#Arch Roofing Sheets

[3sgroups]

GC Sheets –shree sivabalaaji steels - 3sgroups

Galvanized roofing materials are strong and durable, and are prepared for all types of weather. Bamboo sheets are common in various parts of India. However, the longevity of GC Sheets can be compromised if not properly prepared.Corrugated Roof can last for more than 50 years, if maintained properly. While it is encouraged to inspect your metal roof every few months, it is best to install the steps outlined below on a regular basis.

Keep it clean regularlyWash your galvanized roofing sheets every 3 to 12 months, depending on local conditions. This prevents the accumulation of dirt and other debris that rain cannot remove.You can use a power washer or hot water, dish soap and a microfiber cloth to remove dirt or grime. Mix soap and water to make a concentrated cleanser. Gently wipe down all the metal surfaces on your roof with a cloth. Be sure to rinse thoroughly.

Cut the greens offIf you have a lot of trees around your property, make sure the branches don’t extend close to or over the roof. Branches can rub off or fall off the metal surface, causing serious damage over time—especially in bad weather.

Buffed from scratchesOnce your roof is cleaned and repaired, it’s time for a full inspection. The first thing to look for is any stains or scratches. Look for damage, looseness, and missing covers. If most of these imperfections are minor, you can patch them up or paint them over. Major defects may require replacement of affected parts with new Shree Sivabalaaji steel 3sgroups roofing sheets.It’s important to check these items on a regular basis, especially if your region experiences storm every year. This will prevent further minor damage to the roof.

Check for CorrosionWhen inspecting, watch out for scratches, which are a sign of Corrosion. Check all openings in your roof, such as heating vents and hot water, that cause corrosion.If you notice small amounts of rust, you can use a washing powder to remove them. You can also use a protective coating or primer to prevent further damage. However, if the corrosion is severe, it may be best to replace your roof.

Make sure there are no connectionsWhen metals come in contact, they cause chemical staining and damage. Double check your roof during renovations, even if it’s unlikely you have metals in the roof. This will help prevent premature deterioration of your GC document and possible system failure. Protect and preserve your investment! Use these tips for GC Sheet maintenance. If you are looking for a strong, durable, and attractive roof, replace your old 3sgroups with GC sheet!

[ovaryacted]

PAIRING: Tyler Owens x fem! reader || WC: 1.1k CW: MDNI/18+. NSFW. SMUT. Doggy Style. Dirty Talking. Mentions of overstimulation. Kind of secret relationships/in denial vibes.

After watching Twisters a couple of days ago, I just had to write for this man. Sorry, I love bowlegged cowboys who have a lot of charisma. Thank you Glen Powell!

Sometimes, you hated dealing with Tyler Owens so frequently, constantly being met with his irritating smirk and aggravating charisma. Just hearing the sound of his voice was enough to make your ears ring, and the more you heard him hoot and holler after every tornado-chasing vlog, the closer you got to sawing your ears off.

He pissed you off like no other, using his Southern charm to sway the other storm chasers for information or even to get free drinks for the gang at the bar. The curl of his lips was usually met with the frequent roll of your eyes, two opposite sides of the same coin.

“You should relax more, you know?” He’d tell you in an attempt to be helpful, but all he did was annoy the shit out of you.

“Shut up,” you barked, sipping your beer and tuning the world out to the mellow country music on the radio. You didn’t need to look at Tyler to know he was staring back at you.

“Don’t be like that, all cranky and shit. It’s not a good look on you.” He teased, watching how you shook your head in defiance, a chuckle slipping out of him.

“Maybe I can help?” You heard his suggestion, and all it got him was a grumble and your signature scowl.

“Maybe you can fuck off.” He shrugged after that, taking another drink of his beer and eyeing you from afar.

Yeah, Tyler was a pain in your ass. His arrogance drove you up a wall, and his adamant cocky demeanor was even worse. You couldn’t fucking stand him.

But there were the not-so-rare singular instances where you didn’t mind his company.

Tangled up in the sheets with your face pressed into his pillow, your fingers clutched at the bedsheets underneath you, knuckles turning white as your body jolted forward. Your cheeks grew warm as you moaned and babbled with every smack of Tyler’s hips against yours, a broad hand holding the arch in your back and pushing you further into the mattress.

You’d lost track of time since tumbling into his bed, the alcohol coursing through your veins made it easy to forget your one-sided animosity with the infamous Tornado Wrangler. The way he fucked you silly turned your head to mush, retaining the creases of his eyes and the dimples of his smile widening after he made you cum on his tongue. Never one to just accept a singular orgasm from you, he was quick to go three for three, knowing that was your limit and the record he personally set.

Digging your face further into the bed, you sobbed at a particularly hard thrust, one that sent the tip of his cock into that spot tucked at the roof of your entrance. Your hips arched higher, and the curve of your spine deepened in an attempt to run away from the force of his movements.

“Ty…” You cried out for him, eyes closed as the nickname you chose came out like a hidden confession.

Grabbing at your hips, he dragged you back to him with one hand while the other moved from your backside to the nape of your neck, pulling you upward. The messy sheets no longer obscured your face, allowing the man behind you to admire his handiwork.

Eyes glassy and lined with tears, you looked back at him over your shoulder, lips plumped and bruised from when you were on your knees beforehand. You looked like a mess, as you usually did when Tyler had you in this position. To him, you were a dream. The fucked out expression on your face gave him the same adrenaline rush he gets when he sees a big storm brewing in the sky. It settles in his chest and rushes down to the pit of his stomach, waiting for the right time to burst into uncontrollable spirals.

He leaned closer to you, holding your head against his bare chest and cradling your face with a hand on your jaw. You felt a wet kiss on your upper cheek, the small act of intimacy forced your walls to twitch around his length. 

“This was all you needed to relax, baby? Just some good fucking to get that pretty head all empty for me.” Tyler rasped in your ear, keeping your head pinned to his body as he continued to drive into you.

You nodded weakly against his shoulder, eyes rolling to the back of your head when the tips of his fingers skimmed your aching clit, hips jerking at the touch. He kept you steady, his faint stubble grazing the skin of your neck as he sucked marks you’d have to hide in the morning.  

“Please, Ty. Fuck, please.” You were close, tears rolling down your cheeks at the promise of another climax. If it's one thing you know about Tyler, he always delivers.

“I know sweetheart, I know.” His hips pounded into you even harder as his fingers ran tight circles on your sensitive nub, motivated to bring you to the edge a third time. Your skin was on fire, your lower gut was melting, and your thighs shook as you struggled to keep yourself upright.

“C’mon baby, you’re so close for me. I can fucking feel it,” He mumbled lowly beside your temple, whispering praises that were solely reserved for you to hear.

Sweetest pussy I’ve ever had, I swear.

You make me lose my mind, darling. Can’t get you out of my head.

All you gotta do is come for me. Be a good girl, and I’ll fill you up just right.

The tone of his voice is what pushes you to your release, tightening around him and gripping him like a vice as your body trembles. White flashes burst under your eyes, distantly hearing Tyler’s moan of your name as he spilled into you, filling you to the brim until it dribbled down your inner thighs.

You fell limp on the mattress with your head floating on cloud nine, trying to catch your breath. He softly kissed your shoulder and upper back, running his hands along your sides and bringing you back down to Earth from the intense high.

You couldn’t stand Tyler Owens. His egotistical grin irked you, and his voice was the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. But sometimes, just sometimes, you can tolerate him enough to hear what he has to say.

©️ ovaryacted 2024. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[wanderingsoul6261]

In The End

Credit for gif goes to cinevettel

James Beaufort x Reader

synopsis: Reader loses her virginity to James. She says something unexpected, and he suddenly avoids her. It's not until the Victorian dance that mistakes are realizes and amends are made.

Warning: MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT 18+ theme in the beginning. Sexual content below the cut.

Heavy breathing filled the room along with quiet whimpers and low groans. Y/N hands clenched the bed sheets, her back arching as James made quick work of his tongue. One hand settled upon her stomach while the other thrusted two fingers into her pussy. His lips and tongue were attached to her clit, sucking and flicking, devouring her like he was a man starved. And boy was he starved.

His eyes peered up at Y/N. James listened as she started to breathe heavily, closing his eyes has her hands flew to the back of his head, holding him steady. She was getting close. He could tell.

It didn't take him long to get her to this point. She was weak. Sensitive. It was her first time and he want to take his time going over every little quirk about her. He wanted her to be nothing but putty in his hands by the time that they were done.

"That's it, love. Breathe." He said loud enough for her to hear, before latching his lips back onto her clit. James pulled his face away again, watching as his fingers continued to disappear inside of her. He let out a groan at the sight. "Oh, you are so beautiful." His cock strained painfully against his boxers, and on instinct, he rutted his hips against the bed. He let his head fall, the movement of his hand faltering slightly before he continued, trying to hold back on getting himself off on the bed. He wanted it to happen in her. If she'd allow it.

"James- fuck" Y/N took in a sharp inhale of breath, a whimper escaping her. "I need you-" another gasp. "Please." James pressed his thumb against her clit, rubbing it harshly and he continued to thrust his fingers inside. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, leaning forward and pressing his lips to her shoulder. Her arms came up around his shoulders as his lips slowly trailed up along her shoulders and up her neck, to the pulse point right behind her ear. He grinned when he felt her clench around his fingers, not sure how much longer he can wait himself.

"Just give me one, sweetheart. And then I'll give you anything you want." James murmured quietly. He lifted his head to look her in her eyes. "I just ask for one thing." She let out a whimper, as if telling him to say what he wanted to. "Look at me when you cum around my fingers."

If she wasn't already a puddle, she was then. It only took a few more thrusts of his fingers and she was coming. As he had asked, she looked him in his eyes as her body trembled, although her eyes did roll to the back of her head from the pleasure of the orgasm. Pleasure overwhelmed her and James thrusted his fingers inside her through said orgasm, cooing softly at her.

"That's it, love. Such a good girl. You did amazing." He moved down her body, pressing his tongue to her pussy, cleaning up the mess she had made. A quiet groan left his body as he lapped up her juices, before moving back up her body and pressing a kiss to her lips.

Y/N reached her hands down, moving his boxers down his thighs, letting him kick it off the rest of the way. He leaned over to grab a condom from his wallet when she stopped him.

"I'm on birth control." she shrugged. "It's helps with the painful periods." And just like that, James was ten times more aroused. He leaned down and captured her lips into a searing kiss, positioning himself.

Pulling away from the kiss, James looked down at Y/N, waiting for her. When she made eye contact with him and nodded, their following actions were sealed.

----

"I love you, James."

Y/N felt stupid. Why did she say it? Sure, James and she have been seeing each other for a little bit now, and it might have felt right in that moment to say it. However, she wasn't sure anymore.

And why was that?

James has been avoiding her. And what else was she to think? Was it the sex? Was it that bad? Did he not like it? Or her? No, that couldn't have been it. It didn't make sense.

What did make sense, was what she said as the two reached orgasm, one right after the other.

She should have made sure he was ready, so she knew for a fact that this was her fault. But how could she fix it?

She had already tried to talk to him several times the first day back to classes that week. And each time she had been avoided. He brushed past her, avoiding all eye contact. She had even tried grabbing his wrist or bicep to get him to stop. But each time, he pulled away from her grasp, continuing on away from her. Y/N was left alone in the middle of the hallway, watching his back as he disappeared from sight, wondering what she could do this fix this. Her face, crestfallen, as he didn't even send a look back at her over his shoulder. And people were starting to talk. What happened to the most popular couple of Maxton Hall?

And that's how the following weeks went on. All the way to the Victorian dance, she had been ignored, but as being part of the planning committee, there was no way she could get out attending it. And she has tried.

And so here she stood, next to Ruby Bell as a small group of them talked. She swirled the champagne in her glass, looking down at it sullenly, her heart aching. Y/N was hoping that today, her and James could have danced. Oh, how wrong she was.

It was only minutes later when Ruby started to nudge Y/N, motioning down towards the ground floor. And she almost dropped her glass at the sight of him standing down there. James Mortimer Beaufort. Wearing a suit that was not quite Victorian Style, but a suit, nonetheless. And as he stared at her, he looked completely and utterly mesmerized.

She gave her glass to Ruby to pass off to some other person, making her way down to him. Why was she allowing her feet to cover her to him. He had been ignoring and avoiding her as if her life depending on it.

Y/N hesitated for a moment. Why was she giving in so easily to him after what he had done?

Because it was an easy answer. She still loved him. But she was pissed.

Y/N came to stand in front of James, and without a second to waste, she slapped him. The crack resounded through the room, catching many nearby by surprise.

He stood in silence, slowly looking back at her.

"You deserve that." Y/N huffed. He nodded.

"Agreed. I did in fact deserve that." Her resolve softened subtly, seeing the guilt and regret in his eyes.

"Then why?" she asked.

"I was scared." He said simply, as if it was some normal answer to what happened.

"Scared of what, James?" she asked. James was silent for several moments.

"Love. You told me you loved me, and I got scared because I've never heard it truthfully. Not unless it was from my mother, and I panicked because I didn't think you could actually love someone like me. So, I did what I thought was best for myself in that moment and that was to avoid you. Over time though, I realized it wasn't best for either of us, because it didn't address things fully."

"Love someone like you- James. I absolutely adore you. I love you because of who you are. Not the James you pretend to be for everyone else. But the you that you become when it's just us." Y/N explained, her hands coming up to rest on his face. "Do I need to say it again for you to believe it?" she asked, noticing the few tears the slipped down his cheeks and quickly brushing them away. He gave her a tiny nod.

"I love you, James Mortimer Beaufort."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

-------

tag list: @lifeonawhim @honethatty12 @ashamedtobewhitemanswhore27

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[hoshifighting]

hii lylaa, can you write a smut abt hao when he is stressed and accidentaly snaps at you but eats you out as an apology?

minghao eating you out as an apology after he snaps at you

WARNINGS: angst, smut, oral.

you were just trying to help, but it’s obvious that minghao's stress level is through the roof. he's pacing around the living room, muttering to himself, while you sit on the couch, watching him with concern. the day has been long, filled with endless rehearsals and meetings.

“hao, you need to take a break,” you say gently, trying to offer some comfort. “maybe we can go for a walk or—”

“i don’t need a break,” he snaps, his tone sharper than a knife. “i just need to get this done, okay? why can’t you understand that?”

his words hit you like a cold wave, and you feel your face flush with embarrassment. you weren't expecting such a harsh response, especially when all you wanted to do was help. you stand up, crossing your arms over your chest, and stare at him, eyes wide with disbelief.

“fine,” you scoff. “i was just trying to help, but if you're going to be like this, then maybe i should just leave you alone.”

before he can respond, you turn on your heel and storm out of the room. you don't get far; you barely make it to the bedroom when you hear his footsteps following you. you ignore him, feeling the sting of his words lingering in your mind. you sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from the door.

suddenly, you feel his presence behind you. minghao’s hands rest gently on your shoulders, and you tense up, unsure of what to expect. he kneels down, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. his touch is soft, as if he's afraid you'll push him away.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers. “i didn’t mean to snap at you. i'm just... overwhelmed.”

you take a deep breath, feeling the tension in your shoulders start to melt away. you know he didn’t mean it, but the hurt is still there, lingering like a shadow. you turn slightly, looking at him over your shoulder. his eyes are filled with guilt, and there's a softness in his expression that tugs at your heart.

“i know you didn’t,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “but it still hurt.”

he nods, his lips pressing into a thin line. “i know, and i’m sorry,” he repeats, his hands gently caressing your sides. “let me make it up to you.”

before you can respond, minghao's lips are on your neck, trailing soft kisses down your skin. his hands slide under your shirt, fingertips grazing your skin, and you can't help but gasp.

“hao, what are you doing?” you ask, your voice uncertain.

he doesn’t answer, instead gently pushing you back onto the bed. you find yourself lying down, with minghao hovering over you, his eyes locked onto yours.

he moves down, his lips following the path of his hands as he lifts your shirt, kissing your stomach, your hips, until he's kneeling between your legs. he looks up at you. “let me make it up to you,” he whispers, his voice low and husky. “please.”

you nod. minghao slowly slides your panties down, you feel your breath hitch as he leans in closer.

his hands gently part your thighs, and you feel the warmth of his breath against your clit. he presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then another, and another, you can’t help but let out a soft moan, bucking your hips for him to lick you.

then, without warning, minghao's tongue flicks out, teasing your entrance. the contact makes you arch your back, your fingers gripping the sheets. he starts slow, his tongue more drenching you than moving, tasting you, exploring every inch of your cunt.

minghao’s hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he continues sucking you. he alternates between long, slow licks and quick, flickering movements. you can’t help the moans that escape your lips, your body squirming under his touch.

“hao, oh my god,” you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair. he looks up at you, his eyes locked onto yours, just to tease you.

he increases the pressure, his tongue working in rhythm with his fingers as he slides one, then two inside you. you cry out, your back arching off the bed. minghao's pace quickens, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate, as if he's pouring all his apologies into this act.

you feel the familiar tension in your abdomen, the telltale sign of your orgasm. minghao seems to sense it too, his efforts becoming more focused, more persistent. he pulls back slightly, his lips wrapping around your clit, head bobbing, sucking tightly as his fingers continue fucking your g'spot.

that’s all it takes.

with a cry of his name, you come undone. your body trembles, your fingers gripping his hair as you ride out on his sopping tongue. minghao doesn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working you through your orgasm, pulling out every last drop of your orgasm.

finally, as your orgasm subsides, he pulls away, his lips and chin glistening. he looks up at you, a satisfied smile on his face, and you can’t help but smile back, breathless and dazzled. he crawls up to lie beside you, his arms wrapping around you.

he kisses you, his tongue sharing your essence with your tongue. his shiny chin makes your skin glossy too. you pull away to look at him.

“who told you to stop huh? apologize properly.” you nod to your pussy direction. and he smiles, lowering down again. “you were a very, very bad boy.”

[annwrites]

⸻ fallen for the monster. ⸻

· pairing: pyramid head x fem!reader · type: one-shot · summary: with no memory of how you got there, you find yourself trapped within the haunting confines of the town of silent hill. and there is where you find that which has haunted your nightmares dreams for weeks on-end. but you are not horrified by him. and he wants you all the more for it. · tags: use of restraints, monster fucking, tummy bulge, body worship, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, nipple play, pussy smacking, clit pinching, chair sex · tw: dubcon · word count: 2,393

When you awake, you feel a dull, throbbing ache at the base of your skull.

Your head lulls to the side and you blink blearily against dim overhead lighting which buzzes quietly, and your head spins. You worry you have a concussion.

You try to swallow, but your tongue only serves to stick to the roof of your mouth.

And then your senses clear, but only minimally. Enough for you to realize your limbs are latched tightly to the large piece of rusted sheet metal which you are lying utterly naked upon.

Then is when you begin to hyperventilate in terror.

You don't recall this place.

One moment, you'd been in bed sound asleep. The next, you awake to this: being trussed up like game to be slaughtered.

You've been sleep walking again, haven't you?

This may feel like a nightmare, but you know that you are utterly awake.

Hot tears begin to slip down your cheeks while your breasts rapidly rise and fall as you strain against your restraints, even if you know that there's no use.

Nevertheless, you try and try until your skin is nearly rubbed raw in your efforts to free yourself.

Your chin wobbles and you begin to quietly sob.

You want so desperately to go home.

Why is this happening to you? Why would someone do this? Why are men such depraved, disgusting creatures? You've done nothing wrong to deserve what is inevitably coming for you.

You should've placed more locks upon your door to prevent yourself from escaping.

Even if you somehow know that even if you'd implemented a dozen...they wouldn't have mattered.

You've just begun to drift off to sleep when you hear it.

You'd tried keeping your eyes open for as long as you possibly could, but once the adrenaline began to wear off and you let the silence envelope you, it lulled you into a false sense of security. And so you had closed your lids for just a moment. Just one.

But now your heart is pounding away between your breasts once again.

The sound of something heavy and metallic scrapes against the floor not far from the room you're trapped in.

Your mind races with various horrifying scenarios.

What if he doesn't mean to rape you at all, but instead torture you? What if that is what is scraping against the floor as he comes ever-closer: a weapon? An axe, or a pipe, or a machete, or—

You begin to strain again, your cries growing in volume as you arch your back and grit your teeth and pull, pull, pull.

But even if you could free even one limb—you fear you would need to deglove a hand or a foot to even accomplish such a feat—what of the rest?

The sound stops. Suddenly. Outside the door.

Your fear you may lose consciousness again.

And then you hope for as much.

At least you would be spared that way... In a sense.

Rusted hinges creak while the base of the door scrapes against the cement floor and you go utterly still and silent as you stare with wide eyes at what is to come.

And when you see it, your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. Not even a gasp.

You should've known.

How could you not have known?

He's haunted your dreams for months on-end.

At the beginning, you merely hid, even if the sensation of him was everywhere in your sleeping state.

Even when awake, you feel him with you—you're never alone now.

And then you had stopped hiding.

You began seeking him out instead.

You admitted it to yourself somewhere along the way: your attraction to this faceless thing.

You liked watching him and the things he would do.

The ways he relieved his sexual frustrations as cum poured from his penis when he would finish in hidden rooms that only you could find.

You admired his tall, sturdy body, sinewy limbs, and his long, thick cock.

You've touched yourself raw over it.

He slams the door shut behind him and you jerk involuntarily while spreading your legs, offering yourself up to him.

At last—at long last you can have it: him. Can be the object of his desires and darkening attentions.

Every inch of you grows warm and heat pools between your spread thighs.

"It's you," you sigh while licking your lips.

He rests his great knife against the wall before stalking toward you. His heavy boots thump against the floor, the sensation reverberating through you.

He comes to stand between your legs, his hands resting at his sides while his fingers twitch in anticipation.

You want to see his face, but that part of himself he's never revealed. Not even to you. You somehow know it within your heart that he never will.

You shed a tear at the thought.

He slides his callused hands up your shins, over your knees, and then between your thighs.

You whimper when he stops. For he is so near where you're now dripping and desperate for him.

"Please," you beg—a mere whisper.

He cocks his head to the side, then moves his hands to your chest.

He takes each of your breasts within his grip and begins to knead the soft, squishy mounds between his fingers.

Your skin is so soft and warm. Clean and undefiled. Delicate.

He pinches a tiny nipple between his fingertips and rolls it around until it is taught and pebbled.

You bite your lip and clench tightly around nothing. You need more. From him.

He does the same with your other breast, and then he lightly slaps each of them, watching in fascination as they jiggle.

He slides a palm down your stomach and runs his fingers through the smattering of coarse, yet soft hair upon your pubic mound.

He takes your supple hips into his hands and squeezes.

Everything about you is so soft and weak and fragile.

So human.

So pure and feminine.

He likes you like this: weak.

He removes his smock and it falls to the floor, leaving his form bare before you.

You gasp in shock.

Up close like this, it's impossibly large.

It will never fit.

But oh, how you need for it to.

"Will it hurt?" You whimper.

He merely grunts in response before stroking himself from base to shaft, over and over.

"Here," you whisper, wiggling your hips. "Between my legs. Put it there. Let me help you feel better."

He squeezes his tip tightly and greyish liquid oozes out, dribbling onto the floor.

You nod your head. "Ease it in where I'm wet. You'll like it. It's meant for you to have. All of me is. I want to give you relief. I'm yours."

He positions his cock before your entrance and rubs the bulbous, mushroom tip against your cunt.

You smile in response.

Nearly there.

It's about to happen.

"That's it," you encourage softly. "Right there. Shove it inside."

You know it will be excruciating initially. But you have to do this.

It's always been meant to happen.

You're meant for him to have. To utilize as he pleases.

He eases into you as you instructed, but only the tip.

Your back arches and your eyes go wide as you begin to stretch around him. "Ah, more. Give me more."

He shoves his hips forward, his girth settling inside you inch-by-inch.

You begin to softly cry.

"All of it. I have to have it all. We're supposed to do it like this. Please. Please."

He watches as shimmering tears slip from your innocent eyes.

"I love you."

He thrust inside of you then, burying himself firmly in your tight, wet heat.

He roars at the feel of you wrapped so perfectly around him.

He'd meant to be gentle with you, but you had begged him so sweetly. How could he ever deny you like this?

You choke on your tears and it burns where his body is now connected with your own, but it feels so, so right.

Like two broken, grotesque, tormented things being joined into one which is whole at last.

He grips your hips and you glance down, studying where his erection bulges against your stomach, ready to rip you open at any moment, and then he begins to brutally thrust.

He watches in fasciation as your breasts and skin and softness bounce with every jerk of his body against yours.

"More, more, more," you plead.

He cups your face between his hands, wanting to please his pure little mortal with the broken mind and heart.

He eases a thumb into your mouth and you begin to suck quietly, grounding yourself to him.

Your eyes flutter closed and you hum in contentment.

He needn't have bound you.

You would've remained all on your own, because it is he who has taken you captive.

You would never willingly leave him.

He knows this. Has known for some time.

He doesn't understand your dedication to him—your love for him—but he takes it anyway. Because that is what he does. That...is what he is: a taker.

He doesn't understand the concept of love. Has never even heard the word before you uttered it a moment ago, but somehow, he knows it is what he has when you're with him in this cursed place.

His cock throbs painfully between your walls, desperate for release.

He looks down to the tiny, swollen nub between your legs and he decides to touch it. Perhaps it feels as smooth and precious as the rest of you.

He pinches it between his fingers and your eyes open once again while you gasp in shock.

"Ah! Please," you whimper.

He slaps it painfully with his open palm and you clench around him, squeezing his veiny erection tightly.

So he does it again, and you draw him impossibly further inside.

Yes, he is inside you, while you are inside his world.

Never to escape.

No, now that he has you here in flesh and blood and bone, you cannot leave.

He cannot bear it.

His sweet, ignorant human girl...fallen for a monster.

If only you knew the blood upon his hands. But you have licked it clean. Have washed him with your tears.

He begins to rub that sensitive nub fervently—round and round—and you squeal and pull against your restraints and your legs wobble. "T-There, yes!"

He grunts and groans, pumping away, wanting to see what it is which you do when you finally reach your peak.

He needs to see.

You squeeze tightly, like a vice, and you spread your legs wide. "Nearly—"

You begin to squelch loudly against him—your cunt's arousal coats his cock now.

"So—" You whimper and cry softly. "Like that."

He slaps it again, then pinches, rubs, pinches, slaps—

"Yes!" You cry, relief washing over you as you climax around his cock. "Good, so goooood. Perfect."

You pant slowly and you giggle quietly.

"Finally," you whisper affectionately.

He doesn't stop, however. He continues to rock his hips against yours, fucking himself between your sore, pulsating walls.

But you know he needs this.

And so you let him continue for however long he may require.

Until he begins to touch it again.

You jerk, then sniffle. "It's too sensitive. You have to wait."

He ignores that.

He liked it: what you just did.

Likes it more than anything.

He wants to see it again. To feel it again. Wants you to feel it again.

So he slaps your raw cunt and pinches your clit tightly.

"Mm! Please, don't!"

He growls lowly before rubbing feverishly at it.

"No. Just wa—"

He slaps it again as punishment.

You sob.

"Ple—"

Another slap—even harder.

You force yourself to be quiet then; swallow down your protests. For his sake.

You want nothing more in all the world than to please him.

And he wants the same for you. To please his pathetic little human.

He embraced his monstrosity long ago. It's all he's ever been. And so he is not above torture. Not even of this nature.

But you like it. You can't hide yourself from him. In any facet.

His breathing grows heavy and labored and his fingers circle your red, swollen clit before he grinds down against it with the heel of his palm.

Your body gyrates atop the thin metal he has you placed upon and drool drips from the corner of your open mouth.

So he shoves two fingers inside the pool of saliva and you clamp down against them and suck at him between plump lips.

Such strange creatures you humans are. To him, at least.

But he likes your warmth, and smooth skin, and soft breasts, and squishy cunt.

So, so delicate you are. Easy to manipulate and use.

A thin sheen of sweat has broken out across his naked form and he labors to reach his peak—to aid you in reaching yours.

And then your walls begin to squeeze around him again, giving him a wanted signal.

He thrusts and thrusts, leaning over you, turning his head so as not to impale you.

You are the only one he could never stand to kill or maim.

He grips the cuffs around your wrists and pulls, freeing your limbs.

You quickly wrap them around his shoulders.

He does the same with your ankles, so you wrap them around his waist.

He lifts you into the air and grips you beneath your fleshy ass, sliding you along his impossibly long erection.

He stumbles back into a chair, which groans beneath his heavy weight and you hold yourself to him.

You rock your hips against his as your feet dangle well above the floor.

He guides you along his shaft, instructing you.

You press your lips to his neck, his shoulder, his pecks.

"I love you," you whisper once more.

And then he roars so loud it nigh-on shakes the entire building as he spills and spills and spills inside of you.

It's so much that it covers his thighs, pours onto the floor, and covers your young, fertile walls.

And then the two of you calm and he holds you close while burying his scarred fingers in your damp hair.

"Do I get to stay this time?" You whimper.

He nods.

[jjkprncss]

PUSSY TALK - SUGURU GETO

CONTENT WARNING: begging, wrist restraints, rough (ish) sex

819 pm Los Angeles, Ca

"s....ugu.. pl...mmmgn" you protested, reaching your hand behind you, trying to push your 6'3 boyfriend off of you. he groaned, leaning his hips farther into yours as he held a firm grasp on your wrist, now holding your hand behind your back. 

"I thought you weren't gon' talk to me? you weren't gon' make noise babe? what happened?" he whispered, pressing his thumb into your lower back, forcing your arch up higher. "is it too much for you yn?"

741 pm Los Angeles, Ca

"you're getting on my nerves miss ..." suguru threw his head back, his fingers pinching his nose bridge, irritated by your attitude. 

"me? you come home late every night. you don't talk to me, you don't kiss me, you don't even look at me suguru. but I'm the one working your nerves yea ok" you scoffed, placing the dirty dishes into the soap-filled sink. 

you and suguru have been having issues for almost three weeks now. you just finished school, leaving you with too much free time on your hands. this wouldn't have been a problem if you didn't choose to move in with your long-term boyfriend, suguru. his loft was only a 10-minute drive from the college you were accepted into, so being able to live with your boyfriend and go to school was a win-win. 

lately, he has been working ... very late hours. 6 am to 10 pm, sometimes even past midnight. of course, you tried talking to him about it, but with every attempt, he just blew you off. ever since then, everything he did when he was at home would just irk you. things aren't like they were before. 

"I am working. providing for you, keeping a roof over your head, and money in your bank account" suguru stood up, tying his shoulder-length jet-black hair up into a bun. he walked into the kitchen, grabbing hold of the towel in your hand. "I don't hear you complaining then do I?" 

"you're an ass!" you snatched the towel back, throwing it at his chest. wiping your hands, you stormed away annoyed at his stupid response. "Im done fucking talking to you, for the rest of the night you wont hear shit from me" 

820 pm Los Angeles, Ca

"mmng.." you muffled, stuffing your face into the pillow in front of you, leaving a small smear of brown foundation on the bright pink sheets you two shared. you rolled your eyes, feeling his thick tip ram in between your folds, hitting your cervix. 

"thats what I thought ... cmere" he reached over, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you up to his chest. "I hear that pussy talkin' to me though don't I?"

SLAP SLAP SLAP 

"pl..pleasughh" your free hand reached back, attempting to do the same push as before. he grabbed it, your wrists now feeling small in the grasp of his one hand, his other still gripped around your neck.

"what you want me to stop?" suguru slowed the pace of his hips, now increasing into long, hard strokes. "that's not what she's telling me. all I hear is you want more" he laughed, whispering in your ear before shoving your head back down into the mattress. "keep that pussy wet for me yn...just like that"

[solbaby7]

someone requested [ Manhattan + salt rim + neat ] and I accidentally deleted it but i remembered!!

warnings: leashes (yup like for dogs 🤭) minors dni, thank you thank you thank you thank you for this request 🥵

—

Azriel knew it was going to be an issue—you spending so much time with Nesta Archeron.

He’d found it cute at first. His sweet girl making friends with someone as prickly as death incarnate, until he’d started noticing the changes. How kind words shift into a biting wit; adopting a darker kind of humor that leaves his brows raised and tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. “Come bunny, it’s time to get out of bed.”

Perhaps it’s in that learned behavior where you find the gall to part your lips and mutter, “No, I’m not going.”

It’s surprising—your defiance. Enough for him to pause in the middle of his morning routine, thigh holsters half buckled with an array of sharpened daggers and switchblades laid out before him. “Say that again?”

“To training,” You elaborate, mindlessly toying with the fraying edges of your nail varnish. Soft sheets swallow you whole, thick pillows and duvets emitting Azriel’s comforting scent all around you. “I’m not going today.”

For only a second he falters before his movements start up again, deft fingers easily buckling strips of leather and filling the slots with weapons. “Are you not feeling well?”

“I’m feeling like I don’t want to sweat under the burning sun all fucking day.” Your eyes are too busy rolling at the thought to notice the tick of Azriel’s jaw, the strained way he tightens his belt. “Nes and I are going shopping after brunch instead.”

“Oh?” There’s a pause, a tense silence that forces you to lean up on your elbows, neck craning to peer over at the Illyrian. Though, Azriel’s not getting ready anymore and he’s lounging too comfortably for someone who’d been adamant on following the guidelines of his rigorous schedule. The clock tick, tick, ticks away and for some reason he’s not reaching for his top or the crossbody holsters he slides on after. His hair is still dripping wet from his shower, not even bothering to work his styling pomade through. “Says who?”

He just sits there—watching, waiting. Staring at you like one of the prisoners he chains up in his dungeons; prodding at the barriers of their restraint until the spymaster tore it to shreds. You hate how well it works, chipping away at the fortified walls you’d built in your new friendships. How easily Azriel’s able to walk up to those borders and send them crumbling down with nothing more than a look.

It should be embarrassing, the affect he has on you. The way one arched brow has your spine instinctively straightening, throat rolling with a swallow as you struggle to muster up the same confidence that burned through you just moments ago. “I wasn’t aware I needed permission.”

Azriel hums low in his chest, shoulders relaxing and head nodding once, twice, three times before that stoic expression melts into understanding. “I see, that’s probably my fault. Got a touch lenient—allowed room for a little too much…hope.”

“Hope?”

Alarm bells begin ringing the further he settles in the chair, thick thighs spreading wide and veiny forearms eat up the space along the armrest. “Hope,” he agrees. “Give a good pet a little too much freedom—too much hope and all the necessary structure begins to waver.” You’re caught like a fly in a trap, limbs sticking to the carefully spun webs Az’s woven until your struggle only leaves the metaphorical ropes twisting and knotting tighter. “Don’t worry, I’m a good trainer. Won’t let you slack for a second—even if you do bat those pretty lashes up at me.”

Your mouth goes dry when his wrist flicks, two fingers beckoning you closer in silent command. A part of you hesitates; resists the rigorous discipline and rules put in place to keep you safe. Protected. But Nesta said that you were perfectly capable of protecting yourself without some overgrown bat looming over your shoulder. Right?

You obey anyway, praying that Azriel doesn’t hold the contemplation against you.

The Mother doesn’t seem to hear your plea, too occupied with more deserving persons to spare a second glance at the predicament you’d weaseled your way into. Each step closer feels like knowing wrong and choosing the sin anyway, solidifying your fate and dealing your destiny with the devil for all time. “Sit.”

A huffy breath of irritation before you ease down to your knees, leaning your weight back against your calves. “I’m not some fucking dog.”

“No, you aren’t,” His hand smells of body wash when a thumb runs over the curve of your cheek, blunt nail tracing against the shape of your mouth. It’s almost sweet, toeing the line of possibly romantic when you hear it—the squeaky strain of fresh leather. The cool bite of the latch registers too late, a metallic click locking it in place. “But lately you’ve been acting like one. My rabid mutt.”

Manicured nails grip at the newest accessory but it doesn’t budge no matter how much you tug at it. Your cheeks flame, a mix of fury and pure embarrassment from the rush of arousal that soils your panties when each breath grows just a bit labored. “You fucking collared me?”

“Watch your mouth or I’ll buy a muzzle to match.” He catches on to the way your thighs clench together, lips snapping shut as your brain fights to decide whether you want to scream back a “fuck you” or “fuck me”.

You land somewhere in the middle, words stern but tone leaking with curiosity. “You wouldn’t dare.”

A hellish grin splits across the handsome lines of his face, like a wolf straining in the seams of sheep’s clothing. “Try me.” He’s lost the concept to time when such fun prey has found itself stuck in his crosshairs. Such a sweet lamb should know better than to wander away from its shepherd—heaven forbid something should happen to you. “Test me, I dare you. I’ll walk you through town like some purebred if you keep acting like you weren’t taught to act with decorum.”

He means it too. You know he does. Even after all these years, you still had yet to hear words Azriel’s didn’t back up with action. Instantly, your eyes lower, head bowing in order to conceal the pinpricked pupils that dialate with desire. It burns in your belly, a cacophony of fantasies lashing against your eyelids at warp speed.

You in your shiny collar, name engraved on the customized nameplate with Azriel’s information on the back right under “If Found, Return To”

It’s purely involuntary, the desperate whimper that cuts through the bedchambers and Azriel pats at your head like some pampered pup in need of comfort. Offering love and fond coos when you easily correct the behaviors he doesn’t enjoy.

Obedient. Disciplined. Loyal. His.

“There’s a good girl. Keep that up and I’ll give you a treat.”

[zwhoreo]

i’m back for now with something I’ve been working on for a little while <3

rain - luffy x f!reader

smut

summary: while waiting out a rainstorm under a gazebo, you and Luffy use sex to pass the time

contains: very vanilla and casual, you ride luffy

words: 1.9k

_______________________________

The rain started when you were still far away. You had wandered through the forest trying to find those small, white berries that Robin told you about, you’re almost lost although you haven’t really tried to find your way back. The ship is over the hill, through those trees, maybe. But the rain comes in tiny bullets at first, seeming to pierce the leaves, the sky is darkening and a chill runs through you. You have to find the berries. The others are gathering meat, you’re gathering berries. And the rain comes faster now, machine gun fire, when you feel it on your shirt you know you aren’t imagining anymore. The moss grows softer under your feet, the leaves above you cast darker and darker shadows and the dappled sunlight fades to gray. Water makes patterns against the trees, you’re surrounded by gentle sound.

You realize that cover is more important than the berries, you need to wait out this storm, and so you run through the forest, stumbling in a soaked clearing as the rain falls freely on your face.

There’s a gazebo, bathed in the last of the light, sparkling in front of you. The paint is cracked and white, there are vintage designs on the awning, and someone is there already, huddled up on the narrow bench under its roof, hugging his knees. But he lights up when he sees you, running to the railing and grabbing the support pole.

“[NAME]!!” Luffy shouts.

“Luffy?” you call out, joyful. Rain is pouring in harder now and your hair is sticking to your face. It’s speeding up so quickly now. “I thought you were with Sanji!”

“Got lost!” he says, smiling. The rain starts to come in sheets and he blurs in your vision.

You run over to him, taking cover in the gazebo and he immediately comes over and holds you in his arms, pressing into you tightly and resting his head on your shoulder. It’s warm but he’s wet too so it doesn’t help much, not like that.

You look across the sky and you see blue in the distance, far away, but the clouds are rolling in and maybe they’ll be gone soon if you just wait. So you tell that to Luffy, who doesn’t mind waiting as long as it’s with you. You pull away from his grasp just for a moment so you two can sit down on the bench that he’s already dripped all over, but your pants are already soaked, it’s ok.

Luffy seems bursting with energy now that you’re here, but with nowhere to really let it out. He’s nearly on your lap he’s pressed so close, asking about where you’ve been, but running in the rain has made you tired so you just lean in and kiss him instead.

The world goes silent, except for the rain, as you place a hand on the back of his neck and press your lips to his gently, while his eyes are still wide open. You massage his thigh in small circles and whisper to him, “Glad I found you.”

“Mmn…” He murmurs in response, eyes drifting down to your hand. His skin is warm, he’s looking at you hungrily, now.

“We’ve got a little time, what do you wanna do?” You lean in, lips hovering right under his ear, you hear his heavy breathing, his heartbeat.

Luffy leans against you. He presses his body into yours and your lips connect with his skin and his back arches on instinct. You adjust. You place him onto the bench and quickly straddle him, your face still close to his, it seems like he really wants to kiss you again. And he can’t help himself anymore so once more those soft lips are connecting with yours as his hat brim touches your forehead. He holds your cheeks in his hands, your chests are together, his heart is racing against yours. He giggles into your mouth.

“Hehe, c’mere…” he says as you’re pulled tightly against his body in a firm, unyielding embrace. It suddenly becomes a little hard to breathe but that doesn’t really matter because you’re enjoying yourself so much.

And you whisper, “Luffy…” which gets him even more excited. And look at what you’ve done, he’s getting hard against you, pressing up between your legs.

“Eee…” you murmur as you squirm in his lap happily, making him shift against you with every bit of friction you give him. He’s making this little humming noise deep in the back of his throat that blends pleasantly with the rain on the roof overhead.

Your hands trail down the small of his back, slipping beneath his cardigan which sticks to his skin, his back is smooth and firm, skin silky and clean. Usually there’s wind-blown sea salt stuck to him, built-up sand and grime, usually he’s very sweaty, but as his muscles twitch under your touch he’s just honey-soft and wet, skin brown and sun-kissed and glistening with raindrops of gold.

“That feels good…” he says against your ear, face squishing against you.

“What do you wanna do?” you ask again, and he laughs lightly, tugging at your shirt.

He can see your body through the soaked fabric, he licks his lips, he pulls you a little closer and his hips go rhythmic in their tiny twitching and he says softly, “dunno, anything ya want,” with the biggest, dumbest smile.

Nami taught you how to read clouds, calculate the length of storms by the grayness in the sky, by the cracks of heaven. Peaking over Luffy’s shoulder and outside of the gazebo you can see this rolling rainstorm will pass in maybe twenty minutes, which is enough time for a lot of things, but definitely enough time to take care of your boyfriend who sits beneath you and revels in your pressure and weight.

You ask him, straight up, if he wants to have sex right now, because your boy is clueless enough to not know what you mean if you say anything else or try to make a move, he probably doesn’t even notice he’s hard. He says yes in a casual and happy way since he’s feeling especially affectionate today.

You lean back in his arms, shifting enough to reach down and undo his zipper because he looks uncomfortable in there. Drawing him out of his jeans he gazes down at your hands in a lazy, zoned out way, eyes shimmery and unfocused, lips wet with rain, with saliva. He’s so warm in your hands, so delicate and comforting.

You try not to hurt him as you squirm to pull your panties off, now bare beneath your skirt, his hands find your hips and he’s itching to just start fucking you into his lap. Poor Luffy, he’s probably been thinking about you all day. So you hug him, and listen to his heartbeat, whispering quiet permission to be picked up. And so he lifts you, so easily, you cling to him for balance as he clumsily tries to line himself up and his nose is wrinkled in deep concentration.

“Haahh…” he sighs into your ear as you’re lowered, slow and then too fast, aching fullness stretching your body, nerves lighting up down to your toes and your fingers as another heartbeat enters you. Luffy hugs you as he pushes you down onto him, tighter and tighter, huffing into your cheek. He’s about to start pounding his hips up against yours but you forgot how big he is, it’s been a little while, you need to adjust.

“H- hold on,” you gasp, out of breath, the feeling of him inside you threatening to overtake all reason. Luffy’s melting, he’s squishing against you and you can hear his heartbeat get faster and faster and it’s mixing with the crashing rain. “Hold on,” you say again with a steadier voice, trying to even your breathing. It’s going to be ok. He won’t hurt you, even as you feel his cock twitching within your stomach, trapping you to him. You’re so close now.

He’s kicking his feet against the ground and his hat falls off onto the bench as he presses his face against yours. His wet hair sticks to your skin. But he’s still so warm.

You nod slowly, and to confirm he asks, “ya ready?” in an excited, scratchy little voice and when you nod again he begins to squeeze your waist, sandals planted hard on the stone, and he starts to grind his hips in sloppy upwards circling that makes him scrape and rub himself inside you with such a peaceful rhythm.

You move as well, you let your body loosen in his grasp and bury your head in his neck as you ride him, slow and then too fast. Luffy begins to grunt and then to moan from the back of his throat so loud that the rain no longer drowns him out. And the sounds of you both are so wet like a puddle of rainwater, splashing, dripping. He kisses you and that’s wet too, accidentally spitting into your mouth in his joy and pleasure.

With each thrust you press against him closer. You love this so much, even as those fleeting thoughts cross your mind of what if you’re found? In the middle of this clearing framed by rain and white wood and Luffy’s being so loud that anyone could hear you, anyone could see you if they just looked between the trees here. But now isn’t the time for worrying, you feel safe and you don’t care.

When Luffy holds you down onto his lap, buried inside you as deep as he’ll go and not letting your hips so much as twitch, you know he’s about to cum. The possessiveness that overtakes him makes him insistent on releasing inside you as much as he can, there’s something about it that gives him intense, instinctual satisfaction. So you feel him spasm and groan and then fill you with a familiar finality of warmth and love, all to remind you that you’re his. And you don’t move from his lap, he won’t let you. You’re stuck here, glued here, maybe he just likes the contact, or he sort of likes the itching overstimulation, maybe he doesn’t want to watch his cum drip out of you quite yet. He’s stubborn, he won’t let go.

You kiss his forehead. You pick up his hat and place it back on his head, you wipe his hair from his eyes and gaze at him in that beautiful afterglow. Features so soft, angel skin peppered with raindrops, begging to be kissed.

The world just smells like earth and rain and sex now. And blue-yellow sunlight hits you and creates rainbows out of the water on your faces, it makes your eyes sparkle. It’s drizzling now, evaporating into mist. The storm passes, everything is quiet again, so unearthly still. Except the dripping from the gazebo, trickling from the roof and from your thighs. And Luffy’s breath in your ear. And that second heartbeat within you.

“Awh.” Luffy loves the sunshine but he’s sad because he doesn’t want to leave. This means he has to pull out of you, and go back to find Sanji, and to break apart from you even for a moment sounds like pure exhaustion for him.

“We can stay for a little longer,” you promise with a sleepy smile. Basking in his spreading smile, his arms, the smell of the sun and the dying rain.

[justwinginglife]

The best way to a man's heart is through his dick.

Hoshina who's strict on not getting attached to one night stands but swears he fell so hard for the reader once she gave him the best head of him life.

I love this prompt so much, thank you. Now excuse me while I go suck Soshiro's dick, I must have his love. Also, I think the request was NSFW warning enough, but fyi this is NSFW lmao.

Head Game

You'd never heard a man beg before, but that would change today.

You sat back, licking at the cum that was slathered across your lips, as you eyed the man that was now writhing in your bedsheets.

"Did you not just cum twice in a row down my throat?"

He bit his lip and covered his face with one hand. "S-still hard..." He groaned into his palm.

"Okay, so say it. Tell me."

"Suck me off. Again. Please."

"How badly do you need it?" You nuzzled the tip of your nose against his inner thigh and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Fuck, I need it so bad. Gimme those pretty lips of yours."

Your whole life you'd preferred to be splayed out beneath a man, preferred to be dominated, to be whimpering and whining at his demanding touch. But the sight of this particular man, all flushed and desperate, his legs spread wide with eagerness for you, got you going more than you ever imagined it would. You wanted to drown yourself in his cum. You wanted to choke on his erection, feel his throbbing veins against the walls of your mouth. You wanted to take in his cock so frequently that your throat melded to the shape of it.

You were past the teasing point. You'd spent the last two times flicking your tongue here and there, playing with his balls, pressing light kisses to his tip, just edging him on slowly. But you'd tasted him too much at this point to wait patiently for another serving. You wanted him pumping down your throat and you wanted it now.

You took his whole length in one motion and he let out a strangled gasp.

"F-fuck... not even... gonna gimme time... t-to adjust? So s-sensitive still."

You smirked against his dick. He'd been so impatient moments ago and now he couldn't handle it? Too bad. He was going to have to pay for his greed. You couldn't remember the last time you enjoyed giving head so much (maybe never), and you planned to enjoy yourself some more.

The feeling of him roughly fucking the back of your throat, his swollen tip still sticky with the remnants of his last two orgasms, made you immensely thirsty and you'd take his cum as payment any day.

You picked up the pace, feeling as desperate as he was now. The walls of your mouth suctioning tight around him as you engorged yourself, savoring every slicked-up inch of him. You moaned when his precum started drizzling down the back of your throat, the familiar sweetness seeping in.

The rumbling of your moan against his overloaded erection made him squirm. A squeak escaped his lips as he arched into the sensation.

Then you felt the sheets tug underneath you as he clenched them tight. He gripped the back of your head and thrust himself deeper into you, causing waves of his cum to gush into your mouth. He groaned into his fist as he watched you down every last drop. Again.

Even when he'd completely finished and was gasping for breath, trying to recover from the intensity, you kept him deep inside you. You loved the feeling of him twitching in your mouth as his arousal slowly receded.

But you also knew he wouldn't be able to go all night. He'd leave your bedside eventually. He'd leave your life. You wanted him still, even just for a second longer. So you continued sucking at the remnants of his erection until he begged you to allow him respite, his sensitivity spiking through the roof.

You collapsed onto the bed beside him, wondering when he'd make the decision to go. Wondering if you'd miss him in your bed. It'd only been one night. One night wasn't enough to miss someone. Or was it?

You unwillingly sank into a deep sleep, your mind drowning in thoughts of him. You were overwhelmed by the sheer amount of thoughts you had for this stranger.

When you woke in the morning, he was gone.

You buried your face into your pillow and sighed heavily.

Part of you wanted to go back to the bar, to see if he was there, see if he was retracing your steps last night, if he was also remembering the way he'd pinned you up against the bathroom wall and then bent you over the sink before you'd made the decision to take him back to your place to continue.

But you'd already known what your arrangement was before you even unlocked the front door for him. You knew you were nothing- just one blip on the timeline. One nice night, one forgettable night.

You didn't even know what he did for work, where he lived, what his favorite color was, what his phone number was. You didn't know him. You'd never know him. And maybe that was for the better.

But as you went about your day, you found yourself imagining his eyes, his smirk, his whines. You wondered if he pictured you on the bathroom counter, inhaling his lips like fresh air, if he pictured you in between his legs, drinking him up like fresh water. You knew you needed to stop. He was just a one night stand... a one night stand you'd remember for the rest of your nights.

By evening, you were honestly contemplating if you'd ever be able to be intimate with anybody else ever again without comparing them to him when you heard a knock on the door.

You cautiously made your way to the door, wondering who could be here at this time of night.

It was him.

He was panting, like he'd just suddenly made the decision to visit on a whim. On a wish.

Your heart lurched in your chest as you waited for his explanation but you weren't sure if you even needed it. You were ready to welcome him in. Ready to go for another round. Or not. Or just sit on the couch and talk. Drink together. Get to know him.

You really had to stop thinking like this, he probably just forgot something here last night.

"Hiya stranger." He was grinning but his words seemed hesitant, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was doing on your doorstep.

"Hi." You couldn't muster up anymore words for him, your mind was already overfilling with thoughts, with hopes, and you didn't want to give yourself away. Didn't want to say too much, too fast. You honestly thought if you opened your mouth again you might be the one begging this time, you might ask him to stay.

He cleared his throat. Then he cleared it again, fidgeting with the bottom of his shirt. "Soo... how's your day been?"

You laughed at that. "Might as well ask me how the weather is, Soshiro."

He stood up straight at hearing his name. "Well how is it then? How's the weather?"

"Honestly? It's been kind of sad today."

"Ahh, I see. I've not been having great weather either. Was better last night."

"Agreed. Everything was better last night."

"I think I'd like a do-over."

You raised an eyebrow. "Of... the weather?"

He rubbed the back of his head and laughed awkwardly. "I think you know we're not talking about the weather anymore, love."

You stepped aside to let him in and it was way too quick, way too eager, but you didn't care. You also wanted a do-over of last night. Again and again. Until it was all of your nights.

You thought he was going to kiss you but he hugged you. Just held you tight for a moment.

"Would you think I was crazy if I said I missed you?" He murmured against your shoulder.

You shook your head quickly, though still silent. You were in shock and couldn't quite find the right words to say.

"I think I could fall in love with you, you know."

Your eyes widened at his sudden statement. But then you giggled. "Because you like my head game?"

He blushed and buried his rosy cheeks deep into your shoulder. "Not just that... but yeah. Kinda."

He couldn't see you smiling, but you thought he had to know he'd made you happy because he pulled you even closer after that.

You ran your hands up and down his back, trying to steel yourself to finally say what you were thinking. "I'd be okay with that... if you wanted to fall in love with me. I could love you back."

His head shot up so he could meet your gaze.

"I'd like that. I'd like to try."

And he did.

He filled all your nights and all your days.

He filled your thoughts, filled your body.

Filled your chest with laughter, filled your heart with love.

You were so full of him, you couldn't live without him anymore.

And he never made you live without him ever again.

[3sgroups]

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[phoward89]

Based on this ask

Angst factor for this is thru the roof! And guess what? It's a series! I'm thinking this is going to have at least 3 parts. Masterlist

Jealous!Coryo x Reader, Odair!Ancestor x Reader.

WARNING ⚠️ Coriolanus Snow is a warning in and of itself. That man is a walking blood red flag waving heavily in the wind! engagement (not reader), eventual smut, infidelity, love triangle, manipulation, stalking?, gaslighting, fluff, Head Gamemaker! Coryo, District 4 Cruise Ship Heir!Odair OC.

Chapter 1:

“I'm going home, find some other dumb whore to fuck.” You spat, flipping the blankets off your body and making to get out of the platinum blonde’s bed.

“Darling, don't be rash. Come back to bed.” Coriolanus told you, reaching his long arm out and wrapping his large hand around your wrist before you could truly move away from the bed.

“Come back to bed after you just told me that you're going to marry Livia Cardew?!” You screamed at him, feeling like you wanted to yank his pretty platinum blond curls right out of his head. “Are you nuts, Coriolanus?”

The man, whose beauty rivaled that of the Roman and Greek gods, narrowed his baby blues at you. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he told you, “Stop overreacting, darling. It's an arranged marriage that doesn't mean anything.”

You arched a brow and tilted your head at him. “Oh, so that's supposed to make me feel better? Make everything okay?” You sarcastically asked, yanking your arm out of his grasp and flying out of his bed.

His king sized bed with the luxurious crimson satin sheets that you'll never inhabit again.

“Y/N-” Coriolanus began, only for you to loudly cut him off with a shriek of, “Don't, Coriolanus. Don't say a fucking word to me.” Shaking your head, you ironically scoffed, “I should've seen this coming. After all these years of sneaking around with you, I should've known that you'd pick some rich bitch to marry and have a family with.” Gathering your clothes, that were scattered all over the room, you heartbrokenly spat, “Not your poor neighbor girl that's only good for a good fuck whenever you're bored or need to get some pent up aggression out.”

“You're not-” Coriolanus began, icy blue eyes softening with an unchecked emotion (perhaps guilt?), as he watched you toss your things on the white rose upholstered bench at the foot of his bed.

“I love you, Coriolanus.” You softly sighed, barely loud enough for him to hear, while tossing your ruined lace panties at him. What use were the lacey things all torn to shreds?

Not much.

You grabbed your matching lace bra, quickly putting it on, while muttering, "I foolishly fell in love with you and you don't give a shit about me.” You’re on the verge of tears as you grab your dress. While pulling on your dress, you sadly sighed, “Never did and never will, but I guess I was hoping that maybe you would, but I was such a dumbass.”

Your words hit Coriolanus hard, like a 2x4 in the head hard. He never knew that you felt like this. Crawling over to the end of the bed, causing his pure white silk duvet to pool and crinkle around him, he reached out and took your hand in his before you could turn away to grab your heels. He looked at your face, silently willing you to look into his icy blue eyes (but you refused to give him the satisfaction- that manipulative fuck).

But maybe if you would've looked at his eyes you would've seen that they weren't gleaming or shining. That his icy blue eyes were dead and empty, like those of a shark.

Giving up on you looking at him, the platinum blonde man (who had his political dreams within reach) began to tell you in a velvety tone, “My darling rose, you’re not a dumbass. I'm sorry you're hurt, but-'”

But before he could continue his lies (Are they lies? Who knows, but you think they are.) you cut him off with, “Don't even finish your sentence. Just shut the fuck up and let me leave with whatever little piece of dignity I have left.”, while forcefully yanking your hand out of his.

“I won't shut the fuck up because I don't want you to leave.” Coriolanus told you, scrambling out of the bed, his long legs nearly tripping him as he chased after you.

You’re grabbing your heels as he tries to reason with you. “Announcing my engagement with Livia and marrying her is so I can gain political allies and power. It has nothing to do with love, in fact I hate her.” While sliding on your black kitten heels, a pricey designer pair with red sole bottoms- a gift from him (probably for your services…), he placed one of his large calloused hands on your shoulder. Coriolanus’ baritone was softer than usual as he revealed, “I want to be with you.”

“You don't want to be with me, you just want me as your mistress so you can have your kinky fucks.” You told him, pushing his hand off of your shoulder. Marching over to his dresser and grabbing your bag (some imported designer leather tote bag- dyed a deep shade of crimson- he gave you, most likely because you let him do whatever he wants to you between the sheets), you told him the blunt truth of, “You don't love me and I'm not going to stick by your side as your mistress.” Shouldering your bag, that matched the color of the manicure you just had done (which he insisted on paying for), you declared, “I deserve somebody to love me with their whole heart, not just their dick, so I'm leaving and never coming back.”

“Please, don't leave.” You heard him say as you walked out of his room.

“Please, baby, don't leave me!” He frantically begged, his voice a loud shout, as he followed you down the hall in a run. Barefeet loudly slapping against the marble floor, sounding almost ominous.

Thank goodness his Grandma’am's hearing was starting to go bad, otherwise she'd be waking up and seeing one hell of a show. Also, thank goodness Tigress moved out years ago, otherwise she'd be a witness to a messy breakup.

A breakup that was long overdue.

You ignored him, only to power walk to the main entrance of the penthouse. You were almost to the door whenever you felt his cold, long fingers wrap around your wrist like an octopus’ tentacles.

“Please, stay the night. We can discuss this in the morning, just-just don't leave me, little dove.” You heard him beg, sounding so unlike his confident self.

A part of you wanted to give in; turn around and melt into his arms. But another part of you, the part that has grown up with Coriolanus and has seen him manipulate everyone around him knew that he was just saying whatever he has to in order to pull your puppet strings; make you stay.

You decided not to turn around, not to give into him. Instead you roughly pulled yourself free of his hold and walked out the door.

You knew that the platinum blonde wouldn't dare follow you, since running after you naked with his well hung junk swinging in the wind would be scandalous.

Unknown to you, after you walked out the door and slammed it shut in his face, Coriolanus quickly ran to his room and tossed on his diagarded pants and shirt from the evening. He ran out the door, barefoot and still buttoning up his wrinkled shirt, in hopes of catching you in the lobby.

Since you were in the only elevator the building has, he ran down the 12 flights of exquisite marble stairs to reach the lobby. Nearly slipping and busting his ass a couple of times too.

But when he reached the lobby it was too late, you were getting into the back of a cab you hailed. As Coriolanus ran to the door of the lobby, he felt his cold, dead, black, too small of a heart shatter into a million pieces as he watched you close the cab’s door with tears shining like diamonds in your eyes.

Seeing you crying in the back of the cab while leaving him, something he knew that neither of you wanted, made him determined to get you back.

If he thought that Lucy Gray betraying and leaving him hurt, well you leaving him because you felt that he couldn't reciprocate your feelings of love (because he was going to have an arranged marriage with Livia Cardew for political reasons) gutted him. Made him feel like he wanted to die.

Coriolanus wanted you; he always has. It's why you've been together, on-off, since your freshman year at the Academy.

He has to woo you back. He just has to.

Because the thought of you moving on with another man just doesn't sit right with him.

It doesn't matter that Coriolanus’ engagement with Livia Cardew will be publicly announced soon, he needs you back.

He can't have another bird of his flying away, can he?

Ending your decade long on-off situationship with the Head Gamemaker Coriolanus Snow hurt. Oh gods, it hurt so fucking bad! You felt like you’re just going thru the motions everyday after the breakup. Like you’re just surviving, not truly living, since you’re so sad.

So heartbroken.

And what hurts the most was that, even tho you knew you could never truly be with him, you still love him.

And you'll probably always love him in a way, even tho he'll never love you. Because he's your first love; they say you never forget your first love. That you'll always have a special spot on your heart carved out just for them.

So when you saw the engagement announcement for Livia Cardew and Coriolanus Snow in the social pages of the newspaper, you thought you were going to be sick.

The picture used for the announcement was professionally done; made the newly engaged couple look so lovely together. It made you sad to say, but they did make quite a match.

Two golden lions, regal with the world at their feet. Their blonde hair, her's a dirty golden shade and his a near white platinum blonde, styled impeccably set off their beauty. A beauty that was showcased in matching black outfits, hers a black tea dress with flowing sleeves and his a 3-piece suit with a red/black striped tie.

They looked every bit a couple of the old guard. A couple worthy of money, glory, and power. You're positive that Grandma'am’s proud of him.

If only you knew how she really felt. How Grandma'am Snow always thought that it'd be you and her grandson posting an engagement announcement in the social section of the newspaper. How she's so disappointed at Coriolanus for picking a heinous bitch instead of you, a girl who's soul reminds her so much of her beloved late daughter-in-law (Coriolanus' mother).

Then you couldn't help, but think that maybe Livia’s better for Coriolanus. Better than you are for him. Maybe he'd be happier with her than with you. After all, she came with the largest bank of Panem attached to her name and you came with nothing. You had no money or jewels to offer, just yourself.

And you weren't good enough for him.

Coriolanus Snow always craved power, wealth, and prestige. None of which you could offer him. None of which you gave a shit about.

All you wanted was to be loved, but he couldn't do that for you. All the cold hearted schemer could do was buy you fancy, luxurious, expensive things.

You had no idea that gifting was his love language. That he enjoyed seeing your face light up when he presented you with some gift that you'd never be able to afford on your own. He got pleasure out of spoiling you; taking care of you.

Unfortunately for him, you’re tired of being a kept woman. You don't want him to buy you a bunch of high end things. You want him and since he can't give you his love, you left. You decided to move on.

Which is why you blocked his number, because you had to move on and find somebody that you would be more than enough for. And you couldn't do that with him blowing up your phone constantly. You also started looking for a new apartment, because you couldn't keep having him dropping off roses at your doorstep all the time.

And since your mother to lived on the 8th floor of Corso apartment the Snow penthouse was in, it was a chore to avoid Coriolanus. So, to avoid any drama with him, you had to find a new apartment. You mother agreed; told you that to make a clean break you needed to leave the area. Move on from the part of town you were raised in; lived in.

You needed to fly on your own wings.

At least your job on the marketing team for Odair Luxury Cruises was safe from him. And that job did come with a sweet perk of allowing employees the opportunity of affordable housing in a select few luxury apartments near the downtown Capitol office building the company was headquartered in.

So at least your apartment hunting wouldn't be too hard.

You were right, your apartment hunt wasn't hard at all. In fact, due to your employment at Odair Luxury Cruises, you were able to secure yourself a 4th floor apartment at the Luxe, right in the bustling downtown of Capitol City, Panem.

Apartment #455 to be exact.

It was a lovely apartment with a courtyard view. It had 9 foot ceilings and white kitchen cabinetry in what could only be a top of the line kitchen. The open layout of the kitchen and living space has a modern feel to it. The lone bedroom in the apartment was very spacious and even had a walk-in closet; the apartment had a small study as well.

It was definitely an upgrade from your mother's apartment, which was nice due to the Plinths fixing it up after buying the building and moving onto the 11th floor roughly 4 years ago. (Unknown to you, Strabo Plinth did the bare minimum repairs to your mother's apartment and furnished it because Coriolanus asked him -more like nagged him- to.)

You're Luxe apartment wasn't as lavish as the Corso penthouse Coriolanus shares with his Grandma’am (the same penthouse he used to bring you to for all of those booty calls over the years) but that didn't matter. All that mattered was that you thought your new apartment was amazing.

And after moving in, you stopped receiving roses at your doorstep. Thank the gods. But since your new building had a doorman, you knew that was the reason you didn't have any more stalkery type floral arrangements waiting for you at your threshold.

And roughly a week or so after moving into your new place, you met your neighbor from across the hall.

#454

It was a typical morning, you had a travel mug of coffee in your hand and was dressed professionally in a pencil skirt and blouse (of course you're wearing those damn kitten heels he who shall not be named- as your older brother’s girlfriend calls your ex-fling of sorts- got you.) as you stepped out into the hallway of your apartment. Usually you never saw your neighbor across the hall, but this morning he rushed out the door- his shaggy bronze hair rustling around his shoulders- and his stunning sea-green eyes locked onto yours.

“Why, you must be new. I've never seen you before.” The tall and extremely handsome man smiles flirtatiously at you. Crossing the hall, to stand in front of you, he introduced himself. “Name’s Odysseus Odair.” Doing a little bow, he smiled a bit too brightly, “The pleasure’s all mine, my abalone pearl.”

Holy shit, is the heir of Odair Luxury Cruises your neighbor and flirting with you right now? No. No, it couldn't be. This has to be a dream.

Except it's not a dream and the heir to a large cruise company in District 4 that's based in the Capitol is really your flirty and handsome neighbor.

“You're Poseidon Odair’s son, heir to Odair Luxury Cruises?” Was all you could manage to get out.

“Yes, that's me, but your name would've worked better for your part of the introduction.” He laughed, the sound similar to the kree-ar call a seagull makes. Shaking his head, causing his bronze hair to skirt around his collared dress shirt (which has a few of the buttons undone to show off his tan and toned chest) he teased, “Usually that's how introductions work, pretty pearl, cause I already know who I am and want to know who you are.”

“I'm Y/N Halvir; I only know who you are because I work in the marketing department for your father's company.”

“Yes, your name sounds familiar.” Odysseus nods with a bright, closed lip smile that makes his cheeks dimple. “You need a ride to the office? I was heading there myself.”

You shook your head, quickly turning down his offer. “Oh, no, I don't want to bother you.”

“Oh, trust me, you won't be a bother.” He said with a flirty glint in his sea-green eyes. “In fact, we’ll go to the corner cafe; get some coffee, donuts, and call it our first date.”

You couldn't help, but giggle at his proposition. He couldn't be serious, could he?

But the way his sunshine like smile was aimed towards you made you realize that he was serious.

Which is why you smiled back and said, “Okay, let's have our first date before work.”

Holding his arm out, like a gentleman, Odysseus winked. “I'll even take you out tonight for seafood.” A sultry look appeared in his eyes as he told you, “I’ll make sure that the dessert's a mouthwatering, delicious one for our second date.”

Odysseus' innuendo didn't go unnoticed by you. And after everything you've been thru with Coriolanus, along with being single for roughly a month now, you decided that it was time to stop pouting over somebody that doesn't give a shit about you.

That it was time to let somebody new have a chance at loving you.

“That sounds like a plan.” You smiled, walking down the hallway arm in arm with the tall bronze man that was sculpted like a Greek god of old. “I'll make sure to wear a nice dress for the occasion.”

“Yes, please do. Even if I'm not one for dressing up, the place I'm taking you to does have a dress code.”

“A dress code similar to Avelina's?” You asked, assuming that whatever fancy seafood place Odysseus was taking you too would be similar in fashion sense to the restaurant Coriolanus took you to every year for your birthday, once you turned 19. (Would've been nice to go there more than once a year, but you figured your ex was just too embarrassed to be seen out in public with you too much since you weren't off the same pedigree as him).

“Ugh, I hate that place. It's so stuffy; reeks of old money.” Odysseus complained as the elevator came into view. Shaking his head, he explained, “Ocean Prime's not a black tie affair dress code, like Avelina's, but more of a nice cocktail dress and button up type of dress code.” Coming to a stop at the elevator bank, he pressed the call button for it and asked, “Do you own the classic little black dress? If so, it'd be perfect for dinner tonight.”

Nodding, you simply told him, “I own one.”

And you only owned one because all of the cocktail dresses you owned were commissioned by Coriolanus- for his cousin Tigris to design and make- and they were all various shades of white, red, and pink. You only had one little black dress because you had bought it yourself, with your own hard earned money, off of a clearance rack. It wasn't anything fancy and you never wore it, since Coriolanus always wanted you to match him if and when he took you somewhere.

So, tonight your little black dress will finally get worn. Worn for your second date with a man who seems warm like sunshine with sea-green eyes that twinkle dreamily.

It's been nearly a month since you left Coriolanus and he's not taking it too well. He never thought that you'd truly leave him. He always just assumed that you'd be there.

He knows now that he took you for granted. It's something that he regrets everyday, whether he admits it or not.

And what gnaws at Coriolanus is how you ignored every single attempt he made to win you back. Blocking his number and moving to a new apartment, in his opinion, was an extreme way to avoid him.

Your bitch of a mother, who smoked more than a chimney and drank more than a fish, refused to give Coriolanus your new number. She also refused to tell him your new address. He literally had to pay off somebody in the HR department of Odair Luxury Cruises to get him your new info. Which turned out to be useless since the doorman at the Luxe apartments was very strict when it came to adhering to the wishes of the residents when it came to who was and wasn't allowed to visit or leave things for them and wouldn't let him pass the door. Even when he flashed a large wad of cash at the man, he still refused to budge.

Ugh, moral people were the boil on Coriolanus' ass.

Coriolanus was tempted to just show up and corner you at work, but he ended up deciding against it. But only because he had political ambitions and didn't want a scene to be caused (one that he feels you would cause) that could be damning to his image.

He was sacrificing so much for his political dreams. Listening to Strabo Plinth and getting engaged to Livia Cardew, to gain more wealth and some political goals. Because if he couldn't become a Senator and, of course, after that the President of Panem then wouldn't his greatest sacrifice- his loss of you, be all for nothing?

One afternoon Coriolanus was neck deep in work, but he found himself staring at a framed picture on his desk. It was a picture of the two of you. One that was taken at the Yule Ball during Senior year at the University. It was his favorite picture of the two of you, which is why he has it framed on his desk.

But before he could get lost in the memory of that night, a knock sounded at his office door. Tearing his gaze off of the picture frame, he looked up to the door and simply said, “Come in.”

“Sir, your fiance's here to see you.” Coriolanus' personal secretary, a middle-aged woman who's hot pink lipstick matched her pixie cut, informed him while walking into the office.

“About what, Marge?” Asked Coriolanus while blinking his eyes- attempting to soothe the pain in them from the hot pink overload he was experiencing.

His corneas couldn't handle looking at his secretary’s hot pink paisley print dress since it made her hair stand out more. He also tried not to stare at his employee too rudely while noticing her fuchsia dyed eyebrows and matching pink mascara- that oddly framed a natural eyelid.

Averting his eyes back to his computer, (*cough* his framed picture of you *cough*) Coriolanus told Marge, “I'm busy; I don't have time to deal with her petty antics today.”

“I know that, Sir. I even told Miss Cardew that you're very busy planning the upcoming games, but she wouldn't hear it. She's demanding that I buzz her in; let her see you.”

“Well, don't.” Coriolanus told his secretary because the last thing he wanted to do was talk to his fiance, Livia Cardew.

Gods, how he hated that woman.

“What do you want me to tell her then, Sir?” Marge asked.

“That I'm in a meeting and can't see her at the moment.”

“Okay, but what kind of meeting?” The secretary asked, knowing full well that the dirty blonde Tasmanian devil of a woman out in the lobby would ream her out if she didn't have any details to give her. Saying in a meeting wouldn't suffice that shrew.

“Tell her I'm networking with somebody about the mass installation of mandatory TVs in the districts.” The cold, callous, platinum blonde man said without skipping a beat.

“I thought you successfully had that meeting yesterday?” The secretary asked in a tone that implied she knew her boss was a cunning piece of shit.

“I did, but she doesn't know that.” Coriolanus smirked.

“No, I suppose she doesn't.” Marge giggled. A giddy look took over the middle aged woman's face as she told her boss, “I saw Miss Halvir last night at Ocean’s Prime. It's a seafood restaurant.”

“What's she doing there? She can't afford it with what she makes working in the marketing department of that District 4 based cruise line.” Coriolanus scoffed. Giving his personal secretary a curious look, he asked, “And what were you doing there? I know you can't afford a place like that either.”

Marge fought hard to keep herself from rolling her fuschia framed eyes at Mr. Snow's offhand remarks about money. What both she and you couldn't afford. With a fake and forced smile, she told the imposing platinum blonde, “I was there because my daughter and her partner just celebrated their one year anniversary; the reason for Miss Halvir being there was that she was out on a date.”

“A DATE?!” Coriolanus asked in a loud roar.

A date. How dare you go out on a date. You're not supposed to be going out on dates. You're supposed to be his.

Despite being separated for nearly a month, you still belong to him. Hell, he took your virginity when you both were green kids at the Academy. As far as he's concerned, he owns your pussy.

“Yes, a date.” The bright pink-haired secretary confirmed before telling her boss, “With Odysseus Odair, the heir of Odair Luxury Cruises.”

“WHAT THE FUCK!?” Coriolanus loudly cursed, his icy blue eyes blazing with white hot anger.

You went out on a date to some high priced seafood (Since when did you eat seafood, other than those oysters rockefeller appetizers he orders for you two when he takes you to Avelina's for your birthday?) restaurant with Odair- the biggest manwhore in all of the Capitol! 

What the hell's wrong with you? You accuse him of not loving you, of just wanting you for kinky sexy, but here you are going out on a date with Odysseus Odair. The biggest fuck ‘em and leave ‘em guy in the Capitol. Hell, probably in all of Panem.

Marge was taken aback by her boss's reaction to finding out that you were on a date with Odysseus Odair the previous night. The middle-aged woman's never seen the cold and collective head gamemaker lose control before. And she didn't know how to deal with it.

All she wanted to do was spread some juicy gossip and to maybe tip him off that the Odair heir might be bringing a plus one to his upcoming engagement party; one that he's well acquainted with. Marge certainly wasn't expecting Coriolanus to start flipping his shit.

But what Marge didn't know was that Coriolanus is pea green with envy. That he wants to destroy Odysseus Odair because he's with you.

The woman that he's in love with, even if he won't allow himself to admit his feelings. Because he vowed to never ever fall in love after everything that transpired between him and Lucy Gray that summer he served as a peacekeeper in 12.

But love is something that can't be controlled. And that's something Coriolanus will learn first hand as he does everything in his power to get you back. To win you away from one Odysseus Odair, the bane of his existence.

Tags: @kuroosbby001 @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere @savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord @erikasurfer @tulips2715 @universal-s1ut @thesmutconnoisseur @squidscottjeans @sudek4l @wearemadeofstardust0 @mashiromochi @gracieroxzy @belcalis9503 @shari-berri @aoi-targaryen @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @v-love @swiftieblyth @joyfulyouthlover

[seafarersdream]

Campaign Trail | Modern AU! (Gwayne Hightower x Y/N)

Strap in for the wild ride of Gwayne Hightower’s political rise, as seen through the eyes of his campaign manager, Y/N. From clueless debates to dodging scandalous tabloids and pretending he knows the price of a pint, Gwayne is your classic posh boy gone rogue running as a Lib Dem candidate. And it’s Y/N’s job to keep his ego in check, his speeches on point, and, occasionally, his pants on. Welcome to the Gwayne Hightower campaign. Expect chaos. Word count: 12k

TW // Strong language and profanities, characters frequently consume alcohol (including scenes of heavy drinking), boss/employee romantic trope, power dynamics, sexual and crass humor, depictions of extreme wealth and privilege (rich assholes basically).

“Bloody hell, Gwayne, are you even listening to me?” Y/N slammed her pen down on the table, the clatter echoing through the dimly lit campaign office. It was well past midnight, and the stale smell of cold pizza mixed with the faint scent of Gwayne’s overpriced cologne was starting to make her head spin.

Gwayne Hightower, the posh prat in question, barely looked up from his phone. He was lounging back in his chair, long legs stretched out like he owned the place — which, to be fair, he probably did in some indirect, old-money, nepotistic kind of way. “I am listening,” he drawled, though his thumb kept scrolling. “Something about, uh, housing and healthcare. Right?”

Y/N rolled her eyes so hard she could’ve seen the back of her skull. “Yeah, mate, just the minor detail of your whole bloody platform,” she shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know, the stuff that actually makes people vote for you?”

Gwayne’s lips curled into that infuriatingly perfect smirk, the kind that belonged more to a model, not on some would-be politician. “You mean the bit where I pretend to care?”

She let out a frustrated sigh and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, the pretending bit. But let’s make it convincing this time, yeah?”

The office was a mess of coffee cups, crumpled notes, and campaign leaflets. A lone desk lamp threw a harsh yellow light across the room, casting long shadows on the wall. Outside, the rain battered against the windows, the only sound in the quiet street below. The clock ticked loudly, reminding them of every minute they were wasting.

Y/N picked up a sheet of paper, waving it in his face. “Look, you need to hit them where it matters. People care about the NHS. They care about whether they can afford to put a roof over their heads. Not about… whatever posh nonsense you were going on about last week.”

Gwayne finally put down his phone, leaning forward with a feigned look of interest. “What was wrong with what I said?”

She snorted. “Mate, you can’t promise a home for every hardworking Brit when your idea of a starter home is a bloody Georgian townhouse in Chelsea.”

Gwayne chuckled, and for a second, she hated how charming he could be when he wasn’t being an absolute prat. “Fair point. Alright, Ms. Campaign Manager, what do we say?”

Y/N leaned in, their faces just inches apart, and she could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. “You say,” she whispered, “that you’re going to make housing affordable, that you’ll protect the NHS like it’s the crown jewels, and that you actually give a damn about people who don’t have trust funds or daddy’s money to fall back on.”

He stared at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. “You think they’ll buy it?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Not if you keep looking like you’re about to laugh every time you say it. You need to mean it, Gwayne. Or at least act like you do. Think of it like… theatre.”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that surprised her. “Theatre, is it? So what, am I Olivier or just a bloke in a bad panto?”

Y/N grinned. “Depends. You reckon you can handle a bit of method acting? Maybe imagine you’re someone who doesn’t have everything handed to them on a silver platter?”

Gwayne leaned back, still watching her, and she felt a strange tension crackle between them, something electric, something unspoken. “You’ve got a smart mouth, Y/N. That why I hired you?”

She shrugged, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck. “Nah. You hired me because I’m the only one who’ll call you out on your bullshit.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You like calling me out, don’t you?”

Her breath hitched for just a second, and she cursed herself for letting him get to her. “Someone has to,” she said, her voice steady. “And you clearly love it.”

His smirk grew. “Maybe I do.”

She felt her face flush and decided to change the subject before she ended up doing something stupid. Like kissing that smug grin right off his face. “Right, back to work. We need a slogan that sticks. Something the punters will remember. Something that makes them think you’re the real deal.”

Gwayne leaned back, eyes still locked on hers, a challenge glinting in them. “You mean something like, Vote for me or I’ll bloody well buy your house myself?”

Y/N snorted, and for a moment, the tension eased. “Yeah, that’ll go down a treat in Hackney.”

“Alright,” he said, leaning closer again, his voice softer now, more serious. “Help me, then. What do I say?”

She felt that pull again, that magnetic draw that made her want to slap him and snog him in equal measure. She shook her head, trying to focus. “You say,” she murmured, leaning in so close their noses almost touched, “that you’re going to fight for them like you’d fight for your own bloody life. That every day you’re in office, you’re not just some posh tosser playing politics. You’re there because you bloody care.”

Gwayne’s breath brushed against her lips, and she swore she saw his eyes flicker to her mouth. “And you think they’ll believe me?”

She felt her heart race, her pulse quickening. “They’ll believe it,” she whispered, “if you say it like you bloody well mean it.”

For a second, everything hung in the air between them, the rain pounding against the window like a drumbeat, their breaths mingling in the space between. And then he moved back, breaking the spell, his grin back in place.

“Alright,” he said, voice light again. “Let’s do this, then. Make me sound like a bloody hero.”

Y/N smiled, picking up her pen. “Oh, I will. And you better not cock it up.”

He winked. “Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. She will either kill this campaign, or it kills her first. Which she is not sure yet.

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“Remember, Gwayne,” Y/N muttered as she straightened his tie, fingers brushing against his collar for a moment too long, “Stick to the message. Focus on the solutions, not the problems. You’re not just some arse in a suit; you’re the bloke who’s going to fix this mess.”

Gwayne’s grin was too confident for her liking. “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he replied, eyes twinkling with that familiar arrogance. “It’s not my first rodeo.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Right, because you’ve handled so many housing crises in your plush penthouse.”

He chuckled. “Come on, love. Give me a bit of credit. I’ve been prepping for this all week.”

“Yeah, and it shows,” Y/N shot back, sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass. “Now, get in there, charm their pants off, but for God’s sake, don’t let him corner you on the numbers.”

The studio lights were blinding, hot enough to feel like the sun itself had decided to join them inside. Across from Gwayne sat Martin Caldwell, a journalist infamous for his pitbull tactics and never letting a politician off the hook. Caldwell looked like a vulture in a cheap suit, his eyes narrowed and mouth twitching as if he could already smell the blood.

Gwayne settled into his chair, flashing that perfect smile. “Thanks for having me, Martin,” he said smoothly.

Martin didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Gwayne?” he said, leaning forward, voice like a scalpel. “Housing crisis. The capital’s got over 60,000 homeless households, more than 80,000 children living in temporary accommodation. And that number’s only climbing. Now, you’re here, all clean and polished, talking about affordable housing, but let’s be real — what’s your plan, really? Because people out there, they’re struggling. They’re angry.”

Gwayne didn’t flinch, kept his smile steady. “Look, Martin, the housing crisis is a massive issue, no question. It’s about more than just numbers; it’s about people, families—”

“But let’s talk about numbers, Gwayne,” Martin cut him off, eyes gleaming. “Since 2010, there’s been a 70% increase in households in temporary accommodation. 70%! That’s a bloody lot, isn’t it? How do you plan to fix that with just more of the same?”

Y/N watched from the sidelines, her heart thudding against her ribs. This wasn’t going to be easy. She’d told him to stick to the message, keep it simple, but she could already see Caldwell trying to lure him into a trap. Gwayne’s jaw tightened — just a fraction, but she saw it. And so did Caldwell.

“Look, the current policies clearly haven’t worked,” Gwayne replied, leaning in, voice steady. “What we need is a radical overhaul. A commitment to building a new generation of affordable homes, partnerships between government and private sectors, and a serious plan to cut down the bureaucratic red tape that—”

Caldwell pounced. “Right, but where’s the money coming from, Gwayne? You’re talking about a ‘radical overhaul,’ but that means a radical budget. Are you going to raise taxes? Cut other services? Let’s hear it, Gwayne. What’s the actual plan?”

Gwayne hesitated, just for a second, and Y/N felt her stomach drop. That was all Caldwell needed. The interviewer leaned in further, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Or is this just another politician’s promise? More hot air while kids sleep in shelters?”

Gwayne’s smile faltered, just a flicker, but it was enough. He could feel the pressure mounting, the audience’s eyes on him, waiting for a stumble. “Look,” he started, but his voice wasn’t quite as strong now, “it’s a complex issue, and we’re working—”

Caldwell cut him off again, like a shark sensing blood in the water. “Working on what, Gwayne? A plan that doesn't exist?”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her ears. Damn it, this was spiraling, and fast. She moved closer to the stage manager, whispering frantically. “I need to get on his earpiece. Now.”

Seconds later, Gwayne heard her voice, calm and clear through his earpiece. “Stop defending. Go on the attack. Talk about the real culprits — landlords, greedy developers, government failures. Take control, Gwayne, before he buries you.”

Gwayne’s eyes flicked to the camera, and his posture straightened. He smiled, but this time there was steel behind it. “Alright, Martin, let’s talk about the real issue here,” he said, his voice steadying. “The housing crisis didn’t happen overnight, and it didn’t happen because of the people living in temporary accommodation. It happened because of decades of government inaction, because landlords were given free reign to hike rents, because developers were allowed to build luxury flats while people can’t afford a basic home.”

Caldwell raised an eyebrow, surprised by the shift. “So, you’re blaming the private sector now?”

“I’m blaming a system that’s rigged, Martin,” Gwayne shot back, finding his stride. “A system where a handful of people get rich while everyone else suffers. And that’s what I’m here to change. To fight for a fair deal, not just for the few, but for everyone.”

Y/N could see Caldwell’s eyes narrow. He wasn’t expecting this. Good. Keep him off balance.

Caldwell pressed again, but now there was a hint of frustration. “But specifics, Gwayne. People want to know how—”

“I’ll give you specifics,” Gwayne cut in sharply, leaning forward. “First, we cap rents to stop people being priced out of their own communities. We fund social housing properly, no more of these half-hearted measures. We build homes people can actually afford, and we crack down on empty properties left to rot while families go homeless. And yeah, Martin, if that means stepping on a few toes in the private sector, so be it. Because this isn’t about comfort. It’s about doing what’s right.”

There was a pause. Caldwell seemed momentarily lost for words, and that was all Y/N needed. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Gwayne finished strong. “I’m not here to make friends with the developers or the landlords, Martin. I’m here to make sure that every child in this country has a safe place to call home.”

Caldwell recovered, trying to regain control. “Strong words, Gwayne. But can you deliver?”

Gwayne smiled, this time without hesitation. “Watch me.”

The interview wrapped up, and Y/N could feel the tension slowly ease out of her shoulders. As Gwayne walked off set, she met him in the wings, her expression a mix of frustration and begrudging admiration.

“Nice save,” she said, crossing her arms.

Gwayne grinned, a bit of the cockiness back. “Thanks to you. You always know just what to say, don’t you?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a smile. “You were one misstep away from a bloody train wreck, you know that?”

He stepped closer, his voice low, teasing. “Maybe I like a bit of danger. Keeps things interesting.”

She felt that familiar heat rise between them, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Well, next time, try not to give me a heart attack on live TV, yeah?”

Gwayne chuckled. “No promises. But… thanks, Y/N. Really.”

She gave him a nod. “Just doing my job. Now let’s go. We’ve got a lot of damage control to do.”

He watched her walk away, a smile tugging at his lips. “And here I thought we just saved the day.”

Y/N looked back over her shoulder, grinning. “Maybe. But the day’s not over yet, Hightower.”

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“This place is bloody ridiculous, Gwayne.” Y/N muttered as she wandered through the lavish rooms of his Belgravia townhouse, glass of absinthe in hand. The place screamed money — old money, the kind that people like her never saw outside of films or the pages of Tatler. She ran her fingers along the gilded edge of a massive mirror, its frame probably worth more than her yearly salary.

Gwayne, sprawled comfortably on a deep leather sofa, shot her a lopsided grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She rolled her eyes and took a swig of her drink, the bitter taste burning down her throat. “I mean, look at this,” she said, gesturing around with her glass. “A townhouse in Belgravia? You’ve got Raphaels hanging on your walls, for fuck’s sake. You collect rare artwork like most people collect fridge magnets.”

He glanced at the painting she was pointing to — a delicate Madonna in blues and golds, her serene face glowing softly in the low light of the room. “Not just any Raphaels. The best ones. Acquired at private auctions, if you must know,” he replied with a lazy smirk. “It’s not a crime to have taste.”

Y/N snorted. “Yeah, because that’s what everyone does with their disposable income. Attend auctions with the world’s elite and outbid some oligarch for a Bernini bust.”

He grinned wider. “It was a spirited bidding war, I’ll give you that. Oligarchs can be quite tenacious.”

She laughed despite herself, shaking her head. “You’re something else, Hightower.”

The townhouse was ridiculously opulent. The kind of place that would feature in a glossy spread titled London’s Most Exclusive Homes. Velvet drapes framed enormous windows that looked out onto pristine, manicured gardens. The walls were adorned with priceless works of art, paintings that most people would only see behind thick glass in a museum. A faint scent of rich leather and wood polish filled the air, mingling with the sharper notes of absinthe.

Gwayne had insisted on pouring her a drink the moment they got in, promising her it would “take the edge off.” And she had to admit, it was doing the trick.

“Alright, you’ve buttered me up with the fancy booze,” Y/N said, plopping herself into a chair that felt like sinking into a cloud. “Now spill. Why the bloody hell are you running as a Liberal Democrat?”

Gwayne blinked, surprised by the bluntness of her question. Then he chuckled. “You’ve been dying to ask me that, haven’t you?”

“Are you kidding? It’s been killing me,” she shot back, leaning forward. “I mean, look at you. Everything about you screams Tory. The suits, the townhouse, the art collection that could fund a small country. And yet here you are, waving the Lib Dem flag. It doesn’t add up.”

He took a slow sip of his own absinthe, letting her words hang in the air. “Maybe I like a challenge,” he finally said, a hint of mischief in his tone.

She snorted again. “Oh, come off it. You’re not in this for a challenge. You’re in it for… hell, I don’t know, but it’s not because you’re a bleeding heart liberal. So why?”

Gwayne’s smile faded slightly, his blue eyes studying her carefully. “Maybe I actually believe in something, Y/N. Did you ever think of that?”

She held his gaze, not backing down. “Sure. I just thought that something would involve tax cuts for the rich and a couple of fox hunts on the weekends.”

He laughed, a real laugh this time, not the polished, practiced chuckle he usually gave to the cameras. “Alright, fair play. I can see why you’d think that.”

“So…?” she pressed.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, swirling the emerald liquid in his glass. “Alright, you want the truth?”

“That’s why I asked,” she replied, her tone softer now.

He hesitated, just for a moment, before speaking again. “I was supposed to be Tory. God, was I ever. Family’s a line of them. Granddad, Dad, every bloody Hightower since time began, probably. I was raised for it, groomed for it. Eton, Oxford, the whole bloody conveyor belt to Westminster.”

She nodded. “I’m with you so far. Still not seeing where the Lib Dem part comes in.”

Gwayne leaned forward, his voice lower, more serious. “It was all set up. Tory membership card practically in my cradle. Then one day, I actually took a look at what was happening around me. Went to a few dinners, talked to the ‘right’ people. Listened to them… talk. And, Christ, Y/N, it made me sick.”

She blinked, surprised. “You? Sick? You love a posh dinner as much as the next trust fund baby.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t the dinners, love. It was the people at them. The entitlement. The utter lack of care for anyone outside their bubble. I realized I didn’t want to be part of that. Not if it meant towing the line on policies that only protect the people who’ve already got everything. The way they talked about people… like they were numbers, not lives. I couldn’t do it.”

She leaned back, considering his words. “So, you’re telling me you had some grand epiphany?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. I figured, if I was going to get into politics, I’d do it to actually make a difference. The Lib Dems… they’re not perfect, but they’re about giving a damn about everyone, not just the privileged few.”

Y/N arched an eyebrow. “And you’re not one of the privileged few?”

He laughed. “Oh, I am. Born and bloody bred. But that doesn’t mean I have to play by their rules. Maybe I want to rewrite them.”

She stared at him, her heart unexpectedly softening. Maybe this privileged prat actually believed what he was saying. “So, what’s the endgame then? 10 Downing Street?”

He chuckled. “Maybe. But that’s for another day. Right now, I just want to make some noise and see if anyone’s listening.”

She took another sip of her absinthe, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. “Well, you’ve got my attention, at least.”

He leaned closer, a playful glint in his eye. “Oh, I noticed.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t let it go to your head, Hightower. I’m still here to make sure you don’t bollocks this up.”

He grinned. “I’d be lost without you, Y/N.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Yeah, you would.”

For a moment, the room seemed smaller, the space between them charged, and Y/N felt that familiar pull again — the magnetic tension that always seemed to hang in the air whenever they were close. She tore her gaze away, looking around at the paintings instead.

“This absinthe’s going straight to my head,” she muttered.

He chuckled, watching her closely. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Careful, Gwayne. I’m still your campaign manager. You need me sober enough to make sure you don’t say something stupid again.”

He leaned back, his smile still in place. “Fair enough. But maybe just for tonight, we can forget about campaigns and crises. Just… be two people having a drink.”

Y/N met his eyes, and for once, she couldn’t find a quick comeback. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Maybe just for tonight.”

And for a brief, quiet moment, neither of them spoke. The townhouse, with all its ridiculous wealth and art, seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them, caught in the electric tension of what might be.

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The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the streets of Hackney into a grey, slick mess. Puddles formed in the cracks of the pavements, and the smell of wet concrete hung in the air. Y/N was soaked to the bone, her coat heavy with rain, but she didn’t care. She was too busy making sure Gwayne didn’t make an utter arse of himself.

They were in the heart of Hackney, one of the neighborhoods hardest hit by the housing crisis. Rundown council flats lined the streets, their brick facades crumbling, windows boarded up or patched with mismatched panes of glass. Gwayne’s designer shoes were caked in mud, and she couldn’t help but smirk as he tried to navigate the uneven pavement, clearly out of his comfort zone.

“Careful, mate,” she teased, nudging him with her elbow. “Wouldn’t want to scuff those fancy loafers of yours.”

Gwayne shot her a look, half-amused, half-exasperated. “I’ll have you know these are perfectly sensible shoes.”

“Sensible?” she scoffed. “For what? A yacht party in Monaco?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Just focus on the job, yeah?”

The rain showed no sign of letting up, but the community center up ahead was buzzing with activity. Inside, a group of local residents, activists, and a few journalists had gathered. The room was crowded, the air thick with the smell of damp coats and instant coffee. There was a mix of skepticism and curiosity on the faces of the people, and Y/N knew this was their chance to make an impression.

She turned to Gwayne, lowering her voice. “Alright, here’s the plan. Listen more than you speak. They don’t need another politician giving them empty promises. They need to feel like you’re actually listening to their problems.”

Gwayne nodded, adjusting his jacket. “Got it. No posh nonsense.”

She gave him a small, approving smile. “And for the love of God, don’t mention your townhouse.”

He grinned. “Noted.”

As they stepped inside, all eyes turned to them. The chatter quieted down, replaced by the soft hum of whispered conversations. Y/N could feel the tension in the air, the weight of expectation. Gwayne moved forward, shaking hands, offering polite nods and warm smiles, and to his credit, he seemed genuinely interested.

But she could sense the underlying wariness from the crowd. These were people who had been promised a lot by politicians, only to be disappointed time and again. They weren’t going to be won over by a posh accent and a well-tailored suit.

She nudged him toward a group of women huddled in the corner, each with tired eyes and worn faces. “Start here,” she murmured. “Single mothers. Most of them on the housing waiting list for years.”

Gwayne approached them with a disarming smile. “Hello ladies, I’m Gwayne Hightower,” he began, reaching out to shake their hands. “I’m here to listen to your concerns and see how we can work together to make things better.”

One of the women, a middle-aged lady with a mane of curly hair and an accent as thick as the rain outside, crossed her arms, eyeing him suspiciously. “You a politician, then?” she asked, her tone laced with skepticism.

Gwayne nodded. “Yes, I’m running for Parliament—”

She cut him off, snorting. “Figures. Another posh boy with promises, eh? What makes you different from the rest?”

Y/N held her breath. This was it. Make or break. She watched as Gwayne took a breath, steadying himself. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m here because I want to change things. I know I come from a different background, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what’s happening here.”

The woman eyed him for a moment, then turned to Y/N. “And you? You believe him?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah,” the woman pressed. “You look like you’ve got a brain in your head. Why you working for him?”

Y/N hesitated, glancing at Gwayne. For a second, she wasn’t sure how to answer. But then she decided to be honest. “Because I think he actually gives a damn. As much as it pains me to admit it.”

The woman’s eyes softened a fraction. “A posh boy who cares, eh? That’s a new one.”

Gwayne chuckled, relaxing a bit. “I promise you, I’m full of surprises.”

Before the woman could respond, a young man in his twenties stepped forward, anger flashing in his eyes. “What are you going to do about the housing crisis?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “I’ve been stuck in a hostel for two years with my daughter. No council house, no help. You lot don’t care about us. You don’t have to live like we do.”

Gwayne met his gaze, a serious expression crossing his face. “You’re right. I don’t live like you do. But that doesn’t mean I can’t fight to change it.”

The man scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You’ll go back to your fancy house tonight, yeah? What do you know about struggling?”

Y/N felt a surge of defensiveness on Gwayne’s behalf, but before she could speak, Gwayne raised a hand, his voice calm. “I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes. But I’m here because I want to learn, and I want to do something about it. I want to make sure that people like you don’t have to go through this.”

The young man seemed taken aback by the directness of his answer. “Yeah? And how are you going to do that?”

Gwayne looked him straight in the eye. “By building more affordable homes, by fighting for rent controls, by holding landlords accountable, and by putting pressure on the government to prioritize housing over profits.”

Y/N watched the young man, his expression slowly shifting from anger to something closer to consideration. Maybe even hope. She felt a flicker of something in her chest — pride? Maybe.

But then, the conversation was interrupted by an older woman, her face lined with years of hardship. “Talk is cheap, love,” she said quietly. “We’ve heard it all before.”

Gwayne nodded, not shying away from the hard truth. “You’re right. It is. But I’m here because I want to prove I’m different. And if I’m not, then hold me accountable. Make sure I deliver.”

The older woman studied him for a moment, then gave a small, reluctant nod. “Alright, then. We’ll see.”

Y/N turned away from Gwayne for a moment and spotted an elderly man sitting in the corner, his hands trembling as he held onto a cane. She approached him, crouching down. “Hello,” she said softly. “What’s your name?”

“Frank,” he replied, his voice raspy. “I’m here every week… watchin’… listening.”

Y/N smiled gently. “What do you think of all this, Frank?”

He chuckled, a dry, weary sound. “Think he’s different, your lad. Might even mean it. But they all mean it at first, don’t they?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah, I suppose they do.”

Frank’s eyes twinkled. “But he’s got fire. And fire’s what we need. Someone to burn the whole bloody system down and start fresh.”

Y/N glanced back at Gwayne, who was deep in conversation, genuinely listening, and she felt something stir inside her. Maybe Frank was right. Maybe Gwayne wasn’t just a posh boy with a fancy townhouse and a taste for absinthe. Maybe he was something more.

She turned back to Frank and smiled. “Yeah, maybe he is.”

Frank nodded, then winked. “You make sure he don’t lose that fire, eh?”

Y/N grinned. “Oh, I will, Frank. I will.”

Y/N could feel the crowd’s eyes on her, a mix of doubt, curiosity, and frustration etched into their faces. This was her moment. If they were going to stand a chance of winning over Hackney, she had to make them believe. Not just in Gwayne, but in what they could actually do together.

She stepped forward, hands raised in a gesture of openness. “Alright, listen up,” she called, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the room. “I know what you’re all thinking. Who’s this posh boy, swanning in here with his fancy shoes, telling us he’s going to solve our problems?”

A few people in the crowd nodded, some even chuckling in agreement. Gwayne shot her a wary look, but she ignored it, pressing on.

“You’re right,” she continued. “He’s got a swanky townhouse, he collects art worth more than most of us will see in our lifetimes, and he probably can’t tell a Greggs pasty from a bloody foie gras. But wouldn’t you rather have one of these posh boys on your side for once?”

The crowd was listening now, intrigued. She could see the skepticism starting to crack just a little.

“Think about it,” she went on, her voice gaining strength. “He’s got money. He’s got connections. He knows the people who pull the strings, the ones who make decisions about your lives while sipping champagne in Mayfair. He’s got the kind of influence that actually moves things along. Don’t you want someone like that fighting in your corner instead of against you?”

A few heads nodded slowly. She caught the eye of the young man from earlier, still frowning but clearly considering her words.

“And before you write me off as just another one of his people,” she added, raising her chin, “I’m not like him. Not by a long shot. I’m from Manchester — Manny born and bred. My dad owns a power tool shop, and my mum’s been working as a caterer for as long as I can remember. I worked my arse off to get into university, full ride scholarship because that was the only way I was getting in.”

She saw a few faces in the crowd soften, nodding in recognition. They knew what it meant to work for everything you had.

“And now here I am,” she continued, with a hint of defiance in her voice, “standing next to this posh, pretty boy. Not because I believe in his money or his connections, but because I believe he actually wants to do some good. Because for once, we’ve got one of these guys willing to take a stand, to fight for something other than his own bloody bank account.”

There was a murmur of approval now, a few people nodding, even clapping. She saw Frank in the corner, grinning like he’d just won a bet.

“So yeah,” Y/N said, letting her voice ring out strong, “I���m all in with him. And if you give him a chance, he’ll show you that he’s all in with you too. What have you got to lose? Another empty promise? Another politician who forgets about you the second they get to Westminster?”

Gwayne looked at her, a new appreciation in his eyes. He hadn’t expected her to go all in like that, to put herself on the line for him in front of these people. She had just thrown her whole story out there, her whole self, and it was resonating.

Y/N turned back to the crowd. “We know how this works, don’t we? We know the system’s rigged, and we know it’s not built for people like us. But here’s the thing — we can’t fight it alone. We need someone who can get into the room, sit at the table, and make some noise. Someone who’s willing to push the boundaries and shake things up.”

She took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline pumping through her veins. “I’m putting my money where my mouth is. I’m working with him, and I’m going to make damn sure he doesn’t just talk a good game. And if he tries to slack off, I’ll be the first to give him a kick up the arse.”

The crowd chuckled, a few cheers going up, and Y/N felt a surge of relief. They were starting to come around.

“So what do you say?” she finished, raising her voice. “Give us a chance. Hold us accountable. Make us prove it to you. Because I promise you, he’s not perfect — far from it — but he’s got fire, and he’s got the guts to use it.”

A small cheer went up, and Y/N felt a smile break across her face. The woman from before nodded approvingly, the young man seemed to relax a little, and even Frank was clapping slowly, his grin widening.

Gwayne stepped forward, taking his cue from her. “I know I’ve got a lot to prove,” he said, voice steady. “But with Y/N by my side — and with your support — I’m going to fight like hell for this community. For every single one of you.”

A louder cheer erupted this time, and Y/N felt her chest swell with a mix of pride and something else she wasn’t quite ready to name. She caught Gwayne’s eye, and he mouthed a silent “thank you,” a look of awe on his face.

She nodded, just a small dip of her head, but she couldn’t help the grin that spread across her lips. “Don’t thank me yet,” she whispered as he turned back to the crowd, her voice low enough only for him to hear. “We’ve still got a long way to go, posh boy.”

He chuckled, that infectious grin back on his face.

And as they continued to work the room, shaking hands and listening to stories, Y/N felt something shift.

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“This place doesn’t even have a bloody sign,” Y/N muttered, peering up at the unmarked black door set into a pristine brick facade. She shot Gwayne a sidelong glance as they stood on the dimly lit Mayfair street. “Is this one of those places where they judge you if you ask for ketchup?”

Gwayne smirked, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored suit. “Only if you pronounce it wrong.”

She rolled her eyes, but her nerves were starting to kick in. “And you’re sure I’m dressed alright for this? I’m feeling a bit like Bridget Jones at a state dinner.”

Gwayne gave her a quick once-over, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. “You look perfect,” he said, a bit softer than usual. “Better than perfect. Trust me, they’ll be too busy being themselves to notice.”

She snorted, trying to shake off the unease creeping up her spine. “Well, that’s reassuring. So, remind me again why I’m here?”

Gwayne’s grin widened. “Because I want you to meet my father. And my sister. And because I’m tired of them assuming I’m completely useless.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “So, I’m your human shield, then?”

“More like my secret weapon,” he replied, flashing that grin again, and she felt a flicker of warmth despite herself.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” she muttered, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The restaurant was beyond posh. It was the sort of place you didn’t even know existed unless you were born into a world where five-course meals were standard Tuesday fare. Dim lighting, soft jazz playing in the background, and tables spaced so far apart that you’d need a map and a compass to navigate. A sommelier in a suit that probably cost more than Y/N’s rent stood by the door, giving them a nod as they entered.

“Mr. Hightower,” he murmured with a deferential nod. “Your party is already seated.”

“Cheers, mate,” Gwayne replied, slipping the guy a tip that was probably equivalent to a week’s worth of groceries for her.

They were led to a private alcove, tucked away behind a velvet curtain. At the table sat Sir Otto Hightower, the very picture of an aristocratic patriarch, his white hair immaculately styled, a pin on his lapel glinting in the low light — the insignia of a Knight Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. Because, of course, he bloody was.

Next to him sat Alicent Hightower, Gwayne’s sister, her auburn hair twisted into a perfect chignon, a string of pearls draped around her neck. Alicent was the epitome of a British socialite — impeccably dressed, with that strange air of religious guilt that seemed to cling to her like perfume. Y/N knew the type: all sweetness and light on the surface, but beneath… God only knew.

“Father, Alicent,” Gwayne said, his tone a bit too cheerful. “This is Y/N, my campaign manager.”

Sir Otto’s eyes flicked to Y/N, appraising her with a cold, calculating stare. “Ah, the one steering my son’s misguided adventure,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk but with a sharp edge.

Y/N offered her hand, forcing a smile. “Nice to meet you, Sir Otto. Though I prefer to think of it as a ‘guided’ adventure.”

Otto’s lips twitched slightly, a half-smile. “Quite. And what brings a… Manchester girl to this peculiar position?” He spoke ‘Manchester’ like it was a foreign concept.

Y/N bristled slightly but kept her composure. “Good old-fashioned hard work, Sir Otto. That, and a full scholarship to UCL.”

Alicent, who had been sipping her wine in silence, finally looked up. Her green eyes were bright, inquisitive. “UCL, how… admirable,” she murmured, her voice soft. “Tell me, Y/N, do you believe in God?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Er, not the best topic for a first dinner, is it?” she replied with a grin. “But sure, I’d say I’m more spiritual than religious.”

Alicent smiled, but there was something unsettling in it. “Oh, how lovely,” she cooed. “Spiritual… but not tethered to the truth of the Lord’s word.”

Y/N couldn’t help herself. “Well, I suppose the Lord’s word didn’t help much with the housing crisis, did it?”

Gwayne’s eyes widened slightly, and he hid a smirk behind his hand. Sir Otto, however, leaned back, an amused glint in his eyes. “I see you’ve brought a firecracker, Gwayne.”

Gwayne grinned.

Sir Otto’s expression shifted, serious now. “Gwayne, I’m concerned about this… campaign of yours. It’s one thing to indulge in some youthful rebellion, quite another to throw away your future in politics for a party that, frankly, doesn’t hold much weight.”

Y/N decided to jump in. “With all due respect, Sir Otto, that’s precisely why he’s running with the Lib Dems. Because they don’t have the same old baggage, because he wants to make a difference, not just go along with the same tired rhetoric.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp and assessing. “And you believe he can do that, Miss…?”

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “L/N. Y/N L/N,” she replied with a slight tilt of her head, James Bond style. Her tone was cool, collected, and a bit cheeky. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, not tonight.

Sir Otto chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound, as he scooped a bite of beluga caviar onto his spoon. “What’s in it for you, Miss L/N?” he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity as he placed the expensive delicacy into his mouth.

Y/N smiled, her expression nonchalant, and met his gaze without flinching. “Well, money, sir,” she said bluntly. “Can’t say no to a decent paycheck, can I?”

Otto laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that seemed to surprise even him. “Ah, honesty. A rare trait in politics. Refreshing.”

Alicent, who had been quiet for a moment, leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and a hint of amusement. “She is quite pretty, isn’t she?” she said with a small, mischievous smile. “Tell me, Y/N, any boyfriend? Fiancé? Surely someone must have snatched you up by now.”

Y/N kept her smile, though she felt the sting of the question, the way Alicent’s words seemed to pry at her personal life like a needle. She decided to answer truthfully, but with a touch of humor. “Well,” she began with a dry smile, “the last one ended because he cheated on me with his co-worker.”

Alicent’s eyebrows shot up, and even Otto paused mid-sip of his wine, surprised. Gwayne’s head whipped around so fast he nearly knocked over his water glass.

“Seriously?” Gwayne blurted out, before catching himself. “I mean… sorry, that’s… that’s bloody awful.”

Y/N shrugged, as if it were nothing more than an amusing anecdote. “Yeah, well, it makes for a good story at dinner parties, doesn’t it?”

Otto chuckled, clearly impressed. “You’ve got a tough skin, Miss L/N. You might just be what my son needs after all.”

Y/N grinned, raising her glass slightly. “Cheers to that, Sir Otto. Here’s to tough skins and thicker wallets.”

Alicent smiled, though her eyes were still studying Y/N carefully. “You certainly are… interesting, Y/N. Different from the usual lot Gwayne brings around.”

Y/N met her gaze without flinching. “Good. Because I’m not here to impress anyone, just to get the job done.”

Gwayne couldn’t hide his grin. “And that’s why she’s the best, Father. She’s real. And she’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being an idiot.”

Otto leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “Well, she’s got her work cut out for her then, doesn’t she?”

Alicent laughed softly. “Indeed. I rather like you, Y/N. And believe me, that’s not something I say often.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I think.”

As the dinner continued, the conversation flowed a bit more easily, a bit more openly. Y/N felt the tension easing just a little, but she knew better than to let her guard down completely. This was still the Hightowers, after all. They were never off-duty, never fully relaxed.

As they walked out of the restaurant into the crisp night air, Gwayne turned to her, an amused smile on his lips. “You were bloody brilliant back there. I think you might have actually impressed them.”

Y/N shrugged, her face breaking into a grin. “Well, it’s about time someone shook things up around here, don’t you think?”

He laughed, slipping his hands into his pockets. “God, I really do need you, Y/N.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “Yeah, well, don’t go getting too soppy on me now, Hightower.”

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The campaign office was buzzing with a nervous, almost frantic energy. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, sweat, and anticipation. Papers were scattered across desks, phones were ringing off the hook, and the TV in the corner was blaring the election coverage at full volume.

The room was packed with volunteers, team members, and every random person who had decided they wanted a front-row seat to Gwayne Hightower’s political gamble.

Y/N stood by the window, staring out at the rain-slicked streets of Hackney. Her arms were crossed, her foot tapping against the floor in a steady rhythm that betrayed her nerves. She could feel the tension building in the room like a pressure cooker about to blow. This was it. Months of work, endless nights, arguments, laughter, and more cups of coffee than she could count — all leading up to this moment.

She glanced over at Gwayne, who was sitting in the center of the room, gripping a bright orange stress ball in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other. His hair was slightly disheveled, his tie loosened, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. For the first time in weeks, he looked genuinely worried.

“Jesus, Gwayne, if you squeeze that thing any harder, it’s going to explode,” Y/N teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He gave a tight smile, his fingers tightening around the stress ball even more. “What, this?” he muttered. “This is keeping me from climbing out of the window and legging it down the street.”

She chuckled, walking over and plucking the glass of scotch out of his other hand. “And this?” she asked, taking a sip. “Liquid courage?”

“Something like that,” he muttered. “How’re we doing?”

Y/N glanced at the TV, where the talking heads were dissecting the election results, constituency by constituency. “Early counts look good,” she said, though her voice was steadier than she felt. “But it’s still too close to call.”

Gwayne nodded, his eyes flicking nervously to the screen. “Bloody hell. I haven’t felt this nervous since that time I accidentally set fire to the old headmaster’s garden at Eton.”

Y/N snorted. “You did what?”

“Long story,” he muttered, squeezing the stress ball again. “Involved fireworks and far too much brandy.”

She shook her head, laughing despite herself. “Remind me never to leave you alone with flammable objects.”

Across the room, one of the volunteers called out, “Turn it up! They’re about to announce something!”

Everyone fell silent, their eyes glued to the screen as the anchor shuffled his papers, looking far too pleased with himself. Y/N felt her stomach twist into knots. She glanced at Gwayne, who was sitting on the edge of his seat, knuckles white around the stress ball.

The anchor spoke, his voice calm and measured, “And now, the latest results coming in from Hackney South and Shoreditch…”

Y/N held her breath. This was it. The moment of truth.

Gwayne muttered something under his breath, his eyes wide, and she could feel the tension radiating off him like heat. “Come on, come on,” he whispered.

The anchor continued, “It appears we’re seeing a significant swing tonight. Early numbers suggest that the Liberal Democrat candidate, Gwayne Hightower, is making a strong showing in what was expected to be a closely contested race…”

A cheer went up from the room, and Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her. But she knew better than to celebrate too early. “Still just early numbers,” she called out over the noise. “We’re not done yet!”

Gwayne turned to her, his face a mix of disbelief and hope. “We might actually pull this off,” he breathed.

She smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Might? Don’t you dare start doubting now. We’ve come too bloody far for that.”

He nodded, swallowing hard, and squeezed the stress ball once more. “Alright, alright. Deep breaths.”

Y/N chuckled. “You look like you’re about to have a heart attack. Maybe lay off the scotch for a bit, yeah?”

He laughed, but it was a nervous sound. “Can’t promise that.”

Another volunteer rushed over, holding a phone up to Y/N. “Call for you,” they said breathlessly. “Someone from the party headquarters.”

Y/N took the phone, pressing it to her ear. “Yeah? What’s the news?”

She listened for a moment, her expression hard to read, and Gwayne felt his heart leap into his throat. “Y/N?” he asked, voice tinged with panic. “What is it?”

She hung up, turning back to him with a grin. “They’re saying it’s looking even better. We’ve got a real chance here, Gwayne.”

He exhaled sharply, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “God, I hope so.”

Y/N nudged him gently. “You’ve done the work, Gwayne. You’ve talked to people, you’ve listened. Now it’s in their hands.”

He nodded, looking around the room at all the people who had put their faith in him, who had worked tirelessly by his side. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

They both turned back to the TV, watching as the coverage continued, the tension building with every passing second.

GWAYNE HIGHTOWER HAS WON HACKNEY SOUTH AND SHOREDITCH.

The words flashed across the screen, and for a heartbeat, the entire room fell silent. The anchor’s voice echoed in the stillness, confirming the impossible — Gwayne Hightower had won. He was going to Westminster.

And then, the room exploded. Cheers erupted, people jumped from their chairs, and the air filled with the sound of shouting, laughing, and the popping of champagne corks. Y/N felt a wave of exhilaration rush through her as she was engulfed by a sea of hugs and high-fives from the volunteers, their faces lit up with joy and disbelief.

“WE BLOODY DID IT!” someone shouted, and another cheer went up, even louder this time.

Y/N turned to Gwayne, who was standing in the middle of the chaos, his mouth hanging open in shock. He still had the stress ball in one hand, but his grip had slackened, and the glass of scotch dangled precariously in the other. Slowly, a grin spread across his face, growing wider and wider until it seemed to take over his whole expression.

“We won!” he shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. “We actually fucking won!”

Before Y/N could react, Gwayne grabbed her and pulled her into a bear hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around. She laughed, breathless, feeling the pure, unfiltered joy radiating from him. “Put me down, you idiot!” she shouted, but she couldn’t stop laughing.

He finally set her down, his eyes bright, his face flushed with excitement. “We did it, Y/N! We actually did it!”

She grinned back at him, her heart pounding with pride. “You bloody well did, Hightower. I told you you could.”

He took a deep breath, looking around at the crowd of volunteers, staffers, and supporters, all of them hugging, toasting, and celebrating like there was no tomorrow. “Right,” he announced, raising his voice above the noise. “This calls for a proper celebration.”

He made his way to the corner of the room, where a large cabinet stood. Y/N watched as he pulled open the doors to reveal a stash of bottles that looked like they’d been imported from some long-forgotten royal cellar. “Alright, who wants a drink?” he called out, holding up a bottle of whisky so rare it probably had its own pedigree.

A cheer went up, and Y/N laughed as Gwayne began pouring glasses of the finest whisky she’d ever seen. “I thought you were saving that for… I don’t know, the King’s visit or something,” she teased, accepting a glass.

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Forget the King. This is better.”

The glasses were passed around, and Gwayne raised his own high, a look of pure triumph on his face. “To everyone in this room,” he began, his voice strong, clear, “to every single person who believed in this campaign when no one else did, who knocked on doors, who made phone calls, who put up with my bollocks day in and day out… thank you. This isn’t my victory. It’s our victory. Ours. And I promise you, I’m going to make every single one of you proud.”

Another roar of approval filled the room, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel a lump rise in her throat. She watched Gwayne, standing there with his messy hair, his loosened tie, and that damned expensive whisky in his hand.

“To Gwayne!” she shouted, raising her glass high.

“To Gwayne!” the room echoed back, and they all drank, the whisky burning a warm path down her throat. She felt Gwayne’s arm slide around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, feeling a sense of relief and joy wash over her.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he murmured in her ear, his voice soft, almost lost in the noise of the celebration. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She turned to look at him, her heart thudding in her chest. “Oh, please,” she replied with a grin. “You did all the hard work. I just yelled at you a lot.”

He laughed, a deep, happy sound, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of them, standing in the middle of that chaotic, jubilant room. “Well, keep yelling at me,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. “Because I’ve got a feeling we’re just getting started.”

She smiled, a warm, genuine smile, and clinked her glass against his. “To Westminster,” she said.

“To Westminster,” he echoed.

But then, “Gwayne, it’s your father.”

Gwayne looked down at his phone, the name “Otto Hightower” flashing on the screen like a warning sign. He shot a glance at Y/N, who was still grinning from ear to ear, surrounded by the celebrating team. With a sigh, he swiped to answer the call.

“Father,” he said, raising his voice above the noise of the room, “calling to congratulate me, are you?”

Otto’s voice crackled through the phone, formal and clipped. “Of course, son. It’s a remarkable achievement. The family is very… proud. Your mother insisted we call. We’d like you to drop by the estate at Kew so we can celebrate properly.”

Gwayne’s face flickered with something Y/N couldn’t quite read. He glanced at her, then back at the phone. “Tonight?” he asked, a slight hesitation in his voice.

“Yes, tonight,” Otto replied. “Your sister is already on her way. It’s only right that we toast your success together, as a family. You’ve done well, Gwayne. It’s time to show the world that we stand united.”

Y/N caught his eye, sensing his indecision. She smiled, trying to keep it light. “Go on, Gwayne. They’re your family. Go celebrate with them.”

But Gwayne’s brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his phone. “Yeah, but…” he started, then turned away slightly, lowering his voice. “Look, Father, I appreciate it, really. But I think I might stay here, with my team. With the people who made this happen.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, then a slight huff of breath. “Gwayne,” Otto said, a touch of impatience creeping into his tone, “these are the optics you have to consider now. Come to Kew. Show your face. You’ve won a political seat, but don’t forget your roots. You’re a Hightower. It’s time to act like one.”

Gwayne closed his eyes, his jaw tensing. “I know,” he muttered. “I just… I need to think about it, alright?”

Otto’s voice softened just a fraction. “Just think about what this means for all of us, Gwayne. We’re waiting.”

The call ended with a click, and Gwayne stared at the screen for a moment before slipping the phone into his pocket. He turned to find Y/N watching him, an eyebrow raised.

“So?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual. “You off to the family estate then? Sounds like a big deal.”

Gwayne frowned, his expression conflicted. “I don’t know, Y/N,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, they want me to, but…”

Y/N gave him a playful nudge. “Go on, posh boy. It’s your moment. Go drink champagne in a fancy mansion, eat some ridiculous hors d’oeuvres, bask in the glory of finally being the golden child.”

But Gwayne shook his head, his eyes still fixed on hers. “It’s just… that’s not where I want to be tonight.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean? They’re your family. This is huge for them too.”

He sighed, leaning against the table, his gaze never wavering. “Yeah, but they weren’t the ones who stood by me through this whole bloody mess. They weren’t the ones knocking on doors, calming me down when I thought I was going to blow it, or making sure I didn’t look like a total prat on TV.”

Her grin softened, a bit of warmth creeping into her voice. “Gwayne…”

He took a step closer, his voice dropping low, just for her. “You’re the one I want to celebrate with, Y/N. You’re the one who I owe all of this to.”

She felt her breath hitch, her heart racing in her chest. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, trying to laugh it off, but her voice came out a little too shaky. “You did this, Gwayne. You won.”

Gwayne shook his head, determination in his eyes. “No, we won. Together. And I don’t want to go to some stuffy dinner with my family when I could be here, celebrating with you. With the people who actually matter.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a grin, a teasing light dancing in her eyes. “Alright then, MP,” she replied, leaning back with her arms crossed. “But if we’re going to celebrate, we’re going to do this right.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what does right look like to you?”

“No posh nonsense,” she declared with a smirk. “I’m in the mood for a proper drink. None of this ‘hand-picked by the King’s personal sommelier’ rubbish. We’re going to my favorite pub in Camden.”

Gwayne chuckled, clearly amused. “Camden? Really?”

“Yeah, really,” she shot back, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m talking Guinness, maybe some Negronis if we’re feeling fancy. Real drinks, in real glasses, in a place where they don’t care what your last name is or whether you’ve got a seat in Parliament.”

He laughed, already feeling a sense of relief wash over him. “Alright, alright, Camden it is. I’m game.”

She grinned, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the door. “Come on, MP. Time to show you how the other half celebrates.”

Thirty minutes later, they walked into a well-worn pub in the heart of Camden, the sort of place where the tables were sticky, the music was too loud, and everyone shouted over it anyway. It was packed, warm, and smelled faintly of spilled beer and fried food. Perfect.

Y/N pushed through the crowd, leading the way with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where they were going. “Oi, Derek!” she called to the barman, a burly man with a thick beard and a friendly grin. “Two pints of Guinness, and keep them coming!”

Derek gave her a knowing nod. “Y/N, love! Been a while. You brought a friend?”

Y/N grinned back. “Something like that. This is Gwayne. Gwayne, Derek. Derek, meet Gwayne, our newest MP.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up. “MP, eh? Well, blimey, look at that! In my pub? Must be a special occasion.” He winked at Y/N. “What’s he doing slumming it here with the likes of us?”

Gwayne laughed, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. “Trying to remember what real people are like,” he said, and Derek let out a hearty laugh, clapping him on the back.

“Good on you, mate. First round’s on me,” Derek declared, pouring their pints with a flourish.

Y/N grabbed the pints and handed one to Gwayne. “Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against his.

“Cheers,” he echoed, taking a long, satisfying sip. The Guinness was cold and smooth, and he let out a contented sigh. “God, that’s good. I see why you like this place.”

She smirked, leaning against the bar. “Told you. No frills, just fun. And now, we celebrate properly.”

Gwayne’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Alright, then. Let’s have it. What’s next?”

She grinned. “Next, we toast. To winning. To not being a total prat. And to more nights like this.”

He laughed, raising his pint high. “To more nights like this,” he agreed, his voice filled with a happiness he hadn’t felt in ages.

They drank, they laughed, and they joked, and for once, Gwayne felt like he could actually breathe, like the weight of the election had finally lifted. He didn’t have to be the polished, perfect politician tonight. He could just be… himself.

Y/N leaned in, her voice low over the din of the pub. “See? Isn’t this better than some stuffy dinner with your dad?”

He smiled, his eyes locked on hers. “Much better,” he admitted, “though I think it has more to do with the company than the location.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin. “Flattery will get you everywhere, MP.”

“Good,” he replied with a wink, “because I’m just getting started.”

They spent the rest of the night laughing and drinking, sharing stories and toasting to every little victory. By the time they were onto their third round of Negronis — and perhaps more than a little tipsy — Gwayne realized he hadn’t felt this free in years.

As the night wore on, the pub became louder, rowdier, and Gwayne found himself leaning closer to Y/N, his shoulder brushing against hers, her laughter in his ear. He looked at her, really looked at her, and wondered how he’d managed to get so lucky.

“So, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “if I’ve got any shot at making it in this crazy world of politics… it’s because of you. You know that, right?”

She smiled, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol, her eyes bright. “I think you’re doing just fine, Gwayne. But I’m glad to have helped knock a bit of sense into you.”

He laughed, reaching out to clink his glass against hers again. “To knocking some sense into me,” he agreed, his voice soft.

She grinned, and as their glasses met with a gentle clink, he felt that same familiar spark — the one that had been simmering between them for weeks. And tonight, with the pub alive around them and her laughter in his ear, he felt like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

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A few hours later.

Y/N stumbled out of the pub, her head spinning from the pints of Guinness and the Negronis they’d downed. Gwayne was beside her, his arm draped lazily around her shoulder, his laughter echoing in the cool Camden air.

“Alright, MP,” she slurred slightly, flagging down a cab that seemed to materialize from nowhere. “Time to get you back to Belgravia before you pass out on the pavement.”

Gwayne pouted, a tipsy grin spreading across his face. “But I’m not done celebrating,” he protested, swaying slightly.

She chuckled, tugging him towards the cab. “Mate, you’re done. Trust me. Come on, get in.”

She pushed him gently into the backseat and climbed in after him, giving the driver Gwayne’s address. The cabbie nodded, pulling away from the curb.

Gwayne leaned his head back, staring at her with a goofy smile. “You’re a bossy one, aren’t you?” he slurred, his eyes half-lidded.

“Someone’s got to keep your posh arse in line,” she shot back, smirking.

He laughed, the sound warm and careless, like he’d never had a worry in his life. “S’true,” he murmured, leaning his head against the window, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “You’re my rock, Y/N.”

She chuckled, feeling the warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Alright, Shakespeare, save it for when you’re sober.”

The cab wound its way through the quiet London streets, the lights blurring past them. Y/N’s head buzzed pleasantly, and she kept sneaking glances at Gwayne, who was still grinning like a fool.

Finally, they pulled up outside his townhouse, and the cabbie turned to look back at them. “Here we are, mate,” he said. “You alright getting out?”

Gwayne blinked, looking around like he’d just woken up. “Yeah, yeah, this is me,” he mumbled, fumbling with the door handle. He managed to push it open, but instead of getting out, he reached for Y/N’s hand, pulling her along with him.

“Oi, what are you doing?” she laughed, stumbling out after him. “You’re home. Get inside and sleep it off.”

He turned to her, his eyes wide and a bit desperate. “Wait, wait,” he said, his words slurring together. “I need you to… to punch in the code for me.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You’ve forgotten the bloody code to your own house?”

He nodded with all the seriousness of a drunk man trying to seem responsible. “I need your help,” he insisted, tugging at her arm. “Can’t… can’t do it without you.”

Y/N sighed, but she couldn’t help the smile that crept onto her face. “Fine, fine. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

He beamed, still holding onto her arm like she was the only thing keeping him upright. “Knew I could count on you,” he said, leading her up the steps to the front door.

She punched in the code he mumbled under his breath, shaking her head in amusement. “Honestly, Gwayne, you’re hopeless.”

The door clicked open, and she nudged him inside, making sure he didn’t trip over the threshold. “Alright, you’re in,” she said, hands on her hips. “Now go upstairs and sleep, before you do something stupid.”

But he didn’t let go of her arm. Instead, he turned to face her, his expression suddenly serious, almost vulnerable. “Stay,” he murmured, his voice low and soft. “Just… for a bit. I don’t wanna be alone.”

Y/N’s heart did a weird little flip, and she swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “Gwayne, you’re pissed. You need to sleep it off.”

He shook his head, his grip on her arm tightening just a little. “Please,” he whispered, his eyes searching hers. “Just… just for a minute. I don’t want this night to end.”

She hesitated. “Gwayne, I…”

But his eyes were so earnest, so genuinely pleading, that she found herself nodding, unable to resist. “Alright,” she sighed, trying to sound annoyed but failing. “Just for a minute.”

He smiled, that boyish grin that made her insides twist, and he led her inside, closing the door behind them. The grand entrance hall was dimly lit, the soft glow of antique lamps casting shadows on the walls.

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, and she could feel her heart racing in her chest. “Okay, you’re in,” she repeated, a bit breathless now. “Now what?”

He stepped closer, his hand still on her arm, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “For everything. For… believing in me.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush, and she looked away, suddenly feeling very sober. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, “someone had to.”

He laughed softly, his thumb brushing against her arm. “I think… I think it had to be you.”

She met his gaze again, and for a second, she forgot where they were, forgot everything but the way he was looking at her, like she was the only thing that mattered.

“Gwayne,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Stay,” he repeated, his eyes dark, serious.

Y/N sighed then she left Gwayne sprawled out on the leather couch, one arm dangling off the side, his head leaning back with that drunken, lopsided grin still on his face.

“Yeah, sure,” she muttered to herself, looking around his ridiculously posh townhouse. “Just for a bit, and somehow I’m now in charge of making sure you don’t choke on your own tongue tonight.”

She glanced at him one more time. “Stay put, alright? I’m getting you some water.”

Gwayne gave a lazy thumbs-up, eyes half-closed. “Water… perfect idea. You’re brilliant, Y/N. Absolutely… magnificent,” he mumbled, slurring his words, his grin widening as if he’d just had the most profound thought.

She shook her head, smirking. “You’ll thank me in the morning, trust me.”

Y/N made her way toward the kitchen, weaving slightly as the room swayed around her. She was definitely feeling the effects of those Negronis. “Right,” she muttered under her breath, “just need to get some water. How hard can it be?”

She turned the corner and entered what could only be described as a space-age kitchen — all sleek chrome and glossy surfaces, like it had been designed by some avant-garde architect who’d clearly never boiled an egg in his life. She blinked at the sight of a state-of-the-art water system built into the counter, with more buttons and screens than the bloody cockpit of a plane.

“What the hell is this?” she muttered, frowning at the contraption. “It’s a water tap, not the bloody TARDIS.”

She poked at one of the buttons, and the display lit up with a series of choices: Still. Sparkling. Ice Cold. Room Temperature. Mineral Infused. pH Balanced. Alkaline. There was even an option for Artisanal Mountain Spring, which she was pretty sure was taking the piss.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she groaned, rubbing her temples. “Why does he need this much choice for a glass of water?”

She jabbed at the Still button, but nothing happened. She tried Room Temperature. Still nothing. The machine made a faint, mocking beeping sound that she swore was laughing at her. “Come on, you fancy piece of crap,” she growled, slapping the side of it. “Give me some bloody water!”

She pressed another button, and a small panel opened up, revealing even more buttons. “Are you kidding me?” she muttered, leaning closer, trying to make sense of the digital display that was now flashing at her like she’d accidentally triggered the launch codes for a nuclear missile.

“Alright, let’s try this…” she muttered, tapping another button labeled Dispense.

The machine hummed for a moment, then spat out a single drop of water. A single, mocking drop.

“You have got to be joking,” Y/N muttered, staring at the droplet like it had personally insulted her. “Come on, work, damn you!”

She tried again, this time holding the button down longer, and finally, a stream of water began to flow — freezing cold and spraying out far too fast, splashing over the side of the glass and onto her shirt.

“Bloody hell!” she yelped, jumping back and nearly slipping on the pristine marble floor. “Why is it so complicated to get a drink in this bloody house?”

Gwayne’s voice floated in from the living room, a lazy, amused drawl. “Y’alright in there, Y/N?”

She shot a glare in his direction, even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah, fine!” she called back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just wrestling with your bloody spaceship tap!”

She finally managed to fill the glass without any more incidents and turned off the tap, which thankfully didn’t require any further button-pressing. Taking a deep breath, she made her way back to the living room, where Gwayne was now lying sideways on the couch, humming some Beatles tune to himself.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the glass into his hand. “Drink. You need water, or you’re going to wake up tomorrow feeling like a truck hit you. And I’m not in the mood to deal with your whining.”

He blinked up at her, his eyes glassy but grateful. “Thanks, Y/N,” he murmured, taking a sip. “You’re… amazing. Like, really. You know that?”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, yeah. Drink up.”

He chuckled softly, downing the water like he hadn’t had a drink in days. “Seriously, though,” he continued, setting the glass on the coffee table, “don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She felt a flutter in her chest, but she kept her tone light. “Probably end up dehydrated on your fancy couch, for starters.”

He grinned, his eyelids drooping as the alcohol started to catch up with him. “Maybe. Or maybe I’d just… still be lost.”

Y/N’s breath hitched for a second, but she brushed it off with a chuckle. “Alright, enough with the confessions. Time for you to sleep.”

He nodded, his head lolling to the side. “Yeah… sleep sounds good,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

Y/N watched him for a moment, making sure he was actually dozing off and not about to get up and start another drunken adventure. “Goodnight, Gwayne,” she whispered, almost too softly to hear.

He mumbled something in his sleep, a smile still on his lips, and Y/N turned to leave, shaking her head. She’d gotten him home, hydrated, and onto his couch. Mission accomplished for now.

[wroteclassicaly]

Deciding to masturbate with your best-friend Eddie.

You’re both on his mattress, trying to find the position to get in that would be the most comfortable. It started out as boredom and typical discussions of sex, but it turned into you throbbing between your legs and Eddie unable to hide the straining in his denim. It was a raised eyebrow from him and a shrug that you’d engaged in.

Fuck it.

“Shit, you okay?” You swear his voice is raspy, wind bitten. And the window isn’t even open.

Your heartbeat is thundering in your ears, blood hot in your veins, palms perspired and clenching his sheets in your vice. “Mhm. You?”

“Yeah. S’… I’m all g-good.” He’s just as nervous as you.

Were you going to look at him first, did he know it was okay that he looked between your thighs?

“I’m naked now. If you wanna…” He was shy, chest puffing in exertion, twirling a lock of his curl around his finger.

~*~

And god did you look. His cock was a girth you could beg to be choked on, throat raw, cunt demolished. He had a bush around the base, one that practically met that patch of hair cascading his navel. You knew you were in trouble.

The second that it was your turn to bare yourself for him, Eddie had to curb the urge to peel your flesh apart and lick his tongue inside. Your glistening pussy needed to be fucking devoured, and someone should do it. You weren’t shaved and that had his mouth watering. Your messy curls were matted back with your cream, your labia puffy and swollen apart, showing him you.

Finding a spot ended up settling you both across from the other, on your backs, toes touching, asses close. Eddie would occasionally lift to a propped palm, watching you pleasure yourself.

Eddie’s tongue clicked to the roof of his mouth, plush lips pursing, wetted seconds later with a thin layer of saliva.

~*~

It was supposed to stay at touching yourselves, drinking in glances, curiosities fed. But when Eddie’s ring clad knuckles tugged hard on his slippery shaft, and the result was him bumping into your sticky folds as you arched your hips into your rhythm — all became molten static. Eddie had pulled his hand away like your hot cunt didn’t just make his cock jump in his fist, noticing your stringy arousal stretching from the crease of your thigh to his rings. You whimpered, a soft, guttural sound that had you lifting your thighs, before they fell back apart.

“Did you just touch me, Eddie?”

You don’t look bothered when you raise, your pupils blown to hell. He’s sheepish, his dick throbbing against his fingertips. “I didn’t mean to.”

What’s gonna happen next?

[badaleesbish]

Can i request 8 with Dom Bada please? 🙏

☆ { crying } because of how good it feels

°PAIRINGS:

𝚍𝚘𝚖!𝚋𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚡 𝚜𝚞𝚋!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚏𝚎𝚖!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

°CW:

𝙽𝚂𝙵𝚆, 𝙼𝙳𝙽𝙸, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙-𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗...

Prompt List...♡

Your legs wrapped around her waist, her body between your legs, she has you inclosed by her arms on the sides of your head. She rolls her hips into you, sweat bulit on her skin, causing her bangs to stick to her forehead, her lips red and bruised from her constantly biting down as she grunts, slamming against your walls.

Hands clutching the closest thing to you, the sheets, her arms, her back. Back arching against the bed, the loud cries, the soft whimpers, the tears streaming down your cheeks as you beg for more.

"I know, baby..."

Your cries and whimpers were driving her insane. She watched the tears roll down your puffy cheeks, bringing her lips to your cheeks she attempted to kiss the tears away, but there was no use they kept falling the deeper she went, the harder she went.

"So fucking pretty... this pretty pussy just wants more baby..."

"Ba... da..." You babble out unable to even have the proper train of thought she was fucking you too good.

"Ki... ss..."

Bada's lips found yours, tongue slipped through your lips gliding across the roof of your mouth, tasting the leftovers of her. Your nails dig into her back when you feel the tension bulid in the pit of your stomach, the creamy mixture seeped out of you as the pumping continued. Bada began to fall apart, trying to let you get yours first, sloppy, but steady - ish, were her thrust as climax crawled up her spine.

"Uh, let... let it go, baby..." She grunts between kiss. "I'm... I'm right here... c'mon baby..."

Cries and hiccups, your body shook as the climactic wave took over you, hold her body close against you, she helped you ride out your orgasm. Peppered kisses against your skin before removing herself from your body, she traced her fingers against your wet skin. Your head nuzzled into her neck, your soft breathes feather along her skin you take in her scent.

[philistiniphagottini]

When I tell you I'm frothing at the mouth. I adore your writing so much, you are so damn talented I am feral

If I may (and feel free to ignore me if the inspo doesn't hit) can I request possessive Sephiroth pussy slapping his beloved and fucking them stupid and cock drunk 👉👈

- (just gonna slap a snake here if that's okay)🐍

Hi Anon! Thank you for the kind words, I really appreciate that you like my writing so much. The inspiration did hit and I did my best with the prompts you gave me, I hope you enjoy~

cw. smut, penetrative sex, pussy slapping, creampie, squirting, female reader, MDNI

A warm purr stirred in Sephiroth’s chest, his voice dripping from his parted lips like cloyingly sweet honey. The sound made you squirm beneath him, breath catching in your throat as a pleasant tingle rippled down your spine and pooled into the pit of your stomach. Your kiss swollen lips parted as you took a shuddering breath, struggling to peel your tongue off the roof of your mouth long enough to form a coherent sentence. 

"Sephi-"

Your words were cut off by a loud shriek and a wet, resounding slap that cut through the stuffy air of your bedroom. A loud whine tore from your bruised lips, soused lashes fluttering over your burning cheeks as your lover landed a swift strike on your wet and pulsing cunt. Your dripping pussy fluttered around his dizzyingly thick girth, swallowing filthily around his swollen cock as beads of arousal dripped down your quaking thighs. Another warm sound stirred in Sephiroth’s throat as he bumped his hips into yours, your creamy folds parting around the prod of his cock as your plush insides turned to mush around the shape of him. The tips of your ears burned red hot as you sputtered, incoherent babbles laying heavy on your tongue as he lazily swatted your pussy again, the palm of his hand landing a direct hit on the sensitive, slick pearl of your clit. 

"Hmm, did you say something?" Sephiroth asked, his voice barely above a husky whisper.

You shook your head, knotting your fingers into the sweat soaked sheets beneath you as every hair on the nape of your neck stood up in anticipation. You stuffed your bottom lip between your teeth, stifling the pathetic whimper that tried to crawl out of the back of your throat as you swallowed the budding saliva on your tongue. You idly chewed on the peeling skin clinging to the corners of your mouth as Sephiroth’s long fingers played with the silky folds of your pussy, spreading the puffy lips apart as your arousal webbed between his digits like the soft dewdrops at dawn. A ghost of a smile tilted his lips as you struggled beneath him, pleasantly helpless to the onslaught of bliss that was wrought upon your sumptuous body. Your soft tits bounced with every breath you took, the pink tips of your nipples pebbling with arousal as you canted your hips forward, determined to meet each slow thrust that threatened to tear your body asunder. Wisps of silver hair curled around your stomach as Sephiroth leaned forward, nudging his cock a little deeper into the tight hug of your pussy and carving a path that made stars swirl in your vision. 

Your nails raked across the bed sheets, threatening to tear holes in the fabric as long locks of silver spilled over your shoulders like the soft cascade of a waterfall. You could feel Sephiroth moving intimately beneath your skin, a soft bump forming in your belly as the hot knot inside of you twisted unbearably tight. You inhaled sharply, body trembling and back arching as Sephiroth’s fingers curled around your chin, tipping your head in his direction until you could feel his warm breath puffing against your searing skin. You stared in his ethereal gaze with dazed eyes, your head stuffed full with cotton and heart thundering in your ears as his lips drew so tantalisingly close that you could almost taste him in the back of throat with each wavering breath of his scent that curled in your lungs. He swiped his thumb over your trembling bottom lip, forcing you to release it from the pinch of your teeth as drool started to drip from your mouth. 

"Louder, little dove" Sephiroth said. "I wish to hear you. Let me know who you belong to."

He raised his hand and landed another lazy slap to your sopping pussy. You whined loudly as the palm of his hand made contact with the tightly packed bundle of nerves sitting pretty at the top of your pussy, the bud flushing to life as your swollen cunt clenched around him. He held your head firm when it tried to roll back, fingers squished into your round cheeks as hot pants stemmed from your lips and you continued to whine from his tortuous touch. The pace of his hips only increased a fraction, still slow enough to make your insides burn and make your toes flex and curl hard into the soles of your feet. Your eyelids grew heavy as you struggled to stay focused, mind melting out of your ears as you felt the head of his fat cock kissing your cervix with every firm push of his hips. Another whine fell from your spit-soaked lips and Sephiroth slapped your pussy harder, your clit tingling with numbness as you grew closer and closer to the edge. 

You moaned his name with a heady slur and you felt so drunk on his cock you could swear you were feeling of sense of sentience start to leave you as he kept your eyes locked in a trance. You couldn’t look away no matter how hard you try as he intimately ripped you apart at the seams, otherworldly eyes threatening to devour you whole as they burned like the coals of a furnace. The soft insides of your thighs were sticky with beads of arousal as they slipped down your legs, your pussy pulsing as your voice stung in your throat. 

"That’s it, that’s my good girl" Sephiroth crooned, the edges of his voice laced with just a hint of condescension at the poor helpless creature that was making a mess under him. 

Your feet dug into the beautiful dip of his back as he rutted his hips, your body trembling along with the violent shake of the bed frame as you teetered just on the edge. Your blood was boiling in your veins as Sephiroth landed one last harsh slap on your puffy pussy, fireworks sparking in your stomach as your world exploded around you. The hot coil in your stomach shattered, bursting forth into white hot euphoria that flooded your veins with relief. Your plush walls squeezed around Sephiroth's cock so tight it felt like you were trying to strangle him, slippery walls struggling as your slick juices squirt from your core. He groaned as thin threads of translucent fluid dripped down his abdomen and strong thighs, hips stuttering as he buried the head of his cock against the opening of your womb. Your clit kicked weakly against the heel of his warm palm, your orgasm still sinking its sharp teeth in you as he began to unravel. Thick ropes of white painted your insides, his viscous seed filling your soft belly with each pump of his hips, cock pulsing and twitching as your greedy pussy continued to squeeze around him until you were stuffed with his creamy load.

"Good girl" Sephiroth praised once more, trailing butterfly kisses along your jaw as he lazily bumped his hips into yours.

You sighed in content beneath him as his cock continued to gently bully your soft spot, hands tangling in his soft locks of hair as he caught your lips in a searing kiss. He swallowed your hungry cries as he pried open the seam of your lips, sucking on your tongue and lapping at your saliva as pearls of his orgasm slipped down your thighs in thick rivulets. The tips of his fingers tingled as they toyed with your messy cunt, prodding at the spot where your bodies were joined in fervid rapture as his cock continued to twitch inside your soused walls. The way you squirmed beneath him indicated your desire for more, his lips twitching into a smile as you nibbled on the bruised skin of his lips.

"Hmm, still flowing like a river" he said between sloppy, unrefined kisses. "Does my pretty girl still want more of my cock? How greedy."