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luminousbeings-crudematter · 2 months

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folie à deux

or: the toxic ex boyfriend Ghost AU

PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

WARNINGS: || 18+ only MDNI || Toxic masculinity || Possessive & obsessive behaviour || Slut shaming || Groping || Gaslighting || Implied & referenced cheating || Mildly dubious consent

w/c: 5.7k (Read on AO3)

a/n: this was supposed to be like 5 paragraphs, so PLEASE if y'all hate it i dont want to know

It starts with a knock on your front door when you’re only half expecting to see Simon Riley.

He even knocks with a sense of entitlement, and it enrages you. Three hard raps, and that’s it. He won’t knock again. If you don’t open the door, he’ll kick it down to get to you—those were rules you’d learnt the hard way.

You mentally reinforce your motivation when you fling the door open: You’re scared he’ll break your door down, again, and this time, when they try to evict you, Simon won’t be around to terrify them into letting you stay.

How on earth you’d ever found the prick attractive is beyond you in that minute. Except, no sooner does the thought enter your mind do you dismiss it. Of course you had—and still—found him attractive. That had never been the problem.

He wore his military career on his face, much easier to see than the chest candy he bragged about but no less attractive to you–scars and burns, healing and the not-quite healed bruises plain to see on his face, a cacophony of yellows and purples. A nose that had spent more time broken than not, its slight curve most likely a combination of never having been set by a professional nor the opportunity to heal without being broken again. A thin scar dissected his lip, went all the way up the side of his face to his brow, almost like someone had taken a knife to him, carved him up like a piece of meat. You’d never asked, and it’s not like he’d ever volunteered the information.

It just sat there along with the three thousand other things he’d deposited in the chasm that stretched between the two of you.

“You…Jesus,” he breathes, and slams the door shut behind him, making you wince. “Where are you off to, then?”

“N’ wearin’ that?” He prompts again when you don’t answer, motions to your body with his chin.

You roll your eyes when he pulls you into him and plants a hard kiss on your mouth, ignoring your squirming. “Fuckin’ about to spill out, little dove.”

“Spill? Simon, I’m sewn into this dress.” You pluck at his shirt that has deliciously little give where it sits on his hard chest, leaving your palm there as a little treat for yourself. “You would know. You capable of wearing shirts your own size, or does the SAS make it mandatory to have your tits straining against them?”

When he doesn’t respond, you push away from him, and step back, crossing your arms against your chest, definitely not pushing your tits up slightly, and he mirrors your movement. He’s leaning against the wall by the front door now, blocking your exit, and you can only roll your eyes at the foreseeable display of machismo.

“Your stuff’s in the front room. Grab it and go, I have to finish getting dressed. I have plans.”

“With a pimp?”

Back when you were blissfully ignorant of Simon’s penchant for keeping you destabilised at all times, unconditionally wanting the last word, his crass words would have made you sputter and struggle to respond. Oh but you know him so much better now.

Now, the blatant transparency in his delivery just makes you laugh.

You interrupt his next words with a wave of your hand and turn to retreat to your room. “Get your shit and leave, baby.”

You hear his harsh exhale at the dismissal, and once upon a time, the repercussions of dismissing Simon in the middle of a conversation would have excited you. You used to do it to get a rise out of him, instigate him into chasing you around, fucking you silly when he caught you. Now, you just do it because you can.

“No need to be a bitch. I’ll be on my way in a second, just wanted to check on you, little dove.”

Your laugh is breathy, and you have to pull your mascara wand away from your eyes so you don’t end up stabbing yourself with it. “‘No need to be a bitch’ says the man currently being a bitch about me not telling him my plans.” Your laugh is mocking when you turn back to the mirror. “You ever tire of this routine, Simon? Because it’s tiring to me.”

Your words only make Simon’s eyes soften, and he looks at you almost indulgently, patronisingly, as though you were a child throwing a tantrum to get an adult’s attention. “Could never tire of you, little dove.”

“Stop calling me that,” you snap, but he only snorts in response.

It’s all a game to him, you know that. He makes it very clear how much amusement he derives from watching you fumble and fall, how much he gets off on the stress he gives you.

And yet, you’re drawn to him, every single time. Every single time, you play mental gymnastics to find a reason to write off his bad behaviour because, well, it’s Simon. He’s…like no one else you’ve ever known.

Your choices have always been limited between a cruel, mercurial god and inane, paltry men.

Except today. Today you hold your response back, try not to rise to the obvious challenge.

“Come on then, I’ll drive ya.”

“Are you insane?” you screech. “You’re not driving me to my date, you’re not driving me anywhere, what the fuck is wrong with you, Simon?”

A glimpse of his Adonis belt as he stretches his arms above his shoulders and cranes his neck from side to side briefly grabs your attention.

“Don’t be difficult, little dove,” he gently scolds you, and your eyes snap back to his—yours wide with incredulity, his calm and collected in that beautiful, honey brown. “What were y’gonna do, take the Tube with y’tits out like that? If the prick ain’t pickin’ you up, I’ll take ya to him.” He jerks his chin in your vanity’s direction and plops himself on your bed to watch. “Come on, love, finish yer preenin’ then.”

“Preening,” you mutter under your breath as you turn back to the mirror. “Fuckin’ weirdo.”

It’s only when you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears do you catch his eye just as he brings a cigarette up to his mouth, and you squeal. “Simon! The fuck are yo—don’t smoke in my bedroom!”

“Our bedroom—”

“What?!”

“—’n ya didn’t care before. Y’wanna share, ‘s that it, little dove?”

“Oh my god.” You turn around slowly, your hands against your lips, joined together as though in prayer. “Simon.”

“Yeah, baby.”

“You don’t live here anymore. This isn’t your flat, it’s mine. This isn’t your bedroom, it’s mine.”

Simon just continues to smoke as though he hadn’t heard you, dark eyes taking the slow, leisurely route back to meet yours. “Y’look good, baby.” His voice is hoarse, the words slow and deliberate and raspy, and…you can’t deny it. The pull he’s always exerted on you, the undeniably ruinous sirens call—you burn hotter and brighter than accretion, you’re a helpless sailor caught up in his thrall

“Simon”

“Did’ya always look so good?” The way he looks at you as though in a trance…you know he’s not listening, seeming to just be thinking out loud. When he stands up, you take an automatic step back, then cringe when the vanity hits the back of your legs. Nowhere to go to escape his looming presence. “No…not like this. Somethin’s changed.” He puts his hands on your shoulders and turns you around so you’re both facing the mirror.

The back of your neck feels particularly warm as he pushes his entire front to your back, and you can feel him there, hard and insistent against your lower back. When eyes meet in the mirror, he looks at you like you’re a puzzle for him to solve. “Nothing’s changed,” you whisper. “You’re still a dick.”

“Hmm,” he mutters, then lifts your face up with one hand around your neck, and brings his cigarette around to your lips with the other.

Your instinctive inhale makes him shift against you slightly, and your eye twitches from how good he feels pressed up against you like this. How he smells to you—that familiar mix of aniseed and icy menthol, fingers eking that potent hit of nicotine straight into you from where his fingers dig into your skin. “Definitely somethin’ different.” He pulls one strap of your dress down, and you exhale as he places one warm, lingering kiss on your exposed shoulder. “‘S good. Whatever’s different is good, little dove.”

“We can’t—,” you whisper, and his eyes glint at you with interest and arrogance through the mirror. “We can’t do this.”

“You’re so pretty all dressed up like this. Always were so pretty. So soft, and—” he inhales deeply at the spot just under your ear “—always smell so fuckin’ good.”

“You can’t,” you moan in response, but press yourself closer to him, anyway.

“But I can,” he responds gruffly. “‘Nythin’ I like, little dove. And I know y’like it too.”

“Fuck, just—” He interrupts you by giving you another hit, and this time you turn around in his arms to exhale in his face. He doesn’t even flinch. “What are you playing at, Simon? What do you want from me this time?”

Simon continues to look at your mouth as you speak, and almost as if on auto-pilot, slips his thumb into your mouth. You want to bite him for his audacity, you almost kick him in the shin, almost almost almost… But what you really end up doing is accepting it, licking the pad of his thumb and letting him push it into your mouth.

Your initials on the space between the base of his thumb and index finger catch your eye—it’s a new tattoo, and you know this entire game is a ruse to draw your attention to it—but you don’t react. You may be stupid horny for him, but you’re not stupid.

“Always such a good girl for me,” he praises, and it brightens you up on the inside, sparks hot and bright under your spine. “Tell me, love…still me you think about when you touch your pussy?”

Your harsh exhale and slightly narrowed eyes are the only indication you give of having heard him at all. In response, his thumb moves slightly deeper, sitting heavy on your tongue, and you let him.

Your stubborn silence makes him chuckle, and he stubs out his cigarette on the ashtray you (still) keep on your vanity, pushing your dress up over your ass so he can grab your cheeks possessively. The movement is so quick, so fluid that your protest turns to ash on your tongue when he finds bare skin and squeezes hard.

“Forgot somethin, did ya?”

“No.”

“No?” His hands grip you tighter and pull you harshly into him. The angle makes you grind into his cock, and you know that he’s not even half as unaffected as he pretends. “Gonna put out on the first date, then, like a slut? Don’t remember you givin’ me any the first time I—”

“It’s not my first date with him.”

Simon pulls back to look into your eyes, and you’re graced by the first genuine smile on his face all evening—the most brilliant of Rayleigh scatterings put to shame. “It is your first date, love.”

The blunt, matter-of-factness in his words gives you pause, your mind still coming to terms with what he’s just said, your heart starting to race at the barely concealed confidence about your whereabouts. “How do you—what are you saying to me right now?”

“Truth, little dove. Like I promised.”

The casual, off hand remark to one of the most devastating conversations in your life gives you whiplash and you have to physically shake your head to get rid of the feeling of something crawling up the back of your neck. You put your hands firmly on his chest and push him away, and he steps back easily.

“Are you…Simon. Are you having me followed?”

“Don’t need to. I know you, little dove.” He takes another step back from you and cocks his head at your dazed expression. “Put some knickers on. The white ones, y’know ‘em.” When you don’t move, he motions towards your underwear drawer with an expectant expression—as though you’re frozen because you’ve forgotten where they are rather than because you’ve just learnt that your ex boyfriend’s stalking you.

When he crosses his arms, you’re jolted to action. In a daze, you pick up the first pair your hands grab and pull them on. He thrusts your purse at you, and leads you out your front door with his hand clasped tight around yours.

You wish you could say that your ex boyfriend driving you to a date with another man is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to you, but that’s not realistic for a life lived around Simon Riley.

***

The drive is silent, but one big hand remains on your inner thigh. His fingers are so long that they almost touch the seat on either side of your leg. It feels invasive but it’s also familiar, so you don’t say anything. Classic— he never had to try hard to get what he wanted from you.

When he asks you for a smoke, you light one up for him and stick it into the corner of his waiting mouth, and he kisses your fingertips as they retreat. You still don’t say anything. Instead, your eyes stay determinedly on your initials tattooed on his skin, his warm hand almost a brand on your thigh, and you think about your life with him in the .

The implication that things were normal in the before is wildly misleading, and a genuine disservice to the shit he’d put you through.

Once upon a time, you’d been delusional about your place in Simon’s world; now it just leaves a bad taste in your mouth. He threw special forces and taskforce and lads need me in your face every opportunity he’d gotten, and worse. Simon Riley was not a man who did or could be convinced to do something he didn’t want to—and you’d hardly ever asked for any explanations from him but still, the excuses were on the tip of his tongue, ready to be flung at you at Mach speed.

You’d bargained with yourself for weeks—oscillating between wanting to proactively end the relationship yourself or allowing its inevitable heat death. He was one of a kind. No one had ever made you feel like he had. No one had fucked you like he had.

No one had fucked you over like he had either, but on good days, you show yourself some grace and let that thought slide.

***

You find yourself falling into old bad habits easily—you wait inside the car until he’s on your side, opening your door for you and practically lifting you out of his car.

The warmth of his hands seeps through the material of your dress, through the skin on your hips, superheating the bones underneath. He squeezes the flesh there appreciatively, and though his expression remains hidden to you, you can safely guess the smirking just by the creased skin by his eyes.

“I never want to see you again.”

The words make Simon pause. He considers you for a second, the smirk never dropping. “Go’n, give us a kiss, then, if this is the last time.”

“I would never,” you insist, finger poking at his hard chest, and he retreats from you, puts his hands up in mock-surrender. “You’re a manipulative bastard, Simon,” you hiss at him. “And I’m going on this date.” With your piece said, you walk away from him.

“Never stopped ya, little dove,” he calls out, a hint of an aggravating laugh in his words.

You flip him off without even turning around. “Drop dead, Simon.”

To your great disappointment, your words don’t inspire the heavens to smite him where he stands immediately, and when you quickly shoot one last look back at him over your shoulder, he stands against his car, arms crossed, looking for all the world like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Asshole.

It wasn’t even that Simon was a bad boyfriend to you—though he was certainly the fucking worst—it was the fact that a) he was a bad person and b) you’d become a bad person by osmosis.

Case in point: you wanted to leave your date mid-meal, battling the intrusive thought of just putting your drink down and walking out the front door, but you couldn’t even say why. Your date had kindly acquiesced when you’d insisted on the worst table on the floor. The one overlooking the car park. The window overlooking the only car parked there—the massive black one, with illegally tinted windows and a suspiciously missing owner.

At least the bar was nice. Great ambience, dim lighting and pretty interiors, it should have been the perfect first date. Your date himself was fine too—nice enough with a sweet smile he flashed at you, politely having taken to talking at you when you’d made it clear with your apathy that talking with you wasn’t going to happen.

After just two drinks, you start to have flashbacks—even an hour spent in Simon’s company clearly manifesting as literal madness—which was disconcerting by itself, but the uncharacteristic subject matter has you really worried. Every time you blink, you see Simon’s face…or his cock…and when your date asks if you’d like to share dessert, you answer, “Simon…” before hearing yourself, and feeling the heat of shame dance on your cheeks. Your date just looks confused.

A quick glance outside the window shows the empty car park and…nothing else. No car.

Had he fuckin’ left?

The thought incenses you, and the irrational nature of the anger makes you feel even more shame. Why should you care? When had he ever done what you’d expected of him? And when had he ever been there for you when you’d needed it.

Fuck it, you think.

Maybe you were finally free of Simon and his toxic, shameless, unbreakable hold on your life. Maybe it was time to move on.

You allow yourself a satisfied smile when, in what feels like divine approval of your plan, your date offers to take you home.

***

There are cracks in your ceiling that you’d never noticed before.

You resist the urge to wince, then try to moan but give up when it gets stuck in your throat, and your date misinterprets your sigh of boredom and discomfort as one of pleasure, choosing to go down on you with more enthusiasm than before. Things could not be worse for you—the man between your legs is clearly in need of a compass and a map and trying so hard that you feel guilty about the whole thing—but you’re determined to tolerate it. So that the point is made.

When your date finally leaves, your shaky smile and poorly concealed look of relief convinces neither of you of a second date. You suppose you should be grateful that he left without a fuss, but you’re just relieved that he’s gone. You’re contemplating—holding your head in your hands while your elbows rest on the kitchen counter—when you hear him.

“This is pathetic, even for you.” You turn around, and yep. It’s him alright. Sitting at your dinner table, your flimsy chair all but invisible behind his massive frame. “Breaking in, Simon? Seriously?”

“Y’gave me a key, little dove.”

“Yeah. When we were dating. A key that you’d returned?”

When there is neither a response, nor any change to his posture, you turn around and start to pour yourself a glass of water. Then change your mind and grab two whiskey tumblers and your decanter. “Pathetic,” you repeat. “How long were you planning this?”

His sudden breath on the back of your neck makes you exhale harshly, and he steadies your trembling hands by placing his on yours. Together, you pour two glasses of whiskey, but his hands don’t leave yours even when you’re done.

“How was the date?”

“You tell me, Simon.”

“Wasn’t invited, was I?”

“It didn’t stop you.”

He places a small kiss behind your ear in response. “No.” His hands knead at your breasts and your head falls back to his shoulder with a sigh, and he grinds into you. “Feel that? What even your fake little noises do to me?”

“You were listening?” The thought is…unbearably hot, and you stubbornly refuse to examine it any further in your mind.

“You belong with me, little dove, you know this. You’ve always belonged to me. All of you. Every single inch. Where would I go?”

You reach behind you to touch him, and he’s thick and warm to the touch, even through the layers of fabric, and it’s familiar, it’s all so familiar to you.. “This is fucked up. You were here listening when another man fucked me?”

In a quick succession of lithe, almost impossibly quick movements, he’s picked you up and placed you on your kitchen counter, one glass of whiskey shattering on the floor. “Made your point, baby?”

Your robe is off your shoulders and pooling around your waist in a second, and Simon doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk when he pulls off your panties and pockets them. You don’t bother protesting. It even feels like trouble when he runs a single finger over the seams of your cunt—you’re damningly wet and if you had enough withal to curse your body out for it, you would.

“You've got such a pretty pussy, little dove,” Ghost says as he fingers you, his voice half-muffled because he's pressing a possessive kiss to your forehead. “And so wet baby, you’re dripping on my fingers. All of it fo' me? Or was it that twat, hm?”

You're seething inside, raging that your plan backfired like this. “It was him,” you say, before you can help yourself. “You heard him fuck me, yeah?”

“Fuck you?” Simon’s chuckle is dark and ruinous. “He didn’t fuck you, baby. He just stretched you out for me. Good man. Saves me the work, innit.”

Before you can react, before you can breathe, he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder, picks up his glass of whiskey in his other hand, and brings you to your bedroom. Fuck, your sheets are still rumpled, dress and bra strewn on the floor, sandals sitting like a death trap of heel and straps by the foot of your bed. The room even smells of sex and the cologne your date had worn—it’s disorienting. You almost feel bad. Almost.

But…Simon’s presence is all over your bedroom too. The smell of his aftershave lingered in the air, noticeable if you closed your eyes and breathed in deep. Other signs too—the faint bitterness of his cigarette from earlier that evening, it’s corpse in the ashtray on your vanity. When he sets his drink down on your nightstand, he sets it on the coaster you keep there—they’re strewn on almost every surface on your flat. Mementoes from Simon from different countries he’d go to on deployment.

“Told you he fucked me,” you say, cheekily—trying to dissuade your mind from leading you towards sentiment—and get a smack on you ass for your trouble.

“‘Course, little dove,” Simon drawls in response. “‘N you enjoyed it too, yeah? Tryin’ t’make me jealous. Took him to the same place we used to go, huh?” Another smack on your backside, this one hard enough to make you gasp. “Think I’d forgotten, baby? Fucked you in that car park, didn’t I?”

“Were you jealous?”

“Why should I be?” He sets you down gently on the bed so you’re sitting upright, then takes a sip of his whiskey. “Y’want this.”

“I didn’t think you were giving me much of a choice.”

“I’m not.” He takes another sip, and when he leans forward to kiss you, the whiskey floods into your mouth, rich and smoky and bitter. He continues to kiss you and you have to swallow around his tongue, which makes him kiss you harder. He’s a bully in every aspect of his life, and kissing you is no different. His fingers clamp around your cheeks and you have no choice but to kiss him back. Even in this he dominates you, trying to win even where there is no fight to be fought.

When he pulls away, your heart throbs at how he looks through the lights of the street outside pouring in through your window. You’ve seen his face before, you’re one of the trusted few that can say they know what Simon Riley looks like, but it’s been a while since you’ve seen him like this. The harsh lights from outside almost soften where they kiss the harsh angles of his face, where the sharp line of his clenched jaw disappears behind his ears, accentuating his thick neck.

He’s beautiful and cruel and bad for you and every adjective you can think of under the sun.

“Y’want this,” he repeats.

“I want this.”

And then Simon moves so suddenly. There’s no preparing for it, no accounting for speed that has no build up—one second you’re sitting upright looking up at him the next you’re on your back and he’s hovering over you, fingers making quick work of his zipper before, in one push, he’s buried in you. Your breath feels like it’s literally been punched out of your chest. He’s so deep in you, you can feel him in your throat—he allows you one deep breath before he’s got a large hand wrapped around your throat. The one with your tattoo on it.

The thought of it incites something foreign deep in your belly, low and simmering hot—you can’t believe he’s tattooed your name on his hand after telling you that he didn’t think you were what he’d wanted.

You can’t imagine your expression right now, but he tightens his fingers around your throat and it drags your attention back to him. He’s gritting his teeth, his jaw clamped tightly shut while he grinds his pelvis into yours, each thrust driving you further and further away from him and towards the centre of the bed. You don’t even understand the movement of his hips—you’re displaced and jostled from the sheer power of his thrusts—but the motion itself feels like it’s more of an up and down motion, dragging against your walls, punching into your G spot. When your head falls back on a low moan, he jerks your body to alertness just by your throat, and you clench at the feat of strength even when he’s buried in you as far as he can go.

Simon groans in response, the noise sounding like it tears through his throat on its way out, but you’re helpless to do anything at all, just trying to breathe through the foreign sensations inside you right now, clamp tighter and tighter around him, threatening to break. You’ve given up trying to look up at him anymore, the pleasure making you squeeze your eyes shut, one hand intertwined with his by your head, the other clawing at his forearm.

“Shit, baby, hold on, fuck, jus’ let me—” He moves to adjust you, grabbing one thigh to spread you open, push himself deeper inside you, when he freezes.

“Wha—Simon, what—”

“The fuck is this?” His voice is pitched lower than usual, dark and dangerous. You follow his line of sight and he’s transfixed, eyes unblinking, looking at a spot on your inner thigh. You know what he’s seeing, and in the midst of everything that’s happened, everything that’s about to happen, you wonder if you’re seeing the evidence of the existence of a just God.

“You weren’t…you weren’t meant to see it. It’s from ages ago…” He reaches out a slightly trembling hand towards it, stops inches away from it—and oh this is better than anything you could’ve imagined—before he brushes two reverent fingers over the little skull you have tattooed there. “Simon?”

When Simon looks back at you, he seems more determined, somehow. Like the final part of a puzzle has clicked into place, somehow, and a decision has been made.

This time when he moves, it’s deeper, more powerful but equally as deliberate. The hand around your throat moves to your face, brushing sweaty strands away from it, and framing the entire side of your face where it rests. “Got my mark on you, yeah? Want t’keep me, is that it?”

“I want…want to keep you,” you nearly whine at him, and his hips kick up, hammer into you, in and out, in and out— “Want to keep you Simon. Want to be yours.”

He bends over you, his grip on your thigh unyielding, long fingers digging into the tattoo on your skin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I—” He uses your neck to muffle his own sounds for a second and then leans to kiss you. But it’s more than that. You feel Simon’s surrender in that kiss—the acceptance of the inevitable, your months of torturous longing for your torturer finding release—and when you come, you bite down hard on his lip.

It feels like your body is hot enough to melt the world into soft, sepia tones around you, and you don’t even understand what he’s doing to your body right now as he fucks you through your orgasm. He readjusts your hips as you come, and the slightest brush of the coarse hair at the base of his cock against your clit makes you vibrate from the shock of what feels like your second orgasm bleeding into your first.

And when he comes, he slams his hips into you like he’s trying to crawl inside of you. His groan is long and tortured, and for a man who’s usually silent when he fucks, the sound is delicious. You never want him to stop. “Fuckin’ shit,” he murmurs, and traps you as he collapses on top of you.

In the aftermath, there is quiet.

Simon lifts his head, once, to try to feel his way to the glass of whiskey on your nightstand, all while kissing you deeply. Turns out, fucked out of his mind Simon is clumsy as hell, and so you grab it for him, draining it yourself before offering him the empty glass.

“Fuckin’ whore,” he mutters, unimpressed, before burying his face in your neck.

“Says the man who slept with the entire British army in a matter of six months.” You kiss his sweaty hair and his grip on your hips tightens. “Bunch of slags.”

“Don’t call my sergeant a slag.”

“Your serg—” you gasp, feeling your restart its pounding in its cage. “Not Johnny! You slept with MacTavish? He fuckin—he fuckin’ offered to meet me for coffee so many times when we were broken up! I thought he was being nice!”

“Was bein’ nice, innit. Lookin’ out for his CO’s girl.”

Your head falls back to the bed as you stare up at the ceiling again. “This is messed up.” His casual tone feels like a barb, reopens old wounds and threatens to ignite a fresh wave of hostility inside you. But before you can stew in your bitterness any longer, he kisses the side of your neck and moves off of you.

“Can’t keep doing this, little dove.” He says, gathering your clothes from where they’re strewn all over your room.

You get up on your elbows and cock your head, feigning innocent confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Gonna have twats all over town stretchin’ you out fo’ me before I fuck you?”

“Why? You offering to put the graft in yourself?”

“Maybe,” he mumbles, and when he stands up to face you, he’s got a cig hanging off the corner of his mouth. “Y’got a light around here somewhere, can’t find mine.”

You roll your eyes, reaching over to the nightstand to grab one and throwing it at him. He catches it deftly, and lights up his cigarette. “What’s next for you then, Simon Riley? Off to the pub to find the next victim for the evening? Send me a recording of when you fuck her in the disgusting toilet?”

“Victim? Shit baby, give me ten, we’ll go again,” he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“You’re staying?”

He leans forward, smushes your face with his large hand. “You got me inked on you.” You squirm away from him and he lets you go.

“It’s just a skull, Simon. Not my initials on your hand.” When his eyes narrow, you gasp theatrically and your hand flies up to your chest. “Or was I not meant to see that?” You lean up to pluck the cigarette from his fingers and take a long drag. “Obnoxious, by the way.”

He leans forward and kisses you, hard. You inadvertently end up blowing smoke in his mouth, but he doesn’t move, kissing you until you melt. “Love you, little dove. You're a massive bitch, though.”

“Pot meet kettle,” you whisper against his mouth.

You know what they say about history repeating itself. You’ve been through this cycle before, you and Simon. And you know what he promised you when he fucked you—he may have asked you if you’d wanted to keep him, but you hear what Simon doesn’t say. And what he doesn’t say is that you don’t have a choice in any of this. Simon operates like a bully, thinks like a bully because he is one. Like with most other things, Simon brute forces your relationship, moulds and bends and twists to his liking, does not care if anything breaks. You have no doubt that in two or three weeks’ time he’ll be across the world from you, bouncing someone else on his cock but it hardly matters. You’ll get your lick back. It’s what he’s taught you, afterall.

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am-i-interrupting · 1 month

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Hi! I loved your Hazbin hotel with nails head cannons. Could you do an extension of that where you get nails to match your s/o? Please 🙏 ❤️❤️❤️

There are two ways to take this so depending on whether or not the character would let someone do their nails dictates how I’ll do it. For characters who will, you get matching sets of nails. For characters who won’t, you get nails that are inspired by their aesthetic.

(Part two— the gals)

Alastor

When you show him nails that are red in color with radio dials and deer antlers decorating them, his smile widened and he tilted his head, curious.

“What do you think?” “I think that you look lovely, darling.”

Expect some extra hand holding.

He will be bringing your hand up to his lips to kiss. Looks at the design, smiles a bit more genuinely, squeezes your hand, and let’s your hands drop.

When your in private, expect to be brought into his lap.

He lets you do whatever you like but he is holding one of your hands the entire time.

Running his fingertips down your finger.

He will run his thumb over any ridges that appear due to the design.

When you’re asleep, he memorizes the design, his color, his symbols on your hand against your skin.

Husk

He’s actually shocked when you take his suggestion. He thought you were just asking out of idle curiosity. He didn’t actually expect you to get it done.

He just kind of stares, shocked at your hand.

The nails are matte and coffin shaped.

Most have a black base and have a card type design. The spade, the clover, the diamond. The first two white and the last red.

What he didn’t expect the heart to be yellow and your free fingernail to have the white and pink stripes of his ears. (Listen, I love his pilot design)

He placed a kiss to your hand and compliments them.

He’s not as obvious as Alastor would be (in comparison to Alastor’s normal no touch behavior) but he would be holding your hand a bit more.

When he thinks no one is watching, he’ll stare at your nails with a quirked little smile.

Lucifer

You go get your nails done together.

Lucifer gets a little duck design with a white background.

He just sort of stares at them, surprised at how much he likes it.

He starts going with you more often to get his nails done. It makes him feel good. He starts wearing his gloves less.

When you get nails inspired by him, he’s absolutely speechless.

The pinstripe design of his favorite waistcoat. The apple and snake imagery.

He loves it so much.

He placed a kiss on every single finger.

When the two of you next see Charlie or anyone from the Hotel or Ozzie, Bee, or any of the other sins, he grabs your hand and shoved it in their face.

“Look at their nails! See! They’re inspired by me! They put that on their hand!”

Vox

“So, what did you get this time, my dear?”

His brow would raise when he saw the design.

The Voxtech logo, a wifi symbol, some red and black hypno circles, and the rest same blue as his claws.

“Well, well, what sight. I do believe these are my favorite set yet.”

Would bring your hand up against his and measure how they line up.

He would then curl your hands together so he was holding yours.

He would then pull you into your lap and give you a kiss.

Ideally he’d run his hands along your fingers but that’s just something he does without them.

Secretly (not really) he likes the fact that you’ve willingly put his symbols on you.

Would try not to give away his liking to them away too much so he doesn’t really do much aside saying they’re his favorite set.

#vox x reader #hazbin vox x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor x reader #hazbin lucifer x reader #lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar x reader #hazbin husk x reader #husk x reader

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freedomfireflies · 2 months

Text

I Love You*

Summary: The second part to Yellow* and One for the Money*

The one where you tell Mr. Styles you love him and you wonder if he'll say it back.

Word Count: 3k

Content Warning: 18+, smut, blow job, multiple orgasms, brief Daddy kink, Sir kink

I love you.

Three little words that feel so big in such a small room.

Mr. Styles remains still. Unmoving. So quiet, you wonder if you actually said the words aloud or if you only thought them.

But you can feel his heart racing. Can hear the subtle hitch in his breath as the seconds tick by. And you know, undoubtedly, that he heard you.

You clear your throat. “You don’t…you don’t have to say it back. I just wanted you to know.”

There’s another long lull between your admission and his response. He shifts in your arms before finally he finally nods once.

And that suffices as his reply.

Truth be told, you feel relieved. You aren’t even sure why you said it at all, much less now. And after such an intimate scene. Especially when you knew he most likely wouldn’t say it back.

But you don’t blame him for that. Mr. Styles has never been the overly romantic, affectionate type. You don’t expect that to change just for you. You’re happy with the relationship you have. You like that you stay at his apartment more than your own. You like that he dedicates his free time to you. And you like that you work together and play together.

He’s more than just your partner and your boss. He’s…yours.

“Sir?” you whisper, and you feel his hand tighten around yours. “Are you all right?”

He nods again. Quickly. Strained. “I’m fine, Peach. Are you?”

You nod, too. “Mhm. I’m better now. Promise.” A beat. “Could we start the scene again?”

He lets out a sigh and finally looks up to catch your eye. “Maybe later. We’ll see.”

You pout and feel that anxious twist in your stomach return. You don’t want to end this moment on a sour note. The note where you had to safe word and make him stop only to tell him you love him and surely freak him out. You want to go back. Start it all over again. Do it right.

He notices your frown and tilts his head. “Peach,” he warns. “Don’t.”

“But—”

“I said we’ll see,” he repeats sternly. “If you’re good, I’ll consider it. But if you want to argue with me, you can sit here, achy and dripping, with nobody to touch you.”

You bite back a whine. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.” He pats your hip. “I’ve got a few more emails to answer before dinner. If I go, will you be all right until I’m done?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He takes hold of your chin. Firm. “I want your honesty.”

“You have it.”

He hesitates. There’s a tension here, between you. An unspoken strain and an edge you’d give anything to smooth out.

You can tell he wants to resolve it. He’s a problem solver. It’s in his nature to fix things. And that’s how this whole arrangement was started in the first place.

But how can he fix what he knows he broke?

He kisses your cheek. Quickly. Gently. “Be good while I’m gone.”

And with that, he leaves you. He turns off the camera, puts his clothes back on, and disappears into his home office.

You spend the next several hours trying not to stare at his closed door. Or thinking about how it ended. What you said. You delete the footage off the SD card and vow to never speak of this day again.

He feels so far away, even if it’s only a few hundred feet. But there’s an ocean between you now and you are lost in his sea.

Dinner is good. You order Chinese and it’s delivered right as he’s exiting his office for the night. You do your best to put things back to the way they were before. You talk—a lot—and he listens. He’s quiet. Nodding along without much commentary. He picks at his food and you know something is still on his mind.

You hate it.

He cleans up while you go take a shower. You take your time, allowing the water to wash away your regret. Make you clean again. Until each mistake has been swept down the drain.

The two of you will be okay. You have to be.

When you get out, you find him on the bed. He’s got his reading glasses on and a book in his hand and he looks…

Ethereal.

You’ve always been attracted to him. How could you not be, when he has a jaw like that and abs that could grate cheese? But somehow, he looks even better like this—relaxed. At peace. He’s still wearing his fancy slacks and white button up. But the sleeves have been rolled to his elbows and he’s left the first few buttons undone.

You step further into the bedroom and he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s engrossed in his novel, glasses perched on the tip of his perfect nose as he flips to the next page. And you smile. Your insides already aching as you crawl onto the end of the mattress and allow your towel to fall away.

When the bed dips, he glances up. Briefly. He notices the feral look in your eye and the way you’re moving toward him. He knows what you want and thankfully, he doesn’t deny you.

He looks back to his book. “How was your shower?”

“Good,” you murmur. You reach for his belt and slip it through each loop until you can toss it toward the floor.

He’s quiet.

“How’s your book?” you ask and he hums.

“It’s all right. Not entirely helpful but I like the subject.”

You grin. You adore when he sounds studious. “That’s good.” You pull his zipper down and reach inside his briefs.

Still, he doesn’t so much as flinch. He reads and he pretends as though you aren’t currently dragging your palm along his hardening cock. He pretends your tits aren’t mere inches from his grasp and he pretends that he can’t see the way you’ve already begun to drip.

You take him in your mouth. Your tongue is wet and ready and you swing your leg over his thigh in order to brace yourself against his lap and take him fully. He’s large. Incredibly large and you forget that sometimes until you feel the way he curves down your throat.

You pull back and spit only to watch the way it drips down his length until you can smear it around the way you want.

“Peach,” you hear him say and you look up. He moves the book aside to see you. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

He reaches down and pinches your cheek. “Watch it,” he warns and he’s strict but somehow kind. “I thought I told you to wait.”

“I did wait,” you argue before sucking on his tip. You pop off and lick your lips. “All day. Couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Hm.” He moves his hand to the back of your head and tugs you away. “I’m not sure I should let you.”

“…why?” You straighten up. “I’m okay now. I want to do this. And you never got to finish—”

“Peach—”

“—which I know isn’t the point,” you amend quickly, remembering what he said before. “I know. But I want to make you finish. I want to make you feel good. Especially after what you did for me.”

He frowns now. Sighs. Takes off his glasses and sets down his book. “I’m your dominant and your partner. It is my job to take care of you. I don’t do it because I want something in return and my kindness is not transactional. I care about you. I want you to be okay. Always.”

I care about you isn’t exactly an I love you but it still makes you smile. Really, really big.

“I know,” you whisper. You squeeze his thigh. “But I feel…edged.”

He smirks. “Do you?”

“Mhm.” You dip back down and drag your tongue up from his balls. You notice his jaw tick. “And if you really want to take care of me and make sure I’m okay…you’ll cum in my mouth.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He considers this, fingers tapping over the hard cover of his book. Then, he nods once, and slips his glasses back on. “All right. I’ll let you have your way just this once. But once you’re through, you’re to get into this bed and go to sleep. Is that understood?”

You nod eagerly. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl. Go ahead.”

With that, you continue your sucking and fondling while he continues reading his novel. The bedroom is eerily silent except for the loud echo of your wet, enthusiastic lapping at the large cock sitting proudly on your tongue. And you wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if he won’t give you your own orgasm before bed, you’re content to have him just like this.

It doesn’t take long until he’s twitching in your mouth. He doesn’t look at you or watch the way your cheeks hollow or the way his balls look in your pretty hands, but you know he’s desperate to. You can tell by the way he turns the page. The way he grips the book and tries incredibly hard not to rip it in half as he moves to the next chapter.

You don’t slow. You keep going, even as his legs flex beneath you. As his chest takes in labored breaths. You want to get him there and he subtly nudges his leg further into your cunt to feel your arousal smear across his skin.

You do everything you know he likes, even though the camera is off. You suck and squeeze and give him everything you know he likes. Because this performance is just for him. The way you moan, the way you swallow, the way you bob and take more of him than you think you ever have before.

You’re his good girl. His investment, his toy, his.

And moments before he finally releases himself all down your throat, he tosses the book aside, grabs a fistful of your hair, and yanks you off.

“Get on,” he grits and tugs you closer.

You don’t need to be told twice. You scoot forward and line him up just so before he takes hold of your hips and helps you sink down. Things move quickly and he doesn’t have the patience to wait any longer.

And it’s beautiful, this moment. The way he stretches you open. And even if there’s a slight burn from the intrusion of his thick cock, you revel in the pain. Both of you groaning the moment you feel it.

And you know he won’t be able to hold off much longer.

“How did it taste, Peach, hm?” he asks as he fucks up into you. “How did it feel to have me in your mouth?”

“Good,” you pant. You claw at his curls. “So good, Sir—”

“Yeah?” He slaps his hand against your ass and you mewl. “Like to take my cock, don’t you? Like to be my dirty little slut—"

“Yes—”

“Like to feel me down your throat…have me cum all over your tongue.”

You make too many noises and he reaches up to pull your lip with his teeth. He kisses you and groans into your mouth and this is what sex should be. Rough and hard but filled with adoration.

“What a fucking whore,” he groans. He tugs at your hips. Watches the bulge in your belly with every thrust. “Begging to suck my cock, wanting to make Daddy feel good…guess I don’t give your mouth enough things to do, hm?”

You shake your head and wilt in his hold. He rarely refers to himself with that nickname and hearing it now almost tips you over.

“So fucking wet,” he exhales and you look down to watch with him. “S’fucking pathetic, isn’t it? Didn’t even have to touch you to have you dripping.”

He’s right. He always is.

He pinches your clit. Takes your nipple in his mouth and lets his large hands scratch down your back—your shoulders blades, your spine, your ass. And you have never felt safer than here in this moment with him.

“Cum,” he says, and he nips at your skin until it’s littered in marks and memories.

“Cum,” he whispers, and he pulls on your hair and wraps it around his fist to bare your throat to his teeth.

“Cum,” he pleads, and he kisses you—hard—until the room is spinning and you finally let go.

You unravel together. A collection of moans and cries and tangled limbs as you make a mess of each other. And you don’t care—about any of it. About what was said earlier, about what wasn’t said, about the way he looked when you said it.

You cling to his strong shoulders and you kiss him hard and you indulge in the feel of him dripping from your cunt.

But he’s not through. He pulls you off his cock and flips you onto your knees until your ass in the air.

You feel his tongue. Dragging up your cunt, tasting the remains of his cum, your cum, everything. He spanks you—hard. Paints his mark across your skin and leaves it there just so he can admire it.

“Say it,” he hisses and you suck in a sharp breath.

“Wha…what?”

“Say it,” he says. He spanks you again and nips at your pussy. “Say you love me.”

You clutch the duvet and your thighs are shaking. Your mind feels fuzzy. “I…”

Another slap to your ass and you’re overstimulated and wildly sensitive. He fucks his tongue into your dripping hole and grunts at the way you keen and you’ve never felt this kind of beautiful confusion.

“Say it.” He holds your thighs open and nearly suffocates himself as he mouths at you. “Fucking tell me you love me. Tell me again.”

You shake your head. You don’t understand. “Harry…”

Wrong. He slips his fingers inside and fucks his cum back into you. Fast. Lewd. Loud. “Come on, Peach. I know you want to. Know you do….so say it.”

And maybe this is a trick. Maybe this is some cruel, sadistic game just to make you lose but you can’t think straight when he’s this close. When he’s bending your body to his salacious intentions and treating you like a toy.

“I love you,” you whisper. You screw your eyes shut. “I do, I love you, Sir.”

He curses. Groans. “Again.”

“I love you.” You fall onto the bed stomach first but he doesn’t stop. He flips you around and he looks at you as he eats you. “I love you, Mr. Styles.”

His lashes flutter. You reach for his hair and tug it with your fist and he moans into your cunt before drinking you down. Spitting on your pussy just to smear it around and thrust it back into you.

You arch. “Shit, I love you—I—”

You cum again and he enjoys every second of it. He pulls you as close to his face as he can get you and lives inside the sound of your strained whimpers.

And when you finish, he leaves your clit with a satisfied pop and licks his lips. You watch him crawl up your body until he’s settled atop your chest and you smile lazily as he reaches up to run his hand down your cheek.

“My sweet Peach,” he whispers and kisses you hard. You taste everything. You taste him. You taste the desperation woven alongside his tongue. He kisses you until you can’t breathe and he only stops so he can stare at you a little longer.

You brush your fingers through the damp curls along the back of his neck. “That was fun.”

He’s quiet. Studying you closely and you feel as though you’re being graded on a test you didn’t know you were taking.

Then, he murmurs, “I don’t say it.”

Your heart skips. You don’t have to ask what he means. “I…I know. It’s okay. I don’t expect you—”

“I don’t say it because I’m afraid I can’t live up to it,” he continues. He ignores you. “Because the last time I did, I couldn’t deliver on what it meant. My love didn’t look the same as hers did. I said it. And she still left.”

Your other hand finds his shirt. You trail your touch over the exposed skin of his chest and you feel the way his heart races. “I know.”

His brows furrow. “I want to say it,” he says softly. “I want to. For you. Because I do. And I don’t want this to feel unfair—”

“It doesn’t,” you assure him. “I promise. I…I figured you wouldn’t say it back and I was okay with that. Because it doesn’t change the fact that I do.”

Another beat. “I’m worried you didn’t mean it.”

“What?”

He sighs and sweeps his thumb along your jaw. “You’d been anxious, and you were scared. You said none of your other partners had ever been kind to you in moments like that, and…sex is intimate. It can change the chemistry in your brain and maybe…maybe you didn’t mean it—”

“I did.” You grab his face and you make him listen. “Harry, I meant it. I still mean it. And I’ll mean it tomorrow, too. And the next day. And the next.”

His expression softens.

“And I meant it long before today. I wanted to tell you tons of times and I didn’t because…I don’t know. I didn’t want to scare you,” you admit and you both smile. “It is a big word. But it’s just a word. It means nothing without action. And even if you can’t say it, you show it every day. And that’s all I could really want.”

He dips down and nuzzles his nose against yours. “I don’t deserve you, Peach.”

“No,” you tease. “No, you don’t.”

You kiss again and his body feels good against yours. His heart feels good against yours.

Then, he exhales, "I love you."

And you don't say anything. But you smile. Because you know everything he's giving up just to offer you what you want to hear.

Minutes go by before you finally change the subject and say, "You know, I kind of wish we'd been recording all that. That would have been some great content."

He laughs, relieved, and the sound is so incredibly beautiful.

“Next time,” he says and you grin as he holds you closer. “Tonight…your love belongs to me.”

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY CUTIES!!! Granted, this wasn't exactly a Valentine's blurb BUT LISTEN IT WAS CLOSE ENOUGH!!!!! ASLFJSF

I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH and hope you're having the best day! No matter what it looks like or who it's with ♥️

~ Full One for the Money Masterlist

~ Full Masterlist

Credit for the incredible and perfectly peachy dividers to @firefly-graphics!!

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @iguessyourejustwhatineeded @dylanobandposts21 @butdaddyilovehim-hs @floral-recs @itjustkindahappenedreally @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @kathb59 @iamjustaholeforyousir @harrystylesfan2686 @cherryluvhobi @caynonmoondreams @daphnesutton @ilovec0lbybr0ck @definegirlfriendsx @allthelovehes @amiets2 @nega-omega @sucker-4-angst @hsgucci94 @gills-lounge @kennedy-brooke @avasversion @stylesfever @saturnheartz

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ronwestbreeze · 7 months

Text

you're gonna go far | 4

pairing: jake sully x neytiri x tsu'tey x fem!human! reader summary: a scientist arrives on pandora (unwillingly) a year after the exile of the rda. now she must deal with the likes of a clan leader, a great warrior, and a thanator rider. . . word count: 6.3k

read on ao3

“You are very loud.”

You heard this after placing a few fruits in your new bag. You found Neytiri up on a branch, looking down at you with a semi-annoyed and semi-light expression.

“I didn’t even say anything.” You frowned, turning to walk back to the compound.

Neytiri jumped down from the branch—surprisingly not making a sound—and followed you. “You did not have to.”

She then came up next to you and kicked your ankle.

“Ow.”

“You walk loud. Attracting creatures to you.” Neytiri pointed at your feet—or rather your shoes. “If you keep going into the forest then you must be quiet. With your feet and body.”

Your brows raised at this, “Really? Hmm. I’ll try to remember that.” Perhaps you would start walking through the forest with no shoes on, they were a bother anyway. You won’t miss it too much. Plus, being barefoot wasn’t all that much of a difference. Back on Earth, you would’ve loved to walk around the world with just your feet. But with everything dying and sick, you always kept yourself protected. Earth wasn’t much of a safe place anymore.

Much less a home.

While your mind whirred on with different ideas and plans for your garden and future attempts at foraging, you continued your way back to the compound, still with Neytiri following after you, noticeably a lot quieter in her step than you were. You cringed.

Maybe she did have a point about that after all.

You glanced over your shoulder at her and frowned, “Was that all you came for, or is there a point to this visit?”

Her ears fluttered, “I check to see if you are not making a mess.”

You huffed, “Gee, thanks.”

As the compound finally came into view, Neytiri ran ahead of you toward your mushrooms’ new spot. On her back, you noticed was a sling of sorts, and sitting in it was a baby.

Usually, you didn’t pay too much attention to babies—but this one was particularly familiar. It was a bit foggy, but you were sure you remembered him sleeping in that very sling before. And someone else was holding him at the time.

Only this time, the baby stared right back at you when your eyes met his yellow ones.

Cautiously, you stood next to Neytiri who was busily crouched down to examine your mushrooms. The baby had yet to stop staring at you.

You shuffled, hugging your tablet to your chest, “That baby yours?”

At the question, Neytiri looked up at you and then at the baby she carried, a free gentle smile tugging at her lips upon looking at him. “Yes. His name is Neteyam.”

You nodded and the baby, Neteyam, smiled at his mother and then looked back at you with the same curious yet innocent eyes. “Hello, Neteyam.”

Of course, he probably didn’t understand you—but it would’ve been awkward for you not to acknowledge him—especially with him staring straight at you at all times. But then again, you didn’t know whether or not the natives wanted you to interact with their younglings, so greeting him shortly and as politely as you could was the best option.

Indulge them—like you would any other human baby a parent forced you to acknowledge back on Earth. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough for them. They would keep pestering and cooing at you to hold them, even though you’d express very clearly that you were not comfortable holding one.

A pureness like that didn’t belong in hands like yours.

Instead of pestering you, Neytiri eyed you for a moment, like she expected something, before turning her attention back to the mushrooms. “Your crops are good. Take great care of them and they will grow well for you.”

“It’s only been a couple of days since I moved it. But yeah, you’re right. They’ve definitely gotten better. Thank you again.”

It was your turn to examine her now. Neytiri didn’t look much older than you—or maybe you were older, you couldn’t tell. One thing you did know was that you were sure that she didn’t like you before—well, your species. Same as that clan leader, Tsu’tey. Now, you wondered why she was willingly helping you with the garden.

Now, you were wondering if this was related to the first time you met her. The very first time.

When she watched you nearly die.

Your eyes glanced toward Neteyam again, who was snuggled into his mother’s chest, eyes drooping close. Honestly, you were surprised at how calm he was. Hadn’t made a peep or a cry once. In the back of your mind—the scientist part of you wondered if all Na’vi babies were like that.

Eventually, you moved away from the mushrooms, adjusting your bag of fruits you nearly forgotten. “I’ll harvest the fruits later today, um, first I’m heading to my mother’s burial.” You then frowned, remembering Tsu’tey’s warning—although mirky. You can’t forget the way his scowl seared into your skull, tattooing itself onto your mind. “Would that cause any problems?”

“No.” Neytiri adjusted the sling careful not to disturb the nearly asleep Neteyam. “But I will go with you. You are still too loud.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother to protest.

Mixed with exhaustion and spending most of your day foraging, you didn’t have the energy to fight her about it. Besides, last time she was with you, it wasn’t too bad. Better than her than random warriors watching you with severe gazes. Like you were about to attack them and not the other way around.

You weren’t entirely sure what to do about her son. Even though he was near asleep, you supposed you’d possibly get used to his presence as time rolled on.

Judging from your memory, it took a few minutes for you to find your mother’s burial. It was a good long way away from Hell’s Gate, that you definitely remembered. Mostly because you were counting the time in how much oxygen you had left in your mask.

When you found the familiar lump in the ground and the flowers surrounding it, you quietly sat down in front of it while taking your mother’s songcord from around your right wrist and holding it in your hands The size looked different in your blue palms compared to your human ones.

Neytiri sat down a couple of feet away from you, cradling the sling and Neteyam in her arms, humming a gentle tune to the infant. You found yourself watching the two in a faraway daze until you noticed a beaded necklace attached to Neytiri’s waist.

You nodded to it, “Do you have a songcord?”

She looked at you and nodded, “For my son. And another for my mates.”

You nodded, slightly intrigued. “I didn’t know Na’vi weren’t monogamous.”

There were some aspects you knew of the Na’vi—you weren’t totally in the dark about some things. Like the mates part. You weren’t entirely informed about it, but all you did know was that mating was common among them. Joan’s videos mentioned it once and didn’t go into too much detail. Not even researchers understand most of it.

So you couldn’t help but ask, “Do you guys often have more than one mate?” Neytiri’s ears flicked, a reluctant look on her face. You frowned at this, “You don’t have to tell me—”

She shook her head, “The Great Mother will give us one and sometimes more. She decides. And we listen.”

The Eywa bit was still a bit confusing to you—but you weren’t going to touch on that quite yet—perhaps that would be something else that could distract you later on.

Instead, you focused on her songcord, “How do you make those?”

Neteyam squirmed in the sling, his little tail swishing against Neytiri’s stomach. She caressed the side of his head to calm him, “You must understand our way before you make one.”

“I doubt your people would like that.” You scoffed as you tied your mother’s songcord back onto your wrist—this time the left. “Much less that Tsu’tey.”

“He is protective of us. Of his people.” Neytiri defended with a frown. “He is our Olo’eyktan, I do not fault him for being that way. And you are an outsider. You should not be here.”

You hummed, “So I’ve heard.”

Neytiri stared at you. And you stared back until you dropped your gaze back down to the songcord.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were aware of your tail moving behind you. Swishing back and forth against the forest floor. Neteyam giggled and Neytiri, speaking in her native tongue, spoke to the infant in such adoration, that it was almost startling to you.

Your ears twitched toward them.

Surprisingly, the baby’s sounds were somewhat comforting. Easing the tenseness in your muscles.

Neytiri then spoke after a long pause, “What would your songcord say? If you make one. If I taught you how.”

You thought about it for a moment before shaking your head, “You said they’re for remembering, right? To be honest, it’d be too sad.”

Neytiri’s frown deepened which confused you, “Life is not one moment. Your—grief for your mother is forever but life does not stop moving.”

You winced. And she was staring at you again—god, she did that a lot. Her intense gaze drilled into the side of your head but you instead focused on the flowers surrounding your mother’s burial. Vibrant, just as your mother was.

“She was all I had.” You mumbled numbly while glaring at the lump in the ground. “How can something that was so permanent in your life suddenly be gone? How can you move on from that?”

Neytiri’s tail lashed behind her, “I never said you do. It is just the way of life.”

“Well, life’s shit.”

Surprisingly, Neytiri smiled. This time it was directed toward you. “You sound like Jake.”

“Hmm, he sounds somewhat smart then.”

Neytiri noticed you did not smile even when you made the joke.

You gently ran your fingers along the lump and soil of the ground. And for a moment, it was just you and your mother. Never mind that Neytiri was there with you, never mind the strange new world you were now trapped in. Right now, it was just the both of you.

“I’ve always wanted to come to Pandora.” You said to no one in particular. “With her. It was our dream. Then she went without me and….now I’m here. In the place of my dreams, the place I’ve always daydreamed about since I was a child—and I still can’t move. I feel so heavy. Even when I get up, even when I distract my scorpion-filled mind, I still feel like going back to bed and staying there until the world forgets about me.” You snorted bitterly, clutching the soil between your fingers. “Instead, I would rather be the shadow of my mother’s tombstone instead of going forward. How sad is that?”

And then there was the exhaustion. This heavyweight kept you rooted to the ground, even when you wanted to fly away into the clouds. The ground would swallow you whole instead.

“It is sad,” Neytiri spoke up, drawing you a bit out of your drowning thoughts. Even then you still felt like you were underwater. Like it was endless. Her voice was almost a muffled sound barely reaching your water-filled ears. “Being sad is okay. There is no need to hide it or ignore it. It is the way we are. We have loss. That is a very unfortunate truth for all of us.”

You made an absent sound of agreement, gaze never leaving the burial. Still not entirely there. Still not entirely human yet. “I still wonder if it’s worth it, you know? The loneliness—it’s the loneliness, I can’t take it sometimes…”

Something in your eyes ached, your throat feeling tight until you finally caught yourself. You glanced toward Neytiri who was—as expected—still watching you. This time with a familiar look in her eyes. Understanding and something else. Something you despised.

You felt stupid then.

Opening up to a stranger. Asking for pity from someone who probably went through a lot worse than you? Neytiri—as far as your knowledge of the war a year ago went—had lost her people and home. Who were you to even ask for her sympathy? For her pity?

It was so pathetic.

With that, you straightened your back and turned your gaze away from her, your walls slowly building themselves back up out of obsessive protection. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that.” You got to your feet, pissed at yourself, still avoiding Neytiri’s look.

Something about this area.

It always left you too vulnerable.

“I should go harvest some of the plants now…” You gave a jerkish nod to Neytiri. “I’ll see you around.”

You didn’t wait for a response as you began your journey back to the compound.

Neytiri returned to the village, deciding to keep today’s events to herself.

It wasn’t something to speak about yet. Not to Jake. Not to Tsu’tey.

Not yet.

“There you are.” Jake smiled toward her and Neteyam in greeting as she entered their shared hut. Neteyam instantly reached for him and Jake took the little one in his arms, face alight with warmth and love as he held his son close to him.

Neytiri found herself smiling in relief and adoration at the sight as she took a seat on the floor. There was a sense of comfort and ease whenever she came back home to her mates and child. Even with today’s events, she felt her tense muscles relax a bit just as in this simple scene. At Jake’s love for their child. For their firstborn.

“Where did you take him this time?” Jake asked, looking up at her with the same adoration.

“To the Sky Person. She has a false body now.” Neytiri responded honestly, putting her bow down. She noticed her songcord tied to her loincloth and stared at it in particular.

A surprised look crossed his face, “You went to see her?”

She frowned in confusion at his reaction, “Yes.”

“And?” Jake watched her reaction curiously.

Neytiri noticed this and she, for a moment, while watching her son tug at one of Jake’s locks, considered her words carefully.

“It is sad. Very sad, Ma’Jake.” And that was all she offered. Jake just looked at her, the comfortable smile now gone and instead replaced with a contemplative frown. She then leaned toward him curiously, “What do you think of her? You were like her once. You understand their emotions and their way of expression better than most.”

Jake’s ears twitched and moved his gaze down. It wasn’t avoidant but thoughtful as she spoke, “Besides the obvious, she found out her mother just died, so there’s not much mystery to her reactions there. I understand it…and I, well, I didn’t exactly do a great job at empathizing before. If anything, I probably only made things worse when it came to her.” He winced as if he were remembering something—an expression that had become very common these days when it came to him. “Other than that, I can’t get a read on her. And I don’t know if that’s unsettling or not.”

“She is much easier to read in her false body,” Neytiri added thoughtfully, patting down a rebellious strand of hair on her son’s head, watching him nuzzle himself into his father’s chest. “Perhaps you should talk to her as well—my mother seems to believe her and Eywa, she has favored her for a reason. I want to understand why.”

He snorted, “I don’t know if we should even be left in a room alone together.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. One of us might kill each other.”

Neytiri gave him a look at his joke, “Then I would come to make sure you both behave.”

“I don’t know if behaving is the problem.”

Before Neytiri could question his comment, their attention immediately snapped to the two figures now entering their hut. Tsu’tey being one of them with a relaxed smile on his face as he greeted them, “Ma yawne!” He approached Neytiri first, wrapping her in his arms from behind, one hand resting on her stomach. “How is our little one?”

Tsu’tey also seemed more relieved and at ease as soon as he entered their shared home. It was like a safe place for them. Away from clan duties, away from the Sky People, away from the world entirely.

She smiled, leaning further into his hold, “Strong, like his Papa.”

“Good, good.” He held her and her stomach a while longer before moving toward Jake and Neteyam.

Glancing over her shoulder, Neytiri frowned when she saw Artsut standing at the entryway of their hut—looking disapproving as usual. And with that, Neytiri took to ignoring her, turning her attention back to her mates. Focusing on her comfort.

Tsu’tey was now holding Neteyam while Jake gently squeezed the former’s spot between his neck and shoulder—the very rare physical affection that he would only show around herself and Tsu’tey. Another strong difference between the Sky People and her people. They weren’t as carefree with affection as her people were. Just another way of reserving their emotions that Neytiri didn’t quite understand.

Silently, Neytiri decided that this was too good of a moment to ruin. That the Sky Person who could not smile would have to wait for now. She decided this, even though she could not stop thinking about you.

But of course, Artsut could not let things simply be.

“The time to find your last mate is nearing.” Artsut huffed, nose turned upward. She stared down at the small family as if they were a small bug she could step on. “There will be no more time wasted on this, son. It is time to begin choosing.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. Tsu’tey sighed. And Neytiri continued ignoring her.

“We’ve just had Neteyam and have another on the way,” Tsu’tey responded patiently, pressing a gentle kiss to their son’s head. “Let us be grateful for this. There is no rush—”

“I will not be at rest until you are fully accepted by Eywa—”

“And how do you know we aren’t?” Tsu’tey’s voice was calm. Dangerously so. Neytiri could see he was seconds away from snapping. With his duties as Olo’eyktan and now his mother’s constant badgering on a knowingly sensitive subject was just about it.

Artsut hissed, “How do you know that you are? Considering you’re mated with a demon, it barely makes up for—”

“Mother, I warn you.” Tsu’tey snapped his eyes glaring over Neytiri’s head at the older woman.

But she continued with venom practically dripping from her tongue. “I want a true grandson of our blood! I will not accept any more of your half-breeds—”

“That’s enough!” Jake hissed as he shot to his feet before Neytiri could stop him—face roaring with vibrant rage. Jake wasn’t an expressive man. So him losing his resolve so quickly at that, was quite startling whenever it did happen.

Neytiri stood, grabbing his arm to try and calm him. They should not allow this woman to get to them. She was already used to the older woman’s attitude toward herself and her mother. So, Neytiri was all too familiar with how poisonous she was. How vicious her words could get. Even against her own sons, Arvok specifically.

Now Artsut was angered, hissing at Jake—looking extremely similar to Tsu’tey just then. “Will you allow this, son!? The Demon speaks this way to your own mother and you won’t—”

“Neytiri.” At the call of her name, she turned to find Tsu’tey now on his feet as well, offering Neteyam to her. She took her son in her arms as he turned and stalked toward his mother, “Outside. Now.”

Tsu’tey had always been a severe man. But always particularly patient with his mother. Usually, Artsut would listen to him—because he was her golden child—but these days she has been way too on edge. Way too reckless with her words.

Once they were gone, Neytiri guided Jake to sit back on the floor. Squeezing his arm gently while rocking Neteyam in her arms. “Do not let her words get to you, Ma’Jake. She will always be like this, she will never change. We must learn to keep the peace on our side, out of respect for our mate.”

Jake’s ears were pinned to the sides of his head, letting out a breath of anger and exhaustion. “How can she expect us to find another mate with her in the picture? I almost don’t want another one because of that woman.”

Neytiri shook her head, smiling sadly. “We cannot deny our duties, ma tiyawn. All we can do is pray the Great Mother sends us someone who is strong. Who will not let Artsut’s poison sink into their skin.”

The next day came. In your human form, you followed Norm to the amino tank room. The last time you had been here was when you met up with Jake—a bitter memory you wished was as muffled as your meeting with Mo’at.

You just couldn’t find yourself wanting to go back to that night. To all of it. It was bad enough that some of their words still stuck with you.

A lost cause.

She’ll be out of the way.

Demon.

As usual, you shook off these memories or thoughts and kept going.

Apparently, Norm often performed weekly check-ups on the unused avatars. Making sure they were still healthy and taken care of with no complications because even if they happened to be unused, they still needed tending to.

“Why not just get rid of them?” You questioned as you studied the stats of one of the avatars. This one had an ugly jagged scar across his face. “Most of these won’t be used anyway. It could save a lot of resources.”

“It would be a waste of resources and money actually if we did get rid of them” Norm frowned from across the room, not looking up from his own tablet. “At the end of the day, they’re still a living being. We can’t just kill them. It’s—it’s inhumane.”

You didn’t have a good response to that so you moved on to the next avatar. Which you recognized as the one that belonged to the late Dr. Augustine. It was a bit morbid, actually. Staring at a comatose avatar with the face belonging to someone who was dead.

You desperately hoped your mother’s wasn’t here. F it was, if you discovered it first before Norm, you’d burn it yourself.

“How are you doing today?” Norm suddenly asked. “Any progress on the garden?”

You didn’t look up from your tablet as you responded simply, “The mushrooms are growing well enough. Neytiri gave me some advice and it’s helped a lot. Just taking it day by day. The progress is being watched closely.”

After a pause, Norm nodded, “Good. That’s good—you know, I’m tryna work on my empathy. We scientists often get too caught up in the work to stop and consider human feelings. Believe it or not, I was a lot more insensitive a year ago.”

“Really.” You deadpanned, completely uninterested in where the conversation was going. Carefully, you examined Augustine’s body, which was as expected in perfect condition. There was something about the stomach though—

“It’s true!” Norm continued as if he hadn’t heard your complete uninterest. “I was absolutely awful before. I couldn’t stand Jake at first because of it. It’s honestly a wonder that Trudy—uh…” You glanced up briefly when he suddenly faltered. There was a familiar look on his face. Somber and grim. “—it’s a wonder anyone would have gone for me. Would’ve liked me despite all of that, you know? Those people are a rare find. Like a jewel.”

For a moment, you watched him quietly and frowned. Norm didn’t meet your eyes as he moved toward another tank with his back now turned to you.

After finishing up on Augustine’s avatar, you moved to another tank as well.

A beat went by before you added, “You’re fine, Norm. Thanks for asking.”

At that, Norm turned to you with a startled surprise, “Really? Wow, I half expected a sarcastic comment. S’nice that I’m wrong though.”

You shrugged, “You were probably the only one here that wasn’t against me, which was nice of you. You didn’t have to do it but you did. Even if I was mildly difficult.”

“Mildly difficult isn’t how I would put it.” Norm chuckled a bit.

“Fine. Maybe an asshole.”

Norm laughed, which was a light little sound in the quiet room. “No, you are an asshole, just not for your reaction to everything.”

“Ah, well, I feel a lot better then.”

Neytiri didn’t come back until a week later when your first mushroom started to show.

You were relieved for the progress and how well they were doing. So much so, that you couldn’t help but want to pick more of Neytiri’s brain. Learning from an actual native was infinitely a lot better than looking at a book—although it was a good foundation—it didn’t beat the real thing.

So when she came out of the forest with her bow in hand as usual—and no Neteyam in sight this time around—your brain was already buzzing with more questions for her, your tail swishing a little behind you.

“This is good.” She nodded, careful not to step on your crops. “Have you planted more?”

You nodded, oblivious to her watching your tail both curiously and intently as it continued swishing against your leg. “Yes, all of them are situated so that the sun is directly on them when it comes out and when it sets—but what do you guys do if it rains? Any coverings I need to know of?”

She nodded, “Yes. After I tell you, I want to show you something in the forest.”

With a frown, you watched as she began examining some of the fruits carefully, her nose scrunching every now and then. “What is it though?”

The scowl she sent you was surprising and you half expected her to hiss an insult at you. Instead, she said, “I won’t tell you now. You will know when I take you. Now be quiet and listen.”

You watched her in surprise, trying to figure out what it was that she wanted to show you. Or why she wanted to lead you into the forest alone. A stupid part of you thought she was probably going to lead you into a trap and kill you—solve the stain on their land by her own hand.

But the more sensible part of you just did as you were told and crouched down next to Neytiri as she began explaining some ways to continue nourishing the mushrooms while also covering them from changing weather without causing any unnecessary damage to the forest.

She also helped with planting a few more seeds that you had left. Physically adjusting and guiding your hands whenever you patted the soil to cover the seed or when you were a little too rough with the plants.

Gardening in itself was relaxing, you had never known that to be true until you had done it with Neytiri. Sure, you took care of a forest that sometimes required a lot of replanting for trees and different plants, but you were never physically out there yourself. You were always surrounded by screens and giving orders from a lab, wearing long white coats and goggles—you weren’t really ever among nature. Not really.

When you first started redoing the garden, it was just a task to keep you distracted. To keep your body busy and moving instead of stiff and motionless.

But now? Well, you weren’t entirely sure what this feeling was yet. All you did know was that you wanted to keep doing this. And that it didn’t seem like much of a hassle anymore. But instead, something you actually looked forward to.

Plus, you were strangely getting used to Neytiri’s presence. Or more like expecting her in your somewhat structured schedule.

You were grateful for her help the past couple of weeks, even if there was still a small question resting in the back of your mind. Left unanswered for now.

Once the two of you were finished, Neytiri led you away from the compound and into the forest. Halfway through the journey, you started watching her movements, noticing how different they were compared to your stiffness. She was fluid, her steps quiet along the forest floor, against the tree barks you stepped over, and in the small creeks, her feet splashed through. Almost like she was one with the forest.

Then there was you. You looked down at your own feet, remembering how she said you had been too loud trudging through the forest on your own. And that it could draw some unwanted attention your way if you weren’t careful.

So you stopped short and decided to feed your scientist brain as you took off your shoes, leaving your blue feet bare to the forest, similar to Neytiri. You then looked up, watching Neytiri move as she continued forward. Quietly, you began mimicking her movements as you followed her. Not perfectly of course, but enough for her to hear a shift in your step causing her to glance back at you with a furrow in her brow.

When you were younger, you had made a game out of it, out of sheer boredom. Your mother had been rushing around her lab working—too busy to give you attention. And you, to keep yourself preoccupied would mimicked her movements whenever she walked around the lab. You’d follow her for hours without her knowing—mostly because your mother was one of those people who could be easily snuck up on—until one day she did and laughed at your antics.

“Well look at that!” Joan would grin. “I have my very own shadow now. I’ve always wanted one, but I didn’t expect her to be so small!”

“I’m not that small!” You would whine.

You stopped short after climbing over a fallen large tree, Neytiri was already on the other side of it, watching you carefully. When you landed next to her, she poked your legs with her bow, “Still too loud.”

“Well, it is my first day after all.” You half-joked, trying not to pant in front of her to show your lack of athletic ability.

Her ears flicked but she didn’t say anything more on it. She continued forward, still glancing back at you from time to time as you followed and continued mimicking her the best you could.

It wasn’t until you recognized some of the trail did you realized where she was leading you. Too distracted by your own antics, you hadn’t stopped to realize or wonder why Neytiri was leading you to your mother’s burial. Before you could ask, the burial finally came into view.

And you stopped, the words falling back down your throat, your mind going blank.

Surrounding your mother’s grave were a bunch of new beautiful flowers. Not only that but a bunch of atokirina were floating around it. There was something heavenly and pure about the scene, something so moving, something so vulnerable—

Neytiri waited at your side, her eyes glittered with delight as she watched your dumbfounded expression.

“What is all of this?” You finally asked, inching closer to the burial. You almost didn’t want to get too close, afraid you’d ruin whatever was going on around it.

Smiling, Neytiri grabbed your arm and guided you down to sit. One of the atokirina floated its way toward the two of you. It didn’t land on you as you expected, instead, it just floated there. As if it was meant for the both of you.

Finally, Neytiri spoke, “I had discovered it the day before. It had a lot more atokirina here but it seems some of them had stayed long enough for you to see it. It was like she had wanted me to bring you here, just so you could see the Great Mother’s work.”

“Eywa?” You raised your brows curiously, looking from the atokirina to Neytiri, “What work did she do exactly?”

The dandelion-looking weed floated toward Neytiri, who had her palm open for it to land. It grazed her palm before floating off. “When I asked the Tsahik she said it meant that your mother now rests with Eywa

Even if you weren’t entirely familiar with their deity, you knew enough about spirituality and religion to understand what exactly Neytiri meant.

And you were speechless—no unsure of your words. What was the proper response to something like this? Should you be happy? Should you be sad? It seemed that Neytiri believed it was a good thing your mother was accepted by this Eywa.

At the end of the day, your mother was still gone but this was—nice. Sad but nice. Like a funeral should be. Like her funeral should’ve been.

In the corner of your eye, Neytiri ducked her head down a bit to get a better look at your reaction, “Do you not like it?”

“I do—yeah.” You assured with a nod, your tail swishing back and forth. “It’s—it’s a lot better than our idea of a funeral, I guess.”

“You Sky People—you do not have burials like this.” It was more of a statement than a question as Neytiri spoke. She looked back at the burial with a small frown, “Ma’Jake told me this, that his people burn their bodies when they have passed.”

You nodded grimly, gaze cast down to look at your mother’s songcord that was still wrapped around your wrist. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Your way is cold. Your people are cold.”

Again you nodded, “Yeah, we are.”

Neytiri then shook her head, “You are not cold.”

You had no response to that. Instead, you thumbed the beads on the songcord, “This seems like a bead-worthy moment. This burial.”

“Yes. It can be.”

After another long pause, you finally looked at Neytiri. Really looked at her. The question burning at the forefront of your mind.

“You put the mask back on me, didn’t you? When I first arrived. When you killed DeVoe.” You frowned. “You had no reason to save me. I am just another Sky Person to you, so why?”

Neytiri’s ears fluttered, “Why save you?”

“Yeah. Why save me?”

She frowned and stared at your mother’s grave thoughtfully.

“Your spirit is different. I could not kill such a thing, not when Eywa herself had chosen it.”

You hummed, “Huh, that clears things up.”

“You do not believe me?” Neytiri frowned at your reaction, clearly not used to your deadpan sarcasm.

A part of you was amused at that, “No, I believe you.” With that, you stood, stretching your limps. Wiggling your toes on the soft forest floor. “But thank you again. You didn’t have to show me this but you did, for whatever reason.” You dusted off your shorts, “And here I thought you hated me.”

Neytiri stood as well, grabbing her bow from off the ground as she did, “I do not like your people. But I do not hate you—I feel nothing for you.”

“Is…that a good thing?”

She blinked, “I have not killed you yet. So, yes.”

Your ears twitched upward, just slightly, “Good to know.”

You returned to the compound alone later that day, feeling just a little less heavy than before.

Neytiri could not stop thinking about your face. She began to wonder if you ever smiled. What would it look like?

Norm and you were back in the tank room the next day. Norm was mumbling about preparing for the week ahead and something about cleaning up one of the bio labs after a spill—you didn’t listen entirely to know why or how there was a spill.

But you didn’t mind it by now. Nearly a month here and you had a lot to do. Anything to keep you away from your bedroom for a while. Anything to just keep moving.

So if that meant listening to Norm’s rambles every other week, you were fine with that.

“I’m gonna be surrounded by a bunch of Na’vi kids this upcoming week.” He informed from the tank next to you. “I could use the extra help—”

“Kids aren’t really my forte.” You mumbled, moving toward Augustine’s avatar. “Plus, I got to watch my garden. My mushrooms are finally getting somewhere thanks to Neytiri—I don’t want to risk leaving them unwatched. Even if it is for a couple of hours.”

“Ah,” Norm hummed, looking up at you with both an impressed and amused smirk. “that’s right, Neytiri has been coming around a lot. Usually, she’d only come if Jake were here—and those days are rare themself.”

“So you understand my reasoning.” You nodded, briefly looking up at him. “I can’t miss a day over here. For both my garden and the fact that I don’t particularly feel like angering someone who could tear my head off if she wanted to.”

Norm snorted, “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Plus, I have a feeling the kids’ll be too scared of your intense mug. Avatar and human.”

You gave him a look, “Sure, and I’m the asshole out of the two of us.”

“Oh, you definitely are.”

Norm laughed while you turned your attention back to Augustine’s avatar. Only, you frowned when something came up on your tablet. Strange stats that you were sure you were probably reading wrong. You double-checked a couple of times, just to make sure.

Maybe you hadn’t gotten any sleep. Yes, you were hallucinating strangely detailed stats because of your lack of sleep. Yes, that was it.

That was when you got a better look at the avatar.

“Spellman.”

“Yeah?”

“Come over here.”

A few seconds later, Norm appeared next to you, “What is it?”

You gestured to Augustine’s avatar, “There’s something there, in her stomach.”

Norm took your tablet and examined it. Silent. You watched his brows furrow together then suddenly morph into unmistakable shock.

“This…this isn’t possible.”

You took the tablet from him far too confused yourself. “Does the facility own an ultrasound anywhere?”

finally got this written out lol. sorry for the long wait, last week was just crazy busy for me which left me very little time to write.

but now i've got the fourth chapter for you guys. as usual, let me know what you think!

as you can see, it all starts with neytiri hehehe. i wonder if jake and tsu'tey will follow along because of this...

taglist: @doggyteam2028 @bigbootahjudy @innercreationflower @n7cje @celi-xxmoon @readerofallthings @sillyblues @squirtlebob @saturnhas82moons @1mawh0re @aprosiacperson @loserwithnofriends @garfieldsladybird

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bloodmoonmuses · 2 months

Text

you want me so bad rn... | choi beomgyu

genre: beomgyu x reader, established relationship, fluff, drabble (600ish words)

summary: you and beomgyu go on a date to an aquarium, during which he leaves you more flustered than you anticipated.

warnings: the build up to the kiss gets a bit steamy, some suggestive language by my standards lol (but nothing explicit)

The bluish glow leaves a halo around Beomgyu’s face. It’s a random Thursday and the aquarium the two of you are at is practically empty. You admire him lovingly, warmed by his boyish infatuation with the twinkling fish. They refract like specs of glitter- orangey, yellow and gold in their flickering.

Beomgyu’s a walking a paint palette. You think of the colors you’d use to render his beauty- if you were bestowed with such a skill. A wash of watercolor, bleeding and pooling into the grooves of sturdy paper… the faintest of blues. Warm gray, like the clouds that hung in the sky the day you met him. Chestnut-y browns as a final touch- like his eyes, his hair, his guitar. You wish you had brought a camera, to immortalize the joy radiating off of him, but you’re left to rely on your faulty eyes (and memory).

“You’re staring,” says Beomgyu as he reads the placard next to the fishtank. Golden Dwarf, Tiger and Cherry Barbs. Schooling fish. They’re not to be in groups less than six.

“Can’t help it,” you simply say.

You’re certain the amazement in your eyes as you look at him parallels Beomgyu’s intrigue with the fish. It’s funny really; for a guy in such a glitzy career, he’s easily impressed. Beomgyu is also very contemplative. You liked watching him think, his brows furrowing and relaxing over and over again, or when he scrunches his nose. He does the latter right now, and you’re overcome with the urge to kiss it. Realizing you possess the privilege to do so, you reach over to take Beomgyu’s face in your hands. Instead of moving immediately, you linger there, drinking up his delicate features.

“Like what you see?” Beomgyu quirks an eyebrow, in that goofy way he does. He’s never serious, save for the purpose of expediting your impending demise (also known as making you fall in love with him). You answer him with the kiss you so desperately yearn for, barely touching your lips to the tip of his nose.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says. Then, Beomgyu pulls you into an embrace.

The fish tanks murmur in the background, the running water almost mimicking rainfall. Fluorescent lights sift through the glass creating wavy lines that dance on the wall. You could stay like this forever.

Beomgyu tilts your chin upward, fingertips grazing your skin just slightly. The touch is hypnotizing, clearing your mind of any coherent thoughts. All you can think of is Beomgyu. Beomgyu, who was born in spring. Beomgyu, who writes hushed ballads as dusk burns into dawn. Beomgyu, who loves you in his own way- patiently and attentively. His breath fans over your lips. Your face twitches for his touch, but all you can do is stand there. You’re frozen. It feels as though if you move, you’ll break into a million pieces. You silently beg him to move.

Beomgyu likes to tease you in this way, though he’d never admit it. He likes to see how quickly you get flustered and how intensely you crave his touch. A few times, he pretends to lean in, watching how you crane your neck. When he does this a third time, you sigh exasperatedly.

“Would you like me to kiss you?” he asks with a coy lilt. You nod feverishly. Beomgyu stifles a laugh. “Didn’t catch that.”

“Yes, please,” you manage to whisper. When he finally does kiss you, you’re somehow even more breathless. If only you could be outside of your body- you’d paint this too. Vermillion to render the blush that’s probably dusting Beomgyu’s cheeks, pink to match the tinge on your ears, green to commemorate how evergreen your love will remain. You deepen the kiss, moving impossibly closer to one another. When the two of you come up for air, chests heaving as if you’d ran a marathon, Beomgyu laughs.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

“Oh… you want me so bad right now!” he teases.

“Whatever!” You hit his forearm, covering your embarrassed face with your other hand.

a/n: feedback is always appreciated! <333

#bloodmoonmuses #beomgyu fluff #beomgyu fic #beomgyu x reader #txt fic

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ultimate-chickennougat · 1 month

Text

| Your Salaryman Husband | (Vol 7)

Vol 1 Vol 2 Vol 3 Vol 4 Vol 5 Vol 6 (Not Required) Vol 8 Vol 9

Salaryman!Kento x Housewife!Reader

When Nanami goes on a work trip, his cute little housewife can’t help but miss him…

Word Count: 1.8k

CW: SFW, domestic fluff, fem!Reader, lightly suggestive, wearing Nanami's shirt...

A/n: I was feeling like writing something cute... hope you enjoy!

“Goodbye, my darling, stay safe,” were the last words you muttered to your husband, Nanami, before giving him a kiss as he left the house. Even to him, going on a trip without you was unfathomable, though it had only been three months since your marriage.

It was a work trip for three days, more or less to entertain the heads of a business Nanami’s company was hoping to partner with. It was not his intention to get chosen, there were plenty of other employees, but his standout reputation as a professional, down to business senior manager made him an easy candidate.

Nanami wiped his forehead with the cloth you had packed with his lunch, something that he appreciated after hearing the news. His boss’s booming enthusiasm had him somewhat hesitant to downright decline the offer, especially the part about him being on the only one who could do the job.

Maybe he was starting to like doing the bare minimum to keep on top of his work. Being a slacker wasn’t something to be proud of, but it sure was easier than caring in his case. His demeanor was far more dignified than the younger employees, and it’s not like he didn’t produce good results for the company. But the one thing he didn’t want, was for it to take away from his time with you, and any more attention on him from the higher-ups would do just that.

Instead, it was you who inspired him to go. Something about being able to plan a surprise for him for when he got back, the encouragement for him to do something that would hopefully make him get to know his coworkers better.

While you were happy to know your husband was doing well at work, you still got that sinking feeling when he brought the topic up. “Of course you should go, we don’t have anything planned this week and it isn’t that far away,” you fake smiled your way through the conversation, trying to come up with a reason. It would be the first time you were alone in the house for that long without him, you hadn’t gone on a trip since your honeymoon together.

“Since this one is short, it could help you make up your mind on doing other ones…” you mumbled, carefully stacking the plates on top of each other and carrying them to the kitchen. “I know, but I still don’t want to leave you alone,” Nanami groaned, “Besides, I would rather not spend more time working than I have to.” You sat back down at the table.

“Don’t you also get a few days off afterwords? We could do something together. I have been meaning to get some things done anyways…” you muttered, giving him a look. “Some things… do indulge me, my love,” he smirked back at you. “A surprise,” you shook your head as he laughed. “Fine, I’ll contact my department,” he stood up, sighing in exhaustion.

Nanami left for his three day long trip, though not without a yellow scarf carefully tied around his neck, and a neatly ironed jacket. The weather had said it would be windy where he was going. After loading up his bags in the car, he was being picked up by a coworker, the two of you said your final goodbyes, and then he was gone.

That was in the early morning when it still felt like a normal day. You went about your morning and afternoon routine, you had still packed him a lunchbox to take with him. The sun was shining, and aside from the absent-minded glances at your wedding photo on the table next to the couch, it seemed the same.

Inevitably, the evening came, and by the usual 5:35 Nanami still wasn’t home. Of course he wouldn’t be, he was hours away. You tried to entertain yourself, first eating a dinner consisting of leftovers, and then sitting down on the couch to do the final touches on the new suit jacket you were making for him.

It wasn’t your best work, as you were more used to sewing simple dresses, aprons, and occasionally mending things, so it was the first undertaking of a challenge like that. Getting your husband’s measurements in an inconspicuous manor was a struggle as well, leafing through his closet in hopes of finding a note from the tailors.

A light gray suit jacket, something functional he might be able to wear to work if it was taken to an actual tailors and fixed, but after two months of work in your free time, you were quite proud of what you had created. It was something Nanami could hold onto as a gift from his lovely wife.

The next day was the first without him there at all. As you washed the dishes, all you could think about was calling him, though you knew he would be in meetings all day and would call you when he had the chance. But finally that day passed and it became the third, and you were truly grateful he would be home in the morning.

You dressed yourself in a light pink nightgown, it was Nanami’s favorite. The two nights before had been the worst sleep you’d gotten in a very long time, missing Nanami’s weight behind you while he wrapped his arms around your waist. You sighed, pulling it off and hanging it up again, instead opting for one of Nanami’s sleeping shirts, one that was just worn by him briefly before he left. He would be home soon afterall, it would be a waste to wear it just for yourself.

You put your hair up, sinking into bed. It only reminded you of that conversation the two of you had right after your marriage, trying to decide where the two of you would sleep. However, cuddling always seemed to dictate your spot on the bed, so neither the left nor the right side felt correct to lay on after all those months. You sprawled yourself out in the middle laying on your side, pushing a few pillows next to your back and taking Nanami’s to your face, and coupled with the shirt, it smelled just like him.

Just as you were about to fall asleep, the phone finally rang, and you hurriedly picked it up. “Hello? Kento?” you asked, waiting to hear his voice. “Y/n, I’m sorry I couldn’t call earlier,” he spoke, you could hear his heavy breaths through the speaker. “We were with the clients all day, I don’t think I’ll be doing this again if I can avoid it,” he voice was scratchy and tired. “I missed you, Kento,” you tried to speak quietly yourself, focusing on the sound coming from him. “I miss you too, my love,” he smiled hearing your words, even if he couldn’t see your face. “They had us turn in our phones, for confidentiality reasons,” he explained. “Makes sense, you’ll be back tomorrow?” you turned to lay on your back, holding the phone to your ear. “Yes, probably around 10:30,” he let out a long sigh. “I can’t wait to hear all about it,” you smiled, knowing your husband and you were tired. “I’ll stay on the phone until you fall asleep, how about that?” he asked as you put the phone on speaker mode and set it on the nightstand.

He started talking about his plane trip, and the struggle the group had when trying to find the hotel, they barely made it to the first meeting with the business representatives. By the third time he asked if you were still awake, you were sound asleep, he could hear your soft breathing through the phone. “Goodnight, my love, I’ll see you in the morning,” he whispered, before hanging up. Smiling to himself in the hotel room, he finished packing up his things for the early flight out, including the picture of the two of you he brought with and sat on his desk.

When he finally got home, it was Saturday. Your gift was already wrapped and set on the table in the living room, and the house was already clean from the day before. Of course with the combination of your tiredness, and being used to sleeping in late on the weekends, it almost lead to your absence at the door when Nanami walked in.

You ran to the door, Nanami walking in promptly at 10:30, and assisted him with his bags as if nothing was unusual. His smile remained as he eyed you, having not seen his cute little housewife in three whole days. More specifically, though, was the way you stood there, wearing his shirt. It was long enough to be a short dress for you, loosely covering your body as you greeted him with a soft smile and quick apology. “I’m so glad you’re back, Kento,” you helped him with his things as he hung up his coat. Nanami smirked, moving his hand to your cheek as he leaned down. “What a perfect surprise, my love,” he motioned to your outfit. Your face flushed bright red as you avoided his eyes, about to speak, though that was shortly cut off with a kiss. “I’m sorry, I slept in on accident,” you started, “your gift is on the table, I’ll go change,” he stopped you from moving.

“I quite like it, actually,” his hand moved down to intertwine with yours. “I’ve never seen you wear my shirts before,” he opened the box on the table, moving the paper from on top of the jacket.

“It’s not perfect, but I tried to make it to your measurements,” you muttered shyly, as he held it in his hands. “To think you’ve been working on this all this time,” he put the jacket on over his usual button up. “It fits quite well,” you always loved how your husband looked in a suit, and it was no different wearing this. “Should I take it to the tailors?” you asked, as he stared at the embroidery on the inside of the jacket. “I think it’s perfect, thank you, my love,” he pulled you against his chest.

“I’m glad you like it,” you smiled. “I seem to have a new favorite garment, it came just in time,” he remarked, loosening his tie and folding the jacket back up. “Since I have that time off, we should go somewhere and show this off,” Nanami grabbed your hand, starting to walk towards the bedroom. “Though, right now, I’d just like to spend time with you, my love.”

“I’m curious, why the change in outfit?” he asked once you entered the room. “Because… I missed you,” you mumbled, “and it smells good, like you.” Nanami gave you a smirk, picking up his pillow from where it laid in the middle of the bed. “And my pillow too, hmm?” you covered your face with your hand, embarrassed. “Well if you like my scent so much, I can certainly do something about that,” he chuckled, pulling you into a hug.

#nanami x reader #jjk #Jujutsu Kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #nanami x you #kento nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento #jjk nanami #kento nanami #kento #nanami

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luxurychristmaspudding · 3 months

Text

you and your friends (tommy's party pt. i)

summary: your handsome new roommate spells trouble. but you've got a handle on it. haven't you?

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. roommate!frankie, stoner!frankie and stoner!reader. mentions of drinking and smoking weed - they're having a good time! no lady and no baby. idiots in love, split pov, lots of fluff tbh and a whole lotta sexual tension. reader and frankie are little creeps n freaks. reader pays a visit to benny, frankie hooks up with 1 (one) other person. f&m masturbation, voyeurism, lots of cuddling. use of pet names (good girl, baby etc. (platonic, of course))

song is tagged at end of fic - header does not represent reader, only the album!

wc: 9.6k

an: *mc voice* let's get this party started!

part ii - tommy's party

When Frankie catches a glimpse of you from across Will’s crowded living room, he’s not so sure Benny’s idea is a good one.

The room is lit with yellow lamplight, heavy with the scent of sweat and alcohol and cigarette smoke. There are people crammed in everywhere; slumped over chairs and sofas, leant against door frames, moving in and out of the kitchen with the click of the door beads. A sluggish bass thumps out over the party, the thrum of laughter and conversation cushioning any other sound.

He stands at the back of a sofa which has been turned inwards towards the centre of the room, leaning over Santi and Will as they howl over some story they’re retelling for a couple of girls squished between them. Frankie had been quite happy listening and laughing along, but he’s distracted when Benny taps his arm with his beer bottle and motions over to you.

‘That’s her,’ he says, ‘The girl I was telling you about.’

And yeah, he’s very quickly sure that this is a bad idea.

Because you’re beautiful. A gorgeous wrap dress clinging to your curves, each outline flowing like you’d been poured into it. Jewellery clinking and glittering around your wrists, neck, and ears, and your hair shining like each strand had been arranged by some ethereal hand. Your smile bands out around you, bathing your audience in a kind of glow, a reflection of your warmth. Frankie watches as you tip your head back slightly in a boundless laugh, the corners of your eyes crinkling, the soft clasp of your hand falling on the forearm of the man sat next to you. Fuck.

Frankie swallows drily, and Benny places a hand on his shoulder.

‘Come on, Fish,’ he says, ‘I’ll introduce you. I’ve told her about you already.’

Frankie doesn’t want to move. He’d much rather watch, much rather have Benny do the heavy lifting here. He doesn’t think he can talk to you, much less make a good first impression.

But his friend is guiding him forwards, and he can’t help but be shepherded. Panic rises like bile in his throat, and he thinks of turning around, excusing himself to go to the bathroom and just sitting in his truck for a while instead, but then -

Your bright eyes flick up to find Benny approaching you, and your face lights up. You stand from where you were perched on the arm of a chair and walk around the bundle of people whom you'd entranced. You place a gentle hand on a soft-haired woman’s shoulder, inclining your head to say you’ll be back in a minute, before you open an arm to Benny.

‘Benny!’ You call, squeezing his waist as the younger man presses you to his side, planting a kiss to your forehead. ‘How are you, man?’ You ask. Benny returns your greeting, answering your question, but Frankie can’t concentrate on anything he’s saying. You listen intently to his friend, smiling and asking a couple more questions, before looking properly at Frankie.

‘Sorry - hey,’ you say softly, ‘You must be -’

‘Oh god,’ Benny chuckles, ‘Sorry, yes. This is Frankie.’ Benny moves to press Frankie forwards, and he stumbles a little as he catches your outstretched hand. If you notice, you don’t say anything, just smile warmly at him and shake, giving him your name.

‘It’s good to meet you, man,’ you say, ‘Benny here has told me a lot about you.’ Benny laughs, clapping Frankie on the back.

‘Only good things, Fish,’ he grins, ‘I promise.’ Frankie rolls his eyes at him.

‘So, you’re interested in the room?’ You ask, and Frankie turns back to you. He nods, swallowing.

‘Yeah, really interested. It’d be great to come over and take a look if you’re around.’ He surprises himself at how easily the words roll off his tongue. You offer him another kind smile, nodding encouragingly, and he finds himself relaxing.

‘Of course,’ you say, ‘You’d be very welcome to. You have glowing recommendations from the boys, anyway.’ You lean in closer to him, lowering your tone conspiratorially. ‘I’d have you moved in tomorrow if I could. Sold on you already.’ Frankie beams bashfully down at the carpet and bites his lip, Benny’s idea straying dangerously back into good territory.

‘I wouldn’t believe everything they tell you.’ He says, eyes trailing over your neckline, the dip in your cleavage, the hollow of your throat, skin gleaming and a little damp with sweat. You reach out and tuck a stray curl peeking out from his cap behind his ear.

‘Not at all, sugar,’ you murmur, and your touch, the pet name, sends a shiver down his spine. ‘I think we’d get along just fine.’

Benny leaves you both soon after, in search of another beer. He asks if you want one and you politely decline. Frankie does the same. You lead him to a quieter corner by the back window and pull him into easy conversation. You laugh and tell him this is his ‘interview’, but confess that you really have no idea what that might involve. Frankie lets you ask him any question that comes to your mind, and in this pool of time, you discover everything you could need to know about each other. Where you grew up, what your parents were like, whether you enjoyed school, what you eat when you’ve had a bad day, how often you clean the bathroom, what you do now, and what your dreams are for the future. You ask tentatively, respectfully about Delta Force. Frankie appreciates the way you preface it with an out - you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to - but he finds that he does. He spares the details but tells you about training, about flying, about meeting the boys. He tells you about Tom, and as little about Colombia as possible. You nod, brow furrowing in sympathy, in feeling, and squeeze his knee in comfort.

Frankie’s heart shouldn’t skip the way it does, but then you’re asking him more about what Tom was like, how his family are. When his eyes mist over, you take his hand. He runs a thumb over your knuckles. He tells you, cringing, about the coke charge, about his licence. About how he’s getting it back in spring. You grin brightly at him, congratulating him, sucking air in through your teeth and doing a little dance in your chair. Frankie laughs at you, heart swelling. He doesn’t know how you’re getting him to do this - tell you all this stuff, make it feel okay, make him feel great. But he loves it. He could get used to it. You’re sat close to his side, shoulder to shoulder, and you are so warm, your skin so soft. Frankie leans in closer.

‘How did you meet Benny?’ He asks, breathing the words into the shell of your ear over the music. You squirm, dipping your head away from him, and Frankie wonders for an awful moment if he’s misjudged the closeness, if he’s already overstepped your boundaries.

You look at him sideways, your body angled away from him.

‘He didn’t tell you?’ You ask.

Frankie raises an eyebrow, mouth open, ready to apologise. His brow furrows and he shakes his head.

‘No.’ He says. You smile at him, sighing heavily through your nose.

‘It’s a little embarrassing,’ you say, avoiding his gaze. ‘We met at a bar. We got on really well, and -’ you huff out a breath, meet Frankie’s eye again. He’s still watching you, not having put together the pieces. You roll your head onto your shoulder, pick the label on your bottle. ‘We slept together, Frankie.’

Frankie’s heart drops.

‘Oh.’ He says.

‘Yeah,’ you laugh, ‘Oh.’ You’re quiet for a moment, Frankie scrambling for the right thing to say. He’s too slow. You clap your hands down on your knees and rise from your seat.

‘I’m gonna head outside for a bit,’ you say. He watches you disappear with a weak smile, an anxious feeling welling in his chest.

Frankie sits for a few minutes, taking pulls from his beer, looking out over the crowd assembled in the living room.

His spots Benny lent against a wall, held up by an arm outstretched beside a girl’s head. A tongue of fire licks up through Frankie’s belly, and he has to sit with it for a moment to work out what it is. Jealousy. He’s jealous that Benny has already touched you, has already heard you. Jealous that Benny has already crossed that threshold, and now he has to be the one to move in and keep his distance. Arbitrary rules, he knows, rules which have been disregarded before. Already, you’d be more than a quick fuck. It’s crass, but Frankie knows you should be more than someone you take home from a bar. Maybe you are - you’re here, after all, clearly invited. Frankie’s mind rocks with the notion that Benny is saving you, keeping you around. It would be cruel of him, but not impossible. Benny had a bad habit of getting what he wanted.

Frankie grinds his teeth, tears his eyes away from his friend. Stupid, stupid. You’re someone he’s only just met, someone he might be living with. Whatever weird thing this is going on in his brain, he needs to fix it quick. Thoughts like these are not suitable in situations like living together.

Frankie stands, but instead of speaking to Benny, instead of getting to the bottom of why you’re here, he follows you through the door beads into the kitchen and out the back door.

You’re sat on the porch swing just below the kitchen window, and the surprise of finding you so easily brings Frankie to a sharp halt. You look up from your bag, eyes wide, lips slightly parted in the glow of the porch light.

‘Hey,’ you say softly, ‘Are you okay?’

Frankie breathes out heavily.

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘Sorry about that - in there,’ gesturing over his shoulder, back into the house.

‘Oh,’ you say, shaking your head and bringing out a small plastic baggy from your purse. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not a thing. There’s no -’ you wave a hand around your head, ‘Feelings there or anything. We’re just friends now.’

Frankie nods, leans against the doorframe. Hums a response.

‘You wanna sit?’ You ask, scooching over on the swing, patting the space next to you.

Frankie pushes off the frame and comes to sit next to you. He rocks the seat slightly with his feet, yours dangling a little too far off the ground to move it.

You grin at him, delighted with the movement. You shuffle to tuck your legs under you.

‘Amazing,’ you grin, ‘See? Already a dream team.’

Frankie grins back at you and watches you take more items out of your bag. A small, circular grinder, a tiny rolling tray, pink papers. You pop open the baggy, and the smell of the dried plant seeps through the air, rushing up his nostrils. Frankie breathes deeply, watching you sprinkle some of the bud into your open grinder. You close it, and look up at him.

‘You a narc?’ You ask, lips still quirked.

‘No.’ Frankie chuckles. You bite your cheek, shrug your shoulders.

‘Ya never know…’ you coo, and Frankie grins.

‘I got busted for coke, baby,’ he reminds you, ‘I’m not gonna rat you out for weed.’

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow.

‘Fair enough.’ You say. Frankie watches as you twist the grinder back and forth over the bud, entranced by the motion of your hands. His lips part, watching the strong flex of your wrists.

‘Do you smoke?’ You ask. His tongue dips out to lick the pillow of his lower lip, and you trace the movement with your eyes, fascinated. You swallow, clearing your throat softly. ‘Frankie?’

His eyes dart up to yours, embarrassed, flushed.

‘Yeah?’ He says.

‘Do you smoke?’ You repeat. He looks away from you, shy, shaking his head.

‘I used to,’ he says, ‘But not for a long time.’

You nod, looking out over the garden with him. The cool wind brushing through the trees, the luminescence of the town beyond their feathered tops.

‘You wanna share?’ You ask. He looks back at you, surprised, eyebrows high on his forehead. You shrug. ‘Don’t have to, of course. Especially if it’s not gonna be good for you. Just that - if you wanna move in, I’m afraid it’s a habit I won’t be quitting.’ You raise an eyebrow at him, half apologetic, half warning. He swallows visibly.

‘What if I get too high?’ He says, breathless. You snort, balancing the rolling tray on your knees as you separate the hash out onto the paper, on top of the lavender you’ve pulled from your purse.

‘It’s okay, sugar,’ you say, ‘I’ll look after you.’

Frankie stares at you, eyes wide.

You snicker at him, finish rolling, and lick the paper. Frankie watches the swipe of your tongue, its slow draw along the edge, and feels his cock twitch in his jeans. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea -

He watches as you perch the joint between your lips, put your shit back in your bag, and pull out a lighter. Your eyelashes flicker down to rest on your cheeks as the lighter clicks and you cup your hands around the flame. You take a deep breath in, hollowing your cheeks, lost to the sensation, the taste. Frankie’s jaw flexes, and he has to look away again. You exhale the thick smoke, blowing it away from him, taking another drag before knocking your hand against his arm.

‘Want some?’ You ask.

Frankie mutters a thanks and takes the joint clumsily in his fingers, rotating it until it’s comfortable in his grip. He brings it to his mouth, and you watch as he sucks in and immediately sputters out again. He bends over his knees in a hacking cough, and you gently take the spliff as you pat his back.

‘You okay?’ You ask, taking another draw for yourself. Frankie leans back against the seat, sucking in great breaths of air, eyes watery, his body still twitching. He gulps and nods, not looking at you. ‘Good.’ You say, softly.

Frankie tries again a few minutes later, and is a little more successful. You finish the rest of the joint together before you flick the roach off into the darkness. Your body hums with the crickets and the static of the night air, and you can’t wipe the grin off your face.

‘This is nice.’ You say dumbly, turning to face him.

His arms are crossed and his jaw is clenched again. He breathes deeply through his nose. You scrunch your face up at him, and he notices the movement out the corner of his eye. His gaze slips to you for just a second, and a large smile slips across his features. You giggle at him, heavy and giddy. The urge to take the hand folded closest to you strikes, and when you do, he turns to look at you properly.

‘You have really nice hair,’ you say softly. Frankie chuckles, unable to help himself. You grin at him. ‘What?’ You say. ‘You do.’

Frankie laughs harder, and you reach over to take the cap off his head. He makes a slow, unconvincing grab for it before you settle it on your own hair, kneeling up to swipe a hand through his curls. He watches you, unable to look away, and you gasp at the feeling of it carding through your fingers.

‘So soft,’ you breathe, delighted. You look into his eyes again, one hand cradling the back of his head. His eyes dart down to your mouth, and you lick your lips before starting to giggle. ‘Anyone ever told ya you got baby cow eyes?’ You say.

Frankie’s brow furrows slightly. His words are slow and slurred. ‘What?’

You giggle harder and move your hand round to cup his cheek, looking at him very seriously.

‘Your eyes,’ you say, ‘Are like a baby cow’s.’ A slow spread of joy glows across Frankie’s features. His eyes scrunch up with his smile. ‘Nooo,’ you cry softly, ‘Now they’re all happy. They’re not all big and brown anymore.’

Frankie laughs with unbridled amusement, his head dropping from your hand as he clutches at your knees.

‘A baby cow?’ He gasps. You nod quickly, enthusiastically.

‘Yeah, Frankie. You got real pretty eyes.’ Your own are wide and earnest, and that seems to convince him. He raises an eyebrow before grinning goofily at you, lifting a finger to tap your nose.

‘You think I’m cute.’ He says, and you snort, which only sends him off into a flood of more giggles.

‘I didn’t say that. Only said you got pretty eyes.’

It’s only a little, tiny lie. And you think it’s for the best.

You spend another hour out on the porch before returning to the party, and though you don’t stray far from each other, you make a point of finding Frankie before you leave. You hand him your phone, and he stares at it, confused, before you roll your eyes playfully and say -

‘I need your number, dummy. For the room.’

He taps his number into your phone, and you save it with a little cow emoji next to his name. Frankie bites away his smile.

When he’s lying on the sofa in the dark later, surrounded by bottles and cans and ashy cigarette ends, he can’t stop grinning to himself.

You text him early the next morning, giving him a time and a date to come and see the flat. Frankie replies with so much enthusiasm that he flushes when he reads the message back, dropping his phone onto the coffee table as he stretches out on Will’s floor. He sacrifices his spot on the sofa to Will and Benny, Santi beside him as they watch Face/Off over breakfast.

He doesn’t see your reply until the movie ends.

Can’t wait! So excited to see you!

He sets his phone back down with a happy sigh, so loud that Will and Santi, and then Benny, ask him what he’s so pleased about.

He only gets them to stop probing by smacking Will in the face with a cushion.

---

Frankie moves in a week later, while you’re at work.

You think it’ll be much easier for you both. If you were in the flat you’d only be in the way, and he probably needs the space and time to figure out where he wants to put his stuff. Plus, the idea of seeing him all hot and sweaty is one that, quite frankly, you’ve been trying to avoid.

Benny had told you all about his friends on that first date at the bar. You had been taken with the way he’d talked about them, so fond and positive. You’d enjoyed asking him so many questions, and were delighted when he asked you so many in return. And Benny was cute - he was hot. Enthusiastic and giving and good. But you knew, even laying next to him, both panting, turning your heads to grin at each other at the same time, that it wouldn’t go anywhere.

He had been your type on paper. He’d ticked so many boxes, and you had both fallen into that first date with such excitement - but there was just something missing. There was no burn. You had a good time, you wanted to see him again, but you didn’t yearn for him the way you wanted to. You didn’t miss him when he wasn’t around, you weren’t worried about him fucking other girls.

It hadn’t been a difficult conversation to have. Benny took it better than you’d hoped, and once it had been established, friendship came easily. You met Will, got on well, and the three of you would go for drinks. Benny would come over to watch a film and eat takeout, and you never touched each other. Sure, you thought about it. But you were on a mission to make life easier for yourself. To not fuck around and get attached to someone you shouldn’t get attached to.

So you should have known better when he introduced you to Frankie. Should have made up some excuse, even if he pretty much had the room after all the boys had told you. Should have backed out as soon as those beautiful brown eyes blinked at you, at that first curve of a shy smile, as soon as you’d tucked that curl behind his ear. Because Frankie was someone you could get attached to. Watching him cook, watching the steam trail out behind him after a shower, watching him stretch out on the sofa with a book, having him crinkle his crows feet at you from across the kitchen as he sips his coffee, the low timbre of his voice reaching you across the floorboards, none of these things are something you needed to know, to see. You should have known better.

Work has been busy, long.

So busy you had to stay behind for a couple of hours to make sure the late shift got set up properly, and then you could trudge home. The bus journey, the walk up the hill, the clamber up the stairs to your front door.

When you make it halfway up the stairs, you can smell it. A delicious, warm waft of heady spices, of richness flowing down through the stairwell. You breathe deeply, aching feet pausing on the concrete just so you can tip your head back and inhale. Your stomach growls loudly, and you wish whoever is cooking a good meal, because it sure fucking smells like it.

The smell is stronger on your floor, and you’re still taking deep breaths when you push open your front door. There’s the sound of sizzling coming from the kitchen, the low hum of the radio playing. You toe off your trainers, leaving them next to a couple of unpacked cardboard boxes, splashing your keys into the bowl on the sideboard.

‘Frankie?’ You call. There’s no answer.

You move towards the sound, and push open the door to the kitchen.

Frankie is stood with his broad back to you, stirring something in a pot. He bops his head and hums in time with the radio, unaware of you behind him.

‘Holy fuck, Frankie. That smells amazing.’

He turns with a wide smile, a spatula in his hand.

‘Welcome home. I made enough for us both.’

You grin at him, dropping your bag and shucking off your jacket, coming to stand beside him. You ask about what he’s cooking, and he talks you through each step, the ingredients he’s used, and finally, blessedly, tells you it’ll be ready in five minutes.

You eat across the table from each other in quiet, easy conversation. Even with it all so new, with so many of his unpacked boxes still dotted around the flat, it feels like Frankie has always been here.

You wash and dry the plates side by side, laughing and happy and full. You retreat to your respective bedrooms to change into your pyjamas, and then you prop your door open for Frankie to come join you if he’d like. You flick on an episode of Adventure Time and dig around in your bedside table for your rolling stuff, sitting cross-legged and giggling at the cartoon as you grind, arrange, and roll the joint.

Your roommate appears in the doorframe, arms folded across his chest.

‘Come in,’ you say, beckoning him closer, shuffling on the bed to make room for him. He eyes the spliff in your hand. ‘Wanna join?’ You ask. He hesitates.

‘Just a little.’

You nod, stretching off the bed towards the window, grabbing your lighter from the ledge. You flick it to life as Frankie watches from the bed, your legs bare below your sleep shorts, your nipples hard beneath your t-shirt in the cool night air. You jerk your head at him as you exhale, and he crawls over the bed towards you. You try not to think of the way he moves as you hand it to him.

Frankie puffs from the joint a couple times, and passes it back to you. You continue the routine until there’s nothing left, finishing the last couple of tokes before flicking the roach onto the street below.

‘What do ya wanna do?’ You ask him, closing the window. Frankie’s settled back on your bed amongst your pillows. He frowns at the ceiling.

‘Watch a movie.’ He says, and you giggle at the tacky sound of his speech.

‘Come on then, buddy,’ you say, taking his hand and pulling him from the mattress. ‘We’ll watch it on the sofa. You need some water,’ you sing, leading him towards the kitchen. ‘And we’re gonna need snacks.’

Frankie chuckles at the way you say it, a faux accent twanging at your words. He lets you push him down onto the sofa and watches you dopily as you busy yourself with refreshments. You dump everything on the coffee table before turning on the TV.

‘Help yourself,’ you say, gesturing to your stash, and Frankie leans forward in slow motion to grab a can of coke. You giggle at him. ‘What do you wanna watch?’

Frankie cracks the can open and shrugs.

‘Don’t mind.’

You think for a moment, roving through Netflix before slapping his arm.

‘Oh my god!’ You laugh. ‘Notting Hill. We’ll watch Notting Hill. Holy fuck, it’s so bad when you’re stoned, you have no idea.’

Frankie groans beside you, leaning forward again to grab a bag of chocolate pretzels. He rips them open and offers one to you.

‘Whatever you say, boss.’ He smiles.

Halfway through the film, Frankie’s eyes begin to seriously droop. You can’t blame him. It must have been a long day.

When his head drops to your shoulder, you let him cuddle in. He stays there for a while, but when he wakes with a start at the soreness, you manoeuvre him to turn and lay with his head on your lap. He’s pliant and soft in your hands, sighing with relief as he settles. You run a hand through his curls, scratching at his scalp, twisting strands gently around your finger. You stroke and scratch absentmindedly, watching Hugh Grant’s dramatic confession, only remembering what you’re doing when a deep snore resonates from below you.

You look down to find Frankie sound asleep, peaceful face turned up towards you. You admire his silky hair, the scruff of his beard, the heart shaped patch on the side of his face. His soft, full bottom lip, strong nose, the slope and sweep of his brow. You smile at him, something stirring in your belly.

‘Little baby cow.’ You murmur to yourself, and bite your lip to keep from smiling any wider.

---

The first weekend you have off together comes weeks after Frankie moves in.

You have a long, cosy lie in before running your respective errands in the morning, planning to reconvene in the afternoon with food and movies and your other favourite pastime.

By some miracle, you get home before Frankie, and unload your bag of snacks and oven food onto the kitchen table. You’re just organising it, putting away what needs to be in the fridge, when Frankie steps through the front door with a crate of soda and your favourite flowers in his other hand.

‘Hey,’ he grins at you, kicking the door shut before stepping into the room and holding out the blooms. ‘These are for you.’

You take the flowers carefully, admiring the colours, the form, the texture. You look back at him with shining eyes, and Frankie blushes.

‘How did you -’

He shrugs, moving to put the soda in the fridge. With his back to you, he says -

‘You mentioned them once, ‘bout a week after I moved in.’

Your heart melts a little, touched at the care, the thought.

‘Just thought, ya know - don’t need an occasion. Sometimes it’s just nice to pick something up and say I thought of you.’

You blush at his words, just as he turns back around and spots on the table -

‘Holy shit,’ he says, picking up the chocolate covered pretzels. ‘I was just thinking of these! I didn't get any while I was out and they’re my -’ He looks up at you, a knowing smile creeping across his lips.

‘Your favourite,’ you say. ‘I saw them and thought of you.’

Frankie laughs, stepping forward to press a kiss to your forehead.

‘Dream fuckin’ team.’ He says.

You’re both back in your pyjamas within ten minutes, sat on Frankie’s bed, a joint on the bedside table ready to go.

He flicks through the home screen of his Playstation, settling on Red Dead Redemption 2, starting up the game as you lean out his window to dispel the first stream of smoke. You pass it back and forth between you, and when it’s done Frankie chucks the roach in his bin. You climb underneath the duvet and watch Arthur Morgan’s adventures through hooded eyes, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. He’s warm and solid beneath you, and you wrap your hands around his arm, breathing him in. You watch in rapt fascination as he tracks down carvings in the mountains, giggle and scold him when he barrels down the wrong side of the roads, and swat at him when his horse gets hit by a train. He loads back up his previous save to get her back, and you visit a time traveller, hunt for vampires in Saint Denis, and squeal when a UFO appears over an abandoned hut filled with rotted bodies. He tells you the stories of the characters in a spaced out slur, and you immerse yourself in the sunshine, the rain, the snow, the mists. You close your eyes to the sounds of hooves, of birds, of nature, of Frankie’s strong heartbeat and his deep breathing.

At some point in the evening, you wake again, sitting and stretching. Frankie smiles sleepily down at you.

‘I’m gonna head to bed in a bit.’ He says, and you smile at him, kneading your neck.

‘No worries,’ you mumble. ‘I’ll head to mine, too. Catch you in the morning.’

Frankie fist bumps you as you stumble towards the door.

‘Thanks for hanging out.’ He says. You snort at him before opening the door.

‘No worries, Fish,’ you say, ‘I’m sure I was great company.’

He grins back, and you blow a kiss before snicking the door shut.

Your own sheets are blissfully cool, and you turn on a little quiet music to get yourself off to sleep. The soft, slow jangle of guitars and low voices do the trick, and if you turn your head just so, you can still smell Frankie on your pyjama top.

---

When you come through to the kitchen the next morning, Frankie is already cooking breakfast. He looks cosy in his old Lakers top and sweats that only just cling to his hips. It tightens something in your belly.

‘I’m making eggs and bacon,’ he says, before gesturing with a spatula to the percolator. ‘There’s coffee over there if you want some.’

‘You tryna seduce me or something?’ You ask, waggling your eyebrows. Frankie laughs at you, gorgeous little crows feet crinkling in the corners of his eyes. You have to look away quickly to hide your own gooey expression.

‘No,’ he says, voice grappling with something of an edge - laughter, a little teasing, ‘I’m not in the business of fucking my friends.’ You flash your eyes back to him, eyebrows raised in surprise, and he’s peering at you from below his eyelashes, biting his lip. A grin blows out across your cheeks, and you bite your lip back.

‘Unfortunately for you, I am,’ you sigh, sweeping your hand across the edge of the kitchen table before glancing at him, his attention turned back to breakfast. ‘Santi still single?’

Frankie freezes over the eggs he’s cooking. He looks up at you slowly. Your heart dips in your chest, legs flooding with the feeling that you’ve definitely said the wrong thing.

‘Are you - are you… interested?’

You feel your cheeks heat.

‘I -’ you rub your face, trying to organise your thoughts. Frankie feels something like a freight train headed towards him. ‘No,’ You say, turning fully towards him, smiling a little. ‘No, I’m not. He’s great - he’s a lovely guy, but no.’

Frankie nods, once, twice, before staring back down at the yellow in the pan. He can’t remember what he was doing. Frying or scrambling? They’re too far gone now. He’ll have to try and pass them off as an omelette.

‘It was a stupid joke.’ You mumble, and Frankie shakes his head at the pan.

‘No, no,’ he says, ‘I just, ya know, if you were -’

You smile at him.

‘You’d set me up?’

Frankie shrugs. You smirk.

‘Well then. If you’re patient, sugar, I might make my way through everyone. Finish with you, of course, make sure we last a little longer.’

Frankie’s head whips up, jaw dropped. He breathes your name, and you laugh.

‘My god, Fish. I’m kidding.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Frankie laughs, relieved, disappointed. You dance around the kitchen table towards him, reaching out your hands to squish his cheeks, chanting got ya, got ya, as Frankie curls the dish cloth from over his shoulder to whip you with it.

You shriek and leap out of his way, running from him.

Frankie makes no move to follow you, turning off the stove instead, plating up the eggs and bacon. You’re still giggling at him, now armed with a dish cloth of your own. He points at you with the spatula.

‘Sit.’ He says, and you laugh again, taking a seat as Frankie brings over the plates and cutlery. As he settles, you leap up. Frankie watches you.

‘Where are you going?’ He says, spearing some egg with his fork. You return to the table with two mugs of coffee.

‘Can’t forget the most important part of the meal.’ You say, sitting and slurping loudly, winking at him over the ceramic.

Frankie laughs at you through a mouthful of food.

‘You coming to Will’s tonight?’ He asks, swallowing.

You hum a little.

‘Yeah, guess so.’ You say.

‘Boys’ll be there,’ he says, ‘So you’ll know a few faces. Not sure who else.’

You nod, shovelling bacon into your mouth. Frankie smiles.

‘Sure,’ you say, ‘I’ll come.’

That night, you find yourselves round at Will’s again. What was supposed to be a relatively quiet poker night has inevitably turned into too many people drinking too much booze, but he never seems to mind.

Frankie is back leaning on the sofa, listening to Santi and Will talk. He’s laughing, thinking he should go and grab you in a minute - he doesn’t know how many of these stories you’ve heard, but he’s sure you’d enjoy them. He has a compulsion to watch you laugh, to see you enjoy the people around you, to feel the shine of your company, to see the way you look at him, eyes dancing with amusement, always as though there is some kind of joke you’re thinking of that only he will understand.

When he looks around the living room, he can’t find you. It’s not unusual. He knows by now that you’ll be off chatting to whoever is lucky enough to find you, and he finds himself moving in the direction of the kitchen, pushing through the door beads. When he doesn’t see you in there, he catches Benny at the sink, asking if he’s seen you.

‘Sure,’ he says, ‘I was just with her. She’s out on the porch swing.’

A muscle flexes in Frankie’s jaw as he moves away from Benny, that familiar creep of possessiveness crawling up his throat. Stupid, stupid. He’s already asked him, knows that he wants nothing from you. So why does it irritate him so much?

You’re outside on the swing just like Benny said, gazing up at the stars as Frankie slumps down beside you. He bounces the chair, and you giggle at him.

‘Having a good time?’ You ask. He nods.

‘Yeah. You?’

You nod, tilting your face to look at him. Frankie doesn’t know when he decided it, but he’s sure your eyes are the prettiest he’s ever seen. He loves the way they shine out at him now in the glow of the porchlight, warm and kind and soft. That sunny feeling he gets as he watches you moves something silken and deep within him, something lonely.

I was just with her. Unfortunately for you, I am -

‘What?’ You say softly.

‘Nothin’,’ he shrugs. ‘Just glad I met you.’

You scoff lightly at him, knocking your head against his shoulder.

‘Glad I met you, too, sugar.’ You murmur, and when Frankie meets your eye, his breath seizes in his lungs.

You are so close.

Your eyes dart between his own and his mouth, lingering on the shape of his lips, the flecks of grey in his moustache. He can’t move as you lean closer to him, as you ghost two fingers over his wrist. Your eyes are burning, teasing, curious as he stares down at your lips, soft and inviting, curved around so many wonderful words, wrapped around the end of a joint or a beer bottle -

‘There you are,’ Will says, bursting through the back door. You startle away from Frankie, and he feels dizzy at the change, at the rush of what was about to happen. The warm press of your body against his. ‘C’mon,’ says Will, ‘We’ve got a poker game to win.’

You watch as Frankie hauls himself away from you, settling back in the swinging chair. When the door shuts behind the two men, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the rattle of your heartbeat.

---

You wake as though through fog, to a noise you can’t quite place.

It’s quiet, but almost right by your head. A slick, rhythmic sound, heavy breaths, quiet groans, curses. Through slipping sleep, you process them, too tired to be embarrassed, to be thinking straight. The sounds of Frankie jerking off go straight to your core, and you can feel yourself growing wetter and wetter as you listen, as you slip your hand beneath the elastic of your panties and join him, careful to muffle your own sounds to hear him better.

You become frantic as he grows louder, as he mutters to himself, as his bed moves just enough to squeak. You feel your eyes roll to the back of your head as he looses a particularly loud fuck, and then a strangely familiar word, followed by a long, low groan. You come hard on your fingers, panting as the heat subsides, as you hear Frankie leave his room and head to the bathroom.

Languid and liquid in the sunbeams on your blankets, it takes you longer than it should to decipher what you’d heard. Longer than it should to wonder if it really was your name he’d gasped as he came.

Frankie needs air.

He needs to get out of the apartment, so while he’s drinking his morning coffee, he drafts up a list of things to do. Parcels to return, small things to buy, a new coffee shop he’d like to try out. Anything to try and clear you out his head. The feel of your body pressed against his on the seat, the ghosting of your fingers on the inside of his wrist, the flame in your eyes. The way you’d jumped when Will found you, whether you meant it, whether he was imagining it, what he was going to do, what he was not going to do -

You shuffle into the kitchen still in your pyjamas, stifling a yawn behind a hand. You help yourself to coffee from the percolator, and Frankie tells you he’s heading out. You nod and give him a squeeze, saying you’re off to the gym, anyway. Frankie tries not to think of how your ass looks in your blue leggings, and sets off down the stairwell.

He stays out for as long as possible, breathing in the fresh, spring air, looking into shop windows and petting passing dogs. He only decides to call it a day when his stomach starts growling and his feet start aching.

He feels good, energised.

Maybe he should get out more often.

Frankie shuts the front door gently behind him, placing his keys in the bowl. He says your name, only half expecting a reply. You didn’t say when you were heading out, or when you’d be back.

He yanks his boots off by the shoe rack you set up last week, and tucks them away neatly. His feet carry him towards the kitchen, fingers itching to hold a cup of coffee and sandwich before a soft sound stops him. His heart leaps in his throat, and he freezes, not daring to take another step.

He registers the soft sound of the running shower, and anticipation lodges itself in his belly. He waits, heart hammering in his chest, and almost moves before he definitely, definitely hears it again.

You moan softly on the other side of the bathroom door, and Frankie’s eyes flutter shut.

He should go. He should absolutely go, but he can see from here in the hallway that the bathroom door is open just a crack. And he has always been a flawed person, which is why it doesn’t surprise him that when he goes to shut it, to knock, to move past, he can’t keep himself from looking. Can’t stop his eyes from finding you, back against the tile, hair dripping down your shoulders, water spattering across your skin as you stand with your legs apart, one hand spreading you open, fingers moving fast across your clit. Frankie grips onto the door handle as his eyes close again.

Because he knows what’s about to happen. Hot shame floods through him as his cock hardens embarrassingly fast, a thin ringing in his ears as he opens his eyes again, takes in the soft flesh of your thighs, the flow of water, the rivulets tracing your skin, your glistening core, the way your fingers move so desperately -

And Frankie can see it, can feel it, can taste it when he imagines opening the door and climbing there with you, not giving you a chance to be surprised before he sinks to his knees and replaces your hand with his mouth.

With shaking fingers, he unbuttons his jeans, unzips his fly, and begins to stroke his cock.

He has no idea how long you’ve been in there for, but he watches closely, ravenously for your tells. It’s not gonna take him long, but he wants to watch you fall apart first.

He watches you move your weight so you slump a little lower on the wall, a harsh gasp leaving your lips. He watches as your hips twitch and roll forwards as you slow your pace, rubbing harder instead of faster, and he barely contains his own moan as you whine, high-pitched and needy, echoing off the walls. He watches your tummy clench with each stroke of your fingers, stares with drooling amazement as you snake a hand up your body to grasp and play with your tits, squeezing them, rolling your nipples between your fingers, pinching them as hard as you can. Frankie grunts when you gasp out a fuck, and for a long, heart clenching second, he thinks you hear him. You slow your movements, trying to peer through the dark crack in the door.

Frankie can’t move, can’t stop fisting his cock as he watches you, precum dripping through his fingers, the dirty thrill of getting caught spurring him on.

You listen carefully, turning your head to the side to see if you can catch any more noises. Satisfied you’re still alone, you continue, this time quickly finding a pace which Frankie can tell will send you off the edge. Your wet skin, the slick sounds of your fingers even over the running water, and your moans, gasps, curses, getting even louder.

Frankie stares still, enraptured by the goddess in front of him unravelling herself, and he wants nothing more than to touch you, taste you, smell you. He tries not to think of what he’d give to be inside you, but a soft moan escapes him anyway. Imagining the clench of your warm, wet cunt, hearing you make those noises for him, the slip of your wet skin in his grasp, your tits in his hands, the bite of your teeth on his shoulder sends him rocketing to his orgasm. He barely has time to wrap the bottom of his t-shirt around his cock, biting his fist as he empties himself, opening his eyes just in time to watch your body spasm and clench, your back arch, your head knock against the tiles as you cry out oh fuck, oh fuck, oh god.

Once you finish riding it out, whimpering and twitching, you close your eyes and breathe heavily. Frankie feels feverish, head tipping forwards onto the door frame as he tucks himself gently back into his boxers and pulls his jeans back up. He takes one last breath before a short, shrill beep echoes throughout the apartment.

Your eyes snap to the door again as you jump, and Frankie flinches, slowly backing away as you cock your head at the gap. Beep. Frankie can feel his pulse in his ears as he reaches the front door with soft treads, managing to open it quietly through his blind panic just as you turn the shower off. He slams it shut, calling your name from the entryway, cringing at the breaking huskiness of his voice. He waits a few seconds as though he’s taking off his shoes before running to his room, hearing the snick of the bathroom door closing just as his shuts behind him.

Frankie leans against the wood, forcing short breaths in and out his nose. Beep.

The smoke detector again, on the other side of the door. It shocks him back to life as he rips his shirt off, stuffing it deep in his laundry hamper before scrambling for a new one, praying to whatever god is out there that you hadn’t just caught him in such an obvious lie. That you hadn’t just caught him jerking off to you masturbating in the shower.

Frankie leaves his room as quickly as possible, knowing that the longer he stays in there the more likely it is you’ll know something is wrong. He yanks the door open, stepping out into the hallway, stopping to listen on the hardwood floor. There’s not a peep from the rest of the flat, but the door to the bathroom is now wide open, small tendrils of steam slipping out into the hallway. Frankie takes a deep breath and steps lightly down the hallway to the kitchen, intent on coffee this time, on something to distract him, something to do with his hands. Beep.

He works on autopilot as he pours the grounds into the percolator, throwing up a mental wall every time a glimmer of your body passes through his mind. When he sets it over the stove top he grips the counter, shoulders hunched, chewing his cheek as he breathes heavily through his nose. This time, the beep of the smoke detector makes him jump, and he swipes a hand over his mouth.

‘We need to change the batteries in that.’ You say, and Frankie flinches as you breeze past him into the kitchen. He can’t look at you, shame and arousal colouring his neck, all the way up to the tips of his ears. He makes a noise in his throat, and you shoot him a look over your shoulder.

‘You okay?’ You ask. He swings his eyes to you, and you look back at him the same as always. Warm, kind. You can’t know. You must be oblivious, and somehow that makes it worse.

‘Yeah,’ he says, and tries to smile, ‘Just need a coffee.’

His eyes try not to linger on your body, try not to linger on your lips, your hands. He grips the countertop harder. Stop it. Stop thinking about it.

You smile back at him.

‘If you’re sure,’ you say, sidling closer, laying a hand on his shoulder. You squeeze and wink up at him. ‘Can you make me one? I’m exhausted.’

Frankie tries to muffle his sharp intake of air with a cough. I’m exhausted. How long had you been in there? Had you even been to the gym? Or had you just spent the morning grinding and moaning and coming -

‘Sure.’ He croaks, and you frown at him.

‘You’re really feeling okay?’ You ask, bringing the back of your hand to his forehead. ‘Might be coming down with something. Tired and coughing.’

He shakes his head a little too enthusiastically.

‘No, I’m fine.’ He says, interrupted only by the beep of the smoke alarm. You pull a face at it, and he moves to take the coffee off the stove.

‘Go get the ladder,’ he says, ‘And I’ll change the batteries.’

You swish out of the kitchen, and Frankie scrubs his face with his hands, groaning out a god before taking two mugs from the cupboard and filling them. He’s just finished pouring in the creamer when you struggle back through the doorway, huffing under the weight of the stepladder.

‘Coffee’s there.’ He says, jerking his head in the direction of the mugs as he takes it from you. Frankie sets it up under the detector, stepping up the first couple of rungs before you stand in front of him. He quirks an eyebrow at you, and you tighten your hands around the ladder’s sides, holding it steady.

‘Don’t want you doing any damage to yourself.’ You say softly.

Frankie nods and continues climbing, trying not to think of how close you are. He focuses as he reaches the ceiling, stretching up to unscrew the device.

You swallow as you’re exposed to the slither of skin the action reveals, golden in the afternoon light, and the dark hair which trails down, down, below the waistline of his jeans.

‘Take it for me.’ He says from above you, and you drag your eyes away to meet his, flushing as you reach up to grab the alarm, fingers brushing. You watch as Frankie’s gaze darkens, as he takes you in, flushed, lips bitten, standing at the perfect height. The greedy way you’d been looking at his stomach, water, thighs, fingers -

‘Thank you.’ He says, and you take the detector away to replace the batteries, your fingers shaking. Frankie watches you hungrily, the curve of your jeans, the slope of your neck when you flick your hair behind you. He’s still watching when you turn back to him and hand him the device.

‘Good girl.’ He says. Heat rushes through you at the words, your breath catching in your throat. Frankie’s movements falter only slightly before he’s reaching up again to screw the detector back in. You stare at his belly, the coarse hair, and try to think of anything but nuzzling your nose against the skin, breathing him in, unbuttoning his jeans, taking his cock in your mouth, thinking about what he’d look like, what he’d feel like, what he’d taste like, whether it would be as good as what you’d imagined in the shower -

Frankie steps down from the ladder, prizing your hands off the metal, folding it shut and carrying it back out the room.

‘All done.’ He says.

You run a hand through your hair, pinching the bridge of your nose. Jesus.

You take a seat at the dining room table, and when Frankie joins you, you drink your coffee in near silence.

At work, later that evening, you shut yourself in the bathroom during your break. You bite your lip so hard it bleeds when you make yourself come, embarrassingly quick, to thoughts of what might have happened if you’d kissed Frankie’s stomach on the ladder. The uncomfortable ache in your core barely sated, your panties soaked, you try to do anything to distract yourself for the rest of the shift. Anything to keep your hands busy.

And in his bed, later that night, when he’s sure you must be asleep, Frankie takes his cock in his hand again. It doesn’t take him long, guiltily indulging in what he’d seen from the crack in the bathroom door. He comes with a quiet groan and a whisper of your name, wishing that you were there to lick the salt off his chest.

He falls asleep to thoughts of you, like he has done from the night you met.

---

A week passes, and Frankie's pretty sure he's going insane.

He can’t shower without picturing the way you had stood there, moaning and gasping. He can’t stop thinking of the way you had looked at him on the ladder, the way you’d looked at him sat on Will’s porch. He has to jerk off at least twice a day, and aside from it being a fucking inconvenience, he’s beginning to feel like a creep.

He thinks he needs to get laid.

There’s a girl you work with - Tasha - who gave Frankie her number not long after you started living together. She was pretty, nice enough, but Frankie hadn’t been looking for anything, and he certainly didn’t want to shit where you ate. But he texts her anyway. It’s late and sleazy, but she says yes. They meet at a bar, and when they stumble through the front door, you’re already home.

You’re sprawled out on your bed, a joint already rolled, leftovers from work in the fridge, ready to hunker down and fill Frankie in on your day, ready to hear him tell you about his, watch some shit on the television. Tonight felt like a David Attenborough night.

You jump as the front door bangs open, as two sets of feet come tumbling in. Your heart beats loudly in your chest at the noise, at the intrusion, unsure whether you should leap up to defend your roommate or hide. Then you hear the wet sounds of kissing, the low mumble of Frankie’s words, a high-pitched laugh you recognise as the front door shuts and Frankie’s opens.

You wait with baited breath, somehow unable to believe what is happening. Your fingers flutter on your chest, anxiously pressing the skin there.

Frankie’s never brought anyone home before. You don’t quite know what to do with yourself.

You’ve also never quite thought about how thin the wall is between your bedroom and his.

The realisation makes your skin flush, heated even more when you hear the mumbles and groans from the other side of the wall. Frankie saying something in a language you don’t understand, and Tasha’s breathy reply.

You don’t know how long you listen for, frozen on your mattress as you listen to the creak of Frankie’s bed, the whines and moans falling from them. The low timber of Frankie’s speech sinks itself into the centre of your body, heating and melting. You close your eyes as you try to pick out what he’s saying, as you listen for his panting breaths, his low moans. You can feel your underwear growing wet with slick, your body tightening - hot - and then Tasha cries out.

The sound shocks you from your reverie, shame, annoyance imploring your body to move. You raise up on your knees and pound your fist against the wall. Everything falls silent.

You breathe deeply for a moment before Frankie says something quietly, answered only by Tasha’s low giggle. Your tongue feels like ash in your throat as they both say a couple more things, more laughs pouring through the wall before you’re up, pulling on a hoodie over your tank top, leaving your room.

There’s another shock of silence as Frankie and Tasha hear you moving, but you’re already pulling your trainers on. You can hear Frankie say something on the other side of his door, can hear it getting louder as he moves towards it, but you’re slamming the front door closed before he can intercept you.

Your Uber ride is quiet, seething. You chew your lip, clench and unclench your fists. Your phone buzzes in your grip several times, but you don’t check it.

When you reach the low, suburban house with the cacti out front, you waste no time worrying about whether you look pretty enough. Because he’s always said you are on the nights when he’s had too much to drink.

You should know better before you raise your hand to knock. But you don’t spare a second thought as your knuckles rap against the wood. You shut down all other thoughts as the door swings open, him knowing exactly when to expect you as soon as you’d called. Something about military training and timing.

‘Hey.’ Benny says, standing in the doorway, moving aside to let you pass.

‘Hey.’ You smile back at him as you step into his house, toeing off your trainers, stripping yourself of your hoodie.

Benny eyes you hungrily as you stand before him in your tank top. You feel the heat coil in your belly again as he steps towards you, the slick in your underwear pooling as he kisses you hard and hot and open mouthed, as you tangle your hands in his hair, as you scratch at the bare skin of his hip beneath his top. You moan against him when you feel him already hard at your stomach.

‘Bed.’ He growls.

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #pedro pascal fanfiction #frankie morales x you #pedro pascal x reader #peach pit #tommy's party #you and your friends #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales x you #Spotify

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shurisasthmaticgf · 3 months

Text

daughter of hades blk! reader ⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

summary: you arrive to camp half-blood and are the only topic of conversation. rumors already circulate catching the attention of one particular cabin which means you now have a problem with one specific girl. everyone is dying to know who your father is but you're trying to protect your identity unsure of what will come when he claims you as his own. what nobody expected was it all to happen on your very first night.

character list: hades daughter! reader, clarisse, grover, percy, annabeth, male oc (briefly)

warnings: swearing, fighting, mentioned parent loss, clarisse is a bitch

You dragged your feet along the dirt pathway that led back towards the open grass training grounds of the camp. The other campers were enjoying their night after a long game of capture the flag you missed by a day. You were slightly appreciative that you got to camp when you did because fighting off a fury and minotaur in one day was enough. The entire idea of this place was just peculiar to you but you’d seen much stranger on the New York subways back home. One minute you were walking home from school half an hour after it began because some girl in your class lied and said you punched her. The next minute some winged lady with a bad pixie cut was trying to kill you. Not even three hours later, a minotaur nearly succeeded in the fury’s failed task.

Upon your arrival people were interested to know who the new girl was that escaped the minotaur's clutches. Rumors began to circulate that you were a daughter of Poseidon because of the minotaur fight. According to one of the girls in your cabin, a demigod named Percy killed a minotaur on his first night at camp and got claimed as Poseidon's first son shortly after. Since you’d also “defeated” a minotaur in everyone else’s eyes that meant to them that maybe you too were a child of Poseidon. Everyone seemed to like that narrative except one cluster of Ares children that had been eyeing you all day in way that felt a lot less than admiration. It didn’t help that the rumors followed your every step and grabbed more attention the longer you stayed in the open.

You had only made it a few steps outside of Hermes cabin and the amount of stares you were getting made your skin crawl. Just as you were about to give up on trying to make it to dinner, a familiar face appeared in front of you. The satyr greeted you, “Hey you’re outside again. I was coming to invite you to dinner. Oh and I made you something in arts & crafts.” He pulled a small crown of yellow and white dandelions from behind his back and placed it on your head gently. You couldn’t help but smile at the gesture, “Thank you, Grover. It’s beautiful.” The satyr stuck out his wrist proudly and said, “It matches mine too. Usually Annabeth and Percy are here to match with us too but they’re not coming back until late tonight so you’ll have to wait to meet them.” You weren’t sure if you were looking forward to meeting this Percy guy based on the fact that an entire cabin hated his guts and now you for even being associated with him.

As you followed Grover down the cabin step you eyed the other teenagers around you before meeting his gaze nervously and he glanced down at your right hand. Grover stared for a minute then said, “I don’t think the axe is helping.” He chuckled and reached for the axe but you pulled away before he could touch you or the weapon. There was an awkward silence before he told you warmly, “You have nothing to worry about y/n. you are safe now okay? It’s just dinner time and it’s taco tuesday. So I’ll take this and you get some food, and we can sit outside on the beach away from everyone else. Deal?” You nodded and swatted his hand away when he reached for your axe again, this time he asked, “Then how about you put it back?” You followed his instructions and closed the cabin door behind you before he led you off to the dining hall.

You picked at the last taco on your plate as Grover sat beside you and asked, “So do you think you know…” There was no point in letting him finish so you spoke up, “No. Daddy never told me or gave me hints about who he really was..."

Now that was a complete lie.

Truthfully, you did have an idea of who your father could be but there was no tangible evidence. The only lead you really had was poorly remembered dreams from your childhood. The dreams depicted you sitting on a throne of bones guarded by three vicious dogs with countless dead soldiers at your feet. Glittering obsidian and midnight blue marbling lined the throne room and the smell of bakhoor, incense, and spices clung to the back of your throat from your father's timeless cologne. As a child you recall him calling you "my little goddess" and teaching you that darkness and the dead were nothing to fear. As you grew older you realized that you truly were the only thing that mattered to him which is why you stayed out of sight for so long. He gave you the hints long ago but you never wanted to believe they were true. Especially after you arrived at camp to see that there wasn't even a cabin for your suspected father.

Grover continued staring at you prompting you to continue speaking, "Some could say Ares because I was always hot-tempered and starting trouble as a kid but…could have just been the absent father- dead mother thing? The Ares kids here aren’t my type of people.”

Grover nodded along and asked curiously, “Where’s the axe from?” You shrugged and answered, “I found it in my house as a kid. My grandpa was a huge nerd about that kind of stuff and used to collect and sell things like swords and knives and my grandma said it was probably just another collectible he didn’t sell before he died. As a kid I always thought daddy left it behind for me, kinda like a gift.”

The sound of a twig snapping drew both of your attention to a boy who was cautiously making his way to you both. Grover beamed and waved him over, “Ezra, hey!” The satyr turned to you and continued, “Y/n this is Ezra, son of Demeter.” You gave a genuine smile and the boy who looked around your age relaxed more and responded, “Nice to meet you.” The young demigod was fairly tall around 5’11 and his thick black locs with their puffy roots added an extra inch or two. Assorted colors of beads adorned each loc on his head right at the ends or the middle. He smelled of earl grey and cucumber in a subtle way that complemented the shades of green in his outfit and headscarf. Ezra stuck his thumb back towards the rest of camp, “Percy and Annabeth are back, and they’re looking for you.” Grover lit up and said, “Thanks man, I’ll be right over.” The demigod waved to you before disappearing down the path back towards camp. The satyr beside you excitedly stood up, “Percy and Annabeth are the ones I told you about. I know they’ll wanna meet you let’s go- wait. On second thought I’ll bring them to you, just stay here and I’ll be right back.” Before you could even say that you didn’t want to meet anymore new faces, Grover was already running back towards camp leaving you alone looking over the beach once again.

The peace and quiet lasted no more than three seconds because through the lapping of gentle waves a chorus of amused whispers and snickers behind you. The same group of Ares kids that had been eying you like a meal since the moment you arrived crowded around you. The ringleader of the pack you’d recognized as Clarisse, pushed you with the blunt end of her spear. The thick, chocolate brown ringlets that framed her face swung back and forth with her laughter as she looked at you laying on the ground with food spilled on your t-shirt. She laughed along with her cabin siblings and murmured, “Pathetic.” The end of her spear pressed further against your sternum making it slightly harder to breathe in. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips when you remained silent, “What? Cat got your tongue? ‘Cause you sure had a lot to say a minute ago.”

Clarisse kicked the retracted bo staff that you owned, in its current form it was no longer than a roll of quarters. Your fingers reached for it, opening and closing them desperately but stopped immediately when her foot pressed them into the dirt. one of her brothers mocked you in a whiny tone, “You think Daddy weft you a widdle gift?” He high fived Clarisse and laughed before she crouched down and grabbed you by the collar so your faces were merely inches apart. Clarisse hissed with words laced of venom and hatred, “Nobodies like you don’t get gifts from the gods. We all know you’re not one of the big three so why lie to everyone about it? You think you’re all special because you lied about fighting a minotaur and killing a fury? Lying about being Poseidon's kid?” You rapidly shook your head, “I never lied because I never said any of that.” She let out a laugh and continued, “Gods this is too good, too easy…let’s get one thing straight right now though. You’ll always just be a lonely little nobody. And I know for a fact your Daddy will never claim you as his own because you’re weak. That’s why you hide behind that little satyr all day, your little protector. But where is he now? Huh? Nobody’s here to protect you now.” She plucked the flower crown from your head and threw it aside allowing one of her siblings to stomp it into the dirt.

Anger coursed through your veins and your eyes filled with a fiery rage you hadn’t felt since your family fell apart when you were eight. You gritted your teeth together and tightened your jaw then without thinking, you leaned forward and spat directly into her face. The crowd of siblings had grown to a larger group of nosey teenagers that oo’ed as as Clarisse let go of your t-shirt and let your head fall back onto the ground with a thud. The young demigod flipped her prized spear in her hand and pointed it directly beneath your chin by your throat. The very tip of it electrified and glowed a fiery red only a millimeter from touching your skin which made you swallow thickly. For only a second pure fear flashed across your face which was enough for Clarisse to know she was winning already. A sinister smile crept onto her face and you pressed your head back further into the earth, begging to the skies above for someone, anyone to help.

Your eyes fluttered closed and you heard a deep voice in the distance, “Hit the ground.” The voice was familiar of someone you knew but couldn’t quite remember. Nevertheless, you followed the command and balled your free hand into a fist before bringing down against the hard dirt and gravel covered earth. The force of your fist fractured the ground beneath Clarisse and her siblings' feet causing them to stumble back. The retracted bo staff rolled back into your grasp which you held in one hand. with the other, you reached for her spear and snatched it from her grip whilst spinning it back so the pointed end now faced her and her siblings who were lying on the ground. You took a step back and twirled the spear in your hands for show then threw it to the side which she immediately scrambled to pick up.

Of the six Ares blood teenagers, three of them were on the ground unconscious while the other two staggered to their feet ready to fight back. You quickly extended your bo staff and whipped it across your body knocking one of the boys back before swinging it quickly in an X formation knocking out the girl beside him. Bringing the staff once more across your torso then over your shoulder and around your head, you knocked the boy out as well leaving Clarisse the only one standing.

Clarisse stood more angry than before now knowing that you were stronger than you looked, proving that she now had competition. Her cheeks felt hot as other campers watched the two of you standing before one another clearly questioning if she was going to be the one that walked away tonight. One of the smaller kids you recognized from Hermes cabin threw you the shield he owned. You nodded to him as a thank you and took a step back. Clarisse watched as you brushed one of your thick twists out of your face and raised an eyebrow which pissed her off more. Why weren’t you struggling? Why weren’t you afraid? The idea of you winning pissed her off the more she stood there which was enough for her to lunge forward with her spear. You held up the shield and caught the body of the spear in your hand and turned around to try and slip it from her grasp. The girl pushed you trying to shake it from your grip and when you held on tighter she huffed and threw you forward not realizing her most prized possession would be thrown with you. Crackling and hissing sounds filled your ears the moment your back hit the ground and knocked the wind from your chest. Clarisse looked at the half of her spear left in her hand while the pointed end was still lodged into the shield in your palm. Blood curdling screams echoed throughout the entire camp and everything seemed to still around you as the teenage girl stared in horror. You walked over to her and pushed her back with your shield before she could run up on you. She hit the ground once more and you snatched the other part of her spear from between the arm hold. All of your thoughts were clouded with anger as her words rushed back through your memory once more.

You climbed on top of her with each of your legs on a side of her waist so you were hovering above her torso with a smile far from friendly. You held one of her arms down with your knee while the other was trapped beneath her torso but she didn’t even try to fight you back anymore. She watched with her eyes now full of fear as you held the sharp end of her broken spear beside her face, dragging the tip of the blade on her skin but not hard enough to cause harm. You placed the tip underneath her chin so she was forced to meet your gaze, but a sudden cloud of darkness fell over you both. The curtain of shadows engulfed the two of you which took your focus from Clarisse long enough for her to free her arm and push you off of her. The shadows rose as you made your way onto your feet and stepped away from the crowd that had formed. The feeling of your heart pounding in your chest seemed to be the only thing you could focus on as the dark clouds fell from your head to surrounding your feet. When you could finally see ahead of you all that was there was the ocean, same as before.

“Y/N!” Grover’s voice broke through the crowd as he manuvered through campers and stared at you with darkness and shadows pooling at your feet. A girl with deep umber skin and black waist length box braids stood beside him and a pale, freckle- faced boy with a mess of blonde curls that brought out his ocean blue eyes. The three of them along with every other camper and Chiron who followed the crowd stared up above your head. You looked up to see a long royal blue and obsidian bident, a black snake coiling up the body with two navy prongs pointed towards the sky at the top. A glow of midnight blue surrounded the bident and illuminated around you. It lowered into your hand and the weight brought a smile to your face as you felt a wave of pride in knowing what this meant.

Chiron’s voice bellowed, “You have been claimed by Hades. King of the Dead. God of the Underworld. Y/N L/N.”

You turned to face Grover and his two friends with a sweet smile on your face as if you didn't just kick a whole cabin of demigods asses. "Hey I'm Y/N, daughter of Hades. Nice to meet you both." The blonde boy you knew to be Percy just stood with his mouth agape until the girl elbowed him. He scratched the back of his head and said, "Hi, I'm Percy." You smiled and shook his hand while the girl gave you a head nod, "Annabeth." Grover looked past you and motioned to the Ares kids on the ground, "You did all that?" Looking over your shoulder you saw some of them were now coming back to and you turned back unfazed, "More or less." Annabeth slung her arm over your shoulder and led you along with her two other friends away from everyone else, "Yeah I like you. We're gonna get along well I think."

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

authors note: i saw a lot of people posting their own fics about pjo so i thought i'd give it a try. i'm new to this franchise and i've only watched the show and movies. but i'm starting to read the books now so this is what i've come up with using the stuff i've seen, read, googled, etc. please be kind if there's something 'inaccurate' bc im still new to this!

#percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson fanfic #black reader #black fem reader #clarisse la rue #hades daughter! reader #pjo series #pjo tv show #pjo fandom #annabeth chase #grover underwood #black reader insert

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ofallthingsnasty · 5 months

Text

a few days ago I had a little thought about secret admirer Sanji trying to keep things lowkey and how he'd still overdo it. thanks to @tang3r1n's addition, I had to use this as a little writing exercise because it tickles me

tags: secret admirer (and thus unintentional stalker) Sanji, modern AU, crack treated seriously, misunderstandings, i definitely did not write this with the US in mind (everyone drinks) pairing: Sanji/GN!Reader word count: 1k

“Another one?”

Robin’s eyes are dark over her porter. She leans closer, chin perched on her hand, rapt attention all on you.

“Yeah, another one”, you confirm and nip at your beer. Crystal wheat, your third today - and you can tell. Usually - or, at least when you’re sober - the little letters that flutter into your mailbox every other day are not only a great source of discomfort but also… weirdly embarrassing. You’re definitely not as eager to share them with your friends as you are now, when the alcohol has loosened you up a little, breathed some humor into this whole ‘secret admirer slash stalker’ situation that has been going on for a while now.

“Here, get a load of this”, you say, tapping the paper with your nail. It’s a little crinkled from throwing it in your bag but it still smells nice, probably spritzed with some floral perfume. Yeah, creepy.

“‘My darling, you looked simply ravishing today.’ The ravishing is underlined, by the way”, you slot in and turn the letter around to show her. “See?”

She nods and you continue. “‘Blue suits you exceptionally well. It makes me think of the skies when we first met. Maybe you remember it, too? I’ll never forget the first time you looked at me-’ oh my god, I can’t even read you the rest, it's so embarrassing!”

You can’t help but pull a face at your own voice. The letter goes on and on, as they all do - paragraphs upon paragraphs of someone laying it on thick, usually talking about your eyes, your clothes, your body - and then their feelings about those things. It reads like a paperback romance from the 90s, flowery and greased up to the maximum. You hand her the paper, so she can read the rest for herself.

“Ugh. Like, who- who fucking talks like that?”, you mumble into your beer and try to wash down the heat in your cheeks with another swig of sunflower-yellow wheat.

A snort interrupts you, the sound coming from Zoro, who sits right next to Robin. He looks like he’s about to spurt out his mouthful of beer like the jet of a water pistol. Of course he finds it amusing.

He swallows loudly, then barks out a laugh.

“That sounds exactly like- Eouch-”

Robin gives him a close-eyed smile as she shifts her weight around. “... Like a secret admirer, doesn’t it?”

“Secret admirer? Robin, how often do I have to tell you? This person has started sending coffee and donuts in my name to work. My coworkers are starting to talk. How do they even know where I work? This is so beyond ‘secret admirer’ territory.”

“I want free food, too”, chimes Luffy from behind her as he loads up on peanuts before shimmying back to the darts, where Usopp and Chopper are waiting for him. “If you don’t want them, tell them they can send me donuts!”

Very helpful, thanks, dude.

You lean over the edge of the table once he’s out of earshot again, eyes wide as you let them flit between Robin and Sanji, who has been awfully quiet during all of this. He looks weirdly downtrodden as he peers into his own glass, spinning it with one hand. It’s nothing new for him to be a little sulky during your meet-ups - probably another tinder date that didn’t turn out quite as he had hoped.

“I got a fucking bouquet the other day, can you imagine? I even took a- oh, wait-”

You fish your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans and swipe through your gallery to show them a picture of the decadent monstrosity (in your favorite color, no less) that had everyone at work chuckling two Fridays ago. It’s gaudy, over the top, ridiculous - you let your oldest coworker take it home with her because you simply couldn’t stand to look at it any second longer.

“Look at this. Next thing they’ll do is put my head in the center of one of these, I swear.”

Robin says nothing. Sanji visibly pales, then he mumbles into his white wine spritzer.

“Darling, aren’t you exaggerating? Just a little bit?”

“Am I, Sanji?”, you say, dead serious and voice gravelly. “Am I?”

You lean closer until you’re almost nose-to-nose with him, the one too many crystal wheats making you a little animated. You don’t care, suddenly humorless under the dim lights above you.

He pulls back as you shove yourself into his personal bubble, eyes swimming with something. It’s incredibly out of character for him to be so silent about this whole situation and even beneath all of your buzz, you feel disappointment sting in your belly.

“What’s gotten into you, Sanji? Why are you defending this random creep?”, you say, very confused and a little mad. One year ago, when you had troubles with a too-friendly coworker, he had been there - had chaperoned you home after work, had helped you address the situation with your employer. For him to see you so distraught and almost brush you off is more than just a little strange.

“What if they follow me home, huh? What then, Sanji?”

Well, you have officially rendered him speechless. The blond looks like he’s choking on some words that are trying to climb out of his throat but never quite make it through his vocal chords.

“Yeah, what if they’re in this bar?”, mocks Zoro and gives you a pointed look.

“Stop making fun of me, idiot”, you hiss and aim a single peanut at his head. “This is serious.” Of course, you miss.

He opens his mouth to say something but a laugh to your left stops him. Your head snaps back and Robin at least has the decency to cover her mouth as her shoulders shake ever so slightly.

“Why are you laughing now?”

She waves her hands in surrender but that mischievous smile you’ve grown to know and loathe is still on her face.

“Well, I think that this secret admirer of yours should speak up soon, right, Sanji?”, she says and picks up her porter again. “I-”, he starts and somehow looks even more uncomfortable than before. He reaches to adjust his tie and you take the opportunity to butt in.

“I don’t know if I want that, Robin”, you deadpan. “If this continues, I’m gonna call the police.”

There’s a clatter next to you - Sanji is suddenly up from his seat, with both hands on the table. Something about his expression screams deer in headlights.

“I need a cigarette. Now.”

#sanji x reader #one piece x reader #/one piece #/sanji

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kisskiss-slashslash · 11 months

Note

Hey 🙂

Really enjoying your writings.

May I request the slashers - the usual suspects (Jason/Michael/Sinclairs/Thomas) and anyone else if you want, mistaking their fem s.o for being romantic with someone else (like the situation with this other person looks totally sketch and could be construed for something not so innocent but its absolutely innocent - s.o would never cheat).

How would the slashers initially react and how would they feel and go about the situation.

❤

Warnings: Implied sexual harassment

Slashers and mistaking their s/o for being romantic with someone else

Jason Voorhees

He sees you holding a male camper’s hand as you walk away from the camp, and finds his heart breaking. Is he not enough? And if he isn’t, why would *that one* be?

Jason follows the two of you quietly, trying to see where this is going. He does not want to believe that you would truly cheat on him. But you give that camper sultry looks, and every time you do, Jason’s heart breaks a little more.

Finally, you arrive at a small clearing, far away from the camp.

“Now come on, honey, let daddy have some sugar”, the guy says, making grabby hands in the general direction of your chest.

“Oh I’ll let you have *something*, alright”, you say with a grin and, in one fluid motion, pull the small knife from your pocket and bury the blade in his throat.

“Shhh, no screaming, we don’t want to alert the others now, do we?”, you coo in a faux-comforting tone while his yellow camp shirt slowly turns red.

Jason comes out from between the trees and looks at you, bewildered.

You give him an apologetic smile. “There you are, love. Did you see all of that? Sorry. But this one was so gross that I just had to kill him myself.”

Now Jason just feels silly for ever doubting you.

Vincent Sinclair

He finally leaves his workshop for the day and wants to spend the rest of it with you, only to find you on the couch, with Lester leaning on you. It definitely looks like you’re cuddling.

Vincent feels like someone pulled the rug from under him. If you were to ever leave him, he would expect it to maybe be for Bo, but for Lester?

You and Lester both look up, and now Vincent notices that his youngest brother looks, quite frankly, miserable.

“Lester isn’t feeling well”, you tell Vincent in a soft voice. “Bo just left to the next town over, to get some meds, and asked me to take care of him until then.”

Lester coughs heavily. “Sorry, Bro. Didn’t mean to hog your girl.”

With his jealously forgotten, his protective older sibling instincts kick in, and he quickly sits down on Lester’s other side, putting his hand on his forehead. The youngest Sinclair is definitely running a decently high fever.

“If you let him lean on you for a bit, I can get up and make him some tea”, you say, and Vincent immediately agrees.

Freddy Krueger

He does not like you cozying up to other people, and being stuck in your subconscious, unable to do anything unless you fall asleep, sure isn’t helping.

Why are you watching horror movies with this loser? Why are you laughing so much? There you are, even casually mentioning Freddy by name, that should be enough of an indicator that you are unavailable, so why is this idiot still here?!

Once you fall asleep, Freddy confronts you about it. “I’ve killed significant others for less petty reasons before, bitch.”

“Okay? Sorry that I was trying to help you, I guess.”

“Help me?”

“Uhm, yeah? Did you not hear me tell him about you? Take a wild guess who the guy is gonna be thinking about when he goes to sleep tonight, and how those thoughts are gonna make him feel.”

Freddy presses his lips together. “...Fine, I guess. But next time, find a way to tell people about me without whoring yourself out to them, got it?”

Brahms Heelshire

You are getting just a tad to friendly with the new grocery delivery guy, and Brahms does not like that. It gives him flashbacks to Greta. So he tries to keep your attention away from the guy as well as he can. He unplugs the phone every time he calls, he demands your full attention during the times the man would be there and just generally tries to keep your eyes where they should be.

Finally, you have enough.

“Brahms, what is going on?!”

He keeps his eyes fixed on the ground. “Do you love him?”

“Huh?”

“The delivery man. Do you love him?”

“Wha- Oh. Is this what this is about?” You sit down on Brahms’ bed and gesture for him to do the same.

“That man is my cousin”, you finally tell him. “Kinda distant though. I found out when I did one of those genetics tests you can order from the internet for fun.”

“So… You’re not gonna leave with him?”

“Hell no. I told him I got a great thing going here. But he’s also the only blood related family I have any real access to here, so I’m trying to maintain a good relationship with him.”

“Oh… okay, I think I understand.”

Bubba Sawyer

Subtle flirting is kind of part of business, especially when dealing with customers as a woman. You explained as much to Bubba when Drayton had the idea of you earning your keep by helping out with peddling his chili to people. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it. In the rare cases where he gets to watch from afar as you charm the customers into getting seconds, he finds himself irritatedly fiddling with his chainsaw.

One night, you come home, pull the hair net from your head and heavily sit down next to Bubba.

“What a day”, you grumble. “I swear, some of these people think they can treat me however they like just because they pay some chump change for Drayton’s chili.”

Now that catches Bubba’s attention. He looks at you, confused.

“What, you didn’t think that I *like* getting hit on by randos every day, did you?”, you say. “I want to tell them that I am married, but Drayton doesn’t want me to. Says they’re paying for the view and that feeling like they’re encroaching on another guy’s territory is going to scare them away.”

Now Bubba coos empathetically and begins rubbing small circles on your back, to help you relax. Now that he knows that you don’t like it, he feels a lot better about it.

#slasher x reader #jason voorhees x reader #brahms heelsire x reader #bubba sawyer x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #freddy krueger x reader

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ilguna · 5 months

Text

☼ cerulean pt2 (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; Finnick Odair is an irritating presence, but he knows how to make it up to you, even if it means he takes a hit from the press.

warnings; swearing,

wc; 2.3k

part one

Finnick Odair could not make his intentions any more obvious.

You’re not sure what part of ‘not falling for the same trick twice’ he misunderstood, considering you thought it was pretty straightforward. Yet, here you are, with a bouquet of fresh flowers sitting in front of the apartment door.

It’s a good thing you told Gloss last night that you had this morning handled, you can’t imagine how he would’ve reacted to this. Or what he would’ve said to you.

A sigh escapes you, as you set your bag on the table next to the door, crouching down to grab the beautifully engraved vase. It’s heavy, due to the sheer amount of flowers that have been stuck inside. Still, you lift it and carry it all the way to the kitchen counter.

The Avox, who is standing next to the light switch, doesn’t move, or so much as eye the flowers. You, on the other hand, turn the glass carefully to see each and every one of them, curious on what he’s picked out. You find classic red roses, peonies, orchids and carnations.

All of them convey the same message; he’s deeply in love with you.

You find something stuck in the petals right as you’re turning to leave. You reach over, plucking out the yellow notecard with your name neatly printed in cursive in the middle.

You clear your throat, “Will you put this in my room on the dresser?”

She—the Avox—doesn’t speak, of course, just moves forward at once to grab it. You begin to walk away, heading back to the front door. You flip over the card, reading, ‘For the most beautiful girl here, — Your Dearest Finnick’. You pause next to the front door to grab your bag.

He can’t possibly be delusional enough to think that… Well, he is. For the past week, he has done nothing but bombard you at every chance he’s given, thinking that it’ll make the air between you breathable again. When in reality, you’re doing everything you can to make sure you don’t cross paths for more than a second.

This isn’t entirely out of character for him, and it isn’t the first time he’s gifted you something, either. You’ve received several pieces of jewelry with your birthstone in it, which was surprising to see. You don’t even remember telling him when your birthday is, much less the stone that represents the month. He had to have done the research to figure that out on his own.

You suppose this is his way of telling you that he cares, and he listened when you were together. At the time it was refreshing to have someone genuinely interested in what you had to say. When he went and told the Capitol everything, you assumed your words fell on deaf ears.

You close the apartment door behind you gently, approaching the elevator. It makes a noise when you press the button, and less than a second later, the doors are opening to let you in. You move to take a step forward, but stop when you see who’s waiting there.

Finnick gives you a smile, moving to hold the elevator doors open for you. “Well, good morning, beautiful.”

You can feel your eye twitch. “I’m going to take the stairs.”

“Don’t, I promise I’ll be good.” He winks, pretending to zip his mouth shut.

You take in a deep breath, staring at him, debating if you can take his word for it. The truth is probably not, as soon as the doors shut, he’s going to open his mouth. Which would be enough for you to leave, except the ride will only last a couple of seconds. The elevators move quick.

“Fine.” You say, stepping inside, choosing the right side.

Finnick removes his hand from the doors, allowing them to close. The button for the Betting Room is already glowing, meaning you won’t have to press it, yourself. The elevator begins to move downward. It’s warm in here, caused by the sun shining directly inside, the glass casing, and the lack of air conditioning.

“I see you’ve gotten your flowers.” Finnick says without turning around.

Your eyes land on the back of his head, squinting at his bronze curls. You don’t bother to ask him how he knows this, he got a good view of the hallway while you were deliberating. The bouquet is clearly nowhere to be seen. Which could mean a number of things—like Gloss or the Avoxes stumbled upon it before you could.

If the yellow notecard weren’t sticking halfway out of your bag, it would be believable, too. “Mhm.” You hum. “Coming off a little strong, don’t you think?”

He cocks his head to the side, you can only imagine the shit-eating grin on his face. “Well, I distinctly remember you telling me your father did something similar for your mother…” Your lips part, now Finnick turns to see your face. There is no smile, just raised eyebrows. “She’s a florist, right?”

You cross your arms over your chest, turning your head to look out the window, while you try to figure out why he knows this information. Where would this have ever come up during a conversation? It makes no sense. You and Finnick were seeing each other for a month, why would you have told him about that?

“We were talking about grand gestures.” He says, reading your mind.

“What for?” You ask, looking back at him.

He’s turned to face you slightly. “Gloss and Enobaria.”

It dawns on you then, you press your lips together, giving him one big nod. That explains it, actually. Last year, Gloss had a thing for Enobaria, and he tried to ask her to be his girlfriend by announcing his love for her in front of the fountain in the Betting Room.

It wasn’t awful, but Enobaria clearly didn’t like it. It’s one of the reasons why they’re not dating, because she called him a moron and told him to get down. It hasn’t ruined the friendship between them, though, that’s why they’re still comfortable to be around one another.

You vaguely remember talking about this with Finnick one night, laying in bed with him, when he asked you for the story. You told him, since you’d witnessed the entire thing, and followed up by telling him you wouldn’t take a grand gesture like that, either. He asked you what you would accept, and you told him about the story of your parents.

Your mom’s a florist, she has been her entire life. She knows the meaning of flowers inside and out, because it’s her passion. Your dad had tried several attempts before to get your mom’s attention. It wasn’t until he had put together a perfect vase of flowers from his family’s personal garden, did he finally get it.

Finnick must be following your train of thought. “Did it work?”

“Clever.” You admit. “But no.”

Finnick presses the button that’ll stop the elevator in the case of an emergency, causing the alarm to go off briefly. You grab onto the railing when it jerks to a halt, letting out a loud sigh. You should’ve just taken the stairs.

“What can I do to make you forgive me?” He asks, taking a step toward you.

You shake your head at him. “I told you—”

“I know, I know.” He breathes. “I’m sorry, (Y/n). I never should have done that to you. I didn’t think…”

“That you’d ever think of me as more than just a fling?”

“No, that you’d ever let us be more.” He says, emphasizing the word. “Because of the rivalry.”

You snort. “Well, if there’s one thing for sure—it’s that thinking isn’t your strong suit. If you’d talked to me before I left, we could’ve figured it out. There’s no way that’s happening now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No matter how many times you say that word, your actions don’t change.” You tell him, tired of going in circles. You approach him, he straightens. You slap the elevator button again, causing the alarm to go off, before it begins to move again. When you back away, his shoulders slump. “I hear you; you’re sorry. You know what I say to that? Prove it. And I don’t mean through birthstone jewelry and flowers proclaiming your love,” You hold up the notecard. “If you want me, fix what you’ve done.”

His eyelashes flutter slightly as his face relaxes, thinking.

The doors open, finally. You begin to head out, but stop in the doorway to look back at him to give him another hint. Before you can, Finnick reaches up, placing his hand in front of the doors to keep them from shutting, as if it’s second nature.

“I’m holding onto something.” You tell him, he meets your eyes. “You said so yourself, don’t you remember?”

You step out, Finnick’s arm falls. The door shuts between you.

—

A door slamming in the apartment rattles the picture frames hung in your Capitol-provided bedroom. You look up from where you’re sitting in the corner, book halfway closed, wondering whether or not you should get up to see what the dramatics is about.

“(Y/n)!” Gloss roars, voice echoing through the quiet place, solving the question.

You shut the book, irritated that you’re being interrupted. You get to your feet, tossing what you were reading onto the seat before making your way out of the bedroom. You meet Gloss halfway, as you’re about to step foot into the dining room, and he’s leaving the living room.

“What?” You ask, raising your eyebrows.

He’s huffing, “(Y/n), I just had a conversation with Isadora,” She’s your guys’ Capitol escort this year, “Tell me why we got issued a warning about stopping the elevator.”

Your face twists, shaking your head, “That wasn’t me, that was Finnick. I was the one that got it started moving again.”

He squints at you. “You and Finnick were in a stopped elevator together?”

You point at him. “Not willingly.”

“Why?”

“I was going down to the Betting Room and he was already on the elevator.” You shrug. “He stopped it because he wanted to talk to me. It was like that for a minute, maybe two.”

He’s coming toward you. “About what?”

“What do you think?” You throw your hands up. “I warned you that this was going to happen!”

Gloss stares at you for a long moment. “This wouldn’t be an issue at all, if you’d listened to me last year.”

“Honestly, Gloss, I don’t understand why we even have a problem with him and Mags in the first place. It’s stupid.”

“You don’t see why? (Y/n), you’ve got to be kidding me.” He laughs. “Last year wasn’t enough proof for you?”

You close your eyes, taking in a deep breath, and then slowly releasing it. “Gloss, if you wanted to avoid this, you would’ve sat next to him at the interviews, instead of Enobaria.” You open your eyes. “You told me I have to deal with the repercussions, and here I am, dealing with them. And I have come to realize that a rivalry with the Four mentors is stupid.”

“Then, by all means, (Y/n), fix that relationship. It won’t matter, because our tributes won’t be mingling with theirs.” He shakes his head at you. “And it won’t change what Finnick said about you on television.”

“I’m well aware.” You hiss.

—

When you come into the main room this morning, ready to eat breakfast and get down to the Betting Room, you’re met with Finnick’s voice. For a few seconds, you’re convinced that he’s inside of the apartment. It isn’t until you come out of the hallway, do you realize that he isn’t.

He’s on television with Caesar Flickerman.

“Oh shit.” You murmur.

“Ladies and gentlemen, today we’re joined with our favorite darling, Finnick Odair. I hear he has a confession to make this afternoon?” Caesar asks, turning in his chair to look at Finnick.

Finnick is dressed nicely, in a clean white shirt and a pair of black slacks. His hair has been combed back to give him a mature appearance. “Yes, actually. It’s pretty hefty, regarding one of my fellow mentors.”

You cross your arms, slowly coming down the steps.

“What could that be?” Caesar asks.

“Well, last year I came here to talk about (Y/n), and the relationship I had with her.” He starts. “It was all a lie, and I came here to get it off my chest.”

You blink, eyes widening.

“A lie?” Caesar asks what you’re thinking. “How come you’d come on here—”

“I was jealous.” Finnick cuts him off. “(Y/n) is truly a wonderful and sweet person. I tried to pursue her, of course, but I couldn’t handle being rejected. So, I came here to talk to you.”

Caesar doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “Finnick, I don’t want to be interpreting you incorrectly, here. Are you telling me that what (Y/n) said in response at the train station was true?”

There’s no hesitation in his actions, he nods fairly aggressively. “Yes, and I can’t sleep at night knowing that what I did is still hurting her.”

You roll your eyes, now he’s laying it on thick.

“Still? How so?”

“Oh, I hear a lot, it’s hard not to with a face like this.” He winks at the camera. “I know that forgiveness can be a long road, but I’m hoping it starts with this.”

You cross the room, leaning over the couch to grab the remote off the cushion. As soon as the television is off, you feel better, like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. In truth, you weren’t expecting for him to go and pull something like this. Actually, you aren’t sure what you wanted him to do at all, but this is probably the best thing he could’ve done.

He must really want you to forgive him.

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