#i need more money to mail stuff to them

[bitterfucked]

the other front desk staff keep telling me about problem guests and going “they’re american if that matters”

[tariah23]

Man, I still remember participating in one of the many jjba zines that I took part in and how my piece was placed as the first page (for the second time) and how one of my mutuals/artists that I’ve always admired, hit me with the “oh… you’re on the front page again… 😅…” like man, that kind of killed me lmfao. I never got over it like man, what was that about.

[officialbabayaga]

thank god the hanks of 0/11 seed beads i need to make my decorative ren faire chain mail are only $4.50 each bc I just had to buy the rest of their stock to make sure I’d have enough

[madigoround]

💜

[inner-community]

also i cant even practice driving because our car is dead and our neighbor NEVER LEAVES THE HOUSE so we cant put my dads car next to it to jump it. i want to scream. i guess it helps complaining though so i can stop thinking about it so much and getting so stressed. i just feel like i need to be doing 10000000000 things.

really i just need to do 2 things rn - call the test people & send an email to the dmv guys. then when those are done i can study. and if i have to make a psych appt it would be fine because i should ask for my as needed klonopin back because i think i am still good for the most part it's just my anxiety randomly goes thru the roof and i need help w it. (weed has been making it worse. why would my best friend weed do this to me...)

i also should really remember every day to take my mushroom supplement because i cant overstate how much of a diff it makes taking it regularly.

also i need my wife to stop asking about tax stuff for A Minute because i know what we are doing i just need time to execute it all and i have to do all of the above bullshit first!!!!!!

[strang3lov3]

Chevelle

Summary- (joel miller x virgin!reader) Joel figures out that you’re the one who hit his baby, his precious 1964 Chevrolet Chevelle. He needs you to make it right, but he doesn’t want your money ❤️‍🔥🍆 (5k words)

Tags- MDNI hot girls can’t drive, implied age gap, virgin!reader, we're calling him tender dark!joel, soft!dom joel, tender dubcon (power imbalance, joel solicits sex from reader, no explicit consent but reader is into it) reader has a luscious bush, Joel walks you through handjobs, blowjobs, fingering, oral, unprotected piv, creampie, come eating, loss of virginity. Joel is clothed and reader is not.

A/N- Writing this is how I spent my spring break. Hope you love it 🩵 Thank you @noxturnalpascal for all of your help editing and your encouragement.

Based on mine and @beefrobeefcal shared prompt where we asked, "What would happen if reader damaged Joel’s vehicle?” Her fic is here and it’s one of my favorite things I’ve read!! Kiki has such a beautiful voice in her writing and I love all the details she adds to her fics.

Pawn shop by @toxicanonymity came to mind when I wrote this story and was a source of inspiration. Also worth a read, I have nothing but love for Tox’s writing 🩷

It’s late when you get off your shift at Tony’s, the shitty Italian restaurant you’ve been working at for far too long. It doesn’t pay much and you’ve considered working a new job to save up and move out of your brother’s house, but you’ve been putting that idea off for a variety of reasons. One of them being Joel. 

Joel’s your neighbor, a sexy, older man you’ve got a certain fondness for. His hair used to be more brown but it’s grayer now, same with the scruff on his face. He’s got sparkling, chocolatey eyes and a sharp nose set above a thick, downturned mustache. He always looks a little dirty when you see him, with dirt caked into his forehead wrinkles and grease smeared along his temple or his jaw. He’s always either fresh off a contracting job or working on his car. He’s got this cute little Chevy he spends his nights and weekends with, a 1964 Chevrolet Chevelle, baby blue.

Joel was one of the first people to welcome you to the neighborhood and even helped you move your stuff into your brother’s house, though helping you implies he let you do any work. Joel offered you a pop from his fridge and then took over entirely, putting both himself and your brother to work moving all of your stuff in. You didn’t lift a finger that day. 

-

You can’t seem to pull your eyes from the little green glowing letters on your dash, watching letters and numbers on the screen roll on by. 12:37 A.M. 101.9. Paper Bag - Fiona Apple.  You’re so out of it. You yawn and blink a couple of times, focusing back on the narrow roads of your neighborhood. It’s so poorly lit over here, and it doesn’t help that one of your headlights is out. Joel’s been bugging you to let him fix that, he says it’ll only take five minutes.

You turn onto your street and bam. You’re wide awake now. You just hit something. 

You hit Joel’s car. Joel’s fucking car. What the fuck is it doing on the street? He always has it safely kept in his garage. Oh dear god, the panic is setting in. This is Joel’s baby. You just hit his baby, his pride and joy. 

You can’t even bring yourself to assess the damage you’ve inflicted upon his dear Chevy. Probably dented to shit, but you don’t really wanna know. Instead, you just pull your foot off the brake, press your remote control garage door opener, then pull into your garage as you press your lips together tightly. You’re surprised and relieved to find that there’s hardly a scratch on your own car. Joel won’t know. He won’t.

The next morning, you’re sipping on your coffee as you check your mailbox. Joel’s outside his house, loading up his work truck with some tools and supplies. He waves to you and you wave back, a small stack of mail in your hand. 

“Whose mail you got today, sweetheart?” he calls to you. 

You check the names on some of the letters. “Davidsons’ and Pierces’,” you answer through a chuckle. Joel rolls his eyes and laughs. The incompetent mailman is a running joke amongst yourself, Joel, and your other neighbors. He never seems to deliver anything to the right address, so you and your neighbors are often hand delivering each other your misplaced mail.

You laugh with Joel until you notice his smile disappear. He’s narrowing his eyes on his Chevy. Your heart drops as he steps closer to the vehicle, then pinches his nose in frustration. Fuck. Joel stomps back to his work truck, haphazardly tosses something in the bed and then slams the tailgate. Yeah, he’s fucking pissed. Your neck and your face heat in shame as you quickly run back inside.

-

In the two weeks since Joel’s car was hit, he’s been working to repair it tirelessly. He’s ordered a new tail light, since whoever hit his car shattered it and he’s spent a pretty penny ordering the exact shade of baby blue paint to touch up all of the scratches. Joel only trusts himself to touch his car, but the situation necessitates that he’ll have to take it in to a local repair shop to get the dents out. Fucking fantastic. 

When Joel gets off work tonight, he notices he’s got some packages on his doorstep, hoping it’s the shit he ordered for his car. He’ll open them shortly, but he first notices that one of the packages is addressed to you. Go figure, he thinks, chuckling to himself. He walks the package over to your house, noticing your car is parked outside of the driveway. And it’s backed in too, which is odd. Joel assumes your car must’ve been blocking your brother’s, so he probably played musical chairs with your cars to get his out and then backed yours up onto the driveway. You never back your own car in the driveway, and Joel’s pretty sure it’s because you don’t know how. You probably can’t parallel park, either. He’ll have to show you how to do that sometime.

What’s also new is a bit of baby blue paint on your red Honda Civic’s exterior, right by your headlight, the same headlight he’s been nagging you to let him fix. Joel bites the inside of his cheek. Interesting. He knocks on your door, package in hand, but he’s met with no answer. No biggie. He leaves the package on your porch and goes back to your car, inspecting the paint once more. He scoffs in astonishment and walks home. Unbelievable. 

-

The next evening, you check your mailbox after forgetting to do so earlier. As always, you never have just your own mail. This time you’ve got Joel’s. You walk it over to Joel’s house with the intention of dropping it off on his porch and going back home, not wanting to bother him as he works on his Chevy but his whistle startles you. “Hey you,” he says. “C’mere.”

“O-oh,” you stutter. “I’m just dropping off your–”

“Yeah, I know. Just c’mere a minute,” Joel says. “Got a fuckin’ bone t’pick with you.”

Your palms are beginning to sweat. He doesn’t know anything. Maybe he just wants some company while he works on his car, it wouldn’t be the first time. But still, there’s something about his tone. You step off of his porch and cut through his lawn to get to his garage. Once inside, you help yourself to a root beer from his refrigerator. Something cold and fizzy and sweet to help you calm your nerves.“Oh, sure, help yourself,” Joel mumbles. He notices your fingers slipping off the tab of the pop can and pulls it from your hands, then opens it for you. He’s wearing a stained Prince and the Revolution t-shirt and a slightly too tight pair of jeans that squeeze his ass just so. His garage is decorated with old license plates, posters, other odds and ends. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

Joel says nothing as he walks to his work bench. He pulls a lightbulb out of a cardboard box and waves it in your direction, he’s only a couple of feet from you. “Ordered the wrong bulb,” he tells you. 

You can only nod. You think about maybe making a joke about the mailman screwing it up somehow, but you bite your tongue. You don’t trust yourself not to stutter right now.

“M’sure you saw, my baby here’s all banged up,” Joel puts the bulb back in the box and leans against his work bench, facing you. “Happened a couple weeks ago.”

“Mm,” you hum.

“Hit and run, can you believe that?” 

“No, I can’t. That-that’s terrible.”

“I know it is. And here I thought we had a nice neighborhood…” he trails off before speaking again, “You think you know someone, huh.” 

Someone. So he has someone in mind? “Yeah, it’s terrible…what happened to your car. Can’t believe someone would uh…would do that, knowing how you, your car…yeah. Terrible.”

Joel stares at you for a minute before speaking again, taking note of how you can’t seem to hold eye contact with him. He steps closer to you.

“You wouldn’t know a thing about it, right?”

“Yes,” you answer, quickly realizing your word mishap when Joel raises his eyebrows. “No, yeah. I don’t know–yeah, nothing,” you sip your root beer before fidgeting with the pop tab and shifting your weight from one foot to the other. 

Joel notices. “Squirmin’ an awful lot over there, sweetheart. You got something you wanna tell me?” You shake your head, still playing with the tab on the pop can. Joel removes it from your hand, his fingers gracing over yours before placing it on the workbench. He’s moving closer to you now, matching your pace as you walk backward until the back of your legs hit his car. You gasp, he stands so tall and imposing in front of you. “Easy,” he warns. “You be careful with her.”

“Yeah, I know. Always,” you reply. Your voice is beginning to shake. 

Joel hums at your response. “Not always, though, sweetheart. Think you were pretty careless with my baby a couple weeks ago.” 

The familiar pressure behind your eyes is beginning to build as tears are pricking your waterline, “I don’t know what–”

“Awh, don’t do that. Don’t lie t’me.” 

 The tears spill over. You’re caught. You don’t know how Joel figured out what you did, but he did. “You’ve got a guilty conscience, dontcha?”

You nod before you can speak. “I’m so sorry,” you cry. Sobs begin to wrack your body, your tears now flowing freely. You’re so guilty. You should’ve told Joel what happened that night. It was an accident, and he might’ve been mad, but you’ve probably made it worse for yourself with your dishonesty. “I’m so sorry, Joel, it was late and I was so tired–”

Joel pulls you in a tight embrace, stroking your back with his fingertips. “Shhh, I know. I know,” he whispers in your ear,  “S’okay, sweet girl.” 

“It was so…” you try to explain, choking on your sobs and your sniffles. “So late and d-dark and I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I know. Quit your cryin’, s’gonna be fine,” Joel whispers. He pulls away from you, looking at you with those deep brown eyes of his as he wipes the tears from your face with his thumbs. Know you’ll make it up to me.”

“I will,” you agree quickly. “I’ll pick up some more shifts, Joel, and I’ll save and–”

“Oh, no. Not that. Save your money,” he tells you earnestly. “Somethin’ else,” Your eyes follow Joel when he leaves you for a moment to flip a switch on the wall of his garage. Something in the air changes then, a thick, heavy feeling between you both when he makes his way back to you. “Use your head, sweetheart. How are we gonna make it right?”

Your mouth is dry, your tongue swollen as you pick up what Joel’s putting down. “Let me give ya a hint,” Joel grunts, sucking in his gut slightly as he unbuttons his jeans. He wears no underwear, a thatch of coarse hair littering his skin is what you see when he pulls down his zipper. He grips your wrist and shoves your hand beneath the denim where you feel his package, already half hard. It’s warmer, thicker than you would expect. He feels heavy in your palm, his pubic hair wiry and scratchy against your knuckles. 

He doesn’t tilt his head in confusion at your hesitancy. “Don’t know what to do with all this, do ya?”

You shake your head no. “I’ve never…with anyone, before.”

“S’alright. I’ll walk ya through it all,” Joel says, seemingly unsurprised at the revelation. With your hand still on his cock, Joel pulls himself out of his jeans entirely. He’s harder now. “Like this,” he instructs, bringing your hand to his mouth and spitting in it. A pang of arousal fills your gut at the action. He pushes your hand lower and guides you to wrap your hand around his cock. It feels heavy, warm to the touch, sticky with his sweat and his saliva. Rock hard, but smooth like satin. You admire him, his blushed tip, the prominent veins on his shaft. 

Your breath hitches as Joel takes control, using his strong, weathered hand to guide your own to massage his cock. “You got it,” he encourages, sensing your rigidity. “Tighter,” he instructs, squeezing his hand around yours. You’re slow to gain confidence but he’s patient, doing the work himself for now. “You move your hand all the way up, all the way down my cock,” he tells you. 

You nod in understanding. Joel drops his hand but yours stays stroking his member. He sighs and tilts his head backward as you focus on the task at hand. Without the pressure of intense eye contact, you take the opportunity to admire him, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, the small drops of sweat rolling down his throat. You’re shy when he smiles at you, quickly averting your attention from him and to his cock, watching the way it twitches beneath your hand, where a little bead of precum forms. Experimentally, you swipe your thumb over the tip. “That’s it,” he whispers, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand. He ruts his hips into your hips, “Doin’ just fine.”

You stroke his cock like this for a while, gaining confidence in yourself until he stops you suddenly.

 “Is that it?” 

“Is that it,” Joel mocks with a feigned pout. “No, hon. You banged up my baby pretty good. We ain’t quite square yet.”

His leaking cock bounces against his tummy as he approaches his work bench. Your heart pounds as you can’t quite see what he’s reaching for. “Know it’s new to ya,” he says.  “Just listen to me, s’all you gotta do.”

Joel returns to you with a dirty rag in his hand and lays it on the concrete ground, then reaches for your face. He pulls your bottom lip down and lets it go to watch it bounce back up. “Knees,” he whispers, gently pushing you by your shoulders to the ground. The rag he laid on the concrete for your knees is a sweet touch, all things considered. His cock is inches away from your face as he holds it between his thumb, middle, and forefingers. He presses himself to your lips, encouraging you to open your mouth. “Give it a taste,” he instructs you. “An’ you can kiss it too, if you’re feelin’ amorous.” 

You part your lips and tentatively lick the weeping slit of his thick head just once. After a moment, taking in the saltiness of his precome, you lick him a couple more times, gaining confidence quicker than you did using just your spit soaked hand on him. Bigger stripes now, using more pressure. Like Joel advised, you kiss his cock a couple times, each kiss sloppier than the last before swirling your tongue around the tip. You’re learning it all, the softness of his skin, his musky, heady taste. 

“Give me your hand,” Joel says. “Goes right here,” He wraps your hand around the base of his cock, same as before. He places one of his hands on your head, guiding you closer to him, encouraging you to take him deeper now. You do as such, sputtering and choking when you get overzealous and take him too quickly.

Joel chuckles, “Not all at once, sweetheart. Go slow. Try it again.” This time, Joel controls the pace at which you take him. He pushes himself into your mouth and senses when it becomes too much, pauses for you. He pulls his hips back, then rocks back into your mouth, building a slow, shallow pace for you to get used to. 

He’s pushing his cock deeper into your mouth. His tip teases the back of your throat as he whispers, “Little more. Be brave,” You gaze up at him, searching his eyes for some sort of approval. He nods with his brows furrowed. “Do it for me, hon.”

You allow him to fuck himself deeper in your mouth now, your eyes pricking with tears as you gag and sputter on his cock. This time, Joel doesn’t stop himself. He’s grunting, groaning, savoring the warmth of your wet, soft mouth. “So good,” he tells you before tapping your hand, reminding you to put it to use.

What you can’t reach with your mouth, you massage with your hand as you cup his balls with your other. You and Joel work in tandem, him drawing in and out of your mouth as you bob your head and flick your tongue against his shaft. Your jaw is sore with the newness of it all, and just as you’re becoming used to the thickness of his cock between your lips and on your tongue, he pauses. “M’gonna stop you now,” Joel mumbles as he pulls out of your mouth, his eyes focused on your swollen lips and how the string of saliva connected from them to his cock breaks. “S’your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Mhm. It’s etiquette, hon,” Joel says with a grunt, lifting you to your feet. He reaches between your bodies and unbuttons your pants, pushing both them and your underwear down your legs. “Always return the favor.” Joel lifts you slightly, sitting your bare ass on the hood of his car, then pulls your pants off your legs the rest of the way. “Arms up,” he tells you. He lifts your shirt off of your body, unhooks your bra and lets it fall to your lap. You’ve never been so vulnerable, so exposed in front of someone before.  Instinctively, you cover your chest with your arms and cross your legs. 

“You’re shy,” he whispers. Joel drapes your clothing over his shoulder before reaching for your arms, removing them from your chest and placing them on either side of your body. “Stay like this,” He holds your knees next, uncrossing your legs and spreading them wide for his view. 

Joel takes in your body and admires your wet cunt, how your thick curls frame it beautifully. A shiver goes down your spine as his eyes scan the rest of your body before he holds intense eye contact with you as he folds your clothes, placing them in a neat pile next to you on his car. You watch his chest rise and fall with steady breaths as he drops to his knees, situating himself between your thighs.

He presses a sloppy kiss against your inner knee, then another on your other leg. He kisses his way up your inner thigh, nipping at your flesh and soothing the marks with his tongue. He holds your legs firmly apart, knowing your instinct is to shut them when he reaches your cunt, his hot breath fanning over your center. “Wider,” he whispers, “I gotcha.”

The once cool metal of Joel’s car is now hot and slick under your sweaty, trembling palms. Your pulse beats as you look up at the garage ceiling, lacking the courage to look at Joel between your thighs. “Relax for me,” he tells you. You try. 

You gasp when he finally begins exploring you, first his thumb parting open your folds. Adding a couple more digits, he hums in satisfaction as he finds you’re already wet, your slick glistening on his fingers. He dips one of those fingers inside of you slowly, watching how you react to his touch. You twitch and fight to keep yourself still and silent as he adds a second finger, curling it rhythmically and stroking that sweet spot inside you. 

“Oh, god,” you moan as he dives into your cunt, the soft and warm, private place between your thighs, his mouth now joining where his fingers touch. His tongue is hot and wet as he drags it through your sex, circling your clit with it. “Joel, please.”

Joel’s satisfied as he hears sounds of pleasure fall from your lips, feeling your hips bucking and grinding gently against his mouth. He sucks one fold, nips at the other as he curls his fingers inside you rhythmically. With the hand that’s not teasing your pussy, he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your thigh. “Quit squirmin’ on my car,” he warns with a firm squeeze to your thigh, hard enough to bruise you. “Ya tryin’ to scratch her again?”

His wiry stubble drags across your skin, scratching gently against the inside of your thighs. You can feel it building up quickly, that hot, sparkling feeling deep in your core as he works you, sucks your clit between his lips. 

“Please,” you cry, the only word you can form at the moment. 

“I know, hon,” he murmurs, escalating his efforts on your pussy. Sucking, licking, curling his fingers harder. He works you through your orgasm, feeling you gush against his mouth, your arousal dripping down his fingers and pooling into the palm of his hand. Your hands fly to his scalp, twitching and jerking from the sensitivity with your fingers tugging on his curls when he licks a stripe up the seam of your cunt. 

Joel pulls away from your center with a satisfied grin, lips shiny, his facial hair damp. He rises, standing above you, and sloppily kisses your lips. You’ve never tasted your own arousal before. His strong hands find your ass cheeks, pulling you closer to where he wants you.

From there, you gasp when he slides his cock through your slick folds, rubbing thick head against your sensitive clit and watches how you react to his touch. “What do you think I’m doin’ to ya next?”

“Joel,” you whimper, your hips chasing his movements, following where his cock teases your cunt. 

“Yeah, you know what I’m doin,” he purrs. “Crossin’ it all off your list tonight.”

You tense when he notches just the head of his cock in your pussy, reaching for his arm, his shoulder, any part of him you can hold. 

“Know you’re nervous,” he says softly, rubbing circles into your thighs. “But s’just me an’ you here. Wider, hon. Spread your legs for me.”

You nod quickly, following suit and spreading your legs to accommodate him. “Like this?”

“Yeah, like that. S’perfect, hon, that’s all I need from you. C’mere,” Joel adjusts his hold on you before inching his cock into you a bit more. You’re so tight, squeezing him hard and whining through the stretch as he pushes into you further, the gradual slide inside your body causing him to grunt quietly. “Relax for me,” he groans through a strained breath, parting your insides as he’s sheathed himself inside you fully now. “Bite me f’ya need to, sweetheart. It’ll be okay. You’ll get used to it.”

It aches, but the pain dulls as Joel lets you get used to the feeling, the newness of his cock inside you. He holds you close and you take advantage of his suggestion, biting softly into the flesh of his neck, tasting the saltiness of his skin as you whimper quietly. Joel groans, his eyebrows furrowing together. “Shh,” he hushes, “You’re okay, hon. You’re doin’ alright.”

Joel slowly pulls out of you and fills you up again. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he praises as you tilt your hips, opening yourself to accept more of him. You’re humming into his neck as his cock recedes and then pushes in once more. “Eyes on me now. There it is, easy. Easy.”

You do as instructed, pulling your face away from him to meet his gaze. His sparkling brown eyes stay on yours as he pulls out of you, pushing into you slowly, deliberately. You hold onto his neck, his broad shoulders, clutching the fabric of his sweat dampened shirt as he builds a steady pace now. He holds you close to his body, one of his hands traveling up your body and groping your bouncing breasts, teasing your sensitive nipples.

“You just follow my lead,” Joel says, fucking you faster now. His fingers are pressed firmly into your waist now as he rolls his hips against yours. The pain is gone now, dissipated with his continued languid thrusts into you. You feel so full, so satisfied with his thick cock inside you, massaging your insides.

He fucks you steadily but gently, maintaining a quick rhythm. You didn’t know sex could make you feel this way, so much pleasure.  You’re moaning freely, overwhelmed with emotion, tears flowing freely down your cheeks. God, you love it, and it’s nothing but pure pleasure. 

Joel’s not oblivious to your enjoyment. He’s watching you, your face contorting, he’s listening to your moans and your cries, feeling you shiver and twitch beneath his touch and how it’s all because of him, all of your pleasure at the hands of Joel and only ever Joel. He feels a sort of carnal sense of power over this, the effect his touch has on you. You’re soft, so soft and all for him, your flesh for his hands and his teeth alone to squeeze, dig into, to bite on. 

You reach for his arm and guide his hand to your center, pressing his fingers against your clit as that familiar tightness in your gut begins to build once more. “Please,” you beg. 

“Thought this was supposed to be a deal for me. Didn’t need to hit my car f’ya needed me like this,” he taunts, laughing breathlessly. But Joel obliges, of course he obliges you. He moves his calloused fingertips in circles over your clit, coaxing out your release. “Takin’ me so good, sweetheart. Look at you, m’gonna make you come again. Makin’ out like a fuckin’ bandit, aren’t you?”

Indeed you are. It’s not long before you’re coming for him. With his ministrations on your clit, his thrusts now faster, harder, deeper, you’re coming undone for him as his name pours from your lips, long and slow like honey. With your lips parted open, you’re twitching and shuddering against him as you watch his face, letting yourself go. You whimper and moan, and your release is volcanic in the way it washes over your body so fiercely. Heavy, vivid waves of pleasure washing over you the way lava rolls down the earth. Slow, fiery, intense.

Your pulsing cunt milks Joel’s own climax, his orgasm crashing through him in such a way that he loses focus on you. His eyes screwed shut, the noises he’s making louder than he intended–what starts as a grunt turns into a moan, long and libertine as he fucks you harder than he probably should as you whimper in overstimulation. His thrusts turn harder and frenzied as he milks himself with your cunt, spurting hot ropes of his come inside you. You take everything he gives you, feeling so warm and full of his spend. 

His movements then begin to ease, slowing down some more until he eventually stills inside of you. He takes the quiet moment to check on you, holding your face in his hands as he makes sure you’re okay. Your chest heaves as he wipes your tears, but you silently nod, reassuring him that you’re alright.

With a soft grunt, he pulls out of you. He watches how your combined arousal spills on the baby blue paint of his Chevelle, then uses his thumb to push a bit of his escaped come back inside you. Such a lewd action from the man. 

Joel helps you to your feet, steadying you as you stand on shaky legs. He reaches for your clothes from the hood of his car, helping you dress yourself. “Didn’t want ‘em to get dirty,” he explains. “Everything’s covered in fuckin’ dirt and grease in here.”

“Thank you,” you smile shyly. Joel opens the garage door, the once peachy and blue sky now inky black. You didn’t realize how much time had passed. You take off back to your house, but Joel grips your bicep before you can step any further. 

 “Nuh uh,” he tuts. “Ya already hit my car, hon, you don’t wanna leave your mess on the hood now too, do ya?” Joel gestures to your combined arousal on the hood of his Chevelle, swipes his pointer finger through the mess and pushes it between your lips. Your brows furrow at the taste, that salty, heady flavor you’ve never tasted before now. “Use your tongue, sweetheart.”

“You want me…”

“Lick it up,” he instructs in a quiet voice. Joel figured he might’ve let you off too easy, seeing as how you came twice–once on his tongue and once on his cock when this was all supposed to be for him. He bends you over the hood of his car, groping your ass as he leans over your shoulder to inspect your work, making sure it’s a job well done. “Good girl,” he praises, watching you lick his car clean. When you’re done, he kisses you softly.

He walks you home, dropping you off on your doorstep. You’re not quite sure what to say, whether you should apologize again, thank him, say goodnight. Joel fills the silence for you. “Gonna teach you how to drive right one of these days. Keep you out of another mess like this one, hm?” he smirks as he kisses your cheek. “Goodnight, hon.”

If you enjoyed, please reblog, leave me a comment, and/or send an ask 🩷 your words mean the world to me and your interaction keeps me motivated to write. Love you all <3

From now on I’ll be sharing cat pics at the end of my fics. Hope you don’t mind 🐈‍⬛😻

[tgirlwithreverb]

I saw that post about what to do if you're homeless again (the one that starts by telling you to spend all of your money on motel rooms lmao) anyway, here's a few thoughts, specifically for trans girls, cuz I don't really care otherwise tbh:

1) plan ahead, most trans girls are in precarious housing situations, you will have a much easier time when it falls apart if you already have a pack with most of the gear you need in it. Also, if you find yourself in a situation where you cant make rent, dont pay part of it, spend that money on gear, pocket the rest and leave, youll have a much nicer time. Look up your local eviction laws, you have plenty of time. (Gear list at the end)

2) travel! If you're in Arizona in May, leave. it's about to be hot as hell. If you're in Michigan in October, leave. It's about to be cold as hell. If you're in a big city, leave. It's way easier to be homeless pretty much anywhere else. Amtrak is cheaper and more comfortable than greyhound, hitchhiking is free and easy, if you're alone it's not that much slower than the previous two, and it's more fun, and sometimes people buy you food or whatever or give you money. I promise it's not scary and you're entirely capable of doing it, no matter who you are. 95+% of people who will pick you up are very nice. All you have to do is take the bus out of town, as far down the highway you can, to an exit with a truck stop if possible, then just stand on the side of the road with your thumb out until someone picks you up. You can stand at the bottom of the ramp(on the highway) near where the merge lane ends or at the top of the ramp(where there's usually a traffic light), the former is more likely to lead to cop interactions but will maybe get you a ride faster, check on hitchwiki for how the cops are in the area. don't be afraid to take a commuter bus or Amtrak to get out of a shitty cop area

3) skip shelters if you can (they are very occasionally a decent place to get stuff from) and encampments, good places to sleep include the trees near railroad tracks or highways, wooded areas behind shopping centers, sections of parks without paths, overgrown empty lots. Hang a tarp above you if there's an appreciable chance of rain, there's tons of YouTube tutorials on how to do this, maybe I'll make a post about what I usually do some day. There are many habits more fun than motel rooms, save your money for them lmao.

4) get on food stamps. This is easier in some places than others, but it makes the whole thing a lot easier. Just tell them you're homeless, if they don't give you a card the same day, you can probably ask to pick it up from that office, alternatively some drop in centers/day shelters can receive mail for you, or you can have it sent to general delivery(USPS service, look it up)

7) libraries are great for charging your phone and using wifi, but also keep an eye out, plenty of random outlets on the outsides of buildings are also powered

5) dumpster. sidewalk trash cans, Aldi, Einstein's, trader Joe's, pizza places, etc. You need to develop a bit of a sense for it but it's an easy way to get cooked food or travelling food or expensive food without spending resources. Also it's fun.

6) water is free, go into the bathroom of any gas station or grocery store in America(offer not valid in most big cities or on the west coast, but in that case just go to the library) and fill up your water bottle

8) hygiene notes: truckers get free showers from chain truck stops(loves, pilot/flying j) go there and ask them. convenient if you're hitchhiking, also you don't need to shower 3 times a day, really, you'll survive. Ditto with deodorant. Take care of your teeth though. Take your socks off every. day. Change them consistently. Safety razors give a good shave, work well without adequate water pressure, and the replacement blades are very stealable, they're kind of heavy though. Walmart makes these electric razors for women that take AA batteries and are pretty light but give a worse shave, also they kinda go through batteries, pick whatever works for you(cartridge razors suck)

9) traveling food notes: peanut butter is great, tortillas and bagels travel pretty well, tuna packets are pretty good protein for traveling(the ones with rice and beans or whatever are nice since theyre often the same price as the regular), condiment packets are free, hot sauce makes everything better, and mayo goes well with tuna and has a bunch of calories in it, salad dressing packets are free from truck stops and work well turning the Walmart shredded vegetable packages (labeled for making into slaw, next to the bagged salads) into a salad with real vegetables(not iceberg lettuce) in it or mixing in with tuna packets for even more calories than mayo

Gear world:

Necessary items(in order of importance): a gallon of water carrying capacity(an Arizona jug or other twist top jug is conventional, but a bladder+arizona bottles also works), a tarp(larger than 6'x9', not brightly colored), a hank of parachord, a sleeping bag (20° rated, synthetic insulation), a backpack with a padded hip belt(at least 50L, no more than 75), rain gear(a rain poncho might cover your pack too, a rain jacket can help with wind when its cold, a trash bag inside or outside your pack can keep it dry, a plan to watch the weather and not get caught also works), a z-fold foam sleeping pad, three pairs of socks, two pairs of underwear (at least one pair of boxer breifs strongly recommended if you arent incredibly skinny), a decent pair of shoes with good arch support, a functional jacket(skip if you got a rain jacket before), a base layer(wool or poly, absolutely no cotton)

Convenient items: a sleeping bag liner(cotton free, keeps you warm in winter and cool in summer), gallon zip locks to pack your stuff in(helps keep it dry and organized), no more than one change of clothes(as light as possible), a multi-tool(can opener, pliers, wire cutter), lighter(burning rope ends etc), spoon, floss and needles for patching

[nope-body]

.

[empty-movement]

Welcome to Something Eternal: A Website Forum in 2023 wtf lmao

It's 2023, and a single belligerent rich guy destroyed one of the primary focal points of uh...global communication. Tumblr is, shockingly, kinda thriving despite the abuse it gets from its owners, but that I will call the iconic refusal of Tumblr users to let Tumblr get in the way of their using Tumblr. Reddit killed its API, removing the functionality of mobile apps that made it remotely readable (rip rif.) Discord, our current primary hangout, has made countless strange choices lately that indicate it has reached the summit of its usability and functionality, and can only decline from here as changes get made to prepare for shareholders. (NOTE: WROTE THIS POST BEFORE THEIR MOBILE "REDESIGN" LMAO)

The enshittification is intense, and it's coming from every direction. Social media platforms that felt like permanent institutions are instead slowly going to let fall fallow incredible amounts of history, works of art, thought, and fandoms. It kinda sucks!

A couple years ago, I posted about a new plan with a new domain, to focus on the archiving of media content, as I saw that to be the fatal weakness of the current ways the internet and fandoms work. Much has happened since to convince me to alter the direction of those efforts, though not abandon them entirely.

Long story short? We are launching a fucking website forum. In 2023.

If you remember In the Rose Garden, much about Something Eternal will be familiar. But this has been a year in the making, and in many ways it's far more ambitious than IRG was. We have put money on this. The forum is running on the same software major IT and technology businesses use, because I don't want the software to age out of usability within five years. It has an attached gallery system for me to post content to, including the Chiho Saito art collection. It has a profile post system that everyone already on the forum has decided is kinda like mini Twitter? But it is, fundamentally, a website forum, owned and run and moderated by us. We are not web devs. But we have run a website on pure spite and headbutting code for over twenty years, and we have over a decade of experience maintaining social spaces online, both on the OG forum, and on our Discord. Better skilled people with far more time than we have can and will build incredible alternatives to what is collapsing around us. But they're not in the room right now. We are. And you know what? Maybe it's time to return to a clunkier, slower moving, more conversation focused platform.

You're not joining a social media platform with the full polish of dozens of devs and automated moderation. Things might break, and I might need time to fix them. The emojis and such are still a work in progress. Because e-mails no longer route in reasonable normal ways, the sign-up process instead happens within the software, and has to be approved by mods. Design and structure elements may change. Etc. The point being, that the forum isn't finished, but it is at a place where I feel like I can present it to people, and it's people I need to help direct what functions and things will be in this space. You all will shape its norms, its traditions, its options...choices I could try to make now, but really...they're for us to create as a group! But the important stuff? That's there. Now let's drive this baby off the damn lot already!

Come! Join us!!

PS. As always, TERFs and Nazis need not apply.

[thekeeperof-thefandoms]

I asked a few of my favorite hazbin writers this and only one answered and it was ok but I felt like it could have been expanded on so here's my take

Vox, Val, Alastor, and Lucifer react to your love language being baking/cooking

Vox

(Starting with him because he's the one thaf inspired this).

Vox came from the 50s and even though I firmly believe he is past all the ingrained gender roles and homophobia I think he still has some internalized misogyny. He wants to be viewed as the man in the relationship, the breadwinner, the provider. He can cook for himself but it's pretty basic food (except steak. Like every other man since the invention of the grill how to bbq has been hardwired into his brain. If his partner also grills ya'll fight over whose turn to cook out it is)

(Unrelated but as a lesbian who loves to grill, and is the designated grill bro, butch lesbians or cookout lesbians are some of Vox's favorite type of gays to chill with)

I firmly believe that's why even though he's a sub, it's so hard and would take time and trust to get him to let you top and enjoy it. He's so worried people will find out and judge him, that you'll judge him. His ego can be very fragile.

Especially if we go with the Vox used to be a cult leader theory. His power, image, and success are linked to his ability to appear in control. To appear to have all the answers and take responsibility. It's going to take a lot of time and patience to unravel all that and help him seperate his personal and professional image.

That being said, a partner who uses acts of service as a love language is perfect for him. He's a busy man, so he tends to be a gift giver type. The gifts are always well thought out and expensive. He wants it to be something you need, want, can get a lot of enjoyment from, and be worth the money spent, so he puts time and effort into them. Unless he's just showing off by giving you his card and telling you to go nuts.

So you taking time to make his coffee for him the way he likes, ordering lunch from his favorite places and having it sent to his office so he remembers to eat, or just texting him reminders to drink water or eat/take breaks throughout the day makes him giddy.

If you're his assistant or something, (and I believe Vox absolutely would have his partner working for him/with him), then it's even better when you take on extra work to try and help him. Organizing his schedule, sorting emails/mail, and proofreading things. Any small act you do for him, because you want to and care about him, makes his heart rate pick up.

It'll really make him overheat, glitching slightly, literal heart eyes, if he comes home after a shitty day and you're cooking for him.

His internal monologue is absolutely raving about what a good housewife you are for him, a hard working husband.

Bonus points if you cleaned too! Either way, he adores you even more now, letting you fret and coo at him, removing his jacket and tie, pouring him a drink and telling him dinner will be ready soon and you made his favorite. He's so tempted to bend you over the counter right now, but that would ruin dinner. After you guys eat though, he's having you for dessert. Man's gonna make sure you know how much he appreciates this by turning your knees to jello, good luck walking tomorrow, doll.

If you bake treats and bring them to VoxTek he's gonna brag so much. Literally the embodiment of John Mulaney's, "That's my wife!" If you bring them just for him, he's defending his treats like they're the last ones in Hell. He has literally hit Val with a fly swatter for even asking if he could have one.

(Unrelated but like, chubby vox maybe? You're cooking is too good)

Valentino

Val wishes he could cook better. He's some kind of latino, so I feel like the fact he can't cook very well is a sore spot culturally. He can make the salsa and chips and like, help with stuff, he knows how to wrap tortillas and tomales (I picture him as like Mexican or Puerto Rican but that's just cuz the town I grew up had a large Puerto Rican group).

It doesn't help that his eyesight is even more shit in Hell. He can't see what he's doing hald the time. It ruins his art hobby too. He's overall just more easily frustrated with his bad eyesight.

I don't imagine you guys dating per se. Maybe you're his sugar baby, maybe you're someone he hired to help him do stuff like clean and organize and you just sorta start doing other things to help him. (Again I'm not saying it excuses jackshit, but as someone who worked with bipolar people and people with mood disorder I kinda see the fan theory in him, either way I think all the Vees could be sort of trained to be better people, but especially Val. We already saw Vox do it.)

After all, he's usually in a much better mood if you do and that means less outbursts. The first few times you cook him something he teases you about being his housewife, tries to make it sexual. It's not really something he clocks as being an act of love because I don't think you'd realize it yourself at first. I think the more you got to see him when he wasn't stressed, lashing out, being abusive, you'd start catching feelings. ("I can fix him", delulu asses)

He loves to be in the kitchen when you cook once it starts becoming a regular thing. He can't see clearly what you're doing but the way you move around the kitchen and get what you need, even if you're an ADHD mess and do steps out of order or at random, he can tell you know what you're doing. He likes to smell the food too while it's cooking.

He will ask you to try and make some spicier/more traditional foods he grew up with, but he doesn’t remember all of the ingredients, and it just gets him more frustrated he can't tell you. If you look them up and surprise him with it it'll probably be the most genuine, human response you get from him.

He's shocked, silent, standing frozen in the penthouse as familiar smells waft around him. You present him a plate nervously, practically shaking hoping it's good enough. The first bite nearly puts him in tears. No one's done anything this nice for him? Why would you? Lowkey thinks you want something from him. It's gonna make him paranoid for a while so don't expect a verbal compliment but he eats it all.

Eventually though, one day when you're in the kitchen cooking, humming softly and swaying your hips, one set of his arms will wrap around your waist, the other reaching around you help with the salsa, or wrap a tamale, and he'll prop his chin on your head and mumble out thanks. Some praise, maybe. Would definitely tell you stories about eating these foods growing up.

It's the first step towards having an actual relationship with him.

Alastor

This man almost always insists on cooking. He isn't much of a sweet tooth either. You tell him one night you want to try cooking for him. Tell him you understand it's an activity he enjoys and relaxes too, (especially if you know it's something that reminds him of his mother), but you want to do something for him and this is one way you show you care.

It's gonna remind him of his Mama so much that if you didn't know why he loved cooking so much before you do now. He compromises. You pick the meal and gather the ingredients and do most of the cooking and he helps prep and does dishes.

He playfully critiques you the entire time about adding some spice too it or a little southern flair. Just smack him with the wooden spoon, gently. It's gonna make him laugh because his Mama used to do that when he wouldn't keep out of the sweets, or tried to add stuff to her cooking.

Once you start it becomes habit to help each other in the kitchen every night, trading off who cooks and who preps and does dishes.

If you do find baked goods he likes that aren't too sweet and send them to him as snacks, especially to Overlord meetings, he's so fucking obnoxious about his sweet little doe (doesn't matter if you are one or not) and how they spoil him. Especially rubs it in Vox's face (not him whining to his partner so they send him with treats too so he can also brag).

Only shares with Charlie, Rosie, Niffty, and sometimes Zestiel. If he's feeling generous, Husk can have a bite.

Low-key also has a thing for his partner behaving domestically even if he isn't exactly invested in traditional marriage.

Favorite activity though is dancing with you in the kitchen to jazz while dinner cooks, holding you close, in his room usually, so he can hear the sounds of the bayou. If he closes his eyes he can pretend this is how his life went and that his Mama is in the corner or sitting in her chair, watching him, happy to see him find someone.

He will literally kiss Vox willingly before admitting that last part though.

Lucifer

It's not that he can't cook, it's just....it's easier to just snap his fingers and make food appear. He's been in a depressed slump for decades man, he's lived off of the 'want food, no cook, only eat' mindset.

When you come into his life it's a complete overhaul. Despite what issues you have yourself you can recognize someone in worse state than you and immediately categorize and prioritize. First thing first, get this man's duck collection/obsession organized, thinned out, and under control.

Second, help him work through his issues with Lillith and Charlie. Encourage therapy, be a mediator between him and Charlie (and trust me she appreciates it. She knows her dad struggles, didn't know how bad, and still feels awkward). Help him socialize more, rebuild his connection with the other sins.

Get this man a work schedule!

Then it's on to personal habits. You help him get out of bed, you're both probably a little helpless in the sleeping on time category though. Help him get a routine again to keep out of his funk. Then you start cooking for him. It just happens naturally. You enjoy cooking, you enjoy showing people you love how much you care by providing good meals.

At first he's gonna resist and tell you he can handle that, you already do so much for him. He can cook or better yet he can just make it appear and you laugh and tell him it tastes better when it's made with love. He brushes it off as a joke too, you're both just being silly and obviously you said that to get him to quit fussing. Except, unholy hell does it actually taste so much better.

Lucifer hadn’t realized how bland and unsatisfying just materializing the food was. Maybe that's because he was so depressed and uninterested in what he ate, maybe not. Either way, your cooking is so much fucking better. He actually looks forward to eating now. If he gets caught up in work or has a bad day, you make sure to always bring him something, leaving it as an offering of sorts. It almost always works and entices him to eat at least once.

You cook, he does dishes, and he will not budge on that rule. He wants to be a fair man. He occasionally boots you out to do dessert, though. Apple pie is his bitch and you've never tasted one as good as his. He also makes good pancakes and some absolutely orgasmic angel's food cake.

Ironicall, devil's food cake is one of your go to recipes. Sometimes you both make a cake and take it to events just to watch people get confused as fuck when it's revealed the literal Devil did not make the devil's food cake.

Everyime you're in the kitchen together it's a disaster, you're both to silly and chaotic. You were making noodles one time and he threw flour at you so you smacked him with the noodle you were holding, leaving a line of flour and a speck of dough against his cheek. From there it escalates. It happens every time. Making cakes together, you're smashing frosting on each other. Making cookies, you're fighting each other to stop eating cookie dough.

Once, after you get fed up with him stealing her spatula to lick the chocolate off of, hovering above you with his wings, you pout and bat your eyes, asking him sweetly to please give it back. He swoops down in front of you, booping your nose to smear chocolate on it and leaning in to kiss you, letting you have a taste of the chocolate batter you were mixing for brownies. While his tongue is in your mouth, drunk off the taste of you and chocolate you smash an egg over his head and let out a triumphant cheer, snatching back your spatula.

He's so stunned his wings disappear and he drops the last few inches to the ground while you cackle. His heart is pounding, his ears are ringing, and his chest feels like it's gonna explode. His eyes are literal sparkles. He hasn't felt this much joy, wonder, and love since Charlie was born. It feels like witnessing creation all over again, of the breathlessness he felt when he first saw Lillith.

You're laughter stops when you realize he's just staring at you awestruck and you smile, asking if he's ok.

"For once...yeah..Yes. I'm ok." He responds, genuinely. You kiss his cheek and resume baking. He watches you from the counter now, dreamily, thinking about how he's gonna marry you someday.

[humansofnewyork]

“They’re oblivious right now. They just think they’re at the park. I’m the one who’s got to figure stuff out. I’ve got enough money for us to get home. Then I’ve got to find a way to get something to eat. I’ve got to pay bills. We’re starting to get foreclosure letters in the mail. It’s just impossible to make ends meet right now, unless you’ve got school. I’m educated, but I just don’t have any degrees. I have no way of showing to a job that’s never met me: ‘Hey, I can do this.’ Plus I never know how it’s going to turn out, and that alone scares me. Maybe I’m just a pussy, I don’t know. I’m not proud of the stuff I’m selling. I’ve seen what it’s done to my mom, which is why I don’t use it. I don’t want that for my kids. I don’t want it to fuck up their life like it fucked up my life and my mom’s. That’s how I actually learned about it. Seeing how she’d fight to get that shit, no matter what. I know I could be selling to someone else’s mom. I hear that little voice in my head, like everyone else. But I block that out. I’m on autopilot. Quick exchange: I get my money, I give them their stuff. I block everything else out and I’m only looking at what I need, you feel me? And yeah it sounds evil, or whatever. But I weigh what I need more, and I need stability. I just need money. Money for my kids. Money for me. Money for like, all of us. Money so I don’t have to feel that stress of where am I going to get this next. And it’s the most accessible thing. It’s the easiest thing to get. You know, it’s Fentanyl.”

[prismatic-bell]

If you have ADHD or any other neurodivergence (including physical brain damage) that causes forgetfulness and disorganized thinking, THIS POST IS FOR YOU. (If this doesn’t describe you, it might still be useful to you, but it’s aimed at my fellow forgetters.)

I cannot urge you enough to try going analog.

Look at this.

Of the six things I needed that aren’t crossed off (the fruit butter was optional and I was only getting it if they had plum): three have to be purchased at an ethnic grocery, two of them this store didn’t carry my brand, and one of them I prefer the onion selection at my regular store (this store had really tiny ones). You’ll notice none of these are “I forgot it.” They’re something I need to go to another store for, and that’s it.

There are four things in this cart that weren’t on my list: kosher chicken broth (which I know I’m out of and is always good to have on hand as a staple), a yahrzeit candle for my grandfather whose yahrzeit is coming up, an extra bag of sugar because I’m about to do my Purim baking, and a bottle of red wine vinegar because I know I’m also out of that and while it’s not technically a staple I do use it A LOT. You can literally look at my cart in this photo and match everything (except the chicken broth and red wine vinegar) to the crossed-off items on the list.

Everything on this list is going into planned meals for which I have the recipes on paper. And the dates they’re needed are written on my very analog calendar, hanging on my cupboard.

Compare this to digital lists, where I tend to forget half of what’s on them and fill my cart with stuff I don’t need, resulting in a ton of snacks and disparate ingredients that don’t actually make anything. During Covid I accidentally hoarded 40 rolls of toilet paper, and if you’re wondering how one accidentally hoards 40 rolls of toilet paper, it’s because every time I went to the store I went “…did I buy toilet paper? Better get one just in case, the shortage is still going.” I DIDN’T NEED TO BUY TOILET PAPER FOR A YEAR AFTER THE VACCINES STARTED ROLLING OUT. I was never sure if I’d bought it or just forgot to put it on the digital list. Analog forces me to stop, slow down, and pay attention instead of typing things in at the speed of light.

There’s actually a scientific explanation for this, and I learned it a long time ago so I’m going to ask forgiveness for being kinda vague on specifics here, but the basic version is that you use different parts of your brain for typing and writing, and the writing part is more closely linked with the memory part, so you’re more likely to remember something you’ve physically written down.

And remember: you don’t have to be ~*~*~aesthetic~*~*~ about this. I bought my grocery pad on Etsy because I’d rather give a small business my money than fluff Walmart, but the only reason the pens are two different colors is because the pen I carry in my purse is black and the ones in my mail caddy aren’t. That’s it, that’s literally the only reason. My calendar is color-coded, but it’s not complicated (red is bills going out, green is money coming in, blue is celebrations and events, brown is my work schedule, gray is non-bill deadlines, and turquoise is anything the roommates are doing that I need to be aware of). And it is making a tangible difference in my life. For the last two and a half months—in other words, since I started doing this—my bills haven’t just been paid on time, they’ve been PREPAID. I have the payment in BEFORE IT’S DUE. I’m more cognizant of what I have, what I need to save, and what I need to spend. This coming month is Pesach and my Pesach cleaning is going on there so I can get it all done correctly and timely. The calendar hangs on my tea cupboard so I have to look at it every day and the grocery list is right next to it.

This may not work for you. But pick one thing—a shopping list is an easy one to start with—and try it, just for a month. You might be stunned by how much it changes for you.

I certainly was.

[undercoverpena]

iii - just say that you need me

javier peña x f!reader | chapter three of late night texts

summary: It's the year 2000. Javi is minding his own business on the porch of his pop's ranch when a text from an unknown number vibrates his phone. The only problem is, no one knows he has a phone and no one has his number.

chapter warnings: fluff. flirting. continuous romcom vibes. an: the amount of people who look forward to tuesday's makes me grin. for those who are new, i don't have a tag list. wordcount: 2.6k.

text key: bold is you/reader | italics is javi

You should say yes more. 

to you or to my pop 

To your pop. I know you wouldn’t say no to me. 

you sure about that 

I’d bet my next paycheck on it. 

for you I’ll say yes to him once

Good. Now we have that out the way answer what the worst date you’ve ever been on was

shit. going with the hard hitting questions today

Just getting you to share, open up

probably when I first came back from colombia someone from my town where I live

They a bad host, bad dinner guest? Gimme more Javi cmon. You said you’d entertain me.

baby, im trying to entertain you but you told me to stop

I said stop flirting while I’m eating and answer the question

she wouldn’t stop asking me for details on escobar

Ah. Yeah I can see how discussing that would be a mood killer.

yeah didn’t wanna go in the first place either

So if we ever meet, do not ask about your Colombian experience. Got it. 

you can ask, doesn’t mean I’d tell you 

Ha! Good to know. I wouldn’t though. If you wanna tell me, I think you will. 

thanks, what’s yours?

Well I was stood up when we first began texting. Think that’s pretty bad, enough.  

he’s an idiot because only an idiot would stand you up 

You haven’t seen me, remember 

statement still stands 

Stop being so charming.

you still eating

No.

then I can flirt

Most of the time, he ignores the mail. 

Lets it pile up on the entryway dresser until his pop makes another reference to it. Unlike his pop, he is never in a rush to open them, knowing no good comes from the contents inside.

The same people contact him. The bureau being one. Sipping his coffee as he glares at the usual federal sign on the envelope, wondering how many more times they’ll try asking him to come in for a chat.

This afternoon, though, the envelope isn’t brilliant white, but rather off-cream. 

Peeling a bit, thumb digging in as he drags it across, the ripping sound filling the small space. It’s only as he opens it does he realise who it’s from. 

His eyes stare at the letter, taking in the number—the one in triple digits with his phone provider logo in the top corner. The number which is making him feel sick, the more he stares at it over and over again. 

“Fuck.” 

Folding it, he swallows. 

Shit.

Motherfucker.

He stuffs it away, tucks it under magazines and other leaflets, as though by keeping it out of sight, it’ll go away.

But it's there.

The edge of it sticking out. He even blinks, and the number is there, tattooed on the back of his eyes. Taunting him—the price of speaking to you. 

It's not that Javi can't afford it. He’s had a chunk of money sitting, gaining dust, in his account since he came home. Only able to force portions on his pop as and when he felt he could get away with it. 

But this was a lot. More than he’d bargained on, more than he even knew he could spend simply by replying to someone. 

There's a chance your day won't be done just yet—his day beginning far earlier than yours even began—but he pulls his phone out, fingers pressing into the keys.

so apparently talking to you is costly  Oh, you've had your bill. I feel I should ask whether I'm worth it? 

It’s instant—the way you make the nauseous feeling vanish. How you force it to slide back to where it came from, and in its place, warmth spreads. All accompanied by a smile on his lips. 

He doesn’t want to show his hand too much. Better at concealing, playing the long game when standing face to face.

This requires a skill he hasn't yet gained. Simply focusing on not sounding ridiculous, or over the top. Unnecessary. Like some of the desperate men, he's happened to arrest over the years.

Even if his chest flutters and his mind screams, of course. Wants to ask, isn't it obvious? But he chooses something easier, uncomplicated.  

yes just didn’t expect it  I had my phone bill the other day. I get it.  did your heart fall out your ass No. But I will be eating ramen for the next month.  We can stop texting so much though, if it’s costing too much.  would rather my bill be double than stop talking to you  You’re such a flirt. 

He drains the rest of his mug, leaning back in the chair—hearing the sound of approaching boots from his Pop’s side of the house. Fingers typing, all hurried and determined 

Don’t forget I’m out for drinks and a movie.  I remember don’t worry 

He remembers as soon as you remind him.

Realising it's the reason you're able to reply right now. You’d been telling him almost every night for the past week. All worried, as though hating the idea of breaking the nightly tradition the two of you have concocted. 

In a way, Javi should have assumed the bill would be high with the number of texts the two of you have been sending. How frequent it’s been—how nice it’s been. 

Nice things do usually come with a tag. 

you decided on sweet or salty  Verdict is still out. You sure about waiting to do the crossword?  if we don’t do it tonight, we’ll do two the next day  You sure? more than sure have a great time 

“Y’sure you don’t fancy coming with me, Jav?”

He thinks of it, tapping his phone against his palm as he thinks of your text the other night. The one about him trying to say yes—something curling in his chest as he realises he’ll be alone, alone if he doesn’t. 

A sentiment he didn’t mind on paper, but now confronted with, rather despised. 

 “Alright, yeah. Can—can I get changed?” 

Mid-grabbing his own jacket, his Pop turns, surprise knitted into his wiry brows. “Y-yeah, sure, I’ll….”

“I’ll meet you at the truck?” 

And he does. All without complaint. Plaid shirt on, a smile being forced as soon as the truck pulls off the drive. He doesn't even complain about the radio choice or the fact his Pop always takes the main roads when he could cut down the dusty roads. 

When he arrives, he doesn’t mind how many hands he shakes, one after the next. He tries not to grit his teeth as each person says the usual things, they’re proud, he’s grown, when is he settling down? Each time he laughs it off. Spanish rolling from his tongue as he smiles and winks. 

It’s performative. 

The old version of him coming out from a hidden place. 

Always there, ready, as his hand shakes another person's hand—one he’s already forgotten the name of. Someone he’s sure he’s met before, too. 

It always happens. The small-town boy who took down drug cartels has become somewhat of a celebrity tale. A thing to gawk at when he visits the store. Chucho's boy who ran away to Colombia and now hides away on the ranch.

For the amount of time it's been, he'd foolishly expected it to die down—but it hasn't. Not enough, anyway. 

After enough time, he excuses himself, sneaking down the corridor near the bathroom. Leaning against the wall, fingers trying to rub out a knot that hasn’t yet appeared in his skull. The one pulsing, threatening to build behind his eye.

He’s unsure what he wants to do, what he needs. Retrieving his phone, just clicking around, before finding himself on your texts—feeling better for it.

Reading them back, smirking at some, smiling wide at others. A shape forming in his head, little details he’d amassed to make up you. A person he was pretty sure meant more to him than evening company, but it seemed tricky to delve too far into it. 

That is until his phone vibrated. 

Just wanted to tell you I miss you. Even if that’s weird. 

His fingers hover over the keys, a retort quick—there in his touch.

Slowly he presses it out, hearing the click even over the bar’s music as he double and triple taps each button he wants, until it forms what it is he thought:

not weird, you drunk I’m tipsy, not drunk. Still mean it. good cause i miss you too

you never said how the movie was

As someone who flies a lot, I shouldn’t have watched it.

that bad

Will probably have to hold the hand of my seat mate the next time work makes me fly. 

I’m sure they won’t mind 

Depends on the length of my nails I guess. 

some people don’t mind nails clawing in certain situations

You trying to tell me you like nails down your back, Javi? 

if the situation is right, yes 

What about in your hair?

now who’s being a tease 

I’m learning so much tonight. 

and your putting images in my head 

I’d love to know what I look like in it, since you haven’t seen me.

beautiful, you look beautiful 

My face is burning. 

your day been ok

Yeah, was fine. Work has been rough. 

you want to talk about it

Not really, it’s stupid anyway. Plus, would rather do the crosswords and hang with you.

you do have two to make up to me

Best get giving me the clues then, Javi. 

four letters, begins with f 

Is this a Javi crossword or a real crossword 

baby, cmon 

Fuck?

fork 

someone’s in a dirty mood

You’re such a dick. Give me a real clue. 

There's not a point in time where he can track how his thoughts went from nothing to you. But, he thinks about you all the time.

Has been doing so constantly for the last two days, at least—the occasional vibrations from his phone making his lips twitch and his mind wander. Javi’s brain exploding with wonder at what your reply could say. 

Sometimes, he tries not to check immediately. Test—see—how long he can go before he does. It’s not been going well.

An excitement dashing through his veins that fills his chest, warms his neck and makes a ridiculous grin appear (one he’s caught accidentally in the mirror).

The back and forth has been quicker—for as costly as it was—outside of routines and work. His fingers have even improved in the speed of tapping the same key to get one single letter.

Each text makes him feel like he learns a new nugget about you, gathering a new piece of the puzzle—an idea of you forming in front of his eyes. One he likes—craves more of—wishing for other tidbits similar to how you like coffee after breakfast, not before. 

That you don’t care for birthday cake, but love cookies. 

morning hermosa hope you managed to grab the coffee

He doesn’t expect to hear from you.

Remembering that your time management in the morning isn’t to be admired. You are someone who is either awake too early or too late—never in the middle.

But, when he finishes. Sweat clinging to every muscle, he’s surprised to find nothing.

Even a little disappointed.

finished up for the day, unsure whether to lounge around on the porch or push the boat out and lounge in the barn

You’ve become such a part of his day, his shoulders sink when he steps out of the shower to see nothing.

His heart slips down inside his chest, resting unsteadily on his ribs as he checks and checks. His fingers fluff his hair as he runs his fingers through it before finding a strand, twisting, and twisting.

I’m probably worrying about nothing but just let me know you’re ok

A part of him had worried this would happen.

That he would allow the attachment to grow—ropes and threads wrapping around him—and it would be taken from under his feet.

He has a history of becoming hooked—usually combining itself with his need to help, to make someone’s day better, easier.

And on paper, he knew it was odd. To care for someone he hadn’t ever even met. But he cares all the same.

Copious amounts, in fact.

Far past an, ‘I miss you’—something else entirely, not that he’d admit as much.

hermosa I’m really getting worried now

He doesn’t want to call.

Doesn’t want to invade your privacy, your space. But it’s knotting inside of him. The things he’s seen, rushing to the surface, pecking away, making him overthink.

His mind conjures ideas that you’re hurt, wounded. That you’re crying, alone. Each flash of his past has the curated blob-of-a-face he’s created for you, written over it.

His fingers twitch, hand moving to his pocket before remembering there are no cigarettes to be found there. He quit. Ages ago. Felt better for it—for the most part—until now.

Now when all he wants is to focus on the taste, the way smoke swirls with the warm Texas air—

Hey, I'm so sorry, I had a bad day. Just didn’t check my phone.  shit hermosa, you scared me.  almost called you.  Really? yeah  Would you? what call you Yeah?

[Dialing number…]

you declined  I did

His heart sinks, crashes, and plummets. 

Then a new vibration, one that travels down his fingers to his wrist, suddenly staring at an instruction: Give me your landline number, be cheaper. For both of us. 

Glancing into the living room, he taps the number in for you. Hating each precious second he wastes by having to delete a letter that should be a number.

Pushing the chair back, hearing it screech as he hovers. Nervousness thumps through him, making him shake, vibrate. 

Staring, willing the phone to ring.

Even as he tries to collect himself, his mind has already begun running away from him. Hearing his pulse thump in his ear, thump, thump—

And then it’s ringing—you’re ringing. 

His voice shouts out he’ll get it as he picks up the phone from the hook. 

“Javi… that you?”

Grinning, he laughs, light and airy. “Hi. Yeah, it’s me.” 

Silence blankets his ears and the air, thumb circling a knot in his forehead. 

Smiling, he changes the phone to his other ear. “Knew you’d sound pretty. You have a nice voice.” 

“Shut up, Javi. I’ve said three words.”

“And a few more.”

He hears you suck in a breath as heat rushes to his ears, feeling the edges of his lips curl into a smile.

“You wanna talk about it or talk about something else?” 

He hears you take a breath another breath. Different this time, all accompanied by a shuffling sound from your end.

“Something else. If that… that’s okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Alright, lemme… lemme think for a second—“

You clear your throat, “You have a nice voice, too, by the way.”

Pausing, he bites the inside of his cheek. “Like you imagined?”

“Better, honestly.”

“I could have called you. I have this additional thing on our plan—so my Pop could call. When I was away.” 

“From when you were in Colombia?”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he nodded. “Yeah…” 

“Well, if this conversation goes well, you may get a new number to add to your phone book.” 

“That so? Who’s flirting now.”

You laugh, sweet—fluttering its gorgeous wings down the phone to his ear as he readjusts the phone.

Dropping his voice, he turns more to the walls. “So, what you wearing, baby?”

“Oh my god, Javi.”

He doesn’t even mute his laughter, just lets it flow from him—rushing through the house. Not even caring if his Pop can hear him in the next room.

"I'm wearing nothing."

"Hermosa, you tease."

You laugh, and it's different. It's rich, and makes the room glow around him, without you even being here.

"I'm not really, I'm in a baggy t-shirt."

"Not as sexy, but I'm sure I can work with it."

You snort, "Javi, stop."

He wonders if your cheeks are warm. He hopes they are.

Leaning against the wall, he smirks, if only to himself. "I like how you say my name, Hermosa."

an: thank you so much for all being wonderful, i heart you

[sirfrogsworth]

Froggie's (Almost) Very Productive Day

I try to fit as many out-and-about chores as possible into a single day so I only have one set of post-exertional malaise consequences instead of consequences after each day of doing a thing. So any time I decide to drive, I try to find several tasks to accomplish all at once.

My first stop was the Family Services Division in the hopes of getting some help with grocery bills. I am making ends meet, but it seems to be getting harder each month. And maybe I could have skipped my trip to Florida and saved that money, but if I don't do something drastic for my mental health, I fear this first holiday season without a parent could send me into the darkness.

I needed to do an interview to finish applying for SNAP. I wanted to do a phone interview, but the next appointment was in January. So I went to social services where they allow walk-in appointments. I waited in a tiny plastic chair for several hours until they called my name. She yelled out "Benjamin" because when most people see "Grelle" they aren't really sure how to say it. (Rhymes with belly.)

She started my interview and it was going swimmingly at first. But then she started asking questions about the house and my inheritance and my trust. I had no idea what to tell her. It feels like a mistake now, but I have had pretty much no involvement in that process. I have no idea how it works. And I started to panic because she was acting like I was committing fraud or something by not mentioning the trust. But the entire point of the trust was to protect my benefits. Nothing is mine. I own nothing. I have no access. But I had no idea how to explain that.

Maybe my lawyer can help me apply, but I did not want them investigating everything and screwing things up before we even have the estate through probate. We specifically hired a lawyer and went through this convoluted process to make sure everything was on the up and up. But she really made me feel like I was doing something wrong. And that made me panic, which probably made me look even more guilty of something. So I just canceled everything and left.

After a few hours in a crowded government office, I decided to head to a different crowded government office.

I know I didn't need it until 2025, but I decided to go ahead and get my Real ID thingie before my first flight. I was kind of hoping they'd retake my picture because my current driver's license is... well...

And I'm so glad they took my big terrible picture and made it into a smaller, more terrible picture.

People complain about the DMV, but the one near me runs like a machine. It was filled with people and I still only had a 10 minute wait time.

I'm starting to wonder if all of those 80s comedians who were all, "What's the deal with the DMV?" were exaggerating.

Good stuff, Jerry.

I head up to the counter and ask for a Real ID. She asks for two pieces of mail and my birth certificate.

And this disappointed me a little bit.

I did my research. I went to the Real ID website and used their interactive guide to figure out exactly which documents I would need. They gave me this entire checklist and I printed it out and went through all my records and mail trying to find everything.

I had to wait a week for my internet bill to come because it's the only thing I forgot to change to paperless. This took a lot of effort and I was ready to be validated for being so prepared.

And she asks for two pieces of mail.

Any mail.

So I was off to get new tires.

Driving around on 8 year old bald tires was giving me anxiety. I didn't have the money for new tires, but I remember the guy saying they had financing. Recently several of my past debts went past the statute of limitations, and so my credit score lifted itself out of the pits of "poor" and into the realm of "fair." So I decided to take a chance and apply for a Discount Tire credit card. It's a 6 month payment plan with no interest, so that didn't feel as predatory as all the credit card offers I get in the mail with 8000% interest.

We started going through the approval process and I was answering all of the questions and then I saw the name of the bank offering the credit. It was the same bank that tried to sue me and also the bank that can longer collect due to the statute. I was worried they put me on some sort of list and would deny me. But, to my surprise, they approved me instantly. And wouldn't you know it, they gave me almost exactly the amount needed for a new set of tires.

I'm hoping we'll be doing another auction of the house stuff soon, so I plan to pay off the card and then cancel it, but this was the only solution I could come up with to drive safely until then.

I was having a weird day where photos of crusty rich wide dudes followed me everywhere I went. Here is my good ol' boy governor at the entrance to social services.

And at the tire place, I noticed this fella...

Why does every rich CEO think they are a font of wisdom capable of creating compelling quotes?

Does he think no one has ever said "work hard" and "have fun"? And after he said this was he like...

"That's gold, put that in *every* store."

"Oh, and use that picture of me where it looks like a handsome gal just grabbed my undercarriage."

He probably thinks, "Well, no one has put these specific generic platitudes together into a single mega-platitude. I am a genius."

"Be honest, work hard, have fun, be grateful, pay it forward" sounds like he had a bunch of motivational posters on his wall and started reading them all at once.

Like, every line could have a picture of an eagle above it.

In any case, the guy at the tire store, Dakota, was really nice. He made the experience very low anxiety. And he really liked my Thor's Hammer keychain with built in fidget spinner.

He went around showing it to all his coworkers. "Look, it even spins!" And they were like, "Dude, where did you get that??" And I was like, "Amazon." Now I'm just imagining 10 dudes at a tire store all fidgeting their hammers.

As nice as he was, Dakota was still a salesman and had a job to do. He gave me two tire options and tried to upsell me. The cheapest tires had a "1" rating for winter. He said they get "super hard" in the cold... I tried not to giggle. But I explained I drive about twice a month and mostly to the grocery store. If it is a bad winter day, I'll just wait or get delivery. He understood and set me up with the cheaper tires.

He then checked out my car and noticed my tire pressure sensors were dying. I keep getting a warning light on my dash. Apparently they all have tiny batteries in them that die after 7 years. And you can't just replace the batteries so you have to install brand new sensors.

And this is where my social anxiety got me into trouble.

I don't actually need these sensors. They are usually inaccurate. I prefer to test my tires with an actual gauge. But I got so caught up in his sales pitch that I agreed to replace them... at $60 each. For that I could have gotten the fancier tires. I really don't care if an orange light shows up on my dash. And I looked up the price online and a pack of 4 is $30. Though that is without installation.

But still... I wasn't thinking and he was so nice that I was just like, "I want to please Dakota. Saying no might make Dakota sad." Dakota's job is selling me but that doesn't mean I have to buy anything. He would live if I had said "no thanks."

To make my blunder more blunderous, when they finished the tires he asked for my key fob. And it decided that was the time for the battery to die. And in order to reset the system for the new tire pressure sensors, you have to press two buttons on the fob for 7 seconds. Thankfully I had a spare fob at home, but if I want my fancy new $240 sensors to work, I have to return to Dakota and have him initialize them.

I really hope these are the Cadillac of sensors.

Or, like, the ones they use on Cadillacs?

They better be accurate, is what I'm saying.

I do feel safer with new tires. So I am glad I did that. And I gave them a good obligatory kick and felt the tread. They seem nice enough even if they get boners in the winter. It's crazy how bald my other tires were in comparison. Like, I can fit half my finger down into the tread on the new ones—which did not get them super hard.

The way I drive, I probably won't wear them down. They'll probably start to rot before I do.

Before I do, meaning before I wear them down.

Not before I rot.

I am not in a rotting competition with my tires.

I was then off to Sam's. I decided all of my hard work accomplishing 2 out of 3 goals deserved some sushi. So I grabbed some California Rolls and headed home. On my way out, a Hummer and a Porsche nearly collided in the parking lot. And they sort of got stuck facing each other. One of them needed to back up and they both signaled at each other like "You back up, I'm not backing up." And it was just this weird standoff between the two douchiest looking cars you could imagine.

I mean, you have to be a douche to drive a Hummer.

I still remember the mystery Hummer dialysis patient from when my dad was going 3 time per week. We could never figure out who owned the Hummer, but we knew it was not the underpaid nurses and techs. So it had to be one of the patients. And none of them seemed the type. We never solved that mystery.

That hummer started off a delightful safety yellow. (Elon would cry.)

They decided this wasn't extra enough... so they did this...

Katrina and I could never decide... are these cow spots or the world's least effective camoflauge?

There was another patient who drove this old beater...

And I loved seeing this car because we had the same one when I was a little kid. I'm afraid the aesthetics of the 1980s Caprice Classic did not stand the test of time, but it had great sentimental appeal for me.

But this maroon beast that squeaked and sputtered its way from here to there belonged to a very sweet older gentleman. Sometimes he and my dad would be dialysis buddies—sitting next to each other in the recliners. And the worst thing about dialysis was the boredom. All you have to do is watch broadcast TV with 4 channels.

All of the TVs require headphones. They give you your own set of super cheap headphones in the dialysis welcome bag. They were very uncomfortable so I ordered my dad better ones with cushioned ear cups.

His dialysis buddy noticed them and thought they looked nice. And then he revealed that his free headphones broke and he didn't know how to get new ones. He had been watching TV with no sound for weeks. So, I bought another pair with the soft ear cups and my dad gave them to his friend. And it just made me happy imagining the two of them watching The Price is Right in matching headphones.

I do have to make fun of this sweet old man a little bit. When I walked passed his car I noticed he implemented the world's most effective anti-theft device ever created.

That's right... The Club™.

If someone decides they have to have a 40 year old car with an engine that sounds like a dying hyena and a hubcap missing... they are out of luck.

But hey, you gotta protect what is important to you. And if I needed a getaway car and my choices were between his beater and the Cow Hummer, I'd take his ride for sure.

Well, I'd try... and then get arrested because The Club™ is undefeatable.

Do NOT look that up on YouTube. It's 100% true. (And the Lock Picking Lawyer doesn't count due to him being able to break into Fort Knox with a paperclip and then doing it again to make sure it isn't a fluke.)

The dialysis center is in the same complex as my local Tolerable Schnucks and I still see that maroon boat of a car every once in a while. I always smile whenever it is there because it lets me know he is hanging in there and hopefully still has sound for his TV.

Wow, I went off on a mega-tangent.

I didn't even finish talking about my day. Where was I? Oh, the douche standoff finally ended. The Porsche Douche capitulated and backed up. Probably due to the fact the Hummer Douche has 0 visibility behind him.

When I got home I started devouring my sushi. I finally heard back from my lawyer. He submitted the last of the evidence for my appeal. And I was finally able to confirm he got the records of my ECT treatments from 20 years ago. I worked so hard to get those. At first, they forgot to send all records before 2011. I had to call back and figure that out. They shipped them and they didn't arrive until a week before we had to file. Everything was so last minute and my anxiety has been... palpable. It felt like when I did my science fair project on Sunday night.

He's hoping to get a decision at the beginning of next year. He warned me that these appeals are usually rejected. And that the most effective method of approval was a hearing in front of an administrative law judge. But that could be delayed by up to a year. So I might need to figure out how to survive until 2025. As long as my brother does what he is legally required to do, I should be okay. But counting on that also gives me palpable anxiety.

And that was my day.

Every time I go out is always an adventure.

But remember...

BE NICE. EAT YOUR VEGGIES. PET CUTE DOGS. DREAM BIG. KEEP YOUR TIRES WARM... FOR REASONS. 5 LIFE LESSONS -Froggie, Mildly Famous Internet Person

[strawberrymatchawhore]

stargirl

rafe cameron

“and i shouldnt cry, but i love it”

summary- you are a flight attendant for a private jet company that the cameron family are members of, on their trip to the bahamas. you just so happen to catch rafes eyes, new and fresh. just for him.

warning/s- thief!reader, mile high club, power imbalance, DUBCON, rough sex, choking, manhandling, degrading, black mailing, crying, money hungry reader etc. IF THESE SUBJECTS MAKE U FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE PLEASE DO NOT READ. THANK YOU. <3 alsooo it would help sm if you guys would comment or request anything in my ask box for more future reads.

you shouldve known it was a mistake to accept this last minute flight, but they promised to pay you extra cash. and obviously you would never say no to that. not that you complained, one person aboard has caught your eye.

rafe cameron

the both of you making side glances at each other for the first 4 hours of the flight, you couldn't help but tease the man. batting your eyes at him, hand on his bicep every time you asked if he needed more drinks or snacks, swinging your hips whenever you went and grabbed what he wanted.

you were standing in the back of the plane, reorganizing and putting stuff away before landing. you sighed putting away the last bag of chips. turning around to leave the room but youre faced with rafe cameron blocking your way.

“excuse me, but youre not supposed to be in here.” you softly said, scratching your arm with one hand. trying to walk past him to leave the room, but he stands still and slides door shut. locking it.

“yeah and youre not supposed to be stealing from me…. are you ?” he leans against the closed door and raises his eyebrow. your breathing becomes labored as you try to find an excuse. you shove your hand inside you skirt pocket and pull out the money you took from his jacket.

“i-im sorry i just really need the money right now, i’ll give it back to you.. here” you grabbed his hand and put it back into his palm, he grabs it and put it in his sweatpants.

“please.. please dont fire me. this is all i have, i need this. im so sorry mr.cameron.” you apologized, staring at him with your doe eyes. he bit his lip, the room is quiet beside the low sniffle sounds of your crying. you have never in your life fucked up this bad, you were scared.

“what, you think after you took money from my own wallet im just gonna take it back and accept your sad ass apology ??” he seethes and backs you up into the counter, he takes your wrists with one hand and pins them on the cabinets. instant pain goes towards your wrists and you yelp surprised by the action.

“nahh baby im gonna take what i want, and then maybe i’ll reconsider firing you.. hows that sound hm ?” his lips centimeters away from your ears, he lowers his head and gently sucks on your neck. he pulls away and smirks when you stare at him with a scared look on your face, wtf was that ?

“you got something to say y/n ? you let one word out and you’ll be sent to jail quicker than that annoying ass pouge kid.” he grabs you and bends you over the counter, roughly pulling down your uniform and panties. you gasp from the coldness of the air hitting your wet pussy.

“wait WAIT PLEASE !!” he lowers himself behind you and puts two fingers inside, your whined at the stretch and moaned even louder when he put his mouth on you and starting licking. it was embarrassing how quickly you gave up.

“shut the fuck up.” he smacks your ass and continues eating you out. he slurps and sucks on your clit, at this point your juices are dripping down your thigh. his fingers curled perfectly inside you, hitting the right spots. you clench around him as you begin to reach your high. this didn’t feel right, it was unprofessional and humiliating. bent over in an airplane, being defiled by a stranger you just met. but then again, this was your fault. whyd you have to steal ?

“f-fuck oh my god, ah- im gonna cum” you whined rutting yourself against his face being for more. he groaned as you squirted in his mouth, licking you clean he rises and roughly grabs your hair by the roots and kisses you deeply. his fingers rubbing your hole, he laughs at how you clench from nothing.

his hands reach your chest and unbuttons your uniform shirt and unhooks your bra, exposing your chest. the cold temperature inside made your nipples harden immediately, rafes big hands massage and grab at your boobs. you stay bent over naked, heavily breathing. anticipating his next move.

you bit your lip when you felt his warm tip teasing your entrance, annoyed when he doesnt put it inside. instead he moves up and down your folds, stimulating your already sensitive clit. you grow antsy and whine pushing your hips onto his. he stops you gripping your waist in a bruising hold.

“what is it ? huh ? you want something you gotta speak up sweetheart.” he mocks, continuing to toy with you. your pussy gets even wetter at his voice.

“put it in rafe, please. fuck me, i need you so bad.. i just need you to touch me.” you beg, letting go of all your good consciousness. squeezing your eyes shut in embarrassment.

“thats it baby.” he groans as he slides into you, eventually bottoming out.

“rafe it hurts, you’re too big.” eyes welling up with tears, he filled you up perfectly. he thrusts in and out slowly. forcing you to feel every inch and vein of his cock.

“aw, i know you can take it. just stay down like this and let me do my job.” his hand pushes down on your lower back, pinning you to the counter.

he leans over you and grabs your face, shoving his fingers into your slightly open mouth. your finger tips turning white from how hard you were gripping the sink. he was fucking you so good, hips harshly snapping into yours. the pit in your stomach growing wider and wider. at this point it was hard to suppress your moans.

“shh shh shh, stay quiet. we dont want people coming in here and see you bent over and getting fucked like a dumb whore. do we ?” he says into your ear, removing his fingers he slaps you and wraps his hand around your neck.

“n-no” you sob, and you know you shouldn’t be but now its getting to you, eating you up.

“fuckkkk, yeah keep crying f’me. it’ll only make me go harder.” he lets go of your neck and grabs both of you arms. holding them behind your back, his tip hitting your cervix each thrust.

“oh g- feels so good plea-ese” you ramble, he laughs at how fucked out you sound. he holds your wrists together with one hand and uses the other to feel the bulge of your stomach whenever he rams into you. you bit your lower lip as fireworks exploded inside you, eyes rolling back from the continuation of his thrusts. he lowly moans and grinds his hips into you, cumming deeply inside you. he pulls out and outs his clothes back on, only bothering to pull your panties up for you.

he grabs the money you stole from him out of his pocket and stuff in in your panties and pats your ass.

“thank you for your services.” he jokes and unlocks the door, closing it once hes out. leaving you to your thoughts.

[dotieeee]

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 5

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession. possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 5 Warnings:

Snow and his vile unclean 18+ thoughts, the blackest of mails lol, manipulation

Replay Level 4

Ready? Level 5 Start:

In Coriolanus’s mind, he can recall, word for word, the meeting he had requested Strabo Plinth to initiate with Acacius Innis.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I called for this meeting, Acacius,” Strabo Plinth had said as soon as the servants had cleared out.

Acacius Innis and he were seated on finely upholstered chairs inside the Plinth patriarch’s office, with Strabo’s intricately carved oak desk between them, served the highest quality tea his money could buy. Coriolanus simply stood beside him, obediently there to chime in only when needed. He needed to let Plinth senior handle Innis senior – this is, after all, what Strabo did best.

In a few ways, the patriarchs were similar: they both don’t drink alcohol, they both come from the Districts, and they share an almost uncanny flair for business. But that is where their common ground ended, as far as Coriolanus was concerned. He had the Plinth patriarch essentially wrapped around his finger. The Innis patriarch, however, had always been wary of him; he could tell. He could feel Acacius’s perceptive eyes on him the entire time he’d been at your home, even if he wasn’t necessarily looking – eyes that seemed to see right through people. You shared that with him too, apparently, given how similarly you behaved with him during your Academy years. On top of that, Acacius wasn’t one to flaunt his riches as extravagantly as Strabo, as evidenced by his taste for a simpler wardrobe and refusal to hire a cook and stay-at-home help. District, his roots may be, yet he seamlessly blends well with Capitol’s high society.

And there he was, casually sipping a cup of tea as he considered Strabo’s question. He put it down with the grace one would expect from an Innis. He may spew the occasional acerbic remark, but his social etiquette is flawless.

“I had an inkling what it was about during our lovely dinner,” he said with a tight-lipped smile.

Strabo said as he stirred his tea. “Ever the sharp one, aren’t you?” His light chuckle echoed in the room. “Very well, then. I’ll get right to the point.

“I’d like to propose a union between our houses: Snows - and the Plinths in conjunction – and the Innises by way of marriage.”

Coriolanus had his eyes glued to him the entire time: if Acacius Innis felt anything at all about this proposal, he remained unfazed, his face a friendly, blank mask.

“My heir, Coriolanus,” he gestured to him beside his seat, “And your niece will make the perfect match. I understand they both now have a... camaraderie of sorts; we’d only be giving them a push forward in the right direction.”

The Innis senior’s eyes were hard, but he bobbed his head slowly as if he were weighing the offer.

Strabo continued speaking, but it was at this point that Coriolanus could guess Acacius’s response, although he still had some hope in his heart that he was wrong about it.

“I can’t think of any other couple more attractive. Nellie’s just turned twenty, right? Coriolanus, here, turned twenty several months ago. Both young and bright and excelling in their own fields. Imagine the wedding of the century, two of the most powerful clans of Panem in union...your Nellie will make a fine wife for my Coriolanus, just as he will make a dutiful husband for her. Think of the grandchildren, Acacius. They’d be adorable and frighteningly smart for their age...”

Coriolanus fought the urge to roll his eyes. Acacius Innis will never be swayed by the thought of having grandchildren. Then again, he didn’t know what he would be swayed by; the man was an impenetrable wall.

“Hmm. Does Coriolanus consent to this?” Acacius turned to him. If Coriolanus Snow was surprised by his question, he never showed it.

“I do, sir,” he replied with conviction. “I hold your niece in the highest regard.”

Acacius hummed before picking up his cup of tea and drinking.

“He’s being humble, Acacius,” Strabo confirms. “You’ve seen them together, they’re practically a couple. So, what do you say?”

“No.”

Coriolanus felt his eye twitch.

Innis Senior could’ve just punched him in the face, and he could’ve gotten less of a reaction.

Even Strabo was at a loss for words. “'No?’ Acacius...think of what this union could mean for our heirs. Their combined might will one day rule all of Panem. You see, Coriolanus is setting his eyes on politics. Not just any political seat: he aims for the presidency. I have no doubt he will ascend to the greatest of political heights.”

Could he not have begun his pitch with that, instead?

Acacius smiles wryly. “I’m sure Coriolanus will achieve anything he puts his mind to, Strabo. He has the makings of a powerful man,” he sighs. “But this isn’t about his ambition. This is about Nellie’s life. I cannot, in good conscience, choose for her on her behalf.”

Strabo tilts his head with a questioning look. “Surely, Nellie will understand your choice, given you have her best interests at heart?”

“Precisely why I could never do that to her. She trusts me and my judgement, and I can’t betray her trust like that.”

“What if I told you I could make you a shareholder at my company’s military weapons division? We have, after all, profited greatly for the past decade. Our financial forecasts project even greater growth for the next few years, thanks to reinforced peacekeeping policies. I can guarantee you a hefty slice of the pie."

Acacius clasps his hands together and leans forward on the desk with a polite smile.

“My sincerest apologies, Strabo. I cannot agree with this proposal of yours, and I don’t think there is anything you could offer me that will make me accept. It would be unfair to my niece to seal her fate without her consent. You understand hard work, more than anyone else. I raised Nellie as my own after her parents died, and I’ve worked hard for her to have choices in life where most don’t. I’d like to imagine that extends even to matters concerning matrimony. Whoever she chooses to marry, if she chooses to marry at all, shouldn’t be decided among three men in a room, over a meeting she wasn’t not even allowed in.”

Coriolanus felt a vein in his temple throb. Of course, he was livid. What made him even more furious was the fact that Strabo had the gall to look moved by Innis senior’s speech.

He wanted nothing but to strangle the both of them then and there.

But, as usual, Coriolanus Snow was a man of utter composure. He said nothing, kept his face a blank mask, as he listened to Strabo basically taking Acacius’s side.

“Very well, Acacius, my old friend. Your niece is lucky to have you as a father figure. We do what we can to protect our children, and for that, you have my utmost respect.”

A thought crossed Coriolanus’s mind at Strabo’s words.

Acacius had just inadvertently revealed his weakness. You.

Not such an impenetrable wall, after all.

As if pouring salt over an open wound, Strabo patted Coriolanus on the back and added, “Coriolanus will just have to earn Nellie’s hand the hard way, I’m afraid. Oh, and do come to my birthday party this Friday night at the Palisades? The invitations were mailed out last week, and if you’re not busy, you can bring Nellie with you.”

“Friday, you say?” Acacius asked as he got up from his chair. “I might have to take a raincheck, my friend. I’m spearheading a new defence division at the Citadel, and I expect Friday will be hectic for me. My well wishes to you today, and your birthday gift I shall send via delivery.”

Strabo acknowledged Acacius’s smile of apology with a nod. “Of course, duties to the Capitol come first.”

The elder males shook hands firmly before they all exited the room, led by Innis senior.

To call this a disappointing turn of events was an understatement.

That sweet smile you had on your pretty little face as you bid him good night was his only solace for the rest of the evening. He wished he could see more of that smile; he wished he could have it bottled or kept it in a jar, perhaps, so he could look at it anytime he wanted. Just the thought of having something of you with him all the time made him feel a little better. Obviously, having you to himself all the time would beat having just something of you, but he hasn’t quite gotten to that yet. A certain relative of yours just made sure of that.

He thought he had a plan to get you. He knew he had no chance at winning Acacius Innis over if he alone had asked for your hand himself, but he had high hopes that with Strabo Plinth leading the conversation, he’d be more open to the idea of an alliance between your families by way of marriage. So much for that well-thought-out plan.

No matter: he had one other weapon he had at his disposal. One more leverage on you – and that obstinate prick you call an uncle – that could prove so devastating, it could have you begging him to take your soul for him to keep the dirt from surfacing.

All he had to figure out was his timing.

***

You and your uncle never talk about what transpired at the Citadel the day he asked you to bring those files. You’re still on the fence as to whether he had set you up to uncover what could plausibly be a conspiracy surrounding Sejanus’s death, but the facts you’ve gathered surrounding the incident prove too hard to overlook.

Had your uncle already known about it for a time, and had he been sitting on the information until then? Why did he choose to reveal it this way if he had indeed set you up? Why did he keep it to himself then?

And then there’s that...thing...that thought about your friend that you know you’re not supposed to entertain because of how outlandish it sounds, but a thought you can’t seem to get rid of, nonetheless.

That nagging suspicion that just won’t go away, no matter how hard you try to rationalise.

You keep going back and forth between what you can remember in Sejanus’s letters and the information Dr Kay had revealed; how Sejanus had been entangling with rebel forces; how the peacekeepers in District 12 had been ordered to gather catch jabberjays for scientific research; how he could’ve confessed to someone he trusted enough to be comfortable around with; and he could’ve been recorded by any of the peacekeepers who had access to the jabberjay remotes; how only one of the jabberjays conveniently turned up dead only a day after the birds arrived at the Capitol…

…How the only person Sejanus mentioned he trusted the most the entire time he was in District 12 was Coriolanus Snow.

Everything you know about every event that happened in District 12 circles back to him somehow, and you hate yourself for not being able to come up with a different conclusion.

Everybody says you’re smart, but look where it’s gotten you, now: with more questions and nowhere to get answers from.

Thursday. Three days have flown by since that day.

Every day for three days since you’ve woken up drenched in sweat, having dreamt of jabberjays flocking all over you, screaming your name and Sejanus’s, and Coriolanus singing to the birds a song you don’t quite understand. Today, however, your brain decided to kick it up a notch because it felt you had too little going on.

It began with Coriolanus humming a melody that doesn’t make sense when you hum it in real life, and the birds flying all around you and screaming your name and Sejanus’s in bloody murder. Sejanus made an entrance, facing you from only a few feet away. You could see from where you were that he was trying to open his mouth as if he wanted to say something from beyond the grave, but no words came out. Instead, out came from his parted lips a beak, then the head of a bird with purplish-blue plumage, followed by the entire body of the accursed bird. The bird took one look at you, then darted straight in your direction, before you woke up without much ceremony.

Fuck those birds and fuck these dreams. Just another bad thing that catapults you to another day in another one of those moods.

You have to be out, somehow. Function in society, no matter how much you hate it. No matter how much said society sickens you; even if said society would no sooner have you hanged as traitorous trash faster than you could show an ounce of condemnable humanity.

You made a promise to Sejanus to move on, and so for today, you’ll try.

There is work to be done at the University, what with summer classes underway. The class guides would’ve been taken care of by now courtesy of your uncle’s interns, but you have another task as his official apprentice – a task you can never bring yourself to abandon.

Your living room phone rings a little before noon, just as you’re trying to graze on cornflakes to try and get your day going. You temporarily leave your bowl to answer the familiar voice on the other line.

“Nellie. I haven’t seen you in days.” Coriolanus sounds a tad put out.

“Coryo.” A twinge of guilt finds its way to your voice. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been – ”

“Hiding yourself away again? Nellie, is everything alright?”

“Yes, Coryo, I’m fine.”

You can hear him heave an exasperated sigh. “Nellie, we’ve talked about this. You can freely speak your mind with me. Tell me anything.”

Anything, as in, did-you-kill-Sejanus-anything?

“I know,” you respond flatly.

Maybe you can ask him instead of moping, you think to yourself. He might know something. He might know of anyone else your friend had grown close with in District 12 apart from him. That way, maybe you could finally put away these awful thoughts and decide a course of action. Maybe you can then tell Ma and Strabo Plinth, and leave it up to them to make the next move. Maybe you can find that peacekeeper yourself and kill him with your bare hands.

Wishful thinking.

Ask him. Do something, just so you can shut that stupid voice up in your head blaming Coryo for every little unhappiness you encounter.

“We can go out today before I go to the Citadel,” he offers.

Thank goodness he beat you to it. “Really? You have time?”

“For you? Of course, I do. What do you think of getting ice cream?”

What do you think of telling the truth? “Sure, that sounds nice.”

He gives you an address and a time: The Headless Confectioner’s at two. The same candy shop and creamery your uncle gets all his sweets from. You accept.

There’s plenty of time to get some work done before then.

University life dwindles during the summer break. The only ones that are there are the professors and the few summer students looking into getting advanced credits or making up for failed subjects, allowing the school to breathe for a while and enjoy the little quiet it gets every academic year.

The lab is thankfully empty when you arrive, with your uncle currently conducting a class. You’re comforted, if only a little, at the sound your keyboard makes as you type steadily, entering countless lines of commands that will eventually make up the program.

If only there was some way you could run some tests on it besides the usual debugging.

By one thirty, you’re out of the lab, foregoing your usual car ride in favour of walking to The Headless Confectioner’s. It’s a bit of a long walk, but you figure you need the time to clear your head.

Plan your next more wisely, your uncle had said.

Perhaps you have been approaching this dilemma the wrong way. Maybe, just like all manners of mathematical problem-solving, the problem has to be examined with utmost objectivity. Your friendship with Coryo aside, the facts remain, and you’re simply trying to piece them together to come up with a logic-based conclusion.

Maybe then, you wouldn’t be so upset about asking your friend about it.

The walk gives you plenty of time to get your facts straight and construct your questions. Impartiality or not, you don’t want to needlessly hurt your friend like you did at the Plinth’s Corso home. Sejanus was his best friend, and he most likely was there on the day of his execution.

You are well too aware how witnessing death firsthand can drastically change a person.

You get to The Headless Confectioner’s and find Coryo waiting for you outside the shop. His eyes light up and his lips curl upward the moment he sees you approach. You return his smile and you both waste no time lining up the ice cream booth, where people are already milling around for the best ice cream in the city. He offers to walk you back to the University, to the park near the Computer Sciences College you both frequent.

“You’re awfully quieter than usual,” he observes. You’re both sitting on the same bench where he first offered you his friendship.

The friendship that’s entirely responsible for keeping you from spiralling down further.

“Sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind,” you say.

He tilts his head at you, casually placing his arm on top of your part of the backrest. “Tell me. You asked if I had time, and I always would, for you.”

You give him a dry smile and breathe deeply. Ask him now, or forget ever asking him again.

“I went to the Citadel. Uncle asked me to bring something for him. I got lost, and...” you swallow that lump in your throat as you note how aptly he’s listening. “And I stumbled upon the jabberjays.”

“Hm. Interesting little things,” he mutters.

You fidget on the hem of your coat absently. “I was told that it was the peacekeepers who had caught them and they were sent here to the Capitol two days before Sejanus’s execution. A day later, one of them died.”

Your friend offers no insight, so you go on. “Coryo, someone recorded Sejanus confessing to something. Someone from the Capitol caught that recording, which led to his death.”

You turn to face your friend to find that his expression has gone rigid, his eyes are hard and cold when he meets your gaze head-on.

This must be just as painful for him to discover.

“I’m sorry that I’m bringing it up now, Coryo,” you say, your lips trembling, trying to keep your emotions at bay.

Objectivity, you remind yourself.

“I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you to relive this, but you have to hear me out,” you continue. “Someone from your ranks did that to him.

“Coryo, please,” you implore him. “Try to remember. I’ve run the math in my head over and over but it’s the only explanation I can come up with. It must be someone from your ranks, anyone at all, who might’ve gotten close to him in his last days...anyone whom he trusted enough to confess what he was doing...”

Was it you? Please, tell me it wasn’t. Please, tell me.

Coriolanus’s lips are thinned, his face unreadable and his shoulders now drawn back, yet his eyes never leave yours. Maybe he takes pity in the way you look with your eyes red and tearful, for his features eventually soften, his eyes contrite and his lips parted as he takes a handkerchief out of his breast pocket. He lifts your chin with his thumb and forefinger and wipes your tears with the cloth.

“Nellie, dear, I’m sorry. I really am.” His voice breaks with emotion as he squeezes your chin lightly. He leans into your space further, saying, “I wish I could take your pain and carry it for you. I hate to see you suffering like this.” He lets go and pulls away with a final dab of his handkerchief on your cheek, leaning once more against the bench.

“But I also wish with all my heart I had the answers you seek. Sejanus withdrew within himself in his final days. What battles he faced inwardly were his to bear, and it seems that he kept it that way until he passed.”

‘Liar’ is the only word that floats in your head.

“He was friendly with the other peacekeepers, Nellie. But as far as your deduction has led you, you’re correct: it could’ve been any of them,” he says, dipping his head a small nod. His eyes flick to yours with a strange glint, as if an idea had just crossed his mind. “Maybe there was someone he mentioned in those letters he sent you.”

Your blood runs cold at his words. You could feel it drain from your face, your heart plummeting as your pulse races, watching a corner of his lips twitch upward.

He knows about the letters. He knows.

But you reason within yourself: this doesn’t prove he had him killed. This doesn’t prove anything.

Right?

That look on him. An unmistakable look of victory. Even as you’re both sitting down, he towers over you, staring down at you with those now-hollow eyes. You suddenly don’t feel safe anymore, but you fight the urge to cower.

“Of course, I know, Nellie,” he says as if he read your mind just then. “He never mentioned anything to me about your correspondence, but after his death, I couldn’t help but look through his things for answers as to what he did to himself and why he did it.”

You mean you ransacked his stuff.

“I found a letter he failed to send tucked under his pillow. Addressed to you, Nellie.”

You almost flinch as he tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering to play with it.

“Except, it was written in this odd manner, and none of it made sense. I realised, given how smart you are, it must’ve been an idea of yours to write in code. I knew the both of you enough to tell you weren’t really writing about ‘daffodils’ and ‘dandelions dancing in the sunset.’”

A part of you wants to correct him that it was Sejanus’s plan, but you can’t admit it without incriminating yourself. He lets out a chuckle, but it’s humourless, just like the smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He traces a line on your cheek, making him only one swift move away from strangling you.

“I asked myself, ‘What could my two friends be hiding, writing in code?’” You feel immense relief when he pulls his hand away.

“I knew I had to keep it hidden, because, if Sejanus actually wrote to you about his intentions to rebel and you kept it to yourself...if anyone else got a hold of it besides me and they cracked the code, you’d be labelled as complicit with his actions.

What kind of best friend would I be if I hadn’t? If I let it get into someone else’s hands? I’d be dishonouring Sejanus’s memory if I threw you to the wolves.”

Coriolanus’s smile is cold, bordering on sadistic. Behind those cerulean eyes dance a flicker of madness you know you’ve always seen before but had been actively ignoring. Could your instincts have been right about him all along? Is this a thinly veiled threat from a man who had been wearing a mask the entire time and had now taken it off in front of you?

Has your entire friendship with him been a farce?

“I want to keep you safe, my dear Nellie. Let me keep you safe,” he insists, his icy stare not matching his intentions. He crosses his legs, observing you with that ghost of a sneer, as he waits for you to squirm in your seat.

“I have just been appointed an official gamemaker. No more internships. That means I now have enough power and influence to keep that promise. But I can’t do that if I don’t even see you half the time.”

You gulp, trying to keep your composure. You will not give him the satisfaction of seeing you fumble. “What are you saying, Coryo?” You whisper hoarsely.

Coriolanus sighs and gets to his feet, his hands inside his pocket as he gazes far into the lake.

“All I’m saying is I need you close by for me to keep you safe.”

Then he turns to face you, towering over your hunched form on the bench as if he’s cowing you into submission. His voice lowers by a fraction as he speaks.

“Transfer your apprenticeship to me. I need you by my side, Nellie, as my friend, and now as my ally.”

You look up at him, his unblinking, unrelenting gaze keeping you in place. That wasn’t a request, you notice, but a command.

An order that promises repercussions if you don’t obey.

“I need an innovator like you by my side. Someone I can trust fully. I have always trusted you, Nellie. It’s refreshing, don’t you think? The way we speak our minds with each other? A free-flowing exchange of ground-breaking ideas. That’s the kind of partnership I want.”

In other words, he’ll keep the letter a secret if you do what he wants.

“You already have my uncle in your team. There is nothing I can do that he can’t do a thousand times better,” you reason, even if you see no point in reasoning with someone who’s already made up their mind.

“That is true, for now, at least. Did you know your uncle has been promoted to his own new division? Cybersecurity. We’re being ushered back into a better digital age. Something the Capitol has overlooked because of the war. He’ll be too busy for his gamemaking duties, so he’s letting go of them. Think of me as your new direct report, should you accept. I will take care of the transfer. Your tenure under your uncle’s wing will simply be carried over to mine,” he says as he paces in front of you.

Uncle Cas has been promoted? That’s good for him and all, but something in you can tell they must want him out of the way. Of what, exactly?

“There’s this...project your uncle has been working on.”

Your posture instantly stiffens. They want Uncle Cas out of the way to take control of his program. His baby, the very same program he has crafted with so much care and has entrusted you to keep from the wrong hands.

“I saw your notes, Nellie. You had a hand in it. Except, there hasn’t been much progress on the project. Dr Gaul wants that to push forward. Think of what it could mean for the twelfth Hunger Games.”

You draw your eyebrows together at the sheer betrayal he wants you to commit. “Coryo, this is madness. You can’t expect me to go behind my uncle’s back and hijack his work.”

“Sugarplum, no one is going behind anyone’s back. All you have to do is ask him. He’ll understand. This is your uncle’s legacy, and it will be yours, too. The Innis legacy. Besides, he will want you to explore your abilities outside your comfort zone. Come on, do you really expect your skills to improve when he’s keeping you inside that lab, making you label old hard drives and grade mediocre college research papers?”

Chewing the insides of your cheek, you stare at the gravel beneath your feet. He doesn’t appreciate you avoiding his gaze, for he hooks his fingers under your chin once more to look at him. You meet his hard eyes with your anxious ones.

“Nellie, your uncle is a genius. He’s unlike any other I have ever met. But you’re an Innis, too. You’re cut from the same cloth. It’s time you see yourself that way. Think of what we can accomplish together. Work for me, work with me, I get to keep you safe, and you get to show everyone in Panem what the Innis blood is made of.” He flashes a grin, baring a sliver of his perfectly white teeth.

Like a predator flashing its fangs before it pounces.

“Your place is with me, Nellie. Let me prove it. You and I: we will change the Games forever.”

Your lip trembles as his thumb skims over it. You ask in a hushed tone, “Change it...you mean for the good?”

“For good,” comes his simple reply.

You purse your lips, attempting to wrack your brains for anything that can get you out of this predicament you dug yourself into. You come up with nothing.

“I’ll ask Uncle Cas.” You concede. There is no other choice at this point.

Coriolanus dons on a look of perverse satisfaction. Then, in the blink of an eye, his expression shifts. He’s back to the Coryo you know, with that kind smile and those soft, blue eyes, like he hadn’t spent the entire time with you in the park threatening and blackmailing you to do his bidding. It’s a frighteningly impressive ability.

“Think about it, sugarplum. I have to go, but I will collect you and your response tomorrow.”

Helplessly, you stay rooted to your spot as he bends down to kiss your hair. His lips linger for a short while before he pulls away and vanishes from your line of vision.

You don’t dare move from the bench as you attempt, almost in vain, to curb an incoming panic attack. You squeeze the hem of your coat as you hyperventilate, mentally berating yourself for falling for his trap.

How could you have been this stupid? You just had to ignore every ounce of your subconscious telling you just how nefarious and dangerous this man is that you’ve willingly entangled yourself with.

Everything about your friendship with Coriolanus Snow – every moment spent with him, every word exchanged, every gift he’s ever given – all of it, a spectacular performance, a cunningly planned-out charade designed to lure into his clutches.

Think of Sejanus, you try to soothe yourself. Of his warm hands holding yours, of his warm hugs, and his soft lips as he stole your first kiss...

Your grip on your coat relaxes eventually and your breathing evens out, replaced by frustrated tears and trembling hands.

As you stare into your cup of now-melted ice cream abandoned on your side of the bench, your mind draws a blank, except for a single, all-consuming thought. You still haven’t proven whether or not Coriolanus Snow had your only true friend killed, but you’re sure of one thing now: he was never innocent.

His old self would’ve killed you without question.

The old self he had left behind in the dense forests of District 12 would’ve had a raging fit before he led you somewhere and either shot you or smothered you or poisoned you to death – probably all three, in no particular order – at the mere insinuation that he had a hand in Sejanus’s death.

But he wasn’t his old self, so the fact that it was coming back to potentially bite him like Lucy Gray’s snake only slightly disarmed him. What he is concerned more about is how you, of all people, managed to connect the dots, even if you hadn’t accused him outright. He had gone to great lengths to ensure that it stayed buried, so he’s sure you had almost come to the correct conclusion purely because of your intellect and intuition. He has to admit, you are impressive.

He isn’t his old self. His old self probably would’ve had qualms about digging into dead people’s things and stealing anything of value. But before he returned Sejanus’ belongings to the Plinths, he had all but combed through every crevice, nook and cranny for anything that may prove useful. His new self had been wise enough then to keep that peculiar letter Sejanus had penned, but never got to mail, addressed to you.

He had a hunch about its significance, but he wasn't completely sure until your conversation at the bench that afternoon. It was a little gamble, mentioning that letter, but one that he knew he had already won the instant he saw your face drain of colour at his mention of dandelions (a rather perplexing choice of code). There it was, your little blind spot, exposed so plainly to him. So, ever one for efficiency, he went on further and pushed you a little more to confirm his suspicions: Sejanus had potentially revealed to you his intent to rebel, and you had kept the knowledge to yourself.

Snow landed on top yet again: he had gained the upper hand. A shiver of excitement goes through him at the thought. He’s already used it to get you to work for him – he wonders what else he could have you do for him. You, at his mercy, submitting to his every whim...

This little mistake of yours could prove convenient for him. Gaul had since added more to his lists of tasks. In addition to keeping up appearances by way of dating, she had assigned him to investigate the progress of a top-secret computer program being developed by Acacius Innis. The project has had almost zero progress since its approval, and he is to find out why. And, thanks to his snooping around with your handwritten notes, he had concluded you had a hand in the project as your uncle’s apprentice. He had been charged to keep you close so you could work for the Citadel in Acacius’s stead just in case he proves he’s outlived his purpose.

Now? He’s got three of these tasks all but crossed out, just because you had let your emotions for Sejanus get the better of you.

You should have never mentioned Sejanus to him. That’s an error of yours he’ll have to make you pay for. If there’s one thing he and his old self had in common, it’s the fact that they’re both extremely jealous men to a fault. The drug addict Theophilus Braun figured this out the hard way. Coriolanus Snow can’t have his girl making mistakes for and because of a dead man; you should’ve known better.

You’re his girl. His girl, his bride, his wife.

And by the day after next, he’d make it clear to everyone in Panem, including you, that you are his – taken, off-limits, spoken for. He should’ve done this sooner in retrospect. You’d know by then that you had no business talking or even thinking about any other men, dead or otherwise. You’d figure it out for yourself, you’re smart. It didn’t matter now that Acacius Innis rejected Strabo’s and his proposal of arranging a marriage between him and you. Sure, he had allowed himself a bit of time to stew on his anger at your uncle, but if he gained something but that poorly orchestrated exchange, it’s the fact that the Innis patriarch is fiercely protective of you. An immovable giant, finally revealing its underbelly by accident.

Now, unlike his old self, he’d never let you out of sight or try to gun you down in a crazed frenzy; he’d never allow you to leave his side, and he’d put your useful abilities to work. In turn, your work would be displayed at the Games for the Capitol to admire, and everyone would know that Coriolanus Snow’s girl is more than a fancy arm decoration being paraded to the press and looking pretty at galas.

Coriolanus sighs as he gets inside his apartment. He comes home to the calming sound of quiet, and, making a beeline to his walk-in closet, he puts down the two sizeable boxes he had just picked up from the receptionist. A last-minute request he made to his tailor, conveniently delivered to his new address. He takes his shoes and his coat off and wastes no time inspecting the contents of the smaller box.

What he’s anticipating to see is the dress he had made for you. It has to be nothing less than perfect: it’s Strabo’s birthday party and the Capitol’s richest are going to be there. He had been meaning to formally invite you in person, but he knew he had to be wise about it and not give you room to decline. This is part of your training as his soon-to-be wife, after all: appearing more social and getting used to attending the lavish parties of high society. He had meant earlier to tell you then, that everything would be taken care of including your dress, but the mention of Sejanus genuinely threw him off. In the end, it seemed like waiting it out was the best choice.

The box’s lid comes off: crimson, just like he ordered. Of course, you had to match his tux. It’s a silk slip, flowy, simple, elegant, and most importantly, accurate to your measurements. Or at least, the measurements he got from your housemaid in exchange for but a small sum.

Another stark difference between him and his old self: he isn’t the poor, malnourished, helpless kid who had to settle for scraps and keep up appearances. He has a limitless amount of resources within his grasp now, and he uses all of it to his advantage: this luxury penthouse apartment, allowing him to finally live peacefully by himself, these finely tailored clothing he had grown partial to, even to pay off the maid who had been happy to go behind your back to take your dress size – all of these he now could afford, and more. His old self would’ve turned green with envy.

He’s satisfied with the handiwork despite the rush, and he could already imagine you wearing it for tomorrow: the way you’d turn in it, the way you’d dance in it, the way hungry, envious sets of eyes would ogle at you while he snakes his arm around your waist...

Normally, he hates the thought of having anyone’s lustful eyes on you, but he supposes that’s the price he has to pay for wanting to show you off.

Maybe after the party, he’d bring you here, and he’d get to tear the dress off you, or simply pull it up to your waist and fuck you in it as you’re bent over his work desk...

He isn’t his old self anymore. He didn’t have to suppress these desires in the confines of his own solitude. He makes one phone call, and a woman arrives at his apartment within ten minutes. He was specific with his request: he wanted one that resembled you – except she doesn’t compare to your beauty or your grace. Of course, no one does.

At least she’s wearing a red slip dress like he instructed.

He fucks the whore that night, thinking of you splayed out for him in various ways, wearing that silk crimson dress. It’s quite easy for him to imagine that it’s you because he fucks her face down – in his little fantasy, it’s you he takes several times; that it’s you underneath him, moaning and screaming out his name and begging him to fill you with his cum. He makes her leave immediately after a hefty payment, making a mental note to tell the maid in the morning that the sheets would have to be changed. Having aired out his pent-up urges, he does more work in his home office until he can barely keep his eyes open.

His old self is long dead and gone, and he takes comfort in that as he finally gives in to exhaustion.

The aroma of hot dark chocolate reaches your nostrils and somehow provides a little comfort for what has turned out to be a long day. It’s almost one in the morning, and not a wink of sleep has grazed your presence, so you’re hoping this little treat is going to help put you to bed so you can go back to dreaming of screaming birds, dead first loves and singing peacekeepers.

On impulse, you traipse to your uncle’s office, noting how his dim desk lamp is still on. Not an uncommon sight these days, to have him still awake in the dead hours of the night for many reasons – some of which he refuses to share with you.

You enter his office on a whim; you can’t sleep anyway, might as well.

You also need to talk to him about…that thing. The one Coriolanus asked you to do.

You find your uncle with his face scrunched up in absolute concentration over a chessboard.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks lazily, his cheek resting against his palm on the desk.

You simply shake your head. You offer to make him a cup of hot dark chocolate, which he refuses by a mere gesture to the three colourful mugs sitting near the edge of the table, only obscured by the lamp light not hitting that part of his desk.

“Can I?” you question him, referring to the chess game he seems to be currently playing by himself.

Uncle Cas lets out a hum. “I thought you’d never ask.”

So, you sit and observe the board, assuming black. White is currently in a solid position, having total control of the centre of the board. Your uncle takes his rook to f-one.

You move a pawn to a-four. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Your uncle just makes another humming noise absently as he takes a pawn to f-four. Your pawn captures it immediately.

“You got promoted. Head of the new Cybersecurity division and all that...”

He just raises his eyebrows in derision. “Yeah, lucky me,” he says under his breath as he takes the same pawn of yours with a rook. “How did you find out?”

“Coriolanus told me this afternoon.”

The both of you quietly play your game, your attention dwindling until you notice you’re actually putting pressure on the opposition.

“Uncle, how do I win against an enemy who clearly has all the advantages?” you ask quietly.

For the first time since the game, your uncle looks up, now mildly interested. “Hm. What’s the end goal of this game?”

“End goal?” You’re distracted as your pawn takes his knight. “You defeat the opponent’s king.”

“No, plumcake, the real end goal.”

To focus, you rub your forehead as you scramble for a defence.

“That’s the key,” he continues. “Find out what your enemy wants and use it to gain the upper hand.”

Licking your lips, you sip some of your rapidly cooling chocolate as you watch his queen threaten your position. After a pause, you inquire, “What if I’ve never played a game like this before?”

“Then, prepare to be on the defensive when necessary,” he says thoughtfully. “You’re an Innis. You’ll figure something out.” He takes your pawn on f-five with his rook.

You heave a sigh as you prepare yourself to reveal the truth. It doesn’t matter how he reacts to it, it’s out there now. You made the wrong move, despite his warning, and you’ve nothing left to do but to own it.

“Uncle, Coriolanus wants me to transfer my apprenticeship to him.” You wait with bated breath for him to react.

Uncle Cas stitches his brows, encasing the lower half of his face with his palm. The lines on his face are evident now more than ever; you note how recently he’s lost some weight, and his cheeks are more indented than you can remember even with all that sugar in his diet. His eyes meet yours, his dark circles accentuating his serious expression.

Guilt washes over you. You’re partly to blame for his stress.

“Very well.” He bobs his head once in comprehension. He wordlessly goes back to the game, capturing your knight on e-four using his bishop.

Another thing you appreciate about him: his acuity allows him to read the situation in almost an instant.

“Tell him I’ll kill him with my bare hands if he tries anything funny.”

And just like always, he still manages to make you laugh despite everything.

You move your rook to e-four, on the defensive. “I thought you preferred breaking their legs?”

He just shrugs comically and quips, “I’m the head of Cybersecurity, I’m all about efficiency now.”

Suppressing a chuckle, you observe his rook take f-seven while you transfer your now-vulnerable queen to b-six. The white king, now on h-one, prepares for the endgame. You take your rook from e-four to e-one in what you can now foresee as a futile attempt at mitigating the attack.

Uncle Cas has a point, as always. Moving on the defensive can be an option. After all, you know Coriolanus’s goal now: he wants the program completed, and he wants you for the task. You can just opt to do whatever he wants as quickly as possible, and then cut him out of your life for good.

The white queen finally makes her move to g-six, so you take your bishop to g-seven.

Maybe, you can even opt for the offensive: figure out a way to keep Coriolanus Snow’s slimy hands off the program without alerting him.

The white queen all but slays your poor bishop on g-seven.

Your uncle leans back on his computer chair and declares, “Checkmate.”

“Ah, fuck.” Perhaps you’re not cut out for these kinds of games.

“Language, plumcake. Another one for the road?”

He rearranges the pieces for a new round. He wiggles his eyebrows with a wide smile and adds, “Winner gets the last pint of cherry chocolate chunk ice cream in the freezer.”

You grimace at the thought. “I think I’ve had just about enough ice cream for today, Uncle. How about White Knight’s angel food cake?”

His eyes light up at the challenge. “Oh, you are so fucking on.”

“How come you get to curse, and I can’t?”

He snorts haughtily at your complaint. “It’s unbecoming of a lady.”

He makes the opening move. Pawn to e-four.

Let the games begin.

Enter Level 6

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!!

Next level includes a ball/party scene because I can't resist, despite risking the cliché 😂😅

Also, the chances of me updating as quickly as I have for the past week is getting slim, what with work now getting busy and mostly the next levels getting more complicated plot-wise. Damn plot be getting out of hand when all I want them to do is fuck 😅😂😭 but I think weekly updates are still feasible...we'll see!!