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bayjaruchel · 6 months

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Strawberry Blond

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Pairing: Peeta Mellark/AFAB Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Late one night, you get a call. (4.7k | originally posted on ao3 | Masterlist )

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You know that your relationship can never be normal.

Even now, when you technically should have peace of mind— and you're out of the arena, out of the Games— there's still the ugly truth that lies beneath it all. The Victor's Village is beautiful in comparison to the rest of District Twelve, but because of the reason why you earned a residence here, you're not sure if you'll ever truly enjoy it. Brick houses with plenty of room, and yet yours is still far too empty, even if you have your family to keep you company.

Peeta lives alone in his.

There's always smoke coming from the chimney, and he keeps most, if not all of the lights on. The only room that occasionally has its lights off is his, which is on the second floor. You've woken up in the middle of the night many times and glimpsed the shining evidence that he's still awake. It's not like you get perfect sleep yourself— but you worry, sometimes.

You do visit him, sometimes. But you've never knocked on his door when it's nighttime. You're not entirely sure why that is; maybe it's because you're afraid of what the cool silence will bring. Maybe it's too intimate. Neither of you are strangers to intimacy, and you've definitely maintained a little of that, but … There's still a certain distance. Away from the cameras, you still struggle to discern what's real and what's not.

The way he looks at you is certainly real.

You don't know if you'll ever feel exactly the same way towards him.

Sure, you do like him. A lot. He makes it easy. He's the type of guy that you could bring home to your parents. He's the type of guy that one would want to come home to every day. Of course, he's a little more reserved, and his eyes are duller, but— he's still Peeta. He's still the baker's boy. Deep down, he'll never lose what made you— and all of the Capitol— fall in love with him.

Is it really love, though? Or is it just admiration?

It's something that you think about a lot. You've never said those three words to him when not in front of an audience. And he knows that on those specific occasions, it wasn't real. It was just an act. Maybe when he kissed you, he wasn't acting. Maybe when he looked at you and said those lovely things to you, he wasn't acting.

You can dream. You can hope.

However, most of your actual dreams nowadays are just nightmares.

No golden boy is holding you, shielding you from the awful weather. There's no bright, happy future in which everything turned out right. And there's none of those strange, albeit interesting dreams where your house is upside down and your teacher at school is telling you that somehow, you've suddenly graduated and you're being sent off to the Capitol to become one of them.

Instead, there's just fire.

Tonight, you dream of fire.

Burning bodies that fall from the highest trees. You can vaguely make out who they are— there's a sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, a primal guilt. Everything around you is blazing, and you know you should try and get out, but your feet are frozen, rooted to the spot. You can't move, even as the flames begin to lick around your ankles. Even if you did run, you wouldn't be able to escape. This has been a long time coming, hasn't it?

Despite the almost blinding brightness emanating from the fire, everything else is foggy and dark. The only thing you can focus on is the corpses, the trees, and everything coming down around you. Someone shouts your name, but it's muffled like you're underwater. You fail to register it fast enough.

A scream, crystal-clear.

You whip around, and there it is. The evidence of your failure. You're helpless to do anything— you can only watch— more screaming, more yelling, more pleads for help—

There is so, so much blood—

You're awake, and the blistering heat is gone.

Gasping, you sit up, struggling for breath. It keeps catching in your throat. Your heart's pounding at a pace that makes your head spin. Dizzy, disorienting. But it used to be worse than this.

At least you don't wake up sobbing anymore.

This is still awful, though. Trembling, you wrap your arms around yourself, attempting to regain control. In, out. In, out. Your lungs shudder with the effort, but you keep going. Despite the comfortable warmth of the house, there's still goosebumps prickling up and down your bare skin. Your arms. Your neck. The sheets are tangled around your waist and legs; you almost feel trapped.

There's no point in closing the curtains, since virtually nobody is in the streets, and the other inhabitants of the Village couldn't possibly look through your windows. When you glance out of the one nearest to your bed, it's almost pitch-black outside. There are no street lamps, after all. You try to focus on the cold, empty houses to distract yourself.

Finally, your breath slows. Your pulse calms.

You're still shaking, faintly, but your knees don't give out when you detangle yourself from your blankets and slip out of bed. You consider that a minor victory.

Taking care not to make too much noise, you head downstairs. The polished stone is cold underneath your feet, but it's grounding, in a way. It settles you back down to earth. For a short while, you frequently lost your way due to the sheer size of the house, but now you know the quickest route to the kitchen by heart. Even when half-asleep, you know exactly where to go.

The light flicks on with a quiet buzz when you gently press the switch.

Quietly, you wonder if the ultimate prize for winning the Games was running water. It's cold, as it splashes over your fingers and into the basin. There are plenty of pristine, artisan glasses and whatnot in the overhead cabinets— probably made in District One— but you always reach for the mugs you had before. The ones with a couple of cracks and dents littering their bodies— evidence of their long lifespans.

You lean against the counter as you take a long gulp of water. It's pleasant, the feeling pooling low in your chest.

The silence used to be unnerving, but now, you welcome it with open arms.

You take another, smaller sip from your mug. Maybe you'll be able to sleep for another few hours. Until the sun rises, at least. Then, you can take a walk. You can wander around all you like here, provided that you don't stray too far. Regardless, you're sure nobody will be too concerned about that. Haymitch is the sole man responsible for the lax rules concerning the victors.

You're still not sure if you like him or not.

Slowly, you finish your drink. But, just as you're ready to set it into the sink and head back upstairs—

—the phone's ringing.

You can hear it pretty clearly, even if it's muffled.

Who could be calling at this hour? Furrowing your brow, you put down the mug and start heading down the hallway, towards the study. You're well aware that Haymitch tore his phone out of the wall ages ago, so it couldn't be him. Nobody from your District calls you, either. And if you get any calls from outside the District, they're usually during the daytime. Not at two-ish in the morning. The Capitol may be invasive, but they're not that invasive. They need their beauty rest, you figure.

So, taking all of that into consideration, that only leaves—

"Peeta?" You mutter, upon picking up the phone.

There's a beat of silence.

"Hello," he replies.

It's a bit hard to tell over the line, but he sounds nearly as groggy as you. Delicately, you shut the door of the study behind you with a quiet click. Just in case.

"Is something wrong?" You allow yourself to be a little louder, now that there's a barrier between you and the rest of the house. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Something like that." There's a slight rustling. "I mean— nothing new, right?" Even though you know he meant it as a joke, the grim truth makes it fall flat.

Still, you breathe out a quiet laugh. "Nothing's changed." Affixing your gaze on one of the chairs sitting around the mahogany table, you fiddle with the telephone cord. "Did you, uh— did you need something, though?"

Peeta hesitates again.

"I just—" He cuts himself off. "I'm sorry for calling you so late." He's entirely earnest in a way that makes you ache. "Did I wake you up?"

He's also dodging the question, even if he is genuinely worried about your sleep schedule.

"No, you didn't," you assert, "don't worry about that. It's fine."

"Okay," he responds, relief palpable despite the crackly quality.

The telephone cord is somewhat cold where it rests on your knuckles. You continue to twist it around your idle hand.

"You still haven't answered my question, by the way."

Peeta audibly exhales.

"Oh." More rustling. "Yeah. I, um—" he clears his throat, "—yeah, I do need something, actually."

That could mean a lot of things. Does he just need to talk? You know he does, sometimes. Or maybe he just needs some more flour, and is too embarrassed to admit it. He does seem like the type of guy to stress-bake in the wee hours of the morning. However, you seriously doubt that he wants anything related to that.

"What is it?" You ask, finally.

His next words are rushed, as if he's afraid that if he says them slowly, he'll never get them out.

"Could you come over? I just—" it's only a momentary gap, "—don't wanna be alone right now."

Ah.

The thing is, you understand. You know what it's like. And there's only one possible response that you can give right now. Vividly, you can see him— the cave— his face, shining with a cold sweat, his eyes scrunched tightly in pain—

"Okay." You're already mentally mapping out where to go. "I'll be there in a few."

When he opens the door, Peeta looks exhausted.

But when he smiles at you, there's still that light in his eyes. That look he gets whenever you're around. It used to make you feel sick to your stomach, but now— now, you're not quite sure how to feel. You've been told that in comparison to him, you're rather good at keeping your feelings hidden underneath the surface. It's been necessary, after all.

"You're here," he says after a beat, as if he expected anything else.

"I'm here," you echo.

Wordlessly, he steps aside to let you pass by. Somehow, although the layout of his house is exactly the same as yours, his still feels different. Warmer. A little cozier. The remnants of something sweet are still floating through the air, and you glance back at him. Maybe you were right about the possibility of him making cookies— or apple turnovers. Or those little cakes.

"Been baking?" You ask.

"Earlier," he clarifies, shutting the door behind you.

"Smells nice."

Peeta lingers by your side. "Want some?"

"If that's okay."

"It's always been okay." He raises his eyebrows. "How many times have I told you that you don't even need to ask?"

You shoot him a look. "Doesn't hurt to ask."

Flawlessly, he copies your expression. "How do you know that?"

"It's called being polite, Peeta."

"Polite," he repeats. "Polite…"

You let out a short sigh.

"Just show me where they are."

He gives you a shit-eating grin. "And there it is."

You don't even bother trying to respond; he's already padding past you, anyway. It's a short trip to the kitchen. His is more cluttered than yours— recently-used, more lived-in. There are more dishes in the sink, more stuff on the counter. But your eyes are drawn to the two wire baking racks on the stovetop. On top of them sit around two dozen pastries. They're prettily decorated with pink, blue, and white icing, and you take some time to admire them as you join him in front of the stove.

"You've outdone yourself," you can't help but murmur. "Wow."

At your compliment, Peeta instantly turns bashful.

"Oh, thanks." Of course, he can't let those words sit. "It's— it's not my best work, but I—"

His volume drops, and he pauses.

"Well— my hands were shaking, so…"

Abruptly, you turn your attention away from the pastries.

He notices, interrupting you before you can even open your mouth to speak.

"I know what you're gonna ask," he says, softly. "And, yeah, I do want to talk about it. Just—" Peeta sucks in a breath. "Just not now, okay? Give it a little while." The corner of his mouth quirks up, and he gestures towards the racks.

"Eat."

You consider pressing the question. You consider urging him— did it happen again? Was it worse this time? It had to have been worse, considering that he wanted you over in the first place. Just thinking about it makes your stomach perform an uneasy flip. You can read Peeta. And right now, you can read the bags under his eyes. The tiredness he's trying to fight away.

However, you don't want to push him. You don't want to break him down. Not again.

So, you take a pastry.

It's really, very good.

Peeta takes one for himself, too, and you eat in silence. You know that despite your frequent approval of his various baked goods, he's still carefully watching your reaction; you make sure to look pleased, and it isn't hard at all. He seems satisfied. You're also satisfied. Once you've finished your pastry, you lick the remnants of the icing off your fingers.

You pretend not to notice the way he stares— briefly, before forcing his gaze away.

You pretend to ignore the way your heart skips.

Mercifully, he breaks the awkward tension.

"Do you— would you want to take some home?" He asks, after swallowing. "We both know that I'm not gonna eat 'em all."

"Oh, yeah, I'll take some," you answer. Thinking for a second, you add, "Were you going to risk bringing some to Haymitch, or—"

He snorts. "Not this time."

"More for me, then."

"And your family, you mean?"

You smile. There's no way that you're going to give up those pastries without a fight.

"Sure. And my family."

Peeta doesn't seem entirely convinced, but he returns your smile all the same.

He always keeps his bedroom windows open at night.

You're not exactly sure why, but you suppose it's because he runs warm. Always.

The duvet's soft on your bare skin, and his hands are gentle. With the way your head is positioned, if you move your ear just so, you can hear his heartbeat thumping through his chest. A steady rhythm. He's calm, and so are you. You're certain that you could fall asleep like this— if it weren't for the fact that you have other, more important priorities right now.

When you look up at him, shifting an increment closer, he talks.

"I thought things were getting better." His Adam's apple bobs as you watch. "I thought that— that things were gonna start improving. That I'd— " He trails off, for a second.

"That I'd start going back to normal, I guess. But I should've known that it's… It's impossible." His gaze is focused on the ceiling. "It was hopeless to try and believe that I could just keep on going like nothing happened at all."

You find your voice.

"But you still tried?"

The chuckle he lets out is completely humorless.

"Yeah, I tried."

He's always been optimistic— he's always trying to see the best in people. And seeing him like this makes you feel hopeless. You know what he's going through. It's essentially the same thing that you're going through. However, it's not like you can read minds. He knows the right words to say, but you don't. Even though you wish you could. Words— even though actions can speak louder than them— still mean a lot. You turn that word over in your head a couple of times. Actions.

"What happened?" You ask, quietly.

A beat.

"I let down my guard," he starts, volume barely a whisper. "I was confident in my stability. I thought that I wouldn't— break down, or anything. Because it had been a few weeks, and—"

His eyes shut. Tightly. "God, I'm stupid."

"You're not," you rush to interject, "don't say that."

Peeta lets out another huff. "But it was stupid. To assume that I'd be okay, I mean. I should've— I should've expected it, at least." He quickly carries on. "Even after everything, I still let myself fall into a routine."

I still let myself fall back into a routine, you know what he means. The bad dreams pale in comparison to the real monsters that loom over the both of you. Haymitch is a living example of what can happen; what will happen, if you don't hold on to tight control of the hypothetical reins. You ache.

"Don't blame yourself for any of this," you murmur, "please. It's not your fault. Not in the slightest." You have to speak slowly, pace yourself. Keep yourself from everything you want to say. "Even if you tried to— I don't know, stay hyper-aware of everything— it would still come crashing down eventually." A breath. "It's inevitable, Peeta. It's always going to be here."

"But I don't want it to be here," he chokes out, "I really, really don't!"

You push yourself up from your previous position. His eyes are open now, wide and looking up at you.

When you move backward and open your arms, he's on you in an instant.

You rock back and forth, gently. You're not sure which one of you is holding onto the other tighter. Clinging would be a better word. His face is pressed firmly into your shoulder. You can feel him shaking.

Despite everything, he won't let himself make any noise when he cries.

You don't know how long you stay like this. It could be minutes. Hours, even. All you can feel and register is him. Peeta. He's trembling. The barely-there sensation, combined with the undeniable tightness of his arms. His hands. It's almost like he thinks that if he loosens his hold, even by just the slightest fraction, you'll suddenly disappear.

That you'll cease to exist.

That you'll become not real.

When you finally draw back— slowly, tentatively, and only because he does it first—

He sniffs, eyes red. They're not brimming with unshed tears, but they're still wet. You can't help but thumb away what little remains on his lower lids, even though you know that you probably look about the same.

Peeta returns the gesture.

Unlike you, though, he lingers, hand dropping to cup your cheek.

There's a moment.

You've done this before, of course. You've held each other. Comforted each other, brought each other back down. But since the end of the Games— since you've gotten away from the clamoring audiences desperate for a romance despite the sick circumstances— you haven't done anything more than that.

You haven't kissed him since the end of the Games.

But right now, you realize that you want to. More than anything. Anyone could see that Peeta wants it, too. Maybe even more than you do.

So, when he leans in— just barely— closing the distance—

It's practiced, at first. Familiar. Almost nostalgic.

But then he melts, and it's suddenly something completely different.

Peeta lets you softly maneuver him down onto the mattress, up against the pillows that are still too soft for your liking. He kisses you in the way those terrible poets describe— it's all excessively large bouquets, a clear starry night, longing looks across a crowded room, and—

It's real.

He gives. You take, and exchange it for everything you have in return. His hand stays on your cheek, the other behind your head, pulling you down. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. You lose yourself in the feeling. Whenever you part, it's only out of necessity, and you're soon leaning back in. You're making up for lost time— you're making up for every action you didn't mean, every word that was too sugary-sweet.

Soon, your kisses grow deeper. And neither of you wants to stop.

It's only when his hands are trailing down your body, down to the hem of your shirt, that you bother addressing it. Even if you want this— so, so desperately— you don't want to force anything in a situation that doesn't require it. Just kissing is nice. It's very nice. Nice enough that it takes a little while for you to regain control of your mouth.

"Is this—"

—and he's already speaking. Hushed, like you.

"Please."

It's almost embarrassing, what that single word does to you. But you barrel on.

"It's okay?" You ask, "Just say if it's not, and I'll stop—"

"—I just," Peeta visibly struggles with what to say for a moment, before settling on:

"Need you," he says. "Please."

It's more than enough, and you're in no place to deny him for much longer. You recapture his lips, welcoming his touch. His hands on your back, then your waist, then your hips again. His grip is firm, but not overly so. He would never hurt you, after all. Especially not here. Especially after what he's witnessed.

His hands are warm and calloused on your bare skin. Strong, with all the work he's done since he was old enough to knead dough. You have to sit up in order to take off your nightshirt, and he takes the opportunity to do the same with his. You've already seen him shirtless, and at close proximity, too— but it wasn't like this. You couldn't trail over every little detail with your lips, back then.

Peeta shivers, letting out a short giggle when you press a kiss to his stomach. He's sturdy, that's for sure. Impressive biceps, a toned chest. He's beautiful, and you tell him so. You think he blushes, but it's difficult to say for certain from your position. You're too focused on finding all the little freckles you can.

He likes it when you kiss his neck, breath audibly hitching when you do so.

But even though he lets you entertain yourself for a decent while, he makes sure to return the favor. He's never liked being in the spotlight for long, after all. And he wants.

He finds all of your scars, from the arena. From before the arena, too. He maps them out, painstakingly, mimicking the way you'd kissed him all over earlier. Sensitive, he notes, when you make a small noise when his thumbs find your nipples. Soft, he observes, as his fingers slip underneath your waistband, moving lower.

Soon, you're completely exposed, and he is too.

Peeta pays more attention to certain parts of you— your thighs, your chest— but he doesn't skip over anything in particular. He wants to know everything; he wants to learn everything. And he's eager to learn. By the time he reaches the spot between your legs, you're already wanting for him. You've grown needy from his kisses, his caresses. You can feel him against your thigh— he's just as needy as you.

His fingers are clumsy, at first. But they're strong, and you guide him. One, then two. Then another. His breath is loud, and he hums, biting his lower lip at your quiet moan after you tell him how to crook his fingers. You jolt when he finds your clit, paying careful attention to it while he works you open.

At your whispered insistence, he grips himself by the base— already having put on protection— you don't care enough to ask exactly how he obtained it— and he pushes in. The groan he lets out sounds like it's been punched from his gut.

He sets a slow, measured pace. Almost awkward at first, but he's a fast learner. He learns what angle makes you spread your legs wider for him. You wouldn't even use fucking to describe what you're doing— somehow, that word's too rough. He kisses you, nose bumping against yours. Most of your noises are muffled against his lips, but he takes them all the same. He absorbs them, and drinks them in. Drinks you in.

"Peeta," you sigh, and he breathes your name in return, before ducking to kiss your shoulder. Your collarbone. Your neck.

He comes first, twitching, pulsing deep within you. He stifles his whimper by tucking his face into the divot between your shoulder and your neck— but you can still feel it. You help him ride it out, until his thrusts falter, and his hips still.

It's a few moments of limbo, in which he catches his breath. He meets your eyes. His are hazy, half-lidded. He kisses you.

Then, he pulls out— disposes of the garbage, of course— and wastes no time in making his way down your body, to where you need him most.

You're certain that he's never eaten anybody out before, but he's a natural. He's enthusiastic— much more so than when he was inside you. This is just for your pleasure, now. When you thread a hand through his tousled hair, he moans into you, increasing his efforts tenfold. He doesn't care for the mess— or the noise, as he laps at you. He doesn't even care for his own need to breathe. Peeta just wants to give.

His brow is furrowed in concentration as he rapidly pulls you closer to orgasm. You can do little but take. And when you finally topple over your peak—

"—that's so good, ah— Peeta, I'm gonna— ohh—"

You cry out, heat rolling low in your abdomen— gathering, passing through your entire body.

You float on blissful waves, and he licks at you through it all. For a single, brief moment, your mind is perfectly calm.

When you relax, the warmth steadying to a hum, he notices and stops working at you. He wriggles a little, and leans forward to rest his chin on your stomach while you catch your breath. You can feel his, too, and it's hot on your skin. Peeta seems reluctant to take his eyes off you just yet.

It's quiet, you register. You're reluctant to ruin it, but he looks pretty messy.

"I should get you a towel or something," you say.

He cracks a smile, his eyes softening. "Should you?"

"Yeah." You're powerless not to return it. "But, you know, for me to get the towel, you have to get off me."

"So demanding."

You let out a short, offended sound. "Hey, that's just—"

"I'm getting up." And he does.

It doesn't take long to clean up, and the obnoxious white fluorescent lights of the bathroom don't blind you for long. Again, Peeta looks on while you wipe off his face— this close, you notice how brilliantly blue his eyes are. You notice the precise angles of his jaw. His cheek. He's probably doing the same to you— tracing the contours of your face.

To your relief, you're back in his bed a few minutes later. He completely shuts off the lights, flicking off his bedside lamp, and then crawls under the duvet with you. You're not sure if it's creepy or weird to enjoy it, but everything here smells like him. A sort of earthy, warm scent. Even though you're both well aware of the multiple floral shampoos that the Capitol has to offer— he still retains that one thing.

You're comfortable. You're safe.

Peeta wraps his arms around you from behind.

You're not sure if you should say something or not, but he does it first.

"You'll stay?" Whispered, into the stillness.

"Of course." Without hesitation.

His grip tightens, almost imperceptibly.

"Thank you," he breathes.

The words are stuck in your throat.

You can't bring yourself to say them, even though you know you'd mean them. Every single syllable.

But you have time. You can tell him tomorrow, even. Or the day after that. Tonight, you didn't say it aloud, but you still told him all the same.

You understand exactly how you feel, just before you drift off.

You love him.

#peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark x you #peeta mellark smut #peeta mellark imagine #josh hutcherson x reader

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morallyinept · 18 days

Text

Veneration - A Frankie Morales x Deaf F!Reader One Shot

Written as part of my B O D I E S Series 🤎

BODIES MASTERLIST

Summary: Living in a world with no sound, you meet an incredible man who is able to communicate with you on a deeper level, transcending spoken words.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Deaf F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity, Reader does have hair. Reader is deaf and only has one functional ear.)

Word Count: 6.6k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️ “It's the emergence, of."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here

Triggers & Warnings: Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/oral M & F receiving/fingering/Reader is deaf and only has one functional ear/mentions of scars/alcohol consumption/burly men fighting in a ring for sport.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: It's important to me that all types of readers are represented in my work, therefore this collection of stories is written for readers with REAL bodies. However, anyone can enjoy them. Whilst this story may not specifically represent your own personal journey, it is my hope that it resonates and offers comfort and enjoyment. The condition/disability mentioned in this story is not 'one size fits all' - everyone's journey is personal and unique, and I have undertaken as much research as I can to write accurately and respectfully. 🤎

MAIN MASTERLIST | FRANKIE MORALES MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

The sultry night air of the Floridian dusk hangs swampy over the bustling streets, thick with the scent of saltwater and sunscreen as you and your rag-tag bunch of friends amble your way towards the local arena.

The palm-fringed boulevards are slowly dyed in pastel pinks and golden hues from the setting sun as you navigate through the gritty streets and wayward bodies, their conversations echoing off the walls around you like shards of shattered glass.

Each fragment carries a piece of the shrapnel cacophony that threatens to pierce through the fragile barrier of your senses. The discordant strains of country music from a nearby honky-tonk drifts through the crackled air as you pass, their twangy melodies a familiar backdrop to the rhythm of everyday life in Fort Walton Beach.

You catch jarred snippets of conversation as you struggle to keep pace, the incessant buzzing in your ear like a droning hornet where your aid is kicking up a stink; the constant hum of static and feedback grates on your nerves like sandpaper rubbed furiously against your ear canal.

It’s been doing this for a while and you really should get a new one, chastising yourself for your put off till tomorrow mantra. The aid emits a disconcerting array of noises as it’s been slowly malfunctioning, enduring weeks of pitchy screeches and low humming din.

It started with a subtle crackling, like the static of a radio searching for a signal between undecided stations. Then accompanied by intermittent bursts of high-pitched metallic screams, akin to feedback from a microphone placed too close to a speaker.

Occasionally, you’ll hear distorted fuzzes of conversation or ambient sounds either unbearably loud, or warped and muffled as if heard underwater. These fragmented noises only add to your frustration, teasing you with glimpses of the auditory world that lies just beyond your reach without your trusty hearing aid.

As the malfunction worsens, the noises grow more erratic and pronounced, escalating into a chaotic riot of glitches and distortions. It’s as if your hearing aid is rebelling like a stroppy teenager and plunging you into a whirlwind of loud and jarring sounds that make you physically jump.

You wince as the noise grows louder, accompanied by unpredictable bursts of high-pitched squeals that bore into your skull down to the frayed nerves of your teeth.

"Is everything okay?" One of your friends asks, concern evident in their hazy voice as they throw you a glance over their shoulder.

Or at least you assume that’s what they say, on the account of the incessant squealing going on inside your only ear canal.

You force a smile, trying to push aside the discomfort. "Just a little pitchy," you reply, using your hands to convey the words as you sound them out, barely able to hear your voice and hoping to downplay the severity of the situation.

But if anything you’re expecting it to get worse, especially in the arena. The prospect of navigating the crowds in there with your errant device fills you with frenetic dread.

You would’ve preferred to have been sequestered away this evening, curled around a book and a nice glass of wine, slobbing it out in comfy sweats. Instead your friends have rail-roaded you into an impromptu night out, snatching up tickets to an MMA fight. Something you have no interest in whatsoever.

However the constant peer pressure in the group chat had forced you - seemingly at gunpoint - to embark on this manic adventure into uncharted territory of brawny muscle and sweat.

It's going to be so much fun! They’d exclaimed, their eyes shining with anticipation, and you feigned an enthused nod back when they’d picked you up.

They’re not bad people, you love that they want to include you so much, even if it can be mildly suffocating at times. But occasionally, your friends can make assumptions about your abilities that leave you feeling frustrated and misunderstood.

Born with only one functional ear, you’ve never known the stereo sound that most people take for granted. Instead, you navigate the world with one - the other not formed in the womb and blessing you with a little fleshy nubbin in place of a full ear, that your mom still to this day calls cute, even though you’re a fully grown ass woman - and relying on your other senses to fill the void left by your deafness.

Why don't you just turn up your hearing aid? They’ll ask, not realising that your device can't "fix" your deafness entirely, or that it often struggles to filter out loud background noise. There’s no happy medium - you either hear far too much or not enough with it.

You strain to follow their conversations amidst the cacophony of voices and background sounds bleeding in at the best of times. But despite your efforts, you’re often struggling to keep up, and it creates a sense of frustration building inside you.

Your friends can often forget to speak clearly, or to face you directly when speaking, making it difficult for you to follow along if you can't lip read. And though you know that your scatterbrain chums love you dearly, there are moments when their lack of awareness about accessibility leaves you feeling isolated and unseen.

Despite these challenges, you cherish your friendships deeply. You know that their intentions are always rooted in love and kindness, even if they sometimes fall short of understanding the unique experiences and needs associated with your deafness.

And venues with loud noises are probably the worst places they drag you to.

You know all too well the challenges that await you in environments like nightclubs - throbbing music, flashing lights, and crowded dance floors - all of which threaten to overload your already strained senses. More often than not, you go along anyway despite your reservations, not wanting to dampen their spirits or, more importantly, feel left out.

But moments like those are a stark reminder of the invisible barriers you face as someone living with hearing loss. Trying to steer the world around you, there are times when the overwhelming sensory input threatens to engulf you entirely, leaving you feeling alone in a crowd of well-meaning friends.

Your journey with hearing loss hasn't just impacted your friendships - it’s also left its mark on your romantic encounters. Over the years, you’ve experienced your fair share of heartaches as you've traversed the complexities of love and intimacy. Encountered many partners who struggled to understand the daily realities of living with hearing loss. Some were well-meaning but clueless, their attempts at communication often falling flat as they failed to grasp the nuances of your unique experiences.

Others were less understanding, their impatience and frustration bubbling to the surface whenever you struggled to hear or communicate effectively. And you’d endured countless arguments and misunderstandings, your self-esteem taking a hit with each passing day as you wondered if you’d ever find someone who truly accepted you for who you are.

But despite the setbacks and disappointments, you refuse to give up hope. The right person will come along. At some point.

As you reach the entrance to the moderately local and small arena, your patience reaches its breaking point as a loud, shrill screech rips through your ear making you audibly grumble.

Crowds of enthusiastic spectators, dressed in an array of attire, ranging from casual jeans to flashy sequined dresses, stream towards the entrance, their excitement palpable in the air. Inside, the atmosphere crackles with anticipation and mingles with the faint scent of sweat and spilled beer.

The walls are adorned with posters advertising past events, their colours faded with age, but their messages still bold and enticing. The floor is scuffed and worn from years of use and mildly sticky under the soles of your sneakers.

At the centre of it all stands the ring, bathed in a chalky spotlight that illuminates the weathered canvas like a stage awaiting its performers. Despite its moderate size, the arena is filled to the brim with eager fight fans, their voices rising in anticipation as they await the evening's main grapple event.

Your friends scatter, some heading for the bar, others pulling you with them further into the crowd as it grows. As the arena lights dim, casting shadows across the sea of faces around you, two fighters emerge from opposite corners of the ring, their presence commanding attention.

And it’s at this moment your aid decides to completely flip out as you clutch your head in searing pain.

With little choice and a swift motion, you reach in and pluck the offending device from your ear, relief flooding through you as the noise abruptly ceases. In the absence of the chaotic glitches and distortions, your ear strains to detect even the faintest whisper of sound.

The world around you seems to lose its shape and form, dissolving into a hazy blur of muted colours and indistinct shapes. The perpetual silence that now greets you is jarring and disorienting, encountering a profound emptiness, a void where once there had been a relentless assault on your senses, now reduced to a fuzzed quiet.

Despite the presence of people milling about around you, you suddenly feel utterly alone, trapped in a silent prison of your own making.

With each passing moment, your perception of the world shifts, shrinking away from you almost, your other senses recalibrating to the newfound peace that envelops you.

Your friend nudges you and points to the ring, mouthing words at you that you can’t read from their lips in the dark shadows, or hear. So you shrug and point to your broken aid in your fingers, and they pout sympathetically at you, turning their gaze back to the ring, leaving you somewhat bereft.

With little else to do, you watch the fight full of disdain. The first fighter, a towering figure with muscles rippling beneath his skin, exudes confidence with every step.

His jaw is set in determination, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on his opponent and honey hair slicked back. Your friend nudges you again, silently giggling and you assume it’s because she thinks he’s attractive and you roll your eyes with a lazy smirk.

With lightning-fast reflexes, the fighter launches himself forward, unleashing a flurry of punches aimed at his opponent's defences. His fists move like pistons, each strike packed with raw power and precision and it makes you wince.

The atmosphere reaches a fever pitch, the crowd erupting into silent cheers and applause around you with each punch exchanged between the combatants.

You find yourself swept up in the spectacle, eyes fixed on the action unfolding before you and imagining how bad those punches must sound. You can feel the energy of the crowd pulsating through you, a primal rhythm that resonates on a visceral level as you glance about at focused faces pulled back into enthusiastic snarls and fists pumping the air.

You reach for your purse slung across your shoulder, intending to stow the broken hearing aid away until you can have it replaced.

But just as you’re about to tuck it safely inside, a sudden jolt sends you stumbling forward, your fingers losing their grip on the fragile device.

Time seems to slow as you watch in horror as the hearing aid slips from your grasp, tumbling down into a dark sea of denim clad legs.

No!

Desperately, you reach out to grab the falling device, but it’s too late. Your hearing aid lands on the hard floor, disappearing amidst the crowd of stamping spectators.

Heart pounding, you push your way through, frantically searching for any sign of it. But amidst the chaos and darkness of the arena, it’s impossible to spot.

You turn to get your friends' attention but they're not there, realising you’ve been swept further into the crowd and closer to the ring as it surges. You can’t spot their faces so obviously and it starts to panic you.

Fighting your way through towards a gap, you feel a soft tap on your shoulder and turn abruptly to see a man standing before you.

He’s holding out the broken aid in what seems to be a gigantic palm, with a sympathetic expression.

The silence suddenly becomes deafening, save for the gentle thudding felt in your chest.

With rugged tan features softened by a warm smile, his face is lined with bronzed skin and a dusting of stubble across his jawline that’s greying in patches.

A well-groomed moustache adorns his upper lip. Beneath a worn, navy baseball cap, tufts of brown curls peek out, framing his face in a halo of unruly waves.

His eyes, a piercing dark brown, sparkle with a hint of mischief behind the steely gaze.

With a mixture of relief and trepidation, you accept the aid, your fingers trembling as you inspect the damage. The casing is cracked, the delicate components exposed to the harsh arena lights as they strobe.

Before you can try to communicate your thanks, the man’s hands move with a fluid grace as he offers his assistance.

“Are you okay?” He signs to you, his eyes full of concern.

You raise your eyebrows back with a stunned look. With a shaky smile and nodding, you sign back, “thank you.”

The man's eyes remain fixed on you as you finally tuck the aid into your purse for safekeeping and then sigh in defeat, noting his expression is one of genuine concern.

He signs again, his hands moving with confidence through the air. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

You keep his gaze with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty. "I don't think so." You sign back, your hands moving hesitantly as you try to convey your frustration. "It's broken."

"I'm sorry it got damaged." He signs.

Despite your immense disappointment, you can't help but feel a sense of warmth towards the stranger who’s come to your assistance.

"Thank you for finding it, I really appreciate it," you sign, your hands moving with more confidence.

A smile tugs at the corners of the man's lips as he signs back. "Of course. I'm glad I could." His eyes twinkle with a hint of mischief as he adds, "can I buy you a drink to make up for the disappointment at least?"

Your heart skips a beat at the unexpected offer. You hesitate for a moment, throwing a glance over your shoulder for one last look for your friends, before nodding, a shy smile playing at your lips.

"Sure. I'd like that," your hands betray your nervousness as they dance through the air.

He leads you through the crowd, throwing a smile back over his shoulder as you follow him to the bar.

“Do you drink beer?” He asks with his fingers shaping into words.

“A beer would be great.” You nod.

You watch as he leans in over the bar to the tender and fishes his wallet out from his back pocket. Your eyes take to wandering over his broad frame swathed in a mustard corded jacket and long legs in scuffed denim. He offers you a red plastic cup and you thank him.

“Are you deaf, too?” You tentatively ask him.

He shakes his head and his expression softens as he responds, “I learned ASL in the military.”

“Oh, the army?”

“Yeah. Or I was. Retired now.”

You smile. “Were you based at Eglin?”

“Yeah, sometimes. More away than at home though.” He nods over to the ring as the two guys are still going at it and signs some more. "Are you enjoying the fight?"

“My friends dragged me out. It’s not really my thing.” You sign with a crooked chuckle.

He nods, smiling. “Yeah, me either. My friend is in the fight. The one in blue. His brother coaches him, we were all in the army together. Show of camaraderie, I guess. I dunno, I’ve seen enough violence.” He shrugs and then sips his beer.

His eyes dart towards the ring and then back at you where he smiles again. You can feel yourself warming all over, captivated by the man before you, drawn to the quiet strength and undeniable charisma that seems to emanate from every fibre of his being.

He exudes an effortless coolness that belies his military background, while his easy demeanour suggests a man comfortable in his own skin.

But it’s his smile that truly sets him apart, a crooked grin that lights up his face as you both peep and gaze curiously at one another. There's a sincerity to his expression that draws you in, a sense of kindness around a prominent hooked nose, and compassion that transcends the rugged exterior.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself, my name’s Francisco.” He signs.

“Nice to meet you.” You introduce yourself back and he smiles at your name.

“My friends call me Frankie. Or Catfish.” He spells out with thick fingers.

“Catfish? Do I even want to know?” You query.

“Callsign, mostly.” He smirks with glittery eyes. “Do you have anyone that can fix your aid?”

You shrug. “I’ve been meaning to get a new one. Might finally force me to now.”

He nods as he sups at his beer, wet pink lips shining at you as he licks foam from them.

Your breath catches in your throat, coming in shallow gasps as you struggle to compose yourself in the presence of this captivating man who won’t stop looking at you.

“Will your friends be missing you?” You enquire, swallowing through a dry throat no matter how much cool beer you gulp down.

He shakes his head, reaching an arm up to scratch idly at the back of it as he repositions his cap.

“No. Too busy with Benny.” He nods over to the ring. “Will yours be missing you?”

“Probably not.” you sign dismally, aware that you can see them now in the crowd and they're all enthralled in the fight, completely unaware you’re missing.

“Good. Then we can have another drink together.” Frankie signs smiling, and you nod eagerly, feeling dizzy with tingly anticipation.

As the fights unfold in the ring, you and Frankie find yourselves drawn together for most of the night at the bar, engaged in silent conversation and signing with an ease that colours your recent acquaintance vividly.

With each swift and confident exchange, you delve deeper into your experience of navigating a world you can’t hear most of the time.

You learn that Frankie is completely fluent in American Sign Language, due to his time in a division in the army he calls Delta Force, explaining it was crucial for missions where he had to be completely silent, while Frankie discovers that you’ve been deaf since birth.

You talk about music and favourite bands, leaning into the commonality of being Fleetwood Mac aficionados. You both love dogs and loathe cats, and he doesn’t have children, but has a nephew he adores like his own, and shows you a goofy picture of the two of them pulling faces as his phone lock screen.

Despite the intensity of the fight unfolding before you, you’re both immersed in your own shared bubble, the fluid movements of your hands and smiles a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd around you both.

And you find that neither of you can stop smiling at one another. When Frankie smiles at you, it's like a burst of warmth illuminating the dimly lit arena like a solar flare. His eyes, alight with genuine kindness, crinkle at the corners into layered crow’s feet as his lips curve into a gentle, yet enticing arc.

And you feel a connection blooming between you as you discover common ground, unlike any you’ve experienced before. He makes you laugh, you feel it from the depths of your belly as it vibrates at the back of your throat.

He winks as he smirks at you, his dark chocolaty eyes linger on yours over the rim of his red plastic cup, that seems so tiny in his giant hands. He’s felt gently on your lower back, palm guiding you in closer to him to avoid getting knocked into by over-zealous patrons, and he smells so amazing up close.

The enticing scent of cloves and leather, like stepping into a well worn, yet loved jacket. Something spicy lingers under it, tickling your nose with its warm sweetness.

Your friends eventually find you at the bar as the lights come up a little later, and one realises you haven't got your aid in when you sign to greet them.

“Are you ready to leave?” They sign back to you and you turn towards Frankie hesitantly to say your farewell.

“Actually, if you want, we could go get a bite to eat? I could drop you home later?” He suggests to you with adept hands, much to your friends’ surprise as they observe the both of you communicating in ASL quickly and confidently.

Smiling, and wanting nothing more than to spend more time with him too, you nod at him before turning to your friends.

“I’m gonna stay with Frankie for a bit. You guys go on ahead. Talk to you later.” You sign to them.

“Get it, girl.” One of them mouths and you smirk, hoping he doesn’t lip read too.

Together, you both decide to head to a nearby burger joint, drawn in by the promise of hearty comfort food and casual ambiance.

And Frankie reaches for your hand, entwining your fingers in his through the crowds as the arena empties, and doesn’t actually let go until you’re sliding into the booth opposite him in the diner.

Your pulse quickens beneath your skin, thrumming in time with the rapid beat of your heart as you find yourself drawn inexorably closer to the explicitly gorgeous man before you.

Finding a cosy setting near the window, you both settle in, your silent conversation flowing effortlessly as you peruse the menu; the scent of sizzling beef and toasted buns wafting through the air.

Your mouth waters at the thought of sinking your teeth into a juicy burger piled high with all the fixings, while Frankie's eyes light up at the prospect of indulging in some chilli cheese fries on the side to share.

As Frankie places the order with the waitress, you find yourself feeling more relaxed and at ease than you have in a long time. There's something comforting about the simple pleasure of sharing a meal with a new friend, the warmth of your connection filling the air alongside the aroma of freshly cooked cow.

His easy laughter and genuine warmth, coupled with the ability to engage with you confidently in ASL, makes him seem like the perfect companion, someone who understands you in a way that few others do.

He’s insanely attractive too, older and wiser, the grey in his beard indicating he might be in his mid-forties, a small swell of his tummy overhangs his jeans straining against the grey t-shirt underneath, as he sits back in the booth regarding you with a smile as you sign and share jokes. And he's so broad that it makes your insides clench each time your eyes skim over his shoulders.

But then you can't help but feel a flicker of self-consciousness creep in when he gently asks about your ear. A little nubbin of stumped skin revealed as you brush your hair past it, realising that you’ve forgotten all about it - so caught up in the connection you share that it no longer seems to matter.

But it's a part of yourself that you’ve spent years trying to hide, tucking it away beneath the layers of your hair like a secret you’re ashamed to reveal.

You brace yourself for his reaction, half-expecting a look of pity or discomfort to cross his face. But instead, you’re met with a warm smile and a gentle touch as he reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair away.

Frankie signs with a tender reassurance. "You don't have to hide it from me. I think you’re beautiful."

You smile, feeling incredibly heated as you reach for your drink.

"You know," he signs, "I used to be a little self-conscious about something too."

Curiosity flickers in your eyes as you watch him sign. "Really?" You respond.

"Yeah. I was serving in the army," he begins, his gaze somewhat distant as he recalls the memories. "There was an explosion. I was lucky to survive, but I was pretty messed up. Ended up with horrific scarring from the burns. Had to have a skin graft.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the gravity of his words. You can't imagine the horrors he must have endured, the pain and suffering etched into every line of his tired, yet striking, face.

And yet, there's a strength and resilience in Frankie that you find utterly captivating - a bravery that shines through in the way he holds himself, despite the scars he carries, even if they’re not outwardly obvious.

"You're a hero," you sign, your hands trembling slightly with emotion. "Thank you for your service, soldier."

“Actually, it’s captain.” He simply salutes at you, fingers brushing the rim of his cap with a buoyant smirk and then a little wink as the waitress puts down your plates in front of you both.

“Captain Catfish.” You salute back, chuckling.

You watch Frankie take a big bite of his burger, and your laughter suddenly bubbles up from deep within your chest. It's not his charming smile or his witty banter that elicits this sudden burst of amusement - it's the way he eats his pickle.

With a playful twinkle in his eye, Frankie takes a dramatic bite of the pickle, exaggerating the crunch with an over-the-top flourish. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he chews, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

You can't help but laugh at the sight, your heart swelling with affection for this man who seems to delight in the simple pleasures of life. In that moment, watching him enjoy his pickle with such gusto, you feel yourself falling hard for him already.

“What?” He mouths with a curious grin.

“I can’t stand pickles.” You wrinkle your nose after sticking your tongue out in mock disgust, as he wipes his furry lips with a napkin.

“Oh, shit…” he signs. You watch his smile dip and you query as to what’s wrong with that statement.

“Well,” Frankie signs with deeply intense eyes, “if I taste of pickles, it means you won’t enjoy it when I kiss you.”

You baulk. “You… want to kiss me?”

He nods with a gleam. “I mean, I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment I saw you.”

You put your half-eaten burger down on your plate, completely stunned and feeling even more hot. Suddenly stifling inside the diner.

His casual declaration sends a thrill of excitement coursing through your veins, mingled with a hint of nervousness that quickens your breath and sets your pulse racing again.

There's a magnetic pull between you, a chemistry that you can't ignore. You can't shun the way your skin prickles, all the way down your spine, how you’re squeezing your thighs together under the table so much that it throbs and feels delicious at the thought of him in between them.

You can’t deny that you haven't thought about kissing him yourself all night as your eyes drop to his lips as he licks them free of salt and ketchup.

You want to know what he’ll taste like, how that moustache will feel against your lips, how his scruff will feel between your thighs.

How gentle he’ll kiss you, how hard he’ll fuck you…

You sense he’s thinking the same thing because Frankie plops his burger down on his plate too and suggests getting out of here, to which you’re only too eager to agree.

And outside, Frankie makes good on his word about kissing you as he pulls you back gently by the elbow, cups your face in his giant hands and presses his lips to yours.

The taste of each other is a sweet and heady blend of anticipation and desire. You taste the faint remnants of the burgers, mixed with the tang of Frankie's salty breath from the pickle, and the subtle hint of his cologne.

It's a delicious concoction that fills your senses, leaving you craving more and melding yourself to him with every passing moment.

Frankie's gentle touch traces patterns along your spine, the warmth of his skin pressing against you as he envelops you closer to him; his wet and explorative tongue circling around your own and your toes buzzing as you stand on tiptoes to reach him.

Pulling away, and smirking, he signs if you want to go back to his place or to yours. You suggest yours, more for your own comfort and he agrees, taking your hand and leading you back to his Pickup.

Once inside your home, it’s a frantic tug of removing clothes in between hot, wet kisses and tangles of trembling limbs. Your hands trail over his smooth, bronzed skin, card through his curls after knocking his cap off, and his own hands squeeze your hips and ass greedily.

“You okay? Is this too fast?” Frankie signs, eyes dilated and lips plushly swollen from bruising kisses.

You shake your head and signal that you want to continue. That you want him here. That you just want him inside of you.

You barely make it up the stairs, stopping as you both fumble and tug at clothes and grope hot flesh. Crashing on the bed, you watch breathlessly as he pulls your jeans and panties off, kissing up the insides of your thighs.

Propped up in the pillows, you watch him keenly between your legs as he slowly makes out with your skin.

Kissing and mouthing over your thighs as he pushes them up and apart, opening you up for him. Running his nose around and inhaling over your mound as his eyes flick up to you, dark and chasm-like as he smirks insidiously.

Frankie looks up at you as his tongue glides slowly through your folds, big brown eyes glazed darkly as your fingers twist inside his messy curls. Adept wet tongue rolling softly, but purposefully, over the throbbing nub of your clit, and you gasp as your legs shake on his broad shoulders, a jolt of electricity speeding through them.

“You taste so good,” he signs with his fingers quickly before nuzzling his nose against your pussy again.

His grip around your thighs tighten as he delves deeper, tongue dipping into your hole and sliding all the way up to your clit.

You sigh out, head lolling back as your body shudders. He sucks intensely, lips vacuumed around it as you can feel his tongue gliding back and forth over it in his mouth.

You pull tighter on his hair, panting and feeling the coil tighten and pull inside your core.

He looks up at you again as his middle finger slides into you with ease, you’re soaked. He nods at you with a raised brow and mouths “good?” around shiny lips.

You nod with a breathy smile and gasp as he slides in another, using his fingers to pry you open so he can stroke and fuck whilst he licks and sucks.

You moan out as he pumps and licks at your pussy, bringing you to a giddy and twinkly orgasm as you shake and buck, pulling tighter on his curls. Your thighs thrum around his head, and he watches you whilst latched to your cunt, spilling warm slick into his mouth.

You tug his chin towards you, soft scruff soaked, devouring his mouth with yours as you whine and taste yourself around his lips.

You reach for his belt before he pulls away, leaving you chasing the ghost of his kiss as he stands.

Shucking his jeans off your eyes fall onto the large cluster of scars that adorn the left side of his hip, thigh and lower leg. Puckered white slashes that mar his tanned flesh, and he smiles softly at you as you reach out to stroke over them.

Faded, craggy lines in his skin as he strokes through your hair and his thumb brushes back and forth against your little nubbin for an ear.

"Beautiful," he mouths at you with soft eyes as the feel of it makes your skin tingle.

Glancing up at him, he’s biting his lip; eyes dark like oil as he guides your hand across his hip to the thick cock tenting in his boxers.

He’s so hard as you stroke and squeeze gently, a dark patch soiling his boxers where he’s leaking arousal into them.

Frankie submits as you pull him down onto the bed and crawl over him, kissing over his chest into the soft swell of his stomach. Mouthing and stroking explorative digits over his golden skin.

Flat and spread with his neck craning up to watch you reveal him - a swollen, tanned cock with a pink, dripping head. Lips curling back over incisors as he watches you lick over the swollen tip of him and you groan in delight at his taste.

You can see him gasping, lips parted in a small ‘o’ as he breathes, watching you suck him down.

You wish so much that you could have your aid in right now to hear the noises he’s making. You can see him, head back on the pillow, mouth open and eyes closed in bliss as his cock fills your mouth whilst you suck and lick all around it.

You feel his fingers snake in your hair until he pulls you upright and kisses you, tongues knotted together again.

“Fuck me, Frankie.” You sign quickly with abject need.

Rolling with you, he lines up, guiding himself into you with a gentle shunt forward of his hips and you gasp.

“Too much?” He mouths at you and you instantly shake your head and grip his ass, pulling him into you.

“So good,” you mouth back to him and he smiles.

Your hands frame his hips, feeling the change in skin texture from his scars. Feeling them work as he drives in deep, curls tickling your nose as his forehead rests on yours, breath pelting your face.

You look down between you to see his cock continually disappearing inside you and he feels so good as he bottoms out inside you, not quite believing this is actually happening.

Until it happens.

A wave crashing into you, warm and tingling as your body arches into him, your grip becoming tighter and your back sweating as you shake and tense before uncoiling. Letting go as your orgasm takes you and flings you up into the ether.

You feel him press a kiss to your temple, his scruff silken against your cheek. You wrap your legs around his waist and grip harder on his ass as you pant and see stars behind your eyes.

He flattens his palms on the bed and works faster, hitting that spot inside you that makes you cry out louder.

Frankie slows down to kiss you, grinding his hips so your clit brushes against that soft thatch of hairs at the base of him. He can’t stop kissing you as he gently thrusts, lips gliding over your mouth, your cheeks, your throat. His patchy beard brushing against your ear, your eyelashes… he’s everywhere.

You cling onto him, hands splayed and fingers digging into broad, toned flesh as you build. He smiles as you squirm, blissed brown peepers and a crooked grin flashing at you as your breathing and gasping intensifies.

Cock bringing you to the edge once more and he watches the moment you leap off and fly. He mouths the word “beautiful” again at you before you clutch his face, shaking and kissing him desperately.

You nod at him as you watch him strain, and the tension in his neck and shoulders tightens. You mouth the word “come” and his mouth opens, baring teeth as his lips curl back.

Frankie looks incredible when he comes, biting down on those flush lips, veins in his neck bulging. His grip on you becomes tighter, his hips fucking you more frantic as his mouth slacks and his eyes roll back.

You see him utter the word “fuck” and it sends shockwaves to your core. "Inside?"

You nod frantically wanting him to fill you up.

He pulls out slightly and grabs a hold of his cock as it pumps inside you, pulling out so just the tip stays inside, flooding you. Watching in awe as it drips around your hole and uses his fingers to scoop it up and push it back inside as he leans over you for a kiss.

Flopping down beside you, you ask him if he wants to stay, and he nods with flushed cheeks and pulls you into his broad arms as he crushes you to him.

“You better not hog the duvet,” you sign to him, and you feel his chest rumble under you as he laughs.

Splayed, untamed curls stick out in all directions and he’s never looked so good, and you wonder how these events have transpired over the course of the last few hours where you’re tucked up in his arms, still twitching from an intense slew of orgasms.

"I really like you," he signs with a sleepy smile.

"I really like you too." You sign back.

You lay there, noses nuzzling as Frankie’s fingers stroke across your navel until you finally succumb to sleep.

As the soft morning light filters through the curtains, you slowly begin to stir from a satiated slumber; your other senses gradually awakening to the world around you.

As you stretch and yawn, you feel a sense of contentment wash over you - a snug warmth that lingers from the heady events of the night before, and emanates from the broad body beside you.

You stir to see Frankie propped up on an elbow and gazing down at you, a gentle smile playing at the corners of his lips. His fingers are in your hair, stoking gently over the nub of your ear delicately.

You allow yourself to bask in it for a few moments, not shying away or worried about covering it up. Just revelling in the feel of his gentle, unabashed touch.

“Morning,” you sign to him with sleepy eyes.

“I have something for you,” he signs back, reaching behind him and presenting you with an open palm.

Resting on it now is your hearing aid. The casing is still cracked, but all the components and wires are tucked safely back inside.

"I hope you don't mind," Frankie signs, "I fixed it for you this morning while you were sleeping. I have a few tools kicking about in my truck. It’s not a permanent fix, was fiddly as hell, but it should help you out until you get your new one at least..."

A surge of gratitude floods your heart as you take the hearing aid from him with awe, your fingers tracing the familiar contours of the device with a sense of wonder.

“You fixed it?” You sign, completely floored.

“Well, I hope I did.” He signs back, sheepishly. You watch as he scratches under his jaw lazily and smiles at you. “Put it in, let’s see.”

With trembling fingers, you place the hearing aid in your ear, your breath catching in your throat as you wait for the moment of truth.

And then, as if by magic, the world around you slowly fuzzes alive with familiar sounds - the soft rustle of the sheets, the distant chirping of birds through the open window, the gentle rhythm of Frankie’s breathing beside you.

“Hey, can you hear me?” Frankie smiles eagerly at you.

As you hear his voice for the first time, you’re struck by its exquisite tone and timbre, like the gentle strumming of a finely tuned guitar. There's a deep richness to it, a depth that resonates within you, rain on gravel, velvet against skin.

“Hey,” you reply with a widening smile. “So good to finally hear you.”

“You too. But I’m just grateful you didn’t hear me snore.” Frankie chuckles, and you giggle with him as he nuzzles into you.

“Thank you,” you say before he kisses you, igniting sparks inside your chest again as he rolls on top of you, body warm and blanketing you.

"It was nothing, really."

“No, it's everything." You smile as he brushes his nose against yours. "Can I make you some breakfast, as a way of thanks?” You ask him as you feel his lips run over your neck, teeth gently nipping at the flesh there and hearing him hum out is exquisite.

“I’d love that.” His breath is all hot and muffled against your throat.

You can feel the thickness of him slipping between your soaked folds, grunting deeply as he slides back in, filling you up once more - a delicious, deep sound that reverberates and floods every nerve of your being.

Your world is alight with colour once more with the way he whines as you scratch inside his roots. The way he snuffles against your skin as he sucks in mouthfuls of it.

The sounds of him cursing through his pleasure, "fuck, baby," and "you feel so fuckin' good around my cock." His filth is exquisite.

You cry out as he fills you full, fingers grappling against his skin and mewling his name in hypnotic chants as he drives deep and hard. You can't get enough and never want to let him go.

“Mmm, I think this is a good way you can thank me right now, hermosa...”

I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Frankie, and welcome your comments/thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog if you liked it so others can find it on their dash to read and enjoy too - thank you very much! 🖤

BODIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

FRANKIE MORALES MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal characters #frankie morales x you #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fluff #triple frontier fic #bodies series #diversity #inclusion #every body is beautiful #jett's writing

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13uswntimagines · 4 months

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I'll Take Care of You (Alessia Russo x MMA!fighter R)

Request: Could we maybe see some slightly more stern dom alessia dealing with r (doesn’t have to be smut) in front of the team because reader starts acting bratty with them?

Part of the same universe as the come down.

Warning: Slight touching but not actual smut. Also D/S fic

Author's note: Hey Y'all, i really hope you enjoy this. I want to point out that D/S dynamics are based on trust and communication, so that's what I chose to focus on. Alessia is a soft dom, and chooses a punishment that she knows will be effective. If you want to chat or have any ideas or comments, feel free to hit me up.

Gearing up for a fight was the equivalent of stretching out a rubber band to its limit. It was 8 weeks of nonstop training, 4 weeks of conditioning your body to shed water so you could make weight, 2 weeks of cameras following you around for UFC embedded, and 1 week of media bombardment where you had to listen to grown men act like 5-year-olds talking about who was going to beat who.

It was utterly exhausting.

The only upside was that at the end of it, you got to step into the octagon and do what you did best.

You got to put the plan your coaches drilled over and over into your brain into place. You got to release all of the built-up anxiety and frustration from camp.

You got to fight.

It was like coming up for oxygen after being trapped underwater. Sometimes the cage felt like the only place you could really breathe on your own.

It had been your safe haven for almost as long as you could remember, which was kinda strange considering your health was put at immediate risk every time you stepped inside. It had been your escape from your family, and your only coping mechanism for as long as you could remember.

To go through training camp, and fight week and the weight cut, only to have your fight pulled at the last minute was fucking devastating.

It was like when Alessia brought you all the way to the precipice of an orgasm and then pulled away just before you could tumble over it, except far far far worse.

It made your blood boil. It made the monster in your chest roar that your opponent couldn’t do his end of the job to make the fight go on after all of the shit he was talking. And there was nothing anyone could say or do to make it better.

Dana promised that the fight would be rescheduled. He even threw in that if you won, you would be next in line for a title shot.

But it didn’t help.

The fight was set to be at the O2 arena, meaning your girlfriend and all of her teammates had been set to see you, and now they couldn’t. You couldn’t get your 10 training weeks back and you would have to do the weight cut all over again.

It was a shit sandwich, and it made you feel completely out of control. It made you crave for someone else to put you right again. For Alessia to remind you that she had control always.

Maybe that’s why you chose your satin button-down shirt to go to dinner with your girlfriend and her teammates and paired it with tight black skinny jeans.

It wasn’t often that you liked to push Alessia’s control. That you toed the boundaries that she set, but tonight it felt like the prize comparable to stepping into the cage.

With the little black dress she had worn, you really couldn’t blame yourself either. You could never resist when she showed off her legs. You were obsessed and she knew it. It was probably why she had chosen the outfit, to begin with.

It was probably designed as a reward of sorts for after your fight, except you weren’t having a fight. So you supposed it was kind of like a consolation prize.

Except you felt wound too tightly to really enjoy it.

“So that’s it, they just call the whole thing off?” Ella asked leaning forward to rest her chin in her hand.

“Yep,” You popped the p, your finger running a gentle circle on Alessia’s exposed knee. “I can’t even sign a paper that says I’m fine fighting him despite the failed drug test, and it’s too late to find a replacement even if we allow a catchweight,”

She let the movement continue, the hand wrapped around your shoulder gently squeezing the arm furthest away from her.

While she was relieved that the rules prevented you from fighting a man on steroids, she knew how gutted you were about the cancellation.

“Probably for the best mate,” Leah said, sipping her wine.

You shrugged, letting your finger trail a little higher on Alessia’s leg.

It was slightly too… forward for the steakhouse her teammates had chosen, but with the dimmed lights you figured no one could see your hand under the white tablecloth anyway. Not with how close you were sitting to your girlfriend.

“I already made weight, so it’s kind of a waste,” You muttered, dragging your nails up the inside of her thigh to just below the hem of her dress. “I’ll have to start camp all over again unless I take something short notice,”

“Can you do that?” Mary asked, from your other side.

You shrugged again. “I told Dana I was game if he needed someone to fill in, so we’ll have to see,”

Alessia’s eyebrows pulled tighter together “You didn’t tell me that, love,”

“Didn’t I?” You asked, feigning dumb, as your fingers finally made it past the hem of her dress. “Must have forgotten. I’m excited to see you all play on Tuesday though,”

You ran your nail across the sensitive skin on the inside of her thigh, dangerously close to her center. But before you could make it any further, her free hand caught your wrist, and repositioned you so your hand was resting very innocently near her knee again.

“Ireland is always fun to face,” Ella smiled at you. “Should be a bit chippy,”

“I’ll definitely be rocking my MacCabe jersey,” You matched her expression, your thumb again beginning to rub circles into Alessia’s skin.

Leah frowned, dropping her menu. “You will?”

“Absolutely,” You smirked, wiggling your eyebrows and slyly trailing your thumb back up Alessia’s thigh. “Gotta support my favorite foul-mouthed Gooner,”

Leah’s eyes went wide, and Alessia squeezed your shoulder.

“And what about me?” Your girlfriend asked, a pout pulling at her lips.

You wiggled your eyebrows, a witty remark at the tip of your tongue, knowing it would piss her off, but the tension in your chest made you unable to stop yourself.

You wanted to push her. To force a reaction, even when you knew all you had to do was ask for what you wanted.

“Are you ladies ready to order?” A waiter asked, appearing behind Leah before you could let it fly.

You let your smirk widen, closing your menu with a thud and making eye contact with the waiter.

“Since she’s not on the menu,” You started, leaning closer to your girlfriend for just a second, edging your hand even further up her thigh until it was again past the hem of her dress. “I think I’ll have the tomahawk, medium rare with a Yorkie and the roasted carrots please,”

You winked at the waiter for good measure as the table giggled and Alessia’s cheeks turned bright red.

The waiter cleared his throat, turning his attention to your girlfriend. “And for you ma’am?”

Alessia opened her mouth, probably to order, but you cut her off instead.

“She’ll take the sirloin, medium with the Orzo and kale salad,” You said, reciting her normal order with perfect precision. “And she’ll be having me for dessert later,”

More giggles erupted from your friends, and you dragged your hand impossibly higher, extending your pinky so it brushed against her underwear.

She inhaled sharply next to you, sending you a warning side eye as the rest of the table continued to order, but she didn’t immediately remove your hand.

You ignored her warning, letting your pinky slide over the satiny fabric of her underwear.

It wasn’t what she normally wore, and you couldn’t help the wolfish grin that took over your features.

She had worn lingerie for you.

Maybe that should have stopped you. Made you consider that you wouldn’t get anything if you kept pushing, but again you couldn’t seem to help yourself.

“Will you be in the Ireland friends and family section then?” Leah asked, wiggling her eyebrows at your girlfriend. “Cause I don’t think my family or Less’ will enjoy you wearing the opposing team’s jersey,”

You made a noise like you were considering it as you finally slid your hand up and cupped your girlfriend’s heat. “I don’t think I’d feel at home though. Surely your family can deal with it right Less?”

Alessia nodded once, very stiffly. “My family loves you no matter what you’re wearing,”

You smiled impishly at her, adding just a little more pressure to her core.

She shifted in her seat, leaning very close to your ear, as Ella started talking about some movie she and Joe had watched, taking the attention of the rest of Alessia’s teammates.

“They’d even love you if you had to wear your collar at the game,” She chuckled darkly in your ear, her voice soft enough to get lost in the noise of the restaurant as her free hand yet again caught your wrist and pulled your hand back to a much more innocent position. “Now behave, or I promise you’ll regret it,”

You pulled away, your devilish smirk only getting broader. “No,”

Her eyebrows furrowed her expression something between anger and concern and warning, like she was trying to figure out why you were pushing the boundaries when you never did before.

You wiggled yours in return, offering her nothing else before joining the conversation of her teammates.

You weren’t ready to talk yet.

You were too content digging yourself deeper and deeper.

*****

You continue to push Alessia all throughout dinner, taking every opportunity to make her blush or to creep your hand further up her thigh. At one point you had even wiggled a finger beneath her underwear before she could stop you.

And your behavior hadn’t stopped once you left the restaurant.

You definitely placed your hand far too low on her waist as you and your friends walked back to the hotel the UFC had rented for you, and winked cheekily at the fans as you entered the building, spending far too long signing things and flirting just to annoy your girlfriend.

You knew from the “come on darling,” and the way she wrapped her arm around you, her fingers closing gently around the back of your neck that you were in serious trouble as she led you into the hotel and to the elevator.

“Good luck mate,” Leah nodded towards you as she stepped into her hotel room after Mary and Ella. “Think you’re gonna need it after that show,”

She tilted her head toward your girlfriend glaring a hole in Leah’s doorframe.

“Good night Leah,” Your girlfriend bit out, pressing her thumb into the space at the very center of the back of your neck.

Leah rolled her eyes at the movement, well aware of the dynamic between you and your girlfriend. More aware than most of her teammates for both club and country because of how long you had known her. “Right you two, do have too much fun,”

You stared at the door for a long moment after it closed, the tension in your chest bleeding down to your stomach.

You knew your time was up. That you would have to pay the piper so to speak, and it had guilt swirling along with the unpleasantness.

You knew that all you had to do was utter a word and it would all be over.

You knew that Alessia would stick to your limits, no matter how hard you pushed her, but you couldn’t help the… lingering anxiety that came from your past relationships.

The ones that took advantage of your submissiveness, and the unhealthy way you had always chosen to deal with stress. The ones that ignored your pain for their own pleasure.

“Come on then,” Alessia said, very gently running the nail of her thumb down the length of the back of your neck, and squeezing your shoulder.

You hummed, allowing her to lead you down the hallway to your own hotel room door, but she paused before she opened it. You looked up at her, realizing suddenly that you were trapped between her and the door.

She stepped closer so your noses were nearly touching. She dragged her hand from your neck to your chin, using her thumb to tilt your head to where she wanted it.

“I love you,” She said, her voice soft and sincere. “No matter what,”

She leaned in the last centimeter separating you, connecting your lips in a very sweet kiss.

You leaned into it, opening your mouth when her tongue poked out, welcoming it and meeting it with your own so they spun in a slow dance.

It was the reminder that you desperately needed.

The promise that she would take care of you, even when you acted like a brat.

She pulled away just enough to disconnect your lips, and your mouths separated with a low pop.

“Remind me of your colors,” Alessia said, her thumb running across your cheek.

“Green for good, yellow for slow down, and red for stop,” You recited, your voice breathless.

“Good girl,” She hummed. “Open the door, and take off your shirt and pants once we get inside,”

You swallowed hard at the change of tone.

“Yes Miss,” You said, already pulling the key card from the back pocket of your jeans. You didn’t look away from her as you fumbled until you heard the lock on the door beep, and clumsily pushed it open.

You stumbled backward, unwilling to break eye contact with your girlfriend because you knew you would probably get very little of it tonight.

She turned away from you as soon as the door slammed shut, busying herself with something you didn’t know.

“I believe I told you to do something,” She said, not even sparing a look over her shoulder at you, and you realized you had been staring for too long.

You cleared your throat, your fingers trembling as they unbuttoned your straining shirt.

You carefully pulled the satin materials from your shoulders, folding it neatly and laying it on the bed before you started on your pants.

It took you three tries to undo the button, the zipper getting caught in the stretchy material of your boxers. You peeled your tight jeans down your legs, folding them and placing them next to your shirt.

You felt Alessia’s presence behind you as you pulled off your shoes and socks.

As soon as they had been placed in their rightful place, her hand found its way to your bare back.

The touch was soothing and grounding and exactly what you needed to combat the slightly floaty feeling in your brain.

The hand slid up your back, all the way to your neck.

“Kneel,”

The soft squeeze on the back of your neck was like magic, as was the soft, but stern order.

You sank to your knees without question, your butt resting on your heels, your hands facing palm up on your thighs, your back straight and your head bowed, as the tension in your chest slowly ebbed away.

“I think we need to have a chat,” She continued, the hand on your neck sliding up to run through the hair at the base of your skull. Her nails scratched soothingly at your scalp. “Because your behavior in the restaurant is not the behavior of the good girl I trained,”

You grunted, glaring at a spot in the carpet.

You didn’t want to talk.

You already had to talk to Dana, to your coaches, and to the media. You had nothing left to say.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about at dinner?” She asked you, the fingers on your scalp wrapping through your curls. She gave it a sharp tug, forcing you to look up at her. “Because I’d really like to know what the fuck you were playing at,”

Her blue eyes burned into you, concerned and… something else lingering below the surface.

“I wasn’t playing at anything,” You grit out.

She raised a perfect eyebrow at you, as she searched your face.

“Is this because your fight was canceled?”

You didn’t answer her, unwilling to admit how… off balanced it made you feel.

But that was enough of an answer for her.

Her eyes softened minutely. “Baby,”

You shook your head.

You didn’t want her sympathy or her pity.

You wanted her to crush you.

“Alright,” She signed, tilting your head back so far it was painful. “I’m going to give you 2 options. We can call Clarke and Lexa and they can run you through a workout,”

You shivered at the mention of your respective striking and jujitsu coaches, knowing already that whatever the alternative was, you would be choosing it.

“Or you can take a punishment of my choosing,” She finished. “It won’t be an easy one,”

“I’ll take a punishment,” You muttered after a beat.

You didn't need easy right now.

She hummed, holding you close for a long second, and you relished in the attention.

That had been why you acted out at all anyway.

She dropped her hold on your hair suddenly, and you crashed back on your knees.

“On the wall,” She said, completely cutting contact with you, and walking towards the little kitchen area of the suite.

You let out a shaky breath, pushing yourself to your feet, and shuffled over to the wall next to the television across from the couch.

You turned to face the couch, wincing when Alessia pulled a wine glass out of the cabinet and a jug of water from the counter and returned to you.

She carefully filled the glass to the halfway mark, before her attention turned to you.

You knew immediately what punishment she had chosen.

The rules were simple, you would balance the glass in one of the designated calisthenic positions. If the water spilled, or the glass fell then you would move to the next position. The punishment would be over when you made it through all 15 positions to Alessia’s satisfaction, or if you safeworded.

It sounded easy, or like it wouldn’t be effective, but that was entirely wrong. It was the punishment that you hated the most.

Your stomach never failed to drop when Alessia approached you with the wine glass and water. Just the sight of her with it was enough to have your muscles quivering at the impending fatigue.

“Ready darling?”

You made a low sound, leaning back against the wall, bending your knees, and getting into the first position.

A wall sits with your knees pressed together to focus the pressure on your quads.

She used a hand on your shoulder to push you further down the wall until your thighs sat parallel to the floor, and then very carefully balanced the stem of the wine glass between your knees so the base just barely brushed your hamstring.

You frowned. She usually balanced it on top of your legs further up your thighs so all you had to do was stay level. But where it was now meant that you would have to stay level and squeeze with your adductors so it didn’t slip and spill the water.

“Tell me your color,” She said, her thumb sweeping under your chin, drawing your eyes away from the glass to meet her blue.

“Green,” you murmured, leaning into the gentle touch.

“Good,” She hummed, cupping your cheek for another long second before she pulled away. “I’ll be right there, reading my book,”

Your gaze trailed after her as she settled herself on the couch directly across from you, picking up the 7 Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. She easily found her page and began to read.

You glanced back to the balancing glass between your knees. It was already shaking slightly, the liquid vibrating around the bowl of the glass with the effort of your muscles to keep it in place.

It irritated you that you could already feel your quads and adductors quivering. It was pathetic that they were already fatigued after only 30 seconds.

You grit your teeth, letting your hips slip down further so you could squeeze with your glutes to take a little bit of the pressure off of your adductors. The glass shifted minutely, and the water inside sloshed dangerously before it settled.

Your eyes flickered back up to Alessia, wondering if she saw it too, but her eyes stayed planted in her book.

That irritated you too.

The only upside to your fight being canceled was that you got to spend more time with her. You wouldn’t have to split your attention between her and not getting your face caved in.

Now you didn’t even have that.

You thought of safewording and forcing an early end to your punishment. It would be a violation of the rules though.

But when she found out that you broke her trust (the most severe infraction you could ever commit) she might choose a more… harsh punishment. One of the ones that was listed in the soft limits the two of you had agreed upon. One that would separate you from reality, and leave you feeling floaty and thoroughly controlled. Thoroughly owned.

A part of you wanted her to forcibly put you in your place. To disregard how bad it would feel tomorrow and the bad memories it would bring up for you, and just demolish you. To crush your will and grind you into dust. To beat you into oblivion.

It was what your opponent would have done anyway.

You knew Alessia would never agree to it while you were this upset. She didn’t like to give in to your self-destructive tendencies.

The glass between your knees shook again, drawing your attention back to the warm fire setting deeply into your quads. They would ache tomorrow you were sure, but then again wasn’t that part of the point?

It would be a reminder that even when she wasn’t with you, you belonged to Alessia. It was an invisible mark that claimed you. That reminded you she would always take control when you felt dangerously unstable.

And then it clicked.

This punishment was Alessia’s favorite because it was based on your choice to obey her. Your choice to push your body to its limits to please her. Your choice to give her control over you.

She didn’t need to use a belt or a paddle to bend you to her will.

She just had to ask.

You just had to relax and trust that she would take care of you.

You let out a long breath, counting down from 3 in your head. You let it fall back into the wall with a low thump and your shoulders sagged, as the remaining tension in your chest drained out of you.

“Good girl,” Alessia said softly, and the page of her book turned. Your eyes darted back to her, hoping that they would be on you, but they weren’t.

She looked so composed, both legs tucked under her, reading her book. It was diametrically opposed to how you felt, completely out of control. A quivering mess fighting to stay in a simple wall sit.

It further reminded you of your place, and the weight of it was enough to have your eyes sliding closed.

You focused on your breathing, 3 seconds and 3 seconds out. Deep and slow.

You lasted for more breaths before the glass slid from between your legs, landing on the carpeted floor with a light thud.

Your eyes snapped open, and again you expected to meet Alessia’s eyes, but they remained trained on her book.

“Next please,” She said softly, flipping another page in her book.

You slid down the wall to the floor, sucking in another long breath as you nodded, wishing that she would just look at you, but you knew that was part of the punishment too.

You took another breath as you rolled over to your stomach and sat yourself up on your elbows, squeezing your core. It was a slightly modified plank designed to show off the muscles in your back and arms for the benefit of your girlfriend and to give your legs a break for a bit.

She waited until you were in a position to stand, slowly padding over to you and grabbing the wine glass off of the floor.

She paused next to you, and you felt the way her eyes dragged across the muscles on your back.

“Always so pretty for me,” She hummed and you heard the water as she refilled the glass. “Too bad you can’t have the reward I had planned,”

Her touch lingered as she carefully balanced it between your shoulder blades, and stepped away.

“Let’s see if you can beat your best time on this one,” She said, talking more at you than to you. “Your record is 22 minutes, which isn’t quite championship timing. I think you need to make it at least 25,”

You groaned.

Her competitive streak was legendary and often a part of your punishment when you had been particularly ornery. You switched positions at her pleasure, so you knew you would be planking all night if you couldn’t break 25 minutes.

It was like when she decided you needed to break your edging record.

There would be no mercy unless you safeworded.

You focused on your breathing as she sauntered back to the couch, fighting to keep your core and back muscles locked to prevent the glass from tipping.

Your abs clenched, and you so badly wanted to roll your shoulders to relieve the tension building in the space between them. The space holding the glass.

You focused on the sound of Alessia’s breathing. Each rhythmic inhale and exhale like the clicking of a metronome, broken only by the occasional fluttering of a page.

You wished she had put the timer in front of you so you could see how long you had left.

But then again that would probably be worse.

You always found it harder to go the distance in a fight when you could see the clock ticking down. It always made you feel more exhausted at the end of the round, and made standing up off of your stool at the start of the next round that much harder.

You sucked in another breath, refocusing on the sounds of Alessia’s inhales and exhales. You counted each one, letting them wash over you and lul the fog slowly seeping through the crevices in your brain.

It let you forget the trembling in your core muscles and the sting between your shoulders. They didn’t matter. All that mattered was each of Alessia’s breaths, and your ability to please her.

To be honest, you forgot about the water balancing on your back.

You shifted, lifting your head so you could watch Alessia, and that sent the glass tumbling to the floor with a low thud.

She looked up at the noise, pushing herself to her feet and grabbing the glass.

“Good job darling. You made time.” She rewarded you by meeting her eyes for a long second and flashing you a winning smile. “Position 3,”

You took another deep breath as she filled the glass.

You pushed yourself up into a pushup position, slowly lifting your right arm and left leg so they extended.

Your arms shook immediately, and it was then that you recognized just how exhausted you were already. Your core ached in a way that was edging on unpleasant, and your back felt like you had run 5 rounds with your jujitsu coach.

It was strange that you felt so drained and you had only made it through 2 positions.

Alessia waited until you were stable before she balanced the glass in the very same area between your shoulder blades.

The spot that felt so tight.

You knew you weren’t going to last long before she even stepped away. But you tried to breathe through it. You tried to ignore the little beads of sweat collecting at the small of your back, and the cramp setting in just below the glass, radiating up to your neck.

You deserved the pain. You had done your damndest to make sure Alessia gave it to you.

“Tell me your color,” Alessia said, her voice dripping dominance, sending a shiver down your spine and causing the glass to tumble off your back.

You collapsed to the floor.

You hadn’t even made it a minute.

“‘M ok,” You murmured into the carpet, each breath rattling as it left your lips.

You hadn’t even lasted long enough for Alessia to make it back to her seat.

It was pathetic.

“That’s not what I asked you,” She said, crouching next to you, her hand resting on the throbbing space between your shoulders. “Tell me what your color is,”

Your brain ran into overdrive, taking stock of the burn in your thighs, and the way the muscles in your back were locked up tight, and before you could even think through all the reasons why you shouldn’t safe word, “red,” was falling from your lips.

You had been red before you even started position 3, you realized.

“Good girl,” She said, settling fully down beside you, her hand running soothingly up and down your sweat-soaked back. “You did so well for me, and I’m so proud of you for knowing your limits,”

You groaned into the carpet as warmth spread through your chest, chasing away the last of the tightness that had been there since Dana caught you after the weigh-ins.

“‘M sorry for pushing you,” You mumbled, your words nearly getting lost in the floor. “Didn’t know how to…”

You trailed off, losing your train of thought. You weren’t even sure what you didn’t know how to do, only that antagonizing your girlfriend. Your miss. Had been the only way that seemed to make sense to achieve it.

“I know darling,” She hummed, gripping under your arms and shifting so your head was resting in her lap and your upper body was between her legs. “Take some deep breaths for me, and then we’ll get you cleaned up and we can cuddle,”

You made a low sound of agreement. You felt content with her completely around you, her scent enveloping you, and her hands running gently through your tangled hair.

She was the stability to your rocky seas, and you trusted that she would take care of you, just like she had already tonight.

A cuddle sounded perfect because it was perfect.

It was everything you needed. She was everything you needed.

#woso x reader #woso imagines #alessia russo x reader #alessia russo imagine #the come down universe

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katarinaeviswrld · 5 days

Text

𝒵𝑜𝑜 𝒟𝒶𝓉𝑒! Ft. Monster trio + Law

a/n: i’m new to posting so no judging pwety pwease. also i wrote this super late at night 🙏

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

18+!! MINORS DNI

masterlist

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

cw: mentions of short reader, all of the guys except law-ish sound like they’re on crack, lots of wrestling, cheesy asf, is this what u do at a zoo?!

tags ✮⋆˙

fluff but mostly humorous, literal chaos, a bit ooc(?), tried to make it gender inclusive, found this prompt through pinterest lol

zoro

when you brought up the idea of going to the zoo, warned him beforehand about the “look but don’t touch” rule

you didn’t want him to see the zoo as a training arena

first suggested that yall go to the beach instead but u declined it saying, “it was too cliche”

he would never admit it but he’s silently insecure whenever he sees you get along well with the animals (whenever he smiles at them, they run away)

a small smile creeps up at the corner of his lips as he watches you gawk at the aquatic animals section

you call the seals, “sea puppies.” he just calls them “water dogs”

purposefully makes eye contact with gorillas to rile them up (he tried to ask the zookeeper to let him inside the enclosure so he can fight them to which you slap him in the back of the head for)

gorillas see eye contact as a challenge to fight

there was an event that happened where the penguins would dive and twirl underwater to impress you

zoro threatened them by claiming that he’ll ask sanji to turn them into “penguin kabobs” if they didn’t stop flirting with his gf (they got scared and ran back to their zookeeper)

attempted to smile at the otters but got scared and swam away

got lost one time and accidentally landed in the chimpanzee enclosure. you couldn’t help but laugh as the keeper got mad at him for beating up the chimpanzees bc they “gave him the stink eye”

the crew made fun of him after coming back from the zoo with a bald patch at the back of his head.

a giraffe thought his hair was grass and you had to pull him away just so he wouldn’t be tempted to use his swords on them

got both of you guys got kicked out after he tried impressing you by using three sword style on a polar bear

luffy

like zoro, u also warned him about the “look don’t touch” rule

like a kid on sugar, luffy got excited as he became enamored with the (in his own words), “big buff animals”

kept asking you which of these animals would make a delicious meal

would point at the monkeys and go, “look, it’s me!”

for the love of god, the rubber boy would not stop cracking up at the baboons and calling them “apple butts”

randomly asked you if you would find him more attractive if he was an actual monkey

he genuinely believed you when you joked about rhinos being “dinosaurs”

“NO WAY!! I THOUGHT THEY WERE EXTINCT!”

“i was jok-“

“WAIT TILL I TELL ROBIN ABOUT THIS! SHE'S GONNA BE SO JEALOUS WHEN SHE FINDS OUT THAT I DISCOVERED DINOSAURS BEFORE HER!”

he kept stretching his face and making monkey noises at the monkeys

(they looked at him with disinterest)

he thought it would be a good idea to wrestle a bear. you got mad at him after he knocked it out with his “gum-gum pistol”

he cried at the sight of the otters because he said that it reminded him of alabasta and that alabasta reminds him of vivi

he asked the giraffes if they were related to kaku and then panicked bc he “thought he was racist” for asking that

“[name], does this mean I'm not woke :(“

you got mad at him after he decided it would be a good idea to put his head inside the mouth of a hippo. the zookeeper almost fainted as the hippo bit down on his head but you assured them that his devil fruit powers would prevent him from dying that easily

you honestly contemplated your relationship with your captain/boyfriend but his stupidity is what makes him charming (to you at least)

he kept asking the zookeepers if he can keep the boa constrictor as a pet

along with wanting a snake as a pet, he kept asking the lions if they could join his crew

got emotional at the sight of leopards bc they reminded him of pedro

like zoro, he got both of yall kicked out after he tried smuggling a lion out of the cage and named it “sun destroyer 4000”

you were more surprised at the fact that you guys didn’t get kicked out earlier

sanji

“[name], my dear, how would you feel if i took you out on a date to a place of your choice?”

“well there is one place i’ve been wanting to go to for awhile.”

maybe going to the zoo with sanji was a mistake, the flirty blonde boy would not stop comparing you to every “cute” animal he saw

for long hair: it didn’t help that he purposefully braided your hair and tied them up to look like bear ears which you look even cuter in his eyes (my headcanon is that sanji knows how to braid hair hehe)

he found it cute that you saw a bunch of reindeers and called them “a family of choppers”

if there was a big crowd of people surrounding an exhibit and you couldn’t see, he would use his height to his advantage by lifting you up to get a good view of the animals

after getting down you were wondering why his nose was bleeding until you realized he had a good view under your skirt

if you’re wearing pants, he just nose bled at the sight of your gyat

you joked with him saying that you would find it hot if he wrestled an ostrich. but sanji being sanji, took it literal and actually did it

the zookeeper yelled at him after the ostrich was left unconscious

flirtatiously asked if you would still find him attractive even if he was an animal

“no, sanji, that would be beastiality.”

felt his whole face heat up after you put on matching ear headbands with him

in response, he tried to buy out the whole gift shop

tried to convince you into buying “i’m his, im hers” shirts but you told him it was cringe which hurt his ego

for gn! readers, bro tried to buy those “im cool, im cooler shirts” cause he a lil cheesy

when you became enamored with the snake exhibit he tried to flex saying, “you wouldn’t have to worry about a snake swallowing you bc i would be there to protect you, my dear”

you compared him to a ram bc you saw him as courageous and determined for his crew

“[NAME] SWANNN, YOU CAN’T JUST SAY THAT OUT OF THE BLUE!” there goes your man…

almost nose bled AGAIN at the thought of you as a red panda while visiting the exhibit (you thought he was tweakin)

got jealous when you said tigers were just as cool as zoro

he compared zoro to a baboon bc he’s always scratching his ass and sniffing his hand after (wait why is this lowk a good headcanon 😝)

you found it adorable as you watched him feed the animals in the petting zoo as if he were their father

he freaked out as the goat stole the cigarette out of his mouth and ate it in front of him.

one of your fave moments of intimacy with sanji would be sharing cotton candy with him as you watched the penguins do tricks in the water

after getting back on the sunny, you decided to surprise him with a ram plushie you bought behind his back

he thanked you by peppering your face in kisses and showering you in praises

“oh my dear, [name]. you don’t need to spoil me like that! it should be the other way around!”

bonus!! trafalgar law

law asked his crew beforehand on “great date spots” to take you out on; to which penguin suggested yall go to the zoo

he never cared for the zoo but as long as you were happy he didn’t mind

got flustered after you mentioned that snow leopards reminded you of him

he bought you a snow leopard plush and you named it “traffy”

you asked him if you should buy souvenirs for the crew

you asked him if you could adopt a polar bear so that bepo would have a friend. he replied with, “no bc he’s already friends with me”

thought it would be funny to teleport you to the lion enclosure until his powers conveniently started tweaking and he couldn’t teleport you back out

you punched him in the head after you came back with scratches from wrestling them

he felt bad for the joke he did on u, so he teleported you to the capybara enclosure as an apology

compared you to a meerkat bc “you’re short but really fast on those legs.” you responded by threatening to give his sword away to zoro

made fun of you after you got startled by him in the insect section. he laughed as you slapped his hand after he pretended it was a tarantula

he likes to install fear into u by explaining different ways each animal can kill you

he would purposefullykiss you in front of the monkeys after they tried flirting with you

the zookeeper had to tell him to stop bc they were afraid that they would break out their enclosure

what pissed him off even more was the fact it reminded him of the rubber boy

after you guys get back to the submarine, the crew crowded you as you gave them their souvenirs. law couldn’t help but smile at your generosity and friendship with everyone

oh yea….he felt himself fall in-love with you again

#minors dni #one piece #can’t write for shit #monkey d. luffy #luffy x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro x reader #vinsmoke sanji #black leg sanji #sanji x reader #trafalgar law #law x reader #fanfic #oneshot #straw hat pirates #literally just fucking around

208 notes · View notes

m1d-45 · 7 months

Text

dancing soldiers

summary: meka are infallible. meka do not stray from their path.. except when they do.

word count: ~2k

-> warnings: spoilers for fontaine (name and mechanics of open world boss)

-> gn reader (you/yours) and aether as traveller

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd

< masterlist >

fontaine was known for a wide variety of things, from their ornate fountains to the elaborate clothing it seemed nobody was without. any visitors from other nations were greeted by sweeping architecture and the sound of bubbling fonta, and swimming was a must. but even through the shine of the great lake, their fantastical clockwork meka was definitely the star of the show. every traveller was quickly starstruck by the machines roaming the streets, fitted uniforms not masking the clunking of gears within their chests. even underwater, scanning for raiders and filtering the water, keeping the water clear and cool. faceless, cold, employed both privately and for government work, the perfect tool for their job. they had one job, and they did it well.

meka were designed to protect. to guard. to defend their charge, whether that presented as patrolling a barge of merchants or leading the blind through the winding streets of the city. powered by indemnitium and equipped with efficient charging ports, every meka is intended to outlast their creators. few actually do, whether weakened by arkhe or attacked by those opposing their duty, but it remains a fact that they stick to their orders until the last spark fades from their circuits.

they are perfect workers. they do not disobey, they do not stray from their task. their actions are calculated in a split second, every movement taken to further their given goal.

lead.

support.

shield.

“dance!”

maillardet threw aside the screwdriver in his hand in frustration, kicking at the frost gathering in the arena. behind him, unmoving, were his magnum opus… though they refused to move.

“dance, dance. what’s the point of you?”

they did not dance. they did not move. they stood, hand in hand, one beside the other. coppelius and coppelia, the only signs of life being the frosty wind that would occasionally sweep by. they were in standby, with deflated skirts and unmoving hydraulics. normally, them being still would make maintenance easier, but their plates did not move as they should. he couldn’t even remove coppelius’ hat.

it was convenient, just not for him.

“looks to paimon like might just be the fault of poor design.” you watched from between the hairline gap in coppelia’s skirt, seeing paimon cross her arms. your traveller was stumped as well, merely shrugging.

“theyre infused with opposite arkhe,” aether said simply. “maybe they finally reacted with each other?”

“that’s impossible! the arkhe is held within them, far from where the other could react with it, and only one of them are externally charged at any one time.”

“so… why not reset them? paimon remembers one of the melusines saying that most meka around the city just need to be reset from time to time.”

“in those cases, the meka are given conflicting orders, typically by children. all these two need to do is dance, and-“ his voice choked, aether and paimon moving out of your field of vision to presumable comfort him. you try to shift and see, but coppelia’s skirt twitches inward, keeping you where you are.

you’re sheltered between the two meka, coppelius’ cape-thing making up for the gaps in coppelia’s skirt. you were lucky you hadn’t been seen yet, truthfully… but you didn’t want to stress out maillardet.

“what am i supposed to do?” he asked, words shaky. “i promised the chief justice i’d keep them functional for the divine one, and now- you know what they’re like, and they’re both broken-“

“h-hey, it’s okay! paimon’s certain you’ll get them working again! besides, they still seem to be functional, right?” she flies up, and you flinch at the knock of her hand on metal. it echoes around you, much louder than it should be in your hiding space. “oof, still as cold as ever…

“you should just restart it.”

“are you sure? what if something goes wrong? i can’t even perform maintenance, what if i can’t turn them back on after? you know how they acted last time—if lady furina wasn’t there, then..”

“..it’s better than nothing. besides-“ metal skidded over ice, and you see the flicker of aether’s boot as he kicks the discarded screwdriver back near maillardet’s bag of tools. “-you could always just not put them in stand-by. if they’re broken like this, just leave them dancing. i doubt they’ll notice, and it’ll buy you time until they want to visit again.”

”yeah! you only have a handful of hours until they arrive in fontaine, and it’s not like anything worse can happen!”

“i..” he sighed, and a long moment passed. “i guess trying is worse than doing nothing..”

“that’s the spirit!”

your hands twitch into fists, only partly from the cold. the ‘god’ they spoke of so highly, the one that got you into this mess… who were they, anyway? even you didn’t blame maillardet for needing maintenance between fights, but from his fear it sounded like they’d kill him for a malfunction.

you put those thoughts aside, pressing close to coppelia’s core as the meka were powered down. both of them slumped forward, a shift in their plating allowing a cold wind in. you shivered, and briefly considered praying before deciding against it—what god would answer?

gears clicked and switches flipped, both meka making various hisses. the elemental power seeping from both of them slowly ceased, and your heart picked up. how would this end? after a reset, would they remember to hide you? or would you get crushed beneath their skates as they danced?

“…you two should leave the arena.”

“why?”

“is something wrong?”

“no, but if they begin to dance again, i don’t want you to get hurt.”

“what about you? let me do it, i’m more experienced with combat.”

“it’s alright. in the early stages of their development, they didn’t even have a standby mode, so i’m used to repairing them while they’re dancing. don’t worry, i can get the memory you need unharmed.”

memory?

their memory? when aether had first approached, you’d assumed the ‘sabotage’ maillardet was talking about was the fact that neither of the meka would move. it made sense to want the memory to show which direction the saboteur left in, but that memory would show you, the most hated person in all of teyvat, and the melusine that had helped you hide from the gardes. veleda… you couldn’t let her take the fall for whatever crime you’d committed. she didn’t deserve that.

you take a breath, preparing to make a run over it, when you hear a small click. all at once, coppelia’s skirt snaps back to it’s normal formation, and you catch a glimpse of the traveller’s shocked expression before you’re pulled up and away. coppelius pulls you into his arms, coppelia smoothy following, spinning circles around the two of you like a top. when the two you skid to a stop near the edge of the arena, you quickly get your bearings, only mildly motion sick from the ordeal. maillardet is sitting in the middle of the arena, knocked off his feet beside his tools, and aether and paimon stand on the pathway leading back to the fountain. nobody says anything for a good few moments, the silence tense.

“…at least we know where they went?” paimon asks nervously, and aether draws his sword. coppelia sweeps in front of you and coppelius as he begins to walk towards you, and maillardet quickly gets up. he briefly slips on the icy floor, but quickly intercepts him, his words barely audible.

“traveller, the meka-”

“was tampered with.” his voice is cold, and you shiver at the weight of his glare. “don’t worry, i got it.”

“listen to me, please. coppelius and coppelia follow all the standard guidelines for meka-”

“this isn’t about you!” he shouts, “this is about something much more important then your meka!” his sword points at you, a shining blade despite the name. “this is about a crime too large for your opera house to handle.”

coppelius holds you tighter. the sound of his anger- of his hate makes your heart burn as it sinks, leaving an empty pit. you knew fontaine wasn’t the best at justice, but…

“traveller, have you ever read the machining requirements for battle meka?”

“why is this relevant? why am i talking to you?” he pushes off his hand and begins to walk, leaving paimon behind. after a moment, she gasps loudly, rushing forward to pull on his braid.

“wait! freminet lent paimon his copy of those guidelines once! she knows what maillardet means!”

“so what?”

your twin meka begin to slowly skate away from aether as he nears, ignoring paimon. maillardet is looking through his bag, searching for something, but all you can see are the traveller’s eyes. your traveller’s eyes, all your months of gameplay boiling into his rage.

maybe if the circumstances were different you’d forgive him for being so angry, but as it stands you’re barely convinced you’ll live through the hour.

“one of the clauses was about a special line of code that all the battle-capable mekas had to have- stop walking and listen!”

“how does that connect to this? don’t you care for our god? why are you stopping me?”

“because it’s about our god! don’t you remember? navia told you when we stayed with the spina de rosula!”

he does stop, then, staring paimon down instead. “fine. what is it?”

she lets go of his braid, waving a hand between the icewind suite and maillardet as she talks. “mekas have a special override wired into them in the case that the abyss got ahold of them which shuts down their combat functions when faced with the creator! it’s weaker when triggered through their vessels—which is why their attacks are limited instead of stopped—but is mandatory for every meka that’s combat ready, including coppelia and coppelius!”

aether turns to you, conflicted. you still carried in coppelius’ arms, you hidden under the plating of coppelia’s skirt, you who made the meka disobey their creator. you, the creator of those that made them.

“…maillardet?”

“it’s true, cease your fire.” he lifts a plain notebook from his bag, not that aether turns to see it. “i have my maintenance notes here. that override was the first thing i added, even before i gave them their weaponry. let’s bring our findings to the iudex and let our lord relax. please.”

aether’s sword dissolves into dust, a mix of shock and confusion still lingering on his face as he’s pulled away by paimon’s hand on his shoulder. maillardet packs his things and follows, taking some time to pick his way through the frosted floor. once the arena is cleared, coppelius skates to the center, setting you down carefully. then, he takes coppelia’s hand in his, leading her away. they begin their dance around you, gears clicking with elaborate pirouettes, leaving you in the middle of it all to wonder what just happened.