#best hangover pills

[bizarrelovetriangel]

starstruck.

coming home drunk and showering xavier with kisses

short fluff <3 inspired by this lol

Xavier wondered what you were doing. He's at home, observing his fitness watch app when he noticed that your heart rate has been picking up. It's nothing alarming, but it makes him curious about what you could possibly be up to at this time of night.

He got his answer two hours later when Tara knocked on his door with your arms wrapped around her shoulders, giggling uncontrollably about something.

"Thank god you're here." Tara passes your swaying body over to Xavier, who then steadied you by putting one hand on your waist and another on the small of your back. "She kind of drank a little too much, so..... good luck and good night!"

"Huh?"

Soom after Tara vanished, Xavier felt his cheeks being squished by two cold hands. "Ooohh, no way! You look just like this guy that I like!"

"...oh no."

During the last ten minutes, Xavier has been trying to get you to drink water.

"I'm not drinking that love potion!"

You keep running away from him and occasionally bumping against his furnitures and the walls of his apartment.

You were giggling while looking over your shoulder, trying to see how far he is from you when suddenly, you bumped into....Xavier.

"Wha- how did you - " You suddenly gripped his shirt. "Oh, Xavier! You're not gonna believe this! Someone who looks just like you wants to give me a love potion! I think he might be Lumie- ah!"

Xavier threw you over his shoulder and did his best to hold tightly as you wiggled dramatically to free yourself from him. "I just want to give you some water."

He set you down on the couch and got on one knee in front of you so that he could give you the glass of water.

You blinked and stared at him with wide eyes, pupils dilated and body petrified.

Xavier tilted his head. "Are you okay? What's wrong?" The moment his hand brushed against your cheek, you gasped and recoiled. "Hmm?"

"...pretty...."

/////////////

You woke up with the worst headache of your life. You're never drinking ever again.

You say that every time you get drunk, but you really mean it this time. It doesn't matter how good the drinks are - you can only have one drink from now on! No more!

"Ugh..."

You opened your eyes and recognized Xavier's bedroom. You're wearing your pajama shorts and one of Xavier's comfortable shirts that's enveloping you with his scent.

Xavier is still sleeping next to you, back facing you and face partly buried on his pillow.

You wanted to stay in bed for a little longer and cuddle with him, especially since he always looks extra soft in the mornings, but your dry mouth is forcing you to get up and hydrate yourself.

And so, you dragged yourself to the kitchen. Along with a pill that'll help with your hangover, you took a big gulp of refeshing cold water.

"Good morning." a tired voice greets you through a yawn. "How are you feeling?"

You turned around to face Xavier and immediately choked on your water.

"PFFFFTTTT - "

You coughed and spat out some water, putting a hand on your throat as you felt it burn slightly.

"Are you okay?!"

Xavier ran over to check on you, giving you a closer look at his body's....modifications. He's only wearing his pajama pants, so everything else is out on display.

"That's...."

Xavier realized you're gawking at him - specifically at the lipstick stains all over his face, neck, and chest.

The kiss marks are the same shade of red that you wore last night when you went out with Tara and Simone.

"Oh god..."

Your right hand reached for Xavier's face and your thumb started to wipe one kiss mark on his cheek.

You almost forgot about it, but now the faint memory of you peppering kisses all over Xavier is slowly coming back to you.

You just remembered him looking so dazzling and you were overcome with the urge to kiss him.... a lot, apparently.

"You could've at least wiped them off before falling asleep."

Xavier smiled and shook his head. "I don't mind them. You were having a lot of fun and it was helping you calm down. I'm glad I was able to help."

"Ugh. I'm never drinking again."

"That's what you said last time." Xavier laughs, nuzzling his face against the hand that was wiping him. "But it's okay. As long as I'm your only victim, I don't mind taking care of drunk you."

[snail-day]

You Can't Just Play God

SatoSugu x Reader Inspired by a comic on Webtoon: Never Ending Darling and that one anon asking about how things would go if you were dating Geto and Gojo entered the relationship instead.

TW: No Curse AU/Modern Au, Horror? Yandere Behaviors (Obsessive, Possessive, Manipulation, Etc.), SatoSugu, Dubcon, Implied Noncon, Murder, Disturbing deaths, Blood, Gun violence, Reader Dies Multiple Times, smut, spooky lab tech (not used for smut), academic theft. MDNI. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

WC: 7.5k

Enjoy! I'm going to touch grass now :)

The cycle repeats.

A new age, a new era—and you had a goddamn headache.

The chimes of your alarm dragged you out of sleep, their shrill notes cutting through the haze clouding your mind. A groan slipped through your lips as you sluggishly threw an arm over your face as the sun’s obnoxiously bright rays streamed through your curtains, making everything somehow worse. Judging by the pounding in your skull, you had to assume you were hungover. Not that you could confirm it—these days, your memories were more like fragmented snapshots, and last night was no exception.

Reaching for your side table, you fumbled to silence the grating K.K. Slider alarm jingle that seemed ten times louder than usual. The sudden quiet was a relief, but only for a moment. Your groan deepened as you noticed the sweet note left behind by your boyfriend—no, fiancé. That term still felt foreign, awkward on your tongue.

“For the love of my life, please stop with your antics, sweet girl.” —Sugu.

Beside the note sat a neatly placed hangover tonic and a couple of pills, his familiar thoughtfulness easing some of the tension in your chest. You popped the pills and chased them with the tonic, grateful for his foresight, though the nagging truth lingered: you didn’t remember going out last night. At all.

The sensation wasn’t new, but it never got less unsettling. A blank space where memories should be. A creeping sense of unease settled over you as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed. Your head throbbed with the effort, each beat of the headache a sharp reminder of how little control you seemed to have over your own life lately.

You padded downstairs in your pajamas, still half-asleep and half-questioning your existence. The familiar scent of breakfast wafted through the house, but it did little to clear the fog in your mind. Despite Suguru’s persistent efforts, you still lived at home with your parents. You’d insisted you weren’t ready to move in with him yet. He’d even offered to kick out his roommate and business partner—your college best friend, Gojo Satoru—to make space for you. You still said no.

“You’re so lucky to have a man like him, Y/N,” your mother chimed from the kitchen, her voice cutting through your haze. She stood by the stove, spatula in hand, her words laced with just enough mom judgment to make you wince. “He carried you home, helped you shower, and got you changed. You don’t find men like that anymore.”

You don't remember any of that however -

She wasn’t wrong. Somehow, you’d managed to score Geto Suguru, the golden boy of your university days and a literal campus heartthrob. Dreamy looks, a sharp mind, and a personality that could charm even the grumpiest professor. He was, by all accounts, perfect. A goddamn dreamboat. And all because you were friends—well, “friends”—with Gojo Satoru.

The term "friends" was generous. You’d been stuck with him for every group project and PhD research assignment imaginable, his sharp intellect rivaled only by his inability to take anything seriously. Yet, through some twist of fate, that irritating partnership had landed you Suguru.

And now, here you were: hungover, disoriented, and trying to piece together just how you’d gotten so lucky. Lucky wasn’t the right word—it was a miracle. A once-in-a-lifetime kind of miracle.

As you poured yourself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to last night than just drinks and laughter. Maybe you should stop drinking.

Because while you had a doctorate, had been part of some of the most groundbreaking research in the medical field, and somehow scored a partner who now co-owned one of the biggest medical organizations in the country…

You still didn’t have a real job.

Sure, you worked at a café on weekends, but that didn’t exactly scream “career success.” The smell of burnt espresso and sugary syrups clung to your clothes, and your paycheck barely covered your expenses and crippling student debt.

Suguru had been practically begging you to come work with him. He’d pitched every possible reason, his voice honey-smooth and infuriatingly persuasive. “We’d make a great team,” he’d say, always with that easy smile. Or, “You’d finally get to put that brilliant mind to use,” followed by a soft kiss on your forehead. And, of course, the practical approach: “You could stop getting burned by scalding coffee every other Saturday.”

But your answer never wavered. It was always a firm no.

Why should you take advantage of your boyfriend’s—fiancé’s—accomplishments? It wasn’t his fault you felt like a freeloader in your own life. But working with him would only cement that feeling, wouldn’t it? And let’s be honest: there was no way you could survive the smug, self-satisfied smirks Gojo Satoru would throw your way every. Single. Day.

The thought alone made your headache throb harder.

Your mother’s voice cut through your spiraling thoughts—the kind of thoughts you really should’ve been saving for your therapist. “Did you hear me, Y/N? You’re lucky he even tolerates you living here at your age,” she quipped, half-joking, half-serious.

You sighed, forcing yourself back to the present as she set a plate of breakfast in front of you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered if Suguru’s offer would ever stop looming over you.

“Can you bring Suguru his bento? Oh, and I made one for Satoru, too! You don’t bring him around anymore. I miss that cute smile of his,” your mother hummed, nodding toward the perfectly packed bento boxes lined up on the counter.

Dragging a hand down your face. At least running this errand was better than being stuck at home, drowning in wedding prep, and trying on half a million dresses your mom insisted on. “It’s the least you could do,” she always said, as if you weren’t already suffocating under the weight of your own existential dread.

“Sure,” you muttered, knowing resistance was futile. Besides, it wasn’t like you had any real plans today.

After a quick shower and throwing on something that looked presentable enough for public, you grabbed the bento boxes and headed out. The warm sunlight and cool breeze were a temporary reprieve, a small comfort as you made your way to their office—their office.

 It was better than the alternative of staying at home and listening to your mother’s words about floral centerpieces and seating arrangements. Barely.

Their company was part of this “new era,” the one everyone couldn’t stop raving about—and you’d been a huge part of its foundation. Back in the day, you and Satoru had cracked the code to altering DNA, finding a way to cheat death. If you could afford the astronomical price tag, mortality was no longer your concern. People who were once riddled with cancer could now return home cancer-free, spared the agony of losing limbs or enduring endless rounds of chemo.

You’d only been part of solving the formula, though. The groundwork. Satoru had the funding, the connections, and the relentless drive to take it further. Once you stepped out of the picture, you hadn’t kept track of the system or its progress. You didn’t ask, and no one offered answers.

The alteration had been applied to most of the foundational jobs—political leaders, police officers, high-ranking officials. It was a standard requirement now, a guarantee of longevity and efficiency in roles deemed too crucial to risk mortality.

These days, people were willing to go into crippling debt to get the procedure done, their desperation outweighing the staggering price. After all, what was a lifetime of debt if you couldn’t die? No risk of death meant no fear of defaulting, and for many, that trade-off was worth it.

The procedure had shifted society’s balance, turning death into a choice rather than an inevitability—but at a cost few truly understood.

The business was beginning to have a cult following after being backed by the world's leaders.

And yet, not everyone shared the world’s admiration for the scientific marvel housed within that towering, double-helix-shaped skyscraper in the heart of Tokyo. Protestors were a constant presence outside the building, their chants about ethics blending with the dramatic videos they displayed of humanity spiraling into chaos. You’d seen their demonstrations so many times it had faded into background noise.

Still, as you approached the sleek, futuristic entrance, a pang of guilt crept in. What had once been your passion now felt like a story you’d abandoned—a story that no longer felt like yours.

Maybe there was a hint of resentment buried beneath the guilt. Maybe, deep down, you wished you’d taken Satoru’s offer back then, even if you knew it wouldn’t have made things easier. But that was a door you’d slammed shut long ago, and no amount of hindsight could undo it.

Shaking your head to clear the thought, you stepped through the automatic doors. The familiar hum of the lobby enveloped you, the pristine white interior and futuristic decor unchanged since the last time you’d been here. Security nodded as you passed, their recognition swift and unquestioning.

The private elevator awaited a sleek capsule of steel and glass that carried you straight to the top floor. The ascent was smooth and silent, yet the weight in your chest grew heavier with every passing second.

There, you were greeted by Suguru’s stunning, sharp-eyed assistant. Even after countless encounters, Manami gave you that same unreadable look—like she was quietly sizing you up, or maybe judging you in some understated, professional way. It wasn’t outright rude, but it was just enough to make your skin crawl.

The treacherous thought crept into your mind, uninvited: Maybe he should be dating her instead. No—marrying her. She fit into his world so effortlessly. Polished, composed, and clearly brilliant, Manami seemed like the perfect match for someone as successful and poised as Suguru. Meanwhile, you still felt like a guest who’d overstayed their welcome, fumbling to keep up in a world that wasn’t yours.

It was a ridiculous thought, and you knew it. Late-night Reddit doom-scrolling had reassured you that insecurities like this were perfectly normal, even if they were soul-crushingly embarrassing. Deep down, you understood that your so-called “little life” wasn’t the problem. The problem was you—stuck in your own head, drowning in doubts that never seemed to let up.

But no matter how loud the voice in your head got, one thing you couldn’t ignore: Suguru would never leave you. You were sure of that. If anything, he clung to you like his life depended on it—unfortunately. And for reasons you couldn’t quite put into words, that unwavering devotion only made it harder to believe you deserved him.

You shifted awkwardly in the too-fancy armchair across from Manami’s desk, clutching the bag of bentos like it might save you from drowning. “Nice weather we’re having,” you mumbled, trying to fill the heavy silence with small talk.

Manami barely glanced up, her manicured fingers pausing just long enough to adjust the nameplate on her desk before resuming their rhythmic clatter against her keyboard.

“Hm,” she hummed, a noncommittal response that somehow managed to sound both polite and dismissive at the same time.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to look anywhere but at her. The room, much like the rest of the building, was sleek and pristine, designed to impress. But the air felt heavy, the quiet tension between you and Manami a constant reminder that this wasn’t your world. It was theirs.

And you weren’t sure you’d ever truly belong.

You sighed, muttering a quiet “Alright,” under your breath, and returned to fidgeting with the straps of the bag. Your eyes wandered down to the weight on your left hand—the engagement ring.

It was stunning. Too stunning. The kind of ring that screamed wealth and class, the kind that seemed like it should belong to someone like her. Another insecure thought, you supposed, but brushing it off was easier said than done. The gnawing doubt settled deep in the pit of your stomach, refusing to budge. Perhaps another conversation to save for your therapist. 

The soft click of a door unlocking snapped you out of your spiral. You looked up to see Suguru stepping out, his familiar, easy smile lighting up his face as his dark eyes landed on you. The way his gaze swept over you still sent butterflies fluttering through your stomach. Even after all this time, he still had that effect on you.

“There’s my sweet girl,” he murmured warmly, his voice low and soothing as he extended a hand toward you.

You stepped forward, slipping your hand into his. His grip was firm yet tender, grounding in a way that made your chest tighten. He gave your hand a small squeeze before adding, “You could’ve waited with Satoru, you know. He misses you.”

The mention of Satoru made your skin crawl. Missed you? That was one way of putting it. You were marrying Suguru, yet Satoru still didn’t seem to grasp the concept of personal space. No matter how often you tried to address it, he always found a way to push the boundaries.

The casual hand lingering too long on your thigh. The hugs that felt tighter and lasted longer than they should. The kisses to your cheek that came far too often to be innocent.

You’d brought it up to Suguru so many times, and his response was always the same, a calm dismissal wrapped in a reassuring smile: “He’s harmless.”

But it didn’t feel harmless to you. Not even close.

Once inside Suguru’s office, you set the bag of bentos down on his desk, taking a step back to collect yourself. Before you could settle, he was already there. The door clicked shut behind him, his long, purposeful strides closing the space between you in seconds.

You barely had time to react before his lips crashed into yours, his hands gripping your waist as he pulled you into his arms. The force of the kiss left you breathless, his presence overwhelming as his fingers pressed against the fabric of your shirt.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your lips, his tone softer now, the affection in his voice sending a familiar heat blooming in your chest.

For a moment, you let yourself sink into him, into the comfort of his touch. He always felt safe. A fuel for comfort perhaps. 

“You were such a mess last night,” he murmured against your lips, trailing kisses down to your neck as he pushed you to sit on the edge of his desk. His hands guided your legs around his waist, holding you close as he continued his slow assault of affection. You swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat.

“You’re lucky your friend called me,” he added softly, his words brushing against your skin like a tease.

Closing your eyes, you tilted your head back as his lips moved down the column of your neck. You’d learned not to push him away when he got like this—it always left you feeling guilty afterward.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words barely audible.

Suguru’s fingers worked at the buttons of your blouse, his hands warm and conscious as he hiked up your skirt. You shivered under his touch, the chill of the room clashing with the heat of his hands.

“Can we not do this with your assistant in the other room?” you managed to ask meekly, your voice wavering as his fingertips trailed over your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“I’m having a rough day, my love,” he murmured against your throat, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I didn’t get much sleep after taking care of you last night. I need a little motivation to get through the rest of my day.”

Before you could respond, he gently eased you to lay back on his desk. It was then you realized it had been cleared—papers, files, and everything else neatly tucked away. Had he planned for this?

His lips continued their path down your body, leaving soft kisses and the occasional nip as he went. When he reached the space between your legs, he spread them carefully with his hands, his gaze lingering on you as if savoring every moment.

His tongue pressed against your clothed slit, sending a jolt of heat through your core.

“You’re not wearing the ones I bought you,” he noted, his voice low and teasing.

He was right. Instead of the delicate, expensive pieces he favored—like that itchy white G-string with the little gold charm bearing his initials “G.S”—you’d gone for the practical, cost-effective option: simple cotton underwear from a multipack.

“Wanted to be—” Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed against you, light and teasing, pulling the words from your throat before you could even finish.

“Wanted to be what?” he repeated, his voice dripping with honeyed amusement. His tone was playful, but there was an edge to it—a quiet demand. “Weren’t you taught to finish your sentences?”

The vibrations of his words sent another wave of shivers through you, and your body betrayed you, squirming under his touch. He hummed in approval, the sound low and indulgent as his hand trailed up your inner thigh, his fingers left your skin tingling in their wake.

With practiced ease, he pulled your panties to the side, his lips trailing soft, feather-light kisses along your skin. Then, without hesitation, he leaned in and began to devour you, his tongue hot and insistent, moving with volitional precision that made your back arch against the cool surface of his desk.

It was overwhelming—the way his long tongue slid inside you, the way his thumb circled your most sensitive spot with just the right amount of pressure. He moved as though he had all the time in the world, savoring every moment.

You couldn’t help the soft, pathetic moans that escaped your lips, your hands gripping the edge of the desk for some semblance of stability. Suguru had always been like this—relentless, thorough, and determined to reach every spot that made you unravel.

It wasn’t just physical. He had you memorized. Every shiver, every gasp, every sound you made only spurred him on, his movements calculated to draw out your pleasure until your mind was spinning.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured between kisses, his breath warm against your skin. “Every inch of you.”

His words made your chest tighten, a mix of emotions bubbling to the surface. Love, longing, and something you couldn’t quite name. You wanted to believe his devotion was just that—devotion. But there was a weight to his words, an intensity that sometimes felt... suffocating.

He didn’t stop until your body trembled beneath him, your breaths coming in short, uneven gasps. Suguru lifted his head, his lips glistening as he looked at you with a satisfied smirk. “See?” he whispered, his voice impossibly soft. “I know exactly what you need.”

And you believed him. How could you not, when he made you feel like this? Like you were the center of his world, the only thing that mattered.

“You’re so good for me,” he murmured, his voice low and velvety as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. “So, so good.”

In your haze, still trembling from your last orgasm, you felt the blunt, heated tip of his cock pressing against your entrance. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist again, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your thighs. 

“Gotta ease up for me, sweet girl,” he groaned, his voice thick with restraint as he pushed forward, sinking into you inch by girthy inch. The stretch made your breath hitch, your body fluttering around him, still sensitive and raw.

“It’s not gonna feel good if you don’t relax,” he cooed, though his tone carried a sense of control, a reminder that he wasn’t stopping until he had all of you. Whether it hurt or not.

You did your best to loosen the tension in your body, focusing on the soft kisses he pressed against your lips, your cheeks, and the corner of your jaw. They were meant to soothe, but the way he moved—rolling his hips upward, grinding deep—made it impossible to fully relax.

His cock filled you completely, brushing against every spot that left your mind spiraling. The slow, deliberate way he moved, the way he stretched you open, had your hands scrambling for purchase on his desk. Your nails clawed at the wood, and you wouldn’t be surprised if they left permanent marks. Something you were sure he wouldn’t mind. 

“That’s it,” Suguru whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “Taking me so well, sweet girl. Like you were made for this.”

Every thrust was deliberate, deep, and measured, as though he wanted to etch the feeling of him into every fiber of your being. He lifted his head to watch your face, his dark eyes locked on yours, taking in every gasp, every quiver, every plea that spilled from your lips.

“That’s my girl,” he praised, his voice dripping with affection as he cupped your cheek with one hand, the other still gripping your thigh, firm yet gentle as if he was afraid to leave a mark on you despite the harshness of his thrusts. “You’re perfect. So perfect for me.”

Your mind was overwhelmed, the sensations blurring together as his movements became more insistent, relentless in their devotion to unraveling you. Yet, through the haze of pleasure, a small, unwelcome thought surfaced, bubbling up in the back of your mind.

When was the last time you took your pill?

The question lingered, sharp and intrusive, cutting through the heat pooling in your core. You’d been forgetting so much lately—little things, big things, all slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. But it had to be fine. It must be a safe day. Right?

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice steady and low as his hips pressed flush against yours, burying himself to the hilt. “Don’t ever forget that.”

As the words sank in, a faint voice in the back of your mind tried to warn you, tried to remind you of the way Suguru sometimes felt too much. But it was drowned out by the overwhelming mix of his touch, his words, and the way he seemed to pour his entire being into you.

You couldn’t say it back. Whether it was the overwhelming heat, the way you could only let out these broken little whines and moans as your body trembled beneath him, or the way his hot, sticky release spilled deep inside you, filling you up until you couldn’t think straight—you just couldn’t utter those three little words. Some little voice in the back of your mind urged you not to. 

After a moment’s rest, with him carefully cleaning you up, you noticed the delicate way he helped you into some fancy lingerie—pieces he apparently had stored just for moments like this. The charm with “G.S” engraved on it caught the sunlight, glinting mischievously as he slid the panties up your legs.

“Shall we eat with Satoru?” he asked, his tone casual, as if he hadn’t just fucked you within an inch of your life. You could only nod mindlessly, clinging to his arm while he reached for the bag.

You didn’t miss the way Satoru hugged you when you walked into his office, Suguru trailing behind. The way his arms lingered around you just a little too long, his lips brushing your cheek in what felt like more than a friendly kiss. Suguru didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care. It was Satoru, after all. His best friend. His business partner. The two were inseparable.

You also didn’t miss the way Satoru draped an arm over your shoulders while the three of you ate. Suguru and Satoru were caught up in their conversation, filling each other in on meetings and plans, while you picked at your food in silence. Your mind was elsewhere, lost in the strange mix of sensations you couldn’t shake. The cum soaking into the new underwear, the lingering fog in your head, the circles Satoru traced on your arm as he kept you close. Your gaze flickered to the photo on his desk—a snapshot of the three of you. Perfect smiles. Perfect lies.

“Did you hear me, sugar?” Satoru’s voice cut through the haze, his tone teasing. “I was asking how the job search was going. You know, we could always work together again—for old times’ sake.”

You shook your head, forcing a meek smile. “I haven’t heard anything back yet. And the answer’s still no. I’m not into... medical research anymore.”

That was a lie. You were more than capable, but you didn’t want to work with them. You didn’t want to stay stuck in their shadow, even though you’d helped lay the foundation they thrived on.

Satoru chuckled, leaning back in his chair with that infuriatingly confident grin. The way his bright blue eyes glimmered with a glint of mischief. “Still so stubborn. You know, you were the brains behind half of what we’ve built. You’d fit right back in.”

Suguru’s voice cut in smoothly as if to diffuse any tension. “Let her breathe, Satoru. Not everyone is as obsessed with work as you are.” Suguru’s dark eyes settled on you for a brief moment, there was warmth to them, unreadable as always. 

You glanced between them, their banter as familiar as it was unsettling. They made it look so effortless, this balance of power and charm. But you knew better. You felt it in the way Satoru’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on your arm, in the fleeting glance Suguru shot your way when he thought you weren’t looking.

The rest of the meal passed in a haze, their conversation blending into the background. You couldn’t shake the unease curling in your stomach. It wasn’t just the situation—it was them. The way they moved around you like you were something precious and fragile, seamlessly passing control back and forth, a trophy they both claimed but never outright acknowledged.

When the meal ended, Satoru stood, stretching lazily before offering you his hand. “Why don’t you come with me for a bit? I’ve got something to show you.”

You hesitated, your gaze flicking to Suguru, who had already risen and was watching you closely. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his tone unreadable. “I’ll clean up here.”

Caught between the two of them, you nodded and took Satoru’s hand. His grip was firm, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that sent an involuntary made your skin crawl. He led you out of the office and down a hallway you knew all too well. His space. His domain. His lab. 

The door clicked shut behind you, and Satoru turned, his impossibly blue eyes locking onto yours, as sharp as ever. “You’ve been distant,” he said softly, his words gentle but edged with something sharper. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

Your gaze drifted over the room, landing on the metal tables scattered with sleek technology. Computer screens hummed with life, displaying endless rows of code, their glow casting faint shadows across the walls. This used to be your life—back in college, when the hum of processors and the thrill of breakthroughs consumed you. Now, it all felt foreign, like a distant memory you weren’t sure you wanted to revisit.

“I’d appreciate it if you kept a distance,” you said, your voice trembling just enough to betray your nerves. “I’m marrying Suguru, you know.”

The words hung in the air, a barrier you hoped he wouldn’t cross. But Satoru, being Satoru, ignored it entirely. You felt his warmth behind you before you even realized he’d moved, his tall frame enveloping yours in an embrace that felt far too intimate. His hands rested lightly on your stomach, his touch burning through the fabric of your clothes. You stiffened as his breath fanned against your neck, raising goosebumps along your skin.

“Sharing is caring,” he hummed, his voice low and teasing, sending a shiver down your spine. “Suguru doesn’t mind. In fact…” His fingers tightened slightly, grounding you in place. “He likes it when we get along.”

Before you could respond, you felt the wet warmth of his tongue trace along your jaw. The sensation jolted through you, a yelp escaping your lips before you could stop it. Satoru’s laugh followed, soft and boyish, a stark contrast to the tension suffocating the room.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “But you don’t need to fight it. We both know you don’t really want me to stop.”

His words left you frozen, the weight of his overwhelming presence pressing down on you, suffocating yet intoxicating. Do you want him to stop? 

A fleeting memory surfaced as you stood there, frozen in Satoru’s embrace. It was from the early days of your relationship with Suguru when you’d first brought up Satoru’s antics. You’d been hesitant, unsure how to address the way his lingering touches or overly familiar words made you feel. Suguru had only smiled, his voice calm and reassuring as always.

Suguru’s calm voice had soothed you then, his words steady and reassuring. “He’s harmless,” he’d said, the faintest smile tugging at his lips as if amused by your concern. “He knows, at the end of the day, you’re mine. Plus, the guy is ridiculously lonely. You’re his friend. He’s just comfortable around you.”

The words had settled over you like a balm back then, quelling your unease. Suguru’s confidence, his sense of control, had made it easy to brush off the way Satoru’s presence lingered in your life—always just a little closer than necessary.

But now, as Satoru’s lips brushed against your ear, as his arms anchored you in place, that memory felt distant. Suguru’s reassurance no longer felt like a safety net; it felt like permission. Permission for Satoru to blur the lines, to push boundaries that had never been as firm as you thought.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Satoru’s voice pulled you back to the present, his tone soft but knowing. His hands tightened slightly around your waist, a subtle reminder of his control of the situation. “It’s sweet, really. You always look so soft when you’re thinking about Suguru.”

You tried to pull away, but he only held you closer, his chuckle vibrating against your back. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m just keeping you warm. You’re the one who’s overthinking.”

Your heart pounded as you struggled to steady your breath. “This isn’t right, Satoru,” you managed, though your voice sounded weaker than you intended. “Suguru—”

“Suguru trusts me,” he interrupted, his voice smooth, almost teasing. “And you, too. That’s what makes this work, doesn’t it?” He shifted slightly, his lips grazing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “He said it himself—you’re mine, too.”

You wanted to believe it was just another one of Satoru’s games, another way for him to twist the truth to suit his desires. But the memory of Suguru’s calm, reassuring voice lingered as if Suguru had already told you—subtly, indirectly—that Satoru had his permission.

though as of late it seemed like memories all seemed to blur together.

Your instincts screamed at you to leave. To get out of this room. To get away from him. From the person who used to be your friend, your lab partner. The one who would sit with you for hours in the library, pretending to study while sneaking glances at your coffee-stained notes. The guy who’d playfully nudged you into Suguru’s arms, making it all seem so easy. Was this all some kind of cruel fate?

“I have to pee,” you blurted out, the excuse too loud, too sudden, and too weak to be convincing.

Satoru didn’t seem to care. He eased back slightly, leaning casually against his desk, his ever-present smirk still in place. “Need me to walk you there?” he asked, his voice light, teasing—but his eyes betrayed him. That hungry look in his gaze lingered, stripping away any illusion of innocence.

“I’ll manage,” you replied, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound calm.

You didn’t miss the look in his eyes—hungry, possessive. Like he didn’t care that Suguru had touched you first. The thought of Suguru’s “seconds” didn’t bother him at all. As if plunging his cock into the leftovers of Suguru's cum would be a delicacy. If anything, it seemed to excite him, and the realization made bile rise up to the back of your throat. Burning. Searing. 

“Alright,” he said with a lovesick grin that might’ve been charming to anyone else. “I’ll have Suguru meet us here.”

For most girls, a man like Satoru was a dream—handsome, confident, untouchable. And he knew it. So did Suguru. Yet they both clung to you, always hovering just a little too close.

Satoru and Suguru had always clung to you, hadn’t they? From the beginning, you’d been their constant. Their focus. You wondered why that was—why they always had, and why they always would.

As soon as the lab door clicked shut behind you, the words hung heavy in your mind, echoing like a haunting refrain. It’s not assault if he didn’t do anything, right? That’s what you told yourself, over and over, as your breaths came in sharp, uneven bursts. You sprinted down the endless hallways, your heels clicking against the tile, your heart pounding in your chest. But no matter how fast you ran, the knot in your stomach refused to loosen, and nausea churned with every step.

You clutched at the memory of your friendship with Satoru, desperate for solace. He wasn’t always like this. He was your study partner, your confidant, the one who nudged you toward Suguru when you doubted yourself. But now? The person you once trusted felt like a stranger—no, worse, a threat.

Your head pounded, and the memories came.

At first, they were warm, and tender. Satoru laughed as he leaned over your desk, swiping your notes and teasing you about your messy handwriting before planting a kiss on your lips. Suguru sitting beside you on some date, drinking hot cocoa together while watching the rain. The three of you tangled together on a couch, their arms around you, holding you close as you drifted off to sleep in their warmth.

Suguru brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his eyes soft as he whispered, “You’re everything to me.” Satoru, his grin wide and mischievous, spinning you in circles during a rainstorm, both of you drenched and laughing.

The sweetness eventually curdled.

Satoru’s hand tightening around your throat, his blue eyes blazing with something unreadable. “You don’t get to leave me,” he murmured, his tone eerily calm as you clawed at his arms. Suguru holding a syringe, his voice soothing even as your body betrayed you, muscles seizing as the world faded to black.

You shook your head, gasping for air, but the images continued to assault you.

These memories can't belong to you.

Satoru pressing kisses to your temple as he whispered, “I’ll always protect you, sugar bear,” the warmth of his embrace lulling you into safety. Suguru kneeling in front of you, a ring in hand, his voice trembling as he said, “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.”

The images were overwhelming, suffocating even, like a weight pressing down on your chest, stealing the air from your lungs. Your breaths came in ragged gasps as you sprinted down the endless halls, your heels clicking against the cold tile.

Occasionally, your legs faltered, forcing you to clutch at the nearest wall for support. Every step felt heavier, every breath harder to draw, as the haunting echoes of laughter and whispered promises mixed with screams and soft, deadly apologies. They chased you, just as real as the walls closing in around you.

Suguru standing over you, a gun in his hand, his dark eyes filled with something that looked almost like regret. “You always fight me on this” he whispered, and the shot rang out. Satoru’s voice, lilting and light, as he said, “Let’s see if you fly,” before pushing you off the rooftop, the sensation weightless and brief until impact.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head as if you could banish the images. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

You stumbled into a random room, your fingers trembling as you punched in the passcode—your birthday, of course. The door clicked open with a mechanical hiss, and you collapsed inside, your knees hitting the cold, tiled floor. The sterile air burned your nose, the faint scent of chemicals making the knot in your stomach twist tighter.

The dim blue light cast eerie shadows across the walls, the occasional beep of nearby machines the only sound besides your ragged breathing. You squeezed your eyes shut, tears streaking down your face as you tried to push the memories away.

Were they real?

Could they be real?

The warmth of their love clashed with the cold edge of their possessiveness, leaving you adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions.

You wiped your eyes with trembling hands, blinking through the haze of tears. The room around you came into focus, and your breath hitched. Large test tubes lined the walls, filled with glowing blue and green liquids, their contents swirling lazily as if alive. The machines beeped rhythmically, lights flashing in a pattern you couldn’t decipher.

But the images were relentless. Suguru’s hands pinning you down, Satoru taking free use of your body, the weight of their combined presence crushing you until you could barely breathe.

Each memory was like some cruel nightmare, swinging wildly between moments too sweet to bear and others excruciatingly painful. The contrast made it all the worse, the warmth of one memory twisting into agony in the next, leaving you gasping for air as you stumbled forward. Broken sobs escaped your throat as you crumpled to the floor, grasping at the cold tiles, desperate for something—anything—real.

You wiped your eyes with trembling hands, blinking through the haze of tears. The room around you slowly came into focus, and your breath hitched. Large test tubes lined the walls, their glowing blue and green contents swirling lazily, almost hypnotically, as if alive. Machines beeped rhythmically in the background, their lights flashing in a pattern you couldn’t decipher.

You stared at the tubes, your mind racing. This wasn’t a random lab. It couldn’t be. The passcode, the eerie familiarity of the room—it all felt deliberate, intentional. Like you were meant to find this.

Your headache worsened, the pounding in your skull syncing eerily with the beeping machines. You pressed your palms to your temples, desperately trying to shut out the relentless wave of memories—real or imagined—that threatened to consume you.

But as you knelt there, shaking and breathless, one question clawed its way to the forefront of your mind, sharp and insistent, refusing to be silenced.

Why had they always clung to you?

And why did it feel like the answer was hidden somewhere in this room?

You had to be going crazy. That was the only explanation.

Shakily, you pushed yourself to your feet, the sterile air thick and heavy in your lungs. Sniffling, your fingers trailed along the cold, metallic surface of the tables as you moved closer to the strange test tubes. The faint hum of machinery filled the silence, the swirling contents inside the tubes illuminated by the dim, eerie glow of blue light.

Your breath hitched as you leaned in, squinting through the glass.

They weren’t just shapes or fragments. They weren’t abstractions of human life.

They were human.

They were you.

The realization hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs as you stumbled back. Your gaze darted to the screen beside the tubes, its sterile, blinking message driving the truth deeper into your chest.

"Processing."

The word repeated in steady intervals, cold and mechanical, mocking you with its efficiency.

This wasn’t a lab for curing diseases or advancing medicine. This wasn’t about saving lives.

They were cloning people.

They were cloning you.

Your knees threatened to give out again, but you gripped the edge of the table, your mind spinning wildly. Fragments of memories, half-formed and blurry, clawed their way to the surface, demanding to be seen. This had been your research once. Cloning. You’d cracked the formula—found the key.

You remembered the argument with Satoru, his icy blue eyes flashing with a rare seriousness. You’d told him it was unethical. That it wasn’t righteous. That you can’t just play god. You told him you couldn’t live with what you’d discovered. That’s why you stopped. That’s why you stopped talking to him. That’s why you left research behind.

But what happened after that?

How had they gotten here—this point, with a cult-like following and resources beyond comprehension? And more importantly—where had you been?

The questions tore at you, each one heavier than the last. Pieces of your memory felt missing, like someone had reached into your mind and carved out chunks, leaving you with only jagged fragments.

Had they done this to you?

Had he done this to you?

And then, the darkest question of all clawed its way to the surface:

How many times have they done this to you?

Your gaze snapped back to the endless row of tubes, bile rising in your throat as the enormity of it hit you. Backed-up versions of you floated in a dreamless stasis, stripped of identity, reduced to nothing but a tool for their ambitions.

The room spun, the walls closing in, as the truth pressed down on you—suffocating, undeniable.

You weren’t just a researcher who’d stumbled too close to the edge.

You were the edge.

And somehow, they’d dragged you right back into it.

The realization shattered whatever fragile control you had left. Sobs erupted from your throat, raw and unrelenting, as the pounding headache in your skull grew louder, sharper, threatening to split you in two. The sterile hum of the lab faded beneath the weight of your anguish, until—

Crack.

The sharp, deafening sound of a gunshot shattered everything.

You didn’t even have time to react.

The world went dark.

“Guess we’ll have to start all over again tomorrow,” Suguru’s voice hummed, smooth and almost tender, as though he were speaking to a wayward child. “Satoru will be disappointed, but it looks like this version of you wasn’t going as well anyway.”

His footsteps echoed in the eerie stillness, unhurried and deliberate, as he approached the bloodied mess you’d become.

He crouched down beside you, his dark eyes gleaming with an unsettling mix of pity and resolve. The gun fell from his hand with a hollow clatter, the sound reverberating through the cold room like an accusation.

“You should really stop with all your antics, sweet girl,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that felt almost cruel. “It’s really heartbreaking to do this every time your brilliant mind starts to turn.”

Suguru’s hand lingered, disturbingly gentle as he smoothed your hair back, his touch so intimate it made your skin crawl—if you’d still had the strength to feel anything.

“You always fight so hard,” he said softly, almost like a lament. His gaze drifted over your still form, dark and unreadable. “But you know how this ends. You always know.”

He straightened slowly, letting his words settle in the suffocating silence.

“And yet, you never stop trying.”

Straightening, Suguru cast a glance at the tubes glowing faintly in the dim light behind him. His lips curled into a faint, almost tender smile, one that never quite reached his dark eyes. “Don’t worry,” he murmured softly, his tone as much for himself as it was for you. “We’ll put you back together again. Just like always.”

He knelt down, unhurried, his movements precise. His fingers brushed against your skin as he carefully slid the ring from your finger, the gesture deliberate, almost reverent. For a moment, he stared at the ring in his palm, his thumb tracing the smooth band. Something flickered in his gaze—regret, perhaps, or something far more calculated. He tucked the ring into his pocket with a quiet sigh.

A quick call to the “clean-up” crew followed. His voice was calm, clinical, as if he were ordering mundane office supplies rather than orchestrating the erasure of a life. The conversation ended with a sharp click, his phone slipping back into his jacket pocket.

Suguru cast another glance at the bloodied mess on the floor, his lips tugging into a sad, almost bittersweet smile.

“I love you,” he whispered, his tone heartbreakingly sincere, as though the words could absolve the horror of what had just transpired. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He turned, his fingers playing with the ring in his pocket, twirling it absentmindedly as if it were a trinket rather than a symbol of promises now rendered hollow. The door hissed shut behind him, the sterile room sealing itself in silence.

The hum of the machines was the only sound that remained, indifferent to the gruesome tableau they overlooked.

[p0orbaby]

Extinguish the Flames with Some Champagne and Pills

summary: your may or may not be in denial about your feelings for alexia

warnings: mention of smut, alcohol and drugs and nothing major

a/n: a whole lot of words based on this request. set after this but you don’t have to read it if you don’t want to

word count: 3k

part 1

-

You’ve been ignoring Alexia’s messages for weeks now, every one of them its own little bomb you’re too terrified to defuse. Every time her name pops up on your screen, your stomach flips, your breath catches, and you somehow experience the full spectrum of human emotion in a split second. But mostly there’s terror and something closer to shame than you’d like to admit.

It’s a game of avoidance that doesn’t come easily to you; after all, you’re usually the one with a glib reply or some devil-may-care response, the kind of person who thrives on chaos. But this time, it’s different. This time, there’s something closer to shame nestled beneath the familiar terror, a sensation like a splinter lodged deep under the skin—small enough to ignore at first but persistent enough to drive you mad.

Your friends—of course, always your friends—keep bringing her up, as if they can somehow sense the crisis you’re trying to keep contained. It’s usually after a few cocktails too many, when your circle is gathered around a dimly lit table in some trendy restaurant or at a rooftop bar where the music is loud enough to drown out the awkward pauses but not loud enough to stifle their teasing. “She’s the best footballer in the world,” they slur with a kind of drunken reverence, like they’re invoking some untouchable deity rather than a woman who once had her strap buried inside you in a strangers bathroom. “You know she won the Ballon d’Or twice, right?” As if you haven’t been low-key stalking her career, watching those achievements pile up like monuments you’ll never come close to matching. “She’s beautiful and talented,” they declare, their words slurring into a familiar refrain, as though her accolades have somehow slipped your mind, as though you might have failed to notice her brilliance or her impossible grace.

But the clincher, the one they love to throw at you, is always: “And she’s Spanish”

There’s a certain relish with which they say it, that singsong tone like they’re divulging some magic spell or a punchline they know gets a laugh every time. It’s as if her nationality carries some kind of exotic allure, like there’s something intrinsically romantic or mysterious about being Spanish that you’re pre-programmed to fall for. Ridiculous, really, but your friends don’t care about nuance. They only remember the endless stories you told about summers in the Balearics—the drunken nights under hot stars, the hazy afternoons spent nursing hangovers and catching fragments of conversations in Spanish that you pretended to understand. “You love Spanish women,” they insist, as if your type is as predictable as your go-to drink order. Conveniently, they overlook the fact that your type mostly translates to ‘emotionally unavailable,’ as if that’s some universal trait of Iberian women.

It’s not that they’re entirely wrong, of course, but they’re oversimplifying. Your attraction to Alexia isn’t some exoticism or romantic fantasy you’ve spun out of nothing. It’s her unapologetic drive, her resilience, that hooked you—though God forbid you’d admit that to anyone. “She’s an athlete,” you shrug whenever the subject comes up, swirling the last melting ice cube in your Old Fashioned like it’s a magic eight ball that might give you a different answer this time. “They’re all players.” The line slips out with just the right amount of indifference, a practiced dismissal, as though you’ve been brutalised by every athlete from Cristiano Ronaldo to Wayne Gretzky. It’s a complete fabrication, of course. You’ve never actually dated a footballer, let alone the best in the world. But who can resist a good story, especially when it’s your own and you get to embellish the details?

It’s easier, you think, to act disinterested than to admit you’ve been replaying that night in the bathroom, the feel of her breath against your neck, every time you catch your reflection in some shiny surface. You thought you were done with all that—had filed her away in the mental drawer labelled ‘Temporary Distractions,’ right alongside the male model who could never quite remember your birthday and the painter who had the audacity to try to psychoanalyse you on the third date. One-night stands are supposed to be transient, fleeting, the kind of thing you can bring up in therapy one day with a detached air. “I think this is worth mentioning,” you’d say, as if it happened to someone else, “but it’s not really important.” Another plot point in the story of your life, never quite making it past the cutting room floor.

But Alexia doesn’t stay filed away. She starts turning up everywhere, not quite a haunting, but a presence you can’t shake no matter how you try. At first, it’s incidental—just a casual Instagram scroll, a stray click on some football gossip account that you don’t even remember following. There she is, grinning in some post-match group shot, looking too happy for someone who’s supposed to be just another fleeting chapter in your book. It’s the kind of unguarded joy that can’t be faked, not even for the camera, and you can’t help but wonder if she’s always this free, or if it’s something that only comes out when she’s on the pitch, away from people like you.

You hardly even realise it, but suddenly you’re following three different Barcelona fan accounts. Then, as if by some magnetic force you’re unwilling to acknowledge, things escalate. She likes one of your posts—a shot from the Venice Film Festival where you’re all decked out in head-to-toe Prada, looking expensively bored, like you couldn’t care less about anything in the world. She comments on one of your stories: just an emoji. A single fire emoji, to be precise. Harmless, you suppose. But the comments start getting specific—little in-jokes that only someone who’d had their mouth on your skin could know. There’s a familiarity in her tone that feels invasive, like she’s reminding you of things you’ve deliberately chosen to forget.

You don’t reply. Cowardice? Yes. Masochism? Possibly. The most crucial thing is that replying would imply there’s something worth talking about, and something always becomes complicated. You’ve already got enough complicated in your life: a demanding agent who keeps sending you scripts for roles that are ‘outside your comfort zone,’ a wardrobe full of designer clothes you’re required to wear for sponsorship deals you didn’t even negotiate, and an on-again, off-again affair with mindful meditation that never seems to stick. You’re in the middle of wrapping up a film that everyone assures you will ‘change the trajectory of your career,’ though they’ve said the same about the last three projects, and you still get recognised more for that face cream advert you did when you were twenty-one than for anything of substance.

The film’s an indie about a morally ambiguous antiheroine, a character so damaged and charmingly dysfunctional you’d think you were being typecast if the role didn’t feel like an emotional excavation. She’s got a drinking problem; you’ve always favoured substances that can be discreetly indulged in penthouse bathrooms, though you’re certainly not going to point that out to the director who keeps going on about ‘authenticity’ and ‘method acting.’ He seems to think you’ve got some untapped well of emotion just waiting to be accessed, as if there’s this depth beneath your flawless skin that’s going to pour out on cue. If only. Most of the time, you’re trying not to let your co-star notice the faint tremor in your hands that’s mostly a byproduct of too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

Then one day, while you’re lounging in your trailer, pretending to enjoy a green juice that tastes like the inside of a lawnmower—another post from Alexia. She’s on the pitch, holding some trophy aloft, her face flushed with victory. Her hair is slicked back, still damp with sweat, strands clinging to her skin in a way that seems impossibly intimate despite the vastness of the stadium behind her. That smile… Christ. It’s like she’s been sculpted out of bronze, an ancient statue come to life, as if she’s somehow timeless and ephemeral all at once. There’s something almost mythic about her, an enduring quality that makes your breath hitch in a way that feels both familiar and unnervingly new, like an old friend who’s overstayed their welcome but you’re not quite ready to let go.

It’s moments like these when you notice how precariously you’re balancing on the line between fascination and obsession. You catch yourself humming the anthem of Barcelona’s football club, the tune woven so deeply into your subconscious that it startles you. You aren’t even sure where you picked it up, but it plays on a loop whenever your mind wanders, like a soundtrack you didn’t choose. Then there are the little things—reading the match reports in the sports section like you actually know what half the terms mean, or memorising obscure facts about the team’s history as if they’re somehow relevant to your life. You’ve started following the scores like they’re stock prices, pretending it’s just casual interest, though a part of you wonders why you keep needing to know how well she played, how many minutes she was on the pitch, whether she looked happy in the post-game interviews.

It’s a form of self-deception that’s becoming harder to maintain. You’re drawn to her orbit, pulled in by a force that feels magnetic and entirely outside your control, as though your fascination is bleeding into the rest of your life, filling the gaps you didn’t even know existed.

You decide, in a moment of what can only be described as poor judgment, to attend one of her matches. It feels impulsive and reckless in the way most of your decisions do, a haphazard pairing of curiosity and a kind of dangerous longing. You book a front-row seat like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like you’re just ticking another item off some glamorous bucket list rather than treading into unfamiliar territory. Naturally, you show up dressed to the nines—your favourite Gucci sunglasses perched on your nose, an Alexander McQueen coat draped over your shoulders with that deliberate, careless grace that suggests you’re either oblivious to or entirely aware of its price tag. Your hair is styled in that kind of artful chaos that takes hours to perfect but is meant to look like you rolled out of bed effortlessly chic. You’re not here for the football. You’re here for her.

The atmosphere in the stadium is overwhelming, almost suffocating, a heady cocktail of chants, horns, and the sharp, greasy scent of fried food that turns your stomach. It’s a kind of chaos you’re unaccustomed to, this all-consuming fervor where the world narrows down to the pitch, to the twenty-two players moving with a purpose you can’t fully grasp. You understand about three percent of what’s happening on the field—just enough to know when the ball’s in play but not enough to follow the strategies unfolding before you. You’re mostly people-watching: the sea of jerseys, the faces contorted with passion, the rhythmic clapping that you can’t quite catch the beat of.

When Alexia scores, it catches you off guard. The stadium erupts, thousands of people leaping to their feet with a collective roar that vibrates through your bones. You react half a beat late, your applause more polite than enthusiastic, like you’re at a black-tie gala instead of a football match. You stand, clap along with the crowd, and try not to feel like an imposter. As the cheers die down, you catch her eyes from across the distance, just for a flicker of a moment. There’s something in her gaze—an awareness, a spark—that slices through the noise and zeroes in on you. It’s like she sees you, actually sees you, in the middle of this thrumming, chaotic mass of bodies, and for a split second, it feels like the two of you are the only ones in the entire stadium.

After the game, you somehow find yourself swept into the exclusive VIP area, a place filled with the kind of people who can glide between worlds as easily as they switch languages. A flute of champagne appears in your hand almost before you’re aware you’ve been handed one, and you sip it absentmindedly as you let the buzz of conversation wash over you. You’re halfway through your second glass when she appears, slipping through the crowd with a kind of effortless poise, her hair still damp from the shower, the strands curling at the ends. She’s wearing a loose tracksuit, looking every bit the casual athlete, as though she hasn’t just been commanding the attention of thousands.

There’s an insufferable confidence in the way she moves towards you, that familiar swagger that borders on arrogance, as if she’s amused by the fact that you actually showed up, that you dared to step into her world. “I didn’t think you were a football fan,” she says, a teasing lilt to her voice, though her eyes betray something else—a darker, more searching intensity that you recognise all too well from that night in the bathroom, the one you keep trying and failing to forget.

“I can appreciate a good performance,” you reply, lifting your glass in a mock toast, your voice slipping into that arch tone you’ve perfected over years of industry parties and press tours. “I’ve seen Cats live on Broadway, you know.” It’s a flippant comment, the kind that’s designed to deflect, to distract, to keep the conversation light and meaningless.

She laughs, a rich sound that feels like an indulgence. It’s not so much at your joke but at the way you’re playing this little game, like she’s letting you have your moment, humouring you. “And did you enjoy the show?” she asks, her voice dropping just enough to suggest that her question has nothing to do with the theatre and everything to do with the performance she just gave on the pitch.

“I think you already know the answer to that,” you say, holding her gaze longer than you probably should. There’s a challenge in the way you look at her, an unspoken dare, and for a moment, you wonder if she’ll take the bait. Her lips curl into a small, devilish smile, a private expression that feels like a confession meant just for you.

The moment stretches, teeters precariously on the edge of something you’re not quite ready to acknowledge. It feels monumental, like a line about to be crossed, but then she steps back, just a fraction, and the spell breaks. She turns away with a dismissive grace, leaving you standing there as if you’ve just been defeated in a game you didn’t know you were playing. “Good,” she says simply, and with that one word, she slips back into the crowd, leaving you with nothing but the faint taste of champagne on your lips and the lingering sense that you’ve been left wanting.

After that, you start to notice the divide. There’s Before Alexia and After Alexia, and it’s not a clean break but a jagged line that cuts through your life, shifting everything off balance. You used to think of yourself as someone in control, or at least someone who could fake it convincingly enough to fool everyone else. There was always an understanding that if you messed up, someone would be there to fix it—your agent, a publicist, some overworked assistant who could call in a favor to make the headlines disappear. But now, your phone has become an instrument of anxiety, vibrating with texts and notifications that you crave and dread in equal measure. It buzzes with messages from her that you read but don’t answer, with updates from your agent about the press tour you keep dodging, with reminders of responsibilities you keep pushing aside.

Even after filming there has finished, you start booking last-minute flights to Barcelona under the guise of ‘business,’ convincing yourself that it’s all perfectly legitimate. Your agent rolls his eyes and hounds you to schedule interviews and appearances, but you find yourself at the airport anyway, boarding another red-eye that will land you in some unfamiliar city just in time to catch her match. You’re finding yourself in strange places at ungodly hours, indulging in the kind of fan behavior you’d have found pathetic if you saw anyone else doing it. Ninety minutes of football passes in a trance, where the world narrows down to her figure gliding across the pitch, the fluid grace of her movements cutting through the static in your head like a hot knife through butter.

Afterwards, you’ll send her a coy, inconsequential text—“Not bad,” or “You could work on your footwork.” And she’ll reply with that maddening charm that dances the line between sincerity and sarcasm, always leaving you guessing. “Come and coach me, then,” she’ll say, as if she’s issuing a challenge, or perhaps an invitation.

There’s this one time, after too many drinks and not enough sleep, when you actually consider it. You catch yourself scrolling through Spanish real estate listings, as if browsing apartments for sale in Barcelona is a casual hobby rather than a subconscious form of planning. You tell yourself it’s just idle curiosity, a way to pass the time, yet you’re finding out the details—locations near the stadium, neighbourhoods with the best views, penthouses with terraces that would catch the Mediterranean breeze. You click on the photos of sun-drenched balconies and tiled kitchens, pretending you’re only fantasising about a different kind of life, one where you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder for the next tabloid scandal or PR crisis.

But then you sober up. You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror of a five-star hotel suite in Madrid, taking in the disheveled hair, the dark circles under your eyes, and you remember who you are. You’re not the kind of person who throws away their life for someone else, certainly not for a woman you haven’t even kissed since that one stolen night, a night that’s become less real and more like a story you tell yourself to explain this unshakable obsession. Besides, you’d probably make a terrible coach.

[chroniclesofskz]

Virgin Boss

Y/N was a young woman with a penchant for the unpredictable. Her bright (Y/H/C) hair fell in loose waves down her back, framing a face that was equal parts mischief and innocence. She had a way of lighting up a room with her infectious laugh and the sparkle in her(Y/E/C) eyes. Tonight was no different. The neon lights of the bustling city outside the bar were reflected in her eyes as she threw her head back, letting out a giggle that was a bit too loud for her own ears. Her friends had left hours ago, unable to keep up with her insatiable appetite for fun. But Y/N was just getting started.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, interrupting her latest dance move. She fished it out, squinting at the screen. It was a message from her boss, Mr. Bang. The sight of his name sent a strange thrill through her. He was known for being a cold, demanding CEO, but tonight, she felt invincible. The whiskey in her system had loosened her tongue and her inhibitions. With a devilish grin, she typed out a reply that would normally make her cringe. "You're such a virgin who needs to get laid," she sent, and hit send without a second thought. Her giggle turned into a cackle as she chugged the last of her drink and slammed the glass on the counter.

The next morning, she woke up with a pounding headache and a mouth that tasted like a frat house floor. The memories of the previous night were hazy at best. She stumbled into work, trying to piece together the events of the night before. It was only when she walked into the office that she remembered her text to Mr. Bang. Panic set in, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of red. She hoped he wouldn't bring it up.

But of course, he did. His office door was open, and she saw him leaning back in his chair, scrolling through his phone. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, a smirk playing on his lips. He beckoned her over, and she felt the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders. "Good morning, Y/N. Did you enjoy your… enlightening evening?" he asked, his tone laced with amusement. She gulped, her mind racing to come up with an excuse. But before she could say anything, he handed her a glass of water and some painkillers. "You look like you could use these," he said, his eyes scanning her body, taking in the tightness of her skirt and the way her blouse clung to her in all the wrong places.

Her hangover fog lifted slightly as she took the offered pills, her cheeks still on fire. "Thank you, Mr. Bang," she murmured, trying to compose herself. He leaned back, his fingers steepled under his chin. "You know, I've been thinking," he began, his voice dropping to a purr, "about what you said last night." Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt a cold sweat break out on her forehead. "What I need," he continued, "is someone to show me the ropes."

He stood up, and she watched in horror as he stalked towards her, the power dynamics in the room shifting palpably. His hands landed firmly on the chair arms, caging her in, and she could feel the heat of his body mere inches from hers. He leaned down, and she could see the hunger in his eyes as they traveled from her eyes to her lips. The smell of his cologne was intoxicating, mingling with the faint scent of his desire. "If I'm such a big virgin," he whispered, his breath hot on her neck, "why don't you do something about it?"

Her heart was racing now, a mix of fear and excitement sending waves of heat through her body. She didn't know what she'd gotten herself into, but she couldn't deny the thrill that coursed through her at his words. Her eyes darted to his, and she saw the challenge in them. He was calling her bluff, and she wasn't sure if she was ready to play this dangerous game. But something inside her, something primal and wild, urged her to accept it.

He stepped back and locked the door, the click echoing through the now silent room. His movements were deliberate, each step calculated to build the tension. As he approached the window, she watched him, her breathing shallow and rapid. He drew the blinds one by one, shrouding them in darkness. The only light now was the faint sunlight, the city outside, casting little cracks of sun across the floor. When he turned to face her again, she could see the outline of his muscular frame, the contours of his face highlighted by the dim light.

"Mr. Bang," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "I didn't mean—"

"Oh, but I think you did," he cut her off, his smirk deepening. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to trace the curve of her jaw, his touch sending electric currents down her spine. "Or are you just playing coy with me?"

Y/N's eyes widened, and she swallowed hard, trying to form words that wouldn't betray the sudden ache between her legs. The way he was looking at her, like she was the only thing that mattered in the world, was intoxicating. His fingers slid down to her neck, and she could feel the pulse racing there. "Mr. Bang," she began again, her voice barely a whisper.

He didn't let her finish. With a feral growl, he leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "Shh, princess," he murmured, his hand tightening around her mouth. "You're going to shut up and take it like a good girl." His words sent a thrill through her, and she felt a gush of wetness between her thighs. Before she could process what was happening, he crouched down and ripped her shirt open, the buttons flying everywhere.

Her breasts were now exposed, the white lace of her bra the only barrier between her and his hungry gaze. He took a moment to appreciate the sight, licking his lips before he tore the bra off in one swift motion. The cool air hit her hardened nipples, making her gasp. He took one in his mouth, sucking hard and leaving a red mark, claiming her as his. The sensation was so intense that she could feel it all the way to her core. The sound of her own moan was muffled by his hand, which was now pressing against her mouth.

Mr. Bang stood up abruptly, his towering presence making her feel even more vulnerable. "Now, stand up," he ordered, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine. Y/N complied, her legs wobbly from the combination of fear and arousal. He grabbed her arms, his grip firm and unyielding, and pushed her down onto his desk. The cold glass sent a jolt of sensation through her body, making her wetness even more pronounced.

Her heart raced as he unzipped her skirt with a deliberate slowness that made her squirm. She watched the fabric slide down her legs, pooling at her ankles, leaving her in just her white lacy thong. He took in the sight of her barely concealed pussy, his eyes dark with lust. His hand reached out and traced the line of the thong, his fingertips grazing her wetness. The anticipation was unbearable, her breath hitching in her chest. "You think I'm a virgin?" he whispered, his voice thick with challenge. "I'll show you just how much of a virgin I really am."

With a swift motion, he yanked her hands behind her back, looping his necktie around her wrists and binding them together tightly. The restriction sent a jolt of excitement through her body, her breasts pushing up against the desk as she tried to get comfortable. The sound of his belt buckle unclasping and the metallic clink as it hit the floor made her heart skip a beat. He stepped closer, his crotch now mere inches from her face. "Look what you've done to me," he said, his voice strained with need.

In the reflection of the mirror that lay in the corner, she caught a glimpse of his massive erection straining against his tailored trousers. The realization of its size hit her like a punch to the gut. "Mr. Bang," she murmured again, her voice quivering with a mix of fear and desire. He leaned down, his smirk widening as he heard the doubt in her voice. "Don't worry, princess," he whispered. "I'll make sure it fits."

With a swift yank, he pulled her panties aside, and before she could protest, his cock was pressing against her slick entrance. The head of his cock nudged at her, and she gasped at the intrusion, her eyes wide with shock. "Take it," he demanded, his voice a low growl. "Take it like the good girl you are."

With one swift thrust, he was inside her, filling her up completely. The pain was intense, a stark contrast to the pleasure that had been building inside her. She screamed, the sound muffled by his sock as he stuffed it into her mouth, his hand wrapping around her hair to hold her head in place. Her eyes watered, but she bit down on the fabric to keep from making too much noise. Her body was his now, and she knew she had to submit to his every whim.

He slapped her ass, the sound echoing through the room as he whispered, "Naughty girl, I told you to shut the fuck up." His grip on her hair tightened, and she felt the sting of his slap, the heat spreading across her skin. The pain was a strange mix of punishment and pleasure, making her cunt clench around him. She never knew she had a kinky side, but here she was, her body responding to Mr. Bang's dominance like it was made for this.

Her legs felt like jelly, trembling with each deep thrust he gave her. The pressure building inside her was unbearable, and she was sure she was going to come any second. His other hand found her clit, and he began to rub it with a fierce intensity that sent waves of pleasure crashing over her. The sensation was too much, a symphony of pain and ecstasy that she didn't know she could handle. But she was going to try, for him.

Suddenly, she felt a release, her body convulsing as she squirted all over his cock. The wetness was a stark contrast to the dryness of the room, the sound of her juices hitting the floor echoing through the silence. He pulled out with a grunt, his cock glistening with her arousal. He took a moment to admire the sight of her dripping onto the floor, the puddle growing larger with each passing second. "I'm not finished with you yet, bitch," he growled, his voice thick with lust.

Without warning, he slammed back into her, the sensation of his thick member filling her up making her eyes roll back in her head. She couldn't believe how much she enjoyed this, the feeling of being used by her boss, the man she had always feared and desired. His thrusts grew harder, faster, more punishing. She could feel every vein, every ridge of him, as he claimed her in a way no one else ever had. The pain was intense, but it only served to heighten her pleasure.

Her moans grew weaker, muffled by the fabric in her mouth, as she felt his grip tighten on her hair. His grunts grew louder in her ear, his breathing more ragged. She knew he was close, and the thought of his release made her clench around him, eager to feel his hot cum fill her up. Her legs were trembling uncontrollably, and she could feel the desk biting into her skin, but she didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the man fucking her into oblivion.

With one final, powerful thrust, she felt him spasm inside her, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into her quivering cunt. The warm, salty liquid filled her, and she moaned in pleasure as she felt the heat of his seed against her walls. He held himself deep within her for a moment, his breathing slowing before he pulled out with a wet sound. The feeling of emptiness was almost painful, but she knew it was only temporary.

Y/N lay there, gasping for air, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. Tears streamed down her cheeks, not from pain but from the intensity of the experience. The room was still, the only sounds their heavy breaths and the rustling of their clothes. The sock in her mouth was wet with her saliva, and she felt a mix of relief and disappointment when he pulled it out.

Mr. Bang leaned back, his chest heaving, and she could see the satisfaction in his eyes as he looked at her. "Don't ever test my abilities again," he murmured, his voice still filled with the raw power that had just claimed her. He let go of her hair, and she felt her head fall heavily onto the desk. She didn't have the strength to hold it up anymore, her body feeling like it had been wrung out and then filled with something entirely new.

For a few moments, she just lay there, her body pulsing with the aftermath of what had just transpired. The coldness of the desk against her skin was a stark contrast to the warmth that still lingered between her legs. She could feel the stickiness of their combined juices, and the scent of sex hung heavily in the air. It was a scent that was both alien and thrillingly intimate, and she felt a shiver run down her spine.

Mr. Bang stepped back, his eyes never leaving hers. He bent down, his hands gently but firmly grabbing her hips and turning her over. She gasped at the sudden movement, her legs still unsteady from the intensity of her climax. He knelt down, his hands running over her bare skin as he wiped her clean with a warm cloth. The sensation was almost too much to bear, her pussy feeling overly sensitive. She winced at the slight pain but couldn't deny the way his tender ministrations sent a new wave of desire through her body.

Once he was satisfied, he stood up and zipped her skirt back up, the sound seeming overly loud in the quiet office. He handed her a clean shirt, his smirk never fading. "Wear this," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. She took it, her eyes still glazed over with lust. She hadn't realized just how much she'd enjoyed the encounter until now.

As she pulled on the shirt, Mr. Bang took a moment to appreciate the view of her half-dressed form. The sight of her bare, reddened skin, the way her chest heaved with each breath, was enough to make him want to take her again. But he knew better than to push his luck. For now. He watched her with a hunger in his eyes that she couldn't miss, and she felt a thrill knowing she had that power over him.

When she had herself covered, Mr. Bang stepped closer, his hand wrapping around her waist. He pulled her into him, his grip firm but gentle, and leaned down to kiss her deeply. His tongue sought hers, his teeth grazing her bottom lip in a possessive bite that sent a shiver through her. She moaned into his mouth, unable to resist the pull of his dominance. He tasted of mint and power, a heady combination that made her knees weak.

"Same time next week," he murmured against her lips, the promise in his eyes unmistakable. She nodded, her heart racing as she felt his smirk press into her cheek. This was a game she hadn't expected to play, but now that she had tasted the thrill of it, she was hooked. He released her, his hand lingering for a moment before dropping away.

Y/N stumbled out of Mr. Bang's office, her legs still wobbly from the intense encounter. The cold slap to her ass echoed down the hallway, and she couldn't help but let out a cheeky yelp. The sound of his deep, satisfied chuckle followed her out, sending another wave of heat through her body. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, his silhouette framed by the light from his desk lamp, and she felt a strange sense of pride. He had claimed her, marked her, and she had liked it.

[fairyysoup]

eyes don't lie

pairing(s): timothy ratliff x fem!reader

summary: Your best friend's dad is hot, and you... you are on vacation.

words: 6.1k

cw: explicit, smut, unprotected piv sex, creampie, praise kink, exhibitionism, semi-public sex, older man/younger woman, reader’s age unspecified (over 21), best friend's dad, infidelity/cheating, alcohol consumption, reader is implied to be an alcoholic, pining, perv!reader, reader wants to fuck tim so bad it's making her evil, canon typical assholery by like all parties involved, (except chelsea), saxon being gross, some comedy, mention of morning after pills

a/n: on this week's episode of rose's newest hyperfixation, jason isaacs has got me in a chokehold and i'm making it everyone's problem. sprinted to write this so i could post it on white lotus day so no one say shit if it's bad i haven't written in months

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

Once upon a time, you really thought you were some kind of upstanding citizen. You really thought you were a good friend to Piper, who invited you on her stupidly rich family’s vacation at a resort-spa in Thailand, all expenses paid. You really thought you’d be there to support her while she finessed her way through convincing her family that she’ll be moving here after college, and have a few massages and sunset cocktails on the side.

But that was not in the cards for you, and now you’re faced with the glaring fact of your loose morals. The fact is sitting across from you at a round table on the promenade, poking at a plate of crab eggs benedict. The fact is wearing a yellow polo and looking like he hates his life right now, or maybe he just has a hangover. 

You didn’t know Piper’s dad was going to be hot as shit. Piper didn’t know you’d find her dad hot as shit. Piper doesn’t know you’re a horrible, no good, very bad person, who is currently plotting ways to get her dad’s pants off in the quickest way possible.

Meanwhile, Timothy’s wife is sitting beside him in a bright purple kaftan, not exactly looking the best, herself. Something tells you she doesn’t even want to be on this plane of existence, or maybe it’s all the Lorazepam in her system. Victoria sniffs and smiles tightly at Piper.

“So, how’s the research coming, Piper?” Victoria draws out the word research like it’s an affront to her. You’re sure that it actually is, in some way.

“Good,” Piper says noncommittally around a bite of food. “The interview is on Friday, so I have some time to prepare.” Ah yes, the interview. The interview that actually is a meeting about her residency at the temple. 

“Oh, so you set it up?” Timothy’s voice nearly shoots you out of your seat. You shift uncomfortably, the backs of your thighs sticking to the wicker chair beneath them. 

“‘Course I did, dad,” Piper scoffs, “it’s not like I’m taking a shot in the dark here.”

You’re staring down at your plate of food like it’s the most riveting thing you’ve ever seen, because you don’t want to be giving that look to Timothy’s blue eyes instead. You’re afraid that if you lift your gaze, you will.

Your name comes oozing out of Saxon’s mouth coated in grime. “So what do you do?” 

Piper’s older brother has just about gotten on your last nerve; he knows he’s hot, and it makes him the least charming person in the room. But he won’t stop trying to get in your pants long enough for you to get into his dad’s pants, and it’s throwing you off your groove in a bad way.

“Sorry?” You bat your eyelashes like you don’t know exactly what he’s getting at. You’ve known Saxon for a grand total of two days and everything that he says seems to have the same underlying meaning.

Saxon flashes you a falsely bright smile with nothing behind the eyes. “You know. What gets you going? What makes you all… weak in the knees?” 

Lochlan chokes on his eggs. Victoria guffaws, and you try hard not to cringe at the bark of laughter. Piper hisses in disapproval at her older brother, who looks very self satisfied. 

Timothy says nothing. He stares at you apprehensively, waiting for your reply.

You still can’t hold in the smirk that crosses your face when you look Saxon in the eye and say, “Older men.”

“Oh my god,” Piper snaps, giving you a glare she had up until now been reserving for her misbehaving family members. “Seriously?” 

You shrug off her disdain just at the same time as Saxon grins at you, looking even more pleased. With a pointed look, he says, “I’m older than you.” 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. As if you didn’t know that. You swear that he’s purposefully obtuse. 

You swirl your mimosa in your glass, and peer at him over the rim of your sunglasses coquettishly. “No, sweetheart. Older than you.” 

You could hear a pin drop with the hush that falls over the table. As you take a long, cold drink of your mimosa, you finally hear Victoria snicker, and you think that you know which side of the family Saxon favors. 

You flick your eyes over to Timothy and find him sitting back in his seat, regarding you with his full attention. Your heartrate kicks up, your skin burning with the heat of his stare. You’re glad that your sunglasses are dark enough to hide which way your gaze shifts. You turn your face a bit more towards the horizon, like you’re just admiring the view of the ocean, but you continue watching him with the animal instinct of a predator. 

Timothy has gone crimson around the ears, despite his cool demeanor. His forefinger nervously taps at the tablecloth, and then he looks down at his phone, which starts ringing, albeit quietly. 

“Dad,” Piper chastises, as she has been for the last two days. Timothy huffs a sigh through his nose, but he snatches up his phone and flicks his gaze from his phone, to you, and back. 

“I… I have to…” Timothy sort of jerks his phone upwards, as if no one at the table quite knows what he means, and then he bolts without a word. Chair scraping, silverware clanking, heels scuffing the floor, his retreat is as subtle as a hippopotamus dancing the Nutcracker.

“He’s very jetlagged,” Victoria tells you, her way of trying to excuse her husband’s decorum. Her fluttering hand hits the table beside your mimosa, like you and she are old friends and she’s just reminding you of how silly her cute little family is. It’s a demeaning gesture, a dismissive one. 

You hum. “So what’s Saxon’s excuse?”

“He was dropped on his head as a child,” Piper grumbles.

Saxon makes an ugly noise and throws his arms out in defiance. He doesn’t say anything snide back, though, and so the conversation ends there.

You, meanwhile, are still mulling over Timothy’s retreat, staring out at the horizon and only seeing his backside as he walks away.

Your day is spent hopping from massage to yoga to facial to poolside. There doesn’t seem to be a lack of things to do at the White Lotus, and you can almost forgive the hoity-toity atmosphere when you feel calmer than you have all year. 

The evening in Thailand comes with the chittering of birds and monkeys in the trees, the rustle of the leaves in the wind and the cool ocean air kissing your overheated skin. Body oils scented with jasmine and lavender on your skin mingle with the natural earthy smell in the ionized air. You could stay here forever, you think, with your feet dangling in the meditation fountain and your hand wrapped around a champagne flute.

You should really stop drinking. But maybe after you get home from this little vacation.

Because you are on vacation, as opposed to Piper’s reason for being here. Meeting her was the best thing to happen to you in college; without her support and her rigid approach to her studies, you probably would have dropped out ages ago. You aren’t even in the same program, you just happened to share a class or two early in your respective college careers, and you’ve been best friends ever since. 

Which is why you feel like the world’s worst person when you hear Timothy’s breathy “fuuuuuck me” over your shoulder, and your skin breaks out in the worst case of goosebumps you’ve had in a while. 

“Better be careful,” you say richly, your voice thick with champagne, “or I may take you up on that.” 

You absolutely should stop drinking.

Timothy’s face pops around a fence blocking the walkway from the courtyard. In the dim light through the windows of the main guest house, you can make out his brown hair, the shape of his jaw. His eyes twinkle at you like stars. 

Timothy walks around the fence. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

“Oh, I love some expletives to complement the view. Nothing more serene.” You flash him a flirty smile and kick your feet, splashing water in an arc. “Is this a fountain or a pond?”

“I think it’s a fountain, what with all the pissing monkeys,” Timothy concludes as he trods down the steps and approaches you. He points at the water features, statues of monkeys crouched on balls spitting water into the pool. You think they’re supposed to be balloons, but you could be wrong.

You watch him come forward with interest. Is he planning to sit beside you? Or just stand awkwardly to the side with his hands in his pockets like a proper, dignified father figure? You really wish he’d go for the former.

To your dismay, he goes for an in-between of pulling one of the porch chairs toward you and sitting behind you. A bit to the left so that you don’t have to crane your neck to see him, but still. That distance is too formal. Too respectful.

You wish he wasn’t so respectful. 

“Fountain, then,” you concede, and lean back on your hands so that the soft cotton of your bikini cover falls down your shoulder.

Contrary to the way you’ve been acting around Timothy since you met him, you aren’t much for seducing, or really for sleeping around in general. But something about him is making you act up, making you want to throw away all caution. 

Maybe it’s the way he spreads his legs apart when he sits like a fucking slut and leans back in his chair like he owns the goddamn resort. He acts like he’s taking in the view, but you can feel his eyes on your back like you can feel the cool water against your skin. The air is hot and sticky, and you feel stifled even with what little you have on.

“You’re stressed,” you point out after a moment. You don’t say anything else. In the silence that follows, you start counting the boats on the horizon. 

“That your clinical diagnosis?” Timothy asks after a moment. 

“Just an observation,” you hum, lifting your champagne flute to your lips. “You’re clutching that phone like it personally insulted you. Trouble back home?”

“You have no idea.” He lets out a breath like it’s something he’s been holding in for hours. Considering you’ve heard him deny that anything is amiss to his family about a million times so far, you’re sure that it feels nice to admit it to someone. He gives a half-frantic laugh. “Y’know, I don’t think I’ve been this stressed in… probably my entire life.” 

You try to reject the words before they come out of your mouth, but the alcohol wins out. “I know a way to fix that.”

“I’ve got about twenty people telling me to get a massage, and I’m not doing it.” He sounds petulant, like a child. Over your shoulder, his arms are crossed, his eyes focused on his feet, pouting. It makes you giggle a little. 

“That’s not my preferred form of stress relief.” A pause. “Would you like a demonstration?”

You have an insatiable need to see what happens when you push his buttons. The thought of what he might do, how far you might need to push before he snaps, makes you squirm a bit. You cross your legs, the cool water dripping along your skin and causing ripples in the fountain below.

Timothy fixes you with a piercing blue stare, and you suddenly know where Saxon got his from. This one is more refined, more practiced. It’s not being played to an advantage, it’s simply calculating. Saxon tries to mirror his daddy, but he’ll never quite have the same amount of easy power Timothy holds with just a look.

The breeze picks up just a bit. The leaves rustle in the trees. There’s a heartbeat pounding between your legs, and you have to force yourself to keep looking into his eyes, and not down, not at his crotch, never at his crotch. 

Timothy leans forward and you still, your breath practically hitching in your throat. You squeeze your thighs tight together to stave off the ache, and it only succeeds in making it worse, like acknowledging there’s an ache at all is enough to ramp it up. 

He raises his hand, and with the slightest brush of his fingers, pulls the shoulder of your swimsuit cover back up over your collarbone. You blink. The gesture is so simple, so ineffectual, it takes you aback. Then, he plucks the champagne flute from your hand, and before you can protest, tosses the rest of it back in one gulp.

“You’ve had enough to drink tonight,” he mutters under his breath, sweet and sultry, and chucks you under the chin as he gets up, like a kid. 

Your face is burning. Your body is on fire. You feel like an idiot, and what’s more, you feel like throwing a tantrum, which would only reaffirm what he just did to you. 

You don’t say anything as you watch him walk away from you, again, because you know that you’d only embarrass yourself further, and possibly throw a fit while you’re at it. You don’t know what more you could do tonight, aside from stomp your feet and yell at him to let you suck his dick, which is less seductive and more desperate.

And you’re not desperate. You don’t think. 

So, you let him leave. And once he disappears into the master bedroom, you leap up from your seat, splashing water, and snatch your champagne flute from the patio table. You stalk back to your room, ready to rub one out in the shower and pass out for the next fifteen hours.

You creep back into the room you share with Piper, trying not to make too much noise, but your drunken movements are not as subtle as you want to think they are. As you pad toward the bathroom, you hear Piper call your name softly from across the room.

You turn to find her looking at you over her shoulder, curled up in bed. She blinks at you, looking as soft as a kitten under the covers. “Don’t fuck my dad.”

“I’m not gonna fuck your dad,” you huff angrily, smacking the bathroom light. It seems enough to satisfy her. But, as you close the bathroom door, you catch your eye in the mirror, and the unspoken last word of that sentence dances tantalizingly on your tongue.

Yet.

Today is day three at the White Lotus, which means you have roughly five days left to fuck Timothy Ratliff. Which, you would have thought, is going to be a difficult undertaking. Except that he won’t stop looking at you. 

All morning, at breakfast, his eyes focused on you from across the table. Your leg shook under the table, trying to keep from staring back at him. All the while, you could feel him trying to undress you with his eyes. It felt almost salacious, with Victoria sitting next to him, with Piper sitting next to you. 

You won’t be getting into heaven anytime soon, you gather.

Then, there’s some hullabaloo about the family needing to give up all of their electronics for “spiritual serenity” or whatever the fuck, and you honestly could throw yourself into the ocean. Now you’re feeling just about as stressed as Timothy looks, and it was his fucking idea in the first place. 

You spend the afternoon laying on the pool deck, sipping at vodka tonics and staring at the cerulean sky above you, wishing you were dead. Your mind won’t stop playing Timothy, Timothy, Timothy on a loop, just to torment you with what you don’t have. Timothy, on his back for you. Timothy, and his piercing fucking blue eyes staring up at you from between your legs. Timothy and his hips pressed up against yours, your back to his chest in the shower, warm water spilling over your–

Against your will, your entire body is turned on again. You shift in your seat, feeling wet between your legs, and it pisses you off even more. What are you supposed to do now, if you can’t fuck your best friend’s dad and you don’t have your phone? 

“I’m suffering more than Jesus,” you bleat pathetically after a moment, jamming the heels of your palms into your eye sockets, like it’ll fix everything. You see stars behind your darkened eyelids.

“Amen to that,” says the girl in the chair beside you. You’ve seen her around; she’s beautiful, with big eyes and a smile that lights up the room. She has a boyfriend twice her age who always seems to be avoiding her. 

You turn to look at her. She turns her head to smile at you, and you feel a little more relaxed just at the sight of it. 

Shifting onto your side, you prop your head on your hand. “If you were gonna fuck your best friend’s dad, how would you go about it?” 

The girl stares at you like Bambi, completely stunned by the question. “Um… I don’t know that I would?” 

“Of course,” you grumble, flopping back down onto the pool lounger. The consensus is clear. “I’m a horrible person.”

“Hey, I’m not judging,” the girl says, her smooth British accent twinkling in the air. “But, I mean, if that’s your best friend, maybe it’s not the best idea to let a man cause a rift?”

“Sure,” you answer. Makes sense. “But he’s so hot. Like, I could die. But then I’d die never having fucked him, and it makes me sad to think… If I think too long, I’ll cry about it.”

The girl scoffs, and you turn your head to find her suppressing her laughter. She catches your eye, and tries to rein it in. “Are you always so dramatic?”

“All my life.” You settle back in your seat. The sun warms your legs, and you heave a sigh. “I mean, I propositioned him last night, and he was all dismissive about it. Like, he’s one of these good guys that’re all, ‘oh, but my wife…’ y’know, except that his wife is constantly fucking zonked out of her gourd on benzos, so I doubt she’d even notice if she walked in on him balls deep in some other piece of ass. And today he keeps giving me the eyes, you know, the ones that’re like, ‘I’m thinking about fucking you in my head right now.’ And my best friend, right, she’s all, ‘don’t you dare fuck my dad,’ but like, she’s going to become a buddhist monk at the temple on the hill for a year, so what will it matter to her that I fucked her dad when she’s pursuing spiritual enlightenment? I mean, it’s not like I’m trying to get spiritually enlightened, I just want to sit on his dick. And what if that is the key to my spiritual enlightenment, huh? What about my soul’s journey?”

The girl is nodding slowly, looking slightly horrified. “Your soul’s journey… is sitting on your best friend’s dad’s dick?”

“Maybe it is, I don’t know. Who’s to say? But would you begrudge me that if you were my best friend?”

She blows a raspberry of a laugh. “Sounds like a real pisser.”

“Yes, it is, thank you,” you agree, and snatch your vodka tonic from the patio table. You take a long, cooling drink, and sniff ruefully. “But how do I get him to see that, is the question.”

The girl hums, looking like she’s really mulling that one over. “I mean, if he’s giving you the eyes, maybe he’s already made up his mind?”

“Maybe.” You swirl the ice in your glass, ruminating. “Maybe I could shove my tits in his face or something.”

“You do have nice tits,” the girl says, pointedly looking at them. “That might work.”

“It has to work. He’s a guy.” You slurp the dregs of your drink and smile over at her. “This has been great. I’m so glad I talked with you about it, um…”

“Chelsea.”

“Chelsea!” You stand, a little wobbly on your feet. “So good to meet you. If I see you again I’ll let you know how it went.”

As you walk away from her, you hear her floaty voice saying, “Can’t wait.”

You look for him at the bar. You look for him on the promenade, in the lounge, in the gardens, at every possible pool. He’s nowhere, and you feel more and more frustrated by the second. 

You run into Piper at one point, who tells you she’s turning in for the night. You make up some excuse about wanting to go for a night swim, but really, you just don’t want to have to crawl into bed in the same room as her and have hideously vivid wet dreams about her dad. 

You end up back in the courtyard beside the “pissing monkey” fountain, lamenting life. You really shouldn’t be, and that’s what makes it suck that much worse. You’re in a gorgeous country, surrounded by beauty, and luxury, and fucking wellness, and all you can think about is that you don’t have him. You walked around so much that you don’t even feel the buzz from the alcohol anymore, so you just have your misery to contend with on this, frankly gorgeous, night.

After a few minutes of listening to the splashing of the fountain and staring at the stars, you hear a rustling. And that turns into clanking, which turns into cursing. You frown and get up to peer through the darkness, looking for the source of the noise. Then, the gate to the courtyard swings open, and Timothy charges in. 

And he really charges, stomping like he’s on a mission from God, or something. He stops short of the fountain and stares at you, out of breath. His hair is disheveled. He looks positively livid. 

“Timothy,” you say, a little shocked at the state of him. You look him over. “Rough night?”

He says nothing, at first. Then he comes towards you, and you startle, staggering backwards before he grabs you and plants a kiss on you. Your hands find his arms, fingers digging into his biceps, and the wind has been stolen from your lungs by the time he lets go. 

“Sorry, I–” he chokes out, looking a little dazed. His eyes are a bit glazed over, but they rake over your face with a base amount of embarrassment. “I needed to do that before I changed my mind.” 

Your hands move on their own, sweeping his hair away from his forehead in a gesture far more familiar than you ever have been with him. The creases in his brow relax, just a bit. You tilt your head and hum. Well, so much for subtlety. “Would you like to take me up on that demonstration now?”

He nods once, curtly. “It’s Tim.”

You frown. “Tim?”

“You called me Timothy,” he clarifies. His hand finds the side of your face, caressing your cheek like he’s not even paying attention to what he’s doing. You fight the urge to close your eyes and lean into the touch. “My friends call me Tim.” 

You smile conspiratorially. “We’re not gonna be friends.”

“Oh, no?” There’s a little smile curling at his lips, like you amuse him. His accent comes out a little thicker when he says, “Tell me, what are we gonna be?”

You shake your head, your smile growing even as you reach up onto your toes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He turns his head, captures you in a deeper kiss like he’s not willing to play games. No, you guess that he’s not– he’s gripping your waist like he means business, hauling you against him, his thigh pressed between your legs to give you something sturdy to lean against. 

You’re two seconds from feeling like your head’s on backwards when he sucks a sharp breath and pulls away. 

“Wait–” he whispers. “Your room?”

You pause. “Piper’s in our room. Yours?”

“Victoria.”

“Shit,” you curse, looking frantically around the courtyard. Your back is to a dark alcove, surrounded by fencing and a hedge that shields it from prying eyes. Good enough. “Fuck it.”

You yank him by the collar, turning him so that he stumbles and collapses onto the patio lounger behind you. He grabs you by the hips and you come down hard onto his lap, eliciting a groan and a hiss from him as you straddle his waist. 

“We’re gonna have to be quiet,” you whisper against his mouth as your hands work over his belt. “Think you can manage it?” 

Timothy– Tim– pulls back and gives you a condescending look as you palm him, and he watches you bemusedly as your eyes go wide. “Can you?” 

Shit. All your dirty thoughts over the past few days didn’t prepare you for the sheer size of him, the fact of which is now pressing against the front of his trousers. Your mouth fills with saliva, and you swallow before you grit out, “Guess we’ll just have to see, huh?” 

His eyes linger on your lips for a second, and then he kisses you. Greedy hands squeeze your ass, making you gasp into his mouth, and his tongue licks in to taste you. Slowly, his hand slides up your back to the tie of your swimsuit top and tugs once to unravel it.

Your top slips from your chest and settles around your waist, allowing your oversensitive breasts to feel the slight breeze in the air. You moan into Tim’s mouth, your hands finding their place in his hair to pull, your hips rocking forwards as he squeezes your breast. 

His thumb strokes over your nipple, and you shiver, trying hard not to squirm too much against him. But his hand pulls you flush against him, your hips slotted perfectly over his, and the contact is too precious not to. Your hips bear down, your teeth graze his lower lip, and Tim groans softly against you. 

“Tim, fuck,” you gasp into his mouth. The kiss turns passionate, leaving you aching and starving for the feeling of his hands on your body. 

“Thought you said we weren’t gonna be friends,” Tim murmurs, quirking an eyebrow at you while his thumb continues to circle your nipple. 

Your head spins incessantly. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be, if you keep touching me like that.”

Tim chuckles, but doesn’t hazard a reply. Instead, he dips his head, and his lips become entranced by your collarbone, or so it seems. Heat blooms and spreads up your back, tickling the nape of your neck and making your head fall back with a sigh. 

The throbbing in your core is maddening, coupled with the melting warmth of Tim’s lips making their way across your skin. You have to steel yourself not to whimper aloud, not to make too much noise. It’s harder than you thought it would be. 

And then Tim’s hand makes its way between your legs to cup your cunt, and you nearly choke. 

You whine, your fists tightening on his shirt. You’re impressed that you don’t manage to tear it with how hard you yank at him, and Tim shushes you with a severe look that steals all the noise from your throat. 

His fingertips brush the waistband of your swimsuit, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. You grab fistfuls of his hair, shaking with all of your pent up anticipation. You’ve wanted this for days, and now you have him under you, with his hand right where you need it.

The feeling of his fingertip tracing over your clit is torturously blissful, and you die just a little bit. Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out– you think you forget to breathe, altogether. Tim’s cool gaze is fixed on your face, watching you as he pumps two fingers into you, curls them with devastating precision. 

“Darlin’,” Tim coos softly, just loud enough for you to hear it, when you rock your hips forward onto his palm. “That’s it, sweet girl.” 

Your heart pounds in your chest as you feel him, ever so slowly, withdraw his hand. You watch dazedly as he lifts his two fingers and smells you on them, the evidence of your arousal glistening in the moonlight. His eyes flutter shut as he sucks his fingers into his mouth.

It’s written all over your face– he’s shocked you. And you thought you were the one being a pervert, but it seems you’ve met your match. As he pulls his fingers from his lips and meets your eye, you swat his hand away and crash your lips against his, licking into his mouth like you want to try to taste yourself on his tongue.

Your hands find their way back to his undone belt, and you finally reach in to grasp the length of him. Wonderfully thick and rigid in your palm, you stroke him, eliciting a groan that melts into your mouth.

It’s your turn to shush him as you pull his cock free, allowing your fingers to have their way with feeling him. Quick in his own movements, Tim twists the ties of your swimsuit bottoms between his fingers and pulls, tugging the fabric loose. 

You take his cue for what it is. You toss your swimsuit bottoms over your shoulder to where, you’re sure, it falls into the fountain. 

You push Tim back to recline on the patio lounger, lift your hips, and there, fifteen feet away from his family’s hotel rooms, you lower yourself onto his cock.

It feels good. It feels like you should have been doing this for fucking ever, but it’s hard not to think that when he’s stretching you out in the most wonderful way imaginable. 

Tim groans far louder than he should, and you clap your hand over his mouth quickly. The ensuing slap sound echoes in the hollow of the courtyard, but you aren’t sure if it could be heard inside over the noise of the fountain. You turn your head, peering through the darkness at the curtained windows of the guest house, trying to see if there’s any movement. 

Tim stays as still as you are, his staccato breath ghosting over your knuckles. Once you’re satisfied that you’re still in the clear, you pull your hand away from his mouth and bend over him. His grunt is softer this time. 

Your lips graze his ear. “Quiet.” His huff of a laugh is all the answer you need.

You swirl your hips, pick yourself up and lower down. You start off slow, if anything to keep him from making too much more noise. Your name falls from his lips, so softly that you can barely hear it over the noise of the fountain.

Tim’s hands grasp your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Your pace quickens, the patio chair creaking with the force of your hips grinding down into his. Tim begins to guide you as he meets you with his own thrusts, hitting that perfect, elusive spot inside you each time.

He sits up, his chest connecting with yours as his nose brushes the shell of your ear. He pulls you down hard onto him, making you gasp. You throw your arms around his shoulders instinctively as his teeth find the soft joint of your shoulder.

“C’mon,” he growls into your ear. “You can do better than that.” 

Your hair stands on end at his goading, his voice laced with condescension. You drop your head and bite down on his shoulder as you rock your hips into his. Lifting one hand, you slide it between your bodies to touch your clit.

“That’s right, good girl,” he hisses, his voice so impassioned that you feel like a coil ready to snap. “Make yourself come, I want to feel it.”

Tim jerks his hips up ungodly hard into yours, and you almost cry out. Almost. Instead, you bear down onto him, with your teeth and with your core, and you shatter. Your cunt pulses around him as he tugs you further onto him, and your free hand snatches at the back of his shirt to keep you steady.

The feeling of your orgasm only seems to spur him on. While you’re still in it, with waves of the aftershocks rolling through you, Tim somehow manages to maneuver you onto your back. The cushion gives under you, but you don’t have time to process the comfort before you have to clap your hand over your mouth.

Because Tim is now chasing his own high. And you should have known that Mr. Stressed-As-Fuck was going to be relentless. 

He hitches your leg up and his hips surge forward into you, and you scramble to grab the side of the lounger. You think you hear it scrape against the cement, but you can barely comprehend anything when he’s stealing the thoughts from your mind, until you can think of nothing but him. 

Eyes rolling back, one hand flung upward to keep your head from hitting the backrest, you think you hear him snarling something under his breath. His hips stutter, and he comes with short, quick gasps.

Your body hums, your limbs tingling. Tim’s arms steady him on either side of you, and he falls slack, his head resting against your bare stomach.

Your breath steadies, and you finally gather the courage to say, “Piper can’t know about this.” 

“No one can know about this,” Tim commands, pushing himself up. You see him in your periphery, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You think he’s completely ruined your state of equilibrium. You assume that he’s putting himself to rights. He looks at you sternly, like you’ve somehow disappointed him. As if you aren’t spread-eagled on a pool chair, with the evidence of what you just did leaking out of you.

“No, I know that,” you snap, rolling your eyes. But you look imploringly at him. “I’m just saying. Piper can not know about this. It’ll kill her.”

“Yeah,” Tim nods after a moment. “Okay.”

You stare at the sky for a few moments. “So. Want to talk about it?” 

Tim laughs. Not just a huff, but a full blown bark of laughter. “My life is already as fucked as it can get right now. I don’t think we should.”

You hum, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. “Fair enough. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“Secrets,” Tim parrots. He looks you over, his eyes lingering for a moment between your legs. “Want a… a drink, or something?” 

You smirk. Maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself, but you feel like if you go with him anywhere now, you’re bound to repeat this encounter. Probably several times. 

“Actually,” you say, “I’m giving up drinking.” 

“Oh,” Tim replies, his eyebrows shooting up. He looks impressed– maybe even proud. “Well. Good for you.” 

“Give it two weeks,” you grumble. You swing your leg over the chair and sit parallel to him, untying your swimsuit top so that it’s not fastened around your waist anymore. You clutch the fabric in your hand, and look over your shoulder at him with a smile. “Have a good night, Tim.” 

“Right.” As though he was just waiting for his cue to leave, he stands up and gives you a patronizing look. “Drink water.”

“Sure thing.” 

You watch him leave. And even though you aren’t as frustrated as you had been last night, you wistfully still hope that, somehow, you’ll have him again.

Just, preferably in a bed next time.

You wake in the morning to something that feels like a cold fish slapping you in the face.

Yelping, you jolt up in bed. Tits out, completely naked save for the sheet on your bed, you catch the thing that had stuck to your face as it peels itself away and falls into your outstretched hands.

“Lochy found your bikini bottoms in the fountain,” Piper hisses. “What the fuck did you do last night?” 

“I told you,” you grumble, wadding up the wet swimsuit bottoms and tossing them through the bathroom door, “I went night swimming.”

“Bottom-nude?” Piper looks entirely unconvinced. “Your top was in the shower this morning. What, did you just go around pantsless for my entire family to see?” 

“No,” you object. Not the entire family, anyway. “I was just… I dunno. A little out of it.”

Piper wrinkles her nose at you. “You have got to stop drinking. You smell like a barroom floor.” 

As she stomps into the bathroom, you flop back into bed and cover your eyes. Then, something occurs to you that you hadn’t thought about the night before.

“Hey, Piper?” you call, a little shrill as your anxiety spikes. “Do you think room service carries Plan B?”

and i oop. practice safe sex babes

[sugarcoatedstarkey]

Fake Boyfriend - p2

Pairings - soft!Rafe Cameron x virgin! Fem reader

Summary - You lie to your best friend about having a boyfriend.

Warnings - none

Part one if you missed it

You're aroused from your sleep by the piercing bright light seeping through the curtains, hitting you directly between the eyes. You let out a groan and press your face into the pillow, it feels as though you're on a boat. Your stomach churns as your brain sways within your skull. “Jesus” you mumble, pushing yourself up from the bed slightly.

Panic sets in when you don’t recognise anything in the room, your hands flying under the cover to check you were still clothed.

“God you move a lot for someone with a hangover” a voice grumbles beside you, you sit up so fast your stomach lurches and the growing headache pounds behind your eyes. “Here”.

Your eyes fall to Rafe, he lay next to you, still dressed in the clothes from last night. He has 2 pills in the palm of his hand and a bottle of water, you accept gratefully and lay back down.

Silence falls over the two of you only to be interrupted with his phone ringing, he ignores it and sits up to look at you. “I’m sorry about yesterday, my friend wouldn’t shut up about me not having a boyfriend. The lie just slipped” you speak, he nods his head but stays silent. Your eyes wander over his face trying to pick up on an emotion but it’s unreadable, his blue eyes stare back at you.

“Never had a boyfriend huh?” He smirks, his left eyebrow raises in question. Redness spreads across your cheeks, spinning your body until it hides under the blanket. “So does that mean..”.

“Oh god, this is so damn embarrassing” you exclaim, you feel sick to the stomach. Thankfully you're both pulled away when his phone rings for the second time, he answers it with a huff and pulls himself from the bed.

You peek your head out of the blanket and watch him close the bathroom door behind him, you take this moment to step out of bed. Wobbling slightly on the plush carpet, thankfully the nausea had subsided and you were just left with a headache.

You grabbed your phone from the bedside table and made a dash for it, no way were you going to wait for him knowing he had follow up questions.

You're so close to the front door when Kelsie rounds the corner, she throws her arms around you in delight. “Finally! I’ve been waiting for you to wake up, didn’t want to wake you up myself in case I walked in on something” she giggled, wiggling her eyebrows at you. You nervously laughed, you probably shouldn’t let her think you were having sex. You know she’d ask for details later and you weren’t sure you could lie about that.

“Hey!” She exclaims, waving behind you. You turn to see Rafe walking towards you with a smirk on his lips, looking away quickly you nudge your friend towards the door. “We should get going” you mumble, gripping her bicep roughly. She shakes her head though just as Rafe’s arm wraps around your shoulder, he brings your back flush against his front.

Your body tingles, well aware that your bum was pressed against where his cock was tucked away. “You can’t leave yet babe, have coffee first”.

Your breath catches in your throat from the nickname, your limbs feel like jelly as you let him push you towards the kitchen. He maneuvers around the kitchen effortlessly and in silence, Kelsie sits on the stool watching him get the coffee machine ready, he turns to look at you and holds out a mug. “Thanks” you manage a smile and step over to help him, he looks down at you for a split second and then over at Kelsie who is tapping on her phone.

“Play along” he whispers, your eyes go wide when his thumb and forefinger trap your chin. Tilting your head up so he can duck down and kiss you.

You can’t stop the swarm of butterflies that are let loose in your stomach, your fingers grip the front of his white shirt. His hand pulls you in by your waist, you're trying to remind yourself this is fake. He’s just helping you out, helping you put on a show for your best friend.

“Gross! You’ve been doing god knows what all morning, let me get to know your boyfriend y/n” Kelsie cringes from her seat, dramatically covering her eyes in disgust. But the curve of her lips shows how damn excited she was for you. “What do you want to know?” Rafe questions, placing a mug down in front of her and then handing you yours.

“Everything! How long have you guys been together first?” Her eyes move between the two of you, your mouth opens but no words follow. Slamming your lips closed quickly before she notices. “Only 3 weeks, I’ve known about y/n since she came to the island 2 years ago. Just never had the courage to speak to her”.

Your brows crease together In the middle, was what he was saying true? If it wasn’t, how did he know you moved here 2 years ago?.

“That’s so sweet! Oh y/n I’m so damn happy for you! Anyway you gave me all the goss last night about the two of you, so Rafe what do you do for work?”

You sit in silence while your best friend interrogates Rafe Cameron, you hang onto every last word of his. Making mental notes about everything he was saying, you didn’t know much about Rafe Cameron.

You just knew he was rich and practically owned half the island, you heard a few things about problems with drugs when he was younger but that he got clean. He didn’t bring any of that up though and of course why would he, this whole situation was just to help you out.

“You got yourself a good one y/n! You better keep good care of her, I leave in a few days and I need to know my bestie is well looked after” she says but wiggles her eyebrows at the last part, nudging you in the ribs. You laugh with her and give him a tight smile.

“Of course, I’ll take real good care of her” he winks at you and you're so grateful for the chair that kept you from falling to the ground, one simple movement from him and you were weak at the knees. “Anyway we should get going, I promised you a trip to Charleston” you said, you made your way to the sink to wash the mug but large hands stop you as you reach for the cloth. “I got it”.

“Oh yes! I’m so excited, okay let’s go! Will see you later, yeah Rafe?” You suppress a groan, squeezing your eyes shut at your insistent friend. You open your mouth to tell her he’s got plans with friends but he’s agreeing with her and saying he’ll see you both later.

“I’ll let you say goodbye in private” she winks, skipping around the corner. When you hear the front door lock you turn to him, he’s staring at you again with his bright blue eyes.

“Thank you so much for playing along and helping me out but honestly I’ll tell her you have plans, she’ll be gone in a few days and we can pretend none of this happened”. You state, he doesn’t move from his spot or acknowledge what you’ve said for a few moments, you stare in silence.

“I’ll play your fake boyfriend y/n” he says, placing his mug into the sink and stepping towards you. “You really don’t need to, I’m apparently really good at lying” you reply, you give him an awkward thank you hug and dart out the door.

Your heart feels like it’s in your throat, rushing towards the Uber waiting for you. You couldn’t believe you had gotten away with it, one little lie worked and now you no longer had your best friend in your ear about finding a man.

The two of you went home to shower and change, spending your day over in Charleston. Showing Kelsie around the town and shopping. Your feet were on fire by the time you stepped through your front door, you dropped your bags to the floor. “I need to lay down!” You announce, walking straight to your bedroom and dropping onto the bed.

You must have passed out because you're waking up in a dark room, your shoes have been taken off and a blanket draped over you. Your ears prick up to the sound of music, what was Kelsie doing?

You threw the blanket off you and stepped into your bathroom, you grabbed a makeup wipe and cleaned up the mascara that had smudged under your eyes. Racking a comb through your hair and stepping back out of the bathroom.

The moment you open your bedroom door you are hit with loud music and the smell of tequila, you follow the noise towards the living room. “There she is!” Your best friend screams, she comes charging at you wrapping her arms around your neck.

Your eyes land on Rafe who sits on the one seater velvet chair, legs spread wide. He sends a smirk your way and raises his glass as a hello. “What is happening?” You question, noticing Rafe’s friends lounge on the couch and your friends looking at you in confusion. Oh god.

Your lie was about to unravel, you hadn’t thought about Kelsie meeting them. “I grabbed your phone while you were sleeping and organized a little get together! But you missy need to stop deleting messages it was very hard to figure out who your friends where”.

You were more concerned about how she got Rafes number, it would have been suspicious for you not to have messages with him. “Luckily everyone was saved in your favorites” she says handing you your phone, when she isn’t looking you search your phone. Rafes name pops up under favorite number 1, he must have put it in there last night? He was a lot better at this fake dating than you had expected.

“Hi” his voice whispered in your ear, his breath tickled your neck sending familiar shivers down your spine. His fingers dance around your hip stopping at your stomach, flattening his hand against you he pulled you back against him. “Hey” you managed, you say, he could tell you were flustered from the pink creeping up your neck until it made home on the apple of your cheeks. “You were asleep when she texted, I’m not as good of a liar as you” he joked, his eyes looking behind you for a moment and then his lips were on yours. You had now been kissed by 3 boys in your our lifetime, his lips were your favorite so far.

“Get a room!” Kelsie shouted, she poured tequila into shot glasses and began passing them around. “Let’s get this party started!”.

An uneasy feeling settled in your stomach, Kelsie never usually drank this much when she was around you. She knew you weren’t much of a drinker, especially since your dad was an alcoholic.

You stared down at the shot in your hand, you really didn’t want to drink tonight. Before you could even bring it to your lips Rafe was swapping his empty shot glass with yours and throwing it back. “You didn’t have to do that” you whispered, his hand still laying upon your stomach. You could feel him breathing against your back. “You didn’t want it”.

He gives you another soft smile and looks back at everyone in the room, Kelsie has turned the music up louder and pulled everyone into the middle of the lounge. “I just need to talk to my friends quickly” he nods his head and drops his hand from you. He watched you make your way to your friends and took a seat back on the seat he once occupied.

“Girl! You didn’t tell us you were seeing Rafe!” Sam exclaimed, she was in pure shock. Your three outer banks friends had lived here all their lives, they had known Rafe since school. “I’m sorry, it’s so recent I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it yet”.

“That’s okay, totally understand! It’s Rafe Cameron for crying out loud, I never thought I’d see the day he settles down” Grace says, she looks over at Rafe who is still watching you. They send him a smile and look back at you, an uneasy feeling in your stomach again.

“Yeah who knew” you laughed, you stood with them for a bit longer until the feeling of his eyes on you made you squirm. Walking back over to him, he pulled you to sit on his lap.

Your legs sat between his open ones, body nuzzled into his side. His arm around your shoulder, it was surprisingly comfortable and not weird. “We should probably discuss this fake boyfriend thing” he whisperedMy, pushing a piece of your hair behind your ear. “You really don’t have to pretend after today”.

He chuckles and moves in his seat a little bit, your thighs rubbing against his groin. The redness once again painted on your cheeks. “You underestimate your friend”.

You look over at Kelsie who’s dancing away with Topper, both of them look like they escaped the mental hospital.

“You might be right” you agreed, unsure why you feel so content against him. You’d sat on boys' laps before and cuddled, it usually made you feel uncomfortable and you’d run off before they got the wrong idea.

“She's here for 3 days, so if you were possibly free over the next few days I’d be forever in your debt” you say, turning slightly to look up at him. He tilts his chin to look down at you, something flashes behind his eyes but you can’t quite place what it is. His smile is intoxicating, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes and the perfectly straight teeth could kill me. “I can be free BUT I need a favour from you”.

“Yeah?” Your heart beats a bit faster and harder in your chest, what could Rafe Cameron possibly want from you? “I’ll need you to come to an event, I need a plus one”.

“Oh sure thing” you answer a bit too quickly, earning a smirk from the man under you. “Let’s talk about rules then?”

“Rules?”

“Yeah, you’ve never had a boyfriend before. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by doing anything you don’t want” he states, his tone is serious and his smile has vanished. “Oh” is all you manage to say to him, he moves again sitting up more straight so you both face each other.

“If I touch you anywhere you don’t like or want, or if I kiss you and you don’t want it, you just tell me. I won’t be hurt”

You nod your head, his hand cups your face and his lips touch yours for only a brief moment. “Sorry… they were watching”.

You turn your head and every snap their head back to what they were doing, a soft chuckle leaves your mouth and you look back at Rafe.

“Okay, and if you're busy or no longer want to be my fake boyfriend you just tell me. No hard feelings”

“Okay”

“Shall we kiss on it?”

You're the one to press your lips to his this time, it’s not quick like the last one. It’s more intense, his tongue snakes between your lips and you're moving in sync. This was a lot better than any of the other kisses you shared with someone.

“Sorry, I thought we’d give them a show”.

“Right” you breath, clearing the back of your throat and laying against him again. Was it normal to enjoy a kiss from a fake boyfriend that much?

Tag list - @rafemotherfuckingcameron @rafegirly @prentissesredtanktop @maybankslover @vigilanteshitposting

Part 3

[cherryobx]

Today

a/n: part 2 of this fic, can be read on its own!

pairing: Rafe Cameron x reader

summary: the morning after getting drunk and trying to kiss your best friend the previous night

warnings: language, one sexual innuendo i think, mentions of getting drunk, being hangover and nausea (but no detailed descriptions)

wc: 1.5k

The sun shines directly into your eyes through the windows of your bedroom and forces you awake. It’s almost painful. You get up to pull down the blinds to make the room dark and being in there bearable. 

You fall back into bed and bury your face in the numerous pillows propped up against the headboard, regretting drinking last night. The headache and nausea are bad but you’ve definitely experienced worse. You’ll live.

You reach for your phone which you usually place on the nightstand for the night, but it isn’t there. Lifting your head from the pillows you squint in confusion. There’s a water bottle, an Advil pill and a piece of paper there instead.

Sitting up, you grab the note first. Rafe’s neat handwriting fills the sticky note.

Had to go home for a sec. I’ll come by later. Make that hangover your bitch. - R

Right, he stayed the night. You smile at that and place it back down on the nightstand before popping the Advil into your mouth and downing almost the entire bottle of water in one go.

Memories from the previous night slowly start flooding in. Best friend’s birthday party. Too much alcohol. Hot tub. Phone ruined by said hot tub. Rafe taking you home. Begging Rafe to kiss you.

Oh my God. You asked your best friend to kiss you while drunk. That is so embarrassing. Even though it’s exactly what you’ve wanted for a while now. You weren’t planning on spilling your feelings to him while drunk like this. How can you look him in the eye when he comes by later knowing that you tried to pursue him romantically last night?

The hangover is now battling with your nerves and it’s not a very good combination. In an attempt to feel like a human again, you get up from bed, brush your teeth, fix your hair as much as possible and remove the makeup from last night and finally change into something other than your pyjamas.

Even those little mundane tasks are a bit difficult as your head spun and pounded simultaneously. You lay back in your bed to catch your breath but drift off instead.

Rafe keeps his word and comes over sometime in the afternoon, after a trip to the nearest technology store and buying you a new phone just like he had promised.

“Hey.” You feel a hand on your shoulder, shaking you gently to wake you up from your slumber.

“Oh, hey.” You sit up and rub the sleep from your eyes.

Rafe is sitting on the edge of your bed and it’s giving you flashbacks from last night when you two were sitting just like this. But this time the air is different. There’s something unspoken between you two.

He gives you a once over before shoving a small box into your hands. Your eyes fall to your hands in your lap and see a brand new phone in them. It’s the newer model of your previous one and you know for a fact it’s expensive.

“You didn’t.” Disbelief and shock are evident in your tone of voice. 

“I told you I would.” He seems almost proud of himself.

You scoff. “Asshole. I can’t accept this. Take it back.” You attempt to give it back to him but he pulls his hands away and holds them in the air, refusing to take it.

“No. It’s yours.”

“I don’t want it,” you rebut but it’s no use. He refuses to take it back.

“You need it.”

“I could’ve bought one with my own money. I don’t want you spending so much on me. It’s insane, Rafe.”

“I don’t mind spending a little on you once in a while.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like this huge amount of money means nothing to him.

“A little? For fuck’s sake, Rafe, this is a thousand dollar phone! That is way too much.” Your voice is high pitched and desperate. You really can’t accept this. It’s too much. You feel bad for him spending such a sum on you.

“Is it? Don’t really care.”

“Oh my fucking God, you’re impossible!” 

He chuckles. “You love me.”

“I’m about to whoop your fucking ass.”

“Kinky.” He smirks and lays down on his side, body propped up by his forearm and elbow.

You stare at the phone between your hands and then him. You know he won’t budge. Once Rafe has set his mind to something it’s impossible to change it. You also know he won’t take the phone back out of spite. If you don’t want something it’’s exactly what he’ll give you.

“Thank you,” you say, finally giving up. It’s impossible to convince him to take it back.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Your heart tightens at the nickname he uses. It’s not abnormal for him to use nicknames like this for you, but today it feels immensely different.

“Have you eaten anything today?” he asks with a slightly worried tone.

You shake your head. “No. I’ve been too nauseous all morning.”

At that he pulls his phone out of the pocket of his shorts, taps a few buttons and then hands it to you. “Order something then.”

You look at him dumbfounded. “What?”

“Food, sweetheart. Order something. You need to eat,” he insists.

Your first thought is that it’s such a sweet gesture which shows your best friend really cares about you. The second one is that he’s about to spend even more money on you. And that you don’t like.

“Rafe.” 

He knows what this is about but refuses to let you argue in any way. “Shut up and get what you want.” 

You zip your lips and scroll on the app on his phone, looking through the options the restaurants offer and choosing what looks and feels the most appetising at the moment. You decide on just fries and chicken nuggets. Your usual hangover food pick. They somehow taste even better than they normally do when you’re battling a killer headache.

“Classic,” he chuckles as you hand him his phone back and he takes a look at what you chose.

He picks something for himself too and then presses the order button and pays for both of your food.

As you wait for the food to arrive, he offers to help you set up your new, extremely expensive, phone. He scoots next to you on the bed, both of you now sitting beside each other, backs against the headboard and your sides together, touching each other. Your skin tingles where it touches his and the feeling is almost addictive.

He taps away on the screen, focused on getting all your data over to this new phone but you just look at him, taking him in. He’s so into the task in front of him that he doesn’t even notice your soft eyes on him. How you look at him with adoration in your eyes and a tightness in your chest.

The familiar urge to kiss him from last night resurfaces. Didn’t he mention he wanted this too? You’re not sure. What if you remember incorrectly? What if your memory is lying to you or making his promises from last night up?

But the need is so strong and your mind is just telling you to go for it. Is this a bad idea? Too late.

Your hand reaches out before you stop yourself, before you can think twice about your actions. You must be still drunk from last night because where is this sudden courage coming from?

You place your hand on his chin and gently turn his head to face you. His face is full of curiosity and confusion.

“I’m sorry,” you say, apologising in advance for your actions because you don’t know what the aftermath of this will be. Leaning in, you place your lips on his which takes Rafe by surprise.

He’s taken aback for a second and pulls away to look at you. He’s searching your eyes for any hesitation or regret. When he doesn’t find a shred of them there, he drops your new phone from his hands, disregarding it somewhere in the sheets and grabbing your face with both of his hands and reuniting your lips once again, kissing you desperately. Like he needs it to breathe. Like he’s hungry and has been starving for months.

It’s feverish. You’re both satisfying a craving you’ve been trying to ignore for so long and all of those feelings are unleashed into that kiss. 

“Don’t ever fucking apologize for that again,” he says when you break apart to catch your breath. His forehead is resting against yours and it’s so intimate on so many levels you feel lightheaded.

You open your mouth, wholeheartedly intending to apologise again but he stops you in your tracks. A ‘shut up’ leaves his mouth before it’s on yours again, shutting you up very effectively. 

“Ass,” you mumble in between kisses.

“You kiss me with that mouth?” He fakes shock at your words.

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes and use his tactic to shut him up instead.

[devosin]

— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! prologue : keeping up with Y/n L/n . .

♡. Spotify playlist | Updates, every Friday !! — Vil Schoenheit x reader | Y/n pov . .

Your fingers glided through the screen—which was on its lowest brightness setting—skimming through the terms and conditions of your contract, noting anything that stood out, before you threw the phone aside back on the nightstand and fell back down on your bed, pulling the comforter on yourself, as you try and relax your otherwise restless brain. 

Tired shallow breaths leave your chest, your eyebags felt heavy, almost weighing you down—and the light peeking from your curtains almost caused a headache—there was this feeling that grew in the pit of your stomach that you couldn’t quite label, a mix between both nausea and the dreadful feeling of doom, and after effect of an intense hangover, that didn’t seem to go away even if you drowned it in water and pills. 

You hated it, you hated how being drunk leads you to do impulsive shit, and you hated the aftereffects making you so wary of your decisions, which only resulted in you sowing every decision you make. 

Everytime you drink, you end up regretting it, and promising yourself that you won't ever again—it’s not that you're a heavy drinker—You just don’t trust yourself, you never have, but the alcohol really does wonders in bringing those feelings of deep-rooted insecurity up to the surface. 

It’s really not your fault, it was an after party for the cast and crew in celebration of your series finalé—You didn’t do well under pressure, and when everyone around you was pushing you to take another hit and another shot . . and well saying no would have ruined the mood—You don’t regret going on your phone, and you most definitely didn’t regret emailing a response back for the hosting offer—You would’ve accepted anyways, the alcohol just gave you the push you didn’t have before. 

It still triggers your anxiety, because you’re jumping into something headfirst with nothing prepared, you haven’t done that in ages. 

You sigh, getting up from your bed, you’re clearly not going to get any sleep with this much stress, it would be best if you get some air, to calm down . . . 

You were still in your pajamas, a large winter coat and hat covering most of your features (in order to avoid paparazzi), as you made your way through the streets, your hands buried in your pockets, forming fists as you looked through your surroundings. It was early november, barely any snow to be found yet it was colder than any winter you’ve ever experienced in the city. 

It’s been four years since you moved out to the outskirts of Pyroxene, you used to live in the capital, before your acting career even started. You even attended University there, not much going on with your degree anymore though. A lot of your friends still live there, and sometimes you miss the bustling streets, the noisy cafe’s, the ability to meet up with your friends as often as you’d like, or the feeling of home—However, if there’s one thing you don’t miss, it’s the fucking traffic. 

The traffic there was hell. You still have a small private condo in the capital under your name, considering a lot of your filming jobs take place there, and it seemed like a better investment than renting a hotel room every time, and hotels generally trigger your germaphobia . . —Plus it’s a lot cheaper just renting, and convenient for last minute things also hotels in the capital are fucking expensive—and everytime you film having to drive back and fourth made you want to take a knife to your throat, but that’s not a hotel exclusive problem. 

You snapped out of your thoughts, when you heard a car horn, realizing you had walked straight into traffic. 

‘Shit.’, you ran across the street as fast as you could, and for a moment you started believing in God again, because that was a close one. 

Y/n and Navia beef because I looped "Girls so confusing" remix a lil too much and I wanted to have a friendship rebound in this because I clearly ain't getting one irl. (ew trauma dumping? in front of my yogurt/j)

I decided to double post and publish both pov's (praise me frfr/j), so you can get a grip on how things might flow?! Also creating relationships of side characters and dynamics as we move along, I want ya'll to really know these characters.

Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter . .

— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! ♡. Synopsis : VIL SCHOENHEIT recently signed a contract under Descendant. Inc for his very own late night show, only to find out his co-star and fellow co-host is none other than Y/n L/n, someone he hates despite knowing very little about them and never having met them, previously. Y/N L/N, an actor who made their debut 3 years ago and hasn’t been able to catch a break since, recently decided to sign a deal with Descendants. Inc to host their new late night show “late nights & flashing lights”, as a break from acting . . Only to find out their favorite long-time actor will be co-hosting with them. Tune in every Friday, for a new episode of “late nights & flashing lights” to see if these two hosts can find a peaceful work-bond amidst their judgements . . and quite possibly even love? . .

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© devosin , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work without prior permission and or confirmation.

[stalemidnight]

Black Butterflies and Déjà Vu

Billie x fem!Reader

A/n - the sequel to the sequel to Blackout Drunk

Content Warning - swearing (i can't help it, i swear all the time irl), hangovers, brief mention of partial nudity, angst, mentions of vomit

The blackout curtains did their best but they were unable to stop stray streaks of light from the horrible, life-giving sun from slipping through the cracks and finding your burned-out face. A low, guttural groan dies in your scratchy throat as you toss and turn a couple of times before stopping. Every movement, no matter how small, only served to jostle the shattered glass that had replaced your brain.

Exhaling harshly through your nose you weakly push the comforter back, limply pulling yourself up in a not-quite-sitting position. You timidly reach the tips of your fingers to your pounding temples. Hesitantly, you rub small pleading circles – anxious to remove the thunder behind your tightly shut eyes.

No luck.

With a tired huff you drop your arms and carefully open your eyes. The room is nothing but shadows, but just light enough for your vision to adjust albeit gradually. You coulda sworn someone else was in here last night, but your mind was too exhausted to think back further than the present. Licking your parched lips, you look around aimlessly until you spy the glass of water on your nightstand along with a stark white bottle sitting next to it.

You achingly reach over for the bottle first, unscrewing the lid and accidentally dumping a handful of pills out. Some of them land in your palm but most of them scattered across the duvet and sheets of your bed. Another groan builds in your throat, but you shake it off. Keeping only two of the pills you instantly slam them passed your lips, reach for the glass of room temp water and swallow, hard.

“Yak!”

One of the pills went down the wrong way and for a split second you swear your entire stomach is gonna upchuck. Shit, you swear under your breath, I didn’t eat anything last night at all. Idiot. You wait for a few seconds to make sure your stomach isn’t gonna turn on you and thankfully, it doesn’t, but when you finally move the comforter all the way off of your legs and swing them over the side you land foot-first in a trashcan.

“What.”

Looking down you see the culprit. It’s the wastebasket from the bathroom. You’re not sure why it’s suddenly right there, but you’re also too tired to think so you let out a small, annoyed grunt and remove your foot. With a quick check to make sure there’s nothing gross attached to the sole of your bare foot you stand up properly.

Huh. Your bedroom door is open. That’s weird. You never sleep with the door open. But then again – you were stupid drunk last night. With a half-hearted shrug you step towards the open door, nearly tripping on the discarded denim pants on the floor.

“Good job, Past Me,” you mutter. “You nearly killed us both.”

Your fingers return to your temple, but only from your free hand. You still tightly clasp the glass of tepid water in the other, taking another sip or three before reaching the living room of your apartment.

And that’s when you freeze.

Oh no. No, no, no.

There she is, sprawled out on your couch in what can absolutely not be a comfortable position. You blink once. Twice. Three times.

Yep. That’s her. That’s Billie – laid out, half on her back with her left leg thrown over the back of the couch. Her head is barely resting on a throw pillow and the blanket she was using is in a messy heap on the floor.

What is she doing here?

The words barely skate across your brain before it hits all at once. Images from last night crash behind your eyes like lightning. It’s not entirely coherent but then neither were you at the time. You called her. You called your ex. You called Billie. And she answered. She picked you up from the bar, brought you home and tucked you in.

And you begged her to stay, to make sure you didn’t throw up in your sleep. But that wasn’t the real reason. You missed her warmth, the firm yet delicate way she would cradle your body against hers as you drifted off to sleep in the past. And she didn’t. She couldn’t.

A weary sigh falls out of you and carefully pad over to the couch, leaning down to gently tap Billie on the arm.

“Hey.” Your voice came out scratchy and small. You swallowed, took another sip from your water and swallowed again before repeating it louder and clearer. “Hey.”

Billie didn’t stir.

Maybe I should let her sleep, you ponder as you set your almost empty glass of water down on one of the coasters you keep on the coffee table. Standing back up, you shrug and shuffle towards the kitchen. Coffee. You needed coffee. And something to eat. Anything at this point. You put on a pot of coffee and sift through your pantry for a snack. Unfortunately the only thing in your pantry that was ready to eat without anything extra needing to be done with it was a bag of Blue Heat Takis. Your stomach flips at the thought – it couldn’t handle any level of spice right now. You held onto the bag and slumped over to the fridge, hoping to find something in there. There wasn’t much. You needed to go grocery shopping, that much was evident. Spicy chips it is.

Thankfully there’s a bottle of Tums where you keep it in the kitchen, so you grab that and open the bag of Takis.

Billie’s eyes open along with the bag – something you didn’t notice right away as you internally debated whether you should take a preemptive Tums or not.

“Mornin’."

Her raspy morning voice freezes the blood in your veins.

“Mm, are those Takis for me?” A hazy smile stretches across Billie’s lips, her voice coming out in a goofy baby-like tone as she stretches her arms above her head.

“Uh, if you want some,” you manage. “I dunno if I can even keep’em down right now.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Billie gives you a nod. “How ya feelin’?”

“Better,” you cringe from the dull drumming between your ears. “…ish.”

“That’s good…ish,” Billie lightly teases. You attempt a smile but nothing comes of it and you shuffle over to the armchair next to the couch, to the right of Billie.

Neither of you of says anything for a while as you share the bag of Takis. The more you eat the less likely it seems that your stomach was going to erupt which calms your nerves considerably. The turbulence in your head starts to slip away as the two of you empty the bag of chips.

It wasn’t until you reach down to scratch your thigh that you realize you aren’t wearing pants. You're sitting in the living room with Billie in just a pair of underwear and the top you wore last night. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you handed the bag of Takis to Billie while avoiding looking in her direction.

“Uhm, I’ll be right back.”

Billie looks up, confused, just in time to see you rush across the living room, turning down the hallway towards your bedroom. It took her a second to register what happened but her cheeks turn a rosy shade of pink at the sight of your cute ass in those barely there panties you were wearing.

“Shit,” she mutters with a mouthful of Takis. “I need to leave.”

Your hangover was a distant memory by the time you pulled on a pair of sweats and replaced your slinky black top from last night with a well-worn oversized Def Leppard tee. After picking up your discarded jeans from last night you feel the extra weight and realize that’s where your phone has been this whole time.

Your lockscreen is awash with notifications from the usual suspects, your friend Lindsay in particular left seventeen texts and two voicemails but your phone was on silent. You promise yourself you’d check all that later.

It isn’t until you hear your apartment door unlock that you rush back to the living room. You’re sure you looked insane by the speed in which you exit the short hallway connecting your bedroom and living room, but you also don’t care by this point.

“Billie, wait!”

The raven-haired girl glances back at you, her hand still on the doorknob. The sight of her ocean blue eyes sends a wave of anxiety crashing down on you before it melts away under the warmth of the smile that splits her lips a second later.

“Yeah?”

You clear your throat but it comes out squeaky anyway, “We, we should talk.” You exhale, harshly. “Right?”

You watch Billie shrug with the entirety of person before her hand falls from the door and she completely turns around to face you, her gaze never leaving your eyes.

“Yeah,” she says as the coffee maker goes off, indicating your brew is ready. “I guess we should.”

[side note: i really wanted this to be the final part but schwoops? part 4 will the last one. maybe.]

[l1tw1ck]

Newlyweds

bottom!ftm Miguel x top!male reader

🕷���Word Count: 1,947🕷️

[Part One] | AFAB Language Used

CW: Menstruation (No Period Sex), Lingerie, Dom/Sub, Daddy Kink, Cunnilingus, Squirting, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Impregnating, Mating Press, Lactation Mention, Praise Kink

Miguel wakes up with pain. A lot of pain. Along with discomfort and the familiar feeling and smell of blood. Of course he starts his period unexpectedly in your bed. Not only that but he has cramps and a hangover. Great way to start the morning. He hopes you at least have advil. He taps your shoulder and wakes you up.

“What's wrong?” You ask, noticing that it's still pretty early in the morning.

“I’m on my period.” He frowns. “Sorry…about your sheets.”

“Don't apologize, it's not your fault. Do you need anything? Food, meds, something hot?” You get out of the bed. Miguel shakily gets out as well.

“A shower would be nice…and some ibuprofen? Or advil?”

“No problem. Luckily for you, I have some pads or tampons you can use. I keep them for when family visits. Do you use a heating pad? I have one of those too.”

“Yeah, a heating pad would be helpful.” He nods. “I prefer pads.”

“Okay, go ahead and get in the shower, I’ll leave some clothes out for you to wear. Oh, and you’ll need to eat something too. Is there anything you prefer?”

“Whatever you can make is fine.”

“Alright, I'll get everything you need. Take as long as you want in the shower.”

.....

Miguel gets out of the shower and walks into your room. The bed is stripped and the bloody parts are being soaked in a cleaning mixture. He hopes he didn't ruin your mattress. He looks at the pair of boxers you left for him and frowns. It's no surprise that you don't have any panties, why would you? But wearing pads with boxers isn't very….safe. It's a good thing the two of you are neighbors, he’ll have to ask you to get him a pair of underwear. He pulls up the boxers half way and applies the pad, praying that it’ll do the job, and pulls it up completely. He puts on your shirt, happy that it's big on him, and puts on the pair of shorts.

He walks down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Hey..”

“Hey! There’s the meds.” You point to the bottle of ibuprofen and cup of water next to it. “I’m making pancakes. How do you like ‘em?”

“With butter and syrup.” Miguel looks at the medicine bottle and concludes that he’ll thankfully only have to take one. He hates taking pain medication because of the risks but they're unbelievably helpful. He sighs, putting a pill in his mouth and swallowing it with water.

“...Hey, at least you're not pregnant yet.” You smile sheepishly.

Miguel chuckles. “We should probably start planning for when I actually am pregnant.”

“Yeah…I’ll have to start packing my things soon, right? I don't want Gabriella to have to worry about moving her stuff here.”

He appreciates how you consider his daughter too. “That’d be the best way.”

“At least we're neighbors, that’ll make the process much easier.”

“That reminds me…can you…can you go to my house and get me a pair of panties? They're specifically made for periods…I have a box of period stuff in my closet, you’ll know it when you see it. I’d go myself but-”

“Don't worry about it, babe. I’ll get it for you. After you eat, you can go lay down in the guest bedroom, I already put the heating pad in there. If you want, I’ll pick Gabi up and bring her here.”

“Please. Thank you so much.”

“Of course.” You kiss his forehead.

Gabi walks up to your car, confused. “Why are you picking me up?”

“Your dad’s feeling sick so he asked me to come get you.”

“Oh. Is papá okay?”

“Yeah, he's fine. He’s just on his period.” You nod. “Come on, get in.”

Gabriella grimaces, feeling bad for her dad. She gets into the backseat and buckles her seatbelt.

“So…What do you think about coming to my place and eating dinner with me and your dad?”

Gabriella grins. “Are you gonna cook?”

“Of course! Whatever you want.”

“Then…Can you make burgers? I haven't had a burger in soo long! Papá sucks at cooking and he thinks fast food burgers are made of rat meat!”

You laugh. “Sure thing. What kind of burger? And do you want fries too? I can make ‘em from scratch.”

Her eyes widen. “Really? I love fries! And I really wanna try a bacon cheeseburger!”

“You got it, Gabi.”

“You’re so good at cooking! I wish Papà could cook like you.” Gabriella wipes her face clean.

“Hey! I can cook just fine, Gabi!”

“Then how come we had to order takeout the other night because you made green goop?”

“Green goop?” You look at Miguel, grinning.

“It was supposed to be green, okay?!”

“Mhm~” You hum in a sarcastic tone. “Maybe I need to save Gabi from your horrible cooking.”

“Please! You guys should get married. Then you can cook us dinner all the time!”

You look at Miguel.

Miguel looks at you and nods. “Well…Actually, mija…”

She looks at him curiously.

“We are getting married.” He can't hide his happiness.

Her entire face lights up. “Really?!” She puts her game down and stands up. “Am I really gonna get an hermanito now?!”

“Yes, mija.” Miguel chuckles.

“When are you gonna order them?!”

“...Order?” You raise an eyebrow.

“You know, go to the stork postal service and order a baby!”

You and Miguel look at her, dumbfounded.

“What?” She frowns.

“Mija…We need to teach you where babies really come from..”

After the horrifying explanation (which was actually very tame compared to the talk Miguel’s parents gave him), Gabriella accepted the fact that babies are in fact not delivered by storks. Miguel doesn't even know where she got that from.

Now she's started to see you as the second father you’ll soon become. Rather than using your name, she calls you dad. It makes you happy to know she's so accepting of you as her father. She invites you to her soccer games and school events and of course you show up to everything you can. She loves that she has two parents. It's so comforting to see the two of you in the bleachers while she's playing. And now it's a lot less likely for her to be alone at events. If Miguel’s working, you usually show up and vice versa.

And of course she’ll be the maid of honor at your wedding. She’s almost more excited about the wedding than the two of you are.

Miguel walks down the aisle, holding a beautiful bouquet of red and blue roses. He looks gorgeous. You can't wait for your honeymoon.

He walks up to you and gets into place.

“You look beautiful.” You smile at him.

“Thank you..” He replies, bashful.

You’re lost in Miguel’s beauty for the entire ceremony, only paying attention to when it's time to exchange rings, say your vows, and say “I do.”

You go in to kiss Miguel, sad that you can only peck him on the lips. You don't want to traumatize all the children with a french kiss. You pick him up and carry him bridal style.

“Do you wanna stay?” You ask.

“I wanna make our baby.” He says.

You nod and start running towards the jet you rented. Everyone in the crowd watches in shock as you abandon the wedding. Miguel throws his bouquet and a ton of people scramble to grab it. Thankfully for you two, Gabriella is staying with her grandparents so you can escape to your honeymoon without worry.

Miguel walks out of the bathroom, dressed in a beautiful lingerie set. A red lacy bra and panties along with matching stockings with garters to hold them up.

You hurry over to him. “You look amazing.” You grope his ass and give him a soft kiss. “Lay down.”

Miguel gets onto the bed and lies down, waiting for your next move. You grab his thighs and kneel in front of the bed, pulling him close to you. There's a gap in his panties for easy access. You press kisses along his thighs, occasionally sucking and biting them. You move to his pussy, pressing a kiss against his erect t-dick. He twitches in response. You bring it into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it.

“Fu- fuck–” He moans, curling his toes. He throws his head back and gasps as you start sucking him off while simultaneously slipping two of your fingers inside him. Miguel arches his back, moans getting increasingly louder as you finger him. “God yes–” He grins. “‘M gonna come-”

You pull away from him, still working his insides with your fingers. “What do you say, Miguel?”

“Pl- please~ please let me come, Daddy~”

“Good boy.” You go back to sucking on his dick. Miguel shakes as he squirts, drenching you in his pleasure. You lick up his slick before pulling away. “Tell me when you're ready.” You stand up and take your clothes off.

“I’m ready..” He moves backwards and spreads his folds with two of his fingers. “Please breed me, Daddy..”

You smirk. You climb onto the bed and align your length with his hole. Miguel watches intently as you slowly ease yourself inside him. The two of you watch as a bulge appears in his stomach the further you go in. “You're gorgeous, Miguel.” You run your hands up his body and grope his breasts. “You’ll let me get a taste once you start lactating, right?”

Miguel smiles. “Just a taste.”

You bring him into a deep kiss and inch yourself further inside him. Miguel gently moves his hips once he feels you bottom out, desperate to have you fuck him. You part from the kiss and move to his neck, lightly kissing his skin. “I love you.” You murmur before pulling away. You grab his legs and move him into a mating press. Miguel barely has time to process what you just did thanks to your sudden and rough thrusts. He grabs onto your shoulders, nails digging into your skin, and moans loudly as you properly breed his pussy. He can barely keep his eyes focused but just glimpsing upon your aroused expression makes his heart race even faster. It perfectly displays how much you love him and how good he's making you feel. He happily listens to your breathy words of praise and your low sounds of pleasure, falling deeper in love with you as the two of you completely tie yourselves together forever. He’s never been happier.

He already feels himself reaching his orgasm. “‘M clo- oh- close~!” He cries out. “Fuck-” He gasps, suddenly coming. He digs deeper into your skin when he feels you slow down. “Don’t- don’t you dare stop-” He almost growls at you. You take that as a warning and resume your previous pace. He manages to stay sane even as you continue to fuck his sensitive cunt, all for the sake of feeling you impregnate him. Just that is enough to give him strength to keep going.

“You're doing so- so good, Miguel.” You let out a low sound of pleasure. “Such a good boy for me..”

He moans happily.

“And you feel so fucking good..” Your breathing becomes more labored. “Making me come so fast with your tight pussy-” You groan, stopping as you fill him up with your first load of the night. He feels euphoric as your cum invades his insides.

“More…” He looks up at you with the cutest expression.

“I won't stop until I’m shooting blanks, baby.”

Miguel grins. He can't wait to spend the rest of his life with you and your kids.

[merakiui]

I would give anything to hear any of ur thoughts on kalim I adore him so 🥰

:D one serving of yan Kalim thoughts!!!!

I genuinely think he just can't hear the word "no" because he's so used to getting everything he wants or having the means to get whatever he wants without facing any consequences. If you're his servant and he likes you, maybe he'd nudge you into a relationship with him, perhaps slyly taking advantage of the power imbalance. I think most of the time he really does mean well, but sometimes it can come off forceful, like when he's all too happy to stuff another delicious snack into your mouth or fill your cup with more wine. He spoils you so much and you're in no position to say no. :)

Also also,,, I feel like parties in Scarabia are the most dangerous(?) or maybe just dubious simply because it's a dorm full of students who are very intelligent and have the foresight to plan for certain things. That is to say, no one's going to bat an eye if Kalim's hands are on you and you're too drunk or high to consent. And Jamil will clean you up so that nothing seems amiss when you wake up, slyly mixing in the morning-after pill with that of the medicine for your hangover.

Kalim who can't see what's so wrong about his love for you. He doesn't realize how suffocating he can be when he lavishes you with all kinds of expensive gifts and affection. Maybe he's secretly hard on himself when it comes to you. He just wants you to feel loved and appreciated. He wants this relationship to work. He really wants to make you happy. >_< he puts pressure on himself to show you only the best, sweetest of love, even if it can feel so smothering at times.

[moonstruckme]

I went out with my friends yesterday cuz one of them threw a party and it was so much fun but omfg I'm so violently hung over can I pls get a fic with any of the boys and a hungover reader them just cuddling her but also being like I told u not to have that last drink....3 drinks ago

Thanks for requesting!

cw: mention of alcohol, hangover

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 443 words

Peter wants so badly to be noisy and obnoxious, but he’s quiet because he loves you. 

“Hey, bub,” he says near a whisper, crawling up beside you on the bed. “I think it’s probably time to wake up, don’t you?” 

Despite his best efforts with the blinds, insistent threads of golden afternoon light sneak in through the cracks, and you turn your face into the pillow as you moan. 

“Aw, I know.” Peter’s unable to keep the laughter out of his voice, pulling down the covers to rub between your shoulder blades. “My poor girl. Who did this to you, huh?” 

Your reply is muffled by both pillow and lethargy. “Shuddup.” 

His laugh comes out for real now. You squirm away from the sound, trying fruitlessly to burrow deeper into your pillow as Peter drops a kiss on your shoulder, bare where his t-shirt has slipped off. 

“I’ve got lukewarm water and painkillers,” he says enticingly. “Breakfast of champions.” 

Your hand emerges from beneath the covers, reaching for them. 

“Uh, no.” Peter poorly contains another chuckle as he leans away from your searching hand. “You’ve got to sit up to have it, sorry.” 

It takes time and effort, Peter helping you with a hand on your back, and when your eyes meet his amusement makes some room for pity. 

“Here you go, baby.” He holds out the water and pills. You rub your eyes before taking them, little flakes of crusted-on makeup falling onto the sheets. “Drink it all,” he says when you stop after the sip it takes to down the painkillers. “You’re dehydrated, that’s why your head hurts.” 

Your mouth puckers distastefully. “I’ll throw up,” you worry. 

“Small sips,” Peter agrees, kissing your shoulder rewardingly when you take another. You’re looking at him now, too, eyes watchful and expression stiff with some kind of indecision. “What is it?” 

You hesitate a second longer before asking, “Can we hug?” 

“Aw-w-w.” It stutters out of him on a laugh, and your face goes pouty as Peter slides his hands around your middle, hugging you sideways and resting his head atop yours. “Course we can, baby. You’re really feeling shitty, huh?” 

You make a pitiful sound, leaning into his touch. 

“Wishing you’d stopped after that fourth drink like I told you to?” 

Now your whine has more bite to it. Peter holds you tighter so you won’t leave, smiling as he kisses your hair. 

“That’s okay, my silly girl. Lucky you’ve got the world’s most forgiving boyfriend to take care of you, huh?” 

“It’d be nice,” you mutter, “if he were the world’s least gloat-y boyfriend too.” 

“Well, we can’t have it all, sweetheart.”

[morganbritton132]

Oh geez this might be a double ask because my phone glitched out when I tried to send previously BUT just wanted to say that I love ur Steve has older siblings au

I also need to say that I shamelessly combined that au with ur post about Tommy knowing Steve the best. Just picturing Steve’s sibs zoning out when his mom lists what he can’t eat because they assume she’s just being difficult. Flash forward a few years and they accidentally poison Steve with like peanut butter cookies and are realllly lucky that Tommy was staying over that weekend and knows he’s allergic.

anyways thx for all ur writing!

I only got this ask once so we’re good! The Steve Has Older Siblings AU has kinda been on hold for a bit because Dustin is either the easiest or the hardest character to write and right now, he’s being difficult for me.

BUT! I love this.

I’m going to change it around a bit because I’m on this kick right now where Steve is allergic to aspirin. Also, with the way that Steve’s mom is written for this AU, she is negligent but protective of her son. I don’t think she’d allow peanut butter in the house if Steve was allergic.

She wouldn’t allow aspirin either but Richard insists that it’s the only thing that cures a migraine (hangover), and Steve’s eight. He doesn’t even like taking his Flintstone vitamins so she’s not concerned about him getting in the medicine cabinet.

It’s not common that Tommy stays over at Steve’s when they’re sick.

Typically his mom watches them at their house but she had to go wake up his grandma (“That doesn’t make any sense. Why can’t she set an alarm clock?”/”I dunno, Steve. That’s what Mommy said. She had to go to Granny’s wake.”) so Mrs. Harrington was babysitting them.

Mrs. Harrington isn’t very good at taking care of them. Tommy wouldn’t tell Steve that because it’ll make him sad, but his mom kinda sucks at this. She doesn’t even give them popsicles for their sore throats or kiss their foreheads to check their temperature. She just disappears for long periods of time to yell into the phone.

Tommy’s kinda happy when she has to go into the office because he thinks Claire might look after them, but she’s apparently studying in her room so Steve’s brothers are doing it.

Tommy secretly likes this better because Jason and Richie are very nice to him, and they tell him that he’s cooler than Steve. No one has ever said that before! Not even Carol and they got married under the jungle gym.

Tommy likes hanging out with them even if he feels icky today.

He is standing in the kitchen next to Steve, watching Richie cut a little orange pill in half with a knife. Richie keeps muttering under his breath about running out of the ‘liquid S H I T.’ Tommy thinks it’s funny that he said a bad word, but can’t laugh about it because he can see the bottle that the pill came out of and –

“I don’t think we take that,” He voices but Richie brushes him off. He says it’s like candy. Tommy has brothers too, so he knows that sometimes you gotta give in or they’ll rub your face into the carpet until you get rugburn, but, “I know but… but what if only I take it?”

“You take half,” Richie tells him. “Stevie over here takes the other half and then we’re right as rain. It reduces fever.”

“Yeah,” Jason adds from behind them. “So your brain doesn’t leak out your ears.”

Tommy looks over at Steve but he isn’t fully awake so there’s not much of a reaction there. Plus, he’s not a very good reader so Tommy’s not sure if he even knows what the bottle says. He tries again, ignoring Jason, “That’s not what Mrs. Harrington gave us earlier.”

“Yeah, I know. This is better.”

“Steve can’t take that,” Tommy tries again after he crunches the medicine between his teeth. He sticks out his tongue so Richie can see that it’s gone, and then adds, “Mommy gave that to him once and it made him really sick.”

“It did?” Steve croaks, snatching his hand back when Richie tries to hand him the pill. Richie tries to force the pill into his mouth but Steve presses his lips together. It makes his brother swear and gesture to Jason, and then Steve is snatched off his feet with a hand pinching his nose shut.

He struggles and Tommy wants to help but he – he also wants Richie and Jason to like him so, he doesn’t help. Steve gasps for breath and the pill goes in…and Steve is fine. He’s angry and out of breath, and his nose is still stuffy so he still kinda sounds like a frog but he’s not.. he’s not blue like last time.

Tommy thinks, oh. He thinks, cool.

Everything is fine for fifteen minutes and then Tommy is yelling out the door of Steve’s bedroom that they need help. Steve is breathing weird and – “and, I – I think he’s going to die!”

A lot of stuff happens at once. Claire leaves her room, Jason and Richie come up the stairs, and they all start yelling and blaming each other. No one really jumps into action until Tommy bursts into tears. Then it’s movement and car rides, and Tommy is sitting in the waiting room at the hospital without shoes on.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting there when Mr. and Mrs. Harrington rush into the room. The only thing he does know is that he’s never seen anybody look as angry as Mrs. Harrington did when she sees them.

She looks like she’s going to yell at them but Mr. Harrington grabs her by the arm and drags her to the reception desk. They disappear behind the white double doors that Steve went through.

It only makes Tommy cry harder.

[cosmiclily]

.ᐟchapter five: pardon my emotions

wc: 1.5k

cw: a little bit of angst but i think this chapter is quite funny

The throbbing headache that greeted me the next morning was expected. I felt like absolute shit, and I wished I could blame it entirely on the hangover. But no, the events of last night were still fresh in my mind. Walking in on Vi making out with that girl felt like a slap in the face. Maybe, just maybe, the universe was finally on my side, screaming loud and clear: “Get over your stupid high school crush. She doesn’t want you.”

I let out a bitter laugh as I sat up in bed, clutching my pounding head. It wasn’t like this was news. Vi had always been out of my league—beautiful, confident, magnetic. She was the kind of person who could walk into a room and make everyone fall for her without even trying. And me? I was just... there. The best friend, the roommate, the one who’d always been there to pick up the pieces, never the one to hold her heart.

I rubbed my temples, as if the physical ache would somehow numb the emotional one. Get over her, I told myself again. You’ve done harder things in life. You can do this. But no matter how many times I repeated it, the words felt hollow, like trying to patch up a broken vase with tape.

As I make my way to the kitchen, the sight of Vi greets me like a cruel reminder of last night. She’s standing there, wearing an oversized band t-shirt and a pair of boxers, looking like the softest thing in the world, her hair still tousled from sleep as she makes coffee. For a second, I freeze, debating whether to just turn around and sneak back to my bedroom without being noticed. But, of course, the universe isn’t on my side.

The moment I make a move to leave, her eyes land on me.

“Hey, good morning,” she says, her voice warm and casual, as if nothing had happened. She’s holding my favorite mug, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee floats through the air. “Ekko told me you weren’t feeling well last night and that’s why you left. I figured you’d wake up with a headache, so…” She steps closer, holding out the mug with one hand and a small packet of painkillers with the other. “I got you some meds. And I made your coffee just the way you like it.”

For a moment, I just stare at her, my mind a mess of emotions I can’t figure out. It’s unfair how natural it feels for her, how easily she slides into this role that feels like more than just a friend. And yet, it’s not. It never will be.

“Thanks,” I finally manage, taking the mug and the pills from her. My fingers brush against hers briefly, and it takes everything in me not to pull away too fast. I swallow the pills with a quick sip of coffee, grateful for the heat against my cold hands. “You didn’t have to do this,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Of course I did,” she says with a small shrug, leaning casually against the counter. “You’re my best friend, Y/N. I’m always gonna look out for you.”

Best friend. The words sting more than they should. I force a tight smile and nod, avoiding her gaze as I take another sip of coffee. “Well, thanks. I appreciate it.”

She studies me for a moment, her brows furrowing slightly like she can sense something’s off. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve been kinda… off since last night.”

“I’m fine,” I lie quickly, my voice a little too sharp. “Just tired. Long night, you know?”

Vi doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press the issue. Instead, she flashes me one of her soft smiles—the kind that always made my heart race—and pats my shoulder. “Alright, but if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

As she turns back to her coffee, I slip out of the kitchen and into my bedroom, finally letting out the breath I was holding. Her kindness is suffocating. It’s not her fault, but I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay when it’s not.

I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the mug in my hands. My reflection ripples faintly in the dark surface of the coffee. I know I need to let go of her, but every time I think I’ve made progress, she pulls me back in with her warmth, her care, her effortless Vi-ness.

So, I decide. My plan is to avoid her at all costs. Without raising suspicion, of course. I’ll only talk to her when absolutely necessary, keep things short, and focus on getting over her. Maybe I’ll pick up a new hobby, bury myself in work, or—hell—sign up for yoga. Anything to distract myself from her.

──────────────────────

By day three of my new, revolutionary plan, it already felt like hell. Who would’ve thought that avoiding the only constant presence in your life could hurt so much? Definitely not me! I mean, wasn’t this supposed to make things easier? Create some distance, set boundaries, and magically get over her? Turns out, it was not that simple.

It’s already hard enough to build this invisible wall between us—turning down her invitations to hang out, pretending I’m too tired for our late-night talks. But the real kicker? Realizing she’s the only person I could talk to about anything. And now, there’s this huge, gaping void in my life.

Shitty day at work? No Vi to rant to, no shitty jokes to lighten my mood.

The five-thousand-year-old professor dragging me through a painfully boring lecture? No Vi to dramatically reenact it with, complete with fake snoring.

A terrible grade in the one class I was confident about? No Vi to cheer me up with ice cream and terrible rom-coms—ones she’d always complain about being “too cheesy” but inevitably get teary-eyed over by the end, especially when the main couple had their big dramatic kiss.

The plan, on paper, had sounded so simple. Just avoid her. Easy, right? But the thing is, how do you avoid someone who’s everywhere? How do you avoid someone who’s ingrained in every part of your life, like a second heartbeat? Someone whose laugh echoes in your head even when they’re not around, whose scent lingers on your clothes like a bittersweet reminder, whose touch stays imprinted on your skin long after they’ve left the room?

How do you get over someone who feels like home?

And the worst part? She notices. She notices my hesitation, my distance, the way I flinch when her hand brushes mine. She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her watching, her gaze heavy with unspoken questions.

Things were so bad I actually considered calling my mom for advice. My mom! Of all people. And, if you knew the kind of unsolicited advice my mom likes to give, you’d understand just how desperate I was. What would I even say? “Hey, Mom, quick question—how do you get over being completely, hopelessly in love with your best friend who has no clue and never will?”

Spoiler alert: I didn’t make that call.

Instead, I decided to just push through. That’s what everyone does, right? Push through, stay busy, keep my head down.

The easiest part about my so-called plan was that it seemed like Vi had started avoiding me too. After two weeks of blowing her off and coming up with increasingly absurd excuses—"Sorry, I’ve got this huge paper due" or "Can’t, I promised my supervisor I’d get an early shift"—it felt like she finally gave up. She stopped asking me to hang out, stopped knocking on my door late at night to chat or watch something stupid on TV.

Now, I only saw her in passing—brief, awkward moments between our schedules, like two strangers forced to share the same space. And then there were the nights. The nights were the worst. I’d wake up in the middle of them sometimes, thirsty or restless, only to hear her at the door, whispering a soft goodbye to yet another random girl she was sending home.

I tried not to think about what went on behind her bedroom door, tried not to let my mind wander to the sounds I might hear if I were closer. But the knowledge of it, the fact that it was happening, was enough.

I did all of this to stop hurting—to move on, to get over her. So why wasn’t it working?

Why did her absence hurt even more than her presence? Why did the thought of her holding someone else make me sick to my stomach, like all the air had been sucked out of the room?

Wasn’t this supposed to get easier with time? Instead, it felt like I was sinking further into it, this endless cycle of pain and longing.

──────────────────────

chapters

notes: who would have thought that ignoring your problems wouldn’t make them go away 😱😱 (self-criticism)

[jjsfavgirl]

Let it all out, party girl

Since over 400 of you liked my blurb “calm down party girl”?! (That is insane Tysm) I have decided to make a part to of the dreadful hangover JJ’s girlfriend faces.

This is pt two of calm down party girl<3

Summary- JJ Maybank taking care of his very hungover girlfriend

Warnings: vomiting, pet names

Part 1 Part 2

-

There you both were, in the Château bathroom as you groaned and cradled the toilet bowl while one of JJ’s hand worked circles around your lower back as his fingers had quickly entangled to hold your hair out of you face as last nights components came from your lips.

“Let it all out, party girl.” JJ cooed, wincing back slightly as he glanced down at the toilet bowl.

“I’m sorry, Jay.” You sobbed quietly, praying that was the last contents of your stomach.

“Ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for, princess.” He smiled, smoothing the now sweaty hair away from your face as your wiped your mouth.

JJ patted your knee cap before standing up and reaching over the counter to grab the toothpaste and your toothbrush that you had left there many moons ago. The sound of the tap running caused you to glanced up at your boyfriend from the cold wood floor, your head pounding as the bright ceiling light blinded you.

“Brush.” JJ demanded, passing you the toothpaste coated toothbrush down to you.

After successfully brushing your teeth without vomiting once more, JJ took this as a safe sign to help you back into bed.

“Gunna get you some water and I’ll try and see if Kie has some Advil or somethin’” he smiled, laying you down on the soft mattress as he pulled the sheets over you carefully.

You could only let out a giggle at your boyfriend’s sweet actions. He was your knight in shining armour. Always.

“Yo! Kie! You’re a lady you got any like Advil or something for hangover?” He asked the brunette, a spliff in her hand and a cup of water for his girl in his.

“What does me being a girl have anything to do with carrying Advil?” She asked confusingly, furring her brows at the blonde boy.

“Y’know, lady things.” He groaned, already hating himself for saying the sacred words.

“Take the fucking Advil from my backpack. You ever say lady things again and I will push you into the ocean.” She grunted at the boy, just as disgusted with his word choice as she tossed him a pill packet.

“Sorry! You’re the best!” He cheered, running back to yours and JJ’s room, spilling some water on the way there.

“Here you go, honey.” He passed you the ice cold water as he popped an Advil for you.

“Thank u.” You attempted to send him a grateful smile even though the pounding sensation in your head only grew with every movement.

With a groan from you, JJ climbed into bed beside you and tucked himself in as he linked one of his bare arms around your shoulders.

“What happened to the vodka shot taken champion from last night huh?” He teased, smirking down at you as h awaited your classic snarky hangover response.

“She died.” You moaned, your head hurting more as you leaned directly into the sun.

-

Just a little part two!! Enjoy!!

Love ivy🫶🏻

Taglist: @chimindity @chiaraanatra