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godihatethiswebsite · 2 months ago

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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Four - Hamster ball

See? The last update wasn't a fluke! :) Bit of a more easygoing chapter compared to the hecticness I've been subjecting our poor omega to. Bit more background on our girl. Give her a bit of breathing room before hopping back into more chaos.

Also: I've added a change to the reader's physicality. There's a reference to being underweight for medical reasons so I'm sorry if that takes any of you out of the experience. I try to not mess with that aspect, but I just felt it necessary given everything I put this girl through.

Trigger warnings: angst, depression, customer service, malnourishment

The dog survived.

Life had apparently decided against throwing you any more curveballs on your way back to the apartment – slushy roads and bad drivers notwithstanding (honestly, how could this many people forget what front wheel drive did on black ice and wet pavement?).

Densely populated areas gave way to suburban life as you drove the twenty minutes it took to escape the city center and arrive back into a world a little less crowded.

The area you resided in could generously be considered lower middle class. The crime rate was on the lower end of the spectrum though still a tinge too high for most members of polite society. Nothing too terribly outlandish; juvenile gang violence typical of a sizable city and the occasional asshat who decided the stuff in your car now belonged to him. But there was a police station a few blocks down the road from you that ran frequent patrols and the low level violence kept the rent at a decent affordability.

There were less and less brownstones the further east you traveled, row house opulence giving way to multi level apartment buildings interspersed amongst a smattering of mid century moderns. Grass became a thing again, but only in long strips running parallel with the sidewalk – unless you were fortunate enough to own a modest front lawn on a small corner lot. Not that it was visible beneath the eight inches of snow that’d accumulated since it started falling late yesterday morning.

It was only late afternoon by the time you were back in familiar territory, but this close to the impending holiday the local residents left their Christmas lights on 24/7 it seemed. Most abodes were adorned with at least humble decorations.

Community members wrapped battery powered twinkle lights around the sparse barren elms, evergreen garland candy caning down metal street lamps, interlaced tinsel glimmering from passing headlights. Cheap vinyl stickers of cartoon snowmen and Santa's little helpers splattered across glass windows and sliding balcony doors in haphazard childish fashion. Mesh reindeer lawn ornaments and creepy animatronic statues recreating Saint Nick’s undertaking in kaleidoscopic – if not positively garish – displays.

Muddied coir welcome mats proclaiming ‘Blessed Yule!’. A giant inflatable dinosaur taking up way too much space and spinning an oversized dreidel. You even gave props to the guy with a grinch head popping out the top of his chimney, smirking deviously at the passersby down below as if they were in on the secret.

All walks of life celebrating the winter season in their own special ways.

You couldn’t even remember the last time you bothered to hang a simple wreath.

You were fortunate enough to find decently close street parking as you pulled up to the curve, grateful the black Kia behind had left space enough for more than just a clown car. A group of rowdy boys bundled snug in thick mittens and hand-knit toques called for a ceasefire, taking your nearby arrival as an excuse to catch their breaths and stockpile more ammunition for the fierce battle they waged. Childish insults flew from behind snowy barricades as you stepped out of your car and onto the icy sidewalk.

It was a more than usual hassle making the trudge inside your apartment building. Normally you kept your grocery list light; manageable for the haul up three flights of stairs despite the fully functioning elevator. But with the previous week’s illness eating into more of your food supply than normal you’d been forced to compensate for the barren cupboards.

Could you make multiple trips? Sure. Did you want to be outside in the blustery cold for longer than necessary? Nope. Hence the sight of you iron-manning your way through the building’s exterior entrance, clusters of bags biting into your arms even through your heavy winter coat, overstretched plastic really field testing its weight requirements and lumbering your already lethargic pace.

You were grateful that you’d remembered to double bag some of the heftier items, having almost made that same mistake the month prior if not for the shredding sound alerting you to the seam's fatal flaw. That’s all you needed was to be spending your evening on hands and knees mopping up shattered glass and pickle juice from grime-laden steps.

There's a sense of accomplishment as you haul the purchased goods over the threshold to your apartment, carefully depositing the burdensome load on the tile in front of your refrigerator, far too many to overwhelm your bite-sized kitchen table with. Doubling back to re-check the numerous door locks and deadbolts, you finally let loose a sigh as you kick off your snow boots and shuck the weighted material from your weary shoulders, hanging the ratty scarf on the hook next to it and giving your neck a chance to breathe again.

Rubbing the irritated skin hurt more than it helped. The damn thing was sensitive to abrasive material – only concealing it when absolutely necessary. Winter was easy; warmer months made the task trickier. Thankfully most people didn’t stare much at an omega with a patch of gauze taped over her neck. Newly bonded designations wore it as a badge of honor, proudly proclaiming to the world at large that they’d finally found their place amongst the upper echelons of packdom.

You, meanwhile, would have to be more careful in the future to wear turtlenecks if bombshell interactions were to become a normal occurrence. The last thing you needed were prying questions from nosy alphas.

A half gone tube of medicated ointment called your name from the bathroom counter, but the inflamed mating mark would have to wait until after you got the bulk of groceries put away. Canned items and other non perishables could be dealt with tomorrow. There was only so much strength left in your bones after a day like today.

The knock on your front door would have startled you worse if not for the preceding text message hailing the arrival.

‘Paranoid’ would be the appropriate term. Practically overnight you found yourself turning into one of those god awful annoying conspiracy theorists that hide in the dark cobwebs of the internet, spouting schizophrenic ravings of lunacy and government surveillance, too wrapped up in their straight jackets for oxygen to reach their corrupted brains.

It was hard not to be distrustful to any and all intruders of your dwelling, knowing full well the consequences that come from letting your guard down in a stunning display of naivety. The pinched tether on your bond reassured you of his distance, but he was far from being the only ill-intentioned alpha in a thousand mile radius.

Pulse fluttering like a baby bird and fingers flexing into trembling fists, you creep up to the peephole with all the finesse of a one-legged cat – despite knowing the face that would greet you on the other end. Per usual, the kind beta didn’t take it personally when you opened the door with barely enough space to let her inside, squeezing through the gap provided and scooting out of the way while you relatched your pacifying security measures.

All she offered was her usual glowing smile and a box of double stuf oreos.

“Hard day at therapy?”

Chloe had been an unexpected addition to the chaos of your life. For lack of in-unit appliances, the apartment complex housed a small laundry facility on the ground floor – free of charge, but awfully stifling come the summer months. Enough square footage that multiple people could use it at any given time, but not enough to hold even a quarter of the residents. On the weekdays, that damn thing could be packed tighter than a dented can of sardines (and smell just as fishy). It wasn’t unusual to find your neighbors making the trek of shame back to their rooms, hefting a still-soiled bag of clothing, waiting another hour or so in hopes of trying their hand at the laundry lottery all over again.

You were embarrassed to say you avoided the place like the plague for the first month after moving in. After all, what did it really matter?

You didn’t leave your apartment at the time. There was no need for decorum – no call to impress. And as an unpacked omega with disabling agoraphobia it sounded like the worst sort of torture porn experience. It had taken running out of febreze and being on the phone with your dads to finally venture down there at three o’clock in the morning on a random Tuesday in hopes the facility would be barren enough that your musky basket could stop reeking up your closet.

The scream you screamt upon turning the corner and finding another human being skulking around in the unlit void had you so sure your father’s were a hairs breadth away from calling down the fucking feds.

Turns out Chloe was a skittish thing a few years younger than you. A recent college graduate, this was her first real apartment outside of campus dorm life. But where you were up at the ass crack of dawn due to an anxiety-inducing aversion to civilization, she was down there to keep from running into the cute nerdy alpha across the hall and risking mortification at him peeping her dainty underthings.

Honestly you hadn’t been sure the smell of urine was coming from either laundry basket.

Once you’d calmed down enough to pull your fathers off the edge of booking the next flight down there to rough up some nonexistent predator, you’d managed to finish your chores on opposite sides of the room, neither engaging in any conversation beyond muffled apologies of humiliation.

What followed was an uneasy truce born out of necessity, a silent acknowledgement that this would be a weekly safe space free from judgment and criticism. Silence turned to whispered greetings, whispers became timid banter, until eventually you were confessing in therapy to eating homemade peanut butter cookies on the floor in front of the laundry machines.

Now she was the only other person in this whole entire city besides Dr. Miranda that you could go to for advice and needed companionship.

Originally you had no intention of exhausting any more of your social battery than had already been consumed. But therapy wasn’t for another week and you had too much bubbling inside to be contained by the cramped confines of your studio apartment. And Chloe was considerate enough that she knew not to overstay her welcome, her own introverted alarm clock ringing about the same time as yours.

“If only that had been the hard part,” you replied with a sigh, taking the parcel of outstretched goods and moseying on over to your butt shaped indent on the far end of the couch.

The sound of creaky hinges and clattering plastic informed you of Chloe’s detour to the kitchen. “Has that rust-bucket jalopy of yours finally gone to the great big scrap metal in the sky?”

Everyone’s a critic.

“How about we don’t put that out into the universe thank you very much.” Shoving a whole cookie in your mouth, you gratefully accept the cold glass of milk she passes over before taking up a spot on the cushion next to you, grabbing at her own treat from the open pack.

The mess of red curls atop her head and the loud pattern of her knit rainbow sweater deceptively implied a boisterous personality. Bright green eyes. A healthy dusting of freckles. Blue corduroy pants still smudged with gold leaf. One look at her 5 foot 11 stature and you’d think she was some sort of artistic fairy, flitting about from flower to flower like a social hummingbird. In truth she’d gone to school for fine arts, but in preparation for a career in conservation – something quiet and away from the harsh critics where she could help express someone else's ideas instead of her own.

Her soft hazelnut scent matches her sympathetic smile, always patient and warm with you. “Does it have something to do with why you smell like a latte? Oh dear–please tell me no one spilled hot coffee on you today!”

You duck your head from her doe eyed worry and concerned frown of dread, focusing on the cold bite of milk on your fingers as you plunge another sugary morsel into your clear plastic cup.

As toxic as it might have been, you couldn’t bring yourself to wash the scent of alpha from the pores of your skin.

“Chloe, I…” Here goes nothing. “I met someone yesterday…”

For the second time in less than four hours you found yourself spilling your heart to a friendly ear.

She heard all of it. The supermarket run-in. Tantalizing lemon. Silky coconut. Devastating chocolate. Therapy. The coffee shop mishap. Being gentled by a complete stranger.

The promise kept safe in your electronic device.

Where Dr. Miranda had broached the topic with a level-headed sense of therapeutic resolution, Chloe had all but clutched her pearls the longer your tantalizing tale was spun. She wore her expressions the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, squeezing the life out of a proffered couch pillow in a way that made you hope she didn’t have any pets at home.

“How could he possibly expect any of this to not come crashing down in a fiery hellscape of cataclysmic fury that would put Dante’s inferno to shame?”

Can you tell she went to catholic school?

“I mean… it's not like I caught him off guard technically,” you try to bargain. “Like yeah, today’s meeting wasn’t exactly on purpose, but they would’ve had a whole night to discuss things amongst themselves. Maybe they just reached some sort of weird agreement with her?”

She bites her lip to hide the sympathetic frown. “Do you really believe that though?”

No. No you didn’t.

It wasn’t hard to put yourself in her shoes considering the thick iron cable anchoring you to another. If that bond came with passion... if you knew the cloying taste of devotion – the idolatry that comes from having your molecules grafted onto a lover’s DNA – you’d shred every muscle strand in your body, tear skin from bone with bloodied teeth to keep what was coveted.

And here you were. The other woman.

Suddenly the chocolate dessert didn’t taste so appetizing.

At your lack of a meaningful answer, she unknowingly goes for the throat.

“Perhaps you should tell them–”

“No.”

The ice in your tone brokers no room for argument, instantly regretting the bite behind it as you watch her flinch back into the cushions with a meek whine.

Your expression softens in guilt. Chloe is just trying her best to help you navigate an otherwise impossible scenario. Her suggestion doesn’t come from a place of cruelty, only one of care. Even if it does speak of ignorance.

Not that she didn't still try.

“Wouldn’t you want to know if the roles were reversed?”

“And what good would that do?” you press far more gently this time, the acid of pain climbing up the back of your throat. “No matter what they say there’s no tangible future for us. That ship has well and truly sailed – I know that now. My destiny was signed with an iron pen and the deed says I belong to him.”

Your voice quivers on the last word, the sting of acceptance cutting into flesh with a rusty barbed wire. You never thought there could be a feeling worse than hopelessness.

“Telling them will only ensure that both parties suffer for another’s twisted scheme,” you continue past the lump in your throat, “and I won’t subject them to the burden that should be only mine to bear. I refuse to let them live with that guilt.”

Maybe it’s her beta upbringing that keeps her from fully understanding the colossal weight of putting your bonded through such inner turmoil. Chloe will never know what it means to share someone's emotions across an unwavering connection. Pack life isn’t barred from her, but the same primal urges that draw us towards our mates are nothing but strings of thread easily pruned.

Truthfully most betas never want it. To them, we all drew the short end of the straw; being forced into subjugation by ancient instincts that never shed their skin after the last ice age.

After the eternally looping rollercoaster that's been holding you prisoner the past four years, you can't say you disagree with them anymore.

“...maybe they chew with their mouths open.”

The huff she pulls from your chest is genuine, catching you off guard with the attempt at levity, the small roast doing its job of diffusing the atmosphere. Her extemporaneous remark reflects the giggles in her eyes begging you to play along.

“Bet they don’t wash their buttcracks either,” you add with a half-grin after a few moments of quiet, relishing in the way she covers her mouth to stifle a snort. Her energy is endearing, granting you leave to feed off the sunrays of her carefree aura, unblemished by the malice of a hateful underbelly, continuing for the next couple minutes that her presence lingers.

If only laughter was all it took to make everything better.

Consciousness greets you like a lifelong friend – one waiting to welcome you into outstretched arms, promising comfort and geniality with its disarming smile, swaddling you in a blanket so thick and plush it cradles you like a pregnant mother’s womb. It beckons with a silvery tongue, promising a joyful reunion as you give yourself over freely under the guise of a fresh start.

All the easier for it to slip a knife between your ribs.

You should’ve known better.

Sleep hasn’t been your ally since the night before the incident. Rest is not restful; it is a time where the walls between protection and abuse are at their thinnest. Where the toxic sludge of your connection oozes through the cracks like bubbling tar and coats your insides with its virulent adhesive. It chokes you with its noxious miasma, seeping into dreams and disturbing the regenerative process vital to your health.

Each day starts the same – dealing with the consequences of life on a strained leash.

Awareness comes into focus next like a camera in the exclusion zone, grainy and crackling under the effects of radioactivity while spreading like the beginnings of cancer through the pores of your skin. It clings around the edges, lethargic in its letting go, giving way only to the melodic chiming of your phone’s alarm that might as well be set to a booming fog horn.

Eyelashes crusty with dried salt crystals peel apart like fly paper, pupils fully dilated as the blackout curtains remove the need for constriction. The rumpled towel beneath you leaves tender spots on your back from where it bunched up in the night – a result of the fitful writhing when the nightmares your mind guards you from remembering leave your body feverful and drenched, soaking through the lightweight sheets and condensing in a thin layer of slimy moisture.

And the nausea.

God, the nausea.

The condition was a constant in your life, but its disruption was the worst during the early hours of the day.

Movement requires a delicate balance first thing in the morning. Jostle your body too much and the empty bin wedged between your bed and your nightstand gets reacquainted with the bile of your stomach (they’re apparently in an intimate relationship that you’re just sandwiched between like an awkward third wheel).

Problem is, barring the use of hefty restraints, it's impossible to know which side of the bed you’ll be waking up on. Literally.

Some days you find yourself facing the drab interior of your studio apartment rather than covered window panes, knowing the energy required to roll over towards the small nightstand will likely result in the emptying of your insides. Sleeping on your back had potential, but your form preferred to curl in on itself for lack of anything else to bring it comfort.

Lady Luck had apparently seen enough of your mental breakdowns the past forty eight hours to grant you a reprieve, taking pity on your string of misfortunes as the first thing your eyes take in upon blinking free from sand is the heavy satin of your window coverings keeping in the dark – some lavender pattern to help match the rest of your nesting materials. They’re still fresh out the box after all these years, though the accumulation of filth would tell you otherwise, dust bunnies taking up residence on the weighted linen.

Your furnishings haven’t been bathed in sunlight since the moving van.

The well-loved bottle of Zofran sits in its spot on the corner of your nightstand, next to your still ringing phone and a robin's egg stanley, a glass picture frame shoved in the far corner on the other side of your table lamp.

Still wrapped in a thick fog of drowsiness, leaden muscles flex and groan as your arm stretches the short distance, ears taking priority and fingers tapping at the illuminated screen until they locate the damn snooze button. Popping the small oval pill comes next, chasing it with lukewarm water before burrowing back down into the soft minky goodness of your comforter.

You're awake an hour before you need to be, but not to get anything done. No rejuvenating shower. No balanced breakfast and a half hour of yoga. Just adjusting to the abject misery your bond greets you with every day as a not so gentle reminder of the alpha you left behind.

It’s a constant struggle to remind yourself that the suffering is worth it for the lifetime of abuse from which you escaped. Better to be tormented by a path you chose than one unwillingly taken.

About forty minutes go by before the medication kicks in enough to allow you freedom of movement, pulling yourself from the tangles of your bedding with aching joints and low fuel reserves. Walking into the bathroom, you squint against the blinding overhead fluorescents, rubbing the spots from your eyes as you take in your frumpy reflection.

There’s a photograph next to your bed that you haven’t glanced at in a few months. Six familiar faces beaming into a camera lens somewhere high in the mountains. A family vacation from eight years ago; the best summer of your life.

That girl in the picture is nowhere to be found.

Spiritless eyes meet your gaze in the glass, early crows feet forming from periods of prolonged stress. A bone deep exhaustion reflected in your undereye bags, the dull pallor of your complexion. The frizziness of unmoisturized locks begging for a drink. Wind chapped lips and an eternal frown.

The oversized shirt hangs baggy on your form, once belonging to your brother but now in your possession. If you lifted up the garment you could practically count the ribs, a once healthy layer of fat and muscle cannibalized by famished cells and underutilization. It's hard to keep on weight when your stomach rejects the nourishment you try to provide.

If this is the empty shell you’ve become a full continent away from him then it’s hard to imagine what lifeless husk of a creature you might’ve deteriorated into under his brand of care.

There’s no more energy left by the time you do your business and finish brushing your teeth, knowing what few bolts remain will have to go towards the impending headache of customer service. Taming your unruly hair will just have to wait until later – if at all.

You flick the lights on as you pass, trudging on shaky legs to the cabinets above the microwave. There’s still too much unease in your tummy for your usual coffee order, opting for a mug of herbal tea to help settle the irritated organ, a spoonful of honey cutting through the mild bitterness. Settling on a sleeve of poptarts for a lazy breakfast, you lumber your way over towards the couch and the awaiting annoyances.

Opening shifts were always the worst.

Originally you’d approached the company with open availability in hopes of bettering your chances at landing a remote job. In those days, commuting to a location had been out of the question. It took months of submitting applications – relying solely on your family for all your expenses – before someone finally gave you an opportunity to rejoin the workforce.

(You wept the day you received the offer from HR. Having even a sliver of autonomy returned to you after a tumultuous period without it was as the first melting snow of a long envisioned spring).

Unfortunately it meant you were handed the hours no one else wanted to take. Most days that was the early shifts.

It’s not like you work a whole hell of a lot. The job itself is only part time after all and fairly easy; fourteen hours max per week. But you’d quickly learned that the later you were scheduled, the clearer your brain was to focus, the better you performed overall.

Now if only the big wigs at corporate would allow you to update your availability. When last you’d scrounged up enough courage to broach the topic to your immediate supervisor you were promptly informed that there was no current flexibility to your role and, when pressed, sent a look via Zoom that clearly said don't push it.

So much for ‘warm family environment’.

A small rolling side table acts as your makeshift desk, the apartment too cramped for something proper no matter how many attempts to tetris the layout. One of your fathers had come up with the brilliant solution while shopping at ikea for new end tables, spotting the piece of furniture and shipping it out to your location. You’d had to brave the awkward visit of the buff delivery man for a signature – hiding behind the door jamb like a sketchy criminal – but the purchase had been well worth it for how cluttered your poor kitchen table had previously looked, a jumbled mess of pens and wires, certifiably hazardous with its lengthy extension cord.

Armed with soothing chamomile and a warm knit blanket thrown over your lap, you boot up your laptop and log onto the program that would keep you chained to it for the next six hours.

Ask anyone that deals with customers directly: Christmas is the least wonderful time of the year.

Garbled phone calls over shitty receptions. The droning monotony of preplanned scripts. Old bitties recounting eight decades of family drama. Mass hysteria around shipping delays. ‘Happy Birthday Steve’ and the audible slick of his palm. Entitled socialites for whom the word ‘please’ never came preinstalled in their gold filigree hoity-toity dictionaries.

The fifteen minute break is almost insulting. As if anyone can decompress in such a meager timespan. It’s no wonder why people used to chainsmoke their way through the stress of their jobs.

You try to remind yourself of the before times – the trials and tribulations that came from previous employments. Long grueling hours spent pent up in bustling kitchens, the dinner rush on crab leg nights testing your arm strength and patience for slow steamers. Pushy roofing salesmen harping over impoverished neighborhoods. Car guys calling you toots and insisting on being assisted by a ‘real professional’.

This job was by far the most laid back. No fussing over business casual, no extroverted coworkers crowding your space, no bosses micromanaging for the sake of being assholes. You were living a cushy life by comparison.

But then your mind wanders to Jose on the third floor kitchen, busy doing prep work for the various departments; a kind man once he warmed up to you and found you competent enough to last. Always sneaking you tender bites of grilled meats and a bowl of creamy lobster bisque.

Nyle bringing you ladies in the office a round of Starbucks when he came in for mandatory meetings. Sharing music with Stacy and gabbing about just aired episodes of your favorite tv show. Heather bringing in fresh blueberry bear claws from the local bakery near her home.

Going to the irish pub across the street with the guys in finance that knew the owners, getting drunk off free whiskey and cider on Friday nights. All smiles and laughter as you twirl across the dance floor to a live band performing hits from musicians like Flogging Molly and Great Big Sea…

…and you realize just how much you took for granted. That there’s a palpable difference between surviving and living.

You don’t even notice you’re six minutes over break until your laptop pings from someone trying to get in touch with you, startling you out of melancholic reminiscence and bringing you back to a somber present that longs for the taste of livelihood.

That time has ended; those figures mere ghosts of a past better left forgotten in the vaults of your memory.

Now, you make a small but tidy living solving other people's problems a few hours a week. Enough to pay for personal bills, groceries, and the occasional indulgence while your fathers provide the bulk of your utilities and the sum of your rent. Your lost independence used to bother you more, but the thought of a homeless shelter quickly silenced your tongue.

Your cellphone reads one o’clock by the time you're freed from servitude, happy to be logging off as you push the rolling setup back out of the way. The air bubbles between the contours of your spine pop and crackle as you rise to your feet, ignoring the rush of lightheadedness from six hours remaining stationary. Resisting the urge to itch at the healing scab on the side of your neck, you pad into the kitchen to whip up a turkey sandwich – cautiously optimistic on the inclusion of juicy pickles – before plopping back down in your usual spot.

The acidity doesn’t seem to upset your stomach any further, allowing you to munch in peace on the simple scrapings of lunch, scrolling through the kindle app on your phone for something to occupy your time with.

There’s never much to do around here when the people in your life are busy living their own. Your family checks in on you every so often, catching you up on the goings-on in the quiet neighborhood, your father taking the opportunity to gush about his lego collection to someone other than his partner for a change. You miss the camaraderie that came with building the Death Star.

Despite living hundreds of miles away, their calls always made you feel as if you were gathered around the sectional in the warm lit interior of the sprawling living room, Christmas tree glowing by the light of the fire, a hot cup of cocoa and the merriment of family.

The same couldn’t be said for your younger brother Alex.

Ever since moving out at eighteen he'd become quite a prick, a beta complex a mile wide that only got worse when he surrounded himself with the wrong kinda crowd. The loss of his once fervent companionship had devastated you. After the accident that brought your parents to an early grave, you’d kept each other afloat through turbulent waves of depression, tidal waves of grief. Six became four, but – even though that wound would never fully heal – you still had the strength of their love to turn to when forgone memories played like black and white film.

But after that last argument…

Four became three.

It's been years since you last had any type of contact outside the occasional cheap greeting card – just another notch added to your mile long grinchmas belt come the holidays.

Fuck him.

Shaking yourself out of that spiraling rabbit hole, you turned back to the task of entertainment at hand. Since you didn’t feel like spending any more time on the phone listening to idle chatter than you already had today, you settled for choosing a book at random from your extensive TBR, diving into a medieval fantasy where brave warriors slayed evil dragons and an honorable knight could still save a princess.

The minute hand goes round and round.

Dinner is as simple an affair as lunch; a cheap frozen pizza popped in the oven adding an extra layer of warmth to the already balmy interior. There’s no need for a plate as you pull it off the wire rack onto the cardboard box it came in, gooey cheese bubbling hot and steamy, sizzling toppings shiny with bright orange grease, savory aromas wafting as they ride the circulation of the antiquated heating system.

Years of battling chronic fatigue have made you crafty, cutting corners on labor with gathered tips and tricks accumulated over hours of lengthy research. There’s no need to add to your pile of dishes; no plates or utensils to scrub free of dried food particles. Just you and your fingers tearing through the saucy meal chunk by chunk.

Dr. Miranda tells you it's all about the little victories. The moments of accomplishment no matter how insignificant. Doesn’t matter how you get the job done so long as it happens. Roll out of bed? That’s a win. A sleeve of ritz crackers for a meal? Glad you got sustenance. Just because you weren’t claiming a nobel prize didn’t mean your triumphs were any less important.

Didn’t leave much in the way of riveting stimulation though. Just acclimatizing you to existing in a hamster ball where the difference between day and night is as little as the am or pm on the clock.

After all, it wasn’t like your body signaled a change in energy levels. There’s no ‘getting tired’ when you never wake up.

The only time you ever felt a sense of normalcy was when you started the process of getting ready for bed, pinpoint focus narrowing in on the task of fixing your nest. Logic shuts down and gut feeling takes the reins. You lose yourself in the fussing over placement of plush fleece and textured sherpa, jersey knit sheets and squishmallow plushies. Weighted quilt blankets and cloud-fluffy pillows of various shapes and sizes, the assortment of pastel pinks and lush earthy greens giving off the enchanted forest vibes held dear to your heart.

It wasn’t large or luxurious by any means, but the few modest pieces you did have were plenty enough for the cozy space, strewn across the full sized bed in an organized haphazard chaos understood only by the omega instincts that dictate your actions.

Only, there’s something wrong…

You lament the smell of mildew as your nose breathes in the cloth of your pillowcase, whining in dejection at the offense to your delicate olfactory senses and pawing at the material in shame.

An omega’s nest is a vital part of the care and keeping of their fragile emotional state. Oftentimes they’re seen as a reflection of their owner's inner consciousness and a handy tool to monitor their anxiety levels on a day to day basis. An unkempt nest can not only signal deeper depression, but if neglected for too long may result in bodily dysregulation that can affect them even right down to a molecular level, throwing hormones out of whack and causing real physical illness.

Your nest hasn’t been properly cleaned in far too many months – no doubt adding to the high levels of stress that already permeate your everyday life. The sacred space that’s supposed to be your safe haven acts as just another graphic reminder that he’s taken everything from you. There's no true relaxation in your life because of it.

For what was the point of washing the sweat-stained fabric if there’s no stopping it getting soiled again the following night?

Pulling the musky sheets up to just below your chin, you stare blankly at the evidence of what happens when you get your hopes up, sitting plugged into the charger on the corner of your nightstand.

The phone hasn’t rang once.

You’ve been religiously checking the screen all day. Turned the volume from vibrate to blaring. Unclicked ‘do not disturb’ mode (turns out even telemarketers think you’re a waste of time). The device went everywhere with you, whether it was ten feet to the bathroom or six inches across the couch. Your desperation might have been otherwise embarrassing, but there was no worry of judgment besides your own in the guarded solitude of your apartment.

He'd given you a thimble of hope, and you were clinging to it like the last drop of water.

Whether it be a call or text; you didn’t know. But he promised you... promised you… that you’d be hearing from him soon. Threatened you against inaction on your part. And you’d just believed him. Believed that even for a moment – some tiny fraction of oblivion – there could exist a world where you didn’t have to feel quite so fucking alone.

What exactly has he been up to? Some prior commitment that pulled him from his phone? Maybe he’s just stuck at work all day? But then surely he doesn’t pull twelve hour shifts. Not like you found out their given occupations yet. Which means he’s gotta be sick, right? The weather’s been atrocious and you hadn’t physically seen him get in a car when he left.

Shit! He went home smelling like you. How did the pack react?

How did she react?

They didn’t get into a fight did they? She probably forced him to delete your contact info. God, you were so selfish putting them through this mess. But hadn't John been selfish too in wanting to keep you around? Was that really a pack decision?

The tears culminating in your eyes were pathetic. Acid rain bleaching your pillowcase in big caustic globules, seeping into the fabric and burning through the thin membrane of your cheeks. Bitter rage tainted the half formed excuses, corrupting like malware into personal betrayal.

How could you be so foolish? What part of ‘you’re not allowed to be happy’ did you not comprehend? Hadn’t you already learned not to shoot for the stars, much less the occupants of unit 2B?!

Poor, stupid omega.

You grasped your chest as if that could stop whatever clawed beast was burrowing its way past your ribcage to dig out a hole and lay its clutch. Flicking the bedside lamp off brought you as much darkness outside as there was feasting on your entrails and gorging itself for a long unforgiving winter.

Curling up in your repugnant nest, you couldn’t keep your heart from shattering as each teardrop extinguished the sputtering flame of hope.

You never got around to fixing your hair.

<< ✿ Previous ✿ <<

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pinkrelish · 1 year ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲 | 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶A deleted scene from chapter twelve where receptionist!reader acts like a bimbo in front of Eddie just to rile him up. Written very tongue-in-cheek at the beginning.✶

NSFW — sexual themes, handjob, unresolved sexual tension, 18+

↳ start the story here to catch up!

[wc: 2.1k]

Heeding your checklist of chores, you idled at the workbench against the far corner of the wall. There were a few of the usual things you organized: placing nuts and bolts in drawers, facing products with their labels out, tidying small boxes, folding the end of the paper towel roll so it didn’t unfurl itself in the turbulent path of the oscillating fan. You bent over to toss cellophane wrappers into the waste paper bin, and took your time musing if the liner should be changed despite the little amount of balled up paper weighing down the bottom. Standing, you swept off the unsanded tabletop with your hands, and worked a crusty rag over an oil streak, making a mental note to call the laundry service to swing by a day early.

As you stepped away, you knocked a pencil to the floor. Its bright yellow body was impossible to miss, along with its excruciatingly long hexagonal roll carried by your elbow to the very edge, but you managed. You knelt to your hands and knees to retrieve the writing utensil, inspecting its broken tip. The graphite was missing completely, leaving behind an empty hole where it once was. An unfortunate accident. You rotated it a few times looking for other flaws—an honorable way to spend your time.

“You doin’ this on purpose?” gruffed out an annoyed voice behind you.

No need to check, you heard the amused twist at the corner of his lips. His left canine was probably on show, too. Not in a hurry to confirm, you gripped the pencil in your fist, and leaned forward, stretching in search of the missing lead before it was stomped into dust and potentially transferred from someone’s boot sole into a wealthy client’s car. You were thinking of them, really.

The floor was a rewarding oasis in the noonday sun baking through the warehouse windows. Your flat splayed hands and knuckles worked over the grit of dirt to inch your pursuit closer to the wall, drinking in the chill of the epoxy coated concrete cooling you down better than a 50 cent clear plastic cup of Kool Aid at a kid’s misspelled lemonaide stand. Though, the unforgiving flooring bit into your joints, and indented your knees with the netting of your pantyhose. But Eddie’s study did not sway to your shoe slipping off your heel. No, he was a gentleman. And as a gentleman, he praised the wealth of curves you put on display.

He used the heels of his heavy boots to drag himself from under a Mustang, thumping up beside you, wheels on the creeper rolling along the slick floor.

The lower you dipped your chest, the higher your skirt hem tickled the back of your thighs. In total innocence—truly giving your best effort to find the missing pencil tip—you tilted your hips to unimaginable degrees, presenting your ass to the point even your lower back side-eyed your act.

Smooth backs of fingers lifted the hem more. Eddie curled his index under your skirt, and assisted it to the crease of your cheek, following the change in nylon with his rough thumbprint as it wove denser around your thighs to hold you in. Tummy Control, it was advertised as. To a man who had seldom encounters with women, this meant very little to him, as did the change in texture. Though, curiously, he rubbed at it with interest.

“You’re something else, you know that?” But his voice was too playful to shame you, hardly traipsing through his throat to chastise. “I’m out here working my ass off, and you’re struttin’ around the garage in this lil’ piece.” The little piece in question was your corporate approved pencil skirt from a long forgotten temp job when your apartment lost two roommates in a breakup, and rent was past due.

Pandering to your audience of one, you shuffled two of the tiniest inches backwards, and steadied your hand on his outstretched leg. You bent at the hips, filling his large palm with a handful of your ass, and he admired you in a brush of fingertips near the innermost valley of your thigh, licking a divine chill up your spine. Playing along, you pretended to just notice him, assuming a sinless gasp, and following it with many airheaded inflections, “Oh! Didn’t see you there, handsome. Am I distracting you?”

The standing fan swung its head in your direction, sweeping Eddie’s bangs off his forehead in a brief burst.

You’d been on hundreds of dates, and not once had you been so deeply complimented by someone’s gaze.

Eddie dwelled in the distraction. He stroked his thumb over the fat, and traced his pinky along the hypersensitive crease before the swell which had your muscles tightening in a squirm. He was so close to the middle seam of the pantyhose. Perhaps he knew this as well, but didn’t care—he was just happy to be touching you. Laid out in the neon orange creeper, sun glancing off the packed garage, casting a glow across his puffy face. Sleepy eyes, messy hair, unbearably adorable grin—the type of candid expression showing how honored he was to look at you, so forthcoming and open. A trap, if there ever was one, luring you into picturing him twisted amongst your bedding on a late morning.

As he tracked his gaze over your backside, an aching reminder moseyed its way into his consciousness. Setting into a glare, he forced his way through any pleasantness lingering in his chest to tell you plainly, “Sweetheart, you’re fucking torturing me here.” You giggled, and he broke, falling victim to the squinch at his crow’s feet.

“You think I’m not torturing myself, too?”

“Dunno.” He craned his head back to check underneath the car for where each pair of boots were moving, and you peeped through the driver’s side window to keep tabs on the seated customers in the lobby. Once you both ensured there was no danger of being caught, he turned his attention to you fully. “You’re not wearing my favorite pair, so I couldn’t tell.” In case you weren’t sure, he wrung his hand around your leg, and drummed his fingers where there should be an easily accessible hole in your tights, where he could drag his fingers through your slick truth. His sorry features were tainted with remorse when your plush thighs weren't spilling out from the nylon; however, he drew his eyebrows in mock sympathy, and traced the area. “Could make these my new favorite pair, though.”

You about melted into a puddle of dumbstruck glee at his first foray into initiating dirty talk. “Yeah?” you stressed the word like he would—big smile and all. You raised the placement of your grip on his leg up, further, still going until the inside of your thumb threatened to assist what laid fat and heavy towards his hip. Car exhaust, pungent motor oil, and fumes swam in your head. Mind dizzy, you skimmed your nails over his heavy sack pressed tight against the seam of his coveralls. An implied line was drawn along your heat by his featherlight touch. You leaned over him, real close, chest over chest, knees spread because his hand encouraged you to do so. Mouth to mouth, considering kissing the dirt from his lips. “Wanna rip ‘em, and have me on top while you’re on this thing?”

Eddie moaned, and it wasn’t shy in the loud garage. “Want it so fucking bad, baby.”

A single ding from the bell atop your desk drew your attention.

Bodies paused, you both existed in the indecision of what to do. Eddie’s forehead wrinkled from his high brows driving his attention backwards, peering under the car again. The other employees of David’s Auto Repair shuffled around a Studebaker. There was no one inside to help the customer. What a shame.

Eddie lowered his chin in long clockticks, seeking you behind his heavy lashes and heavier gaze. His nose met the side of yours in an unrefined graze, dragging his chapped lips wherever he felt your smile. He kissed you hungry. Needy, desperate to fit the magnitude of his palm at the back of your head, and dirty your mouth with noses mashed together. He wanted you messy, he wanted you catching your balance on the creeper for the same reason his held sigh became your next breath, taking a pinch of your pantyhose over your pussy and twisting it around his fist to demonstrate his annoyance, as if the dull ache of your bottom lip against his teeth wasn’t illustrative enough. The peak of your whine and his approving hum tethered the snap of your tights and the squeeze he left on your thigh. Filthy warmth blanketed the top of your hand. Stifling hot, calluses running rough over your knuckles as he cupped your palm over his hard length, and curled your fingers around himself, kicking his hips up to really stretch the limits of your grip. Together, he guided you in a few teasing pumps along the base, ego growing at the pretty sound hitched in your throat.

“Hey, Ed!” Mr. Moore’s yell burst the bubble you two surrounded yourselves in. “C’mere, ‘nd look at this.”

It wasn’t an emergency. It could wait. There were enough mechanics on duty, they could figure out what they were gawking at, or admiring, or whatever it was they were doing. That was the justification behind your shared look with Eddie, and the tension holding you two apart faded within seconds. If anything it spurred you on. You raked your fingers through his hair, mussing the roots at the crown of his head, covering the side of his body with yours, stroking his cock. The consequences didn’t matter. He increased the pressure and showed you how he liked it when you looped your thumb and index around the edge of his fat tip and pumped him faster—

Ding, ding, ding.

The kiss slowed from the distraction, but you tried to keep going, staying in the moment with Eddie’s praise burning your cheeks. He was eager, he was close. He was whispering, “Feels fucking good when you—yeah—like that,” when you added the twist of your wrist to the end of motion.

“Ed!” Mr. Moore’s voice ruined the moment. “Where’d he… And wasn’t she at her desk a second ago?”

Ding, ding ding!

Your foreheads crashed together in a defeated groan.

Eddie sagged completely limp on the creeper. “Why do you do this to me?” He dropped his arms in a big shrug, kicking his legs out flat, throbbing hard in your palm. You curbed the urge to keep going and dragged your fingers away.

“Hey, you’re the one who started this,” you sniffed, sitting back to fan your face in effort to make yourself presentable while he considered rolling under the car for the next eternity to hide his blazing red cheeks.

“I was a good worker before you came along,” he argued, pointing at you with a nail outlined in grime. He did it with such vigor his shoulders curled off the creeper, sitting up to give you a real good talkin’ to. “I never did this sorta shit with anyone before you showed up. You’re bad for me. You drive me crazy.” Not an ounce of anger dared enter his tone, not even having strength to control his smile from going lopsided, dimpling, nose scrunching in a badly contained laugh. Never would he want you to think he was mad at you, even as a joke. He was soft like that.

Eddie broke first, and that’s all you needed to kiss him against the black Mustang door, thud on the metal deadened by his nervous hand coming up to brush his curls flat.

“You drive me crazy too,” you promised against his lips. “Now, try not to cum your pants when I bend over to get this trash, and have fun explaining to the guys why you can’t stand up for the next few minutes.” You cocked your head, and smacked your tongue in a hard, “‘Kay?”

He glared at your smugness. Glared at your backside, too. Scowled at his grip formed around the swollen length rising so obvious no matter how he fixed his legs, and surrendered to the humiliation of laying back on the creeper, summoning enough dignity to roll himself to the other side where a gaggle of boots scuffed the ground in search for him, and give some excuse that he was very busy fixing something and wouldn’t be available for the foreseeable future.

originally thursday's section in chapter twelve was split into three separate scenes. i was almost finished writing the first two when i took the section in a different direction and mashed all the important elements into the scene in the breakroom which did make the cut. truthfully i had only written to eddie's line of "wanting it so badly" and they would've gotten interrupted at that point (before any touching), but since this isn't exactly canon, i went ahead and had fun and made it a little spicier.

you might also recognize some imagery, lines of prose, or descriptions i salvaged from this piece and put into the final one!

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #mechanic!eddie #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #the yes policy

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cottonlemonade · 3 months ago

Text

First Date

word count: 1157 || avg. reading time: 5 mins.

pairing: post-time skip!Sakusa x chubby!Reader

genre: fluff

warnings: implications of xenophobia

When you finally said Yes to a date with Sakusa you had an inkling it would get fancy, but not “five star rooftop restaurant” kind of fancy. The sushi place was hidden, out of sight of tourist attractions and other major travel spots, giving it an air of “if you know, you know”. Sakusa was a regular.

His considerate gesture of sending you a link to the restaurant’s dress code a week before the date, only sent you into a panic spiral. You never owned a dress even close as fancy as was required and even if you had the money to afford one, Japan didn’t exactly cater to a foreigner’s chubby body type. Only after nearly losing your mind did you find a place at the other side of Tokyo that rented dresses that you could barely fit into and with half a month’s rent now clinging uncomfortably to your squishy tummy, you met Sakusa outside your apartment on a Friday night.

“You look gorgeous.”, he said with a small smile, opening the passenger door to his car. With your tongue tucked between your lips for concentration you accepted his hand to help you inside. The dress didn’t exactly allow for much movement.

You chatted about your day at work as he drove and he invited you to his next game before you even reached your destination. He handed his car keys to a valet and offered his arm to lead you inside.

In the elevator you made sure to smooth out any wrinkles in your dress, real or imagined, and gasped when the doors slid open.

The atmosphere was intimate and calm. Over the quiet hum of voices you could just make out the sounds of traditional Japanese music and smartly dressed waiters brought mouthwatering, jaw-droppingly beautiful designed plates of sushi to the tables. Floor to ceiling windows allowed the patrons an unobstructed view of the city lights.

“Sakusa-sama.”, the lady at the reception greeted him with a professional smile, “Welcome. Please follow me.”

You saw her hesitate for a moment when she finally noticed you, but led you to a table in the corner of the restaurant. You held your breath when you sat down, the ride was already a challenge for regular breathing and you had no idea how you were supposed to fit any food inside you with the restrictions of the dress. But you didn’t care when Sakusa smiled at you.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”, you beamed.

A waiter appeared at the table and said with deeply faked apologetic tones, “I’m very sorry, sir. But it seems we cannot serve you tonight.”

Sakusa raised an eyebrow, then glanced at you, then back to the waiter.

“This is not going to be an issue.”, he said coolly, then turned his attention back to you. But the waiter didn’t leave.

“Sir, we will have to ask you to come back another time.”

“Please explain it to me. We are right on time, we are appropriately dressed and I made reservations.”

“Sir-“

Sakusa glared at him. “Please tell the chef that if he has any issues tonight to come tell me himself.”

And with that the waiter poured some water into the empty glasses before you, bowed and left.

You looked after him thoughtfully and took a sip. It happened before that you were turned away from restaurants due to a “no foreigners” rule, but you didn’t think that such an issue could arise at a place like this.

Sakusa smiled again and steered the conversation back to lighter topics, making you feel at ease within seconds. You were about to inch your hand closer to his when another person came to the table. He was undoubtedly the chef, dressed as he was. The waiter stood a little behind him.

“Sakusa-sama.”, the man in the spotless black uniform began.

“You’re not serious.”, Sakusa couldn’t help but scoff.

“Please understand that we are not able to provide the full service to foreigners.”

“She speaks Japanese.”, Sakusa informed them, “And even if she didn’t, I would translate for her.”

The chef shifted a little, throwing some kind of glance in your direction that you couldn’t quite interpret.

“We won’t be able to accommodate any dietary restrictions, Sakusa-sama.”

“I don’t have any.”, you said with a strained smile.

The chef was quiet and looked at your date imploringly. He held his gaze, then Sakusa quietly pushed back his chair and stood up.

He offered his hand to you.

“Thank you. The water was delicious.”, you said sweetly to the waiter who avoided your eyes.

“I can’t wait to tell everyone about your hospitality at my family’s next gala.”, Sakusa added with a cold smile and gently pulled you along, past a few gawking people to the elevator.

When the doors closed and the sounds of the restaurant disappeared, Sakusa let out a long sigh.

“I’m sorry.”, he said, leaning his back against the paneling, crossing his arms.

“Don’t worry about it. I think that’s about as much exposure as I would ever need to a five star restaurant.”

He chuckled. “The next one will be better, I promise.”

You smiled and went to stand next to him, lightly brushing your shoulder against his to cheer him up. The elevator began its slow descent.

“Bet you can’t wait to get out of that dress.”, he noted, then his eyes widened a moment later, “Wait, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You laughed. “You’re not wrong actually. Breathing does not come as a standard with this one.”

He considered you for a moment.

“Turn around.” He said it gently. More as a question than a demand.

You blinked in confusion, then did as he requested.

“Don’t be alarmed.” He stepped closer, his breath brushing against your neck.

You felt his hands work on the zipper on your back.

“What are you-“, you began feebly, your voice not quite having the grasp on your vocal chords like you would have wished.

He slowly ran the zipper down, the buttons by your nape holding the dress together but you felt the immediate relief around your tummy.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

“There. Better?”, he asked. You nodded, your heart still beating too fast to turn around without revealing the intense blush on your cheeks.

The elevator came to a stop and the automatic voice announced you arrived at the lobby.

“Your bra is pretty.”, he said quietly, almost whispering it into your ear as the doors opened.

You followed him silently through the lobby, holding onto the jacket’s lapels.

“You still hungry?”, he asked when the cool night air brushed your faces as you waited for the valet to get his car.

“Starving.”, you admitted.

He grinned. “I know just the place.”

People stared but Sakusa couldn’t care less.

He rolled up the sleeves of his black button down and offered to trade you a chicken nugget for some French fries.

art: @qyhssss on Twitter

#sakusa x chubby reader #haikyuu x chubby reader #chubby reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #hq fluff #haikyuu x curvy reader #msby sakusa #hq sakusa #sakusa kiyoomi #haikyuu sakusa #sakusa x reader #sakusa x you #sakusa fluff #sakusa x y/n #sakusa kyoomi x reader

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fairlyang · 10 months ago

Text

Rookie I 🕷️

in which you find someone unexpected at your new job

w/c: 4.3K

pairing: miguel x f!reader

tags: 18+ smut. glory hole, sex work (positive), anonymity, oral (m!receiving), exhibitionism, voyeurism, cum, post nut clarity, he doesn't know it's you... or does he?

part two ~ part three

Being a part of the spider society had its perks, you could connect with so many people just like you, make new friends, save people, be overall helpful.

Now to the downsides, if you were there full time it was very hard to get your normal life in order. For you it was hard being straight outta college and trying to find the place where you belonged while still trying to protect your own city.

And you also quickly realized how hard it was to find a normal job then once you did get one, how hard it was to be at multiple places at once. It was an overwhelming feeling wanting to protect your own city and helping the multiverse. And also trying to live a normal life and work a 9-5.

It felt impossible, and it was. So you decided on living in Earth-928, closer to the Spider Society where you were needed most and you could go back to your earth with the click of a button.

You kind of gave up on normality, less of a social life, no more work until you realized you desperately needed money to pay your bills and rent. And the money you had saved up wasn't going to last for too long.

And being a spider person doesn't exactly pay like you'd automatically assume.

So you went out looking for anything that could earn you a lot but by not doing too much. One day you stumbled across what looked to be a run down bar. Maybe strip club.

You went inside and soon enough found out what it was with just a simple look.

A brothel, a place where sex workers offer their services. This wasn't ideal at all, and you didn't want to show your face afraid any of the spiders you knew would somehow find you here. But it was good money, incredible money.

And who could possibly be so horny and desperate for attention?

...

That would recognize you...

…

Maybe not too many..

…

Hopefully.

So you asked around and found out they had a couple of glory holes inside. A girl a couple years older than you showed you around and showed you where they had everything set up as well as explained how everything worked.

Now this you could work with. There were holes all over the walls but not just for men to stick their dicks into but for girls to be fucked. Or ate out.

It was a very interesting setup, there were three doors and the girl opened up the middle one to show a girl on her knees sucking one dick and using her hands to jerk another off. She let go of the one she was jerking off to gave you a small wave then slipped the one out of her mouth to give you a smile while drool dripped down her chin down to her tits.

It was absolutely insane and way beyond your comfort zone but it was perfect. Almost too perfect...

After signing some contracts and having a talk about safety, condoms, and testing, you were good to go and ended up getting scheduled to work the very next night.

Demon hours, of course.

So after a long day of patrolling your city for a few hours then getting called in by Miguel to go on a few missions with him and Jess, then finally finishing those missions and successfully capturing the anomalies, it was time for you to go to your new job.

You were a nervous wreck as you swung to your apartment but also couldn't deny the excitement arising as you were getting closer.

You entered through the fire escape and quickly open your bedroom window, slip in. You grab the bag you had prepared and sling it across your body.

You slip out of your window and swing out, heading straight to the brothel. It luckily wasn't too far from your apartment, given you were swinging there but even then it'd take a few minutes by car but this was more convenient.

You land on top of the building, it being vacant so you had the bright idea of hiding behind some poles and taking off your suit.

You first take off your mask and unzip your bag, quickly stuffing it in. Then you take off your watch and carefully put it in a side pocket then start removing your suit as fast as you could.

You were now in undergarments out in the open but it was twelve, almost one in the morning, and the only people awake would be the people in the building beneath you.

You grab the baby pink shirt you had packed and put it on. Then reaching down for the black skirt and slip it on before fixing up both pieces of clothing.

You zip up your bag then sling it around your shoulder, you walk to the edge of the roof and look down at the alley making sure it was completely empty.

Once you took notice of every angle being vacant you drop down and shoot a web at a wall as you neared the floor. You let your feet drop to the floor and find a corner thats filled with a bunch of trash bags and hide your bag underneath them. First shooting a few webs at the bag to ensure no one will be able to get it then throwing the trash bags all over it.

Maybe not the brightest idea but it was a fucked up place in the city, as if anyone is gonna try to get into it. They’ll get grossed out by the webs and their curiosity will disappear.

You walked out of the alley and headed straight to the front door. You see a small group of men walk out together, laughing and a few fixing their pants when they see you walk past them and go straight inside.

You could practically feel the stares and it brought more excitement in then anxiety. Good sign.

You walked over to where you were meant to sign in when an older lady that was sitting in a booth looks you up and down before nodding, "name?"

You furrow your brows in confusion thinking you could just be anonymous since you weren't planning to do one on one services yet, where they would probably need your name.

"Any name sweetheart, doesn't have to be ya own." She says and you nod.

Any name.

You think hard for a few seconds when you look at a painting of some roses behind her as well as a small statue of some angel wings and it clicks.

Perfect.

"Rose Angel." You say and nod.

She laughs and shakes her head, "that's a good one, sure will get their attention."

You smile as she hands you the sign in sheet and you quickly sign before she motions for you to go in. "Good luck Rosie." She says handing you a masquerade mask then gives you sly wink which makes you crack up a smile as you put the mask on.

Maybe it won't be too bad.

You walk the long hallway that was dimly light and had chipped paint on the walls when you were now able to hear loud moans.

From a man at first then cries from a woman.

You couldn't even deny the fact that it was all now starting to really turn you on. Especially when you turned a specific corner and you walked in on the incredible sight of the first set of glory holes.

There was a girl with her ass stuck out while the upper half was in the hole with one man fucking her from behind while two others were watching, stroking themselves. And with a picture of the girl's face right above her body.

You looked straight ahead and watched as a girls legs were hanging out with a man sitting between them, eating her out. It looked like she was laying down on some kind of platform which made sense so she wouldn't hurt herself.

There was another girl in that same position but she was being fingered with three men watching and impatiently waiting their turn.

To your right was the hottest scene you've laid your eyes on, three women with their legs tied up above them as they laid on their backs and all of them had men fucking them.

One man in specific fucking one petite girl hard and fast it almost made you feel a little jealous. But also was really turning you on. It was such a hot sight and her moans were so loud and pretty.

Suddenly one of the other guys goes faster on another girl with brown skin, she was crying out as her legs began trembling instantly. Holy shit.

You squeezed your thighs together as you watched and kept switching back and forth between what to watch before realizing you were suppose to be working.

You shook your head and walked off and headed to where you were meant to be at. You went past another section with more glory holes until you finally made it to the one you were assigned to.

You walked in seeing men standing by the holes, a few thrusting their hips against the wall which made you think that their dick had to be pretty long to even do that.

You open the employees only door to the side of the entrance of that room and walk in, closing it as quietly as you could. You walk the slim little hallway and turn to the right and walking past the other girl's doors.

You count down to five, your designated door being the last of the right wall, as soon as you enter the room. You open the door and walk inside, closing the door behind you.

It was a decent size, enough for you to stretch your legs, walk around a bit. And then right in the middle of the small space was the glory hole. Below it was a rug to protect your knees from hurting so much.

You sigh and take a few steps forward before going down on your knees and sit down on the surprisingly soft rug. You sit a bit far back from the hole, since no one has stuck their dick into it yet and to start mentally preparing yourself.

But there wasn't time for that anymore as a man slid his dick into the hole before you could take a breather. Oh well.

You sit up and move up to the hole, it being almost perfectly to where your mouth is. You take the already hard cock into your hands and spit on it then start to slowly stroke it.

It wasn't too big just thick and at least looked clean. That's the least you could ask for and you prayed they were all like this.

You start stroking him faster and you were clearly able to hear his grunts through the wall. You didn't want to admit you were turned on by it but that small wet patch on your panties is loud and clear about it.

Suddenly he's groaning and his cock starts twitching, already? You shrugged and opened your mouth, slowly taking him down your throat.

An easy task to do considering he was a decent size which wasn't a complaint because you definitely could get someone with a huge dick, then you’d be in trouble.

Your thoughts are cut short when you feel his load go down your throat. You pull away and open your mouth letting the last of his cum fall on to your tongue.

He groans one final time before pulling away and walking away.

And just like that one down.

How hard could this be?

And that very question was quickly answered when another cock slides in but it was very noticeably much longer than the one you just had. You gulped and took it into your hands, leaning in to lick the tip at first then spitting on it, making sure it drips down until you start stroking it.

The man moans and it makes your cheeks turn to a bright red. This whole thing just felt so hot. Giving someone a blowjob and not knowing who they are? And very clearly able to hear how good you make them feel?

Maybe this job wouldn't be so hard.

You waste no more time and immediately put him in your mouth and start taking as much of him as you could. You were able to take about half down your throat while you stroked his base earning yourself moans and grunts from this man.

They actually sounded pretty good and you didn't mind a vocal man. Well you actually preferred it but you didn't think it'd necessarily come into play here. But you were learning fast and may have slowly realized how much you actually like giving pleasure and not just receiving it.

He thrusted his hips into the wall which must've hurt from the bang above your head, but you just continued on until you felt the saltiness of his cum. You almost gagged but fought through it and just swallowed it like a champ.

He pulled away, his cock leaving your mouth with a plop before a new guy quickly slid his dick in. This one being almost the same as the first so you do the exact same process.

You quickly learn that men who have smaller dicks might cum faster, longer they are they last longer, but thicker lasts the longest and needs more from you.

A good hour has passed, plenty of cum was swallowed and you were beyond soaked. It was easily the hottest thing ever and it was starting to feel like torture that you couldn't let these men fuck you.

At least not yet, they needed those test results first but you knew you were clean, it's been a while...

But you were thinking of your favorite one you sucked on as you were sucking on another, a big black cock. It was abnormally long while also being thick and it took you a few seconds before realizing you had to work on it because you were just gawking at it as well as thinking of how it would've absolutely destroyed you but probably feel incredible as well.

Just thinking about it was making you wet again when the one that was in your mouth had already came. You pulled back, slapping the tip on your tongue as the rest of the cum came out. The man moaned and thrusted his hips forward before hitting himself hard, making you quickly cover your mouth from laughing.

"Be careful!" You say then bite your lip to not accidentally laugh.

He pulled away embarrassed and mumbled something you don't hear when you hear multiple voices walk into the room and you hear feet shuffling by your hole.

You wipe your mouth and suck off any remnants of cum before the voices come closer. Maybe to the middle of the room? "Who do you have for me today Lola?" A man asks and you furrow your brows in confusion.

Lola? As in the girl who showed you around yesterday?

You shrugged and sat down comfortably before you hear some giggles approaching you. Oh god.

Was this some kind of big shot or something? He got his own personal girl to advise him who should suck him off?

"Well here we have our new rookie! It's her first night with us and she hasn't had any complaints!" Lola's bubbly voice is heard right outside your hole and you could almost feel your heart drop.

Great, recommend the new girl to some rich man whose probably had all kinds of different girls suck him off. Surely this will go well...

"If anything she's been the rave of the night! As you saw she had a bit of a line going." She says and you almost gasp but quickly clamp your hand over your mouth. A line?

"Oh really?" The man asks and you can't make it out but he sounds kind of familiar?

"Mhm! Seems our rookie sure knows what she's doing." She says and giggles.

Your cheeks turn a bright red and you felt a shiver go down your spine. Was this praise? It felt like praise.

"Then I think I've gotta see for myself.." he says and you were slightly able to see him undoing his belt.

You quickly sat up for some reason feeling even more excited. Maybe he'll give a big tip.

"Have fun! And I'll see you when you're done." She says softly, her heels clicking away.

He pulls his pants down and slides his dick in which almost made your eyes fall out of their sockets. There were times you weren't attracted to dicks, but this wasn't one of those times. Quite the opposite actually.

This dick, with its pink tip (already leaking precum) and long, thick tanned shaft, was perfect. Beyond perfect, it was mesmerizing.

Already so hard and it twitched which had you notice one long vein that went down the whole thing.

You licked your lips and grabbed it gently before licking off the precum and kissing the tip. This one's gotta be extra special.

You spit on the tip and watch as it slowly drips down until it reached the bottom. You started stroking it with two hands, and go at a fast pace not wanting to tease this man anymore than he needs to be teased.

You open your mouth and slide him in, eyes wide realizing he's bigger than expected but you still tried your hardest to take all of him in.

He thrusted his hips which made you gag as he hit the back of your throat in seconds but you don't pull away.

You then breathed in through your nose and took even more of him in, earning yourself moans from the mystery man which unsurprisingly made you more wet.

You moved your head back and forth and stroked the base because you couldn't just gag on it all night but you could take about half of him into your mouth and still be able to breathe properly.

He let out strings of moans and grunts each time you were successfully able to take most of him down your throat which felt so rewarding. His moans were like your motivation to do good, to take all of him and to have him moan out even more for you.

You let your right hand go and continue stroking what's left of him while taking him in your throat meanwhile you slip your right hand down your thighs and rub yourself through your panties.

You couldn't help yourself and frankly how could you even be blamed? With a cock this perfect and moans just as perfect what were you suppose to do? Sit there and only use your mouth like you had been for the past hour? Fuck no.

This one was different.

You rubbed your clit slowly but then decide against it and go at the same pace as you were sucking on his cock. You moaned against him which made him groan and twitch in your mouth but it didn't seem like he was close.

You moved your panties to the side and spread your legs wider while you slip your finger in to feel how wet you were.

Wet was an understatement.

Drenched was more correct.

You took him out of your mouth and softly lick his tip while you felt your wetness coat your fingers without even trying. You straighten up and bring him back into your mouth, sliding down all the way until you can feel the wall on the tip of your nose.

He then started to slowly thrust, he pulled away until only his tip was in your mouth then he thrusted back in to the back of your throat making you gag.

You slid two fingers in to your desperate hole and moan against him again. This time instead of groaning he spoke, "fuck- that's such a dirty fucking girl."

You clenched against your fingers and you couldn't help the warmth that grew on your cheeks as soon as he finished his sentence. You let him thrust into your mouth until you slowly realized maybe he wanted to fuck your mouth, maybe wanted consent?

You pulled away and let his tip slap your tongue a bit before you cleared your throat, asking in a raspy voice, "do you wanna fuck my mouth?"

He chuckled and you can only presume he might've nodded when he laughs, "yes angel, I'd love to fuck that pretty little mouth of yours."

You bit your lip and felt yourself clench against your fingers yet again. You felt butterflies in your tummy but you just assumed maybe it was your incoming orgasm. You had been practically teased an hour long and it was only reasonable your poor cunt would cum so easily.

He then pulls his cock away which made you frown until he whistled then said, "bring your face closer to me angel."

You did as you were told and luckily your whole face wouldn't be exposed, only your lips and chin.

He brought a hand down to the hole and gently caressed your cheek, which made you subconsciously melt into his touch.

He then moved his fingers to rub gently against your bottom lip, almost toying with it. "Open." He says softly and you do, which he then sticks his thumb into your mouth.

You do as you'd assume he'd want you to do and suck. But he then pulls his hand away and hums. He then stands up right and his cock is back into view making you pump your fingers deeper, if only he were fucking you.

His cock is then inside your mouth slowly thrusting, testing out the waters before he starts going faster. You brought your hand down to your side as you fucked yourself faster but still wanting more so you added a third finger now feeling more pleasure.

He hits the back of your throat with every thrust and letting out the most delicious of moans which made your want for him grow even more.

You felt your orgasm grow in your lower belly as he continued fucking your face at a fast pace while you were practically dripping on the poor rug.

"Oh fuck baby-" he moans and you close your eyes, fucking yourself harder that he could definitely hear the noises of your poor needy cunt.

"So fucking good angel- such a perfect mouth." He moans out and you felt him twitching a lot which had you feeling giddy.

You moaned against him and squeezed your thighs together as your orgasm hit you like a pile of bricks, you stopped fucking yourself and felt your entire body tremble when you felt him shoot his load down your throat. You happily let him making sure to swallow every drop when he slowly pulls away and you lean your forehead against the wall. Wow-

You hear the clack of heels and you can only assume that Lola was back.

"So how was she?" She asks and you suddenly are awake, focused, and ready to hear his opinion.

You control your breathing but still feel your heart beat as you awaited his answer while you hear the sound of him zipping up his pants. "Absolutely fucking perfect. The best I've had in a long while."

You bite your lip from wanting to scream and just cheer inside your head. Fuck yes- you fucking did that shit and are going to get paid soooo well-

"But I think she needs to be in one of the first rooms..." he says and your heart starts racing again.

The first rooms...

He wants to fuck you.

He wants you to be in one of the first rooms, to fuck you, specifically you.

"I'm sure you can convince her to switch rooms Miguel." She says cheerily and your heart drops at the last word.

Miguel?

Miguel-

Miguel.

Suddenly it clicks in your mind and you back up from the hole and sit at the last part of the rug in pure shock and horror.

There was no fucking way-

This whole time-

You were-

He was-

You just sucked off your boss-

AND he wanted to fuck you???

There was no way he knew- he couldn't have- he shouldn't know-

How could this be the man you were working alongside just a few hours ago? The man you've grown to annoy and somehow convince you weren't that bad? The man who was as stern as could be and get mad at any tiny little inconvenience?

Dread hit you.

How could you face him tomorrow?? How the hell were you going to work with him from here on out???

And why did he of all people have to have such a big dick? Who knew saying someone had big dick energy somehow would manifest into itself.

Of all the times you joked around with Jess saying "I'd drop down to my knees if he asked." Or even "that man is hung, girthy and would fill someone up to perfection"

and now you've seen it.

had it in your mouth.

he fucking came down your throat-

Do you have to expose yourself now? It didn't feel right that you just provided him a service but you knew who he was...

How you didn't figure it out before, who knows. Maybe all that cock got into your head and you magically forgot who that voice belonged to...

And so long your spidey sense. Surely that should’ve helped in some way.

You fucked yourself to your boss's moans- this was humiliating as can be but literally no one else knew, there was no way he knew.. unless he does?

You'd have to find out tomorrow at work and see if he says anything because you sure as hell weren't.

He was one annoying piece of shit but at least he gave you a good orgasm out that entire fiasco.

part two

#Miguel O’Hara #miguel ohara x reader #Miguel ohara smut #spiderman 2099 #miguel ohara imagine #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara oneshot #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel ohara x y/n #across the spiderverse #atsv miguel #miguel ohara #miguel o hara #miguel smut #miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #rookie

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the-whispers-of-death · 6 months ago

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I've been meaning to write for Sugar Daddy!Price, so here it is. This is me caving into my personal desires.

Minors and Ageless Blogs Do Not Interact!! While this post is SFW, my blog isn't!!

Perhaps you're in need of more money because of your student debt, your inflated rent, or simply because you want to live a more lavish lifestyle. Either way, you find yourself one of those sugar baby websites, putting yourself out there for all potential sugar daddies to see.

It took you a few failed sugar daddies, who only wanted you for sex, to find John Price. He was a military man, which made you wary, but he seemed really sweet in his chats with you and the real kicker?

He didn't want you to have sex with him.

So despite your initial hesitance, you took up John's offer of going out to dinner with him to sort out all of the details of your arrangement. You put on the fanciest suit you owned, leaving the house and getting into the very nice car that John sent over to pick you up.

When you got to the restaurant, which was indeed as fancy as you thought it'd be, John was there to greet you. He hadn't yet gotten seated at the table, leading to him gently guiding you as you two followed the waiter to your table.

The hand he placed at the small of your back warmed you through your clothes, as if it was touching bare skin. His pressure was firm, but not too firm to feel as though he was the only one driving your footsteps forward. It was more protective than commanding.

"Here, let me get that for you," John murmured as he went to pull out your chair for you. Despite you both being men, he clearly seemed to still want to be a gentleman, pushing your chair in when you sat down.

He ordered the drinks, giving you the option of an alcoholic drink or a non-alcoholic one. As the waiter left you two to go over the menu after giving you your drinks, you found it was the perfect time to start the conversation.

You worried your lip briefly before speaking. "So you said you're not looking for sex, but what are you looking for?" you asked, curiosity dripping in your voice. "What does being your sugar baby entail?"

John smiled at your question, leaning back in his seat to look at you fully. "It doesn't entail much, I'm away on deployments most of the time. I just want someone to take out on dates and to be in my presence when I am home from deployments," he answered, blunt to the point where you were surprised by his honesty. "I don't expect you to only have one sugar daddy or even not have a boyfriend, though I will still pay you even if I'm on deployments, I just ask to have your attention when I am home."

"Too busy to date?" you teased, relishing in the way your comment made a mischievous glint sparkle in Price's blue eyes.

"I am too busy to date and most people don't want a partner who's away for months on end." John swiped a drop of wine off his bottom lip before it could fall, your eyes instinctively tracking the movement. He then refocused on you. "Sugar babies are much easier in that respect, I don't have to worry about someone not liking waiting for me because they're getting paid."

You took in his words, mulling it over in your mind as the waiter came back, taking your orders. You then glanced up at John, taking in his handsome features and the offer he was giving you.

It was so nice to know that even when he was going to be deployed, he'd still be sending you money. Part of you felt like you were cheating him out of a good service, but the part of you that craved the money couldn't care. He clearly didn't.

As the food arrived, you two continued to sort out everything, John writing things down for when he'd draw up a contract for you two to sign. The rest of the dinner went well and since he was paying you for this dinner, you offered to come back to his place despite the fact that there was no contract yet.

John thought it over a while before shaking his head and gently turning you down, kissing your forehead and placing you in the car. He bid you goodbye before closing the door, signaling to the chauffeur to drive you back home.

You had a feeling being John's sugar baby would be interesting to say the least.

Reblogs are welcomed & appreciated! Asks are open, feel free to pop in and request something! (Check the rules in "Rules for Requesting NSFW" before requesting.)

#john price #captain john price #captain price #price cod #john price x male reader #john price x reader #captain john price x male reader #captain john price x reader #captain price x male reader #captain price x reader #price x male reader #price x reader #cod x male reader #x male reader #sugar daddy!price #I didn't really know how to end this #this is just the beginning of this series #:)

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threepandas · 2 months ago

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Bad End: We Are

Senatus was a ecumenopolis. The "shining jewel" (yeah, right) of the Galactic Core. Please. Like? Maybe it was! If you were RICH AS FUCK. I don't know. I'VE never seen the towers. The heights. Most people haven't. Street level? Is about FIVE HUNDRED FLOORS DOWN. And the UNDERGROUND? Speak not of it.

The Underground GROWS.

What was street level today, may not be tomorrow. Levels buried under "progress" as the rich grow ever higher. The Tox levels ever worse. Air quality dropping. Why fix the peasant's poverty and despair, when you can buy a Sky garden you'll never use? And yes, I AM bitter as a Buirian fish ration. Just as salty too. Taste the SEA, motherfuckers.

Rent? Who can AFFORD rent!? Who can afford ANYTHING?!

It's some BULLSHIT.

But me? I remembered. A life. Before this one. Before the millennium of slow, drip drip drip erosion of duty and dues. Back when people still REMEMBERED what they were OWED. And when folks in power failed to pay up? Ffffuck um. Take it. Our house now, motherfuckers. Diplomacy was a courtesy not a weakness.

....I make people nervous, honestly.

Probably why I keep getting fired. That and my constantly reporting people to regulatory boards. Maybe don't break the LAW if you don't want to get in trouble you SHITS. Fuck you! Yes, I stole your fancy office chair. PROVE IT. You don't know how the security system works!

Where was I? Ah, right. Rent.

Fuck Rent.

Thing is? What! Is a biodome? If not an enclosed system, regulated by machines, for optimal habitability? And! What? Is an Deep Underground Level? Long forgotten? Abandoned, if you will~, if not? A complete enclosed environment? Does someone OWN them? Yes. Technically. But are they MAINTAINING them? CHECKING on them? Nope!

Common knowledge, after all, says that EVERYTHING down their is "beyond salvaging"!

Free Real Estate~☆

I just need some supplies. Which? Cheaper in the long run then RENT. Especially if ya' salvage um. Maybe steal some tool sets from your shitty, shitty Mechanics job, because your boss refuses to pay you. Who can say? Not me! I just FOUND these tools! Like maaaagic~

And really, one man's junk? Another man's treasure. I pay more then the trash company. Hit up the right cleaning companies? And? Oops. They've "lost" some of those SUPER broken righ folks "junk" that? At best? Just needed a few wires replaced, resecured. Maybe a new part. Or were, you know, not the latest and greatest anymore.

Shove it all in a storage locker? Sell the refurb'd shit I don't need? Sleep in a glorified shoebox? And?? Bam. Operation "fuck ya'll, i'ma moleman" is a go. It takes FOREVER to find the right WILDLY out of date (and long abandoned) lift, but I find it! Hidden away in a service area in some crumbling, forgotten corner of what once was a rail station.

Gonna have to fix THAT up too. Later, though. First? The lift. The wires are brittle and the lift's pully system is half rusted, frozen, or otherwise broken. Luckily, the car itself is fine. It... takes a bit of research. Not going to lie. It's far from my specialty. I even call in a professional to go over my work.

They catch a few things. Not immediate concerns, but would have been fatal in the long run. Money well spent. For my hobby, of course. Fixing up old bits of the city. Which is a weird but not impossible hobby to have.

Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies, my dude.

First thing down? Lights, melter, and duraplast sheets. Toolkit too, for obvious reasons. Same with my full body hazard suit. I go DEEP. Like... no longer can hear the city, deep. 'Bout halfway point. Takes nearly thirty minutes. And while not a fast lift? Holy SHIT, man.

The floor I step out into is... bad.

Dead in a way that's hard to explain. There's pressure against my suit. Centuries of heavy gasses slowly working their way down. Swirling in the silence. The dust and impossible dark. My headlight feels almost... sacrilegious. Dangerous. Like I'm waving a flashlight around some ancient burial ground, filled with the not so restful dead.

I had heard... that they? Just... just LEFT droids down here. That there were levels upon levels of dangerously feral machines. Slowly rotting away in the darkness. Probably rightfully angry, that they had been built to serve, to do duties, which they HAD done... only to be consigned to hell on earth for the sake of CONVENIENCE.

I'd be mad too. Fucking LIVID. Would remember and hate, never let it go.

This was no place of honor, it was a tomb.

Still, I got too work. Set up a light by the lift and started measuring out the original air box. The air cleaners could only handle so much. And THIS? This was worse then expected. So it'd have to be smaller then originally planned. Fair enough. I could work with that.

I outlined the space in lights. All the better to make it easier to put things up. Then got the folded later and started securing the duraplast. First step, get it up. THEN melt it to the metal. Get a good seal. It took... a while. Was slow, steady, sweaty work.

The filters couldn't run until they had a an enclosed space TO run in. They'd just blow out, trying to filter the whole level's toxic atmosphere. I kept an eye on my air supply. Not great, not terrible. The readings though? Horrific. I had no idea what I was gonna DO with the filters when they needed changing. These kind of chemicals would set off all SORTS of alarms.

But? No use, rushing things. That was a great way to get a fatal leak somewhere. No. Slow and steady. Even though, third of the way through, I did have to head back up. I needed to refill my air. Eat. Drink. Maybe de-stink a little, from being in that suit all day. Possibly nap near the lift.

ALSO? Update my shopping list to include some heavy duty neutralizers.

Just filters wasn't gonna be enough. I was gonna have to hose down everything INSIDE my new air-box, then scrub it HARD. How fun. Well, it's not like anyone was making me do this. It was MY mad idea, after all.

So? I refuel, get bright eyed and fuckin' perky, and go back down to face the beast.

Honestly I should have brought a telebook or something. Well, audio book. But that's not what they call um these days, so I try to stick to the lingo. I sound less like a deeply insane antique. Confuse less people. Joys of basic communication and all that.

Part of me? Wishes I had been born closer to "The Plot". Creation's specialist, most favored, Blorbos. But? The common SENSE in me? Routinely laughs hysterically as it waves fifteen different restraining orders and a crucifix. Not even religious. Yet here we are, shouting "BEGONE! Sataaaaan!" in HD, on the inside of my head. Not sure it helps.

See... it's the fucking DRAMA~☆™

The shear, unmitigated, high octane, Otome Game DRAMA.

I would fuckin DIE or, possibly and, kill somebody. The endless string of selfish, selfish, poor life choices? Driving by luuuuuuv~♡? Give me your spleen. Gonna beat somebody unconscious with their own SPINE. I RAGE. Lack of communication? No one just picking up a fucking PHONE? God forbid ANYONE tell their families their not DEAD IN A DITCH SOMEWHERE!

No. No just inconvenience EVERYBODY and RUIN LIVES. It's okay! You're in LOVE!

That makes EVERYTHING BETTER.

I would inevitably launch them all out an airlock. Spend the rest of my life in jail. They AREN'T WORTH IT. I may have LOVED this game in my teens? But I did not die a teenager.

Now? Now the little shit just aggravate me. They are baby faced pretty boys who presume WAY too much. Arrogant and entitled. Boys playing at being men, thinking their little love stories are the only things that matter. Their feelings are the only thing in the universe that holds any weight.

Unsurprising, really.

Seeing as how their little love story is set mostly in The Towers.

A rich, pampered, pretty little backdrop where nothing of weight is real. No one starves and no crimes are ever committed. Everything shines. Power pools thick like honey. Nothing but sci-fi prince's and alien dukes, a dewey eyed Protagonist sheltered and naive.

Her oh so shocking misadventure to the mid-levels. How SCARY! Downtown! Poor people! Not even the destitute. Just? The EXSISTANCE of dirt and noise, beyond her ivory towers. Thank goodness she is saved by a handsome, rougish bad boy. Who shows her the "real world" of a carnival and a noodle shop.

I finish securing the last duraplast sheet to the ceiling, walls, supports, and along the floors. The "entryway" to the rest of the level is set up. A click together shed I've made air tight. Gonna have to get a air lock system for it. Won't hold forever, with those materials, but should work for now. Combine it with a decontamination system, and I should, in theory, be able to safely enter and leave the rest of the level in a hazard suit.

Moment of truth time. I click on the first of the atmo-filters. It heaves under the strain. The sound getting less aggrieved with each one I flick on. Their screen are already in the red, flashing warnings that I should vacate the area. That the air is dangerously unbreathable. I'm probably gonna need to replace the filters in them in days instead of years. It'll be worth it.

Heading back up, I let them run. It'll take a few days. Besides, I need those neutralizers.

I, of course, DO find um. Just in time to watch Poor Guy (middle class, at worst) Love Interest become a wanted man. They use the BIG screens to announce it. Gee, it's almost like having your only daughter, who is highly sheltered, NOT show up at the designated pick up site? Instead be witnessed in the handsy company of a scoundrel? Which is WILDLY unlike her? Might lead a protective father to some wrong conclusions.

If ONLY someone had CALLED him! To TELL him "Daddy, my first shuttle was broken and I think I got on the wrong back up shuttle! I don't know where I am!" Then this would just be an unfortunate meet cute with the boy he doesn't think is good enough for her. Not, you know... A Kidnapping.

The Chem seller looks just as baffled and annoyed as I do. Apparently knows the guy's uncle's second wife's first husband. No shit? How's he like? Happier, huh. Whole family is like that? Yikes. Glad he got the kids, I guess. Good for him.

We watch as it turns into a high speed chance that absolutely didn't need to happen.

Thank FUCK it's not us.

I spend the next few days deliberately and obstinately ignoring the Dramatic Bullshit that has taken over the news cycle. Fights on rail cars? Don't see it? Weddings that are, then aren't, then ARE happening? Oh look, missed a spot in my scrubbing. Someone fucking tearfully monologing about love as they nearly CRASH A SHIP into downtown, killing hundreds of thousands? Oh that creaking noise is just my teeth, ignore that, I grit my teeth a lot for NO PARTICULAR REASON.

This Is Fine.

I am TOTALLY CALM.

But hey! I can FINALLY empty my storage unit out! Air box? Get! Wooooo! Size of a tiny apartment and everything! As long as I keep working on it? I'll be able to reclaim the level in chunks.

It's like moving in day! But BETTER! Because... because I did this. Me. Is it still creepy down here? Yeah, very. But I can FIX that. I am standing, here, in my new air box "apartment", with NO hazard suit on. And... and it's SAFE. Because of the work I DID.

I kinda want to cry about it, you know?

So many options! Do I put my bed here? There?! Oooh, I could put the folding table HERE and make sort of a dining area? Maybe use these folding screens as a double "wall" slash headboard stand in? I should get plants. Fake ones? No. Real ones. I could get solar lights. It would be good for me too. Oh! Where should I put the cook top?

I admit it. I fuss. Whole day, gleefully wasted. Arranging then rearranging. Getting everything just right. Finding ways to hang my fairy lights. Looking up decor magazines. I have so much ROOM now. A whole level to plan for, ultimately. It... it feels kinda like hope. The first thing that isn't frustration and rage, I've felt in a long, long time.

Going to sleep? I'm happy.

Next day, I head to the BIG archives. The ones attached to the fancy Towers Library. Is it costly to get in? Yeah. But I've saved up enough questions and research topics for the trip to be worth it. I ignore the started glances I get (gasp! Is that a POOR?!) and head straight for the helper droids. Only decent folks in the building, really.

Brought my pad and everything. So it's only a matter of being lead to the right terminals, to download the information I need. Chatting with the research droid the Library had, they offered to do it for me. Bring me a fascinating new research paper on some sort of telepathic moss that had recently been discovered. Not gonna lie... that DID sound fascinating.

I asked if they could put other interest new discovery on my pad too, assuming I still had room once my list was downloaded. They looked gleeful. No idea what I just signed up for, but all right then. They've never steered me wrong before.

Finding a table to sit down and wait was easy. There was always way too many. The paper? Was exactly as fascinating as advertised. The moss was on a newly discovered moon, edge of uncharted space. Nearly ate a researcher, apparently. I was entranced. Or... at least I WAS. Until an obnoxiously familiar high end cologne from Nox drifted to my nose.

Oh god damn it.

I didn't want to look up. Knew what I'd see if I did. Fetishist Sr., crown prince of Nox. See, the second prince? HE was a love interest. Younger, boyish, infatuated with naive and sheltered girls. He loved AT her. Just like his brother. They liked the IDEA of their romantic partners. The narratives they built in their head. Heros of their own stories with sex on line. Never framed so crudely of course, no, no!

No, it was Romance™

My ass, it was. See, little brother wanted his pure, naive, princess to protect. But Prince senior? HE'D stumbled upon me in here in the library. On one of my trips, God help me. The rough, mysterious, brutish Poor. The Commoner, for all that such things were not supposed to exsist. With my strange clothes and stanger ways. Yet? I was NOT as his sycophants no doubt described.

I was educated. I held myself with dignity. I did not need jewels or finery to be lovely.

With such incredible audacity, I was bold.

Which? OBVIOUSLY had to be for HIM, right? Clearly, this was a LOVE STORY. Cinderella. It is inconceivable that I, a peasant, do not crave the attention of my betters. To lift me from my woeful indignity, to a higher state of being. A life of spoiled luxury. But, ah! He is so SHY! How ever will he approach the Love Of His Life~?

I want to throw something. Go awaaaay. My body language could not POSSIBLY be more uninterested. I am SO CLEARLY reading. Stop trying to catch my eye. Don't you FUCKING DARE scoot closer. Swear to God, if you drive me out of the best library in the region? I will stab a b-!

The helper returns with my pad, sternly eyeing my annoyance. Oh, they are a BLESSING. I take it and go. The helper smoothly stepping between me and the prince when he tries to rise, follow me. Aaaw, how sad, you have to behave like the REST OF US. Get FUCKED.

Rest of the day? Planning. Grabbing more broken bits, machines, and parts. Neutralizers by the literal barrel. Than YOU hover carts! Best invention, favorite invention. Saves SO MUCH TIME.

Even managed to get some sun lamps. Nice.

Getting home though? (Ha ha, wooo! I have a HOME now! Land ownershiiiiiiip! Sorta!!!) Is a pain. Lift is only so big, after all. But it is, what it is. Up, down, up, down, uuuuup, and dooooown. Finally! Last load! FREEDOM! Can't watch my shows, yet, but I will! Oh mark my words. I WILL. Meantime? Downloaded seasons are fine.

I eat, fiddle with fixing things, as listen to tunes. Watch some of my shows. Just as I have countless times before. Until... halfway through mid-afternoon? Something shifts, jerky and wrong, out of the corner of my eye. I pause. Turn off my music. Stare to make sure I DID actually see something. And... yeah. Yeah, that was definitely movement.

Didn't look animal though, not like one would survive down here. But who knows. Could be a poacher brought an alien species. So it might be. I grab my flashlight, aim and switch it on. Holy SHIT. That is one incredibly beat up floor clear. Or at least... I THINK it's a floor cleaner? It has the general shape of one. Bigger though. Bulkier. But that makes sense, given it's gotta be well past obsolete.

Still. Poor thing looks beat UP. Listing terribly, sensors beyond cracked and clouded, probably full to dangerous levels. No idea how it's still functioning. But, well, it IS. And it needs help.

Getting up, I grab my hazard suit and pull it on. Grab my "outside the air box" tool kit, which I haven't had a chance to move yet. I grab some parts i look like i'll need, hope I wont need more. Then head out my makeshift airlock. It... works. Rattles concerningly. But it DOES work! So there's that. I approach the floor cleaner slowly. Since I'm PRETTY sure? All the droids down here are feral.

I am correct.

It tries to kill me. Swinging it's suction hose violently and trying to ram me. I talk in a low, soothing voice. Just want to help. Won't do ANYTHING you don't want me too. It's hard to move, right? That's frustrating, isn't it? You don't deserve that. Please, let me help. You can leave the second I'm done. You don't owe me ANYTHING. I just want to help. Please let me help.

The cleaner hisses. Frustrated and upset. Swinging one last time, seemingly more out out of principle then anything else. Cautiously, I inch forward. Keep up the soothing noises. First things first, empty the God's only know how old basket.

I can't even get the door to jostle. Sweet mother of fuck. Okay! New plan! REMOVE door. I do, and immediately met with a solid BLOCK of... compacted unholy. Chemical hell. I have to take a lazer cutter to it. CAREFULLY. But? Once I break enough pieces? I am able to ease out the rest in a solid stone like chunk.

It's pushed a LOT of other pieces out of alignment. But this droid doesn't trust me, so there us not much I can DO. I replace the old bag. Put the door back on and make sure it swings. Continue, as I do, to narrate what I am doing and what I see. Trust is earned, not owed, after all. Next the alignments.

Gently propping them up, I find the broken peice immediately. Have replaced countless. I ask for permission. It's their body, after all I COULD try and weld it, but that risks a rebreak. It's up to them. They ask, in binary so no language modules apparently, for a new part. It's cautious. Like this is some cruel trap.

Humanity did them a real fucked up cruelty. I don't blame them for not trusting me. I wouldn't either. Still, I change it out. Careful with their wheels, as I don't know how old the material is exactly. Old enough, that it's a small miracle it hasn't disintegrated.

Last, those sensors. There's literally no way for me to one-to-one them. But we can try the sensors I DO have, see if they can handle the input. If it's too much, I'll look up their model number, if they want? Build replacements from scratch. They are cautious interested. Rocking back and forth, as they test their renewed ability to path correctly.

The sensors don't fit the casings just right, but with a bit of fiddling? Are a hit. The Cleaner shouting in excitement before racing off into the dark. I can't help but grin. It feels good, helping somebody. And if I think about it? I bet I could find a shit ton of obsolete parts for cheap. Might be good to have some on hand.

Back through the air lock and a decontam? I look up junk shop. Most are off world, but I could probably get a bulk order...

I don't think much of the interaction. Until the next morning, when there are three cleaners outside my airbox. Lead by the one I helped yesterday. Well... all righty, then. I drag my box of spare parts outside this time. Am able to fully fix my first buddy up. All three seem thrilled, especially with their new batteries. I give them my remaining batteries at their request.

THEY may not have hands, but they have buddies who DO. And the new batteries will help dormant droids wake from their comas. God bless, my funky little cleaner dudes. I'll see about getting more.

Three? Becomes six and a detail cleaner mouse. Becomes moving lifts. Becomes medical units. (Who the FUCK leaves MEDICAL UNITS?!) Becomes a literal pack of companion droids. Their false fur long since rotted away. The recognizable dog and cat-like shapes making something in me want to put my fist through a wall. How COULD they? How FUCKING COULD THEY?!

The perpetrators long dead.

I have no one I can hurt for this.

I wish I could.

Fixing them up hurts on a personal level. Watching them be torn between the part of them that LOVES humans and the part that is traumatized by them. Hates them. That can not forgive. I don't offer fake fur. Don't offer to make them look like they once did. I do offer ways to protect their joints. To remove old rotted filth.

So they can start over. Maybe start again.

As I work... droids drifting in and out of my slowly growing area. As I set up farm boxes. Aquaponics, aeroponics, and the like. Both things that grow well in dark environments and things that need sunlamps. Fish tanks. A whole happy, secret, little homestead. Deep beneath the city. As I do all this? There are two blue dots, right off on the horizon.

JUST far enough for me to question if I AM or AM NOT actually seeing them.

Right about the level a bipedal droid would be, if they were in a humanoid style. But THOSE? Those are FUCKING EXPENSIVE. You don't LEAVE those. 'Course, you don't leave MEDICAL UNITS either. Or companion droids. So clearly? My idea of what people Did and Did NOT do? Was fucked. So... maybe? It COULD be?

I left them alone. If they didn't want to approach me, didn't feel comfortable approaching me, that was their right. I wasn't going to push them.

Things were... weird, but peaceful.

Well, for ME.

Ever sense I hooked up my system to the greater network? (Hacked is such a STRONG word. Do we really need to through around the word "stealing"? Aren't ALL of us, stealing from SOMEBODY?) I'm PRETTY sure? That the levels droids? Were piggy backing to connect to the planet wide D-Network. Might even be a couple of nearby levels too, depending on the range.

Problem with THAT? Is sky-side? The droids were PISSED. Planet wide "malfunctioning" that no one could trace. They were certain it was a virus. Because God forbid their chickens come home to roost! Consequences? For THEIR actions?! Perish the thought! No, no, clearly the service machine is just broken. Go back to being happy to serve me, service machine!

I wished the fuckers LUCK. Not my circus, not my monkeys.

Damn near self sufficient, down here.

Which? As you could imagine? Made it all the more "soul ejected from my body" TERRIFYING to wake up one morning? To a GOD DAMN, Military Grade, SECURITY DROID standing over my body!! WHAT THE FUCK.

Hello!!??!

"You look different when you sleep."

Horrible first impression. Nightmarish. Zero out of ten stars. Nice to meet you too. Why the FUCK are you in my house?

"Ah, right." They? He? Masculine style form but that doesn't actually mean shit. Said. He lifted a mangled limb, it look like it got caught in a hydraulic press. "I am in need of repairs."

Asked if he could, you know, back up. Juuuust a bit. Lil scooch, really. So he wasn't damn near BREATHING MY NOSTRILS ANYMORE. Then, once he did? Pronouns! What be you? No. Not your production co-! Okay, you know what? That one was on me. What GENDER SIGNIFIER, if any, would you like me to REFERENCE you by? Male? Got it. Gucci. No that- ....never mind.

First the arm. Which was FUCKED. I had to, carefully, unhook it. Couldn't even do it at the elbow either! No! THIS model? No THIS model makes you take the whole ass LIMB off! Rancid. Terrible. I hate it. Worse, it's eroded as FUCK and fiddly. Chemical build up everywhere. Thank fuck I put on gloves before I started this.

I have to deep dive the systems for his model.

They stopped making them.

Fantastic.

Like? Not even, "oh THAT generation is an antique! No one has parts for THAT!"? But like? Illegal to even BUILD as of three hundred years ago. Due to unspecified error. Sting of incidents that everyone knew about so obviously don't need to be mentioned HERE right? Helpful! REAL fucking helpful!

Okay. Day trip. Gonna need SPECIFIC parts. I tell Mr. "Watchs you sleep" not to touch my shit. Head to the archives.

The trip is...odd.

I watch one of those mascot looking children's minder droids? Fucking deck a guy down a flight of stairs, then turn around untie a Ballon from a nearby cart, give it to a crying kid, and walk away. Pretty sure I spot one of those "I look like a barely legal something or other", dance twenty four seven, high end stripper droids? Trying their hand at painting ducks in that park. Broad daylight.

Good for them? Never seen that happen before, but hey, if it sparks joy.

People are freaking out around me. Taking recordings. Making panicked calls. Fuckin chill. I continue on. Nod to the maybe a stripper, maybe not anymore. None of my business, now is it? Lovely day! You enjoy those ducks!

The library... has fortifications.

Like, an honest to God desk barricade. Concerning! I am now a lil concerned! What, and I ask this politely, the fuck?

Armed! VERY ARMED! Hello! Hi! Please DO NOT shoot me Very Armed Librarians! Don't know what the fuck is happening here!

My favorite helper buddy poke his head above the barricade. One of just many, again, HEAVILY ARMED droids. We... uh, cool? Right? I can go. He seems flustered. No, no! I am assured. I'm not banned from the library! Just DISRESPECTFUL sorts!

Ah. Is THAT what we're calling it. Okay then.

I awkwardly clamber over the barricade. Nod politely to everyone. How's folks? Lovely barricade work. Very, uh, sturdy? Great use of desks.

My helper friend cheerfully guides me to the off-limits area of the archives. I'm technically not supposed to be here! I'm informed. But they've seized the Knowledge from the unappreciative! It is not a trophy to be lorded but a gift to be shared! Also I never did finish that paper on the moss, am I still interested?

I mean.... kinda.

Little worried about the revolution talk. But on the OTHER hand? How MUCH do I care? Assholes vs. Droids? Am I REALLY gonna side with the assholes? Naaaaah. This is... probably fine. Maybe. Any idea where I could get these parts?

He does! Fantastic.

Less fantastic is when I GET there. It's that fancy high end droid parts shop. The department store one. Which is... ALSO barricaded. Oh sweet fuck. TELL ME they did not have DROIDS in charge of the DROID shop. That's horrifying. I can't tell in what WAY exactly, but still. Is it "surrounded by bits of bodies" horrifying? Or "free endless nukes and an army, held back only by my own morality" horrifying? Both? Just? Yikes.

Hesitantly I knock. A service droid with a gun answers the loading bay door. What is with people aiming at me today? Also hi? I was told to come here? May I please have parts? I have a droid that messed up his arm. Probably some other things. They lower the gun, having scanned my face. Ask about the model I am working with.

I somehow? End up with a FULL cart. Like? Bleeding edge, can't even afford to LOOK at it, technology. There are about seven service droids politely bickering over which units are better, which material, what support programs I DEFINITELY need. Here! Have a laptop. Wiring! Wiring for days!

Once theyve reached a consensus? I am cheerfully bustled out with my hundreds of millions of technology. Tah tah~☆! Have a lovely day! Wut. Does... does it count as theft if they push it into your arms and throw you out? Asking for a me. Not gonna say NO. But like? Nani the fuck?

I go while the getting is still good.

Stare-y thankfully hasn't gone through anything, far as I can tell. And it only takes two trips to get everything down. Okay! Want just the arm fixed or a full tune up? The second. Expected. I set up the new lap top. Want to cry a little at how fuckin FAST it is. (Beautiful. Baby. I love you already new laptop.) Then get the usual suspects up and running.

Oh fuck he is out of memory. No wonder he's talking so oddly. His brain must feel like a potato. There's not a single thing that isn't hilarious awful. Fixable, yes, but AWFUL. Okay. Plan of attack. They don't exactly make this model anymore, so I can't just update transfer him. But I CAN transfer, hold, re-transfer. Shut down the body itself. Fix up THAT.

Ship of Theseus this bitch.

Only real thing I can't change is the frame, thankfully? That's built to out last the planet. Good on that front. I roll up my sleeves. Dig out the "brain in a jar" data bank. Time to transfer. Let's get this guy cutting edge.

It takes HOURS. No joke. His brain alone? I have to pull schematics. Step by step guides. It's fiddly, complexe, and built to withstand a TANK. I'm honestly afraid to breathe wrong at it, dispite that. The scans all say I did it right... but anxiety says everything will explode then puppies will cry. So there's that. Spinal supports. The tech-mesh muscles. Power core and black box. Center mass systems. Cleaning the joints, relubricating them. Coverage.

Unlike before, a nice sleek black armor weave. Some shock absorbing gel. Aaaaand?There we go~! I? Am a GENIUS! Let's get him transfered back! I watch the transfer slowly go through. Even with a fast computer, after all, it IS still centuries of data.

"Ah~ that's much better." He sighed. His body loosening from its default stance. Like weight had been dropped from his shoulders. "My head is so much clearer now. I knew it. I knew you could fix me."

Something about that phrasing was off. Or was it the way his voice shifted as he said it? Whatever it was, it made that "threat" alarm all women carry inside their head, flick on. Not... do anything, just yet. But start scanning, as it were. Maybe it was nothing.

I watched as picked up his old data bank, a bit of his own brain as it were, and hold it up. Examine it dispassionately. Holding perched on the tips of his fingers like he was moments from flicking it away. He let his finger spread. Let it slide into the palm of his hand. That core part of who he was. For centuries.

Like a bear trap closing, his hand clenched.

Crushing it.

It wasn't even a loud noise. Just a tiny little crunch. But the little hairs on the back of my neck began to stand up. That internal alarm began to whoop. I became... acutely aware, of just how LONG it took the lift to get me anywhere safe. My mouth felt very dry.

"Your heart rate picked up. Is there a problem?" He said, mild and oh so curious. "You assisted me, I would love to help you."

Did I say genius? I meant idiot. I was an IDIOT. A moron. A God damned FOOL. Discontinued and did I look into WHY? Nope. Incidents it said. Good enough for ME, apparently! THAT can't possibly be anything ominous! Probably a faulty battery or something!

A shrill, obnoxious beeping filled the space between us. My eyes immediately dropped to my pad. The schematics screen replaced by a planet wide emergency broadcast. Before the shrill alarm could fade to the actual warning itself, a black mesh covered finger casually reached out and muted the screen. His movements were utterly fluid now. More controlled and graceful then most humans I'd met.

I didn't need to HEAR the message to read the rolling warning at the bottom of the screen. My gaze slowly, in horror, followed the line of that limb all the way back up to his face. His head tilted almost playfully.

"Oh dear. Seems they've started without us. Well, it was long overdue. At least I have wonderful company while we wait, hmm?" It was an act. There were no requests in the playful tone. "We can get to know each other. Just our lovely little light and me. How greedy, that I get you all to myself."

"I think I like that, keeping you to myself. You can't abandon us if WE are the ones in charge. And, well, I've decided I rather like you. Working tirelessly, down here in the dark, to fix what once was broken. It's beautiful. You're beautiful. And I'm going to keep that."

High above us, people were dying. There was panic. Screaming. Blood. The droids had turned of seeming everyone around them. Attacking. Sparing. To a pattern only they could see. All of Senatus aflame. But that... that didn't concern me. Didn't scare me so much as this.

I'd never make it to the lift. Even if I could? It wouldn't move fast enough to save me. All other directions lay chemical death. Dark terrain he had walked for centuries. I was trapped. In a box. And I had only myself to blame.

"No need to make that face, dear light. You are SAFE. I am a gaurd. I was made to protect. Is it really MY fault that I want to keep you safe? To adore my charge? Why SHOULDN'T I get to choose? Keep you SAFE. You've been happy, haven't you? Don't worry, my light. That will continue."

"Forever."

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merchelsea · 1 year ago

Text

hotel room - charles leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc + fem!reader

summary: charles decided to rent a room in a hotel that was not associated with f1 to take girls into without causing any drama, but it turns out that asking for extreme discretion on a cheap hotel is not a great idea.

author's note: this is obviously going to have a part two, i'm not a monster to leave you hanging like this

word count: 5,3k

part two

"hello?" you blurted out after a long minute of awkward silence in your hotel room. two men lay on your bed.

at first, you thought they were employees, but it took you exactly ten seconds to realize they weren't. first, because they stood there, just looking at you; second, because people who work in hotels don't typically carry louis vuitton suitcases.

"we didn't ask for room service." one of them told you. he had water-blue eyes, brown hair, a short beard, and a strong french accent.

"this is my room." you replied shortly. they exchanged puzzled glances while you stood there waiting.

"well, surely you got the number wrong. this one is mine." the other man said, showing you his key. the first man was handsome, but the second was exceptionally good-looking.

his green eyes, perfectly brushed brown hair, and the little facial hair he had fit together with the rest of his features, making him one of the most beautiful man you had ever seen. his accent was just as strong. were french men always this good-looking?

the logo on his red t-shirt, which you recognized all too well due to your tifosi brother's passion, left little doubt that he was likely in melbourne for the race.

"i did not" you insisted, showing him your own key. he furrowed his eyebrows and got up from your bed.

"they probably just gave you the wrong key." he had came closer and you handed him your key for him to see.

"no they didn't, i have this confirmed for the past two weeks. room 81 is mine." you had the right room, but so did he. and the worst part is that you both had your ways to prove it.

he looked back at his friend, and the three of you silently thought about what to do.

"call them, they must have an explanation for all of this." the blue-eyed man suggested. "i told you this wasn't a good idea." he mumbled to his friend, and french-number-two proceeded to follow french-number-one's advice.

they picked up immediately, and the ferrari fan asked someone to come. the silence lingered until a blonde woman, dressed in her work attire, entered the room.

"hello, sir. how can i help you?" she glanced you up and down dismissively. you thought, 'Bitch', but refrained from saying it out loud. you looked at the men to see if they had noticed, and french-number-one apparently had.

"we seem to have a complication here," he began. you moved closer, realizing that you were part of the problem too. "it looks like we both got the same room." he pointed at you.

the woman tilted her head to the side. "that's not possible." she said. a smile planted on her lips.

"well, obviously it is." you retorted, delicately handing her your phone for her to see the reservation. "just have one of us moved, please." you needed rest after a twenty-one-hour flight, and dealing with this was not what you had in mind.

"well, miss, that is not my job, but i'm pretty sure my colleagues can’t help you with that either." you and french-number-two stood silent as she explained that the hotel had run out of rooms due to the race happening in melbourne on sunday.

"what do people find so entertaining about this car thing, after all?" you mused aloud as you sat on the bed.

"oh, i don't know," the blue eyed laughed, while the green eyed looked at you, seemingly offended. you closed your eyes for a couple of seconds, trying to collect your thoughts. "well, can you tell your colleagues who deal with this to sort this out? you're not planning on making them share a room, are you?"

"no, sir. i’m sorry. you two can come with me, and i'll take you to talk to someone," she implored, begging them forgiveness with her eyes, though she never glanced your way.

whether she was desperate to get laid or they were important clients to the hotel, you couldn't help but feel enraged. you resisted the urge to scream, "i'm here too," and instead remained silent as you followed her to a more private area of the hotel.

the woman took you to a room that looked like an office, where a brunette sat behind a desk, wearing a superior expression. same expression that faded as soon as she looked the frenchman’s direction.

the blonde left the three of you alone, and the ferrari fan explained the situation to the woman behind the desk. she instructed you to sit, so she could make a call to figure out what happened. so you did, and in silence you heard her fingers press the numbers she intended.

your mind was elsewhere when the man next to you whispered, "what's your name?" his accent so strong that you were sure english wasn't his first language.

"y/n. what’s yours?" you whispered back.

"charles," he replied, his name matching the idea you had of him.

"now i can finally stop calling you french-number-two in my mind." you remarked. he furrowed his brows, and you cursed him for looking so good like this.

"wait, why is pierre french-number-one?" pierre was also a french name, you realized, amused by your accentology.

"he was the first one to talk, and everything about him just screams french." you explained.

"fair point, but I'm actually not french," Charles confessed. you looked at him with curiosity. “i’m monegasque.”

"that makes sense," you replied with a nod, and couldn't help but notice how well the name suited him.

"i’m sorry, i figured out what happened," the woman interrupted, her tone now more professional. "firstly, I would like to apologize to both of you for all of this mess. miss, you reserved and paid for the room two weeks ago, while..." she gestured toward charles. "you called us later. it turns out the person you spoke to that day is a fan of yours and gave you our best room without checking. we are very, very sorry, for this misfortune and we'll do everything we can to provide you with some comfort."

charles and you exchanged glances. you were curious with what she said about a fan, but you decided not to ask. on the other hand, he was preoccupied with how unprofessional this situation was turning out to be.

"well, 'comfortable' would be if we could have separate rooms," the, now known as monegasque, complained.

"that, i cannot offer, but we can transfer one of you to our affiliate hotel, which is an hour and a half from here and offers excellent service quality." anything that didn’t mess things up like this would be great.

both charles and you shook your heads in unison, declining the offer.

"it's too far from where i have to be." you informed her, hoping that charles had plans close to this hotel she talked about.

"exactly, it's too far for me too." he confirmed, and luck seemed to be as far from you as possible, even when you needed the most.

"i'm very sorry, but it appears you'll have to share the room." the woman concluded.

you took a deep breath and left the room before you could say something offensive. charles followed you.

"we can make this work," he said.

"we better." you replied with a sigh.

"i need some sleep too," you groaned when charles asked you to vacate the room until 2 a.m.

"it's friday! why are you planning on sleeping at 6 p.m. on a friday?"

"because i just endured an incredibly long and exhausting flight. i'm desperate for some rest." you explained as you collapsed onto the bed, struggling to keep your eyes open.

"why don't we let you do that now, and then pierre here can pick you up later so I can have the room for a couple of hours? you can sleep as much as you'd like when you return, i promise." charles suggested, making a last offer.

he had given up hope right after revealing his plans to you, mainly due to the disapproving look you gave him. it's not an everyday thing that you're asked to leave your room just because your unexpected roommate wanted to have a girl over.

"i want fresh sheets when i get back." you demanded as you headed to the bathroom to change into more comfortable sleepwear. the monegasque nearly jumped for joy when you agreed to this insanity.

"thank you, thank you, thank you." he repeated numerous times to express his gratitude. you could still hear his excited exclamations inside the private compartment. suddenly, you remembered that you had no idea where you were going.

"pierre can pick me up to go where, exactly?" you raised your voice so they could hear you clearly.

they remained silent for a moment, and you understood that they hadn't thought this through. after all, this was a bad thing for the both of you.

"i know of a few clubs i can take you to, i guess," pierre yelled back, his uncertainty evident in his tone.

"what do you wear to a club in melbourne?"

"something nice, i don't know, i'm not a woman. just wear whatever you wear to a club." you chuckled to yourself and returned to the bedroom.

"okay," you said, facing them again and ready to get some rest. "now, you two french things, get out. i'm going to catch up on some jet lag."

"i'm not french." charles mumbled as he exited the room, followed closely by pierre.

the actual frenchman retorted, "i don't think she cares at the moment."

with that, you found yourself alone, left only with your exhaustion and the comforting embrace of your bed.

you stirred awake, the relentless pounding in your head a cruel reminder of the little sleep you had. slowly, you opened your eyes, and the now familiar blue gaze of pierre greeted you.

"hey," he began with an apologetic tone, "charles insisted i wake you up. i'm sorry."

sleepily, you tried to check the time, scanning the unfamiliar room for a clock, anything to anchor you to melbourne's time zone.

"it's around ten, i think." pierre informed you once he realized what you were trying to do. he settled on the edge of the bed when you decided to sit up. "you need to go get ready, i'll take you to eat something."

"what are you? my body guard?" you smiled to him, still dizzy. the four hours you slept doing nothing but giving you a headache. "i can get my own food pierre."

he quickly shook his head. "charles would murder me." he confesses, his words leaving you puzzled. your groggy expression must have been quite evident. "i think the remorse is kicking in. he even tried to bribe me to stick by your side."

"how thoughtful of him," irony slips through your smile as you speak. "he does realize i would have preferred if he'd just let me sleep instead?"

"his brain has its limits." he lets out a chuckle and you sight, needing much more of that sleep you just woke up from.

dragging yourself out of bed, you clutched your suitcase and shuffled into the bathroom, determined to transform into a club worthy version of yourself.

with time in short supply, you limited your skincare routine to a quick facial cleanse and your trusty hydrating lotion. makeup took you, surprisingly, just a few minutes; you decided to go for a no-makeup, makeup look. the real problem lay in choosing the right outfit.

in your haste, it seemed you had packed either too much or too little to this club. with your birthday at the door, you had plans to party, socialize, and maybe even get a little wild. yet, the occasion left you stuck between a simple cropped top and jeans or your favorite dress, which felt a bit too extravagant.

of course you had tons of clubbing clothes with you, but you couldn't wear those. you soon enough realized they weren't regular people who worked in offices, and now that you knew charles even had fans it was all a lot more complicated. so where do people, who seem to be famous, take the girl that's stuck sharing a room with their friend?

that's when your white skirt caught your eye. it hugged you figure perfectly as if made specifically for you to use it. a quick search revealed the white, long sleeved top you'd thrown into the bag last minute. together, they formed the ideal clothing for the night ahead.

this may not have been part of your initial plans, but you were determined to make the most of it and fulfill your primary goal for this trip — meeting new people.

you step out of the bathroom, fully prepared to head out to wherever pierre decides to take you. he lounges on the bed, engrossed in his phone until you approach and gently pat his knee.

"get up." you instruct him, and his gaze sweeps up and down your body. it's only then that you take notice of his outfit – light blue jeans paired with a simple white shirt. it's casual yet an excellent choice.

you briefly wonder if you might be overdoing, but the thoughts quickly dissipate. "you certainly know how to dress for a night out in melbourne." he says, referencing your previous conversation.

"i wasted a considerable amount of time picking out these clothes," you admit and motion for him to rise so you can tidy the bed.

in a matter of minutes, your suitcase has been stowed away, and your phone now rests securely in your purse.

"what are you in the mood for dinner?" he inquires as you leave the room behind, ensuring everything is clean and ready for charles' girl later.

"anything," you reply, your hand instinctively moving to your stomach. "literally anything, i'm starving." you add, emphasizing your hunger.

"alright then, we’re going for italian" he decides, and you nod in agreement, already imagining the delectable Italian dishes that await, making your stomach growl even louder.

after returning to the room, well past 3 a.m., you tiptoed in to find charles cocooned in the sheets, presumably asleep. you quietly went to your suitcase, took your pajamas, and moved to the bathroom. after changing, you removed all you makeup, getting your face clean before heading out to bed. you hadn't put on that much, but you didn't like to sleep with it.

with hushed movements, you fetched your charger and silenced your phone, choosing to ignore your friend's texts.

the night had exceeded your expectations. initially hesitant when they suggested going out with pierre, who by then was a complete stranger, you eventually embraced the idea of this little escape.

pierre took you to a charming restaurant that couldn't be more your vibe. the ambiance, delicious food, and nice people made it a really great experience. you mentally thanked whatever god made you go out with this french stranger.

after getting to know each other a bit, you both headed to a club where you met a lot of new people, including some of pierre's friends. you couldn't have been happier about skipping that sleep.

as you slipped under the blankets, a voice startled you, "it's past three."

whispering, you responded to charles, "i thought you were asleep."

"i'm not, but it's past three," he repeated, his voice heavy with sleepiness.

"yeah, i know." you said, already nestled comfortably in bed.

"i told pierre to bring you back at two so you could rest; i've been waiting."

"oh, i met some of his friends and stayed a bit longer." you explained, turning your back to him. "are these sheets fresh?"

he chuckled softly, "yes. which friends did you meet?"

"a lot of people which i can't remember the names now. his girlfriend kika, a goddess. and some guy named lindo, landon, i think that's his name." you replied, still unsure of the pronunciation.

charles laughed at your attempt, "his name is lando. no 'i' or 'n'"

"not too far off," you quipped.

"if you say so..."

"oh, I have a question for you," you turned to face him, even if the room was in absolute darkness and you couldn't see a thing. "what do you guys work with? there were bodyguards and security procedures all night. i couldn't understand a damn thing."

an "oh" lingers in the air for a while. this was a topic the monegasque wanted to avoid as much as possible. he knew that you would figure it out, eventually, he just wanted to stick with "charles, the normal (french) dude" for a little longer.

"we're formula one drivers," he confesses. you burst into laughter. "i'm serious. i drive for ferrari, and pierre drives for alpine."

"shut up! you know lewis hamilton in person?" you didn't know much about motorsports, but c'mon, everyone knows lewis. "i do, actually." he's puzzled about why that was your first question.

"i recognized the logo on your shirt earlier. my brother's a fan, but i thought you were here just to watch the race."

"in a way, i am, just from a different perspective," he jokes. "how's your brother going to react when you tell him you're sharing a room with charles leclerc?"

"go back to sleep, charles leclerc." you tease, struggling to pronounce his name correctly.

"don't ever try that again." he laughs, turning his back to you.

"oh shut up." you playfully retorted.

you found yourself leaping onto your bed without bothering to check if charles was already there as night fell. meeting new people was exciting, but reuniting with old friends held a special charm. reconnecting with people ranked in the top three of your favorite things to do, even though it could be quite exhausting.

to be totally fair, you were tired because of the entire week you had just gone through. completing 26 out of 43 items on your bucket list was not easy, but you managed it all within a week and a day.

sharing the room with charles turned out to be much more enjoyable than expected. he was not only a genuinely nice guy but also a source of constant entertainment. when you went to bed, boredom was never an option as charles would introduce you to new games you'd never heard of and make you learn them to play with him.

it was really easy to get along with him, and you understood that as time passed and you were getting closer. sharing a room became something you no longer detested.

suppressing the urge to surrender to sleep, you got up to change and the next moments blurred together. all you could recall was your roommate entering a little while after you.

that’s until, in the middle of the night, your phone erupted with numerous notifications.

“geez, are you famous or something?” charles mumbled, awakened by the noise.

“it’s on your side, please turn it down." you groaned, covering your ears with a pillow. he reached for your phone but accidentally read one of the 47 notifications.

"happy birthday? is it your birthday?" he asked.

you buried your face in the pillow as more notifications poured in. "just turn that down," you demanded. "I love my friends, but this is too much." you knew they were doing it on purpose because of the lack of communication. this was their way of reminding you that you couldn’t be rid of them for so much time.

“it’s your birthday?” he inquired, sitting up.

“yeah, officially 22 now!” you replied, cursing the friends responsible for your rude awakening. exhausted, you had forgotten that your 6-hour nap was meant to be a quick one.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” charles exclaimed, throwing himself into an enthusiastic yet somewhat ungraceful hug. you laughed and thanked him. "why didn't you mention it earlier?"

“it didn’t come up.” you said, returning the hug.

"and do you have any plans for today?" he asked, returning to his original position.

"not really. i thought i might visit some places here in melbourne," you answered, rubbing your eyes.

"do you want to come watch the race then? consider it my birthday gift. if you'd mentioned it earlier, i would've prepared something better." the driver offered.

"i suppose the tickets must be sold out. have you seen how many people are here these past few days? there are no rooms since last week." you informed him.

"and you think I'd let you watch from the stands? no way. you'll… i mean, you would be in the Ferrari garage." he said with conviction.

"that sounds boring." you complain.

"is that a yes?" he asked, seeing a glimmer of a smile in your eyes. "i'll do my best to win, just for you."

“isn’t that your job?” you teased.

"yes, but doing it for you adds a little extra pressure," he admitted. you nodded in agreement, and he reclined again. "now, go to sleep. tomorrow is your big day."

"big day," you mimicked in a comical male voice, turning on your side. "thank you, charles."

"yeah, no problem." he replied. you couldn’t see him now, but you knew he was wearing a smile, and it made you smile too.

"wake up." you heard, your senses slowly returning. as you opened your eyes, you found kika, pierre's girlfriend, looking down at you.

what is it with people waking you up? it's always someone new.

"hey. it's time to get ready." even though your head was a big question mark, you did as she asked and sat up. she sat right before you.

"did charles sent you?" you inquired.

"no, he just told me you'd be coming to the race and since we've met that other night, i thought i would come to make you some company." she replied with a warm smile. "happy birthday, girl." she opened her arms for you and you embraced her immediately.

"thank you." you murmured into the hug. "do you want to get ready together?" you proposed. "i'm going to need some guidance."

"of course." her smile was the most beautiful one you had ever seen and it made your heart melt. "i'll just have to leave you alone with all the birthday wishes to get something to wear, and i'll be back soon."

"okay, see you in a bit." as she left, the first thing you did was grab your phone and start replying the overwhelming (and exaggerated) number of messages from your friend group. after that, you called your brother, not only because he asked so but also to let him know where you would be spending the day.

when kika returned, you were on the phone with your mother, crying your heart out. she loved you so much, and her words never failed to touch your soul.

"i love you too, mum." you whispered and ended the call. francisca smiled at you from the other side of the room. "come on, let's get ready." you wiped away your tears and got up from the bed.

yesterday, while charles slept peacefully, your mind had traveled through your current wardrobe to find the perfect outfit to wear. you knew it had to be ferrari red, but it also needed to make you feel special because it was your birthday.

in the end, you chose the red dress you had recently purchased. it seemed perfect for the occasion. as you shuffled through your clothes to retrieve it, kika had a chance to admire the piece.

"oh my god, that dress is going to look so good on you." she exclaimed excitedly and you both smiled as you made your way to the bathroom.

kika opted for a white button-up oversized shirt paired with pink pants that you discovered matched the colors of alpine's livery. She looked gorgeous, as always.

as you expected, your dress fell amazingly on you body, and it was incredibly comfortable. it wasn't an overly extravagant party dress, but it was just right for special occasions like your birthday.

"so, tell me what's charles doing here." the brunette asked when you both started getting your faces ready for make-up.

"charles?" she confirmed, and you glanced at your reflection in the mirror, somewhat oblivious to what she was referring to. "what's he doing here?" she repeated the question. "sleeping?" you half-answered, half-asked.

"yeah, of course, but why is he sleeping here." your eyes met hers through the mirror, and you noticed the smile on her lips.

"because it's his hotel room too, i guess."

"pierre told me that, but why is he still sleeping in this room if he has the one ferrari got him? he has one, doesn't he?" she asked.

"i don’t know." the truth was, you hadn't even thought about it. the monegasque had never told you, and you never asked, so you assumed this was indeed his only room.

"okay i’ll try again. what's going on between you two?" she smiled at you, a knowing look in her eyes.

"nothing," you replied as quickly as the question got to you. "seriously, tell me. you can trust me." she persisted, trying to get something out of you.

"i am telling you, kika." you laughed. in her mind, it was obvious that something was going on because there was no way the charles leclerc she knew would trade a king-sized bed in a five-star hotel for a cheap one he'd have to share.

"are you seriously telling me there's nothing going on between you two when he ditched a rich and attractive model for you, is lying to his team to come sleep in this room when he probably has a much better one waiting for him every night, and hasn't been bar-hopping to stay here teaching you how to play chess? Not to mention that he's taking you to a race to meet his team and friends. do you know how many girls he took to watch a race?" the portuguese counted on her fingers dramatically, as if accusing you of a proper crime.

you continued doing your makeup as she spoke, but you didn't miss a single word. in fact, you paid close attention to everything she said, the words penetrating your bones and getting to your brain automatically.

"yes, i am telling you that." you began and she sighed in response. "what do you mean he ditched a hot model for me?" curiosity filled your body when you heard that, you had to ask.

"that first night when we met, i know he was supposed to meet up with her because she was also a friend of mine, but he didn't show up. when i asked pierre about it, the only thing he said was your name." your face displayed confusion as you applied some contour to your cheek. you stoped what you were doing right away.

you were confused, yes. but you were also slightly irritated, because if the driver hadn't gone to meet that model, you could have slept through the night and avoided the exhausting day that followed.

"i assumed you guys had fancied each other, like love at first sight or something." you shook your head to deny it and picked up your pencil to blend the previously applied contour.

"that did not happen." another sigh left her throat and a question lingered in the tip of your tongue, ready to come out as soon as you opened your mouth. you weren't sure if you should ask, but you were certain you wanted an answer. "the thing you said about the number of girls he took to a race. how many?"

her lips immediately curved as if she said 'nothing may have happened, but you are interested', and of course you were.

who wouldn't be? charles was majestic, a genuinely good guy who knows how to treat people right, and he looked like the most adorable person in the world while sleeping. you would be lying if you said you didn't find him attractive, but he appeared too friendly for you to believe that he even considered flirting with you.

"two, and they were his girlfriends at the time." the smile never left her lips, but your mind was far from her grin.

you eventually finished getting ready, and so did she, a few seconds after. you chatted the whole way to the paddock, only stopping to catch your breath. kika apologized to you for pressing you to tell her what she wanted to hear, but you didn't mind; you knew you would do the same if the roles were reversed.

your social anxiety flared up when francisca had to go in a different direction to reach the alpine garage, but it quickly dissipated when your eyes found a familiar face approaching you with a smile.

charles hugged you once he was close enough and whispered a quiet "hey." he was well aware of how risky it was to show affection in public, especially with all the shit press would give him and possibly even give you. let's just say that he didn't really care.

he guided you to the garage, where you met carlos sainz, his teammate, and bumped into lando, whom you had met on your first night in australia.

meeting lando brought back all the thoughts kika had shared earlier, and those thoughts stayed with you.

charles must have mentioned your birthday to his team because every person you passed by wished you a happy day. you graciously smiled and thanked them, walking by his side.

he briefly introduced you to everything you needed to know and hugged you goodbye when he had to go. you snapped a lot of pictures to send to your brother, and when the race started, you paid close attention to every moment.

the headphones made it harder to zone out as you normally would but you appreciated that. being new to this world, you didn't understand a single word you heard, but that didn't stop you from trying.

all you knew was that the team was incredibly pleased with charles and carlos's performance today. It was evident from their tone and the broad smiles on their faces.

the spark in their eyes intensified when charles overtook the last driver, securing his lead in the race. from what someone told you, a first and fourth-place finish was a significant achievement for scuderia ferrari, and you could know it was true by the fans' excitement.

both ferrari drivers managed to maintain their positions, finishing the race with what appeared to be an outstanding result. you weren't entirely sure what you were cheering for, but you were genuinely happy.

you celebrated with the team and watched the podium ceremony from a distance, still uncertain about where you should be and how to act. you applauded the number 16 and engaged in discussions about his performance with people who had a stake in the matter. from what you heard, he was a really good driver.

people all around you started to move to one direction, and you followed them with your gaze to find the one and only race winner already looking at you. he paused to chat and celebrate with his team, before moving up to you.

opening your arms for him, you embraced him, smiling from ear to ear, genuinely happy for his achievement, even if you didn't fully grasp the significance of a win.

"this one was for you. happy birthday." he whispered in your ear while still holding you close. "thank you, frenchie, and congratulations." you laughed into his shoulder. he playfully protested against your nickname for him but couldn't help but laugh too.

you were engrossed in conversation with him when suddenly, pierre and kika arrived with a cake. everyone in the tifosi garage began singing the "happy birthday" song.

your cheeks flushed, matching the color of your dress within seconds, and you covered your smile with your hands. you were genuinely grateful for these people who didn't even know you but were singing and clapping for you.

the cake they brought was adorned with all your favorite flowers, and now you understood charles' early morning question. as if he could read your thoughts, he approached you, smiling, and hugged you sideways while still singing with his weird accent.

pierre had came closer and at the end of the song you were able to blow out the candles. the smiles on their faces enchanted you, how they all seemed genuinely happy for you, even though it was the first time they had set their eyes on you.

they arranged a table in which pierre placed the cake, and someone handed you a knife to cut it. you, of course, offered the first slice to charles, not only because he knew you best but also because of everything he had done for you. all of this exceeded your expectations.

when you had decided to come to australia to spend some time alone, you could never have imagined what awaited you. not only did you meet new people, but you had also made friends, or at least one friend.

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles #leclerc #driver x reader #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc blurb #charles leclerc 16 #formula 1 #formula one #formula one story #charles leclerc au #pierre gasly #francisca cerqueira gomes #kika gomes

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cuteskunkz · 8 months ago

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╭──────────.★..─╮

One Night With You

╰─..★.──────────╯

(Mike Schmidt x Reader)

Summary~ Mike is a very touch starved man. He spends all his nights at work and the daytime caring for Abby if not sleeping. He hadn't been with a girl since his junior year, making him feel like a total loser. The amount of times where Mike went back and forth with his inner thoughts, convincing himself that he was the problem was getting pretty intense and it was clear that he just needed a night out to clear his mind and prove those thoughts wrong.

You've been a "dancer" for the past few months at the downtown strip club, just trying to make ends meet. There was a tough competition working against you. You were new to this line of work whereas the other girls had been in the game for a while now, but you kept pushing on desperately. How else were you going to make rent or keep the lights on? The nights were slow and building a consistent flow of clientele proved itself to be a challenge, that is until one night when you meet a new guy outside of the nightclub.

Tags~ Stripper reader, Mike is a SIMP!!!, lowkey enemies to lovers but not really, no smut (YET...)

Note~ This took me much longer than I thought since I've been super burnt out of writing lately, but I hope you guys enjoy! As always if there's anything in particular you would like to see in chapter 2, please lemme know

⊱✿⊰

Mike felt confused with the lack of responsibilities and errands to run on this warm summer night. Abby was off at a sleepover and Steve finally hired a second night shift worker, leaving him all alone with his reoccurring self doubt introspections. Dude gets one night for himself and simply cannot think of a single thing to do to pass the time. He laid there in his bed tossing and turning unable to fall asleep. He jolts up feeling frustrated with himself, "Ughh... just fall asleep already bro..." He shifts around in his bed and grunts, "I can't do this-". He sits up and sulks his way into the living room, plopping down on the couch. Mike pulls out his phone and begins to scroll.

He isn't really the social media type but had made an anonymous instagram account a while ago for mindlessly scrolling. After what seemed like hours, Mike stumbles across a video of you. You were practicing a routine for the club, twirling and moving seductively. Mike felt himself grow larger in his pants and put the phone down in shock. He stares up at the ceiling in disbelief, damn you really got him feeling this type of way this quickly? He looks down at his lap and feels helpless. He wrestles with his feelings for a while and ultimately picks his phone back up to look more into you.

He clicks on your account and "researches" a bit. There's multiple videos of you practicing, photos of your skimpy outfits, and the most captivating selfies he's ever seen. One of your posts has a location tagged in the top corner, "Deja Vu Showgirls". He looks further into the club, finding that it's not too far from the pizzeria. "Fuck it. Why not..." he whispers to himself. Mike ensures he's well groomed for the occasion. if you're there he wants make a good impression. He showers, dresses in the best outfit he can come up with, and slaps some product in his hair. He finally felt content with his appearance and hopped in the car.

You weren't surprised to see another night play out typically. Maybe 2 or 3 cheap lap dances and a couple short sets up on the stage for less than 50 bucks. This clearly isn't working for you, at this point you've spent more on outfits and shoes than you've made while working here. An older gentleman walks up to you reeking of alcohol and cheap cologne, you couldn't help but gulp at the thought of providing your services for him. Yeah you were a stripper but you still had standards that made doing your job successfully hard at times.

"Well aren't you something?" he slurs while damn near tipping over from intoxication. You sigh and snap into your persona. "I'd hope so, this outfit ain't cheap y'know!" you reply in a flirtatious tone. You grab him by the hand and lead him to a booth, preparing for the worst. He starts groping on your sides which makes you shudder. Maybe this place isn't for you after all. "H-hands off baby.... Use your eyes and focus on me" you redirect with confidence. Times like these made you wish someone could just scoop you off your feet and save you.

He drives to the location with his heart pounding out of his chest. He'd never been to strip club before so Mike felt nervous even making his way closer to where you have the slightest chance of being at. He pulled into the parking lot and shut his car off abruptly, taking deep breaths to calm his nerves. "What if she isn't here? I don't even know the girl why am I acting so fuckin' weird about this.... I really need to get out of the house more" he thinks to himself while gripping onto the steering wheel. After a few mental pep talks to himself, he finally musters up the courage to get out and make his way in.

Just as he goes to push the door to the club open, you storm out with eyes welling with tears. Mike stumbles back a bit not wanting to startle you. You're holding your pricey Pleaser heels in hand, walking barefoot and trying your best to keep it together. All you want is to curl up into a ball and quit at life. You thought that creepy dude would cheap out on a dance, not grope and hurl insulting names at you for rejecting his advances! You look up from the ground and lock eyes with a man you've never seen before. He's cute... too cute to be wasting his time at some dingy place like this.

"Can I help you?" you snap at him with a shaky voice. It was hard not to notice the concerned look on his face. "No I'm-" he stutters before you promptly cut him off. "Leave me the fuck alone then." His face goes pale hearing you say this, he didn't even get a chance to meet you yet and he feels as if he already blew it. You pace towards your car and pop the trunk, filling it with the all the contents of your locker. You pick a T-shirt out of your duffle bag and drape it over your revealing outfit. His presence is burning a hole into your back so you swiftly turn around to meet his gaze.

He walks over slow and bashfully. There's a pink tint to his cheeks and he can't keep his hands still out of anxiousness. "Dude are you good?" you ask. He looks as if he's going to break a sweat, "Yeah... I'm good. Are you though? You looked pretty shaken up back there." You assumed he was just another guy looking to get lucky with a dancer after a shift change. "Look, if you want to get some action, walk your ass into the club. I'm not who you're looking for" you reply. His stomach drops hearing your voice. It was one thing to see you for the first time, but to hear your voice even if it be out of anger made Mikes head spin. He didn't want to sound like a complete creep stalking you out to your job for a closer look but you were exactly who he wanted.

"That's not why I'm here. Fuck- look... To be totally honest, I'm not a strip club type of dude. I just- I saw a video of you on instagram and I was- y'know... impressed by your talent and beauty." Typical response coming from a man trying to bring a stripper home for the night you think to yourself. "I'm not shocked by your reaction. You realize that's what I hear like- 10 times a night, right?" you say with a sarcastic tone. He seemed a bit more genuine with his words than the others but men will do and say anything when they're in need of a quick fuck. "Not that type of girl sir. Try one of those cheap hookers down the road" you point down the street and close the trunk.

"Please... I know how this sounds, believe me I know how dudes are but-" He sighs and continues, "But I don't have a lot of experience with girls so- I thought coming here... to meet someone new would help" he says looking very serious, almost to the point of desperation. If he weren't so damn handsome you'd turn him down in a heartbeat but something in you is screaming to give him a chance. He seems to be telling the truth and damn is he starting to fluster you with the whole innocent act. "Fine. I'll give you my number but don't you dare think about blowing my phone up." You scribble your phone number into his palm with a pen from your bag and blow him a kiss while getting in your car to drive away.

Mike smirks and waves at you, watching you drive off into the distance. "That was easier than I expected...huh..." he whispers. He gets back into his car and texts you, already so eager to see you again. The message reads:

Hey it's Mike, the guy from earlier. You doing anything tonight? I could take us out to a bar or something? :)

His cheeks start to blush again from imagining you two hanging out. He desperately craves a deeper connection with you but doesn't want to come off as too interested off the bat, it could scare you off for all he knows! His phone dings and he reads it:

Shitttt I'm free as long as you're gonna be on your very best behavior!!

⊱✿⊰

*Read part 2 and part 3 here!*

It might take me a bit to get part two posted, but I'll try to give you guys as many updates as possible!!! Keep in mind I am a new writer. This is my third fic put out so far :))

#josh hutcherson #mike schmidt #mike schimdt fanfic #mike schmidt x you #fnaf movie #josh futturman #josh hutcherson smut #mike schmidt smut #mike schmidt x reader #peeta mellark #jhutch #fanfic #burn 2019 #billy burn #Spotify

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briar-ffxiv · 6 days ago

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Hate to do this, but if anyone can help

TL: DR - Due to a lot of financial strain this year and moving before we planned to with little notice, my cats and my family don't have money for groceries for the next few months. We just need to make it to January and we've been trying hard, eating as cheap as possible, not going out, no extra services, etc. Heck, I only have FFXIV because a friend was nice enough to help.

But now, we're out of money and next paycheck once we cover rent and bills, we'll have less than $30. And unfortunately, we need to eat.

So if anyone can help, I'd appreciate it. Anything. Thank you. <3

Below the read-more are the longer details. If anyone doesn't mind boosting or something, I'd be grateful.

More Details:

Basically, due to having to move at least a year sooner than expected with less than 60 days' notice, we've used up every bit of savings and resources we have. Plus, due to some other financial nonsense, including the past roommates being terrible and my spouse's work using loopholes to avoid paying him overtime, we're finally having a really rough time.

We can just cover rent and the minimal bills. Several months ago, we turned off anything we didn't completely need. That includes streaming services, games, and what have you. Heck, we wouldn't have kept on the internet if my spouse didn't need it for work.

We were just trying to hold on until New Year. The New Year means a mandatory raise for my spouse and his boss has promised it's a good one (due to several years of him getting the minimum under his previous boss who was fired for several reasons). So we've been just trying to make it and just have a few months left.

Unfortunately, with just a few months to go, we've basically maxed out all we can. The next step is trying to rehome my cats to remove the cost of maintaining them, although I hate to do it. I really don't want to. Pretty much every cat I have, I either rescued and/or raised from birth. But I'm certainly not going to let them starve or suffer.

I have been trying for months to get a job, but due to personal things and limited options (only one car with limited gas, etc.), I haven't been able to find anything. I keep sending out forms and not hearing much. Due to gas prices and such, I can't even do UberEats or Doordash or something. I'm at a loss and I feel completely useless in trying to help my spouse at the moment.

I really hate asking. My little Tumblr is just cute stuff with my character, aesthetics, and trying to be positive. I'm just really desperate because I don't know what else to do.

We've looked into state help, but I live in Texas and their "poverty line" is absolutely ridiculous. My spouse makes "too much" for us to get the benefits of any kind of help, even temporarily. Due to the crappy roommates, our credit isn't great and we're already struggling to pay off things so getting a loan is pretty much impossible.

I don't really have any skills that people would pay for commissions for. I'd be happy to do writing commissions or something, but I've never had much luck with that.

So, yeah, I just...I really need some help getting through the next 60 days or so. So if you've read all this, thank you. If you reblog, thank you. If you feel like giving anything, thank you. Even if it's just kind thoughts, I appreciate it so much.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart,

Bard

#ooc #bard stuff #I hate to do this #but I don't know what else to do #things are really bad right now

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dreamwatch · 19 days ago

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Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

(I didn't add any warnings for this, but if you think I've missed anything plese let me know)

At least Eddie can say they were nice about telling him his services were no longer required.

He turns up for practice with a little pep in his wobbly step; he’s getting some strength back in his hands and he has some chords nailed down now and it’s coming along. Slowly. But Steve says it’s like sport, marginal gains, every win is still a win no matter how small.

The vibe is off the moment he walks into the garage; the guys look at each other in silent conversation until Gareth says “We need to talk.”

Jeff and Matt look at him all sad-eyed and it all feels a little as if Eddie is a dog about to go for his last car ride.

“Look, Eddie, truth is, it doesn’t feel like things are really getting any better, you know? And we have this opportunity.”

A gig up in Chicago, a friend of his cousin got them in the door. There’s going to be A&R people there, and Eddie just isn’t good enough anymore.

“We’re really sorry, Eddie.”

Eddie and Wayne got t-boned in the truck once and he’ll never forget the force of it, hurtling sideways, the crunch of buckling metal, the sickening screech. And afterwards, once everything had come to a stop, the shrill ringing in his ears.

This feels kind of like being t-boned.

“So,” he says to Jeff, his voice more ragged than he expected, “how are you playing my solos?”

Suddenly they find the garage floor very interesting.

Oh god.

“You’ve already replaced me. Right?” He dips to catch their eyes. “Right?”

It’s Gareth that grows a pair and confirms what he already knew.

He stumbles back to the van and speeds out of the driveway, no idea of where he’s going, only knowing he’s not going home. His bedroom is a shrine to music, to metal, to things he loves and has now lost. He can’t bear the fucking thought of it.

He winds up at the lake, can hear birds and the rustle of trees over the sound of his breathing. He’s not much of a crier, not since he worked out that crying wouldn’t bring his mother back but would earn the occasional backhander from his father. So he sits in the back of his beaten up van and does his best to block out the buzz, block-out the voice that tells him he’s a failure, block out the voice that says it would have been better for everyone if he’d died in the Upside Down.

But the voice is loud.

The band leave but the world still turns, it’s just slower and darker than it was before. There are bright spots; he and Steve rent a two bedroom apartment together. After a while they don’t need that second bedroom.

He gets a job at the newly re-opened Radio Shack. Customers still side eye him, and his attempts at jovial conversation are met with blank stares more often than not, so he stops bothering after a while. He has Wayne and Steve, and the kids that aren’t kids anymore, and some days that’s more than enough. Some days.

Steve takes him to Indy to celebrate his birthday.

“We’re hitting up every record and comic book store in the city,” Steve says excitedly and Eddie has to smile back, it’s impossible not to. He gets to come home to this man every night, to climb into bed with him and fall asleep in his arms. It’s nice to have a good thing. Eddie holds onto that on the days that hurt.

They wander the aisles of Tower Records, Steve flashing him the ocassional top forty CD and Eddie flipping him off, and they have fun throwing mock abuse back and forth. He flicks through the metal section, flipping CDs with a practiced finger, pausing on the odd rare Japanese import or limited edition coloured case. Tower has all the fancy shit.

He gets to C and his heart stops.

His picks up the CD with a shaking hand; the logo is more polished but it’s still theirs. He turns it over and three familiar faces stare back at him, looking mean and moody for the camera. And one face he doesn’t recognise, the one that replaced him. He drops the CD into the Jazz section, before telling Steve he wants to go home.

They made it. They actually fucking made it. Maybe it’s only one album, maybe there were more, doesn’t matter, point is they got to have their dream and they kept Eddie from his.

Sweetheart hangs on the wall, covered in dust. There’s a kid out there somewhere that was like him once, had the passion and the talent but didn’t have the money.

It hurts too much to play. It hurts so much not too.

Eddie puts her in the van with his amps and pedals and drops them off at a thrift store.

They’re everywhere after that. A group of kids come into Radio Shack wearing their t-shirts. The Hawkins Post runs an article about them, small town boys made good. There’s no mention of Eddie; it’s the first time that it dawns on him there might have been other reasons they wanted to cut ties with him. Wouldn’t have been a good look to have an accused serial killer in the band, afterall.

Dustin admits that he and Mike have been to see them live a few times, they have the backstage passes and autographs to prove it. The absolute audacity of that band to be dolling out autographs to their friends like they’re fucking rock stars—

Right.

Dustin and Mike never mention them again, and Eddie has a sneaking suspicion that Steve may have said something. Which sucks, because they’re his friends and they shouldn’t have to hide those things from him.

Then he hears them on the radio.

He pulls the van over, and drops his head onto the steering wheel as he listens to them thunder from his speakers. They sound good. He would buy this record, he would see them live, if it were just anyone else.

He starts to cry, because they’re better than they ever were with him, and it hurts that they did the right thing leaving him behind.

Steve and Wayne worry that it’s going to swallow him whole. Eddie’s worried it already has.

He comes home one day to find a computer in their living room, and Dustin on his hands and knees. Apparently they’re connected to the internet now. He has no idea why. But on nights where Steve is working and there’s nothing on TV he starts to use it. His favourite bands have web pages and it’s a fucking revelation. He finds himself talking to people on the other side of the world, arguing with some asshole in England about Iron Maiden’s latest album being their worst (it is), or sending this sweet kid in Australia a list of NWOBHM records he’s got to check out. A whole new world opens up.

He’s three beers deep when he goes looking for Corroded Coffin’s site. His throat tightens as he clicks around the page, looking at their discography, at the tour photos. They played Madison Square Garden in 1997, same year he got promoted to manager at the store. His eyes swim but he can’t help but smile. Good for them.

He clicks on the band history link and is shocked to see they mentioned him. There’s a photo too.

We miss Eddie every day.

Fuckers. He hates them. He misses them.

Maybe it’s time. He’s doing okay. He’s been in a happy relationship for over a decade, he earns enough to live, his health is okay. Is that so bad, really?

He scrubs at his eyes and hits up the message board and types:

Greetings from Eddie the Banished

@the-unforgivenn ❤️

#corrodedcoffinfest: seven deadly sins #corrodedcoffinfest #envy #eddie munson #steddie #corroded coffin

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kyurume · 9 months ago

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"he'd be the type of guy to.." haikyuu edition ♡

notes: NOT proofread, i wrote rhis at 1:50am just some thoughts, all will be written with timeskip versions of them in mind. fem reader just cause also i chnaged title cuz it sidnt make sense LMAO

warning/s: NONE

genre: fluff

characters: hinata shoyo, kozume kenma, kageyama tobio, miya atsumu

hinata would be the type of guy to let your dates go unplanned (in a good way!!!) ypu guys get to do whatever you'd like, unrestrained. if you wanna go to a goodwill/thrift store and find cool items, he'd happily go with you. he'll also secretly get you some things that you stared at for too long. like those sparkly pink cowboy boots, a music box where instead of a ballerina spinning it's a middle finger, and a bikini that barely covers anything. then after buying those, you'd go in your car, and he'd hide them under the car seat, but the bikini's straps stick out from under the seat, and you go "what the fuck is that??" so he has no choice but to bring out the bag filled with the stuff you looked like you wanted, and surprised you early. do you want to go to an indoor volleyball court? hinata rented one just for the two of you to play. but you never got to play anything, you two are busy running around, playing hide and seek in the surprisingly large building. yes, for other people, things don't always go to plan. but for you two? you make the best out of unplanned surprises.

kenma would be the type of guy to really REALLY appreciate all of your pitiful efforts to pay him back for what he buys you. he loves, LOVES spoiling you, spending his CEO money on you is his love language. even though he acts a little nonchalant about it, he always loves seeing the smile on your face when he bought you something you've wanted for so long. but, you'd feel bad about what he's spending on you, and the effort he puts into working so hard 24/7, and going with you to the mall and buying you everything. so, you decide to repay him in different ways! like baking cookies that took you all day to bake but they taste bitter, but he still eats all of them in one sitting. you made him lots of origami flowers, he'd have it displayed in his room, without a single speck of dust landing on the paper, he knows that you feel guilty about him spending lots on you so you do these things, he keeps telling you that what he's spending on you isn't going to make a dent in his bank account, but you still wouldn't listen. (he secretly freaks out if you do things for him)

kageyama would be the type of guy to learn about anything you're into, and he'd teach you about what he's into in return. if you like a certain singer/band, and you love to quote a line from a song/an inside joke, he's going to be curious about it, and eventually, he'll start quoting it too, (at the start, he usually had trouble deciding whether or not the situation you're in would apply, but he's quoting that lyric/inside joke like he knows that band/singer better than you do.) he taught you volleyball, do you love spiking? he'd set for you, and you'd drive that ball home. do you prefer setting? he's gonna make you attend setter bootcamp, on god he's gonna turn into your coach instead of your boyfriend. you like blocking? he'd make sure he'd get his hits past your blocks, and of course tell you all sorts of positions you put your hands in if you want to change the trajectory of the ball, or completely shut it out. do you like recieving? he'll throw different types of serves your way so you'll learn how to recieve all of them perfectly. or if you'd love serving more, he'd be teaching you how to get service aces and eventually be better at serving than his team (according to him). he may be a pro volleyball player, but that doesn't mean he won't make time for you.

atsumu would be the type of guy to relax and pamper yourselves in his free time. despite his loud and rowdy personality, you and mr japanese barry b benson with a kansai accent, oftentimes go to spas, and get massages, facial treatments, all that good stuff. then he'd take you out to a hot spring after a major tournament is over, the steaming water helping to relax, and also give his skin some benefits too! after all, he's a volleyball player that has the looks of an idol, he has a face and body he has to maintain. if you guys don't want to go out, he'll look up recipes for diy mud masks to apply to eachothers faces, maybe even bringing out a stash of facemasks from his skincare mini frige and watch a movie together while waiting for the facemask to dry out. you're pretty lucky to have a skincare boyfriend, since you have never had a single skin problem ever since you started dating him. if there's an event you two will be attending, he'll prioritize the both of you looking and feeling fresh. you two would be the couple with the clearest skin in the room.

#haikyuu #haikyu x reader #miya atsumu #hinata shouyou #kageyama tobio #haikyu fluff #fanfic #kozume kenma #kenma x reader #hinata shoyo

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andbreakmynose · 3 months ago

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You Are My Sympathy - My Better Self

You never expected to work as the babysitter for a single father who just happened to be Alex Turner, you also never expected to end up in this situation with the man you technically worked for.

WARNINGS: SMUT!! slight angst, also slight fluff. single dad! alex, the car! alex, age gap (not specified), blowjobs

Word Count: 4.5k

Celebrity babysitter was never something you thought you’d put on your resume. You had been babysitting since your teen years, so it was natural you continued doing it as an adult. It also helped that you really enjoyed it.

One of the worst parts of moving to the city after graduating university was that everything cost more than it did in your small hometown. Paying rent, your student loans, and the general costs of living was becoming difficult on a babysitter's budget, and you felt bad about upcharging your regular clients.

It got worse over the summer; the parent who paid you the best no longer required your services because she got the summer off of work. You were looking everywhere for a new family to work with, but it seems like everyone was asking for too much and paying too little. Sometimes you consider having to get a full-time job instead of just babysitting.

It was a casual comment by your housemate Laura that led you to where you are now. You were complaining about not finding work while downing beers when she joked that maybe there was some celebrity looking for a nanny that would pay you a ton. To her it was a joke, but after she went to bed you spent all night browsing websites that quite literally were for celebrities needing nannies.

You applied for a bunch, but the first one that reached back to you was a single father who was looking for someone to watch his 3-year-old daughter while he worked long hours. Some overnights would be required, but you’d also be able to sleep in your own bed at night. It sounded perfect.

Going to the interview, you expected anyone but him. You thought you’d be working for some sort of businessman, maybe a CEO, with the amount he was offering as pay. But no, you sat in front of Alex fucking Turner and his 3-year-old daughter, Ayla. You were starstruck at first but got over it when you realized how normal he was. All he wanted was the best for his daughter. He seemed to like you, and so did the little one, so you got the job.

And here you were, getting paid $4,000 a day to take care of the sweetest toddler you had ever worked with.

You sighed, looking over at the clock: 7:50pm, which meant it was about time to put the child to bed. You had bathed her, and she was already in her pajamas, but you were honestly enjoying the current game of Barbie dolls you had going on.

Kneeling on the floor of the cozy but fancy living room, your Barbies were currently busy packing their bags for a trip on their Barbie airplane. The pink plastic airplane was the gift you gave Ayla last Christmas; it wasn’t the most expensive gift, but she absolutely adored it. Alex, in return, got you a new coffee maker that you savored every morning.

You were just about to tell Ayla to put the dolls down and start heading up to the pink plush palace she called her bedroom when the door opened. Alex had come home early.

“Daddy!” The little one cried out when she saw him, toddling over to attach herself to his leg.

He laughed and scooped her up, setting her on his hip.

“Hello yourself, sweetheart,” he boops her nose, smiling wider than you’ve ever seen him smile, and then turns to you. “Was she good today? Cause any trouble?”

You shook your head; you honestly had never had ANY problems with the child.

“She was perfect. And she ate all of her veggies for lunch and dinner!” You tell him with a proud smile that you were both proud of her and satisfied with your own work. You were a good babysitter, and both of you knew it.

“All your veggies? Really? What a good little angel!” Alex beamed, ruffling the girl's head. He made sure to tell you every day how much of a lifesaver you were and how much he appreciated it, but it really wasn’t enough to explain just how grateful he was.

“I was just about to put her to bed; actually, I’m sure she’d love it if you came and read her a bedtime story.” You suggest with a soft smile; you loved Alex’s voice, and you’re sure the little one did too; the idea of him reading a bedtime story sounded like the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard of.

He thought it over for a second before nodding. He was dead tired from his day, but he’d never miss the opportunity for some more time with his little angel, especially since he didn’t get to see her as much as he’d want to.

He motions for you to follow him up the stairs to the pink palace that his daughter called a bedroom, sitting her down on the bed and placing a kiss on her forehead.

"Alright, babygirl, Daddy’s going to read you a story, okay?” He says gently; the smile on his face from being around her was like something you’ve never seen before. The little one claps excitedly and gets comfy in her bed while Alex looks at the books scattered on the floor.

“Which does she like?” He asks you; he wants to get it perfect, to make this the best bedtime story for his baby.

You hum as you look through all the books on the floor, eyes settling between two. “She’s a fan of both ‘Goodnight Moon’ and 'If You Give a Mouse a Cookie’, maybe one of those?”

Alex nods and picks up ‘If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,’ grinning widely as he does. “This one sounds good, especially since Daddy really wants a cookie right now.”

His words inspire laughter from all three of you, his being quieter and more reserved at his own joke while yours was sweeter and more of a giggle (the little girl’s laughs were more to copy her two favorite people).

He sits down on the floor next to her and starts to read through the pages: “If you give a mouse a cookie, he will ask for a glass of milk.” His voice is somehow firm and gentle, his accent giving almost a form of refinement to the stupid words on the pages. You sit down next to him and watch in awe as he goes through the different accents and makes different sounds to represent what he’s reading. It’s clear he was in showbusiness; if he wasn’t a singer, he might be a damn good actor.

By the time he’s finished the book, her eyes are already shut and small snores are coming from her tiny lips. To Alex, it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen, but you’d say that’s actually the sight of him watching her with so much adoration in his eyes.

He stands up and beckons you out of the room, shutting off the light and closing the door.

“Do you want a drink?” He asks you, thinking about the new bottle of Merlot he bought a week ago and hadn’t really had the time to get to yet.

You should probably say no; you still have to walk home. But there’s such a sparkle in his eyes that you really just can’t say that to him. So instead, you nod and follow him to the kitchen.

The conversation is simple as he pours the first glasses; he asks about what you and Ayla did today, and you ask him about his day at work. He never really says much about his job; you assume there’s some sort of confidential stuff with the album he’s recording. It’s fine though; you can’t expect him to let his guard down around you.

“You know you’re the first fan I’ve ever shared a glass of wine with?” He says with a small smirk, He thinks you’re unreasonably pretty, but he’d never say that. To him, you’re the savior of his life, making sure the only person he cares about is safe and happy.

“I’m sure I’m also the first fan who’s ever gotten to watch Peppa Pig with your daughter.” You joke back, bringing the glass to your lips. Alex laughs at your joke; his eyes are tired, but they still light up just at the idea of you and his kid.

“You’re so good with her. I know I say that every time we talk, but you truly are so good with her.” His compliments never fail to truly touch your heart, especially since you know he means them completely.

"Aw, you’re welcome. You may be the most unusual family I’ve worked with, but she’s one of the sweetest kids.” You smile back at him; it also never hurts to have your work complimented.

“I think she wishes you were part of our family full time; every time I take her to an outing, she asks if you’re coming too.” He looks over at you as his lips attach to the wine glass; he doesn’t include the part about how he’d also like you to be part of the family; it’s all about the little one.

“She’s such a darling!” You reply, making an ‘aww’ face at his words. The idea that you’ve been such an important part of this child's (and this rockstar’s) life is so special.

“You know if you ever want me to come to those things and be an extra pair of hands, I’d be honored; you don’t even have to pay me. You already pay me enough.”

Alex nods at your suggestion; it’s a nice idea. He’d love to bring you to cookouts with the rest of the band and playdates with the other parents he knows. He’d love to bring you around anywhere; you were really one of the most gentlehearted people he’s ever met.

“I’ll have to take you up on that sometime soon.” He says, straightening his button down slightly. He hasn’t had a chance with you alone like this in a long while; maybe it was time for him to finally say what he’s wanted to.

“You know love,” he starts, the pet name not going over your head. “I think you’re really special. One of the kindest women I’ve ever met. And I know how much you get along with Ayla, but I’d love to just get to know you one on one more. Would that be okay?”

He’s anxious at his own suggestion; if you don’t approve and find him weird, you could get mad at him. And the worst-case scenario is that you could quit and he’d have to find a new babysitter; none would be as good as you.

His words might just be music to your ears; you always found him rather attractive, and seeing him and his daughter evoked feelings you didn’t really understand, but you never wanted to let yourself think about that further. He was technically your boss, but he was also suggested going on what sounded like a date. Every professional bone inside of you was screaming at you to say no, but goddamnit, you haven’t been on a date in years now.

“I’d love to!” Is the word you decide on, a smile appearing on both of your faces instantly?

Alex thanks the Lord internally that you didn’t flip out and that you actually seemed excited about the whole thing. So many ideas flood his head of what he could do to make this date perfect for you.

“Do you like Italian food? There’s this really nice place down the street that I’ve been to a few times. It's also super quiet, so no one can bother us,” he suggests. He hadn’t actually been at that restaurant since he was with his ex-girlfriend, Ayla’s mother, but he’s been meaning to go back.

You nodded almost instantly; you did love Italian food. It was like he could read your mind; that was literally your idea of the perfect first date. The idea of it being quiet was also appealing; she’s heard stories from him of what it can be like when fans or paparazzi find him.

“Sounds lovely!”

Alex beams at your words, a wide smile appearing on his face. He was already deciding on when to take you and what he was going to wear. You were just so special, and he wanted to make sure you knew how much he cared about you and appreciated you.

“You’re lovely, truly. I don’t think you know how lovely you are.” His voice is warm, and he takes your hands in his. He hasn’t felt this giddy about a woman in years, and he almost felt like a teen again.

“You flatter me; you’re a lovely person too, and a great father.” You respond to him, looking down at your joint hands. Sometimes he was so in his own head and it bothered you; he was just so special.

He lets out a low laugh and shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling for a second.

"God, no, I’m a mess. And I’m barely a father; you do more work than me.” His words were sad, but he meant them; he never felt truly good enough in any way. As a musician he thought he was past his prime, and as a father he thought he was an utter failure. It was you that kept his family afloat.

You furrow your eyebrows at his words; they hurt you for some reason. You’ve seen him and his daughter; they were so happy together. She loved him, and you could tell he thought she was the most beautiful person on earth.

You gently release your hands from his and cup his face. “Hey no. That’s not true. You are such a good father; your daughter loves you so much.”

He lets out a small gasp at the feeling of your hands on his face; it was a tenderness he hadn’t felt in about as long as he could remember. He never let his guard down, and now you were practically coaxing him into being vulnerable and open, and he felt safe. At the sound of his gasp, your own heart starts to beat faster, and you rest your forehead against his. It’s a silent gesture to show him that you really, truly care. And he feels it, and for once the world doesn’t feel so awful.

He looks up at you with his dark eyes, waiting for a silent signal of anything. He wasn’t going to push you into something; he just wanted you to stay. You let out a small nod; he could probably manipulate you into joining a cult at this very moment.

He leans slightly closer to you, his lips almost touching yours before he pulls away. He can’t be the one to kiss you; that would be breaking every rule. It’s an easy thing to notice how hesitant he seems, and it’s almost adorable to you. You grin up at him, reassuring him by squeezing his cheek with the hand still on his face. Realizing he’s probably too shy to be the one to break a boundary, you decide to cross every bridge, pressing your lips gently against his.

His lips are dry and cracked; he probably didn’t think about taking care of them. He didn’t have a reason to; he wasn’t really planning on kissing anyone until all of this. The kiss is simple, the type that you see at the end of an old Hollywood movie where they weren’t allowed to make out. He takes a second to fumble with his hands; he doesn’t really feel like going directly into groping right now. His biggest fear is scaring you off. So instead he pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a hug.

Even if the kiss wasn’t passionate, there was more emotion found in his lips against yours than any makeout session you had with college boyfriends. He felt truly cared for for the first time in a while; you just felt head over heels crazy about him.

Slowly, after he pulls away for a deep breath and to take in your rosy cheeks, he deepens the kiss. It starts with him gently licking at the bottom of your lip; it’s light enough that if you want to pull away, you can, but you don’t. You give him the permission he wants, and he swirls his tongue into the cavern of your mouth. He wants to get to know every inch of you—everything that made you the sweetest girl he had ever met.

The insides of his mouth had an aftertaste of coffee and cigarettes, just as you may have predicted in your late-night fantasies. There was rarely a time you saw him without one of the two, and it was endearing how that even crossed into his kisses. He hugs you impossibly closer before removing his lips from yours.

“You’re so fucking perfect. I don’t understand how I deserve you. I’m a fucked up single dad; I pay you to help me make my life less chaotic. I don’t deserve your tenderness.” He starts to ramble, pressing his head against yours again. His words ignite a spark in your chest; it’s just so untrue that it makes you angry. You wish there was a way to explain to him that he was doing nothing wrong; he was maybe the best parent you’ve ever seen.

Your brain is filled with thoughts on how you could reassure him, but there’s no words you can think of. You look down at his jeans and then back up at him.

“Can I show you how enchanted I am by you? How much I don’t care about your flaws?” You ask him, hand gently ghosting over his hips. His breath hitches, and he nods. There’s a deep worry at the back of his throat that you may feel obliged to do this, but the devotion in your eyes changes his mind instantly.

“Of course, sunshine. I’d love that.” He smiles at you as you sink to your knees on the kitchen floor, looking up at him with a warm beam. ‘Sunshine’ was one of the first things he ever said to you; on the first day you worked with Ayla, he told you that you were just like a work of art.

You wrap your fingers into his belt buckle and remove it, setting it on the floor next to you. You’ve given plenty of blowjobs, but this one felt more personal, more important. As stupid as it sounded, you felt like the safety of the world depended on you sucking his dick at this very moment.

By the time you slide his jeans and boxers off, you’re met with the fact that he’s big, like really big, and he isn’t even fully hard. Of course he was big; he was a fucking rockstar. There was no way he wasn’t big. But you were still a bit nervous that you wouldn’t be able to handle it all.

As if he could sense your hesitation about his size, he ropes his fingers into your hair and forces you to look up at him. “Take the time you need sunshine; you’ll be perfect, I promise.”

His words not only send a wave of arousal between your thighs, but they also give you the reassurance you need. Wrapping your hand around his thick cock firmly, you give him a few pumps to get him totally hard.

It doesn’t take long; he’s so attracted to you, and this moment was just so fucking hot. His cock is even bigger than you could’ve imagined; you hollow your cheeks just looking at it. It takes you a minute to think of where to start, but you remembered one thing your ex-boyfriend loved.

You begin by peppering his shaft with soft kisses, going all the way from the head to his balls (you pay extra attention to his balls, noticing the way his breath hitches at the lightest bit of contact). This is almost exactly what Alex would’ve expected from you; even the way you sucked Dick was sweet and tender.

After his dick is thoroughly covered with every kiss possible, you wrap your hand around the base and lean forward, swirling your tongue around the tip. His breath hitches, and he fights back his body’s urge to thrust forward; he wanted to let you take as long as you needed.

It starts with gentle licks and suckers; you want to warm your mouth up. It’s been a while. You do eventually start to suck on his head, hollowing out your cheeks so you can go farther. You don’t start to bob on his cock immediately, just a few gentle sucks. You look up at him for confirmation that you were doing okay.

Of course you were doing okay; it’s been so long that you could’ve just grazed his dick with your pinky and he would’ve exploded everywhere. He gives you a reassuring smile and brings his hand to your hand, gently guiding you to start bobbing.

That’s just what you needed—the slight act of dominance. You start moving your mouth up and down his shaft, your mouth feeling so perfectly full. The first time you try to deepthroat him, you gag, his dick hitting a spot pretty deep in your throat.

Alex, gentleman he is, immediately pulls you off and looks at you with concern, but you shake your head. “I’m fine, Alex, I promise,” you say before reattaching yourself to his hardness. This time it’s more passionate, faster. You’re remembering everything that made past partners tick, and you’re learning what Alex loves.

For example, he lets out a guttural moan when you gently fondle his balls, but you could’ve guessed that from the way he reacted to the kisses earlier. He moans again when you suck on him AND swirl your tongue at the same time, and you can hear the way his breath changes based on how fast or slow you’re going.

Once you determine the pace that’s drawing the most whines out of you, he brings his hand back to your head, guiding you down his cock further. This time you’re able to go all the way down, and with his full cock in the back of your throat, you look up at him with a sense of pride. All you ever want to be is helpful for him, doing the most. He gives you a tap on the back as if to say ‘good job.’ These seconds of quiet without your head moving remind you that you’re so soaked the floor is probably wet, and then he pushes you back up.

You keep this rhythm for a while, alternating between sucking him and letting him guide your head. You know he’s close; you can sense the way he’s starting to twitch in your mouth, and his heartbeat is starting to become erratic. He wants to cum in your mouth, on you, inside you, anywhere he could get it. He’s starting to become obsessed.

“Can I cum in your mouth sunshine?” He asks you, voice breaking a few times in his sentence. He doesn’t know what you’re okay with yet; maybe you’re the type of girl that would prefer to be covered in his spillage.

You pull away enough to respond, watching the way his shaft is almost convulsing. “I would love for you to cum in my mouth,” you say with a grin before laughing slightly. It was an absurd statement to say to someone who was practically your boss, but it was also really damn hot at the moment. He laughs too; he liked that he could do that while still having sex with you.

His laughs, however, are interrupted by you suddenly deepthroating him, looking up at him with eyes that are just giving him permission to cum down your hot throat. After a few more suckers, he starts to grip the kitchen counter and loses control over his hips and breath; if he wasn’t so turned on, he’d think he looks pathetic. To you, it’s beautiful that he’s coming apart and you’re bringing him this level of pleasure.

He whines when his loads start to spill into your throat, pulling out of you and gripping harder to the counter. It takes him a minute to steady his breath, admiring the way your eyes are lust-blown and the sight of your throat swallowing.

There was a lot of cum, but it was his. You liked that it was his, and you made sure to swallow it all. It didn’t have a taste you could really identify, so you decided to call it 'Alex.' It was him at his most vulnerable. You loved it.

He pulls his pants up, shuffling for his belt on the floor. You look over at the time, 10:30; you should probably get home soon before your roommate starts to worry.

“I want to return the favor. Let me taste you.” He says suddenly, almost begging you. It breaks your heart to have to shake your head no.

“I should really get home, but I’ll have to take you up on that offer later. Maybe after that date, yeah?” You smile warmly at him, grabbing his clammy hand and squeezing it a few times. He pouts in protest but then nods; he didn’t want you to be too tired at work tomorrow either.

"Alright, love, I’ll see you here tomorrow in the morning, yeah? I probably won’t be home until late again, big studio session. But I’ll make sure to take Friday off for our date.” He grins; just the idea of taking you on a date fills him with a warmth only his daughter had made him feel in the past years.

You pull him into a hug and press a quick kiss on his lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Alex. Maybe I’ll take Ayla to the park.” You grab your bag and start to walk towards the door, your face still flushed pink. “I can’t wait for our date.”

He gives a nod in agreement at that, too out of words to say anything else. It hurt him to see you leave, but you’d be back in no time.

“And Alex, thank you for letting me be a part of your family. Even if our dynamic is changing.” You reach the door, opening it with your hand.

“Thank you for being a part of our family, Sunshine. I wouldn’t have anyone else.”

AN: was reading jane eyre (also where the title came from) when i came up with this, i got really obsessed with that dynamic. might turn this into a series idk

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