d take me home instead.’

Santi chuckles and looks away around the room. When his eyes settle back on you, they’re black and burning.

‘I’ve thought about it,’ he says, scratching his beard, ‘A lot. But I guessed you were too caught up on Frankie.’

You freeze at his words and sit up straight, clearing your throat.

‘I don’t -’ but Santi shakes his head at you, cutting you off. He says your name softly.

‘I know about last night,’ he says quietly. Your cheeks begin to burn again, but this time for a completely different reason. ‘He told me about it after he walked you home. And I told him he was the biggest fuckin’ idiot I know.’ 

Despite yourself, you smile.

‘I’m not gonna take you home, baby,’ Santi continues as you watch him, curious, ‘Not right now, anyway. My shit is complicated enough -’ Santi cuts himself off with a sigh, and your brows bunch together.

‘What’s wrong?’ you ask, your voice low and kind despite the fire sparking at his words.

Santi looks at you again, and whatever’s in his eyes looks too complex to divulge. He thumbs your knuckles, swirling patterns onto your hand.

‘Nothing,’ he says, but you frown at him again. ‘Just… stuff. Stuff to do with Frankie. It’s - complicated. I’ll tell you about it some other time. But what I wanted to say was - I wanted you to meet Joel. Because I think you’d be great for each other.’ 

Your jaw drops again, but before you can ask any questions, anything about his stuff with Frankie, Joel reappears with new drinks for the three of you. Santi gives you a tight-lipped smile, squeezing your hand before picking up his bottle. But you drop his gaze when Joel places a hand at the top of your back as he sits down.

‘Everything okay, baby?’ He asks. 

Santi doesn’t leave early, but he doesn’t leave late, either. He stays long enough to know exactly where this thing with you and Joel is going, and then bails when he knows he should. Even if you still kinda wish he’d stay. 

Even if you didn’t get the chance to ask him more about Frankie.

You and Joel linger for an hour longer, the ache in your core and the wetness in your underwear in response to him now almost impossible to ignore. Joel keeps a hand on your thigh. He sweeps a palm down your arm, tucks your hair behind your ear. And when the bell for closing rings out, he takes your hand and leads you out into the night.

He keeps a hold of your hand the whole way to your door. 

When you get home, you turn to him on your doorstep. He smiles at you, taking you in through his eyelashes. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

You grip your keys tightly in your fist, the metal leaving marks and almost drawing blood as he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You forget to breathe as his scent crowds your senses, as the scruff of his beard scratches your cheek. You want to lick his neck, find out if he tastes as good as he smells, want to know what it feels like to have him pressed against you, on top of you, under you, behind you -

Joel cuts through your thoughts with a low chuckle against your ear.

‘Breathe, darlin’.’ He murmurs.

You open your eyes, take a deep breath, and sigh a laugh as you look down at your feet. 

He is still unbearably close, and you know, you know you shouldn’t, but you don’t know if you’ll ever see this man again, and everything Santi said at the bar, and the fact that you feel like Joel could make you come with just a flick of his wrist is likely what sparks your tongue to stutter out - 

‘Do you want to come in?’

Joel looks down at you again, a fire alight in his eyes. The heat sends a shiver down your spine.

He doesn’t give you an answer. Just pushes your front door open, takes your wrist, and pulls you inside.

---

Being with Joel is great.

It’s amazing. It’s like you finally have someone who can keep up with you. Your brain, your days, your plans. It’s like someone plopped Joel Miller on earth with a little note saying he was yours.

In the three weeks after you first meet him, you share countless breakfasts and dinners and spend your weekends wrapped up in sheets watching reruns of Golden Girls. It’s so simple to spend time with someone who is so easy to be around, someone who just gets you. 

Joel makes you laugh, makes you feel important, wanted.

And the sex is incredible.

Like nothing you’ve ever had with anyone else. He seems to know what to do, exactly how you want it done, every time - it’s effortless. And somehow, you seem to do the same for him. In fact, the only problems you seem to have found are his size (because he’s huge) and the fact that you can’t be inside each other all the time.

Which is why it takes so much effort for you to peel yourself away from him when Santi asks if you’d like to join him and the guys for drinks on Saturday. You give him an affirmative before promptly being distracted by Joel coming out of the shower.

You see his reply forty minutes later.

Frankie will b there. That OK?

You type back a quick -

Of course :)

 - before getting on with your day.

Drinks are almost the same as usual. It’s surprisingly easy to slot right back into where you were. Laughing, chatting, joking with Will and Benny. What they’ve been up to, who they’ve been with. Questions you manage to dodge with only a knowing smirk from Santi to remind you he knows exactly who you’ve been doing. 

Frankie joins in from across the table. He couldn’t meet your eye when you first arrived, but over the course of the evening and a few drinks, he seems to have relaxed enough to look at you. Really look at you.

Which is unfortunate, because you can still feel Joel’s come from earlier in the day seeping into your underwear.

At some point in the evening, Benny and Will make their excuses - they have a family get together tomorrow they can’t be too hungover for - and it’s just you, Frankie, and Santi left. 

It’s easy for the most part. Santi bridging the gap so effortlessly that it begins to feel like nothing happened between you and Frankie at all. And it didn’t, you remind yourself. Nothing happened. And then you met Joel.

So why are you still thinking about it?

You try to distract yourself, lose yourself in the conversation taking place between the two men. Something about Star Wars, new castings they’ve chosen for a series coming out later in the year. You try to contribute as much as you can, but fail miserably, earning yourself a brief history of the franchise from Santi. Eventually you get him to ease off with a hand to his chest, laughing until he starts to giggle, too. He uses the interlude to get up to use the bathroom and get more drinks, leaving you with Frankie and his soft, brown eyes.

You peer at each other nervously from across the table. You watch as his tongue darts out to wet his lip, as he chews the inside of his cheek before taking a deep breath and meeting your eye. 

You feel your jaw clench.

‘About the other night, a few weeks back,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was a fuckin’ moron -’ he pauses for a moment, sweeps a hand over his face. ‘I’m real rusty at this. The whole dating thing. I don’t think I even realised what it was you were sayin’ to me.’ Frankie huffs a laugh. A horrible, anxious feeling starts to work its way up your throat. ‘But I -’

He’s interrupted as a bartender floats by your booth, sweeping up some of the empty glasses. You smile up at her and thank her sweetly. 

Maybe you can stall whatever Frankie has to say.

She swats at the air with her free hand.

‘Not at all, sugar,’ she says, ‘Can’t let a thing like empties get in the way of a date like this.’

You smile at her and bite your tongue, feeling hot. A blush begins to claw up your cheeks as she winks at you both and swings away. Had she not seen Santi? And - fuck - now how do you brush this off with Frankie? How do you stop where this is going?

You turn your eyes back to him, and he hasn’t even flushed at the insinuation. Instead, he bites his lip, something which sends a jolt of heat to the space between your thighs. He scratches the back of his neck, and rushes out in a lowered voice that even though he’s busy with work at the moment, he’d like to make it right -

‘I’d really love to take you out this weekend.’

Your stomach plummets to your feet. Fuck. 

Tears of frustration prickle in your eyes. A lump of panic settles in your throat, and you almost feel like you could run out of the bar. Why is he doing this now?

You take a deep breath and try to form the kindest smile, the most apologetic furrow in your brows that you can.

‘Frankie,’ you breathe, and already his face begins to fall. You lean across the table and take one of his massive hands. ‘I’d have loved to, but -’

He shakes his head quickly, trying to draw his hand back.

‘It’s okay,’ he begins, ‘Fuck, I’m sorry. I must have just misread - I didn’t mean - I don’t want you to feel -’

But his interruption only serves to further spark the surge of irritation. You squeeze his hand tighter so he can’t rip it away and utter his name harshly. He stops immediately, his eyes whipping back to yours. Something stirs in you at his immediate obedience.

‘Listen to me,’ you say, shaking off your traitorous thoughts. ‘I’d have loved to. But I - I literally just started seeing someone, and I -’ you break off, groaning in frustration, ‘I don’t know if it’s serious, or if it’s exclusive, but he’s great, and I don’t want anyone - especially you - to get hurt by me being selfish or not knowing where things are at.’ You huff out a breath and meet his eye. He looks disappointed, upset even - but worst of all he looks understanding, almost grateful that you don’t want him to get caught up in this complex knot of wanting. 

‘Frankie,’ you say softly, and try to smile, ‘I mean this in the least… damaging way. If you had asked me three weeks ago, when we were here last, I’d have said yes. In a heartbeat.’

Maybe it does make you an asshole. Maybe it does make you selfish. But it feels important in this moment to make sure that Frankie understands - you like him. You wanted him.

It’s just timing. 

Frankie grimaces.

‘Fuck.’ He hisses. And when he tries to withdraw his hand this time, you let him. But you don’t look away. 

A low light flickers in his eye. Something close to anger, you think - at himself, or at you, you’re not sure.

‘Is it -’ he begins, ‘Is it Pope?’

‘Pope?’ You ask, confused. Frankie shakes his head.

‘Santi. Is it Santi?’

You bark a laugh. You can’t help it.

‘Santi? Your Santi?’ you ask, bewildered. Frankie’s cheeks heat again. You want to put a pin in that, the flush at your, but your brain is suddenly so riddled with dredged up questions you can hardly order them.

‘What do you mean, Frankie?’ you ask, exasperated.

Frankie shakes his head again, realising his mistake, but you are beyond dropping the topic.

‘Frankie,’ you say, stern this time. ‘What do you mean?’

Frankie whips his cap off, runs an agitated hand through his hair, shifts his gaze around the bar for the other man.

‘He - he likes you, too,’ he says. ‘I was worried - worried he’d beat me to it ‘cos I didn’t ask before I went away. He said it was taking me too long to do - to gather the confidence to ask you -’ Now Frankie barks a laugh. ‘But it looks like we were both too late.’

You shake your head, the cogs in your brain turning slowly. How Santi looked at you was no secret. But if what Frankie was saying about how Santi felt was true, why had he introduced you to Joel? And if that was true, had you misunderstood what Santi said about him and Frankie? You feel your mouth open and close, but Frankie takes your silence to ask you another question.

‘Who is it?’

‘What?’

‘Who is it?’

You splutter over your answer, hesitating, stalling -

‘Frankie, how the fuck would you know?’

Because he would. And, rightly or wrongly, that panics you a little.

‘Is it someo-’

You cut him off, holding up your palm.

‘Frankie -’ you press a hand to your throat, feeling your rapid pulse. Fuck it. ‘I thought - I thought Santi was interested in you.’

Frankie chokes on his breath.

He stares at you, calculating something, breathing heavily.

‘It’s not - we’re not -’ he fumbles. You slouch back in your seat. Frankie’s eyes flutter closed. ‘We fuck around sometimes. And sometimes - sometimes other people -’ You groan, your head tipping back against the leather. Your head is spinning. ‘But we wouldn’t - I wouldn’t - fuck. I don’t want you to think that that’s what this is about -’ Frankie splays his hands in front of you. ‘God,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to explain any of this.’

The room suddenly feels too warm. You cradle your head in your hands, and stare at the way the table swims beneath you. What the fuck is happening?

You glance up at Frankie, but he’s watching you so intensely, so much concern and panic and want in his eyes that it makes you feel claustrophobic.

‘I need some air.’ You mumble across the table, and stumble out of the booth on unsteady legs. From the corner of your eye, you see Santi begin to cross the floor to return to the booth with drinks in his hands, see him watch you trip across the bar. In the back of your brain, you hear him call your name, but your hands are already on the handle of the front door, pushing it open and feeling the cool night air hit your clammy skin.

What the fuck is going on?

You fumble in your pocket for your phone and find Joel’s contact. You want to go home, and you want his help to forget about this. And, you think, you should probably ask whether he had any idea about Santi, or Frankie, or Santi and Frankie. 

The call with Joel is quick, and he sounds appropriately concerned without needing to hear any details. He tells you to stay in view of the bar and to not move a muscle, and that he’ll be there in 10. You hope he can make it in five.

He’s too slow. After seven minutes, Frankie bursts out of the bar, Santi quickly following him.

‘Fish -’ Santi’s calling, but he catches himself when he sees you still standing there. Frankie screeches to a halt, too.

The three of you stare between each other, eyes wide, like you’re waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Frankie says your name before you shake your head - rushing out a not now, Frankie just as Joel’s pickup peels into the parking lot.

Frankie can’t see him with his back turned, but he sure does when Joel comes striding from behind the two men to stand at your side.

‘Everything okay, baby?’ he asks in his low, southern drawl, and you instinctively lift your mouth for a kiss before realising how cruel that would be.

Joel tenses as you withdraw, finally taking in the other two men.

‘Pope,’ he says with a nod, and Santi smiles weakly back at him.

‘Frankie,’ Joel says a little softer, ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘Joel.’ Frankie says through his teeth, realisation burning in his eyes. 

‘How ya doin’, kid?’ Joel asks him, placing a hand on your lower back. Frankie juts out his chin.

‘Fine. Great.’ He says, ‘I was just leavin’, actually.’ Frankie whips his cap off, runs a hand through his hair. His jaw is set, angry. He shakes his head at the ground. ‘I’ll see you guys around.’ He says to no one in particular, turning on his heel and fleeing towards the car park. 

Santi and Joel meet each others’ eyes in some kind of understanding, and you look angrily between them. Being left out of the loop again was not feeling cute.

Joel sighs, wrapping his arm around your waist.

‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.’ He murmurs, but you lurch out of his grasp and turn on the two of them. They watch you, surprised.

‘No,’ you say, ‘Nu-uh. We aren’t going anywhere until one of you tells me what the fuck is going on.’

Joel and Santi look at each other, expressions unreadable. 

Santi shakes his head.

‘Come back inside,’ he says, turning back to the bar entrance, ‘We’re gonna need more beers for this.’

---

When you get down to the root of it, the truth isn’t even that complex. That’s the laughable part.

The long and short of it is this. One: Pope knew Frankie liked you. But he knew Frankie moved slow. And he’d gotten tired of watching, of knowing he’d be a dick if he made a play instead. And he cares about you, his friend. Wants to see you happy. Enter Joel. Two: Santi and Frankie fooled around while they were in Delta Force. It’s not a secret, but it’s never really been discussed. Sometimes they still fool around, but it’s been less frequent as they’ve gotten older. As they date other people. Three: Sometimes, when those other people they’re dating are willing, they bring them in, and they all have fun together. 

Something Santi would have been fine with if you were his. Something Frankie was less cool with doing if he’d made his move. 

Santi admits that he’s likely just been a dick throughout the whole thing. You make him promise to do better over another beer. He does. He also now knows not to cock block his best buddy with a mutual friend.

And Joel feels kinda bad about that. Not bad enough to pump the brakes with you, but uncomfortable, sure. He’s had Frankie round for barbecues, he likes the guy. He’s sorry he whisked you away from him. But not sorry enough.

Joel hasn’t been involved in any of Frankie and Santi’s adventures, but it’s something he’s played around with before. He’s had threesomes, but he doesn’t really volunteer more than that. The thought ignites something deep in your belly and you file it away for another day, a different conversation.

Once it’s all explained and you’re laughing together again, everything feels fine. Normal.

Except you don’t see Frankie for weeks afterwards.

You drop him a text every now and again, just wanting to know whether he’s okay, but you hear nothing back. Santi tries to assure you that you’ve done nothing wrong. There’s nothing for you to worry about.

But it still sits uneasy in your gut.

You see Joel almost every day. And Santi once a week. 

The three of you meet for beers in a different bar from the one Santi meets Frankie, Will and Benny in - your bar. And you have fun. 

It never goes beyond touches with Santi, though you find yourself wishing more and more often that it would. He rests a hand on your thigh under the table, his thumb swiping patterns over your flushed skin. Sometimes he has an arm flung around the back of your seat, sometimes rubbing the back of your neck, sometimes tucking hair behind your ear. He watches and stares and smiles and laughs at you and Joel, and you watch back with delighted curiosity. You like the way he makes you squirm while you sit next to the older man. And Joel loves to watch you squirm, too.

He loves getting you home and finding your panties soaked with arousal. He loves swiping two of his thick fingers through your folds with the front door barely closed, his hand shoved down the front of your jeans, your back arched already, a needy whine heavy in the back of your throat. He loves talking you through the things he’d like to watch Santi do to you, how good he knows you’d be for the two of them, how well behaved, how you’d take, take, take it, and how proud he’d be to show you off. My girl. He growls as he fucks into you at night. My girl.

And it suits you, how giving, how generous Joel is. 

Seems to suit Santi, too.

At some point ideas had been swapped between you and Joel - some thinly disguised remark dropped by him over dinner one night had led to you picking at the thread and grinding him down over three days, trying to get to the bottom of it. He liked to share, he’d said. He liked to watch. He liked the control, and the pride, and the possession of it all. And goddammit, you liked the sound of it, too. Because after serious discussion - serious boundaries, limits, run throughs of possible scenarios, you talked through people who you wouldn’t mind trying it with.

And there was obvious one name you both settled on.

Santi.

And well, given his history, it didn’t take too long for you to convince him to join you.

And if it hadn't been for Santi’s suggestion, his knowledge, his understanding of his best friend, there’s a chance Frankie’s name wouldn’t have come up at all. You’re not sure if you’d have dared, considering how things were left. But, lo and behold, it does, and along with it the chance for him to see exactly what he's missing out on. 

---

All the rules have been arranged for tonight, but the most important one, which you must remember, is that Frankie is not allowed to touch you.

At all. At any point. 

You and Joel head to the usual bar to meet Santi and Frankie for drinks. You make sure to wear a dress which clings to your curves, dips at your cleavage, and settles just high enough on your thigh to be bordering on acceptable. And it must be more than acceptable, because Joel threatens to fuck you out of it three times before you leave the house.

It must be acceptable, because Santi cannot keep his eyes or his hands off you when you arrive at the venue, and Frankie from across the table cannot regain control of his jaw.

They both look good - you all look good - Joel with his hair combed back, a deep green flannel on, Santi in all black - and suddenly all you want to do is call the drinks off now and just head back to Joel’s. But the patience, the build up is critical. It’s foreplay.

Instead, you lean back in your chair, sipping on your cocktail as you take in the three men.

The conversation flows easily after a while. Joel is a master at it, weaving questions in and out, making sure to put both you and Frankie at ease. Besides, it’s been a while since you last saw each other. Not that either of you were any less eager for him to be involved. He’d been very keen, according to Santi. 

He’s in dark jeans and a tight navy blue t-shirt tonight, his trademark cap confining his curls. He’s not dressed up, but he’s made an effort, and his shy looks across the table, his kind questions and easy jokes have begun healing the fractures of what happened weeks ago.

It doesn’t hurt that he and Santi had a good, long talk, and that you then shared a sweet phone call. 

All the same, he sits opposite you, unable to touch you for the rest of the night.

Instead, he just gets to watch as Joel presses kisses to your neck, pulls you into his chest, skates his hands over your thighs - anything he can get away with doing to turn you on. And Santi isn’t far behind. Holding your hand on top of the table, bringing your knuckles to his lips, keeping a hand on your knee almost the entire time.

Your brain is a hot, buzzing mess by the time Santi checks his phone.

‘It’s getting late.’ He says, and you raise an eyebrow at him.

‘Eager, no?’ You tease, trying - and failing - to cover the scent of your own desperate need.

‘Of course,’ Santi smirks over the rim of his glass, ‘But I’ll take my time with you.’

You try to laugh but fall back into Joel’s shoulder at his words, and the older man chuckles. He kisses your forehead tenderly. Frankie watches hungrily from across the table, the dark void of his eyes flicking towards his watch, desperate to leave. 

When you do, he walks at a distance behind the three of you. You smile to yourself and sway your hips a little more for his benefit. And you swear you get a low whine as your reward.

---

You’re quiet the whole way home, trying not to clench your thighs too hard or rock yourself against the seat. You're so desperate for friction, for relief, that it’s hard for you to concentrate on what’s going on in the car. Hard for you to think of anything beyond Joel’s warm, heavy hand on your thigh as he drives. 

He leans over to you halfway home, and whispers -

‘You’re quiet, baby. Everything okay?’

You flick a glance to him and find his eyes equal parts concerned and equal parts aflame. You smile.

‘I’m trying to be good,’ you murmur, ‘But you’re making it very difficult.’

Joel dips his chin in a smirk and squeezes your thigh, his fingers drifting dangerously close to your panties. You squirm a little in your seat, and it goads him to drift his hand further until it catches at the lace of the gusset. You gasp at the feeling, a tiny whimper making its way out from your lips, and all conversation in the back of the truck grinds to a halt. Your cheeks heat, and you turn to look out the window again, clamping your lip beneath your teeth.

No one says a word the rest of the way home.

Once you're all home, a silence settles around you. Everybody wide eyed, geared up, on edge. You’re not sure who to look at or what to say until Joel does it for you.

‘Upstairs.’ He commands, and everybody moves to follow him up the staircase. You keep your eyes on his broad back the whole way up, and once you reach the top, he holds his hand out behind him for you to grab. You do.

When you get to his bedroom door, Joel leads you in. You turn just as Santi crosses the threshold, as he pivots to Frankie behind him and says -

‘Kneel.’

Frankie glances at you, swallows, and returns his eyes to Santi. He drops down to his knees in the hallway.

‘Good,’ Santi murmurs, stepping forward to crouch down in front of him. ‘Do you remember the rules?’ He asks Frankie.

The younger man nods, his eyes dropping to the floor.

‘Yes.’

Santi nods once. 

‘Good. Listen. And do not leave this spot.’

Santi straightens, turning his back on Frankie. You can’t tear your eyes away from the sight of him on the floor - small, submissive - and you can’t help the little gasp you let out as Santi steps towards you and closes the door slowly behind him, leaving just enough of a gap so that Frankie can hear everything that happens but watch none of it. 

Joel skirts his fingers down your waist and presses a kiss just under your ear.

‘You ready, baby girl?’ he rumbles. You turn your face to look at him over your shoulder, finding his eyes dark, a familiar power behind them. You nod.

‘Yes.’ you say. He nods, pleased, twisting to kiss your mouth before guiding you towards Santi.

‘Good,’ he says. He turns and moves towards the armchair in the far corner of the room, sitting heavily in it.

Santi steps towards you and gently takes your face in his hands.

‘You okay?’ He asks quietly. You nod.

‘Yeah,’ you whisper, ‘Are you?’ 

Santi nods, his eyes searching yours for a hint of hesitation. You try to open up your mind to show him the excitement, the want you feel. Satisfied, he licks his lips.

‘Can I kiss you?’ He asks. You nod again, and Santi leans forwards, capturing your mouth in hard, slow movement.

Santi means to make a study of you, you think. His tongue is everywhere, his teeth grazing over your bottom lip, his hands gentle and then needy, already figuring out exactly what it is that makes you tick. And to make it even worse, every time you take a moment to catch your breath, he has that fucking smirk on his face. It’s infuriating, and you quickly need to find something  which will wipe it off.

So you begin to undo his belt.

Pope huffs a chuckle against your lips, but doesn’t stop the work your hands are doing. Instead, he matches it with his own fingers. 

With deft movements, he slips a hand under your dress and finds his way to your panties, touching you through the fabric. You groan against his mouth, and he smiles, ghosting over your folds. Not to be out done, you slip your hand into his jeans and palm him over his boxers. He hums against you.

‘Are we racing?’ He asks.

You cock your head to the side.

‘Thought you wanted to take your time?’ You quip back, and something flashes in his eyes. 

He steps back.

‘Take this off.’ He says, tugging at the hem of your dress, and you pout at him. 

‘Does that mean you take these off, too?’ You ask, tugging at his jeans. You’re pushing your luck, you know. But you think this might be easier if Santi undresses with you, if only to really see what you held in your hand. 

Santi raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ll see,’ he says, ‘But you go first.’

You step back from him and glance at Joel, assessing. He nods at you, encouraging, and you pull your dress up and over your head. You stand before them in only your panties, and Santi takes a deep breath, biting his lip, smiling again.

‘Gorgeous, baby.’ He says. And you feel it. The way this man looks at you makes you feel weak, giddy - like your core is on fire. 

Santi steps towards you to kiss you again, making sure his hand returns to where it had been, ghosting over your underwear. You groan into his mouth, impatient now, and his teeth scrape at your chin as he clicks his tongue. In answer, he sweeps your panties to the side, and grazes two digits along your slit. You moan loudly again, and Santi groans up at the ceiling.

‘Fuck, querida.’ He says, before stretching a thumb to your clit and sinking the two fingers deep inside you. You stumble against him as he begins to work you, breathing heavily against his clothed chest. You turn your face so your teeth can nip at his skin underneath.

‘Take - this - off.’ You hiss, and he laughs, slipping his fingers out of you with a groan to oblige. Santi removes his t-shirt quickly and chucks it somewhere across the room before pushing his jeans down and stepping out of them. He hurries to find purchase within your body once more, rocking you against him, curling his fingers deep inside you. His tongue returns to your mouth and you remember his hard cock in his boxers. You reach for it, but he blocks you with his arm. You whine.

‘Tan mojada ya, baby.’ He drawls. Santi removes his fingers from where they were curling inside of you and brings them to your mouth, tapping your lips. You open for him, and he presses them in, allowing you to swirl your tongue over them. You clean off the scent of your heady arousal as Santi watches you. He presses them hard, once, against your tongue, and you open your mouth wide for him. 

He retracts his fingers.

‘Good girl,’ he murmurs, and it goes straight to your cunt. You whimper a little, and he grins, stepping back and out of his boxers. ‘Take those off for me.’ He says, motioning at your soaked panties. You almost trip in your eagerness to do so. He retreats backwards until his calves hit the mattress, and he sits down before laying back, getting comfortable.

Santi watches you from the bed, laid out on his back. His lips curl as you rake your eyes over him - hands folded behind his head, his biceps rounding by his ears, his firm, strong torso spattered with dark hair, and his long, hard cock, bobbing and drooling as he takes you in.

‘Come here.’ He says. 

You begin a slow walk to the bed, hesitating only for a moment as you crawl onto it and towards him. He licks his lips as you come closer, and you bite your lip back.

You feel unsure without being given specific direction, but you know that Joel will put you right if you step a toe out of line. So you place a knee on either side of Santi’s hips, and sink your heat down onto him as he pulls you forward by the back of your neck, searching for your lips.

You start to move, to adjust to try and let him inside, before Joel’s voice cracks like a whip out of the corner.

‘Either of us tell you you could fuck him yet?’ He growls.

You try to draw your mouth away from Santi to give your response, but he clamps your bottom lip between his teeth so you can go no further. You whimper and shake your head.

‘So put your fuckin’ hips back down. Y’ain’t earned it yet.’

Santi lets your lip go and flops back against the sheets with a shit-eating grin. You lower your hips again and place both your palms on his stomach, pushing your tits together. He eyes them greedily, reaching out and flicking a thumb over each nipple. You feel your pout grow, your brows drawn tight together and your bottom lip swollen, jutting out almost comically. Santi catches a glimpse of your face, and puffs out a laugh.

‘Poor baby,’ he coos, ‘Just wanna get fucked, don’t ya?’ You nod pathetically, but don’t dare move. He is achingly hard beneath you, his thick length resting perfectly between your folds. Santi lowers his hands from your nipples until he has them on your hips, and like he’s read your fucking mind, he begins to rock you back and forth.

A wanton, needy moan drools out of your mouth as your pussy wets him, fresh slick leaking out of your clenching hole. You wonder how much of this Frankie can hear. 

Santi groans beneath you, watching the head of his cock disappear under you every time he slides you forwards. The pressure of him just against your lips is heady, and you watch as he guides you forwards just a little more, urges you to lean a little further forward until your clit catches on the head of his cock on every slide. You throw your head back, your fingers scratching at his torso, and he watches you. He whispers that you look so pretty like this, how he can feel you, look at how wet you’re making my cock, baby, can feel you twitchin’ on me already, angel. He guides you back and forth until you feel a heavy pressure begin to settle in your pussy, a burning beginning deep in your gut. Your moans become more frantic as you begin to plead with him, though you’re not sure what for.

‘Use your words, baby,’ Joel reminds you from his seat. ‘Ask Santi. Tell him what you need.’

You release a hot breath of air, biting your lip.

‘Gonna come, Santi,’ you tell him breathlessly, ‘Need to stop. Gonna come.’

But Santi just smiles sweetly up at you, his eyes heavy lidded. You pussy twitches, the knot pulling tighter. He reaches up with one hand and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

‘Why would I want you to stop, angel?’ He asks. You shake your head. You don’t know. ‘Talk to me, baby.’ He prompts.

‘I don’t know. Haven’t been - fuck - told -’ you whimper. He nods, swallows harshly.

‘I want you to come,’ he tells you, ‘I want you to come now, and then I’m going to make you come again, and then as many more times as I see fit, do you understand?’

You groan and nod.

‘Yes, Santi.’

‘Good girl,’ he says. ‘And when I’m done with you, I’m gonna give you back to your daddy, and he’s gonna make you come as many times as he sees fit, too. Okay, baby?’

You clench around nothing, painfully, moving faster over Santi’s cock of your own accord.

‘Fuck. Yes, Santi.’

Santi settles his head back against the bed again, running his hands all over your body, anywhere he can touch you.

‘Go on, baby,’ he says, ‘Use me.’

Fuck, you groan out, tilting your hips to allow your clit to scrape down the underside of his cock at every pass. Without thinking, you lean so far forward that you plant a hand around the base of Santi’s throat to keep yourself upright, tightening your fingers over his pulse point. He lets out a strangled moan, his eyes fluttering closed, and you feel the pressure in your core build heavier and heavier until the white hot heat snaps. You throw your head back, coming with gasps of his name and loud moans, still rocking yourself back and forth, still squeezing over his neck.

Your vision is fuzzy and your breathing still feverish when Santi grabs at your fingers and pries them away from him. You flush at your carelessness, an Imsosorry rushing out as you stare at your hand in his. He shushes you tenderly, breathing deeply.

‘S’okay, baby,’ he says, ‘I like it. Don’t have a problem with it.’ He squeezes your hand, and then fixes you with a wicked, cruel look. ‘Just don’t wanna come yet, that’s all. Only so much a man can stand when I can feel you falling apart on top of me.’

You flush even deeper, leaning forward to bury your face in his neck, laving hot, open mouthed kisses along the hard muscle there. He groans and chuckles against you, kneading your ass.

‘Want me to fuck you now, baby?’ He murmurs into your ear.

You whine against him, lick across his jaw.

‘Yes, Santi,’ you groan. ‘Please fuck me.’

Santi grips the hair at the base of your neck to pull you away from him, and you let yourself be led. He slides you off him, and rests on his knees before you. Your eyes dip hungrily to his bobbing cock, shining with your come, tip an angry red, precum dripping down its length. It twitches under your gaze, and you lick your lips. 

Santi chuckles again, his hand still buried in your hair.

‘Dirty fuckin’ girl.’ He murmurs as he manipulates your body. ‘Turn around,’ he says, ‘Hands and knees, baby.’ You follow his directions, turning on the bed towards Joel before planting your limbs and curving your spine, angling your ass in the air. You’re not sure where you should look until Santi releases your hair and leans over your back, a hand on your hip.

‘Look at your daddy,’ he says into your ear, gripping your chin softly to angle your head. You look at Joel through heavy lidded eyes, only to find his are similar. ‘Keep your eyes on him.’

Joel is still fully dressed in the chair, head heavy against the back of it. His legs are spread wide, a hand on either arm, fingers spread and clenched slightly against the fabric. His jaw is tense, and you can see how his jeans strain over his cock - fully hard by the looks of it. You moan into the sheets as you watch him watch you. Santi kneels behind you, running his hands over your soft skin, as he dips two fingers through your folds, swearing softly.

‘She’s so wet, Joel.’ He whispers, and Joel’s eyes leave yours momentarily to see Santi hold his fingers up to the light, coated in slick. Joel’s hips move slightly, bucking into nothing, and he barely manages to grunt out a response. You wonder again how much of this Frankie can hear behind the door, whether he’s straining in his jeans just as Joel is, whether his ear is pressed against the crack just so he can hear what Santi is whispering to you both.

Pope grips one of your hips, and uses his other hand to line himself up at your entrance. He uses his tip to spread your slick around a little more until you whine again, fisting the sheets.

‘Please, Santi, please -’

And he needs no more encouragement, sinking all the way in on the first thrust. You cry out into the mattress, your sounds coming out choked, overwhelmed as he sets a relentless pace.

‘Fuck, baby,’ he hisses out behind you, neither of you able to get more words out. 

You quickly lose yourself to the feel of him pumping in and out, every part of you wound up tight, hot. You can feel yourself squeezing him already, making his hips stutter. Joel notices, too. You wonder whether he remembers Frankie is outside, as well, because he manages to force out in a low grumble -

‘How does she feel?’

Santi gathers your hair up in a fist, bringing your face up from the sheets just so they can hear you better. He grits his teeth, tries to stutter out his answer -

‘So - fucking - good -’ and at this, a delicious smile sweeps across Joel’s face. He’s proud. You moan even louder and manage to garble out a daddy, which makes him positively grin.

‘Atta girl, baby,’ he says to you, before turning back to Santi, ‘Just good?’

You and Santi both hear the prod in his words, and it shoots another thrill through you to remember just how much control Joel has; how he wants him to tell him what he already knows, to prove that his worth.

‘Not just good,’ Santi groans, ‘Fuckin’ perfect. So tight. So warm. She’s clenchin’ me already, makin’ me feel like a fuckin’ teenager,’ he laughs around a puff of air, before leaning back into you. ‘Tómatelo con calma, hermosa - quiero que esto dure.’ You moan again at his words, as they spark the opposite of their desired effect.

‘Shit,’ Santi chuckles out, ‘God, Joel. Pussy like I’ve never felt. And so responsive, too.’ To prove his point Santi lands a firm smack on your ass and you yelp, pulsing around him, biting your lip. He moans behind you. ‘Don’t know how you ever get anything done,’ he bites out, ‘I’d never be able to leave her alone.’ 

You glow under Santi’s praise and Joel’s warming stare, and push yourself up loosely onto your elbows as Santi returns both of his hands to your hips. You push back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Santi gasps, before reaching around you to rub desperately at your clit. Your moans bounce off the walls, sharp gasps and whines melting into begging -

‘Please, Santi - fuck - oh my god, oh my god, please - ‘m so close. So close -’

‘Gonna come again, baby?’ He coos from above you. You nod furiously.

‘Yes,’ you gasp out, ‘God, please Santi, fuckin’ me so good -’

With a grunt, Santi hauls you upwards so your back is flush against his chest. He fucks into you harshly, fingers still working your clit, his other hand pinching and twisting a nipple as he kisses and bites his way along your neck, you shoulder, below your ear.

‘Good girl,’ he says, and your head dips back onto his shoulder, mouth open in a sob because he feels so good - 

Santi grips your chin again, yanking your face down and towards Joel.

‘Look at your daddy,’ he snaps at you, ‘You look at your daddy when you come for me.’

And you do. You can barely keep your eyes open as your body gives out, loud, broken moans escaping your mouth, Santi and daddy alternating somewhere in there as Santi fucks you through it, fingers still on your clit as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder -

‘Good - fucking - girl.’

And you see even Joel’s eyes close momentarily, his hands clenching to fists on the arms of the chair, a growl of desperation only you can hear tumbling out of his chest.

Santi is relentless as he chases his own release, but you’re so tight around him that he refocuses his efforts.

‘Again, baby,’ he orders, ‘Give me another. I can feel it. Come on. It’s right there. You gotta give it to me, hermosa -’

But you whine against him, twitching, trembling, sobbing through the overstimulation, unsure where the boundary between pleasure and pain is. You shake your head, try to catch your breath.

‘Too much, Santi, too much,’ you cry, ‘Can’t - don’t know -’

‘You can, baby,’ he breathes, voice like steel, and you whimper. That tone so similar to Joel’s, how he knows, how now Santi knows, that you can.

At his insistence, you tumble off the cliff again, weakly calling his name as a gush of arousal spills onto his lap, as you pulse and contract around his cock. He releases a strangled groan, his hips stuttering, his breathing heavy. He peers over your shoulder at Joel.

‘Where do you want it?’ he gasps.

‘Inside her.’ Joel growls, and you moan again as Santi sheathes himself to the hilt and comes and comes and comes. You feel him fill you, his dick pulsing and twitching deep in your pussy, and he sags as he begins to leak out. You both hit the mattress, Santi just about propping himself up on his elbows so he doesn’t crush you. You both breathe heavily for a second, until he moves your hair from your face and touches your cheek.

‘You okay?’ he rasps, throat dry. You chuckle breathily.

‘Yes.’ You sigh. Santi licks his lips and laughs quietly, too, shifting gently to slip out of you. You both groan, trying to catch your breath again. Your limbs are liquid, your body heavy, and somewhere in your dazed state you feel him dip a kiss to your shoulder blade before using his tongue to soothe the bite mark he’d left earlier.

You turn your face towards him as you feel his weight leave the bed. He smiles at you, muttering something about getting himself cleaned up before gesturing to the opposite way you're facing. You turn your head to find Joel, pulled to his full height, standing at the foot of the bed, still fully fucking clothed.

You slowly rise to your knees on the mattress, and Joel smiles at you, lifting a hand to settle against your cheek. You lean into it, turning your head to kiss his palm.

‘You okay, baby?’ he asks softly.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You breathe.

He nods, pleased.

‘Good. On your knees, on the floor for me, baby girl.’ He says.

You pull your languid limbs off the bed and settle on your knees on the floor, waiting patiently for him. You rest your palms on top of your thighs, tingling and relaxed, and wait for your instruction. It comes before Santi even leaves the bathroom. 

‘Mouth.’ Joel says, and you shuffle forward towards him, hungry hands grappling with his belt as he chuckles down at you. ‘My eager girl.’ And you shine a blinding smile up at him. 

You whip his belt off, launch it across the room, and make quick work of the button and zipper, pulling his jeans down his thighs so just his boxers are left. You lick your teeth at the sight of his barely contained cock, the front of his underwear stretched, the tip of his dick peeking from above his waistband, leaking and swollen. You rise up on your knees as you reach for the band, lifting your eyes to Joel’s as you pull his underwear down, smiling again as one of his big hands comes to rest at the back of your head, impatient already. 

His boxers and jeans pulled down, you take Joel into your hand, pumping him gently before pulling the tip to your mouth, blowing on it lightly before pressing a kiss to the weeping slit. Joel sucks a breath in through his teeth, and presses his hips forward, sinking his cock past your lips. You take him gratefully, opening as wide as you can, your tongue soft and firm against him, tracing and twirling as you hollow your cheeks.

‘So good t’me.’ Joel breathes out, pushing a little further, just to hit the back of your throat and hear you choke lightly. You moan around his length, your eyelids flickering shut as he begins to fuck your throat slowly, making sure to feel every inch you allow him access to.

Santi emerges from the bathroom, and he can’t help but grin as he takes in the sight of you on your knees before Joel, swiping a hand over his mouth to try and hide his mirth. You flutter your eyelashes at him, and he shakes his head before crossing the room to sit in the chair Joel was in before. He crosses an ankle over his knee, leaning back to watch you both. 

You hum around Joel and begin to bob up and down his length, using your fist to pump what you don’t have the patience to take in your mouth. Joel tangles his fingers in your hair and groans as he feels your tongue dip into his slit, slip over the sensitive spot on the underside of his head. 

‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he grunts, ‘Putting on a show for Santi, are we?’

You smile wickedly around his cock, before taking him all the way to the base on your own. You hold your head there as long as possible as Joel chokes out moan after moan, and from behind you Santi mumbles -

‘Fuck, Joel. She’s leaking all over the floor.’

Joel huffs out a breath, pulling you off his cock. He peers down at you, eyes dark.

‘Are you, baby?’ He asks.

You wiggle your ass to feel what even you hadn’t noticed, too caught up in sucking his dick. A small puddle of you and Santi has been dripping down onto the hardwood where you kneel. More slick pulses out of you at the realisation.

‘Yes, daddy,' you sigh, and Joel’s eyes roll up into his head. He yanks your hair roughly to bring you to your feet.

‘Get up,’ he snarls, ‘And get on the bed.’

Joel all but throws you back on to the mattress, and it happens in such a rush that you wonder if you’ve done something wrong. You wrack your brain as Joel undresses before you, his eyes scouring your body, taking in the marks, the bruises already forming, how your hair is wet with sweat at the roots, how your pussy still drips onto the sheets - 

And then you get it. Joel is getting off on it - on the thought of you being full, used, wanted, shown off -

Once he is down to just his skin, he crawls over you, lifting and pushing your hips to move you up the bed. He dips his head to lick and kiss and bite at your neck, and your hands flutter around him, touching him everywhere. His back, his arms, his neck, his face, scraping your nails down his exposed skin. He makes his way to your mouth, devouring you - all tongue and teeth until he rears back to look at you, sprawled and gorgeous below him. 

‘So beautiful, baby,’ he groans, ‘So perfect like this. Open your mouth for me.’ You do as he says, flattening your tongue out against your lower lip for good measure. He groans again, and then leans forward to spit in your mouth. You swallow it down hungrily.

‘Thank you, daddy.’ You say, and he leans back down to kiss you again before retracing down your neck, your collarbones, your breasts -

‘Such a good girl, rememberin’ your manners,’ he grumbles, ‘So good, takin’ Santi, look so good when you’re takin’ his cock.’ You whimper as he bites down on each of your nipples, soothing them with open-mouthed kisses. He kisses down your stomach, around your heat, nipping the inside of your thighs, making sure to leave marks, breathing hotly onto your skin.

‘But now you’ve made a mess, baby, haven’t you?’ He says. You mewl at the ceiling, clutching the sheets around you as Joel blows on your clit, hovering just above where you need him. ‘Words, baby.’ He reminds you, with a sharp slap to your thigh.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You cry.

‘And what do we do when we make a mess?’ He asks.

‘Clean it up, daddy.’ You pant.

‘Good girl,’ he coos, ‘Good girl.’ Before he licks a fat, hot stripe from your leaking hole up to your clit.

You gasp at the sensation, your back arching off the bed, the coil in your stomach already wound impossible tight, every part of your body still so sensitive. Joel works with abandon at your pussy, flattening his tongue to lap at you, tasting the mixture of you and Santi, slurping around your opening before focusing his efforts on your bundle of nerves, sharpening his tongue to work it in tight circles, then figure eights. Your hips buck strongly against him, and he secures a forearm against your lower belly to stop you struggling. He hums against you as your hand winds its way into his curls, scratching lightly at his scalp.

‘Daddy, daddy, daddy, so good - fuck - so good - tongue feels so good, baby -’ You babble to him, to yourself, and Joel lowers his mouth, working his tongue inside you, grinding his nose against your clit. Your shoulders shoot off the bed, and you pull his hair now, biting a curse between your teeth. Joel doesn’t let up for a second, just moves his forearm so he can force your upper body back down onto the bed. Your fingers loosen their grip on his hair, coming up instead to scrub at your face as moan after moan escapes you.

A groan echoes from the chair, and you flick your gaze behind you to see Santi watching greedily, palming himself through his boxers. The sight only serves to work you up more, your core tightening and tightening and tightening, an unbearable heat settling where Joel’s tongue is, but you need him deeper -

‘You close, baby?’ He mumbles against you.

‘Y-es.’ You force out, as he pinches your clit between his lips.

‘What do you need?’ He asks.

‘Fuck - your fingers, Joel, please -’ 

Joel obliges, slipping one, and then two digits into your cunt easily, fucking them in and out as he licks again at your nub, swirling and sucking and lapping -

‘Come on, baby,’ he groans, ‘Give me what I want.’

The forearm he has braced against your middle barely keeps your back on the bed as you come, hard and loud against his tongue. Your whole body twitches, so warm, as he laps and laps and laps at you, as you beg him to stop, to let you breathe for just a second - but he doesn’t, he never does, just eats until he’s had his fill, until he’s satisfied. 

When he lifts his head from between your thighs, his beard and cheeks are glistening with your come. He releases his grip on you and begins to crawl upwards again, and you clamp your thighs shut to stop him from provoking anymore overstimulation. He laughs down at you, kneeling back to yank your legs back open with his strong hands.

‘We’re not done with you, yet, baby,’ he coos, ‘I ain’t had all my fun.’

You shake your head at him, pitiful, your lower lip jutting out. He pouts back at you.

‘You don’t want daddy’s cock, darlin’?’ He asks. You can’t even find it in you to hesitate.

‘I do,’ you cry, ‘Just don’t wanna be touched anymore.’

Joel nods at your words, strokes your cheek, kisses your forehead.

‘It’s okay, baby girl,’ he murmurs, ‘I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. Won’t make you come again if you don’t want to.’ Liar. He knows just as well as you do what his cock does to you. But still, he pauses, makes sure you’re looking at him. ‘Can I still have this pussy, angel?’

You blink up at him. Something warm curls in your stomach. Relief, you think, that he’s heard you, understands - that you know - even with Santi and Frankie here - you could stop this at any time.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You say. 

He smiles, wraps you up in a tender kiss.

‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ He murmurs as he lines himself up at your entrance, and begins to sink in.

Joel tugs at the backs of your thighs, hitching them to your chest so he can watch as he splits you open. His eyes flick from your cunt to your face, the glistening slit stretching to accommodate him and the way your jaw falls loose in a silent ‘o’, your brows brunched, your eyes rolling and falling shut. The slip of him is sinful tonight - your orgasms leaving your body like jelly, Santi’s cock preparing you for Joel’s thickness. But he still moves toe-curlingly slow, inch after inch after inch providing a delicious stretch. He groans as he feels you flutter and tense and contract around him, still unable to breathe, unable to speak. Only he can get you like this - not a babble slipping past your lips, unable to do anything but feel him. Joel pants, moaning again as he bottoms out, tip kissing your cervix. He runs a finger over your cheek, letting you adjust further.

‘Talk to me, baby,’ he urges.

He rocks his hips back and forth, no more than an inch, but it punches out the breath you were holding.

‘Fuck, Joel,’ the whisper all you can get out. He smiles at you.

‘Yeah, angel?’

‘So big.’ you breathe, shifting your hips so he can sink even further in.

‘There she is,’ he huffs, pulling out again, ‘There’s my girl.’

Joel rocks forward again, and you cry out around him, the noise setting him off into a languid pace which allows him to hit every single spot inside you. You can’t bear to touch your own body, frightened of sending yourself into the void, but you do touch Joel. You clutch at his biceps, his tight forearms, nails leaving little crescent moons wherever you grip. You tangle your fingers in his salt and pepper curls, swipe the lines on his forehead, the stubble on his cheeks. He twists his head to kiss and suck at your thumb, and you mewl at him, eyes wide and glassy, so full of him you don’t know what to do.

You’re barely aware, even, of the slick sound of skin and Santi’s soft groans as he works his cock in the chair, caught up in the intensity of you and Joel fucking, his chest flushed and shining with sweat. 

There’s still not a noise, not a peep from the other side of the door.

All you can hear is Joel; his deep breathing, low grunts and moans, his whispered praises, and the startlingly wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of you. You can’t stop the contractions that build inside you, and every time one ripples through your pussy Joel’s head drops a little lower towards your chest. 

Your orgasm feels deafeningly close and impossibly strong, brought on by every shift of Joel’s dick. You try to breathe through it, your moans getting louder, soaking the room with sound, but it’s hopeless. 

Joel dips his head to kiss you softly, swallowing your sounds for just a minute. When he pulls away, you teeter on the edge, everything feeling heavy and blurred and blazingly good.

‘Joel.’ You whisper urgently.

‘I know, baby,’ he says, ‘I can feel it. You’re taking it so well, sweet girl. So good f’me. I know it feels good. You can let go. You can do it. Come on.’

You all but scream against him, your orgasm ripping through your body, every muscle on fire. Your legs shake and your arms tighten around his neck as you shiver and twitch around him, and he moans, long and loud, like you’ve never heard him do before. 

As he fucks you through it, the relief, the pleasure catches up with you, and tears swell and pour out of your eyes.

‘So good,’ you sob, ‘So good daddy, God -’

Joel coos back at you. ‘Atta girl, baby. Knew you could do it. Knew you could give me one more. And it was so pretty, baby.’ he grins at you, before picking up his pace. You whine beneath him.

‘’S okay,’ he promises, ‘Where do you want me, darlin’?’ and you huff at him, as if you could ever give a different answer.

‘Inside. Come inside me.’ You say. And Joel crowds you out, pushing all the way in so you’re moaning again, pumping in the deepest part of you as his hips flex against yours, his head in your shoulder. You stroke his curls, breathing deeply as he relaxes. 

‘Jesus Christ,’ he mumbles against your skin. He pulls his head away, blinking. You giggle up at him.

‘Y’alright?’ you ask, and he smiles back.

‘Fuckin’ more’n alright,’ he laughs, ‘Are you?’

‘Yeah,’ you say, ‘Real good.’

Joel slides himself out of you, both grunting at the loss, and he flicks a look over your shoulder.

‘You good, Pope?’ He asks, grinning at the other man. You twist your head to look at him too, giggling again when you take in his fucked out face, exhausted in the corner, his stomach covered in come. Santi can’t help but grin back.

‘Yeah, great.’ he answers wryly, and you giggle even more.

Joel laughs with you, rolling onto his back and pulling you against his shoulder, kissing your hair.

‘Did so good, baby.’ he reminds you again as you feel him begin to dribble out of you.

Santi stands with a groan, and makes his way back towards the bathroom, muttering something about having to clean himself up again. 

You press your face to Joel’s neck with a smile, leaving soft kisses, only coming away when you hear the jingle of a belt buckle. Santi is dressing at the end of the bed, just short of pulling his top on. You frown at him.

‘You’re leaving?’ you ask. He looks up, smirking again.

‘Not yet, querida,’ he says, ‘Just cold. Besides, there’s still someone we need to look after.’ 

You watch him as he buckles his belt with baited breath, curious as to how this will play out. You aren’t sure what exactly will happen next - whether Frankie will come in, or who will… deal with him. Your breath hitches in your throat before Joel answers your questions for you.

‘Go check on Frankie, baby girl,’ he murmurs, stroking your hair back. You bury your face in his chest again, and breathe in deeply. You scrunch the sheets at his waist in your fist, and Santi chuckles at your reluctance to leave the bed. You plant a kiss to Joel’s exposed skin before pulling yourself away to sit up on the bed. Planting your feet and gathering your strength before standing. You pick up Joel’s flannel from the floor and slip your arms into it, bundling yourself against the chill you now also feel as you pad towards the door. You feel Joel and Santi’s eyes on you, silent, assessing.

When you reach the bedroom door, you touch it gingerly, breathing deeply. You feel… nervous. How would Frankie react to everything he’d heard? You knew he’d done things like it before, but you knew you would be so… angry. Jealous and frustrated. You bite your lip, and slowly pull the door back.

Frankie is exactly where Santi left him, on his knees a step back from the threshold. Your breath catches in your throat as you take him in.

At some point during it all, he'd removed his cap. It’s tossed on the floor a few feet away, and his hair is… fucked. Strands stick out on all sides, his curls mussed and frazzled. Sweat is gathered at his temples, and his skin has a warm, glossy sheen to it. All across his face, right down to the hollow of his throat peeking above his t-shirt. His lips are swollen and bitten, wet with spit as his tongue pokes out to lick them again at the sight of you, and his eyes… Eyes so dark they’re almost black, pupils blown so wide they just sparkle back at you. Deep, dangerous, and hungry. 

He’s ravenous as he looks you up and down - your smooth skin, naked thighs, bare pussy - still dripping with come - up to your exposed tits, bitten and bruised, your neck, your face… totally fucked out, swollen lips, smudged makeup, your own blown out eyes. He moans as he takes you in, and you go weak at the knees at the sight of his hands raking up and down his jean-clad thighs. His dick is straining against the denim, against the claw of his zipper, and as you look closer, you see a wet patch much larger than just precum darkening the fabric. Your cheeks flush at the sight, at the knowledge - Frankie had come in his pants just listening to the three of you.

You breathe out shakily and get to your knees, so close to him you're almost touching. You reach a hand out to cup his cheek, and he leans into it, breathing in and out deeply, closing his eyes.

‘You okay, baby?’ You ask him softly, voice low. Frankie groans again.

‘Yes.’ He croaks out. 

You don’t know if you’re allowed, but you figure you’ll find out soon enough. You lean forward, tits spilling out of Joel’s shirt, and place your hands on his thighs. His breathing sputters, and his head drops forward, but not before you can catch his lips in a sweet, soft kiss. Just like you’ve wanted to, for so long. 

He sighs against you, lips seeking yours. But he seems so exhausted, so on edge, that he can hardly pour any fire into it. His tongue searches your mouth, almost like a plea. 

Please. Please.

As though he hears it too, Joel says quietly from the bed -

‘Help him, baby.’

You pull away from Frankie’s kiss and lean your forehead to his.

‘What do you need?’ You whisper. 

He looses a ragged sigh, too turned on to even know himself.

‘Can I touch you?’ He breathes.

You nod, and he reaches out his hands - carefully, gently - to skirt over and up your waist, to touch your stomach, to skate over your tits. You wince, once, as he traces over one of your nipples, and he freezes. You smile shyly at him.

‘It’s okay,’ you whisper, ‘’M just sore.’ He nods, and continues to touch, caressing your neck, thumbing your jaw, your cheekbone, stroking your brow. He’s so tender, so Frankie, that you feel tears well behind your eyelids. As though he can sense it, tell the gravity of the moment, he drops his hands, skirting them along your thighs, drifting towards your hips, thumbs rubbing the sides of your tummy, before creeping towards your heat.

‘Is this okay?’ He asks.

‘Yes.’ You sigh, this time against his mouth, drawing his lips back to yours. 

When Frankie dips one of his hands to sweep through your folds, you both moan. Low and long against each other. 

‘Fuck,’ he breathes against you, stalling. Slowly, slowly, he brings his coated fingers to his mouth, so close to you that you can smell it, the mix of you and Joel and Santi, and he slips the digits between his lips. He holds your eye the whole time, devouring, tongue swiping over every knuckle, every valley, until they’re clean. He releases them with a pop. You groan, wanting him, impossibly, and you ask again.

‘What do you need, Frankie?’

‘You.’ He says. Frankie swoops forward again to kiss you, one hand now at the back of your head, one back between your legs, gathering the mess between your thighs. You rock against his hand as he parts you, feels you, and you reach forward for his belt, his button, his zipper, undoing all three in record time. You slip a hand into his jeans, under his boxers, impatient to feel him, all of him, and he gasps against you, stilling his movements. He groans your name, almost in warning. 

‘It’s okay,’ you tell him, stroking his hair soothingly, ‘You’ve waited so long, Frankie. It’s okay.’

You take your hand out from his pants, and join his at your pussy, just for a moment, just to collect what’s left and what’s already pooling from you again, before returning your hand to his cock, using the combined juices to move your hand easily up and down. Frankie moans brokenly against you, his body slumping forwards. 

You can’t see him like this, but you can feel him - and Frankie is big. Not quite as big as Joel, but thicker and pulsing against your palm, already wet from his come and what you have just provided him. You swipe your thumb over his tip, collecting his precum to spread down his length, and he jerks against you at the movement. 

‘Fuck, baby,’ he whispers, ‘I can’t, I’m not gonna last, hermosa -’

You shush him again, kissing at his temple, his brow, his cheek, before nudging to his lips.

‘It’s okay, Frankie,’ you say again. ‘I want you to come. You deserve to come. You’ve been so good for us.’ 

And it’s all Frankie needs as he moans loudly against your lips, body seizing and relaxing harshly against yours as he spills himself over your fist, over his jeans, over your thighs and the top of your mound. There is so much of him it’s almost comical, and you laugh softly as he finally starts to relax.

He looks up at you shyly, questioningly.

‘Look at you, Frankie,’ you breathe, and he flushes right to the tops of his ears. ‘So good.’ You murmur.

‘All for you,’ he whispers so only you can hear. He holds your gaze, trying to communicate everything he’s been thinking behind that door. ‘All for you.’

You lean forward and kiss him again. Try to forget, for now, the scratch of those unanswered questions, what it could all mean. Later.

‘Come on,’ you say, taking his hand and rising from the floor. He follows and returns your smile. ‘Let's get you cleaned up.’

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller x frankie morales x santiago garcia x reader #joel miller x frankie morales x reader

[hannieehaee]

hii!! i hope ure having a great day

i just wanted to request loser!scoups hehe I RLLY LOVED CHANS VERSION AND WAS HOPING TO SEE MORE 🫶🏻 anyways take your time to answer when ure free, thanku!

18+ / mdi

content: loser!seungcheol, afab reader, smut, dry humping, penetrative sex, etc.

wc: 2686

part 1, part 2

a/n: hii thank u for requesting <33 i never considered loser!cheol before but ngl i loved writing it hehe i hope u enjoy <3

masterlist

despite popular belief, seungcheol was actually a bit of a loser.

okay, maybe his appearance didn't necessarily fit the bill (with his slicked back hair and bulging muscles), but everything else about choi seungcheol truly screamed loser.

even with a large group of fratboy friends, seungcheol was still the loser of the friend group, being the only one who had opted out of joining the frat and who spent every day and night studying rather than ever attending any of his friends' parties.

this was all by choice, he swears! seungcheol was just far too serious about his education to let anything become a distraction. and it had always been like this, even dating back all the way to middle school (jeonghan could vouch for this, having known him basically since diapers). due to this, seungcheol had always been kind of a black sheep in any and every social situation he ever found himself in. as a result, seungcheol ended up becoming shy, awkward, utterly embarrassing in social situations, and as jeonghan liked to put it, a 'virgin loser.'

even if seungcheol wanted to disagree with his friend, he knew he was right. here he was, twenty-one years of age and still a lonely virgin who had never even felt the touch of a woman's hand in his. he'd had opportunities before, set ups orchestrated by his friends, but he always managed to fuck them up. due to jeonghan's outgoing disposition, the girls he usually set him up with were set for a surprise upon meeting a his friend seungcheol, who could not even hold eye contact for more then twelve seconds (he counted).

except this year that would all change.

now in his senior year of college, seungcheol had an epiphany.

on the very first week of senior year, upon being assigned a new dorm-mate due to his previous one transfering, seungcheol finally saw a mirror of himself.

his new roommate was, for lack of a better term, a fucking loser (the term being courtesy of jeonghan once again). seungcheol had barely met the guy, yet he could not stand one more moment of conversation with him. not only was he a know-it-all who could only ever talk about academics, but he was maybe even more of a loser virgin than seungcheol was (at least that's what seungcheol was able to assess from the three separate occasions in which he walked in on his roommate watching porn in the common area of the dorm). his hygiene was terrible and his wide-rimmed glasses made him look like the typical nerd in every high school movie. everything about him was what seungcheol feared to one day become.

this one week of torture had been enough for seungcheol to finally take jeonghan up on his offer to join his frat and subsequently move into the frat house. granted, jeonghan had to break a few rules to allow a new pledge with zero obstacles in the way, but jeonghan was just charming enough to get away with it.

seungcheol had already spent the past 10+ years with perfect grades and pristine extra curriculars, so he figured that even if he completely flunked these last two semesters, he would still be a shoe-in for the masters program he'd been eyeing since arriving to university.

so now seungcheol was immersed in the frat lifestyle, though he still felt a bit out of place, which unfortunately for cheol, was something his good friend jeonghan noticed immediately. but this would only be a problem for a short while.

unbeknownst to seungcheol, jeonghan had orchestrated a plan for seungcheol's first frat party. it all started with giving seungcheol a bit of a new look. jeonghan insisted on throwing out most of cheol's 'nerdy clothes' (admittedly, he did dress like an old man at times), traded in his thick-rimmed glasses for some better fitting specs and lastly, gave cheol a trim to better frame his face. after all these changes, cheol felt more confident but still did not feel ready to attend one of the frat's well-known parties.

the decision was, however, taken for him, as he found himself in attendance to one just a few days later. also unknown to cheol was that jeonghan had been playing cupid once more, scouting to see which one of his closer girl-friends would be a good fit for his friend. and of course, his attention immediately fell on you.

jeonghan had only known you since the last semester of his junior year, in which the two of you had partnered up for a project that took up the entire fifteen weeks of instruction. the two of you hit it off pretty easily, but you hadn't quite caught his attention in a non-platonic way.

but you had caught someone else's.

although it had only been a fleeting moment, jeonghan caught onto every single look and action that had occurred the day in which seungcheol had accidentally interrupted a study session between the two of you.

he had easily noticed the blush in cheol's cheeks upon seeing you for the first time, along with the way he shyly checked you out when you weren't paying attention. what had surprised him the most, though, had been the way you checked out his friend as he went to leave the room. that had been enough for jeonghan to decide to play matchmaker between the two of you if the opportunity ever arose. and that was now.

getting the two of you alone was not difficult, but jeonghan knew better. he knew that sending the two of you into an empty room, completely blind to whatever he was planning was just a bad idea. so jeonghan decided that for the first time in his life, he would not scheme. he would simply set up the scene and leave the rest to you.

when jeonghan first came up to you a few days back and let you know about his friend's crush on you, you had been pleasantly surprised. what had shocked you the most, though, had been the revelation that jeonghan's cute friend was actually an inexperienced virgin. jeonghan told you to please not bring it up to cheol, but that he felt it was best you knew so you didnt feel caught off guard should you ever try to hit him up (which he knew you would). what jeonghan didnt realize was that this fact excited you more than you'd like to admit.

planting that seed was more than enough to get you looking for cheol in the empty room jeonghan had said he'd be in (okay, maybe he did scheme a little), prepared to deflower the pretty nerd you'd been thinking about every time you started to notice him sitting alone in the library every other day.

you had dressed to the nines, donning a red slip dress that gave you breathing room but still accentuated every part of your body you wished to stand out. ready and confident, you quietly opened the door to what you assumed to be jeonghan's room, knowing you'd find his pretty friend inside.

sitting alone on the bed, seemingly trying to psych himself up as he whispered affirmations to himself, the boy jumped back upon your unexpected intrusion, with his hears instantly turning red at realizing who you were.

you were jeonghan's pretty friend. the one seungcheol had had some unbecoming thoughts about immediately after seeing you in jeonghan's room last semester (and subsequently seeing you around campus as his eyes would unknowingly always search for you). and you looked .... fuck. and you were alone in han's room with him .... and you had closed the door right behind you .... and now you had walked all the way over to where he was sitting at the edge of the bed, not shocked at all to see him there ....

"hi," you smiled at him.

"h– hey."

"are you okay? how come you're here all alone?", you sat next to him on the bed, damning all boundaries, apparently.

"oh, i ... just a little nervous, i guess."

"yeah? of what?", despite the unexpectedness of the situation, you seemed genuinely interested, so seungcheol responded.

"it's, uh, my first party as a member of the frat."

"oh, really? i had no idea you were a member of the frat. that's pretty cool, seungcheol."

"you know my name?"

you scoot closer, smile still on your face, "yeah, of course i know your name. do you now mine?"

"oh, i, uh, yeah ..."

"okay, so we know each other. do you maybe want a friend to go out there with? maybe that would ease your nerves," your hand had somehow made its way to his thigh, now invading his personal space a bit. except he couldnt find it in himself to complain.

"t– that's fine, i, uh, i have han and– "

"but arent i better company?"

"y– you're ..."

"can i be honest with you, seungcheol?", you didnt wait for a response, "hannie told me that maybe you needed some help. that i could maybe help you out?"

"help? what type of help do you mean?"

you leaned in even closer, "do you want me to show you?"

"i ..."

"all you have to say is 'yes', cheollie ...", you breathed out now close enough for him to feel your breath on his lips.

he nodded and made an embarrassing noise of affirmation, completely giving up on speaking.

it was embarrassing how easily he let you turn him into a puddle, not even bothering to question how or why jeonghan orchestrated this situation. but that didnt matter as he finally felt the lips of a woman against his own – your lips; the lips of the girl he'd been crushing on from afar, jealous that maybe you'd become more than jeonghan's classmate. this was a clear declaration that his assertions had been incorrect.

seungcheol wasn't sure what to do with his hands (or with his tongue) as he kissed you. he felt you smile against his lips at his whimper, making feel that maybe you were making fun of him. when you pulled away, he feared that maybe he'd been right.

"cheollie, let me show you, yeah? just let me– yeah, like that", you positioned him in a way that would allow you to straddle him as you said this, wrapping his arms around your waist, "okay now let me show you how to kiss me, okay? just open your mouth a bit for me and let me teach you. then you can try it on me."

with that, you leaned into his open mouth, sticking your tongue inside as you played with his own, sucking on it and causing his eyes to roll back, another embarrassing moan leaving his lips.

"do you wanna try it now?", you asked as you pulled away.

he feared his voice would betray him, so he just nodded before leaning in.

seungcheol mimicked your previous actions, though his were a bit sloppier and more desperate. he whined at the way you sighed and pulled at his hair due to the way in which he suckled at your tongue and squeezed his fingers on your hips.

eventually you began to also kiss him back, making it a battle between your tongues all the while seungcheol tried to keep up.

suddenly your hips began to move against his own, making him groan in pleasure. after that, you leaned over him, causing the two of you to lay on the bed as you practically rode him through your clothes.

cheol couldnt help his cries of pleasure at feeling you press against his now swollen member. he didnt want the feeling to end, so he grabbed onto your hips and helped you in your movements, even grinding his own hips upwards to match you.

"cheollie ... do you want more? hmm? wanna feel what its like?", you purred against his ear while pulling off your dress, leaving you in a tiny bralette and thin panties.

"yes! fuck, please. i'll take whatever you wanna give me, just ..."

"shhh, it's okay. i'll give it to you, pretty. you dont have to beg. want you just as bad," you kissed him again before he could reply.

without him noticing, you had thrown off your bra, something which made him completely blank when you pulled away and began talking to him. none of your words made it through his head. he was far too busy looking at the pretty nude girl in front of him. he salivated at every inch of naked skin, wanting nothing more than to lick and kiss at every curve. out of all parts of your body, his eyes were glued to your tits. the fleeting thought of suffocating in them flew through his head, making him shudder.

"cheol?", you grabbed onto his chin and pointed his gaze towards your own, finally breaking him out of his trance.

you giggled at his confused face, causing him to sheepishly apologize for dozing off.

"it's okay, pretty. i'd be distracted too if i could get all these clothes off you ... that's what i was asking actually, can i?" your hands began to teasingly pull at his top, mangling it a bit so it could expose some skin.

his nod was all you needed to rip off his shirt and pull off his pants with urgency that had seungcheol blushing. after getting him fully naked, you threw off your panties and finally sat against him completely bare. the heat of your skin against his was enough to have him burying his face against your neck and begging you once more to please give it to him.

"shhh. i'll give it to you, pretty. i– i'll give you everything," and with that, you sank down on him, throwing your head back at the intrusion.

meanwhile seungcheol was completely gone. the warmth of your body against his had been one thing, but feeling your heat wrap around him was what truly did him in.

it's not like he had stayed a virgin by choice. he had tried to hit it off with many of the girls jeonghan set him up with, but none of them showed any care for him. they'd all expected him to step up and fuck them. even when he would try to shyly explain that he had never done anything sexual before, he'd just be met with scoffs or laughter. but you had walked him through it. you had complimented him and made him feel comfortable. you had made him see pleasure for the first time in his life.

although these thoughts swam through his head as you fucked yourself on his cock, seungcheol's mind was otherwise completely empty. all he could think about was how good you felt and how pretty you sounded as you threw your head back and pulled at his hair. you were just the embodiment of pleasure.

all cares and worries were gone from his brain until the moment in which he felt all his pleasure reach a peak.

he didn't want to be a fucking loser and cum so soon, but you just felt so fucking good, he couldnt help himself. he cried a warning out to you, to which you encouraged him to let go and told him you'd follow him soon.

his orgasm was something he never couldve imagined. but your own orgasm soon trampled that experience. your tightness as you let yourself go while still wrapped around him had him delirious with pleasure. without meaning to, his nails dug into the skin of your pretty hips as he lost consciousness for a few seconds.

unable to fully process it, he felt a sweet peck against his lips before feeling you cuddle against him. he didnt have to think twice before wrapping his arms around you and pulling you closer.

"remind me to thank that idiot", he spoke up after some moments.

"who, hannie?", you giggled against his chest.

"yeah. he was onto something when he made me get ready in his room."

"oh? he sent me in here looking for you."

"that fucker", he chuckled, "owe him one."

#seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #svt fanfic #svt x reader #seventeen #svt #seventeen imagine #seventeen oneshot #seventeen smut #svt smut #svt imagines #seungcheol scenarios #seungcheol fanfic #seungcheol imagines #seungcheol x reader #seungcheol oneshot #seungcheol smut #scoups scenarios #scoups x reader #scoups oneshot #scoups smut

[diana-thyme]

The Ultimate Grimoire Guide

So! I have been seeing a ton of grimoire ideas and thought I’d stuff them all together. A lot of ideas are from @manifestationsofasort, @banebite, and @pigeonflavouredcake. Check them out! They have a ton of cool stuff there.

What Do I Use For My Grimoire?

You can use anything for a grimoire! For a physical one, journals, binders, and notebooks are good. For digital ones, Notion, Tumblr, Docs, and even just your file folder are great.

Introduction

A Book Blessing

Table of Contents

About Me

Your Current Path

Your Personal Beliefs

Your Spiritual Journey

Superstitions

Past lives

Favorite Herbs/Crystals/Animals/Etc.

Natal Chart

Craft Name

How You Entered The Craft

Astrology Signs

Birthday Correspondences (birth tarot card, birth stone, etc.)

Goals

Safety

Fire Safety

What Not to Burn

Toxic Plants & Oils (to humans, plants, animals)

Crystals That Shouldn’t Be Put… (in sun, in water, etc.)

Things That Shouldn’t Be In Nature (glass, salt, etc.)

Potion Safety

How to Incorporate Blood in Spells

Smoke Safety

Wound Care

Biohazards

Core Concepts

Intention & How It Works

Directing Energy

Protection

Banishing

Cleansing

Binding

Charging

Shielding

Grounding

Centering

Visualization

Consecration/Blessing

Warding

Enchanting

Manifestation

Meditation

What Makes A Spell Work

Basic Spell Structure

What Not To Do In Spells

Disposing Spell Ingredients

Revitalizing Long Term Spells

How To Cast Spells

What To Put In Spells

Spell Mediums (jars, spoken, candle, sigils)

Spell Timing

Potion Bases

Differentiating Between Magick and Mundane

Common Terms

Common Symbols

Intuition

Elements

Basic Alchemy and Symbols

Ways To Break Spells

Laws and Philosophies

Correspondences

Herbs & Spices

Crystals & Rocks

Colors

Liquids & Drinks

Metals

Numbers

Tarot Cards

Elements

Trees & Woods

Flowers

Days

Months

Seasons

Moon Phases

Zodiacs

Planets

Incense

Teas

Essential Oils

Directions

Animals

Symbology

Bone Correspondences

Different Types of Water

Common Plants

Entities

Deities You Worship

Pantheons

Pantheons & Deities Closed to You

Common Offerings

Epithets

Mythos

Family

Worship vs Work

Prayers & Prayer Template

Altars

Deity Comms

Devotional Acts

Angels

Demons

Ancestors

Spirit Guides

Fae

Familiars

House, Animal, Plant, Etc. Spirits

Folklore Entities

Spirit Etiquette

Graveyard Etiquette

Boundaries

Communication Guide & Etiquette

Spirit Work Safety Guide

How Entities Appear To You

Circle Casting

Common Offerings

Altars

Servitors

Mythological Creatures (dragons, gorgons, etc.)

Utility Pages

Gazing Pages

Sigil Charging Station

Altar Pages

Intent Pages

Getaway Pages

Vision Boards

Dream Pages

Binding Page

Pendulum Board

Crystal Grid

Throwing Bones Page

Divination Pages

Mirror Gazing Page

Invocation Pages

Affirmation/Manifestation Pages

Spirit Board Page

Other Practices

Practices That Are Closed to You (Voodoo, Hoodoo, Santeria, Brujeria, Shamanism, Native Practices)

Wicca and Wiccan Paths

Satanism, Both Theistic and Non-Theistic

Deity Work

Religious Paths (Hellenism, Christianity, Kemeticism, etc.)

Animism

Types of Magic/Spells

Pop Culture Paganism/Magic

Tech Magic

Chaos Magic

Green Magic

Lunar Magic

Solar Magic

Sea Magic

Kitchen Magic

Ceremonial Magic

Hedge Magic

Death Magic

Gray Magic

Eclectic Magic

Elemental Magic

Fae Magic

Spirit Magic

Candle Magic

Crystal Magic

Herbalism

Glamours

Hexes

Jinxes

Curses

Weather Magic

Astral Magic

Shadow Work

Energy Work

Sigils

Art Magic

Knot Magic

Music Magic

Blood Magic

Bath Magic

Affirmations

Divination

Tarot Cards

Oracle Cards

Playing Cards

Card Spreads

Pendulum

Numerology

Scrying

Palmistry

Tasseography

Runes

Shufflemancy

Dice

Bibliomancy

Carromancy

Pyromancy

Psychic Abilities

Astrology

Auras

Lenormand

Sacred Geometry

Angel Numbers

Ornithomancy

Aeromancy

Aleuromancy

Axinomancy

Belomancy

Hydromancy

Lecanomancy

Necromancy

Oneiromancy

Onomancy

Oomancy

Phyllomancy

Psephomancy

Rhabdomancy

Xylomancy

Tools

Crystal grid

Candle grid

Charms

Talismans

Amulets

Taglocks

Wand

Broom

Athame

Boline

Cingulum

Stang

Bells

Drums

Staffs

Chalices

Cauldrons

Witches Ladder

Poppets

Holidays

Yule

Imbolc

Ostara

Beltane

Litha

Lammas

Mabon

Samhain

Esbats

Deity Specific Holidays

Religious Holidays (Christmas, Easter, Dionysia, etc.)

Celestial Events

Altars

Basics of Altars

Travel Altars

Deity Altars

Spirit Altars

Familiar Altars

Ancestor Altars

Self Altars

Working Altars

Self-Care

Burnout Prevention

Aromatherapy

Stress Management

Coping Mechanisms

Theories & History

Witchcraft history

Paganism

New Age Spirituality

Cultural Appropriation

Thelema

Conspiracy Theories

Cults

Satanic Panic

KJV

Witches in History

Cats in History

Transphobia in Witchcraft Circles

Queerness in Witchcraft Circles

Other

Recipes

How to Get Herbs

Foraging

Drying Herbs and Flowers

Chakras

Reiki

Witches Alphabet

Runic Alphabet

Guide to Gardening

Your Witch Tips

Resources

Other Tips

List of Spells

Cryptids and Their Lore

What is a Liminal Space?

#witch #witchblr #baby witch #witchcraft #witches #kitchen witch #witchcore #witch aesthetic #witchery #witches of tumblr #spoonie witch #beginner witch #witch community #moon witch #green witch #pagan witch #witchy #grimoire #bos #book of shadows #grimoire ideas #book of shadows ideas #bos ideas

[hurtspideyparker]

One night in the lab Peter finds an old prototype of the EDITH glasses and puts them on.

"Look Mr. Stark! I am Iron Man," he says with a deep voice.

"C'mon kid, that's the best impression you got?" Tony says before looking up.

He sees Peter with those rectangular frames and big grin. For a moment he thinks he's looking at old publicity photos of himself. A confident Tony Stark, tinted glasses and cocky smile, hair fluffed up and oozing manly charm.

Tony's easy smile drops a bit at the thought of Peter being anything like who he used to be.

"Oh sorry for talking over you Ms. Potts I just like the sound of my own voice more than hearing about the safety of our company. I'm too cool to apologize so I'll buy you a zoo for endangered species later honey," Peter tries again with the mocking deep voice.

Tony is quick to recover from the odd deja-vu feeling of seeing the teenager in the frame of a mirror, focusing back on his hologram.

"Yeah because I call the love of my life by her last name. And for your information it was an alpaca sanctuary, and she loved it." Tony corrects, pointing a pen at Peter in rebuke without looking up from his work.

"I chose to be respectful over accurate. Also I saw those alpaca photos and one of them was trying to chew on her skirt, she didn't look very impressed." Peter replies with a matter of fact press of his lips.

Tony glances back at the boy only to find himself unable to look away. He can't help but hear echoes of "I just wanted to be like you!" when he sees the boy wearing frames reminiscent of Tony's classic fashion sense.

Tony thinks about Howard, how he used to run laps to prove he was good enough, better than, worthy of being his son.

He was never enough for Howard.

"You're always better at remembering that kind of stuff than me anyways kid."

Peter is taken back by the earnest tone the older man suddenly possesses. His mouth opens but no words come out in reply, Tony looking at him as if he can see right through the spiderling.

"Now stop playing with my old crap and c'mere, we have some important decisions to make," Tony waves him over to look at something on his phone.

When Peter gets close enough he sees that it's a food delivery app, Tony's fingers hovering between an Indian and Thai restaurant.

Peter shoots him another grin, "I vote for samosas!"

Tony rolls his eyes but clicks on the Indian restaurant anyways.

Peter notices in the reflection of the phone that he still has the glasses on, reaching up to remove them before Tony puts a hand on his wrist to stop him.

"Keep em on, it's the first time you've ever looked cool enough to hang out with me. The tech in those is useless anyways, they're just a pair of sunglasses now."

Peter looks up at his mentor with such awe and admiration that Tony nearly melts like butter under the sun.

Tony may not do many things right when it comes to people, but he knows that even when he was still young and naive he'd known better than to ever look at Howard like that.

So maybe there's one thing he hasn't screwed up.

#peter parker #tony stark #spider man #marvel mcu #irondad and spiderson #iron man

[khaire-traveler]

🌊 Subtle Aphrodite Worship 🦪

Make your body wash/shampoo/conditioner rose scented

Have a rose or sweet scented candle that you light (doesn't have to be on an altar)

Create a skin/body care routine

Have perfume/cologne that you dedicate to her

Wear jewelry that reminds you of her

Carry a pocket charm that reminds you of her (dove works well in a Christian household and is a sacred animal of hers)

Keep a small picture of her in your wallet

Have a dove or swan stuffed animal

Have imagery of beaches, seafoam, seashells (especially clams), wings, hearts, swans, pearls, or doves around

Wear a locket with a picture of someone you love or of her

Give compliments to strangers

Drink water regularly and dedicate a glass of it to her

Collect seashells (if possible)

Collect things you simply find pretty

Plan your outfits/wear clothes that make you feel good

Keep a journal of poetry dedicated to Aphrodite and love-related topics; can also be a general positivity journal or diary (maybe a diary in a way of writing letters to her but saying a code name instead of "Aphrodite")

Keep heart-shaped imagery around

Embrace yourself; give yourself love

Forgive yourself of past mistakes

Give yourself compliments; start small if needed; I recommend doing this in a mirror

Pin up pictures of loved ones on a mirror or wall

If possible, burn some incense in honor of her; strawberry always has a great smell to it

Watch a love-focused movie (romantic or platonic)

Listen to or read stories about acts of kindness and love

Paint your nails or wear make-up (if you enjoy those things and are able to)

Listen to music that makes you feel good; dance to it like nobody's watching!

Have a party where you and your friends create drawings, items, or crafts that you can decorate your rooms with c:

Start a flower garden, especially with roses; tend to a plant

Practice compassion, especially towards yourself

Fall asleep/meditate to the sound of ocean waves or singing birds

Listen to/sing love songs!

Spend time with loved ones

Have a friend's night; go out on the town together, watch movies, go camping, etc.

Spend time with your pets

Take a shower/bath, especially with rose petals and candles (SAFELY!!!!)

Visit a nearby ocean or body of water; stand in the water (if safe) and ground yourself there

Write about your crushes

Make a list of qualities you'd like in a partner; make a list of qualities you don't want (like green flags and flags)

Take a walk alongside a beach/body of water

Take care of your personal hygiene

-

I may add more to this later, but here is my list of subtle ways to worship Aphrodite so far! Worship can absolutely be discreet, and if it needs to be for safety or the like, know that the gods will almost certainly understand. Take care, y'all! 🩷

Link to Subtle Worship Master list

#aphrodite deity #aphrodite worship #helpol #hellenic polytheism #hellenic pagan #deity worship #pagan tips

[norrussell]

Friends Don't | George Russell⁶³

Pairings: George Russell x fem!bestfriend!reader

Summary: you go out to celebrate George's home race win, not even imagining what the night will bring

Warnings: smut, drunk driving, unprotected sex

A/N: you will maybe have to necessarily read part 1 and part 2 hehe. For the sake of the plot, we'll pretend some things already happened. I've spent the whole week writing this and only got it to all click together from the third attempt. Third time's a charm, right? But at least had a blast while editing, which is a rarity. I actually enjoy writing these 'chapters' and building this world sm <3

Sundays were a day for rest and relaxation. A day for sitting down with a good book and a cup of coffee. A day for cuddling up with a loved one and watching a movie. A day for taking some time for yourself; a day to reflect and recharge.

That was, of course, unless your best friend was George Russell. And that your Sundays didn't consist of spending most weekends a year at different race tracks around the world. Not all of them, but you tried to be there for him at least once or twice a month, as much as the opportunity allowed.

That afternoon, George took the checkered flag in Silverstone in P1 and now you were in your room, preparing for tonight's celebration. The victory party was going to be wild, and you knew it. You had seen how George celebrated previous wins, and tonight was going to be no different. Especially because it was his home race.

You took a deep breath and glanced at yourself in the mirror. You had dressed to impress, wearing a sparkly blue dress that fit you perfectly. Finishing your look with a pair of strappy heels and a silver necklace, you couldn't help but think about how previous events with George brought you even closer together.

Your friendship kind of became more... intimate. No pun intended. Guess you were both afraid not to lose each other over the past experiences, and that deepened your bond whether either of you wanted to admit or not. Now your only fear was that your closeness wouldn't tear you apart.

A soft knock pulled you out of your thoughts and you turned around to see George standing at the door with a sheepish grin on his face. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and black pants, his hair tousled in a way that made your heart skip a beat.

"Hey there, gorgeous," he said, his voice low and husky. "Ready to party?"

Never before have you paid any mind to the nicknames he called you, but now a thrill ran down your spine. The way he looked at you made you feel like the only person in the world.

"I am," you said, smiling at him.

As you stepped out of the door, George took your hand in his and led you to the car waiting outside. The drive to the club was short, but the anticipation was high. The party was in full swing when you arrived; loud music, flashing lights, and the smell of alcohol filled the air.

George led you to the VIP section where his friends and family were already celebrating. You saw his siblings and a few of his close racing buddies. You could hear their loud cheering as they saw George walk in with you and feel the envious glares of the other women in the room.

George handed you a glass of champagne and raised his own in a toast. "To the best damn team in the world," he said, looking at you and his friends.

Everyone cheered and clinked their glasses together. You took a sip of the bubbly liquid, feeling it go down smoothly. The night was young, and the energy in the room was electric.

The party kept going on as the night deepened, and the noise of the songs blasted through the room. Glasses were filled up with drinks constantly, making it more of an effort to ignore the effects of the booze. You found yourself on the dance floor, surrounded by George and his friends. The bass of the music throbbed in your chest, and you let yourself get lost in the rhythm.

Throughout the night, each person had a chance to take their turn with you on the dance floor, and eventually you were spinning around in George's arms. The heat of the club mixed with the buzz of the alcohol made your skin flush against his. You could feel his muscles flexing as he twirled you around, his hand firmly holding onto yours. The closer you danced, the more the tension between you grew.

For a moment, you forgot where you were and who was watching. You moved on him like it was just the two of you in the world, your hands moving over his body like never before, and hips swaying in perfect synchronicity. You were so close to him that you could feel his breath on your neck, and the scent of his cologne filled your senses. You felt yourself getting lost in him, and something stirred inside you.

And it seemed like George caught up on your odd behavior as the song faded away. He grabbed your arm and started leading you away from the dance floor until you reached a quiet corner. But your drunken mind wasn't understanding his intentions.

You threw yourself onto him and he had to secure your hips with his hands to stop you from slipping. You let out a hazy chuckle as you started grinding against him once more before he pushed you back against the wall.

"Stop it, that's not why I brought you here."

But you didn't listen. You pulled yourself even closer, letting your lips brush against his neck. "Then why did you bring me here?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, your breath tickling his skin. "The drinks have gone to your head. I brought you here to take a break and cool off a little." he avoided telling you that you were drunk and not acting like yourself, afraid to provoke any unnecessary argument between you two.

Still, you weren't paying any attention. You were too inebriated to realize that your behavior was a little out of character, and you certainly weren't considering the consequences of your actions. You clasped your hands around his shoulders and pressed yourself against him again.

George tried to keep a respectable distance between you, pushing his hip backwards as you pushed yours forward, fighting the urge to get too close. That got you into an interesting position; you were leaning against the wall in between his arms with your shoulders as he leaned into you with his upper body. Your hand naughtily ran down his side, poking him. You knew you probably shouldn't touch him, but you couldn't stop yourself. His muscles strained as he let out a shaky breath.

"You're getting awfully close to me," he murmured, unable to bring himself to look you in the eye. His fingers slowly slid from their grip on the wall.

"Then don't push me away," you said back.

His face was just inches away now, and your lips unconsciously moved closer. The atmosphere between you two was thick with anticipation, a feeling that you currently relished in. Your lips were only a breath away from his when he spoke.

"We can't." his eyes locked with yours.

"Why?" you asked breathily.

"Because we're best friends." his voice was barely a whisper.

He hoped the reason he gave you would remind you of everything you asked from him that first time. But he didn't tell you that he feared you'd regret it when you sobered up, and that it would be his fault for not stopping it.

"And?" in the state that you were, did he really think that would stop you? He couldn't have been more wrong. You wanted to push him to feel something. Anything. "Best friends can do a lot of things." you smirked.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes still on yours. "No, they can't." he gritted, shaking his head.

"You're right." you said, the alcohol clouding your judgment. "They can't do this." and your hips finally met his.

He swallowed hard, trying to stay level headed. "What am I going to do with you?" he said in desperation, his hands pressed flat on the wall behind you, trying their best not to touch you as they dangerously started slipping down.

You placed your hands on his chest, feeling his heart hammering under your palms as you glided them down his torso. "Remember how you said you can read my body language?"

"Yeah," he breathed, nodding his head.

"What is it telling you now?" you whispered against his lips.

"It's telling me we're going to be in big trouble if you don't stop this," he replied. "You have no idea what you're doing to me right now."

"Then don't fight it. Show me." you murmured.

He leaned in, his lips brushing yours. Your arms snaked around his neck and fingers twined through the hair at its nape, pulling him closer. You couldn't believe that you had done all those other things, but never kissed. And when ultimately his mouth closed on yours, it was like finally locating the elusive jigsaw piece on a seemingly ordinary Tuesday while tidying up your home that you thought had been lost forever. It made you almost not want to kiss anyone else ever again — almost, because deep down you knew you shouldn't have been doing this in the first place.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as his head tilted to get a better angle. The kiss was soft, tentative, like both of you were very aware of what might happen. You pressed your mouth against his more firmly, tasting him. Parting your lips slightly, you felt the silky wetness of his tongue on yours. You bit his lower lip, letting out a deep moan when he groaned in response, hands that were in his hair tugging on the strands slightly. He groaned into your mouth again, pulling you even closer against him. You had no idea how long you were kissing, but it was definitely not enough.

The kiss broke, and you leaned your face against his neck, panting heavily. He glanced down at you, his lips so close to yours that if you had merely lifted your head, they'd be touching again. The warmth emanating from your body made him want to do things he knew he shouldn’t. He placed his forehead against yours, trying desperately to get control of himself.

"We should get back." he said between breaths. Your head was spinning from the alcohol and his scent and the magical kiss, it took you a moment to realize you were no longer kissing him. You opened your eyes and met with him.

"We should, before they realize we're missing." you nodded. He frowned, but his eyes were smiling. He was relieved, but he was also worried for you and what tomorrow might bring when you sobered up.

"Lets go," he said, turning around, but kept an arm around your waist so as to not let you get lost. You looped one arm around his neck, holding onto his shoulder, and gently hit his other shoulder with your head.

The night was still young and the party was still going. Music was playing, people were dancing, and laughter filled the room. Your friends cheered when they saw you two come in together, but neither of you paid any attention to them; all that mattered was that you were here, with him. Guys grabbed drinks for the both of you from different parts of the room and put it in your hands.

You found a spot on the couch and George sat next to you, his arm around your waist protectively. The conversations flowed easily between you two, and soon enough you both forgot what had happened earlier as you joined the rest of the group in drinking, singing along with music and laughing.

He later found you on the dance floor swaying around completely out of rhythm with a drink in your hand. Your face lit up when you saw him.

"There you are, my champion." you leaned into him, dropping your head onto his shoulder.

"I won the race, not the championship.” he chuckled.

“Mm, don’t care. To me you are the champion.” you slurred, pouting.

“Hey, is everything alright?" he asked, supporting you.

"Mmhmm." you mumbled. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine." you could hear the frown on his face. "You're drunk." he spat as he attempted to take away the half empty glass from your grasp.

"I'm not." you said, feeling yourself lose your balance a little as you swayed back and forth. He put his arm around you to help you balance.

"Yes, you are. I should've taken you home the first time around." he sighed, somehow not surprised you managed to get even drunker. You were both intoxicated for that matter, it's just that George knew how to hold his liquor. And he looked to never go over his limit in case something like this happened.

"No." you tried to pull away from him.

"I'm taking you home." he tightened his grip around you, leading you out of the party. You mumbled something in response, not quite sure what you were saying.

He helped you into his car and buckled your seat belt for you, before getting in himself. He drove slowly, carefully navigating the roads while you were almost passed out in his passenger seat. Every now and then he'd take a hand off the wheel to reach over and brush your hair away from your face or wipe away a stray tear from your cheek if one escaped your eye. As he turned into your street and parked the car, your eyes fluttered open.

"Um, could you walk me to the door?" you asked.

"I was planning on it," he said, unbuckling his seat belt.

Both of your arms wrapped around his left one, holding on for support, as he walked you to your apartment. Your little nap helped clear the haze from your head, but you were still tipsy. When you reached the entrance of your flat, you propped yourself against the door and blinked up at him.

"Do you want to come inside?" inviting your best friend into your home have never before seemed more dangerous and George should've known better than to say yes.

"Do you want anything to drink?" you asked to break an awkward silence that fell among you the moment he shut the door.

Before even waiting for his answer, you made your way towards the kitchen, but he extended his arm and grabbed your waist, preventing you from moving further.

"I think we both had enough to drink tonight," he said.

"Then what do you want to do?" you whispered.

"I want to claim my prize." he must have had a few more drinks than usual at the club to summon up the courage for that sentiment.

You could feel your heart racing in your chest, the alcohol still fogging your mind but not enough to miss the implication of his words. You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his intense gaze. His hand still rested on your waist, his fingers tracing small circles over the fabric of your dress.

"Is that what I am, a prize?"

"No, no." he said quickly, his eyes softening. "You're so much more than that, you know that." his hand cupped the side of your face. "When I saw you looking up at me on the podium today, I realized I couldn't have done it without you. You were the one who had been cheering me on from the sidelines all this time. You've been there for me when no one else was." he leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. "You've been my lucky charm all these years and I want to show you how much you mean to me."

The way he was looking at you made your chest heave with a mixture of emotions. You were both under the influence, and you knew this was not the best time to make decisions, but you couldn't resist him. You leaned in and attached your lips together again, only this time with more passion, more desire. You could feel his hands running through your hair as he kissed you back, his tongue playing with yours, his body pressing against yours.

He pulled away, looking at you with a hunger you had never seen before. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

You nodded, unable to say anything. His lips crashed onto yours, hungrily claiming your mouth as his own. Your body responded to his touch, your hands roaming over his chest and tangling in his hair. He lifted you up, your legs locking around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom.

He laid you down gently on the mattress, his eyes never leaving yours. Climbing on top of you, his lips trailed kisses down your neck and collarbone. You moaned softly, your hands gripping tightly onto his muscular back. He pulled his lips away from you, looking into your eyes.

"Are you sure?" he asked again.

You nodded, reaching up and pulling him back down. He gently kissed you again and you responded in kind, but he pulled away again.

"I'll stop if you tell me to." he whispered. "I don't want to do this unless you want to." 

"I want to." you murmured. The alcohol may have distorted your judgment, but it surely helped your courage.

"Are you sure?" he asked a third time. You laughed softly, trying to push him off. He had you pinned to the mattress, still pressing you down.

"Yes, I'm sure." you said, no longer laughing.

That was all he needed to hear. He kissed you hard, his fingers lightly tracing over the fabric of your dress. He ran his hands underneath, gently resting them on your ribs, and pulled your dress upwards. You lifted your hands above your head, freeing him of the task of removing your dress as you squiggled out of it and freed yourself from the restriction that was your dress.

He kissed you again, letting his hands run over your bare skin. His lips kissed down your throat and chest, his hands undoing your bra. He pulled it away and tossed it aside, taking in the sight of you.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" he said. You blushed, and he smiled. His lips traveled down your leg, gently caressing the outside of your thigh. "But I'm a little jealous, you know?" his lips traveled back up, his tongue tracing over the slope of your breast and hands kneading them softly. "You got to taste me, and I..."

He kissed his way down your body, his hands going over every inch of exposed skin, reminding you how skillfully he handled you that very first time. He reached your inner thigh and slid his hand underneath your underwear. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt his fingers brush against you before a long finger slid inside you. You moaned loudly, spreading your legs apart for him. He smiled against your neck, his teeth taking in your skin, his tongue leaving a trail of fire behind.

His finger slowly moved inside you, circling you before sliding in and out. His hand pulled your underwear down, you kicking them off to the side. His mouth moved down your figure, hovering over your breasts. He teased you for a moment, blowing against your nipples before drawing the tip of his tongue over one. He did the same with the other, his fingers never ceasing to move. His kisses continued further down, over your stomach until they reached your mound.

"Can I?" he asked, peeking at you.

"Please..." you tried to hide the shake in your voice.

His tongue slid between your lips, gently licking you. You could feel his breath, hot and heavy against your sensitive skin. He teased you, his tongue circling your clit before sliding inside you. His tongue flicked over your clit, his hands holding your thighs apart. You spread your legs even wider, your body arching up to him. He leaned in, gently sucking on your clit and you moaned loudly, his tongue moving faster. You cried out in pleasure, your hips bucking against his face.

You were nearing your end, your moans growing louder with every movement of his tongue. You could feel his lips smile against your skin, enjoying the sounds you were making. You cried out, your body tensing as you came, shaking against him. He pulled away, slowly kissing his way up to the top again. He placed a gentle kiss on your lips, not hurrying you up as you sucked in his bottom lip, squeezing out your own juices.

"Taking that trophy is the second best thing that has ever happened to me." he whispered. He kissed you again, this time with more passion, your hands reaching for the buttons of his shirt. "The first, of course, being you. You're my greatest reward." he continued as you trailed kisses down his neck, removing the shirt off his shoulders.

"Stop talking, George."

"Sorry," he whispered as he closed his eyes, surrendering above you.

You kissed his chest, your nails raking up and down his sides, feeling his muscles tense. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, and could sense the urgency in his touch. His hardness pressed against you, begging to be liberated. You pulled away from him, reaching for his belt buckle and his eyes shot open, hands reaching for yours.

"Are you sure?" he asked again. He knew if you go any further there would be no going back and some irreversible things would be done.

"Are you sure?" you asked back, smiling mischievously. "I thought this is what you wanted." your nail dangerously circled around his lower abdomen, causing his breath to hitch with every word he spoke.

"I-I do. I'm just making sure you're not doing it just because I want it." you could tell he was really struggling to hold himself back.

"I think we've already established that..." you whispered against his lips and prompted your body more to his.

"Okay," his hand moved away from yours, and you undid his belt.

His pants fell around his feet and he kicked them off. His boxers were the last thing left, and you reached for them, slowly pulling them down. His hand held the back of your head as he kissed you, his tongue twirling around yours. You moved to pull away but he held on tighter.

His boxers hit the floor and you looked up at him, his hands resting on your frame. Gently taking your hand, he placed it on his dick. You gasped, feeling it grow even more underneath your touch. He pulled away, his lips planting kisses down your neck as his hand guided yours up and down his length. You felt him shiver as you grazed the tip with your nails, his breath hitching. He removed his hand, and your eyes shot open when you felt his tip brush against your entrance.

He teased you, running it up and down your slit. You threw your head back in pleasure, your back arching against him. The more he prolonged what you needed the most, the more your neediness grew. You tried to guide him inside you but he resisted, placing a finger on your lips instead. He dragged it over them before he made you suck on it, his eyes never leaving your face as he blew a stream of air out. Your eyes widened when you felt his head brush against you again, making you gasp audibly, his name falling from your lips.

"Please," you remembered what he told you the first time he had you in his arms like this. "Please, please, please, please, please, please, please..." you chanted over and over again.

"Fuck," he hissed under his breath. Hearing you beg for him made his head spin again. It was like you'd put him under a spell every time you'd utter that word and he'd not be able to deny you anything. Not that he ever wanted.

He slowly pushed inside of you, stopping at every inch to wait for you to adjust. "Are you okay?" he whispered.

You nodded, your breath hitching as he began to move again. He kissed you, your nails digging into his back as he stretched you more. He was so gentle, it was unlike anything you'd ever experienced before. This was not the normal rough, lustful sex. This was the man who loved the sight of you, the sounds of your pleasure. This was the man who wanted to make love to you, to show you what true pleasure was.

Your fingers sank into his back again, and he responded by thrusting into you harder, your moans getting louder. His lips traveled down your chest, his tongue flicking a nipple as he pushed into you again.

"Oh, god." you moaned, George's name falling from your mouth repeatedly. Your hands dug into the sheets as his thrusts grew harder, deeper.

"You feel so good... so damn good," he kissed your skin. "Making me feel like I don't ever want to take anybody else again."

"Don't stop, please, whatever it is that you're doing, please, just don't stop." you cried, twining your legs around him to press him deeper.

He moaned in pleasure when you did, his hands tightening their grip around you. His breathing grew heavier and faster, your bodies reacting to each other. He was so close, and he could feel you held right on the edge.

You cried out his name, your form shuddering under him. He had no intention of stopping, and he continued his movements as you kept shaking, your voice loud enough to wake up the whole apartment complex.

"You, George, only you…" you whispered into his ear as you were coming down.

You felt his whole build shake, his cock pulsing inside of you, but it wasn't enough. You wanted to hear him as he climaxed. You wanted to hear the sounds he made, the sweetest song in the world.

"George… George…" you panted, your breathing coming out in jagged breaths.

He cursed, as his body trembled with pleasure. His hands tightened around you, pulling you closer as he came. You buried your face in his neck, your fingers playing with his hair. He kissed you, holding you close to him. He wanted to stay inside you forever, to feel the sight of your face as he pleased you. You did that to him. You were the one making him see another reality where only he and you existed.

But he pulled away, your eyes searching for his as you slowly came back to reality. He kissed you again, his lips landing on yours.

"That was amazing… you were amazing…" he whispered, stroking your face gently.

"So were you." you said back, playing with the bangs that fell over his forehead.

He rested his head on your chest, finding a comfortable spot, your hands moving into his hair.

"Are you going to stay?" you whispered, uncertain.

"Only if you want me to."

"Always."

He hugged you tightly and rolled over so that you were now on top of him. His fingers softly ran along your back as your body let go and fully relaxed. The peaceful sound of your heartbeats and his breath seemed to take over the room. You drew near to him, feeling the up and down movements of his chest gently rock you to sleep, matters of your friendship left for tomorrow's morning news.

Next part

#george russell x reader #george russell x you #george russell x y/n #george russell x oc #george russell imagine #george russell smut #george russell fanfic #george russell fluff #george russell #gr63 #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 x female reader #f1 x oc #f1 imagine #f1 one shot #f1 smut #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 fluff #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 x female reader #formula 1 x oc #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 one shot #formula 1 smut #formula 1 fanfic

[hericaslibrary]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 ?

featuring : gn!reader + Zoro, Mihawk and Ace

warning : none

masterlist

Roronoa Zoro

His heart suddenly beats more rapidly whenever he sees you smiling, laughing, or even doing the most random thing. On top of that, Sanji's overly complimentary remarks towards you make him want to reach for his swords. No, this can't be. He's stared death down a thousand times, cut through countless enemies. Yet, this new feeling blooming for you – it's terrifying.

Zoro coming to terms with his feelings for you? Buckle up, because it's going to be a hilarious journey. Denial will be his middle name for a while, trust me. This dense swordsman will be in for a wild ride before he finally connects the dots.

Thanks to Nami's interrogation skills (and a little sake), the whole crew knows Zoro has a thing for you. Now, expect endless teasing from Luffy and Usopp, who'll probably try to spill the beans before a certain mosshead gives them his best glare.

Zoro finally figuring out his feelings for you? Great! Now comes the real test: talking to you about them. Because let's be honest, under that tough-guy act, he is probably a nervous wreck, sweating bullets at the thought of rejection.

Zoro's not exactly the Romeo type. So expect a confession that's straightforward, maybe a bit awkward – but heartfelt nonetheless. If you feel the same, a weight will lift from his shoulders. But if not, he'll respect your decision and try to keep things smooth between you.

Dracule Mihawk

Don't be fooled by Mihawk's stoic facade – because he is quite aware of his feelings for you. Years have honed his instincts, and unlike his pupil, he has no time (and he is too old) for childish denial. His emotions are clear, even if unspoken.

That man has a very calculating mind. He'll dissect every interaction, every glance, searching for a sign that you love him as mush as he loves you. Despite his solitary nature, his mind might already be constructing a future by your side – a future dependent on your response.

Mihawk is probably one of the few men in One Piece who are very romantic (Oda told me so). His brand of romance is subtle yet charming. Imagine leisurely strolls through his gardens or watching the sunset with a glass of wine by his side. A subtle offer of his arm, a hint of a blush from you – that might be all the encouragement he needs to take things a step further.

Once confident your feelings mirror his own, Mihawk will approach things in an (VERY) old-fashioned way. Be prepared for a carefully crafted dinner invitation, where he can formally request the honor of courting you. His pride lies in being a gentleman, and rushing into things is simply not his style. He prefers to court you slowly and respectfully, allowing your relationship to develop naturally.

After a series of thoughtful dates, Mihawk will finally take the next step and ask you to be his partner (Perona and Zoro might have placed a bet on the timeline, of course). Like everything he does, Mihawk will approach this new chapter with utmost seriousness. Your well-being will always be his top priority.

Portgas D. Ace

Ace isn't the denial type. The ache when you're gone, the quiet competition with Marco and Izo for your laughter – these are the clues that tip him off. Ace falling for you? It's written all over his flustered face. He stutters and turns red like a tomato when speaking to you unexpectedly.

The entire crew is a nuisance and teases him constantly about his love for you. They have grilled him mercilessly – “When will you confess?” they ask, convinced you feel the same.

Denial ? Once again, not Ace's style. But baring his heart, admitting his love for you ? That's a terrifying vulnerability he fears more than anything. On top of that, I believe he is also afraid of losing your friendship by making things awkward if you don't feel the same about him.

Thankfully, Marco, ever the voice of reason, is there to guide this lovestruck dummy. And honestly, this old man is tired of watching you two pining from afar. A stern talk from Marco might be just what Ace needs to understand that silence could lead to a missed opportunity for a great relationship.

Ace's confession? A masterpiece in the making, at least in his head. Daily mirror pep talks and a meticulously planned romantic gesture – that's how he plans to declare his love. Just imagine the blushing, the stammering, the potential for minor explosions (caused by Ace's nervousness, of course).

Dinner over, Ace reaches for something hidden in his pocket. His nervousness is palpable, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow. But then, with a determined glint in his eye, he throws caution (and the letter) to the wind, ready to confess his true feelings directly from the heart.

#divider by cafekitsune #one piece #one piece x reader #one piece headcanons #zoro roronoa x reader #dracule mihawk x reader #portgas d ace x reader #zoro x reader #mihawk x reader #ace x reader #zoro roronoa x you #portgas d ace x you #dracule mihawk x you #zoro x y/n #mihawk x y/n #ace x y/n

[gojoshooter]

Hi bestie. I was at a party and saw this shit. Can you write a scenario/hc where gojo's crush uses his glasses as a reflective surface/mirror to put on her lipstick. Just curious how you think this would play out but this is somewhat so cute to me.

annon im snatching your brain 🏃 this is hella cute

Fifty Shades Of Friendship

an. both seem to like shades—you, on his eyes and him, on your lips

It's a chilly November night, and you're sitting by the bar counters in a little end-year party by your best friend and beloved classmate of Jujutsu High. The charming party host— no other than Gojo Satoru sits beside you on one of the stools and waves towards the under classmen messing around on the dance floor. It's not too late when his eyes land on your smudged petal pink lips, probably caused by the Martini you sipped with it's brim.

He snorts, sitting up his slacked back from the counter and pointing at your lip. “Look at that y/n, who did you make out with this time?” It's some sort of default setting of his phsycology to make remarks on his crush bestfriend, that is, you, like some damned antibody.

Raising your eyebrows, your fingertips reach for your lip by instinct. “Mm?” he rests his cheek on his knuckles, giving a soft smile “Yes your lips. Who was it, Nanami?” and he receives an eyer roll “Haibara. I knew it” “Martini, ’toru”

Then you're looking around the club, trying to find a quick reflecting surface... none. Hmm, you think, as you take out a wipe along with your rosy-coral lipstick. You're still looking around, when your eyes slide to Gojo's loud chortle watching his dorky juniors. An adorable laugh, and then, oh— there it is, makshift mirror.

Holding his cheeks by your fingers, your turn the white head and watch as a tiny tiny gasp slips out of your bosom buddy “’toru, can you look here for a second?” he binks, nodding unconsciously as his vision drops lower towards your lip that you jut out so adorably. He might just put his on yours.

Phew, if it wasn't for the club's lights, Gojo's red face would've been exposed. Dragging your bar stool, you slip closer to his shades and begin fixing your makeup. He watches your soft lips through the translucent black glasses, occasionally travelling to your puppy shaped eyes.

His cheeks almost match the colour of your lipstick by the time you're done and when your attention finally penetrates the surface of his glasses, you can almost make out his glacier eyes looking back at your softer browns... oh. Butterflies, butterflies in stomach.

Your leaning back straightens comically fast. Coming out of trance, Gojo blinks and looks away rubbing his warm neck. “Woah- woah...” oh gosh, and his pitch comes out way higher than it originally is? Did that little moment effect him someway? You tuck a strand of hair behind, wondering.

“Pretty, y/n... I like it” you smile lightly at his comment, taking your drink back from the counter. And just for the virtue of conformation, you reply softly “You like it ’toru?” a small lick on the corner of your lip, while you try to conceal your uncontrollable smile. Best friends to lovers doesn't sound like a bad trope afterall... “Would you not like to ruin it again?”

There it is—got him, not even the club lights can hide cheeks that red.

masterlist !!

ps. shy gojo >>>> also like and rbs are appreciated<333

tags. @anubisisthebomb @dianagracesworld @stellagrangerreads12 @momochina-sama @xxkay15xx @ruins-posts @4sat0ruu @therealjustpeachesback

#gojo x reader #gojo headcanons #friends to lovers #bestfriends to lovers #jjk headcanons #jjk #jjk fluff #jjk crack #gojo satoru #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru x y/n #gojo fluff #jujutsu kaisen #gojo sensei #satoru gojo #jjk gojo #gojo smut #i love gojo #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #satoru x reader #gojo x y/n #yashi talks

[thehighladywrites]

— “Okay, but in what way do you love me?”

☀︎ — pairing: tutor/nerd azriel x bimbo/ditzy reader

☀︎ — summary: It’s confession time! Last night you said you like him but over analyzing azriel needs to know exactly what “like” means.

☀︎ — warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, confessions, creampie, fluff, azriel needs clarification even though you are VERY clear

☀︎ — amara’s note: pls enjoy and lemme know what u think💗 also sorry for it being short it’s only bc i’m posting another drabble very soon, and it’s a personal favorite 👀💗

series masterlist

“Why are you staring at me, Az? Is there something on my face?” you ask panicked as you grab your hand mirror on his desk and check your flawless face

Azriel's gaze softens as he speaks, “No, there's nothing on your beautiful face. I just like looking at you. And, I want to ask you something.”

You exhale calmly, pleased with your appearance, as you turn your body towards him, jewelry jangling.

His stomach feels leaden, and he feels nauseous. What if your version of "like" and his version of "like" aren't the same? What if you say you like him, but only in a friendly way?

You are miles out of his league, but he's not complaining. You actually make him happy and mushy when you call and ask him to go on little shopping trips with you, and it’s even better when you let him fuck your brains out from time to time. But he is in love, like deeply fucking in love.

“Okay. Do you recall—remember yesterday when you said you liked me? Do you want to clarify what that means? Why do you like me?”

The question makes you tilt your head in confusion, brows drawing in curiosity as you pull the strawberry-flavored lollipop from your mouth, resulting in a loud pop, lips covered in a thin layer of sticky, red residue.

“Wait, huh? What do you mean, Azzie? I don’t like you, I love you.”

Oh my fucking god, what? Okay, so he was literally about to throw the fuck up but he was a little hesitant to respond. Azriel couldn't help but think about the meaning behind your words. You were always so bubbly and affectionate, even with strangers. Did your "I love you" hold the same weight every time, or was it just another sprinkle of your charm?

“Okay, I hear you but in what way do you love me? Do you mean it as a friend or—?” He questions behind his glasses.

Azriel had, for the first time ever, brought you to his dorm. You were just laying in bed next to him but decided to straddle his lying body, smiling as his hands automatically held your thighs.

“No silly! I loooove you and I want you to be my boyfriend. You’re so hot and sweet and kind and you care about me, like a lot. Always keepin’ me outta trouble and kissing me too. You love me too tho, right?” You gaze down at him, your big doe eyes shimmering with hope, and your glossy bottom lip slightly quivering.

Love you? He was almost insanely obsessed with you. There was something about you that drove him crazy. How could he not love you? He gives you an assuring nod, all of your previous worries disappearing in an instant. “Yeah, I do. I love you too. So much.”

“That’s so adorable, gimme a kiss.” You puckered your lips, the sweet scent of your Burberry Her Elixir filling his senses.

He tries to remove his glasses, but you stop him with a swat. “No, keep ‘em on,” you insist between kisses.

—

To no one’s surprise you were bent over his desk, getting fucked stupid as he made you list what you loved about him.

Maybe it was a little mean since you couldn’t focus, your fuzzy brain filled with pleasure, but Azriel wanted to know anyway.

“more,” he gasps, “n-need more—gimme more, sweetheart.”

So you did, saying everything you loved about him. Every single detail.

“I love it when you make me breakfast— fuck, and—and when you carry me whenever i want. ‘m so close, az,” you sob—and then, just as his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing desperate little circles to get you over the edge, you cum — harder than ever, spasming around his cock and pulling him in as you squeeze around him.

“a-azzie,” you gasp brokenly, “fuck, ‘s good—so good.”

“you’re so perfect. prettiest girl i’ve laid my fucking eyes on —prettiest pussy ever too. i, sh-shit—” he falls into his own orgasm, hot, thick ropes of cum spilling into you with every twitch of his cock, sweet little noises pulled from his throat that he sighs into your neck, fucking his load into you.

“Holy shit,” Azriel mutters before he kisses the back of your head, the biggest trail of cum he’s ever seen leaking out of you when he pulls out.

“I wanna go again, please Az, let—let me ride. I’ll tell you more things I love,” you lock eyes with him over your shoulder, a smirk playing at your lips.

Azriel obviously doesn’t deny. He’s happy someone for once in his life wants to tell him how much they love him. Especially when that someone is his first and last girlfriend💗.

🏷️: @ithan-holstroms-girl @whatdoyxumean @honeybeeboobaa @to-be-written @sidthedollface2 @stasiereads @andrewgarfield2022 @amara-moonlight @thescooby-gang @linoisqt @mischiefmanagers @tortured-artists @dwlyniii @scooobies @harryshoobies69 @caroline-books @kalulakunundrum @meshelleexplosionmurder @danikamariewrites @clairebear08 @redbleedingrose @jeannineee @rowaelinsdaughter @nocasdatsgay @v3lv3tf0x @liati2000 @teenageeggscissorslawyer @impossibelle @stonerpersona @dreamlandreader @djaaaa @callmeblaire @thelov3lybookworm @polli05927 @ahitsalyssa @evergreenlark @thegirlintheshadows101 @saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofladydeath @acourtofwhatthefuck @readychilledwine @daycourtofficial @azriels-shadowsinger @sapphicmsmarvel @hungryforbatboys @justasillylittlegoofyguy @luvmoo @emryb @meritxellao @mochibabycakes @artists-ally @azzieslittlebunny @viatorem-maris @berryzxx @riddlesb1tch @sweetshifter

#talkswithamara #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar x reader #acotar imagine #azriel #azriel imagine #azriel fic #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acomaf #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #az x reader #azriel x reader #azriel fluff #azriel x bimbo reader #azriel x fem reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x reader fluff #azriel x yn #azriel smut #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #acotar smut #the sessions series #acotar x bimbo reader #bimbo reader

[heartsandhischier]

"You slept with who?"

nico hischier x reader

summary - 1.5k words. trying to escape an awkward encounter after a one night stand, emphasise on trying

author's note - in my head nico is such a sweetheart no matter the situation, and NO ONE can tell me otherwise. i will protect this man with my life!

warnings - slight reference to the devils tango (ig), swearing

As the morning sun tiptoed through the parted curtains, it painted the room in a soft glow, awaking you from a restless slumber. A throbbing headache served as your unwelcome alarm, joining forces with the sunlight to assault your senses. You pulled the covers over your head, seeking refuge from the discomfort, suddenly hit by an unfamiliar scent – cologne. With a jolt, you sat up, struggling to pry your heavy eyelids apart as you looked around the room. This wasn’t your bedroom.

Where the fuck am I?

Alone in the unfamiliar bed, you took a moment, attempting to piece together the puzzle of your surroundings. The room was clean, neat, the owner clearly a tidy person. Despite the overall cleanliness, scattered trinkets and personal belongings were scattered along the space, giving it a sense of lived-in comfort – a curated chaos. 

Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze fell upon the floor, a scattered array of clothing formed a path from the bedroom door to the bed. With a hesitant rise from the mattress, a sudden realization washed over you – you were completely naked.

Remnants of the previous streamed through your mind. Recollections of hitting the club with your girlfriends flooded back, the taste of margaritas still lingering on your lips. The thumping bass and flashing lights of the club replayed in your mind, each memory accompanied by the relentless pounding in your head.

As your feet met the floor, your head pulsed with every beat, you had to get out of here. This wasn’t your typical scene – you weren’t accustomed to waking up in unfamiliar beds after nights of festivities. And when these rare occurrences did happen, you never stayed long, avoiding any potential awkward encounters with one-night stands. Hastily you collected your belongings, attempting to look just a bit more presentable as you assessed your disheveled reflection in the full-length mirror. Panic set in as you realized your heels were missing – likely abandoned somewhere in the entrance hallway.

You peeked your head past the bedroom door, checking if the coast was clear. No one in sight. You kept your head low as you tiptoed along the corridor. Your heart raced with each step, the uncertainty of encountering the apartment’s owner weighing down on your consciousness. Lost in your haste, a collision abruptly halted your escape.

Fuck

As water splattered and your belongings scattered across the floor, the jarring sound of shattering glass pierced your ears. Before your bare feet could melt into the broken shards, a pair of strong arms caught you, preventing a painful misstep. A heavy silence settled over the room as you couldn’t bear to meet the eyes of the stranger. “Are you okay?” His voice was thick with an accent you couldn’t quite pinpoint, breaking through the tension. Unable to muster a response, you offered a timid apology, keeping your eyes trained on the floor as you began to gather your scattered belongings. Finally standing upright, you mustered the strength to meet the stranger’s gaze. Warm brown eyes met yours, framed by a freshly-trimmed beard and tousled brown locks – a picture of effortless charm, even in the disarray of early morning wakefulness.

You were lost in his eyes for a moment. He must have noticed as he let out a small chuckle, “I’m sorry for ruining your escape. I was just trying to get you a glass of water.” he explained with a soft smile, gesturing toward the now-spilled contents polled on the floor amidst the shattered glass. 

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you watched him bend down to collect the scattered glass. It seemed like a series of unfortunate events had led you to this moment – waking up in a stranger’s apartment, breaking a glass meant for you during your escape, and now, standing awkwardly as he cleaned up your mess. What made it even worse was that you didn’t even know his name. 

An uneasy silence hung in the air as he continued to tidy up. "So... last night was fun?" his smile genuine despite the situation. You could only manage a sheepish smile and a polite nod in response, feeling utterly mortified. He chuckled at your response, tossing the broken glass into the trash.

Once he finished cleaning up, he approached you again with a fresh glass of water in hand. Dressed in a black t-shirt neatly tucked into a pair of gym shorts, you couldn’t help but notice the definition of his muscles peeking through the fabric. You politely accepted the glass of water with trembling hands. Taking a hesitant sip, the cool water provided some relief to your throbbing headache.

His laughter broke through the tension as he observed your state. “You don’t remember my name, do you?” he teased, causing your cheeks to flush even deeper. You stammered out an awkward apology, feeling like you couldn’t sink any lower in embarrassment. 

“It’s alright, happens to the best of us,” he reassured you, his voice gentle and understanding. “Since it seems we’re both in need of a little memory jog, how about we start fresh? Hi I’m Nico,” he introduced himself with a mock bow. 

You felt a smile tug at your lips, appreciating Nico’s effort to lighten the mood – definitely not the reaction you’d expected after the awkwardness of being caught trying to escape his apartment. “Nice to meet you Nico, I am Y/N,” you gave him a small courtesy, mirroring his playfulness. His laughter was infectious, melting away the tension that had gripped you moments before. It was amazing how quickly his easygoing demeanor put you at ease.

“I would’ve offered you breakfast, but I have to head out to practice,” Nico explained with a smile, his warm brown eyes meeting yours. “Early morning practice after a night out, wow, you’re a fighter,” you teased, genuinely impressed by his dedication given your own current state. 

"Well, gotta do what you gotta do when you're captain," he replied with a grin, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "But I can offer you a ride home on the way.”

-

“YOU SLEPT WITH NICO HISCHIER?!” Sarah’s voice was a mixture of shock and excitement, drawing the attention of nearby patrons in the cafe. You hastily gestured for her to lower her voice, feeling a flush of embarrassment creeping up your cheeks.

Sarah’s hand shot to her mouth covering it, quickly scanning her surroundings she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You slept with Nico Hischier!?” her eyes were wide with excitement, barely able to contain herself.

“I didn’t know!” you chuckled, shrugging in amusement. “Yeah, that’s because you’re boring and don’t watch sports!” Sarah teased. “He’s literally the captain of the New Jersey Devils!” Sarah exclaimed, her arms waving around excitedly. 

“How was it? Was it good?” Sarah fired off questions, her curiosity barely giving you enough time to answer. You laughed, trying to keep up with her rapid-fire interrogation. “You tell me,” you replied, taking a sip of your coffee. “I don’t remember, I mean, I didn’t even remember his name!”

Sarah’s eyes widened in realization. “You have to meet him again,” she urged, the sudden weight of missed opportunity sinking in. You groaned – you didn’t get his number. With a defeated sigh, you explained the predicament to Sarah.

“We’ll just have to go back to the club. tonight. “

-

The club pulsed with energy, red lights casting an enticing glow over the throngs of dancing bodies. Sarah and the girls were lost in the music, their laughter mingling with the bass thumping through the air. Despite their best efforts to drag you to the dancefloor, your attention remained divided, your gaze drifting to the entrance in hopes of spotting those familiar brown eyes.

It was a long shot, you knew, but it was worth trying. Why hadn’t you thought of exchanging numbers? You sighed, taking a sip of your amaretto sour. Amidst the chaos of the club, your purse buzzed incessantly, drawing you out of your thoughts. Fishing out your phone, you were met with an unknown number flashing on the screen. Normally, you wouldn't answer such calls, but tonight, emboldened by the alcohol coursing through your veins, you pressed the phone to your ear.

“Hello?” you shouted into the phone, hoping to be heard above the chaos of the club.

“I can see you're looking for me,” the voice on the other end replied, laced with the same thick accent. Your head snapped up, scanning the club for the source of the voice. And there he was, standing by a table surrounded by a group of guys you could only make out to be his teammates. His warm brown eyes locked onto yours, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he gave you a small wave. A surge of relief and excitement washed over you as you realized you hadn’t lost your chance after all. You couldn’t help but smile, you probably exchanged numbers during your drunken encounter, lucky for you. 

With a grin plastered on your face, you made your way through the pulsating crowd. The warmth of his presence drawing you closer, as the pulsating rhythm of the club faded into the background.

“Hey stranger,” you playfully smiled. “Ready for round two?”

#nico hischier #nico hischier x y/n #nico hischier x you #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier fanfic #nico hischier fanfiction #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier smut #nh13 #new jersey devils #njd #nhl fanfiction #hockey fic #hockey fanfic #nhl fanfic #new jersey devils x reader #new jersey devils fic #new jersey devils imagine

[mead-iocre]

Our New Normal Pt. 2 | Leah Williamson x Reader

Our New Normal 2/4 (read pt 1 here)

“The next station is London Euston, where this train terminates. Please ensure you have all your belongs with you when you leave the train”

You pull out your AirPods from your ears and slot them back into it’s case. The train journey was pretty pleasant. Interestingly, the First Class cabin was quieter than usual, with less fellow travellers in this trip than usual.

You grab your hand mirror from your bag,  checking your appearance and fidgeting around with your hair; making sure to retouch your lipstick and spritz a little perfume. You rarely wore makeup when it wasn’t necessary, but for some reason you wanted to make the extra effort to make yourself look slightly more put together when Leah picks you up tonight. Usually, the Arsenal defender only ever saw you in sweatpants and a hoodie, thick rim glasses instead of contact lenses, and with your hair tied up in a loose ponytail. 

For the first time, in a very long time, you were nervous to see your best mate. That wasn't normal at all.

The first thing Leah spots is your familiar silver rimowa suitcase– in fact, it was hers first. When the wheels of your well-loved and well-traveled suitcase decided to break during one of your visits to London, Leah insisted that you take one of her many suitcases that she had stowed away. The blonde never ended up asking for it back so you’ve kept it ever since, and use it every time you take your little trips. 

Leah’s eyes trail upwards until they meet yours. She cocks one eyebrow at the slight difference in your appearance. To her, you were always beautiful but there was something about you right then that seemed different– like you were currently going through a big lifestyle change and the subtle difference in your appearance reflected that. In her mind, the defender chalked it up to you preparing for your transfer to your new club. It wasn't something she liked to think about often as you still had not told her where you were moving to. She just hoped that wherever you moved to, it won't be too far from her.

Leah watched from the distance as your eyes scanned the busy station, trying to find her. She grinned as she sees you weave your fingers through your hair to push it back, a long-time habit of yours that Leah found very, very charming.

Eventually her time to admire you from afar gets cut short when your eyes finally meet hers. You both grin at each other from across the arrivals area of the station before simultaneously making your way towards each other, skilfully dodging other people along the way. 

Leah is the one that closes the distance between the two of you, her arms wrapping themselves around your waist; meanwhile yours found purchase around her shoulders. For a moment, all you see is her strawberry blonde hair as she tucks her face into your neck. 

“Hiya, beautiful” She mumbles against your neck. You can feel the light press of her lips as they move against your skin causing you to giggle slightly at the feeling.

You’ve missed her a lot. This was normal. It was normal to miss you friend this much.

“Hi, Lee” You say softly against her ear. This is what you’ve been craving for weeks now– Leah and her hugs. You will never get over how it feels like to be hugged and held by this woman. No matter how long you both were apart, there was nothing awkward about the first hug when you are both reunited. It’s instinctual, it’s comfort, and it’s home. You step closer to her, minimising whatever little space there was left between your bodies, and wrap your arms tighter around her neck. 

Home.

“I’ve missed you, baby” A moment later Leah moves to break the hug, her arms gliding across your lower back, both palms pressing against you until they settle comfortably on your hips. She reaches up to cup one side of your face, tilting it to the side, before her lips land sweetly on your cheek. When she pulls away so you are both finally seeing eye to eye, there’s that familiar grin on her face. You couldn’t help but mirror it back with a big smile of your own. 

“I missed you too” You mumble back, blushing slightly at the intensity of her stare.

You’ve nagged her in the past for staring, and all she did was quip back saying she’s “making sure all your cute freckles are still there”

“Right. Let’s get a move on then” Without even waiting for your reply, the defender has one hand over the handle of your suitcase and the other tugging you along behind her.

You both walk outside towards the parking lot, the chill of the London air feels all too familiar lately, until you stop by her car. The blonde unlocks her car, opens the passenger door, and ushers you inside before jogging to the boot of her car to stow away your luggage. 

Leah turns on the ignition and then presses a button on the console of the car to turn the heater on. You can barely make out the details of the other cars outside in the parking lot due to the chill fogging up the windows, barely being able to make out passer-buyers exhaling fogs of cold air as they chat to one another. She glances over to you, noticing that you’ve got your arms crossed, hands tucked under the cuffs of your long wool jacket. 

“Cold?” She reaches a hand over to gently push back the strands of hair that have fallen over your face. Her hand lingers by your cheek, a frown already forming on her face.

This is normal.

Leah knows you don’t like the cold. Unlike those who look forward to “sweater-weather” and pumpkin spice lattes, you hate the autumn and winter months. You much preferred the warmer months when you can sunbathe and wear tank tops all day. “Sorry baby, I should’ve warmed the car up for you earlier”

You smile at her. This is why it was inevitable that you grew feelings her. She’s the kind of person that would go above and beyond for others– and you were lucky enough to be the receiver of this kind of treatment often. Your close friends and teammates would tease you both, often jokingly complaining that Leah is spoils you too much and gives you the “princess treatment” even in simple chores, but you took it all to stride. It made you wonder if this dynamic was going to change once you became teammates for the same club.

“It’s fine, Lee. I’ll warm up in a bit” 

Your answer doesn’t seem to satisfy the Arsenal defender because she immediately shrugs off her own black puffer and places it over your body. You were about to nag the blonde about how now she’ll be the one freezing her socks off, but she shut your protests up with a quick stern look in your direction. You figured there was no point arguing with her when you’ve got a surprise for her later on, so you reluctantly accepted her coat.

Speaking of surprises, you were starting to feel nervous. You have never hid anything from your best friend, especially not something as big as this, and you can’t help but overthink about what might happen after tonight. Part of you knows that Leah will most likely be ecstatic over your transfer, but a smaller, more pessimistic part of your brain was worried that Leah would hate being around you even more; or perhaps she might get sick of being around you constantly.

You were great teammates for England, but international camp never lasted long enough to really test how well you can communicate your feelings, and how you can deal with arguments. Sure, you’ve had a few disagreements here and there but you both always resolved it quickly due to the looming threat of having to say goodbye to one another once camp was over once again. You were worried that being together more often would strain your relationship considering you were both complete opposites when it came to how you expressed your feelings.

Leah was a very confrontational person and she does not hesitate to tell people exactly how she feels. On the pitch, she has no problem arguing with the ref whenever she disagreed with a call, and she was exactly the same off the pitch. You, on the other hand, preferred to bottle up your feelings until you eventually break. The few arguments you’ve had with Leah often resulted in you leaving the room to clear your head, and the blonde giving you the time and space to think things through.

Afterwards, when you did resolve everything, Leah often expressed how she wished you would stay and talk to her instead of running out. She said it nicely, comfortingly, but you knew a part of her was frustrated at the way you sometimes handled things. You never got a chance to resolve this issue or compromise because by then it would be time to say goodbye again– whether its because England camp has ended or you were due to separate and go back to your respective clubs. Being teammates for country and now club would mean that you both will have these issues more frequently, and you weren’t sure if you were ready for that. 

The sudden change in your behaviour did not go unnoticed by the Arsenal defender. Leah watches as you adjust her jacket around you, the oversized puffer jacket completely engulfing you with only the lower part of your legs and your head visible. She watches as you fidget and fuss over the jacket in your lap, a nervous habit that she is very familiar with. She can tell you probably had a lot going on and she figured it was partly due to the looming deadline of the transfer window. She knows you well enough to know that the only way you will open up is if you are given the time and space to do so. Leah isn’t usually a patient person, but for you she can be. 

She watches you silently for another moment. She swears she felt her heart skip a beat when you try and cocoon yourself further into her jacket, your eyes closed, mouth curved up into a satisfied smile– probably happy with the warmth you were now swaddled in. You didn’t know it but if you wanted her to, Leah would’ve tried to somehow turn winter into summer if it meant seeing you this happy. For now she’s just glad that her puffer jacket can offer you some warmth in the meantime. 

Soon enough, Leah was driving the both of you out of the station’s car park, the navigation flashing the directions to her flat. Usually, the blonde would be blasting music in the car, sharing all the new songs she added to her playlist recently, but she must’ve noticed how tired you are because instead of the normal r&b tunes filling the car, the blonde has turned down the volume until you can barely hear the instrumentals of the song currently playing. 

“Just sleep, y/n” You force your eyes open at Leah’s words, trying to blink the sleep away. You had been trying to stay awake, feeling bad about not being a more entertaining passenger on the long drive back to her flat, but the equal amounts of stress and excitement over the last couple of weeks seem to be catching up to you now. 

As your hand reaches up to try and rub the sleepiness away from your eyes, the defender’s hand reaches up to grab your wrist before you can do so. “Don’t rub your eyes, baby. Remember that tiktok video I sent you?”

The eye roll that follows cannot be helped. Leah had sent you a tiktok video a few days ago about the potential dangers that rubbing your eyes constantly can do– something about weakening or distorting your cornea– but that’s in extreme cases. Why that tiktok video was even on her 'for you page', you didn't want to know.  

“One little eye rub won’t damage my eyes, Lee” 

“And let’s keep it that way, yeah?” You catch her smirk illuminated by the streetlights, already anticipating whatever cocky, unhinged thing that will come out of her mouth next.  “Or else you’d miss seeing my pretty face”

You scoff, clutching her jacket tighter around you. One advantage of Leah driving you around is that it gives you the opportunity to look at your best friend, the woman you were in love with, without care.

The defender was a great driver, both hands always clutching the wheel, and always focused on the road. That meant you can stare at her without having to gaze into those blue eyes. A familiar shade of forget-me-not blues, unusually soft in the morning light, but can also reflect the deepest depths of the ocean when her emotions get the best of her. They say the eyes are the windows into the soul, and this woman was proof of that. She wore her emotions in her pretty blues, and sometimes you swore she felt the same scary, overwhelming emotions you had begun to feel for her. 

But that’s why sometimes you find it hard to stare into her eyes, fearing that that unnamed emotion in her eyes– the one that you so badly want to believe might be adoration, or care, or love– might be gone one day. 

“Piss off, Lee” Damn her and her caring nature.

The blonde risks a quick glance at you causing your breath to catch in your throat. All of a sudden, you feel a lot less sleepy and more aware of your rapidly beating heart. 

“Take a nap, baby. I’ll wake you up when we stop at the gas station” Leah turns her head back to the road for a second, surveying the road ahead of her, before those pretty blues find their way back to you.

“Give your eyes a break for a bit. Wouldn’t want you to get tired of looking at me”

You giggle at that. As if.

“I’ll never get tired of looking at you, Leah” You cheesed out– partly jokingly, but mainly because it’s true. You hope your tone disguises that last bit though. 

That being said, a short nap was beginning to sound very inviting. No sooner than later, you’ve allowed the familiar scent of her that lingers from her jacket, the music barely an audible hum, and the streetlights fading into a blur lull you to sleep. 

Already halfway asleep, you miss the blonde’s quiet “same here, baby” whispered aloud for only her ears to hear. 

——————————————

An hour or so passes and you were still fast asleep. Stopping in front of a red light, the defender takes the opportunity to spare a glance towards your sleeping form beside her. She can’t stop the corners of her lips from turning up at the sight of you, a mere puffy marshmallow lump in her passenger seat. Unable to help herself, she reaches over and lightly caresses your face with her thumb. My sleepy girl 

Soon enough it was time for a petrol station stop. Leah pulls up to a petrol station with its bright lights flickering atop a weathered sign. The cold air was tinged with the faint scent of gasoline, mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee from the attached convenience shop. The defender unbuckles her seatbelt before reaching over towards you. Her hand finds it way under her jacket– your blanket– before she finds your thigh and gives it a gentle squeeze. 

When you start to stir, Leah runs a hand through your hair in the attempts of taming the bird’s nest-like mess that sits on top of your head. When your eyes finally open, the first thing you see is Leah already grinning at you. You feel your breath catch, like it normally does whenever the pretty blonde is looking at you like that. You silently hope that the inside of the car is dark enough that she can’t see the blush painting your cheeks. 

“Hiya. Had a good nap, yeah?” The grinning defender is still staring at you, so naturally you playfully push her face away with a palm to her cheek. 

“Don’t need your ugly mug to be the first thing I see, Lee” 

Leah laughs loudly at that. Head thrown back, mouth wide open in glee, blonde hair cascading down in loose waves that was probably the result of being put up in a Leah-style “bun” earlier that day. 

“Oi! I’ve been so good to you the entire evening– even letting you sleep and snore in my car– and this is how you repay me?” 

You let out an exaggerated gasp and look at her, unable to stop the grin that is already growing on your face. “I do not snore!” 

“Like a new born piglet, baby” 

Before you could retort, the blonde leans forward in her seat over the console and sneaks a quick kiss to your forehead. This was normal, Leah was usually so generous with her kisses for some reason, but that didn’t mean your heart didn’t flutter every time she laid one on you. “You’re cute, y/n”

You swear your heart skips a beat. Is that normal? 

“I’ve got to get petrol. There’s a shop over there, so why don’t you grab a bite to eat while I do this?”

You glance over at the convenience store, the promises of hot food and maybe something sweet to satisfy your cravings lately already luring you inside. You turn back to the blonde and nod, handing her back her black puffer jacket which you had essentially held hostage the entire drive. You unbuckle your seatbelt and quickly throw your hair into a loose ponytail, silently bracing yourself for the cold ahead.

Just as you were about to push the car door open, Leah pulls you back with a hand on your arm, and the next thing you know your vision is partially obstructed by a wool beanie placed on your head. “Stay warm, baby” 

Before you could thank her, the blonde has already opened the door on her side of the car and has stood up to shrug her jacket on. She gives you a quick wink before she disappears from your view, making her way to the petrol machine.

You hastily make your way inside the store, grateful for the sudden warmth it provided against the harsh cold from outside. You scan the shop and make a beeline towards the hot food section, and pick up a sausage roll. You scan the rest of the options before picking up the potato wedges for a certain blonde in mind who happens to have the food palette of a 2 year old. You walk around the store for a few more moments, picking up a bottle of Sprite, Diet Coke, a pack of hand-warmers, and two packs of prawn cocktail crisps before heading to the counter to pay. You hear the sound of the automatic doors sliding opening, the wind outside shrilling loudly in your ears, before the doors slide closed again.  

As you reach into your coat to pull out your card to pay, a familiar hand reaches around you and taps their phone against the card reader.

“Leah.” You mutter sternly, eyes narrowed at the blonde who now stood beside you. 

“Perks of having Apple Pay, baby. You would know if you actually bothered to set it up” The defender grabs the bag with your food, throwing a quick ‘thank you’ to the nice man behind the till. She grabs one of your hands in hers and pulls you towards the doors. 

“Brace yourself” Is the only warning you get before Leah pulls you through the doors and out into the cold once again. The cold is harsh against your cheeks, and you find yourself pressing yourself into the blonde’s side. She wraps an arm around you, steering you to her car. She quickly unlocks your car door first, and out of habit holds a hand out above your head so you don’t bump your head into the roof of the car. 

You both settle inside her car and buckle your seatbelts. Leah shrugs her jacket off of her shoulders and places it over your lap. “Use that. You clearly need that more than I do, Rudolph”

She quickly glances over to you, chuckling at the unamused expression on your face as she backs the car out of the petrol station. This time, you were adamant that you will sit through the rest of drive to the blonde's flat, and you did. You and Leah took turns choosing the songs to play, both of you shouting the familiar lyrics from the top of your lungs.

From the corner of your eye, you see Leah take one of her hands off the wheel and flex it open and closed repeatedly. You reckon she must be feeling cold, especially considering you’ve got her puffer blanketing you in its warmth. “Cold, Lee?”

“Hmm? ’m fine, baby. The car will warm me up soon”

You were about to argue back when you remember that you had bought a pack of hand warmers earlier. Reaching into the plastic bag, you search through it and grab the pack, ripping it open and holding one out to your blonde driver. She glances at it briefly, before she shakes her head, both hands still on the wheel. 

“I’m fine, Y/N. You need it more than I do.” 

“I’ve got another one here. It comes in a pack of two” You reach back into the bag to show her the other hand warmer. She glances towards you briefly.

“I’ll put this one under my hoodie, and you can hold onto this one” Leah watches from the corner of her eye as you open your jacket and tuck one of the hand warmers, sandwiching it in between the layers of your undershirt and your hoodie. You settle more comfortably in your seat as you feel the growing warmth spreading from the heat pack. 

“Here’s yours. Your hands are definitely cold”

“I don’t–“ 

“Don’t be so bloody stubborn, Leah.”

“Well don’t be so bloody annoying then, Y/N”

You sigh loudly, pinching the bridge of your nose. You wouldn’t be surprised if grey hairs started sprouting soon. Among all the people you could fall in love with, you somehow fell for the most stubborn woman on this planet– and you still have about an hour left of this drive. 

But you know deep down there’s also no one else you’d rather be stuck anywhere with.

“Give me your hand, Leah” You stretch a hand towards her over the middle console, palm up. She glances at it briefly, one eyebrow raised, but didn’t question you. 

The blonde took the hand nearest to you off the steering wheel and places her hand on top of yours. You gave it a squeeze, flinching slightly at the cold palm, and muttering “Your hands are fucking freezing, Lee” 

You take the hand warmer that was supposed to be for her and place it between your interlocked hands. In front of a red light, the defender beside you turns to look at both of your hands, clasped tightly together in the center console of her car. When it came to physical affection, you rarely gave it away freely. Leah was the more affectionate one between the two of you, so seeing you initiate it was a surprise to her. She knows that the warmth that she feels wasn’t coming from just the hand warmers that both of you are sharing. 

The rest of the drive was fairly quiet. Instead of the loud, boisterous music that was blasting from the car speakers earlier, the only sounds inside the car was coming from the gentle hum of the engine. You and Leah held hands for pretty much the rest of the drive, Leah only breaking your connection when she needed to turn the wheel.

“One second, baby” The blonde would say whenever she needed to make a sharp turn, her hand untangling from yours for a moment to grab the steering wheel firmly with both hands. Not a moment too soon, her hand would instinctively seek out yours from where it sits patiently waiting by the center console. Your fingers would intertwine with hers, and all was right in the world again. 

The hand warmer, which now no longer emitted any heat, was promptly tossed aside earlier. You and Leah were palm to palm, the only source of warmth against the biting cold outside was the one exchanged between your hands. The rhythmic beat of the windshield wipers matched the soft patter of raindrops, as if the evening itself conspired to provide a soothing backdrop for the last leg of your drive. 

——————————————

Soon enough the car was pulling up into the parking lot of Leah’s flat. The familiar building came into view, nestled in a quiet corner of town. The glow from the light inside some of the windows hint at the warmth within, promising respite from the biting cold of the outside. You couldn’t wait to be reunited with Leah’s warm and cosy guest bedroom, which had essentially become your home away from home during your frequent visits to London. After locking her car and making sure she didn't forget anything, Leah grabbed your gloved hand to guide you towards the entrance of her flat with one hand, whilst the other hand pulled your suitcase behind her. 

The elevator ride up to her floor was quiet, but it was the comfortable silence kind. You both were stood side by side, one gloved hand interlocked with a bare one, the only noise in the elevator came from the subtle hum of the elevator tune. You knew that it was only a matter of time before you had to break the news of your transfer to the defender.

Part of you was relieved that you can finally put an end to this whole charade, but another part of you was worried that she might feel hurt over the fact that you kept such a big thing from her. Leah was someone that valued trust and communication, and while your feelings for her could warrant an exemption, keeping something like this was a big deal. You’ve had to lie to her a few times over the past few weeks, cancelling meet ups and declining calls, using football and a busy schedule as an excuse to escape her nagging questions over your transfer. You were worried that she might feel hurt that you were essentially lying to her. 

Then there was also the bit about how this transfer might change your relationship with the blonde. Sure, she could be happy about your move to Arsenal and the fact that you were both teammates now, but what if in a few months she’ll eventually get tired of having you around constantly. Maybe she might get tired of you always being around her– not just during England camp but now at the same club. One perk about being in separate clubs was it allowed time apart and your feelings for Leah “cool down”– or at least you hoped it would. But then one meet up with her and your heart was rapidly beating against your chest again.

Part of you was also worried that the only reason why you and Leah stayed friends for this long was because being apart from each other and being at separate clubs gave you so much to talk about once you were together. You feared that the only reason why your friendship stood the test of time was because the time apart added to the excitement of being together again eventually. Conversations and face-time calls were endless and exciting because the two of you made sure to share all the mundane and the ordinary with each other because the other wasn’t there to experience it. Now that the both of you will be together more often, you were worried that that excitement and that spark will eventually fizzle out.

They always say “absence makes the heart grow fonder” and for a long time you were okay with it, but what happens now? 

First of all, thank you for all the love and support for the first part of this fic. I hope you know I much I appreciated all the reblogs, likes and comments <333

Secondly, I know I said I would get the second part of this fic up last week but whilst I was doing my final reading before posting it, I ended up not like the direction the fic was going, so I redid the entire thing lol

I like this one a lot better and I hope you do too (also, note I added 1 more part to this so it is now a 4 part fic)

Hope you're looking forward to the next bit– I know I am!

The weather lately has been sunny and bright skies on my side of the world. Sending you a little slice of sunshine :)

-- kisses, butter.

#woso #woso fanfics #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso blurbs #woso community #leah williamson imagine #Our New Normal fic

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 6)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 5, Part 7

summary: Everything unravels. You teach Miguel a lesson.

warnings: soooo much smut. mutual masturbation, grinding, slight femdom, Miguel is a submissive switch cuz I said so, m! masturbation. very very 18+ Minors DNI (ageless blogs will be blocked, thanks!)

a/n: yeah...so. ya.

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 8k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

in your half-hearted hubris,

Miguel is not a jealous man. Jealousy implies something he thought was shed long ago: a second skin of something green-eyed and crooked. 

One minute, he's watching you kiss someone else. And when you sigh into it; imperceptibly, but he notices because he always sees these things about you; he's biting the inside of his cheek and drawing blood. The guy you danced with, and now your lips are on his. Is… Is that your type? Jun is slender and charming; a pretty boy, through and through . There's a hand on your thigh, he notices, milky white and willowy. It has Miguel looking at his own, rough and tan, the ghost of soft skin and pillowy thighs on his fingertips. The illicit foray of one night, one night with you , and he's second guessing himself. 

Insecure. 

His hands are rough and calloused. He picks at hangnails, the skin is raw from rubber gloves and mystery chemicals, and knuckles creaky because he cracks them too often. Is that what you like? The kind of thing you touch yourself to; his hands, pawing at flesh. Jun cups your chin, slender fingers pulling you closer, and your own come up to wrap around them. You seem desperate for it, panting and pretty lashes fluttering when you separate. 

And you look at Jun like… like he wants you to look at him. 

There's blood in his mouth when you finally do. He looks away, quick and furtive, like you've caught him doing something wrong. It's not right or wrong, he supposes, just tripping over a muddle of thoughts – still stuck on the image of your hand on Jun's.  

He was a late bloomer, awkwardly proportioned and too tall for his limbs. Clumsy, if you can believe it. He's always been a bit of a bull in a China shop; bulldozing and brutish and still growing into a body that pools at his ankles and is tight around his wrists. Like an ill-fitting suit; the kind he wore to Fernanda's quince, skirting the rental hall with a bottle of j2o. In and out of conversations, tripping and stuttering over words in stiff dress shoes and a waistcoat . Gabi took a lot of photos: peace signs and pointer finger looped into coat pockets.

Point is; he's not felt this way in years . Tongue-tied, hot and cold, heart-pounding. Jun decidedly isn't; able to talk to you like a normal person, making you smile and laugh. Curling fingers into the crest of a wide palm, he digs his nails into the flesh: producing a sting that makes it crystal clear. Oh. Oh. 

Fuck.  

One minute, he's nursing a warm beer and trying not to take a chunk out the inside of his mouth. The next, he's on the floor of Lyla's living room, blinking up at bright lights. 

There's soft hands all over him. Holding his own, cupping his cheek, moving his head this way and that as he tries to focus. He's looking at your pretty lips, pert and pressed into the lean line of a frown. There are… people talking over the other; strained and hushed in a quiet corner. 

He recognises Lyla's voice, distinctive despite the ringing in his ears. 

"A-All over a drink…. pushing past 'em, Jess…. he threw the first punch…"

~~~

The drive home is terse, air thick with something. Stewing, you've got your arms crossed and head turned to the windows. You're watching the streaky lights of the city zip past, lips pursed. Head on the glass, you're making a point not to turn back or utter a word to Miguel. 

"You picked a fight." You swipe a finger on the condensation, finally ready to talk. 

He shrugs limply. A beat passes. 

"....this is the part where you explain what happened, Miguel."

"I picked a fight."

"...that's it?" Your brows shoot up. "You just… there was no build up? Why? "

"Wanted to give 'em something to bond over in the morning." He deadpans, glancing over to the passenger seat. "Matching black eyes."

You shake your head slightly. "Don't believe you." 

You see something flash in his gaze, and then it's gone. He smooths over features, and that Miguel is back: lifeless and blank. Steadfast, he doesn't turn to look at you. 

"Okay." He says simply. 

"All that Ophelia shit from a couple of weeks ago, and you still won't –" It's under your breath as you clamp down anger. If Miguel hears, he doesn't indicate. "I just want to understand."

He purses his lips. "Nothing to understand. I'm an insecure piece of shit, and I picked a fight. I ruined Jess' birthday, and fucked it up for everyone else. I know. Can we… Can we speed this bit up? I'm exhausted. "

"No-one… I didn't say that." Your voice is hoarse. He's being mean. He's never been all that nice; sarcastic and smug, for sure, but never cruel. It feels spiteful. You're blinking away a hot tear before you can stop it. And then they become angry tears, ones that sting your cheeks on the way down. 

You're not good with fights. Never have been. And it's not even the confrontation that scares you, it's the apathy. Sifting through your guts and begging someone to care, when they don't. It's like screaming at a brick wall and expecting the mortar to shift; a pointless exercise in delusion. You'd grown sick of it with Jamie; the hand-waving and the what do you want me to do about it of it all. It's the one thing you've grown to like about Miguel, about all your little fights. He's rarely the bigger person, petty, and able to get down in the shit and stink with you; because, on some small level at least, he gives a fuck. He cares . 

You're embarrassed that you even thought he would be any different. Disappointed, but not with him: with yourself for getting caught up in all of this. 

You're sniffling, wiping up and flattening out of sheer spite; refusing to let him see how a stupid thing like this affects you. The tears well up in your eyes, hot and blurry and you're focusing on holding yourself together by the seams before you get home. 

You don't notice him pull into a side road and park the car. It rolls to a stop, and he's reaching over to the backseat; and pulling out a box of tissues. The box is floral and tissues scented; rosy and sweet in a way you wouldn't expect from him. 

When he nudges you with the box, apologetic, you're still not looking at him; not even flicking over to give him a dirty look. 

"Chula. " It rolls off his tongue so softly, but you jut your chin in the air. "Please. I'm sorry." 

You purse your lips. 

"I'm a dick."

"Yep." You manage. 

"I picked a fight. I'm an insecure piece of shit–" 

"No, no." You're turning back, quickly. "Stop saying that. Why are you saying that?" 

He shrugs again, and you flop into your seat. You notice, he's gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white. 

"Relax , Miguel." You wrap a hand around his, and watch him visibly melt. His gaze softens. "M'not trying to push, I'm sorry."

You take his hand off the wheel, inspecting the purple and blue that spreads across taught skin. His palm is rough, knuckles bony and bruised. 

"When we get home–" Home. You sigh, bringing it up to the little car lights. "I've got a first aid kit, somewhere. We need to clean this up, or it might get infec–" 

Looking up, you catch Miguel staring , stars in his eyes, and it… it knocks the breath out of your lungs. All of a sudden, you're flustered and letting go of his hand in a hurry. 

All he does is nod, starting the car. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling away with a palm on the flat of the wheel. In the light of street lamps, shadow cutting his cheekbones just so. He's beat up, he's tired, but even then; Miguel is so, so pretty. 

~~~

You end up in the bathroom, first aid kit splayed on the countertop. He insists on standing, despite a slight limp he tries to downplay, and so you're sitting on the faux marble with Miguel between your legs. Your dress rides up but you're too tired to care, ripping open gauze and tapping disinfectant on a little pad. At least he has the decency to be still and quiet, with his palms on the counter top and kissing bare thigh. 

Miguel is tall, still having to bend over when you pat the peak of a split lip; hand on his chin ever so gently. 

"Where'd you get all of this from?" He asks because your first aid kit is comprehensive : micropore, gauze and antiseptic with a name that sounds like sleeping pills. 

You're swatting him gently, trying to keep his jaw still. "My ex was a med student."

He smothers a smile, like he's trying not to laugh. 

"...what?"

"...is he the one that couldn't make you cum?"

You stop tending to his wounds, hand on his shoulder to steady yourself. Never have I ever faked an orgasm – the words start ringing in your head. You're not a blushing virgin, but his crass word choice makes you flush. 

"None of your business." 

He smirks. "So that's a yes. "

"I faked it once or twice , sue me. But… I mean, the sex wasn't bad. It was even good, sometimes."

"Sure." He cringes, and you bat his shoulder. 

"Don't want to hear it."

He hums, pressing a little closer to your front. 

"What was he like, then?" He seems nonchalant; but his tone is unusual, sending shivers down your spine. 

"He was… nice."

"Nice?"

"Yep." Four years, and that's the best you can come up with. It's all you can verbalise, at least. How does one describe the feeling of getting hit by a metaphorical train? One that leaves you on the tracks, thinking of picnic dates and IOUs and diner coffee? They'd describe it as poorly as you do, most likely. A moment passes. "I loved him, I think." 

You don't know why you said that, but the melancholy of the night starts to sink in. 

"Then why'd you break up?" 

You shrug. "Wasn't enough." 

He looks surprised, eyebrows drawn up momentarily, as if that's the last thing he thought you'd say. You strike him as a romantic; ditzy and dopey when you have feelings for someone, a love conquers all type of person. 

The mood sours, air heaving in that little bathroom. You finish up in silence, applying strips to a gash above his brow. It takes some time for him to speak, as if he's been building up the confidence. 

"Is that your type?" He asks, finally puncturing that pressure. 

You shake your head, a little confused. 

"Nice? Like that guy you were talking to."

"...Jun?" You hesitate, sensing something else behind his words. "I mean… I just wanted to get laid."

He doesn't really react, thumb grazing the silk of your slip dress. The skin his hand brushes past feels a little hotter. 

"He's pretty, though." You're careful not to make eye contact, getting to work cleaning the cuts on his knuckles. You smile to yourself. "And yeah, he's nice. More than nice, actually. "

Jun works with computers. Jun is good with his hands. And you really were going to fuck him. Until… until… 

…until Miguel got into a fight. After watching you kiss someone else. The gears turn in your head, creaky and lumbering because you haven't had to navigate a shitty pseudo-situationship in forever. You're wrapping up his hand with gauze, mouth moving quicker than you can think. 

"Are you jealous?" 

He splutters, flashing pearly whites in indignation. 

"No… No . You can fuck whoever you want." He says it too quickly. "I don't care."

He looks a mess; a gash above one eye, a nasty cut glancing the side of his lip, and knuckles bruised. Suspecting more hiding beneath his shirt, you look at him, gaze heavy. You're worried, even when you shouldn't be, even when he doesn't deserve it. 

"Oh my God." You're connecting dots, and your stomach churns with the realisation. "What the fuck ?" 

" M-not -" 

"Just because you don't want to fuck me– " 

"I never said I didn't want to–" 

"You didn't have to, you just refused to acknowledge how we almost did for two weeks. "

"Neither did you!" 

"I wanted to… after. And you said we couldn't, because I had a lecture." 

"You did have a lecture, and you were high! That doesn't mean anything… I need you to mean it when you say it."

"So you resort to sabotage? I was gonna get laid, you fucking asshole."

"You kissed him."

" So? "

"You didn't kiss me."

That one takes the wind out of your sails, and you're stammering with the amount of brainpower it takes to wrap your head around it. You slip off the counter, putting some space between you both. 

"...I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm not saying you can't kiss him… o-or you're not allowed to, or some crap. I just don't get it. I don't understand."

He's holding your hands in his,

"You just met the guy, and you kiss him on a stupid dare–"

" –he kissed me." You correct him, voice hoarse. 

"He kissed you . Cool. Whatever. You kissed him back.  But when I tried to kiss you, after… " He trails off. 

"I dodged one kiss . Maybe I wasn't feeling it."

"And that's fine. I respect that, and I respect you. But it wasn't just one kiss. It's all the time , around here. I say something, then you say something, and then… we have a moment. Time just stops. Can't you feel it? I-I feel like I'm going crazy."

You keep quiet, only the sound of your heart racing to punctuate thoughts. 

"Miguel… "

He gets even closer, pressing you against the counter, his bandaged hand migrating to your waist, and then the small of your back. Your knees are weak as you swallow roughly, with Miguel; strong, annoyingly handsome, perceptive Miguel; resting his forehead on yours. You come together, intimate, even allowing your eyes to flutter shut, waiting for the press of lips on yours. 

It never comes. Wrenching yourself away at the last minute, you're standing in the doorway; arms folded, because you don't know what to do with your limbs anymore. 

He doesn't look disappointed. Just deflated. 

"Do you want to fuck me?" He asks. Yes , you answer, but he can't hear it. 

"Do you want to kiss me?" Do you want me? Do you want me in a way no-one else can have me? 

This feels different. Not as simple as a yes or no.

Your face must say it all for you, because he sighs. "I just want to know why."

His behaviour has been erratic, to say the least. You've spent a good month and a half terrorising each other, before coming to an uneasy truce – and he fucked it up. All that talk like he knows you, that he sees you, and it all feels for naught. 

"After all the shit you've pulled… what gives you the right? I was so worried about you–" Your voice is barely above a whisper. " Fuck this. M'going to bed."

Slipping into the gloom of the hallway, and then into your room, leaving Miguel there. 

It's different, why can't he see that it's different? A one night stand, with Jun, with someone else; kissing a guy in a dare doesn't have consequences. You get off, you go home. Simple, clinical, no need for niceties. With Miguel, as you've come to realise, there are other things to navigate. Even when high, you knew ; with someone like him, it's too intimate – the possible consequences too dire. He's your roommate, for God's sake. 

You can hear him now, turning off the bathrooms lights and padding into his room. For once, there's nothing to be heard from behind the wall. The dim light spills in, warm yellow pooling around the door. Your window is open, moonlight and the city below to keep you company. 

And you want him to stew in that room, to punish him for all the shit he's put you through in the past week; hell, the past few months you've been here. But you can't. If you're sick of the mind games, you can't keep this game of chicken going – you're both careening towards the edge faster than you can say the words: Yes, Miguel; I want to sit on your face. If you could get rid of the attitude, that would be great, too .

So you're knocking on his door, still in your dress, tugging down its hem when he opens. He's in that shirt and slacks, bloodied front and all.

Deep breath. You straighten your back, and make sure you're heard, loud and clear. 

"I don't like it when you bring over girls to fuck them in your room. The walls are too thin, and I can't sleep because I hear everything. Everything, Miggy."

He's stony-faced, unreadable as ever. Still, you continue. 

"I don't like it when you look at me… like that, and then pretend it never happened. You're inconsistent, sarcastic, you freak out whenever there's a sock out of place and it drives me fucking crazy–" 

" I don't –"

"I'm not finished. You're a prick. You don't tell people you love them enough, when… when you do. You so clearly do. Lyla was worried when you took so long to get to Jess' – just give her a call, sometimes. Let people know what's going on."

His face is stuck somewhere between abject horror and plain old shock. For Miguel, that means his eyebrow is raised a half-inch higher than usual. 

"...you finished?" He strains. 

"One more.. ." Another breath. "...your poker face needs work. Because you look like you need a shit half the time."

His jaw shifts. You maintain eye contact; despite everything screaming that you should run with your tail between your legs. 

"I fucking hate you , Miguel."

"I know." He softens, running a hand through his hair. Leaning against the frame, he steps a little closer; and imperceptibly, you're both pulled by the gravity of the other. All of a sudden, your head is on his chest, blood-spattered cotton that smells like him, arms wrapped around his middle. Hesitant, he pulls you even closer, slotting into the crook of your neck as best he can. 

Wordlessly, you separate. You knit your eyebrows together, looking up at him. With your hand on his cheek, he leans into your touch. You graze a thumb on his lips, eyes fluttering at the broken skin: plump and messy and pretty. 

"Sit down." You say it so softly, he convinces himself he didn't hear it. 

You go again. "Sit down."

Your tone makes him flush, and then he's sitting on the edge of the bed. He leans back, you step forward; legs brushing his knees splayed atop the sheets. 

"Do you want me?"

He's nodding before he even hears the end of the sentence, eyes locked onto yours. 

You shrug. 

"Prove it. "

And it goes straight to his cock: the way you say it, blasé and casual, like you haven't put words to the way he's been feeling for weeks. Usually, he'd start to spiral, endlessly loop around what you mean. Want , strong and heady; and to him that means a hungering that leaves his throat dry and innards bare. 

Do you want me? Do you want me in a way no-one else can have me? 

And yet, he doesn't quite know the answer. Instead, he shows you; hoping and praying  he hasn't read this wrong. 

Barely breathing, studying your every move, he takes your other hand. You hinge slightly at the hip, coming closer, eyes still locked onto his and he places your little palm onto his crotch. It spans his whole length, quickly hardening. When you don't react, he panics, trying to move your hand away… 

…and then you squeeze . 

Miguel keens, bucking into the pressure you apply with the heel of your palm. He starts a slow roll of hips, other hand wrapped around yours on his cheek; melting into it, in a way that brings heat to that sweet spot between your legs. And then he stutters to a stop, lips parted and panting. 

"Why'd you stop?" 

"G-Got carried away. Sorry ." 

His brows are knitted, shoulders hunched, and when you slide your hand down to the corded muscles of his neck, he tenses. He always seems so stressed, but you've never seen him like this: desperate and falling apart at the seams. 

"You're okay, Miguel. Relax. " 

You shift your wrist, rolling around that growing tent in your palm. He hisses, palms flat by his side and head thrown back. With a little smile, you watch his shoulders melt, satisfied. 

"Does it feel good?" 

"Y-Yes." He groans. Despite your quickening pace, he seems to clamp down instinct; biting his cheek to muffle wanton moans. 

"How about you get more comfortable for me?" 

At first he doesn't understand, grumbling when you take your hand away from his clothed cock. Pulling him upwards, you make a start with his buttons, helping slide the fabric off of his shoulders. He slips his slacks off, and then he's left in black boxers; it's band hanging dangerously low. 

They're tented, sporting a wet patch of precum around the fat tip of his dick. And he is large, its outline clear under the thin fabric. 

You wrap a hand around his waist, other hand tracing up to his chest. 

"What about you, chula? " 

You look up. Miguel looks down at you, eyes low, large hand splayed between your shoulder blades. 

"You don't like what I'm wearing?" Doe eyed, you don't really expect him to take you seriously. 

"N-No, no. " He's stuttering, now. "You look beautiful. Always do. I just… I want to see more ."

You click your tongue with faux disapproval. "Don't be selfish, baby. You wanted my attention, right?" 

He nods, with the self-awareness to be  hesitant at your tone. 

"Then," You start, slipping a hand into his boxers. You wrap a dainty hand around his length; thick and slanted and weeping at the tip. "Learn to be grateful."

"Ayy-" He wraps around you, head bowed to dip into your shoulder. 

You pump his cock, other hand around his neck; eyes sparkling as you force him to look to his side, at you. 

"F-Fuck–" He's breathing heavily, mouth open into a pretty little O , and you clamp a hand down to his jaw. 

"What do you want?" 

"R-Rapido, mas rapido por favor -" 

[Faster, faster, please-] 

Surprisingly vocal, he loses it as you press your thumb onto his slit; flushed and pouring with precum. You rub his wetness along the length of his shaft, squeezing and turning your wrist as you get to his tip. He likes that; hips bucking to fuck into the ring you make with your hand. 

You want to savour this moment: Miguel stripped down to his boxers, beautifully tanned skin pressed up against yours. And of course, that look on his face; a lusty haze, even stronger than the one you were under when high, all those nights ago. 

His lashes flutter, and you watch as his core tenses; watching and waiting for just the right moment to… stop. 

You pull away, and he chases it, bucking into thin air. You're pushing him back onto the bed, with a hand to his chest. Eyes blown , he leans back onto his forearms; unable to tear himself away. There's a certain glow about you, a glint in your eye, one that takes his breath away. Something smug , a little smile as you drag a black thong down your pretty thighs. It's long forgotten when you chuck it onto the bed; Miguel still can't get over the sight of legs and a flash of your cunt, committing it to memory. 

Sidling up to his chest, you kick a leg over and seat yourself onto his lap. Flush against the fabric, you settle onto your knees. The look in Miguel's eyes almost bowls you over; stunning and windswept, as he runs a hand over your thigh. Eyes wide at the way the fabric pools around your body: the swell of tits cupped by silk, how good it looks against your skin. 

He's staring at where you meet, that spot between your thighs when it happens; when you guide his hand to the apex of your pussy. His thumb slots against your clit like it belongs there, rough pads applying just the right amount of pressure.

"Oh f-fuuuck," You sigh into it, pressing your tits to his chest in a way that makes him hump into the pocket left by your body and the smooth fabric of your dress. 

Even in his haze, Miguel is hyperfocused on your pleasure, obsessed with the noises he can pull from you. With a big hand on your waist, he pulls you closer to slot you against his front. It's your turn to moan, the prettiest thing he thinks he's ever heard, slipping his cock between your lower lips with a swirling intensity. 

You're drunk with the pleasure, hands on his shoulders to angle him towards your clit. He thinks you look like an angel, head tilted back to expose the expanse of your neck. Bringing his teeth to that slight vein, he's a killer; sucking rough hickeys to the skin. 

"M'close, fuck –" 

"Damelo, hermosa, " He places two palms at the globes of your ass, squeezing and pressing into you even closer. 

[Give it to me, beautiful.]

"Miguel…shit–b-baby, think I'm–" 

You cum, gushing and clamping down around nothing. Miguel is more interested in the way you transform ; fine lines and deep furrows of your face softening, the pure bliss written into the gentle arch of your body. He did that. It makes his chest warm, it makes his cock swell; and with the feeling of slipping through your pretty folds, he gets so, so close to that biting edge. 

You stop, slipping off of his lap and he whines at the loss of you. Tugging down your dress, you make your way out of the room and he's reeling , clutching at your arm so you don't leave. 

"Chula ," He's babbling, tucked back into his boxers, but on his knees for you. "I'm sorry, please. Do you want me to beg? Because I will , baby, I w–" 

Helping him up, you give him a little smile that he's too pussy-drunk to realise its true nature. Dangerous, you cup his face with both hands, brows pressed together and large, sparkling eyes. Not quite sympathy, but it's enough to make him think you'll wrap a hand around his cock out of pity, press those pretty tits against him and–

On your tiptoes, you give him a chaste kiss between his brows. You flash him a stunning smile, bottom lip hooked under your teeth. 

"Goodnight , Miguel." 

And then you're out the door, down the little hallway and into your bedroom. Miguel runs a shaky hand through his hair, unsure whether to laugh or cry. And he knows, still rock hard, body burning with the memory of you: he's fucked. 

~~~

When morning comes, Miguel wrenches open his eyes, bloodshot and sore. He feels like shit , barely able to sit up without feeling like his chest will collapse. 

It feels like he was ran over in a headfirst collision; and he was, essentially, wincing at the memory of that fight. He can feel strike one and two; between his ribs, to the side of his navel; but the real knockout punch was you – a deadly, calculated assault that he almost hates you for. 

Almost. 

He came harder than he has in months last night; bent over his cock, pumping shakily. It had only taken a couple of rough tugs until he spilled all over himself; embarrassingly quick. He lasted longer the second time, unable to help himself.

In his defence, the black thong you had slipped off was right there ; rumpled amongst the sheets. He had pressed it to his nose and then wrapped them around his shaft; eyes closed as he imagined being buried in your plush pussy. All his fantasies; quickies in the shower spent jerking off to the thought of you, where he'd hold onto the feeling of brushing past you in the kitchen, or little touches on the couch. You've surpassed them, well and truly. 

Now, he stumbles into the shower, stripping on the tiles. Inspecting himself in the mirror, he pokes at flesh; purple bruises stretching over brown and tan muscle. Turning around and craning his head, he follows them all the way to his back and then… oh. He can see them: scratchy-sharp lines, spanning the width of his shoulder blades. You did that, he thinks. 

Fuck . He's hard again, sighing heavily as he clambers into the shower. It sputters to life, ice cold, but he grits his teeth and takes it , trying to free his mind of cotton and cobwebs. As the water warms up, he presses both hands flat on the tile, head down and eyes closed. The water washes over him, down his back, and like a flash of lightning he's imagining you pressed up against him, bent in half over his cock. He'd press a thumb to your clit, slamming into your ass; fucking you hard, like you deserve. You'd like that , he thinks, from what he's heard of you in your room, the filth that spills from your mouth and to his side of the wall. 

"Miguel?" It's a little muffled over the shower, but you get closer to the door. 

"Yes?" He shouts over the rush of water. He shouldn't . He really shouldn't. 

"You've got a call!" 

He hums. With the way you say his name he caves, making a tight ring around his length. 

"It's Lyla, and-" Something clatters. " Fuck , sorry."

Your voice is breathy, little groans as you pick up whatever's dropped to the floor. Miguel feels like a perv, turning the water pressure down to listen to your voice properly. All the while, he keeps a steady pace on his cock. 

"Should I just let it ring? Keep it going?" 

Keep going is what he hears, and then he  speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him. What would it would it take to have you babbling and begging for more? How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length.

"Miguel?" 

Or maybe you'd be on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God , thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

H-Harder, please–

That's how you would ask him, clawing at his back, and he'd capture those pleas in a searing kiss.

"–Miguel!" 

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes onto the tiles. He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool tile. 

"Just take a message," He strains, panting as you say something in response. He doesn't quite catch it, of course, too busy reeling from the aftershock. 

The shower croaks and gurgles, spluttering to a stop. He listens as your footsteps recede beyond the door, moving away. 

Shit. It's going to be a long day. 

~~~

You sleep like a baby. Lulled into blissful sleep, after practically floating into bed. That orgasm does wonders; and you sleep better than you have in months. You dream of cotton candy clouds, flowing green grass, and tanned, muscled men on their knees; in the kind of sleep that wraps around you like a blanket. 

Surprisingly fresh in the morning, you wake up before Miguel does. You're milling about the hallway when he barrels into the bathroom, and on the couch when he leaves. 

"Mig?" You poke your head towards the door, and he almost jumps half a foot into the air. 

Eyes wide, and he can barely manage a weak smile. 

"Lyla called."

"Yeah, you…" He sighs, clutching the towel slung around his waist a little tighter. "You mentioned it."

In the light of the morning, you're able to assess him a lot better. To put it plainly, he looks rough ; blinking at you oddly, shifting when you come closer. You don't touch him, Miguel seems much too antsy for that, but you get closer to inspect the bruises that bloom across his side. It looks even worse than yesterday, purple and blue across taut muscle. You reach for it and he flinches, so you pull away. 

"...you okay?" 

" Yep. " He grits it through a plasticky smile; and the fact that it reaches his eyes is a red flag in of itself for the usual grump. 

The side-eye you respond with isn't quite enough to chip at it, so he continues.

"M'just fine."

" O–kay . Lyla said something about a debrief , earlier." 

"At the usual place?" 

"...uhhh. She said at HQ? In about an hour."

"Okay… okay. Nonono, that's fine… okay." He's muttering to himself and about to turn around when something catches his eye. Your lips; pretty gloss and freshly done. In fact, you're fully dressed to go out; in a display that has him confused. 

You answer the question he posits with a slightly raised eyebrow. 

"She invited me, Mig." 

His eyebrows shoot up. "Of c.. of course she did." 

Distracted and haphazard, Miguel gets dressed; squeezing into the car with a flask of coffee to-go. It scares you; the way he barely flinches while taking sips of the bitter liquid you know must be piping hot. He's acting weird, even weirder than usual; but you let it wash over you and move on. 

Eventually, you pull up to HQ ; a shitty dive bar that is inexplicably serving breakfast and other miscellaneous items at 12pm. At least, that's what it looks like, arriving to see one overcrowded table and a sea of pancakes and coffee. Jess sports a croissant and orange juice, whilst Peter scoffs down a burger almost as big as his face.

"Miguel!" He says it with a mouthful of pickles, beef and patty, slapping the man in question heartily on the back. 

He winces, batting Peter away before sliding into the seat next to you. For barely a second, your legs brush together and he's shifting away. Okay. That's… odd. 

You're sifting through menus when you glance over to the counter and you see her : a pretty woman of about 25, tucking red hair away behind her ear. Your heart stops, and then you're tapping Miguel. 

" Look, " You hiss quietly, nodding towards the counter. " Isn't that…? " 

June McGinnity, the premier main character in the hit tv soap, And Everyday Before The Last; The Final Season. It's the very same show you've been bingeing for the past 6 months. 18 seasons, 3 spinoffs, and a revival currently in the works; you're obsessed with the show that's gotten you through your last breakup – and the one before that, and a couple of rocky moments with your parents. 

She's been a staple for the last couple of seasons, quickly skyrocketing to popularity in her minor role, and now , in The Final Season, she's got her well-deserved spot as a season regular. June is tenacious, smart, absolutely hilarious, and–

" –she's coming over here . Shit, Miggy, she's coming over," You whisper to him and for the first time this morning; he smiles, wide and genuine. It takes you back; not just because he looks so pretty when he smiles, but because you have no idea what's so funny. 

June slips into the seat besides Peter, and your eyes almost fall out of their sockets. She gives him a kiss on the cheek , as Peter brushes away blunt bangs. Frantic, you turn to Miguel, who's trying not to piss himself laughing. 

He's borderline howling, and you put a hand around his arm to get him to keep quiet – to stop embarrassing you in front of June – but he's too busy wiping away tears. 

Peter turns to the scene, clearly confused. He says something to June, and then he's turning to you, saying your name. 

"Hey, I don't think I've introduced you to– Miguel, please shut the fuck up– this is–" 

"MJ." She smiles, brilliant and sparkling, with her hand outstretched and you think you might pass out. 

"I'm–" You're stumbling over your words, grasping her hand before you can overthink it. Maybe it comes off as overzealous, but you're desperately trying to shut out Miguel's laughing. "I'm a massive fan, you're so incredibly talented ; as June – I always cry at that one scene when you meet your long-lost sister... a-and when you find out that Jackie is actually your Mom, I swear, I get chills–" 

The man besides you splutters, hunched over and gripping onto the table for support. It's getting egregious, now, and you make it known as best you can with a dirty look. 

"I'm, oh fuck, no… I'm done, I promise." He clamps down a smile, hands up in surrender. 

"Was that… too much?" You gain some semblance of perspective, and then you're falling over yourself to apologise. " Shit , I'm really, really sor–" 

" – No, no. You're good, it's nice to get recognised for that show! Most of the demographic is old people and pensioners, honestly. Not a lot of IRL interaction with fans, if you know what I mean." She flashes you that smile, again, and you melt. She turns to the man beside you. "Don't be a dick, Miguel." 

"Yeah, Miguel." Peter continues to inhale what you think is his second burger, wagging a sauce covered finger. "What she said."

Miguel rolls his eyes so hard you think they might rattle about in his skull, and you give him a rough shove for good measure. Down the other side of the table, you spot Lyla; downing a brightly coloured drink and massaging her temples. 

"Shit , Lyla. You want to slow it down?" Jess says, and then her eyes are flicking over to yours. She does a double take, giving you a wide smile. " Hey , y'all! When did you get here?" 

"Not long!" You call back, and she gives you a thumbs up in response. Lyla coughs beside her, sporting a nasty grimace; and then she's up and looking around the table, as if taking a headcount. At least, you think she does, as it's hard to see her eyes between pink tinted shades. They slip down her nose and she brings a fork to the empty glass; silencing the rabble. 

"M-Morning…" She stills, hand on her chest like she's got heartburn; throat bobbing as she gags slightly. "Morning, everyone. First off, hope you all feel as shitty as I do." 

And then there's cheers and good-natured elbowing, especially towards Ben and Miguel. Apparently , if you're to believe the whispers and rumour mill; Ben took to bar-hopping across town, ending the night without a shoe and someone else's shirt. He gives a rueful smile, holding up a mug to scattered laughter. And Miguel… well, he's Miguel , sitting back in his seat with folded arms. 

"Second," She pauses, for dramatic effect. "Someone's volunteered to pay for the next round of food to apologise for last night… everyone say Thank you, Miguel."

She starts a limp round of applause with a flourish, and sits down. There's only about a dozen people there: most you recognise, and some you don't. There was no attempt to explain what exactly a debrief was; so you're left disorientated in the mash of voices. Miguel picks at waffles besides you, in his own world. Without a word, you get up, making your way towards neon bathroom signs in the corner. 

It's some peace and quiet, a moment to think as you look at your reflection in the mirror. You look lighter , as if a weight was lifted off of your shoulders last night. Your skin looks a little brighter, eyes sharper and even your hair falls differently, today. You feel good, and it seems to translate to the person looking back it you. Wow. You're practically–

" -glowing. Shit , you look good." Lyla calls out from behind you, entering the little bathroom with Jess. 

Jess gives you a warm hug, and Lyla follows before pushing up heart shaped glasses. 

" Damn, girl." Jess gives a low whistle, hands on her shoulders to turn you this way and that. 

They make you giggle, with a warmth that blooms at your chest. 

"Was it that cute guy from last night?" 

Lyla interrupts. " Jun! Did he send you a little something after you got home?" 

"Did you ditch Miguel to get some?" 

"God, did you invite Jun over? " 

Jess gasps, before quickly adding. "No judgement, of course. Once upon a time, we probably would've done the same thing." 

It's a back and forth that gives you whiplash, dodging fastballs that get hit into the tiles. Not trusting yourself to speak, you shake your head, demurely. 

"...are you telling us you didn't have sex last night? Because that glow says something different."

You clamp down any words that might give you away, but Jess' sharp eyes latch onto the cracks: a little smile tugging at the sides of your lips. 

"So not Jun … but someone else? Last night…? " 

The penny drops and then she's grabbing at you and Lyla. When realisation hits the mousy brunette to your side, she's flinging off pink shades to look you in the eye. 

"You fucked Miguel?" 

"No!" You're hissing, trying to calm raucous behaviour. "Technically, not… yet."

"Not yet? " Lyla repeats, astonished. "I mean, I thought you two were already–" 

"It makes sense! Could've sworn I saw his knees shakin' today…"

"Okay, okay…" You're laughing, finally understanding the magnitude of the grenade you've just lobbed at them. "It wasn't like that . It's not a thing."

"...do you want it to be a thing?" 

You tilt your head, pretending to think on it. Yes , you want to ride him till something breaks; but Miguel is a walking red flag. You know, deep down, nothing good can come out of it. 

"Don't… don't say it like that."

"Look, Ly, she wants it to be a thing. "

" Definitely. It's basically already a thing ." Lyla concurs, nodding firmly. 

"Fuck you guys." It's not said with spite, leaving your mouth with a smile. 

"Oh, no. You like 'em tall, and tan, and a little grumpy. You mean: Fuck me, Miguel. "

You're swatting her away, whilst Jess is doubled over in laughter; hand on the ceramic to steady herself. They're good fun; raucous and boisterous and making you feel welcome, when you know they really don't have to. 

The laughter dies down, and they're leading you out of the bathroom to their side of the table, chattering away. Jess digs into another pancake, rock hard, and all of a sudden you're telling her about the waffles at Pam's Diner, and all the interesting characters you've met there. Lyla nurses another sweet cocktail, chattering on about a pre-game she's got in a couple of hours; and then you're exchanging stories about hangovers and missed lectures. 

From their conversation, you slowly learn what a debrief entails: the remnants of a tradition they'd started when 19 and spotty. All of them, friends of friends, roommates, classmates; growing to know each other in the dinky bar across the street from their dorms. Tending to hangovers in the morning from an all night rager, or pre-gaming before the biggest events of the year: it's something that trickled down to every so often later in their adulthoods. It's something else Miguel started, surprising you yet again. 

So absorbed in their heart-to-heart, time flies by; and late breakfast turns to brunch. You're exchanging phone numbers, and left smiling from lots of little tete-a-tetes, before Miguel tries to drag you to the car. One last goodbye had turned into two, which had turned into four; and then he's grumbling alone in the car for a dire couple of minutes. 

You open the door, glowing. Your mood dampens immediately as you sit down; soured by Miguel's own swirling dark cloud. He seems worse than before, somehow. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, the air thick with something. Where you would've bit your tongue before, pushed down difficult-to-say words, now, you find a surge of confidence. 

"Miguel," You start, and he turns; key still in the ignition. 

You look around at the parking lot, mostly empty, except for you two. 

"Can we talk?" 

"...sure." His tone seems anything but sure; which feels like a first, for him. 

"About last night."

"Oh." And then he's gone again, eyes flicking around the cab of the car. All of a sudden the mirror needs fixing, and he's fiddling with some buttons on the dash. 

You place a hand on his to still him. He doesn't flinch. 

"Are you okay?" 

"Yeah." He shrugs. You don't believe him. 

"Did you like it?" 

He pauses, chewing his lip. " Yes ."

You believe that . 

"Good." You hum. "I liked it. But you made me feel like shit, too."

He softens. "I did?"

"You did. You only wanted me after you saw me with someone else. After I kissed Jun."

You wait to see if he admits it, and his hand curls into a fist, tight. His grip relaxes, and then his voice comes out in a whisper. 

"Y-Yeah… I was jealous." He seems remorseful, at least. 

You sigh. "I don't want a relationship with you, or anything. But it made me feel like… an object. A conquest, another notch on your belt because you only want me when you can't have me. It made me feel shitty, Miguel."

"I fucked up," He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wasn't really thinking, chula. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Miguel. I like fucking around with you." You say it with a small smile. "I want… more ."

"Me too." He's smiling back, shy, brushing against you with fingers stretched out.  

"That's fine, more than fine. We can do this because I make you feel good, and you make me feel good, and somehow… this works . But we need to keep this," Gently, you push away his hand, gesturing between you both. "...and us separate. My heart can't take the possibility of this blowing up. And… And it's probably going to be me; 'cuz I seem to like getting my heart broken."

You give a watery laugh, but he doesn't laugh with you; instead, boring into your soul with red-brown eyes. 

"If we're going to do this, it means I can't kiss you, properly ; it means no cuddling after sex, or staying the night in your bed." It's why you couldn't kiss him before, and you hope he understands. "You can say no… you probably should say no. But that's what I want, right now. And those are my terms."

It takes a moment before he respond, mulling it over, and you barely breath in the interim. 

"I want you ." He nods slowly, and then more firmly as he turns the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life, as Miguel turns to you with as best a smile he can manage. Lip cut, hair smattered across his forehead, and thick brows softening; he says, firmly, " Yeah, I'd like that."

_

_

_

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns

@ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings @aiyaaayei @hyp-oh-critical @tea-earl-grey-thot @sunset-euphoria @moonsio @akiras-key@szaplsdropthealbum@levanneisdumb @naiya-patel17 @Serostapesweat @strawberrymiguel @yumeeesss @errorundyne-exe @spear-bitch @redsoleily @marsissoswag @slezhara @ye4gerzz @adlct515 @nanam1 @indigocookie @cincocosas-blog @starguiders @path0logicalpeoplepleaser@funkyfishy@whoreloll@eugeab@tarjapearce@maddielikesmoths@egotaestical

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #rigor mortis 😼 #kat_writes😼 #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut

[luveline]

what abouttttt

zombie!steve and reader (at any point tho i feel like this would make sense after the college got attacked) are like scavenging in a pharmacy and steve wanting to make his girl laugh puts on the stupidest prescription glasses that he found near the front desk but then? reader comes over and hes like have you always had that mole? and he refuses to take them off even tho theyre far sighted which makes the trek back to camp slightly unsafe but he cant stop staring at readers face because hes never seen it so clear

thank you for your request<3

“I really need some chocolate,” you lament, pulling at his hand as you drift together down the aisle toward the snack section. “If they don’t have any, I’m going to kill myself.” 

“You better kill me first.” Steve pulls you back. “Seriously. Have the decency.” 

“Find me some candy and I won’t have to.” 

“Find yourself some candy, loser. I need some painkillers. I’m sick of dealing with you.” 

You push at his arm. He resists the urge to yank you in for a kiss, letting your hand drop to part ways at the top of the aisle. He makes for the back of the store where the in-store pharmacy signs hangs half off of the wall, green glass shattered like coarse sugar grains underfoot. Steve cringes, clearing a path to the desk with the side of his shoe. 

“You okay?” you call from a few feet away, unseen but close enough to be heard clearly. 

“Fine! Signs of candy?” 

“No,” you say dejectedly. He nearly misses it. 

Steve’ll find you some chocolate if it’s the last thing he does, but first, he needs painkillers. His knee aches like he’s been beaten, a funny burning string of pain lining the underside of his leg every other step. Ideally he’d like some codeine, but more realistically he wants advil. He doesn’t know where to start, never does, but if you come over he’ll pretend he understands what things go where. 

He’s lucky. He bends down and finds a bottle of motrin on the floor, looking up to find a shelf teeming with it. “Yes,” he says, ecstatic. Things rarely ever go so obviously his way. “Fucking yes.” 

He shoves as many bottles of tylenol in his various pockets as he can. Then he looks around for anything interesting. He’s sure there’s a ton of things you could benefit from. He’s been wondering about epi-pens and emergency precautions, because god forbid something happen to you he couldn’t correct. Love makes him worry. You’re worrisome, you’re so sad lately, he knows you’re a few days from another burnout. He can’t handle it —he’ll take care of you, but seeing you down for the count hurts every single time. 

He leans heavily on the counter and lets himself think. Absent-minded, he reaches out to spin the intact rungs of a glasses stand, prescription lenses shining against the glare of the sun seeping in from the store’s caved metal roof. “Plus two,” he says to himself, “plus three, what?” He grabs an obscene pair and shoves it up his nose, blinking in surprise at the way his vision blurs. 

He turns the display to the mirrored back and grins. 

“Hey, loser? You okay?” he calls. 

You don’t answer. 

“Babe?” he says sharply. 

“Oh, you’re talking to me?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You appear at the end of the aisle with an arm full of chips, less blurry the closer you get. “Sorry. Don’t call me loser then. Oh, gosh, what are you wearing?” 

“Gosh,” he mimics with a laugh. “I’ve no idea.” 

His poor attempt at a southern accent makes you laugh too. “Nice glasses, Harrington. I didn’t know you needed them.” Steve crossed his arms in front of him. You drop the chips beside his sleeve and station yourself as he had, a mirror, your smile charmed as you push the glasses up his nose. “You look ridiculous. Here,” —you take a nicer pair from the rack and open the legs— “swap them.” 

He would, but he’s looking at you, and he’s thinking, What?

You move your head away from him instinctively, but ultimately let him hold your face, his thumb on the hill of your chin, fingers curled over your cheek. He can see the little silver scars of a cruel hand around your mouth, and the cut on your cheek from a surprising wooden beam, but what he’s never noticed is the pigmentation under your mouth. The little wrinkles by your eyes. Hell, he’s never realised your eyelashes looked quite like that until now. 

“Hey–” he starts, though you’re already ducking your chin. “Wait–”

“Stop, you’re staring.” 

“Yeah, I’m staring. You always had that freckle?” 

“Long as I can remember.” 

“Wait,” he pleads, trying to grab your chin as you step away. 

“I need chocolate, Steve, I’m not kidding. You can do whatever you want to me if you help me find some.” 

“You will come to love that decision very soon.” 

You giggle like crazy. Steve swaps the less attractive glasses for the ones you’ve recommended and follows you down the aisle to help you look for your sugar fix. He nearly trips over a split can of condensed milk, and you might act like you don’t like him, but you catch him by the arm and allow him to hold on. 

He isn’t great at helping you look, but he finds a couple of bars of cooking chocolate in the baking essentials aisle and decides it’s good enough to head home with. You eat lines of it as you walk, your fingers pressed between Steve’s, a little dab of chocolate he wouldn’t have noticed otherwise in the corner of your lips. 

“You sure you don’t want some?” you ask between bites. 

He’s gonna watch you eat the whole thing. “No thanks. I’m saving room for Robin’s artichoke heart and refried bean combo.” 

“Would you take those off?” Your cheek twitches as you smile. Your eyes glow with affection. “You can barely walk.” 

“You don’t like them?” 

“They really, really suit you, actually. I love them,” you say, to his secret delight. 

“So what’s the problem?” 

He trips over his own feet and has to grab your arm to stop from falling. “That’s the problem,” you say, in love enough to smile even when the world has gone to shit for you a thousand times. Your eyes follow down his nose to his lips. 

Steve grins and ducks forward for a kiss. “Oh, sorry,” he says when the glasses bump your nose. 

You laugh and touch under his chin to help him out. You taste like chocolate still as he kisses against the seam of your lips, a quick but blissfully deep kiss, a handful of seconds where Steve feels like you’re one in the same before he pulls away, just enough to see both of your eyes. 

“What’re you looking at?” you ask. 

“You have chocolate on your nose,” he lies. “Want me to get it?” 

“Yes,” you say bashfully. 

He kisses the tip of your nose, then the corner of your lip. 

#steve zombie!au #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington scenario #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader

[tteokdoroki]

hi aali! my ideal valentines gift would be a dainty tennis bracelet that i’ve been wanting for a while <3 and i’d swipe sweet on sukuna ! (bonus: i buy him a silver chain since he’s been wanting a new one !)

⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚⟡. — RYOMEN SUKUNA. swipe sweet: simplicity.

about. boom, it’s a match! ryomen sukuna and yourself have come to an agreement. no gifts and no materialistic things for v-day… but he really can’t help it, especially because you’ve never received a gift out of love and not because someone is trying to buy it ( 0.7K )

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! sfw, fluff, established relationships, modern bf!sukuna, rich girl + fem!reader.

・:〃⤥ bumble date, swipe right event !

ryomen sukuna doesn’t come from money.

he’s an honest man who works an honest job and makes an honest living. he does what he can to support his family and keep his head above water — and that’s enough for him. sukuna wasn’t always this good nor this honest, the rough and troubled days of his youth have hardened his exterior and made him hard to love. 

to everyone except for you. 

you’re a girl that comes from money.

you’ve never worked a day in your life, but you do what you can to be there for siblings way too evil and ungrateful to care about the sacrifices you had made for them. you weren’t always this noble and you didn’t always care and maybe that made you hard to love. 

but you found each other, despite how difficult showing love may be. you found love for yourselves and each other in simplicity and comfortable quietness. in the way that you’re both so alike and yet so different. how you were raised and the backgrounds in which you came from don’t matter you or sukuna. as long as you’re content by one another’s sides. 

that’s why you had a rule. no gifts on valentine’s day — you would settle for one another’s company, perhaps a home cooked meal from sukuna’s skilful hands and some cheap chocolate you'd impulsive bought on the way home. you already owned everything money could buy thanks to your father and his fruitful lifestyle, there wasn’t anything more you could possibly want except for being with your boyfriend like it was any other day. it was simple, being together was simple. 

that’s why you frown as sukuna pushes a small, pink box tied with a little white ribbon across the smooth marble of island in your kitchen. it sits suspiciously between the glass of red wine your boyfriend had poured for you and the roses you had gotten for him (which he liked, he just wouldn’t admit to it.).

“i thought we said no gifts, ryo?” you drawl questioningly, tapping your nails against the counter as you lean over it. 

sukuna doesn’t turn from the stove, his muscled back rippling as he flips your steaks. “that didn’t stop ya from gettin’ me roses, did it, gorgeous?” the smirk he chucks you from over his shoulder stirs the butterflies in your tummy, ones that only react to his love and his touch. “open it up. wanna see the look on your face when you see it.” 

your frown quickly dissipates into an affectionate smile as you take the box between your fingers — fighting a swoon. “i really don’t need anything, ryo. you know that.” the ribbon falls apart in your hands and the lid on the box pops off easily. “i have everything money could buy…” 

but then, your voice dies in your throat just as your boyfriend dishes up your meal and you gift is finally revealed. “everything but somethin’ i’ve gotten you,” your boyfriend says gruffly, mirroring you as he throws a tea towel over his shoulder and leans over the island to take your delicate little gift between his thick, calloused fingers. a tennis bracelet made from the finest silver sits pretty in ryomen’s hands, it’s silver charms glint under the dim and romantic lighting set for tonight. there’s a little ‘s’ for his family nickname, and a heart as if to remind you that his is forever yours.

he reaches out, surprisingly tender for someone so hardened, and grasps your wrist — helping you with the clasp on the little bracelet. “i know you’re not materialistic, couldn't care less about money. but no one’s ever gotten you anythin’ because they care. not because they’re tryna buy your love.” he explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

as if loving you this much is the most normal thing in the world. 

“aww ryo,” pouting, you wrangle his hand into holding your own — looking across at your boyfriend with puppy dog eyes. “you love me? you’re not trying to buy my love?” 

“don’t need to,” he rolls his blood red eyes, but you don’t miss how they brim with love. “ain’t you whipped f’me?” sukuna sasses you, plays mean, but his lips against the inside of your wrist tell you otherwise. he’s just as whipped as you are. 

“kinda,” you respond. 

“only kinda?”

“yeah, sorta.” 

“just say you love me, brat.” 

“alright, ryomen sukuna. i love you.”

and you do, more than what glitter’s and more than what’s gold ( even if your bracelet is silver ). 

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jjk smut #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen x you #sukuna imagine #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #tteokdoroki #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing #𐙚 bumble date & swipe right ! #✧ ₊˚✉️੭ — new notification #✧ ₊˚💬੭ — unknown messenger