#the love knot: his excellency's first love

[slightly-knot-insane]

Loving your writing and saw that you’re accepting asks!

I have this thought about monster boyfriend of some sort who is desperate to have sex but you’re hesitant/nervous because he’s so big/will knot you. He reassures you and says that he’ll put in just the tip to ease you into it and then you’re both going crazy for it and he goes feral and thrusts the whole thing in/pops his knot in you

I'm so happy to hear this! Especially since English is not my first language (if that isn't painfully obvious lol). Thank you for this incredibly excellent ask!

Hidden in the Basement

[ m!monster x fem!reader ]

You could hear him in the basement. It was that time of the year - he goes into rut and he simply... needs his alone time. He always kisses you, lingering just a tad bit longer than usual, and retreats downstairs.

You stand outside the door. He is trying to stay as quiet as he can, muffling his groans and heavy breathing, but he's too loud. Too pent up.

You want to help him. He is almost frenzied when in rut and sometimes hurts himself or the others. He recognizes you, of course, but there is something in his behavior that scares you. Although - you bite your lip - not in a necessarily bad way.

You notice the basement is too quiet. Is he okay? You try the door handle - surprisingly, he didn't lock himself in. Perhaps he forgot? You go downstairs, as quietly as possible. It is almost too dark to see, but you can't turn on the light - you shouldn't be here after all.

He is kneeling on the floor, his huge pulsating cock in one hand as he is trying to get off. It is out of the sheath, a big bulbous knot at the base, and leaking glans on the top. His other hand is holding your panties. He is sniffing and biting them while jacking off. The fabric is completely damp.

Your face burns from embarrassment. Somehow you feel you shouldn't have seen this. Maybe you could sneak outside without him noticing? But... do you want to? You've never seen him like this, barely human, his limbs different and longer and stronger, his neck wider, his tail more flexible. It was him, but not completely. Also his cock... it changed in a rather interesting way.

He finally senses you and his eyes snap open, his pupils dangerously dilating.

"I'm sorry!" You panic and try running upstairs. You barely climb two steps before he grabs you from behind and lifts you. You yelp in surprise. He carries you downstairs and, without letting you go, kisses you. Everything about him is different, even his embraces. They are so intense, more consuming, needy. More feral. His hands quickly remove all your clothes and his fingers find your breasts.

"Wait," you gasp. "You are so big. I can't..."

He nibbles your neck, his large hands cupping your ass cheeks. "I need you. I will be careful, I promise. Let me have you a little bit or I'll go mad." His voice mutated into more dominant, animalistic one. You whimper as his finger finds your pussy and pushes against your entrance. "Not wet enough."

In one easy move, he lifts you up in front of his face and places your knees over his shoulders. Once your pussy is perfectly leveled with his large mouth, he proceeds to eat you out like a starving animal.

"Aaaah... aaah..." You wiggle and pant, sensations too overwhelming. But he firmly holds you in place. His tongue reaches places no toy or his human form ever reached. It circles around your clit and pumps into your entrance, swelling and pulsating. Your boyfriend pleasures you until you're soaking wet and trembling, and then lowers you just above his massive cock. "Please!" you scream, intimidated by the knot. "I can't do it..."

"I will put just the tip in," he reassures you. "I would never hurt you."

He sounds like your old wonderful boyfriend and you slightly relax in his arms. The way he kisses you by biting your lips, licking your face and sliding his long tongue deep into your throat is truly something special. Distracting you with his mouth, he slowly forces his glans into your pussy. It glides easily, and you both moan.

"You are so..." he whispers under his breath. "So tight. So amazing."

He barely enters and immediately lifts you up again. He is breathing heavily and sweating, his muscles trembling. You know it's not because he can't hold you like this - he is barely controlling himself, trying not to impale you on his massive cock.

"More..." You whine, his monster phallus rubbing against your wet walls. "Give me more."

He grunts happily and let's you slide down. He fills you completely, holding you safely with his arms. "Fuck... Can I go faster?"

"Yes please." Your blood is already boiling, nerves vibrating from incoming orgasm.

He starts bouncing you up and down, only pushing the half of his length inside. It doesn't feel uncomfortable. He is stretching you bit by bit, and immediately pulling out. His grunts and panting, and your moaning surround your sweating bodies. "Fuck... Fuck..." you both pant into each other's ear.

"Harder," you moan and his hips start jerking upwards when his arms lower you down. The impact is so much stronger, more intense, more ecstatic. After just a few thrusts, you climax and scream into your hands. You are so loud, it's embarrassing.

"No, let me hear you. Scream more for me. "

He speeds up, your pussy contracting around his cock and you can only moan and whimper from your overwhelming prolonged orgasm. He presses you against his chest, growling like a beast, and jerks his hips upwards. There is some sudden pain, but pleasure too, and you cry out.

His low moans become louder as he pounds you. Your entire body feels his body, all around you and inside you. Finally, with a hard thrust, he grunts into your hair and forces you even harder against his body. Hot liquid enters deeply into your womb. It feels amazing.

With panting and drooling all over you, your boyfriend lets your torsos separate. But nothing else.

"I knotted in you. I can't pull out." He sounds both happy and worried. You look down and see a big bulge from your swollen pussy all the way to your navel. And finally you realize his whole monster cock entered you including the knot. "I'm sorry," he says.

It doesn't hurt too much. It's a bit sore, sure. With little practice, you are sure you could do this every day. The thought makes your pussy throb. He feels that and looks at you curiously.

With a sly smile, you rub the tip of his cock through your skin and it twitches. "Sorry? I'm upset we haven't tried this sooner. No need to hide in the basement from me ever again." Realizing what you said, he happily purrs and embraces you.

[transmunsons]

Steve Harrington had known for a while that he was on thin ice. His parents let him change his hair and clothes and name after a harrowing night that ended with him in a hospital bed.

So he tried to behave. They couldn’t complain as long as he played the perfect son. He did everything right. He excelled at sports, he didn’t make a fuss, he even fell in love with a wonderful girl.

Though, things got a little rocky when his dealer left town and handed things over to the local freak show. When he went to pick up his bottles, Loudmouth Munson tried to get under his skin.

“Y’know I always had a feeling you were doping.” Munson said, leaning against the picnic table.

“Would you just hand it over?” Steve held out his hand for the containers Munson was keeping hostage.

“This is a lot, Harrington, you’d think Hawkins would have actually won a championship by now with you on this stuff.”

Steve resisted the urge to rip it from his hands. Munson grinned an insufferable smile, like he enjoyed how much Steve was glaring at him.

“I’m not taking it because of basketball,” Steve said.

“So why then?”

“I don’t have to tell you shit.”

“Dude,” Munson raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Relax, I’m just messing with you. Call it fair play. Didn’t think you’d be so sensitive about it.”

Steve’s hands were still itching to grab it. Munson seemed to notice how antsy he was, following his anxious gaze flickering between the package and Munson’s face.

“Don’t ya trust me, Harrington?” He said.

“Not even a little,” Steve replied. He felt a tendon jump in his jaw.

“Can’t handle the thought of not having your steroids? Some people actually need these hormones to survive, rich boy.” Munson’s tone switched from teasing to something more somber, or maybe bitter. It was hard for him to tell those things.

Under normal circumstances he would have never said what he ended up saying. Munson had a way of pushing his buttons.

“I need them.” Steve watched an ant crawl around a knot in the wood in front of him. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Nobody in this town would understand.”

Steve looked up at a shocked Eddie Munson and held out a handful of bills. “Give me my drugs, take your money, and don’t tell fucking anybody about this. You got it?”

Eddie didn’t move for a long moment, carefully studying Steve and his outstretched hand. His rings flashed as he pushed the package over to Steve’s side of the table and grabbed the money in one swift movement.

“‘Course, Harrington. You get dealer-dealee confidentiality just like everybody else.”

Steve was glad the transaction was over. He grabbed his hormones and stood up to leave when Eddie’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“You’re not the only one.”

Eddie looked very serious, dark curls brushing the tops of his furrowed brows. It was a good look on him.

Steve felt his hopes rise. There were others like him in town. But, how could he be sure that Eddie was talking about what he thought he was talking about?

“Munson,” Steve said cautiously, “I don’t think we’re on the same page.”

Eddie, still seated, crossed his arms. “I guess there’s no way to know for sure unless one of us says it plainly, and I’m sure as hell not going to. I don’t want to end up on the news.”

“You don’t trust me?” Steve echoed, quirking up the side of his mouth.

It got a small smile from Munson. “You don’t even know who it is; dealer-dealee confidentiality goes both ways. I can’t go around blabbing about what drugs everybody’s on, I’d alienate my customer base.”

“Then I guess we’re at a standstill.”

Eddie looked at him with a curious expression. “I guess so.”

Steve took a few steps away from the table, leaves crunching under feet, before turning around. He hesitated. Eddie looked at him with those dark brown eyes of his, which didn’t help his resolve.

“Eddie,” the man’s eyebrows raised at the use of his first name. Steve continued, “if you ever feel like blabbing, you know where to find me.”

Eddie stayed quiet for once, the sounds of the woods surrounding the two of them as they lingered.

“Same to you, Steve,” He finally replied.

[perlelune]

NDA | Coriolanus Snow

When you get hired as a nanny for President Snow and his wife's firstborn, you’re beyond thrilled and grateful. But quickly, the perfect facade melts, revealing the ugly truth of what actually goes on in the Snows' house.

Warnings: NON-CON, Capitol! Reader, Innocent Reader, Cheating, Coercion, Blackmail, Power Imbalance

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Your worried eyes track the frenzied glide of the woman’s quill over the notepad. You squint, hoping to discern some of the words she’s scrawling that way, but they are indiscernible…just like the stone-cold expression of the bespectacled woman on the other side of the desk.

She catches you trying to peek. Your heart jumps.

As her sharp green gaze zeroes in on you, you clear your throat and shift in your seat.

She puts her quill down and twines her fingers.

“So what do you think sets you apart  from the other applicants?”

You chew on your lip. When you arrived to offer your candidature this morning, you naively believed you’d be early. Instead, you were forced to join the tail end of the massive waiting line stretching far outside the Snows’ estate. It didn’t hit you before that moment, how prized the position is. Each of the women and girls you saw radiated excellent breeding and impeccable manners. Many probably attended the University and could double as a tutor if the need presents itself.

This isn’t your case. Your parents left you and your brother Laertes with nothing when they suddenly passed away in a rebel bombing. You couldn’t blame them. This wasn't the plan. Who plans on dying and leaving their two children to fend for themselves?

Still, you now have a list of bills the length of your arm coupled with a massive mortgage to pay every month. And as Laertes’ sole caretaker, you must ensure you can afford to send him to University once he completes his education in the Academy.

Circumstances denied you that chance. Despite being of university’s age, you couldn’t afford the cost of tuition and had to drop out as soon as you got accepted. You want better for your little brother.

So as soon as you heard the news that President Snow and First Lady Livia Cardew were in search of a nanny for their son Martius, you jumped on the opportunity to apply. You rose before the sun, rummaged through your mother’s closet to find her best dress, and hailed a car to come here.

It’s a long shot, of course. You’re not as polished and impressive as some of the other women. You’re also noticeably younger. But the wages promised alone compelled you to take a chance despite the odds being unfavorable.

Fiddling with your hands, you meet the woman’s impassive stare head-on.

“What sets me apart?” You mull over your answer. You could paint a false, august portrait of yourself, your skills and your accomplishments. Or try to at least.

But what would be the point of pretending to be someone you’re not only to be found out later on? So you elect to tread the path of honesty.

“Nothing,” you say. “But I’m a hard worker. A very hard worker. In fact, I already have three jobs, one at a bakery, another as a clerk in an antique shop and I assist Fabricia Whatnot at her boutique sometimes.” Panic quivers inside you as the woman quickly jots something down on her notepad. You swiftly specify, “...But I’ll quit all of them if I get the position, of course.” You lick your lips as knots tie your stomach. “I can learn everything there is to learn on the spot. I love children, and…” You trail off, gaze traveling to your lap as you muse if you should reveal more. Your fists clench as you add, “I have a little brother who’s a few years older than Martius, and I’m really hoping I get this opportunity so I can give him the life he deserves.”

An unnerving quiet occupies the air. The wait is agony, your nails digging painfully into your palms. The jagged drumming of your heart bleeds inside your ears as she studies you.

Eventually, she leans back in the velvet chair, her face betraying no thought or emotion.

“You’re dismissed,” she says.

Your heart plummets to your feet. You shakily rise, dispirited as you drag your heels towards the door. You steal a glance above your shoulder. The woman’s attention has already drifted away from you as she shouts for the next applicant.

You sourly exit the office. You try to swallow your dejection as you note how many women are still waiting in line, each of them likely more qualified and experienced. It’s obvious you tanked the interview. Shoulders slumping, you take resigned steps through the elegant, palatial hallways of the Snow’s mansion. You get lost in admiring the crystal and gold chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. There isn’t an inch of the house that doesn’t scream excessive, unattainable wealth.

You take your time soaking it in. Chances are you’ll never step foot in such a place in your lifetime ever again.

Distracted, you don’t notice the person in front of you before it’s too late. You bump straight into a hard, inflexible body. 

The sudden collision threatens your balance.

Fingers coil around your wrists as you stagger back, preventing your impending collapse onto the marbled floor.

As your attention drifts skywards, your jaw drops at who fills your vision.

“P-President Snow, my deepest apologies, s-sir,” you stammer, flames licking your cheeks.

As if you didn’t make yourself look dimwitted enough before, you now carelessly crashed into the leader of all of Panem. Just when you thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse.

You take him in. It truly is him. Shock fills you. 

 Tall and dazzling in a crisp white shirt and crimson vest that hints at his lean physique beneath the clothes, his signature blond waves slicked away from his face, he looks every bit the important figure that he is.

The flickering TV screen you own at home doesn’t do him justice.

A gentle smirk unfurls on his lips.

“It’s quite alright. I’m not made of sugar,” he jests.

“No…you’re not, your highness…majesty...I mean sir.”

Your blunder expands his smile. His cerulean gaze drags over your frame.

“Are you here for the nursemaid position?”

“I am, sir.” You unleash a deep exhale, his inquiry tossing salt on the fresh wound. The interviewer clearly wasn’t impressed by your less than stellar performance. Maybe you should have tried to mimic the way the girls with whom you attended the Academy behave more. They carry themselves with such confidence, wading through the world with the certainty of their destinies being secure, bereft of hardships unlike district dwellers.

You envy how carefree they get to be. Everyday you wake up worried you’ll come up short on a bill and you and Laertes will be forced to leave your family home. No matter how diligent you are at work, there never seems to be enough money to sustain the two of you. Even with three jobs, you’re barely eking out a decent living for you and your little brother. Many times, you’ve gone to bed hungry just so Laertes would not.

You don’t even realize tears have filled your eyes to the brim until a handkerchief is daintily pressed into your cheeks.

Flabbergasted, you blink up at President Snow. 

“Thank you,” you exhale, stunned by his kind gesture.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

You search his eyes. Genuine interest lights up his pellucid blue orbs.

Without much thought, you confess, “I just don’t think I did very well with my interview.”

As he scrutinizes you in silence, cocking his head sideways, embarrassment rushes through you.

Words anxiously leave your lips in a tremulous string.

“God, I’m so sorry, spilling my problems to you as if you’re not an extremely busy man, sir.”

He shakes his head. “It’s quite alright. And do not count yourself defeated, sweetheart.” Your pulse stutters when he bends over you to whisper, “You may have left a stronger impression than you think.”

He nudges the pocket square between your hands. It’s still damp with your tears. You gape at it in awe. President Snow’s initials are elegantly etched in the left corner of the fabric.

“Here. Keep it. Though I’d much prefer it if you didn’t cry.” He pauses, studying you. “Girls as lovely as you never should.”

His words send your heart into a frenzy. For a while, you’re too stunned to move. You then shake yourself back to reality, noticing you’re now staring at the empty space where he used to stand. He’s gone. You look ahead. He’s already miles away from you, wrapped in conversation with who seems to be an assistant of his. 

Your thumbs press against the soft fabric of the pocket square. Cheeks ablaze, you hold it to your nose. It smells like roses, the same delicate scent that wafted from him a few minutes ago. Your back prickles. You pivot and are astonished to find the envious glares of some of the applicants still waiting in line zeroed in on you. Self-conscious, you rush to continue your exit, fleeing away from the hateful stares. 

As the outside gates come into sight, you can’t suppress an elated smile. It’s not everyday someone meets President Snow and receives such a gift from him. Shoving the handkerchief in your pocket, you vow to place it somewhere safe and always cherish it. 

When you return home, your brother’s already sitting in the living room, his tiny brows scrunched in concentration and his nose buried in his books. Your stomach sinks. Everything you did today was for him. You can’t help but feel you missed out on a huge opportunity, one that’d have changed the course of his life forever. You glance around at the apartment. The walls are crumbling. The wooden floors are creaking. The pipes in the kitchen have been leaking for weeks, a measly bucket you must empty every morning the only thing preventing a flood. And at night, the pitter-patter of rodents’ paws resonates from the ceiling.

Every inch of your family home is in dire need of repairs.

Unfortunately, every penny you earn goes into rent and food, meaning the house falls apart a bit more everyday. Perhaps one day, you and Laertes will awake beneath the rubble of what’s left of your childhood home. Nightmares of that sometimes keep you up at night.

“How was the Academy today?” you chime, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. Worry twists your chest. There isn’t much left. You’ll need to make do with cabbage and whatever other veggies are left. Perhaps you could toss in some leftover dried meat and make a stew.

“My teacher signed me up for advanced trigonometry,” your brother announces.

You close the cabinet and beam at him.

“Oh, that sounds hard. I’m proud of you.” It doesn’t exactly surprise you. Laertes’ always been exceptionally smart. Even his teachers noticed how gifted he is from an early age. Unlike you, he breezed through middle school and now the Academy.

It’s why it’s crucial you make sure he can go to the University. A mind like his shouldn’t be wasted.

You brother shrugs, exuding nonchalance.

“It’s fine.”

You rush to him. You wrap your arm around him playfully and hug him in his chair, pulling his cheek like when he was little. You know he hates when you do that but you can’t help teasing him a bit. It’s your duty as a big sister after all.

“Don’t downplay it. My little brother’s a genius.”

He wriggles his way out of the hug, rolling his eyes. 

“Stop it.”

You head back to the kitchen and fire the stove.

“I’ll make you something,” you say, smiling at your brother.

His brows knit. “Make something for yourself first.”

You nibble your bottom lip. You truly hoped he wouldn’t notice, how much smaller than his your portions are. But he’s growing; he needs it. Much more than you. Besides, how can he focus at the Academy and be the brilliant boy he is supposed to be with a growling stomach? You won’t allow it.

“Laertes…”

He shakes his head, his expression firm.

“No. You always do this. This time, we split whatever is left.”

Heaving out a resigned exhale, you nod. You whirl to resume preparing dinner.

You gather a boiling pot from the overhead cabinet and place it on the stove. With the ease of practice, you begin chopping vegetables and tossing them into the pot. You add spices and water. The mouthwatering aroma quickly fills the kitchen. Pride swells in your chest. Your cooking skills have improved so much in the last year since your parents passed. You now manage to bring flavor to the blandest of meals. 

Once the stew’s ready, you pour a portion in each bowl, putting just a little more in your brother’s and praying he will not notice.

You place the steaming bowls on the table and take a seat opposite him.

“No books at the dining table,” you admonish, mimicking the exact tone your mother used with your brother. Admitting defeat, Laertes sighs and sets his homework aside. The tiny victory tugs your lips skyward.

He tells you about his day at the Academy while the two of you eat. You’re delighted to hear he’s making a lot of friends and he’s at the top of his class for most science subjects. He’s struggling a bit more with his poetry and ethics classes, but you encourage him by reminding him he can just ask the teacher for extra assignments to keep his grade up.

“I interviewed for a new job today,” you reveal, stirring the spoon in your bowl while waiting for your brother to eat more of his food.

“How did it go?”

“Well, it pays really well so I’m hopeful.”

The hope dancing in his eyes makes your chest ache. You don’t have the heart to tell him you made a fool of yourself today. You may not be gifted like your brother, but you want him to know he can rely on you at least.

Pursing his mouth, he looks down at his stew.

“That’s great. It’d be good if you didn’t have to work as much.”

Your smile falters. “Don’t worry. I have everything under control.”

“Okay.”

His dour tone stirs your concern. You wish you were better at hiding things from him, making his childhood as normal as possible. But your brother’s twelve now, and that’s old enough to sense when things are wrong.

He rises from his seat. You frown as you note there’s still food left in his bowl.

“Finish your plate before going to your room.”

Annoyance pinches his features but he still picks up his bowl and hastily guzzles down the remainder of his stew.

“Happy now?” he says, wiping his mouth.

“Yes. Very,” you cheerfully respond.

He gathers his books and strides towards his room. 

Your voice rises.

“Don’t stay up too late to study, okay? I love you.”

“I…love you too,” he mumbles.

You bask in the moment as you clean the table. Thankfully Laertes is still at an age where he says it back. One day he might not. So you must cherish every instant. Every conversation, every hug, every ‘I love you’. Because it could all vanish in a second. You learned that the hard way a year ago.

The day of the interview recedes to the back of your mind as you keep living your life. Work is harrowing, as usual, but you tend to your tasks as best as you can. Your arms ache as you knead the dough in the back of the bakery. You give yourself a second to wipe the sweat off your forehead. It’s been a hectic afternoon. There’s a massive pastry order for some Capitol heiress’ birthday due tomorrow. So you’ve been racing between the front desk and the kitchen in the back. A baker called in sick today, leaving you with twice the workload.

You know it won’t take much to crash into your bed and fall asleep tonight.

To make matters worse, the day hits its nadir when you get your pay that day. You peer inside the envelope for the umpteenth time. An anxious chuckle peals out of your lips. 

“I’m sorry I don’t want to complain, but…this doesn’t match the hours I put in.”

The owner scratches the back of his neck, a contrite expression etched on his face.

“I’m sorry too. With the new taxes imposed by the Capitol, I had to cut your salary.”

Slack-jawed by the news, no word leaves your mouth as you stare at him. He sighs.

“If it’s a problem, we can find someone else-”

“No, no,” you interrupt, blinking in panic. “Please, I need this job.”

He acquiesces and you’re forced to thank him despite feeling cheated. You actually scaled back your hours for your other part-times since this one paid more. What a waste. 

Dispirited, you return home. As you give the driver a bill for the fare, your insides wrench. Every bill counts. Perhaps you’ll need to walk back home from now on. The streets of the Capitol are notoriously dangerous but you can’t see any other way to save your dwindling wages. You already know you’ll need to request an extension for rent this month. How will you pay it, however?

You suppose you’ll have to figure it out. You always figure it out.

These are the somber thoughts swaying in your mind as you check the mailbox. 

Bills. Bills. And more bills. Your already sour mood plummets even more. But a slim, silver envelope sticking out from the pile corrals your focus. Curiosity surges inside you. It looks fancy and there’s a wax seal with the Capitol’s symbol keeping it shut. You rush to open it, heart fluttering in strange anticipation.

You unfold the neatly folded letter inside. As you read the words, you gasp, dropping the letter. Still trembling from shock and excitement, you bend to pick it up. 

You take a deep slow breath before reading it again. 

This time, a squeal escapes from your lips. 

You read it many more times to make sure your eyes aren’t just conjuring wild fantasies. 

After a while, you realize they aren’t. It’s true. 

Holding the letter to your chest, you toss yourself on your bed and kick your feet excitedly. 

You then place your palm on your forehead. In disbelief, you beam at the ceiling. 

Somehow…you’ve been hired to work for the Snows. You actually got the job. 

Perhaps there is light at the end of the tunnel.

You fidget before the iron gates, smoothing absent wrinkles on your skirt. It’s one of the best outfits you could find on short notice that wasn’t moth-eaten or visibly overworn. You pray it’s enough. You let your gaze wander. The Snows’ estate truly is majestic. The lush gardens. The beautiful architecture. You feel a little small as you admire the mansion.

Remembering yourself, you pivot to the man who drove you there. You fish inside your pocket for a bill and hand it to him. He stares at you blankly from the driver’s seat.

A weary sigh ripples behind you.

You turn, your eyes widening. It’s the woman who interviewed you that day. She wears the same stern expression.

“You don’t need to pay him,” she explains, dismissing the man with her hand. He nods and drives away. “He’s your assigned driver. He’ll pick you up each day and take you back home.”

“Oh.” You offer your hand. “Nice to meet you…again.”

She gives you a lengthy onceover, completely ignoring your gesture. Then she motions at you to follow her. You let your hand fall to your side. Heat blooms in your cheeks. Perhaps, you were too enthusiastic just then. Straightening your spine, you try your best to keep pace with her quick strides.

“I’m Pandora. I supervise most housekeeping duties for the president. I’ll show you around the estate. Then you’ll meet the young Master.”

She gives you a tour of the mansion. You’re even more amazed than last time though you try to suppress your awe and not stare excessively. She shows you the garden as well. The sea of snow-white roses makes your head spin. She specifies that the only part of the house that is off-limits is the west wing of the mansion, as these are the First Lady’s apartments and she must have rest and quiet.

She ends the visit by taking you to the nursery. A smile spontaneously finds its way onto your lips. A toddler plays with his toy train on the floor. With his blonde curls and bright blue eyes, he bears a striking resemblance to his father.

“That’s him? He’s so cute,” you whisper. Even the stern woman’s expression thaws a little as she looks at the child, softening ever-so-slightly. You send her a questioning glance. She gives you a nod of approval. 

You approach the boy and crouch in front of him.

“Hi. You’re Martius, right?”

He lifts his head and beams at you. You’re immediately endeared. Again, his smile reminds you of President Snow. You suppose one could probably take over the world with a smile like that. 

You turn to Pandora.

“Is his mother around? I should probably introduce myself.”

Her face pinches. “Mistress Livia has been unwell as of late. She is not to be disturbed today as she is quite tired.”

“Of course.” Your lips squeeze shut for a few seconds but curiosity gets the better of you. A question burns on your lips, one that nagged you ever since you got the job. It slips out before you can think it through. “Is this…Is this why the president and his wife require a nanny? The First Lady is sick?”

Pandora glowers at you. You flinch as she steps further inside the room, her searing tone like a whip.

“You are here to do your job, and nothing else. Mistress Livia’s health is no concern of yours. Do you hear me?”

You rise on shaky feet. You forgot yourself.

“I-I understand. I’m sorry I asked.”

“This reminds me. You have to sign this,” she says, handing you a pen and clipboard. A thin stack of papers are attached to the clipboard. The front page spells ‘Non-Disclosure Agreement’ in bold letters at the very top. You scowl as you flip through the pages.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a contract, one signed by every one of the President’s employees.”

“I don’t understand most of what’s written here…”

A frustrated exhale peals from her lips.

“I’ll make it simple for you then. For the duration of your employment here, nothing you see or hear must ever leave this house. You are here to care for the young master, that is all. Nothing else should concern you. Is that clear enough?”

You swallow thickly. It doesn’t sound hard at all. Discretion is essential in every job, isn’t it? But the way Pandora makes it sound, you’d assume there are bodies buried beneath the Snows’ estate. You’d laugh if her death stare weren’t so disquieting.

You peruse the contract, perplexed by most of the legal mumbo jumbo filling the pages. None of it rings any bell. You understand the gist of it however. You must preserve the president and his wife’s privacy. While you don’t know the specifics of the first lady’s condition, her public appearances have been few and far between in the last few years.

She used to be the envy of every woman in the Capitol. Beautiful, young and married to the dashing President Snow.

She was a fairytale princess come to life.

Then their son Martius was born. And when they held him up from the balcony of their mansion for all of Panem to gaze upon, they truly seemed like the perfect family.

Until one day, Livia Cardew simply…vanished.

She was noticeably absent from all the events of the season, some she even hosted herself. Tongues wagged of course, rumors and wild theories spreading like wildfire. 

But no one knew the truth of what had happened to her.

The matter seems delicate. You promise yourself not to bring it up again.

You click the pen and scribble your name at the bottom of the very last page.

“I’ve…never signed a contract like that before starting a job.”

Pandora lets out a wry chuckle.

“Well, you’ve never worked for President Snow.”

As promised, you quit your two other jobs to focus solely on Martius. You’re hesitant at first. Your departed parents taught you never to put all your eggs in one basket. And it’s exactly what you’d be doing by trusting the Snows. But when you receive your first paycheck, long before the end of the week, every qualm you had fades. It’s more money than you’ve ever had, more money than you expected. Rent isn’t an issue anymore. Neither is food.

Besides, gifts keep coming from the estate. Clothes mostly, for both you and Laertes, but also jewelry, perfume and other fancy things you don’t need. Overwhelmed by President Snow’s generosity, you try to send some of it back, but you don’t have the heart to return everything when you see your brother’s happy face when he opens his wardrobe one day.

You’ve caught the self-conscious glimpses he casts at his classmates sometimes, when not wearing the Academy uniform. Their clothes are always brand new and custom, perfectly tailored while his are stitched back together by your clumsy hands whenever they fray at the seams. You’re not a seamstress but you’ve always done your best. But you know your best doesn’t compare to the access and privilege those kids have.

Other than those blessings, your time with Martius has been a breeze. Only hazy memories of your brother as a toddler linger in your mind, but you don’t recall him ever being as sweet and calm as the little boy is.

It hardly feels like work, caring for the small child. You spend the day playing along with his games, reading stories to him and, as the day nears its end, the two of you feed the ducks in the massive pond behind the mansion. He even gives them names and gets upset when they fight with each other. 

“Lily doesn’t like James anymore,” he whispers to you one day, a sullen pout scrunching his tiny features. 

“And why is that?”

“I think she’s angry that he steals her food.”

You chuckle and ruffle his golden locks. The little boy always has a story for everything he sees. At all times, his world must make sense. So if he cannot find a reason to explain what fills his gaze, he’ll weave a tale that matches it. His stories are each more wild than the other and he sometimes utters words you’ve never heard a four year old use.

But you surmise it is expected from the son of the president. When he isn’t with you, the little boy is often with his private tutor. Even at his tender age, the importance of manners and eloquence is impressed upon him.

Martius tugs at your skirt when you make your way to the door. You look down. His blue eyes are pleading. 

“You’re leaving again?”

You heave out a long exhale. The little boy wasn’t so clingy before but with your bond growing, he’s been expressing more sadness from watching you go at the end of every day. 

You hunker down to his level.

“My little brother’s expecting me.”

His forehead puckers. “Stay…”

“I told you before, Martius. I have a brother. He’ll miss me if I’m not here.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, giving a begrudging nod. Tears already swim in his eyes though. Panic flows through you. You didn’t want to upset him. You pick him up and bounce with him in your arms to try to soothe him.

“Oh, no. Don’t cry, sweetie.” He buries his head in the crook of your neck, nearly squeezing you to death when he wraps his arms around your neck. His loud, tearful sobs swell in the room. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow like always, okay? So I need you to be brave for me.” His grip on you loosens as he sniffles. You put him down and the two of you pinky promise that you’ll return. Your heart twists at the sight of his tear-stained little face. 

You give his hair one last affectionate pat before rushing outside. If you stay, he might throw another tantrum. No matter what, you can never get mad at Martius. He’s just a child. In the absence of his mother, he’s bound to grow attached to any woman filling a role adjacent to hers. You loathe that you’re taking those moments from the first lady. Though it pleases you to have a steady job and spend time with the sweet boy, it feels wrong that she isn’t there. She should get to see her baby grow up. She should hear his inane ramblings and eccentric stories.

As time wears on, you’re dying to meet her and tell her about Martius. Is she truly so sick that she can’t even see him for a mere few minutes? You’re itching to break the rules and visit the west wing of the mansion. Sometimes you hear blood-curdling  screams and wailing coming from the dark halls but you never dared venture through them. You know that if you did, Pandora would crucify you.

Laertes’ well-being matters more than your curiosity.

Humming absently, you halt in your tracks in the middle of a hallway. Confusion has you blinking. A peculiar noise bounces faintly against the walls. Your gaze drifts sideways, where the noise seems to come from. You’re clocking out. Whatever’s going on in the house isn’t any of your business at this hour.

But what if someone needs help? What if it’s something bad? You’d feel awful if you learnt something happened the next day and you pretended to ignore it. So you gingerly approach the wall. Your fingers graze the tapestry covering it. 

Your eyes widen when the wall moves, a tiny crack forming in it.

Your eyes bulge. It’s an ajar door, you realize. A secret door one wouldn’t notice if they weren’t aware it was there. Light spills from the slight opening.

Confining your breath, you bend over the crack in the wall to get a glimpse of what’s behind it. 

The vision crowding your sight makes the blood in your veins freeze. 

President Snow rutting into a maid with his pants down to his ankles. His usually neat blonde locks are tousled, a few damp curls kissing his forehead. His massive cock glistens with the girl’s essence, disappearing into the girl’s spread lips over and over again. Her body is bent over the railing of the bed and her maid outfit is bunched around her hips, exposing her ass, the flesh trembling with each of the president’s harsh, pointed thrust.

Each time he snaps his hips he draws a broken moan from her. One of his hands is around the back of her throat while the other’s on the small of her back. He grunts low in his throat as she clenches around him, thrusting into her even faster than before. 

The obscene sound of their coupling rises, coalescing with the feral grunts spilling from the president’s mouth. In that moment, he’s not the poised gentleman you’re used to seeing, he is an animal in rut chasing his high.

A shocked exhale escapes your lips. Your hand flies to cover your mouth. President Snow’s head snaps up, his gaze landing straight on you.

Your heart slams against your ribcage.

You jump back from the door and push the secret door closed. You dart across the hallway, determined to find the exit as quickly as you can. You don’t glance back, your steps hasty and panicked. 

Pandora was right. It’s best not not to hear or see anything, to become a tomb in which secrets are buried.

You can only hope he didn’t recognize you through the tiny crack in the door. 

Though you’re shaken to your core, you continue your work as a nanny. You still need money. You may have set aside everything you made thus far, but it will only sustain you and your brother for a month or two. Besides, you’ve already handed in your resignation for your other jobs.  The positions have likely been filled. You can’t exactly show up out of the blue and ask for your former job back. 

No. So you convince yourself that it’s alright. You have a good thing going anyway. You’re making more than you hoped. The child is happy. You’re happy. All is well. Or it would be at least.

…If you could conjure the memory of President Snow railing into the maid far away from your mind. 

You want to forget it, bury the moment so deep in the abyss of your thoughts, it can never be unearthed.

But it isn’t so easy. Because every time your mind wanders even a little, you see him again. Skin glistening with sweat and blue eyes alight with lust. The image is tattooed into your brain. 

You wonder if the first lady knows. Perhaps it’s why she’s hiding away. The weight of her husband’s indiscretions may have grown too heavy to carry. It sours your heart. President Snow seemed so kind, good and noble. He was nice to you. You still have the breast pocket he gave you tucked away in a drawer. You loathe to think he’d do that to his wife. No woman deserves this.

You lift your head when your name is uttered. You get to your feet. Adrift in your thoughts, you didn’t realize Pandora was in the nursery. 

“Yes?”

“The president wants to see you in his office.”

Dread wrenches your gut. It’s exactly what you feared. Does he know? Did he see you? Your pulse picks up. What other reason would there be? He never summoned you before.

“Really, why?”

“He didn’t say, but I’m assuming it’s to congratulate you.”

Befuddlement wrinkles your forehead. “Congratulate me?”

Pandora heaves out a weary sigh. “Well, you’ve done much better than we thought,” she begrudgingly admits. “The young master smiles all the time.” She rolls her eyes. “Even if we must deal with his tantrums when you leave.”

A sliver of pride flutters through you with her admission. Pandora made her doubts about your capabilities plain and obvious from the beginning. It gladdens you that you may have changed her mind a little. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” She turns to him, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “It’s a small price to pay for his happiness.”

Your smile vanishes as she adds, “Now let me escort you to the president’s office. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you trail behind her. The entire trek to the president’s office, your stomach’s in knots. You keep wondering if it’s the day you’ll lose your job for being too nosy. You should have walked past the noise. You shouldn’t have peeked. 

You inhale a lungful of nerve as Pandora opens the door to his office and frees room for you to enter. Your clammy hands wrench in your lap. He’s sitting behind his desk. You stagger further inside the room as he motions for you to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk. He looks the same as the first time you stumbled into him, disarmingly handsome in an impeccable shirt and pants that flatter his long legs.

A sharp contrast to the version of him that has plagued your thoughts lately. 

His sky gaze follows you as you take a trembling seat.

“Are you settling in well?” he asks.

“Hm, yes,” you stammer, anxiously twining your fingers. “It’s pretty much the perfect job. I get to be around a cute child all day.”

“I hear my son is very fond of you.”

You bashfully dip your head. “He’s very easy to like. He’s such a good boy, sweet, kind, and curious. You and your wife are raising him well, sir.”

He hums in thought. “I can’t take much credit for that. I���ve tried my best to carve out time for Martius…but work’s kept me busy. As for Livia...” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Well she isn’t quite herself these days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He places one hand under his chin, scrutinizing you. You try not to twitch beneath his stare, your insides tight with dread.

“Hm, it’s strange,” he states after a minute that goes by like an eternity.

Your head rises. “What’s strange?”

“A girl like you.” His lips drag upward. “Sweet, nurturing, beautiful. Shouldn’t you be married already?”

Your lips part in astonishment. This isn’t the line of questioning you expected. “I-I’m not.”

“No fiancé?”

“No, sir.”

“A lover then?”

Warmth rushes to your face.

“No…”

He laughs, mirth dancing in his cobalt orbs.

“You must pardon me for being so forward but I simply find it astonishing. No suitors? It’s hard to believe since you’re so lovely, sweetheart.” He tilts his head. You shift in discomfort, his attention making you feel see-through. “I mean, a husband would have made your life easier than it’s been thus far, wouldn’t he, dove?”

A long exhale flows from your lips. “I’ve had offers, after I graduated from the Academy. There was even this boy, he was so kind to me.” The memory draws a small smile from you. “He proposed. I’m sure he’d make a great husband, but…”

“But…”

Your mouth dries.

“I know it’s probably naive and unrealistic but I want to marry for love, that great, life-changing love, like in those romance novels my mom used to love, not money or status.”

His eyes twinkle. “Or financial stability?”

Shame gathers in your chest. You know it sounds silly when uttered aloud. 

“I know, I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re not. It’s sweet that you still believe in love.” He appears lost in a faraway memory, his gaze hazing over with remembrance. “I used to believe in it too. I used to think, ‘Who needs wealth and success and power when love conquers all?’”

He chuckles but it’s bereft of amusement. 

“Really? What happened then?”

His gaze locks with yours. 

“I grew up.”

Confused, you frown. 

“But aren’t you and the first lady in love?”

Another laugh bursts from his chest.

“God, you’re sweet.” His tone lowers to a dulcet whisper. “It’s like none of the world’s ugliness has gotten to you yet.” He reveals matter-of-factly, “My wife and I hate each other.” His smile widens at your flabbergasted expression. “Always did. It’s best that way, more…efficient. Of course, there was a time, when we had…passion.” He licks his lips, something you can’t pinpoint flickering in his gaze. “But not anymore. She’s far too gone for that.”

He rises from his chair. You stiffen as he circles the desk, making slow steps towards you. 

“Which is why I must…satiate my needs wherever I can,” he mumbles, fingers lurking under your chin, forcing your eyes to fall upon him. “Do you understand my meaning, dove?”

“I…yes.”

Discomfort flares within you. Tension hangs in the air, so heavy it clogs your airways. 

He cocks his head, lips slanting crookedly.

“Do you really? With that innocent look in your eyes, it’s hard to tell.” His thumb sweeps over your shuddering bottom lip. “Men have needs. And am I not a man, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes you are, sir.”

He bends over you to whisper in your ear. “You saw everything that day, didn’t you?” Your heart stops.

Flames lick your face as you bow your head. “I-I didn’t see anything.”

His warm breath ghosts over your earshell.

“Liar,” he mumbles.

Your pulse quickens.

He leans back and nudges your chin upward.

“Since my wife fell sick, I’ve been very lonely. And sometimes…” He looms over you, crowding your space as you peer up at him, fingers squeezing the arms of the chair. “I need something soft and warm to forget that feeling.”

President Snow slowly falls to his knees in front of you. His fingers find your thigh, starting to creep under your skirt. A devilish glint sparkles in his cobalt gaze. He finds your center, pressing the sheer fabric into your folds. You gasp. He chuckles at your reaction. He starts teasing you through your panties, tracing your slit and dragging over your tender bud. Your breath hitches as the air around you grows hotter. You grow slick beneath his finger, your thighs shaking as tingles bloom on your flesh.

“Sir…” you whimper, tears welling up in your eyes.

He pushes further inside you, adding another finger, and you unleash an audible breath. You try to close your thighs. He places his other hand on your knee to keep you open for him.

The air in your lungs grows thinner as he rubs your core through your soaked panties. The friction is a delicious torture. Pleasure pools in your belly causing your face to burn with shame. You’re getting embarrassingly wet with President Snow’s attention.

“I just want a little taste,” he murmurs, his deep timbre bleeding lust. “Just one time and it’ll never happen again,” he promises fervently as his lips graze your ankle. You find some relief when his fingers disappear from your drenched center. But your respite is ephemeral. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs at your panties.

Panic widens your eyes. Cheeks ablaze, you pull at the material between your legs with both hands. But he’s stronger than you and effortlessly drags the fabric along your legs. A wicked smile plays on his lips as tears glisten in your eyes. It’s soon down to your ankles. You squeal when the president yanks the panties off your foot, tossing them aside. Cool air sneaks beneath your skirt, swirling over your bare folds.

Hands over your knees to keep you spread, his wolfish gaze sweeps over your glossy folds. 

Your skin heats, embarrassment gathering in your chest. You’ve never been this vulnerable and exposed in front of anybody before.

“Please, President Snow, s-stop…” 

“But you’re dripping, sweetheart,” he states smugly, sinking a finger inside your weeping core, as if to make a point. Your breath hitches. He takes his finger out sluggishly. You clench when he grazes one of your sensitive spots. “Just as sweet as I expected,” he hums, obscenely licking your essence off his long digit.

Without a warning, he buries his head between your thighs. A sharp exhale leaps from your mouth. His cool tongue traces a wet trail over your folds. President Snow traces maddening patterns over your swollen bud causing your eyes to roll back.

You card your fingers through his silken platinum locks, hoping to push his head away. But the delightful sensations grow too overwhelming. You unravel beneath his sinful ministrations, your limbs twitching as the thread of your thoughts comes loose.

Your grip on his hair weakens. Your belly tightens, your chest rising and falling rapidly. 

You jolt as his tongue flickers over your tender heap of nerves. 

“P-President…” 

He purrs against your folds and the vibrations rock through your core. You squirm in the chair. Your thighs quake. Your vision dims, your mind blank as waves of pleasure swaddle you in their tide. Protests scatter on your tongue, replaced by wanton whimpers and moans.

Electricity ripples through your spine as you cry out.

Bliss engulfs you and your legs turn liquid. Shame swirls in your gut as your juices coat his tongue. He drinks your nectar, elation rumbling in his chest. 

When he lifts his head, you hardly recognize him. The feral glow in his gaze chills your blood.

There is no time to collect yourself, realize what just occurred, as the blonde gathers your limp frame from the chair and places you on his desk. Documents and papers are flung to the ground as he grabs your thighs and presses his throbbing hard-on against your cunt. 

He hastily unbuttons his pants, freeing his hard length. He fists his cock and guides it through your wet entrance. Your back arches, the sudden intrusion robbing you of air. He reaches the hilt of you in a few seconds, giving you no time to accommodate his thick girth. You collapse over the desk, weak whimpers leaving you as your walls are stretched to their limit. He drags out of you, his pupils flaring as they trace the motion of his length in and out of you. Coriolanus leans over you. He snaps his pelvis into your hips, each of his thrusts tearing tearful moans from your throat.

When you turn your head, hot tears flowing down your cheeks, he grabs your chin so you’re forced to meet his lustful stare. Bracing himself on the desk, he reaches between your bodies to pinch your swollen clit. He plucks at your soft bud until you shatter around him with a sob. His throat bobs, a look of sheer bliss flitting across his face when you clench around him.

“I’ve been dying to fuck you the minute I saw you,” he confesses, trailing soft pecks over your collarbone. A sinister chuckle peals from his lips. “The way you looked at me with those sweet, innocent eyes…it made me rock-hard.” He tilts your chin towards him, his thumb skimming over your parted lips.

Satisfaction glimmers in his eyes as they flick over your prone form.

“You should thank me. Those boys at the Academy wouldn’t know what to do with a girl like you…” His cock twitches inside you. Sticky warmth spills from him, painting your walls and dripping past your hole. Drops of his seed leak onto the desk. A throaty sigh pours from President Snow’s throat as your cunt flutters around him.

His teeth nip the skin of your neck.

“...But I do.”

After what occurs in his office, you hope to avoid President Snow. Those hopes are swiftly dashed however. President Snow lied to you. It doesn’t happen once. In fact, you begin to lose count of the actual number.

Every time the president finds a little spare time, he summons you.

Sometimes you end up bent over the desk in his office as he pours the frustrations of the day into your warm hole. Sometimes he prefers you sprawled on your back in one of the multitude of luxurious beds in the mansion while he devours you as if you were his very last meal. And at times, he grows even more impatient and simply shoves you against a wall before ravaging you.

More than once, a maid or footman has walked in on the two of you, and you’ve had to swallow your shame and embarrassment.

As you’ve come to learn, the entire staff is aware of Coriolanus Snow’s insatiable appetite and none of them seems to care.

You feel sick, desperate, trapped in something twisted and awful you never signed up for.

But how does one say no to President Coriolanus Snow? The entire Capitol yields to his every whim. And you are the same. Here to bow and smile and lie back whenever he demands it.

You long to focus on your job, to care for Martius and nothing else. Whenever the boy looks up at you with those innocent blue eyes, eerily similar to his father’s, your stomach wrenches. You pray he never comes to learn what kind of man his father is. You wish he’d stay just as kind and sweet as he is now.

Those are the thoughts drifting through your mind as you watch Martius play with his toy trains. Your eyes wander towards the window. Outside, orange and purple hues are bleeding into the sky, the afternoon nearing its end. Your stomach coils. It’s during times like these that President Snow often seeks you out. You’ve tried to run away from him but it’s all a game to Coriolanus, and he always delights in chasing you through the hallways.

Your brows crumple as you note that Martius has stopped playing. He drops his toy and rushes to your side. Confounded by his behavior, you’re on the cusp of asking him what’s wrong…but your gaze follows what caught his attention on the other side of the room.

You fall silent, your eyes rounding in shock.

“Martius. Come here, my love,” says the blonde woman in a white robe and nightgown, her arms wide open.

Time stands still for a few seconds. It takes you a while to realize who stands before the door. She looks so different, more ghost than woman, her glassy blue eyes hollow and sunken. But her likeness is unmistakable. Even with her graying, limp tresses and ashen complexion, you recognize Livia Cardew. The president’s wife.

You bolt to your feet. Arms still open, Livia takes slow steps towards Martius.

“I’m your mom, sweetie. Don’t you remember me?”

The little boy’s fists clutch your skirt as he hides his face against your leg.

“You’re not my mom.”

A stricken look twists Livia’s features as she shrinks. As if her own son just drove a knife through her heart. Your chest twinges. While her abrupt appearance is a shock, you can’t imagine how she must feel. You place a hand on Martius’ back and try to nudge him forward.

“Martius. It’s the First Lady, your mother. Go on, hug her,” you urge softly.

He shakes his head, tears filling his eyes as he hides behind you even more.

You’re stunned. Has it truly been that long?

“Martius-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence, Livia lunging at you, her eyes wild with fury.

“You! This is all your fault,” she hisses. She points at you and scoffs, “You’re his new whore, aren’t you?” Her mouth wobbles as she grips her head. “First you take my husband, now my son.”

Martius begins to sob. His loud cries overlap with his mother’s frantic yelling. You cover his eyes, tossing Livia an apologetic look.

“First Lady, I never meant-”

Before you can explain yourself, she grabs a nearby vase and smashes it. White roses scatter on the floor. Stomping all over the petals and broken glass, she collects one of the shards and races towards you. Terror numbs you. You freeze as Livia aims the shard at you, scarlet droplets dripping on her nightgown as she squeezes her fist around the glass.

Your eyes shut as you wait for the inevitable strike.

You shiver, waiting still.

But it doesn’t come.

“Livia, darling, that’s enough. It’s time for you to sleep and take your medicine.”

The familiar sound of Coriolanus’ voice causes your eyes to snap open. 

You watch him restrain a struggling Livia. She curses at him, fighting him with all her might. It’s a painful spectacle. 

“No, don’t touch me!” Other staff members rush into the room. It takes several people to hold Livia down, colorful expletives pouring from her mouth as she punches and kicks whoever comes close. “You’re killing me! You bastard! Give me my son back! Martius! Martius!”

The child trembles against your skirt, his tear-filled gaze stuck to the floor.

Eventually someone manages to stick a needle into Livia’s neck. She instantly goes limp, arm still reaching for her son in her last conscious second.

“Take her away,” Coriolanus instructs.

The first lady’s flaccid form is dragged out of the room. Still shaken by what you just witnessed, you don’t move a muscle. President Snow approaches you, worry swimming in his blue orbs. 

“Are you alright, dove?” He cups your cheeks, his brows crumpling as his gaze settles on your neck. “I’ll have Doctor Gaul look at you. She has an ointment for that.” He caresses your cheeks, smiling. You gape at him. How can he smile at a time like that? “It won’t even scar. I promise.”

You graze your neck. Your fingers come away bloody. Oh. Livia nicked you with the shard but you didn’t even feel it. Perhaps adrenaline numbed you to the pain.

“Dada,” Martius chimes, lifting his chubby arms.

Coriolanus’ face warms as he picks up his son. He tosses him in the air and catches him. Martius giggles through his tears.

“My sweet boy. That was very scary, wasn’t it?” he says, balancing his son on his hip. Martius nods and wipes his nose. Coriolanus flicks his cheek, beaming at him. “Don’t worry, son. The scary lady won’t bother you anymore in a few months.”

A wave of ice blows through your veins. You wonder why the president uttered those words with such certainty. Like a promise. Or a prophecy. Almost as if he knows exactly when the grim reaper will come knock on his wife’s door.

The next day, you hand over your resignation to Pandora. Her expression is skeptical as she gauges the manila folder you give her.

“This is for the president,” you announce.

She unleashes a deep exhale. “You should reconsider, sleep on it.”

You almost laugh. Sleep on it? You can hardly find rest, the picture of a disheveled Livia Cardew crying out for her son haunting your nights. Whatever befell upon the poor woman, you wouldn’t be surprised if her husband somehow had a hand in it. It broke your heart, seeing her like that, her own son unable to recognize her. You also despise the role Coriolanus forced you to play in erasing her memory.

All of it feels wrong. 

And most of all, you don’t want President Snow to use you to satisfy his lewd desires anymore. He took all your firsts, all the moments that should have been beautiful, and made them a nightmare you have to relive every time he touches you.

You respected him; you admired him. Now you can’t be in his presence without dread whispering through you. What will he make you do this time? How will he make you small and powerless again?

“I can’t…I can’t do this anymore. He can hire someone else to care for him.”

Pandora purses her lips and shakes her head.

“It’s really not that simple. The president has developed…a fondness for you.”

You bristle. “I have to go back home. Laertes is expecting me.”

“You won’t like what comes next, trust me.” Her gaze narrows. “No one leaves the president.”

Ignoring the shudder elicited by her daunting words, you pivot and make a beeline towards the exit. Pandora’s voice echoes down the hallways.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Depleted, you glumly make your way to the gates. You enter the car that takes you back home everyday. Your thoughts wander as the Snow’s house grows smaller through the car window. You were thrilled when you got this job. It felt like kismet after the year you and your brother had. A rainbow after the rain. A slice of hope.

How it all went to hell so quickly. You’re still reeling from it. You’ve no idea what you’ll do next. The only thing you know for certain is that you will not step foot into the Snows’ estate ever again.

The car suddenly halts. You bump your head into the passenger’s seat. Wincing, you grip the sides of your head. As you retrieve your senses, you look around. You stopped.

You toss a questioning look at the driver.

But before he can respond, the car door opens and you’re yanked outside. Two pairs of strong arms drag you away from the car.

You take in the blue uniforms of the men. Terror pulses through your blood.

Peacekeepers.

Noting the guns at their sides, you stop trying to resist. There’s no fighting against them, ever. They are the Capitol’s fist and carry the President’s will. You don’t stand a chance. In fact, you likely never did. You slump in their grip, despair thrumming inside you.

They escort you to a black car with tinted windows. Your pulse soars. You’ve only ever seen one individual step out of this car.

The peacekeepers toss you inside and slam the door shut.

Your fearful gaze rises to him.

He casually sits in front of you, his eyes narrowed.

“You disappoint me, dove.” He lets out a weary sigh. “After everything I’ve done for you…you try to leave me. I thought you were smarter than that.”

You twine your hands, sputtering, “I-I’m not the right person for this job, sir.”

He slides his fingers under your chin, tilting it upward.

“Oh but you’re perfect. My son loves you. You’re sweet, dutiful and most importantly…” He smirks. “You are mine. Mine to hold, spoil and fuck whenever I please for however long I please.”

The prospect fills you with dread. He wants you to be his toy again, submissive, available whenever he pleases.

“Sir…”

His jaw ticks, his hold on your jaw tightening.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if your brother could attend the University, free of charge? A bright young mind such as his, I believe he deserves it.” His blue eyes twinkle. “Instead of, let’s say…end up in a District, his name chosen as a tribute in the next Hunger Games.” Your heart sinks to your feet. “That’d be awful, wouldn’t it? So cruel…” he mumbles, stroking your trembling bottom lip.

“No, please,” you beseech, tears swelling in your eyes. Your brother’s all you have left in the world. Nothing can happen to him. 

Coriolanus fondles your cheek, the tender gesture a sharp contrast to the wicked words rolling off his tongue.

“It’s all up to you, then, dove. As long as you behave, I’ll give you the world. But if you act like a little brat again…” A threat lurks in his soft tone, a glint of madness swaying in his cobalt orbs. “I really don’t know what I might do.”

Chills dance over your spine.

“I promise to never do it again,” you blurt out.

He pulls out a square from his breast pocket. It’s identical to the one he used the first time.

But a lifetime seems to have passed since that moment, the world now so different from what you imagined, and the man before you…even more so.

“Good girl,” he lauds while swiping away your tears. 

He shoves the pocket square back in its place. Coriolanus then beams at you as he starts unbuttoning his shirt and undoing his pants.

“Now, I’ve had a long, exhausting day. So how about you get on your knees for me and make it better with that sweet mouth of yours, dove?”

[tropes-and-tales]

🥰 FINALLY

(Frankie "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader)

CW:  Angst; talk of addiction; talk of failed relationships. Smut (PiV, unprotected). 18+ only.

Word Count: 6734

AN:  This was originally requested by @elegantmusicdragon, and it's a sequel to this!

There’s no pretending they don’t know.

Will saw it firsthand.  Pope heard it, then got text confirmation from Will.  Ben slept through all of it, but when he wakes early in the morning, he looks across the loft and sees his brother in the wan pre-dawn light, staring at the ceiling with a haunted look on his face. 

A bit of prodding later, he finds out what he missed while he slept.

You and Fish, fucking.  You and Fish, the two members of the team who squabble and irritate each other the most, who sometimes outright fight and sometimes require someone else—Will, usually—to referee.

You and Fish.  You thought you were quiet, but by morning, everyone knows.

And worse, you and Fish know they know.  After you finished, quiet as you could be, both of your cell phones pinged with a string of incoming messages.  From Pope.

Pope:  👏👏👏👏

Pope:  excellent work you two

Pope:  🍆 💦💦💦💦

Pope:  seriously tho ur both gross

Pope:  but congrats happy for u

You read the messages and felt a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, but when you glanced over at Frankie, he only raked his hand through his hair and muttered, “fuck.”

-----

Breakfast is a surreal affair.  No one says anything at first, so the only sounds are forks and spoons clinking against dishes.  Chewing.  Benny, doing his usual gross early morning phlegm-clearing cough.

Your face burns in embarrassment.  Frankie keeps his eyes fixed on his scrambled eggs, which he only pushes around with the tines of his fork.  You can feel Pope’s eyes on you, Will’s eyes, and the cabin is full of anticipation.

Pope’s the one who breaks it.  He clears his throat, asks in a tone that’s phony-casual, “everyone sleep okay?”

“I didn’t,” Will replies.  “Thought I heard something last night.”

“Outside?”  Again, Pope’s voice is fake, an edge of chipper teasing in it. 

“Sounded like something got into the cabin.”

Pope pulls a thoughtful face.  “Y’know, I think I heard something too.  Kinda like a wounded animal?  Two wounded animals, grunting and moaning—”

Frankie huffs out a heavy sigh, and you slouch lower in your chair.  Benny grins around his mug of coffee and adds, “it is mating season, I think.”

Pope snaps his finger, a eureka sort of gesture.  “That must be it!  We must have come here during mating season and just didn’t realize it.  Wild.  Who knew?”

You chafe at the word mating, which makes it sound like you and Frankie are…well, mates, so you mutter, “it’s just hooking up,” which makes Frankie sigh again, because that launches Pope into a blistering lecture about responsibility and poor choices and Jesus Christ, you two, are you even using protection?  Are you at least being safe, because you sure as shit aren’t being smart?

You mumble a defensive comment that it isn’t his business (though you’re on birth control, you sure as hell aren’t admitting it to the guys—Frankie knows, and that’s all that matters), and then you find the strength to stand up, announce that you’re going for a walk down to the lake, and if they care to speculate further on your reproductive health, they can do so without your presence.

*****

Frankie can’t remember the last time he has been so mortified.

No, scratch that.  He can remember.  It was when he was in the throes of his addiction, and you ambushed him with an intervention.  Now, a full year after that, he sees the love and care that went into it, but at the time, he felt a furious blend of anger and frustration and mortification.

This is like that, albeit less strong…but incredibly fresh.

After you march off—abandoning him, naturally—he lets the guys get their shots in.  He clenches his jaw and fixes his gaze somewhere over Pope’s head, at a pattern of knots in the wood paneling on the wall.  He tries to let their ribbing wash over him, but he takes each comment personally.

And he’s embarrassed.  It would be one thing to be caught with a random woman from, say, a bar or a party.  You, though?  It feels like a weakness, a failure of character, to be caught fucking someone he barely gets along with.  Pathetic, like he can’t do better.  Like he couldn’t find a woman who simpers for him, who is eager to impress him, who is impressed by him.  Like he’s had to settle for someone who rolls her eyes at him, who snarks at him, who doesn't think that highly of him. 

Someone who saw him at his weakest, when he was addicted to coke.  Someone who rolled her eyes and marched in to save the day.

Weak.  Pathetic.

Frankie stews.  The guys wear themselves out, split up.  Benny goes to find you on your march down to the lake.  He says he’ll calm you down, soothe your chagrined soul and smooth you out.  Pope disappears into his room to take a work call, since he has a new contract coming up in a few days.

It leaves Frankie and Will.  Frankie stands up from the table and makes his way out to the front porch, and Will follows.  Frankie heaves himself onto the porch swing, and he sets a rhythm of fast, jerky swinging.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  He swings in time to his pounding heart, the headache forming at the base of his skull.

Will settles on the step and stretches his leg out.  He turns his face to the rising sun, and he’s silent for a long moment.

“You okay?” he finally asks.  There’s no teasing in his voice.  He sounds genuine.

“Great.”  Frankie spits it out, sarcastic.

Will jerks his chin in the direction of the cabin door.  “You know we’re just teasing.”

“Yeah.”

Will hesitates before he asks, “is it really just hooking up?”

Frankie sighs.  “Obviously.”

Another beat of hesitation.  “You don’t have feelings for her?”

That pulls a bitter laugh from Frankie.  “Obviously not.”

“Thing is, it’s not so obvious.”  Will turns his head and fixes Frankie with an appraising look that Frankie doesn’t like.  He meets his eye for a beat, then slides his own gaze away, looks past Will to the clearing where the fire pit is.  That first evening here seems a million years ago, though it was only a couple of days. 

“It’s just that you two make a weird sort of sense,” Will continues.  “You’re so similar—”

“We’re nothing alike.”  Frankie cuts him off tersely.  “We don’t have a damned thing in common other than a shared history.”

“You’re both stubborn.  You’re both strong-willed people, and you both obviously care about each other—”

“No.  Nope.”  He cuts him off again, and all of those bad feelings—mortification being the strongest—bubble up in him.

“I don’t care about her.  Are you kidding?  It was just hooking up.  She was available, and it was convenient, and that’s it.” 

There’s venom behind his words, a force fed by his deep embarrassment to have been caught with you.  It makes his voice carry just enough that you and Ben both hear it as you walk back from the lake.  Will sees you first, makes a noise in the back of his throat as he catches your expression—the hurt there, the pain that Frankie’s words cause—and then Frankie sees you too.

“Hey,” he starts to say, but you wave him off, tell him it’s fine, you’re fine…and in all the years that Frankie has known you, this is the first time you lie to him.

-----

The weekend ends on a sour note.

There’s no fight between you and Frankie, and that hurts the most.  For as much as you bicker, you go silent now.  When you talk to him, you’re flat.  Polite.  Distant.

Pope needs to head back early to get back to Colombia, and you catch a ride with him.

“Got things I need to do,” you say, and everyone knows it’s a lie, but no one knows how to call you out on it.  You’re hurt, Frankie has hurt you and the guys fed into the bad feelings that led to that hurt, and everyone parts in a low mood.

A hundred times Frankie’s finger hovers over your name on his phone.  A hundred times he starts to craft a message in his head, only to toss the phone aside.

A hundred times he struggles to fall asleep because he cannot get your face out of his head.  That look of surprise and hurt, and all his fault because he was an asshole who was embarrassed to be caught hooking up with you.

No, not was an asshole.  Is an asshole.  Because a hundred times he thinks he’ll summon the courage to reach out, but a hundred times, he fails.

-----

He doesn’t see you for six months.  He don’t talk to you directly, and the best he gets is your short, clipped responses in the gang’s group chat.  Even there, you tend to go silent.

He dare not ask one of the guys how you’re doing.  He sees the Miller brothers the most, talks to Pope only sometimes, and maybe there’s a separate group chat because it seems as though the three of them have reached some agreement to never mention you around Frankie.

Six months.  Half a year after the cabin by the lake.  How does Frankie spend his time?  Lonely, mostly.  He goes to work, then goes home.  He goes to meetings once a week, but he rarely has cravings and has less pressure to use.  He started using before because he just had too much going on—work and married life, Pope’s scheming to make them all millionaires, Tom’s death.  Now Frankie has very little.  Just a job.  Just a small apartment where he sits alone on his secondhand couch and eats microwaved leftovers while the TV plays at a low volume.

A hundred times he thinks to call you.  A hundred times he thinks to drive to where you live—one town over, but only a fifteen minute drive.  He could apologize; he could try to understand why you looked so hurt.  Of course he cares for you, deep down, but it isn’t love…or was it?

A hundred times that question floats to the front of his mind, and a hundred times he shoves it down, ignores it, waits for it to recede from his thoughts.

-----

Six months after the cabin by the lake, Frankie sees you again.  Pope is in town for his birthday.  His latest contract has ended, the next one hasn’t begun, and he has a stretch of time to visit and gorge himself on all the things he can’t get overseas.

His birthday is held at Will and Benny’s place.  When Frankie rolls up a solid half hour late, though, Will is outside waiting for him.

“How’s it going?” he asks, and the two exchange their usual handshake into a half-hug.

“Good.  You?”

“Good.”  Will jams his hands in his pockets and fixes Frankie with a curious look.  “She’s in there, you know.”

It says a lot that the she in this case is you and not his ex-wife, who arguably would put the guys more on alert.  How have you managed to reach such a dubious place of honor?

Frankie tries to sound casual.  “Yeah, I figured.”  A beat, and he adds, “don’t worry.  I don’t plan on fighting with her.  It’s Pope’s night.”

Will furrows his brow at that, shakes his head faintly.  “Yeah, I know.  But Frankie, she’s in there with someone else.  Pope’s buddy, remember?”

-----

Fucking Paolo.

Fucking recently-divorced, recently-cheated on, sad piece of shit Paolo.  Pope’s buddy that he tried—and apparently succeeded at—setting you up with at the cabin.

Thing is, the guy isn’t a sad piece of shit.  Or a troll, as Frankie had teased you at the cabin.  The man is handsome; an easy smile and warm eyes.  Hair that looks great but like he didn’t try to make it look great.  Clothing well-fitted and well-made, but not obnoxiously designer.  Good handshake, when Frankie is introduced.  A genuine ‘nice to meet you’ in accented English.

Frankie’s jealousy, as it turns out, is wide and deep and never-ending.

Because for fuck’s sake, you look happy.  Relaxed.  Paolo puts his hand on your lower back and leads you to get fresh drinks.  He slings an arm around your waist as you stand and chat with Pope.  He turns and whispers something in your ear that makes you giggle, and how is Frankie just now learning that you fucking giggle, and that it sounds cute on you, a musical little laugh that makes his stomach turn because he’s never drawn such a sound from you?

And Paolo must smooth out your rough edges because you gift Frankie a little smile and ask how he’s been, and there’s no venom behind the question.  No lingering bad will. 

You’ve moved on, it seems, and it hits Frankie harder than he thought it would.  He ends up leaving after only a few hours, lies and says he’s coming down with something, but he takes one backwards glance at you before he goes. 

You aren’t looking at him at all.  You’re looking—gazing—at fucking Paolo’s handsome fucking face, and Frankie’s first thought is she never looked at me like that.

His second thought is maybe I never gave her a reason to look at me like that.

-----

Frankie sees you once a few months after Pope’s birthday, by accident at the grocery store.  You’re alone and frowning slightly in the produce section, looking at the selection of apples on display.  Paolo is nowhere in sight, but that doesn’t mean anything.

You don’t see Frankie.  He stands by the cut flowers and studies you from under the brim of his hat, and he half-hopes you turn and see him.  He half-hopes you don’t.  He stands by a bucket of cheerful daisies and wonders if Paolo brings you flowers.

He half-hopes the man does, because you deserve flowers.  He half-hopes he doesn’t, because Frankie is jealous and hates the thought that Paolo has only known you for a fraction of time—far less than Frankie has known you—and is still probably that much better for you than Frankie would have been.

Frankie doesn’t know what to do with himself.  His thumb still hovers over your contact information in the still, quiet hours of the night. 

He thinks of the intervention you staged for him.  He had stormed out, furious to be so embarrassed and exposed, and you had followed.

He remembers you stopping him, your hands turning him to face you.  Your hands gripping either side of his face as you stared deep into his eyes and pleaded with him to get his shit together.

It’s as good of advice now as it was then.

-----

A year after the cabin by the lake, and everyone returns to the cabin by the lake. 

Frankie hesitates when Will calls for his confirmation.  Will must guess why, because Will not-so-casually mentions that it’s just the core folks, you and Frankie and Pope and the Millers.  No plus-ones.

“Just us,” Will reminds him.  “To remember Tom.”

So fucking Paolo won’t be there with his nice smile and nice hair and his hand resting lightly on your back, and Frankie agrees to come.

When he arrives, it is just like the year before.  Pope pulls rank and calls dibs on the lone single bedroom.  The Miller brothers scamper up to the loft like children, poking at each other and laughing the whole way.

Which leaves you and Frankie exactly where you were a year ago.  Awkwardly sharing the living room with the lumpy couch and a mattress on the floor.  Frankie glances at you, opens his mouth to say something, but Pope—who tosses his bag into the bedroom, then strides back out—comes up to you and pulls you into a hug that kind of looks like a headlock.

“Sorry to hear about it,” he says, and Frankie is bewildered for a beat before Pope adds, “for the record, I told him he was being fucking stupid.”

His mind guesses that this is about Paolo, but his mouth, which often operates independently of his mind, blurts out, “did you break up?”

You peer out at him from where Pope has you tucked against him, and grumble, “how’d you say it last year?  I’d only disappoint him.”

Frankie sucks in a breath, remembers the shot he took at you.  He shakes his head, ashamed at the memory, but doesn’t say anything.

“No.  No, no, no.”  Pope adjusts his hold, puts you in an actual headlock.  He glances over at Frankie and clarifies, “he got back together with his ex-wife.”

“She was better than me,” you chime in, and it sounds muffled.

“Nope again.  She’s a cheater, and she’ll cheat again, and you’ll be off with someone far better.”  Pope adjusts his hold as you struggle against him, and he adds, “now say something nice about yourself.  No feeling sorry, so say something nice.”

“I’m a good cook.”  It’s muffled again; your face is pressed against Pope’s side where he holds you fast.

“No good.  I mean, you’re a good cook, yes, but you learned that.  It’s not essential to who you are.”

“Pope, c’mon,” you whine.  “Lemme go.”

“Not until you say it.”

Frankie smiles at the exchange, but he puzzles over it too.  He wonders at the relationship you have with Pope, separate from him and the other guys.  He supposes he’s never considered it—he always thought you and he had a separate thing, but never considered how you got on with Pope or Will or Ben independent of him, separate from the broader group. 

But Paolo was Pope’s friend too, and Frankie wonders how much Pope hyped you up to Paolo and vice versa.  And how much Pope has been there for you now that it’s ended, perhaps feeling guilty to have it go sideways on you.

Hence this little game that seems well-established:  Pope holding you in a headlock, forcing you to speak well of yourself.

“I’m…loyal,” you finally concede.

Pope shoots Frankie a grin and replies, “yes, you are.  You’re good as gold.”

But he doesn’t release you quick enough, and you get enough of an arm free to lightly sucker punch him low in the stomach, and Frankie smiles wider because that’s the you he recognizes best—the one who puts up with shit to a certain level, then comes out swinging.

-----

The first night this time is much the same as the last time.  There’s a bonfire, a cooler of beers, laughter.  Loons call across the water to each other, and sparks from the fire drift on the updraft to merge with the stars glimmering above them.

Frankie feels restless.  He fiddles with his bottle of beer, rolls it between his palms, peels the label.  He hasn’t seen you in so long, hasn’t talked to you for even longer, and now you’re sitting across the fire ring from him.  Your face is gilded orange and gold in the flames, and while you laugh with them, you seem a touch sad.  Quieter than usual.

When everyone finally turns in, he offers you the mattress on the floor.  For the first time since you’ve arrived, you pause and look at him.  Actually look at him:  meet his eyes, study his face. 

“The couch is lumpy,” you remind him.  “Your back.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Nah, I’m okay.”  You turn away and shake out the folded blanket, and Frankie despairs at how polite and distant you are now.  His own fault, but he loathes it.  He wishes you’d squabble with him again, pick a fight, tease him until he huffs in frustration.

“Hey, can we talk?” he asks.  He watches you lie down.  You punch at the pillow, turn on your side, then settle and sigh.

“I’d rather not, Fish.”

“I wanted to say I’m sorry—”

You arch an eyebrow at him.  “For Paolo?  You kinda said it would go down the exact way it went down.”

He shakes his head.  “No, but I should have never said that—”

“It’s fine.”

“I meant, I wanted to say I’m sorry for before.”

“Oh.”

“Here, last year.”  He swallows and studies your expression, which gives nothing away.  “I shouldn’t have said what I did.  It was cruel, and—”

“I get it.  I remember.  It’s fine, Fish.  Everything’s fine.”

He wants to add more, but you roll over to face the back of the couch, your back to him.  It occurs a moment later that you’re still lying to him, because you’ve just said everything was fine at least four times in the past five minutes, and he gets the distinct impression that nothing is fine.

-----

The next day, you hike again.  It’s a different route this time, and the summit is different but the view is the same, just a different angle:  placid lake below, brilliant blue sky above, and a picnic lunch spread out on the rock. 

Frankie has done a lot of work on himself.  In the past months, he’s learned to stop thinking of himself as a fixed point.  Life is not a ladder, as he always imagined.  He can change and adapt and not think himself weak for backing up and taking a different route when the first route proves to be a dead end.

Case in point:  you and your occasional balking as you hike down a mountain.  There’s a stretch that is dicey, loose graveled and steep, and sure enough, you falter, then freeze.

Frankie from last year got impatient with you, and left you behind for Benny to rescue.

Frankie from this year recognizes that your fear isn’t a personal failing.  It’s a quirk.  It makes you you, and how he reacts now is what makes him him.  The new and improved Frankie.  Less of an asshole.  Back up, try a new way. 

“Take your time,” he tells you now.  “There’s no rush.”

You don’t seem to hear him.  You’re so used to him being frustrated that you say, plaintive, “just go around, Fish.”

A breath.  New and improved Frankie.  “No, I’ll wait for you.  I’m here.”

You glance at him, and he sees the whites of your eyes:  the fear there.  He regrets that he wasn’t patient with you before.  Another breath, like his therapist taught him.  He feels the regret, then lets it go.  He reminds himself that he can be better now.

Frankie reaches out a hand to you.  “C’mon,” he says.  “I’ve got you.”

Of course you stare at him a long moment like he’s grown two heads.  Like he’s been replaced by some alien double who is kind instead of snappish.

You end up taking his hand, though, and he grips you firmly, takes you step by step out of the perilous stretch of the trail.

-----

Dinner is Pope on steaks, you on pasta and vegetables again.  Benny, who took an internet wine course to impress a girl, pops the corks on a few bottles of middle shelf vintage.  He explains about how it has to breathe, how it has to release the bouquet until Pope steps away from the steaks to smack him upside his head.

New and improved Frankie.  When the dinner conversation touches on your breakup, he murmurs his consolations.  When Pope gives the entire history of Paolo and his volatile ex-wife, he clicks his tongue and shakes his head in disgust.

New and improved Frankie.  He tells you your contributions to the meal are delicious, and he misses the sly look that Will gives to Pope because Frankie is too focused on you.  Your face twists in confusion at his praise, and you reply a beat later with a lilt of questioning, “thank you?”

-----

New and improved Frankie.  He manages to beat you to the living room before bed, and he snags the couch while you’re brushing your teeth.  You stop in your tracks when you see him, and you narrow your eyes.

“Take the mattress tonight,” he says.  He ignores the spring in the couch digging into the left side of his ass.  “Seriously.”

The guys are all already tucked into their own beds, so when you put your hands on your hips and demand to know what the hell is wrong with him, you keep your voice low.

“Nothing wrong with me.”

You don’t buy it, but your scowl softens.  “Frankie, are you using again?”

He laughs.  Of course you’d associate his attempts at niceness with drugs. 

“Not at all.  I’m at about eighteen months clean.”

That replaces your scowl with a smile.  A genuine one.  “Oh, Fish.  Congratulations.”

“It’s thanks to you.”

“Nah.  You’re the one who did the hard work.”

“You’re the one who saw I had a problem.”

“The guys noticed it too.”

“Yeah, but.”  He takes a breath.  “You’re the one who took action.  You probably saved my life.”

You wave him off, and you kneel down on the mattress, then sit cross-legged and look at him.  “You give me too much credit, Fish.”

That makes him shake his head.  “No, I never gave you enough credit.  I was married, remember.  Sophie never noticed, and if she did, she didn’t set up an intervention.  It was all you.”

Something about being so open makes you uncomfortable.  You fold your hands in your lap and look down at them.  “Where is all this coming from?”  Your voice is quiet, and Frankie has to strain to hear you.

“What do you mean?”

A sigh.  “I mean, I don’t want you to be nice because I got dumped.  I hate pity.”

He sits up a bit, props himself on his elbow and watches you.  “It’s not pity.”

“Then why are you being so nice?  We haven’t argued once and it’s been over a day.”  You glance over at him, your hands twisting in your lap restlessly.

He sits up completely and leans forward, his elbows on his knees.  “I hated the way I left things with you before.”  A pause.  “Remember what you told me at my intervention?  You said I had to get my shit together.  I thought, ‘okay, I’m clean now, I have some clean months behind me.  So why am I still so fucking miserable to be with?’”

“Fish, you aren’t miserable to be—”

“I am.”  He cuts you off.  “And I don’t want to be.  I don’t want to be the man who makes you feel like shit because I’m embarrassed we got caught hooking up.  You’re not something to be ashamed of, and I acted like a complete asshole.”

The corner of your mouth twitches in a sardonic smile.  “The guys were being obnoxious.”

“And I should have been obnoxious back.  I could have talked you up.  Talked us up.  Instead of being a dick, I could have said, ‘yeah, we’re hooking up, and it’s amazing, so be jealous about it because you’re all single with no prospects.’”

“We were technically single too.”

He nods, serious.  “Yeah, we were, but maybe we shouldn’t have been.”

That makes you laugh; an honest-to-god belly laugh that has you wrapping your arms around your stomach.  Frankie winces, glances up at the loft where the Miller brothers are theoretically sleeping, then he pushes the worry aside.  Who gives a shit if they hear you laughing with him?

When he doesn’t laugh too, your laughter dies down.  “Wait, you’re not joking?”

“No.”

A long pause with the two of you watching each other.  “…and you’re sure you’re not using?”

“I’m sure.  I had a piss test last week for work.”

“…okay.”

He sighs and holds his hands out to you, palms up.  Entreating.  “I’ve been seeing a therapist.  Yes, it feels like bullshit, but it’s something, you know?  Having a third party to bounce my bad memories against.  My bad feelings.  He’s helped me figure out some stuff.”

You blink at him in sincere surprise.  “I’m proud of you, Fish.”

That makes a warm flush course through him, you being proud of him.  “It’s a cliché, but there’s shit from childhood that really can fuck a person up as an adult, you know?”

“Oh, I know it.  Eldest daughter, right here.  Child of functional alcoholics.”

“I guess I always had this set idea in my head of how life was gonna be, and when it was not that, when it turned out to be something that I constantly had to work out, I didn’t know how to handle that,” he admits.

“I get that too.”  You nod along, and you stop fiddling with your hands.

Frankie takes a deep breath and plunges ahead.  He has to get it out, and he has your attention.

“And, you know, I had set ideas about relationships.  Women.  Marriage.”

The sardonic smile returns.  “Here we go.”

“I was trying to recreate a perfect version of my parents’ marriage,” he admits.  It took some deep work to realize it.  Talking in therapy, dredging up memories he thought he had buried nice and deep.  “I thought if I could do it like them, but better, I would have won.”

“Won what, exactly?” you ask softly.

“Life?  I don’t even know.  It sounds stupid to say it out loud, but I thought it would mean that I had succeeded as an adult.  As a man.  Like people would look at me and be impressed.”

He glances at you, and you nod encouragingly.  He takes another deep breath, and he asks you to just listen to the next part, to not interrupt.  To let him get it all out before you stop listening.

“Okay.”  Another nod, and you settle your hands in your lap again and hold them there.

“So I tried to recreate my parents’ marriage, right?  I found a woman a lot like my mom.  Traditional, stay at home.  Sophie wanted to be taken care of, you know.  She didn’t want to work.  She wanted someone to make the decisions for her on all the big adult stuff.  She wanted to keep house and have kids and be a soccer mom.  Make homemade Halloween costumes and throw elaborate birthday parties for our four or five children, and there was nothing wrong with that.  I thought she’d be better than my mom, an actual mom, you know?  Not someone to get bitter about her missed opportunities and tell her kids how she sacrificed everything for them.  Because that’s what my childhood was like.  My mom always couched everything in what she gave up, like me or my brothers asked to be born.”

He pauses, catches his breath.  You’re watching him, expectant, so he continues.

“And meanwhile, I thought I’d be the best husband.  The best dad.  I had a military career, and they trained me to fly helicopters.  I was so much further ahead than my own dad, who drove a tow truck.  He worked hard all day, then came home to a bitter wife.  The best thing in his life was drinking cheap beer in the garage and hiding from her, and here I was, married to Sophie with a good military job and benefits, and I should have been so happy to be winning.”

“But you weren’t,” you say gently.  It isn’t a question.

He shakes his head.  “No, I wasn’t.  And I didn’t know why.  I started to resent Soph for never making a decision.  Mortgage went up because property taxes went up?  Not her problem.  Roof needed replaced?  I had to figure it out.  Car registration expired while I was overseas, and she got a ticket?  Somehow I had to solve it from the middle of goddamned Afghanistan.  We didn’t even have kids yet, and I was feeling all this pressure to be an adult for both of us.  When I got back home on leave, she tells me that she’s stopped her birth control, and I just…cracked.”

“I get it, Fish.  I mean, not being married, but I get how it feels to expect one thing in your life and have the opposite happen.”

He holds up a palm to remind you to let him get it all out, and you whisper “sorry.  Go ‘head.”

“And then there was you.  The complete opposite of Soph, you know?  You were…are this super independent woman, and whenever we were stuck overseas and Soph was struggling with running a house stateside, you were just there, chirping about what she needed to do.  Like it was nothing.  And I got irritated with you because you are just so damned pulled together and even-keeled and…and easy.  It’s so easy with you, and I hated it because I knew I made the wrong choice after all.  I tried so hard to avoid my parents’ marriage’s pitfalls that I just fell into the same pattern even harder, and you were the one who showed me that.”

He watches to see how his words land.  When you blink at him, he sees a film of tears there, so he plunges forward to get the rest out.

“I didn’t even realize that I loved you.  That’s how fucked in the head I was.  I picked fights with you and told the guys how irritating I thought you were, and you stuck to me anyway.  I could never shake you off.  We mustered out and you saw me drowning in my addiction, and I still told myself that I didn’t like you, didn’t care about you.  I got divorced, and we started hooking up, and I swear to god, sweetheart, hand up to god:  the first time we slept together, it felt like I was finally home, and I still couldn’t admit it to myself.  I kept telling you each time that it was the last time but I kept coming back for more because you feel like home and I loved you, but I fucked it all up because I didn’t understand who I was or what I wanted.”

He stops there, spent.  He feels like he’s been emptied out, and he stares down at his own clenched hands and waits for you to say something.  Anything.

There’s a long, long moment of silence.  He hears the loons on the lake and the wind rustling the trees outside, but you don’t say anything for so long.

Then you breathe out his name, an “oh, Frankie,” and when he looks up, he sees the tears streaming down your face.

“I mean it,” he adds softly.  “I’m sorry, but I mean it.  I love you.  I’ve probably always loved you.  Thinking back, I can’t remember a time I didn’t.  I just didn’t realize it.”

You’re crying openly now, but you’re trying to be quiet.  Frankie doesn’t even think of the guys nearby; he stands up and makes his way to where you sit on the mattress, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters against the side of your head, and he has no idea what you’re thinking—if you’re horrified or embarrassed or something else by his admission.  It’s out now, though.  He can’t take it back, and he doesn’t think he would want to take it back anyway.

It takes another long moment of him holding you awkwardly, you trying not to cry too loudly.  But then you give a weak laugh, and whisper hoarsely, “I really thought you were on drugs again.”

“Therapy is sometimes harder than sobriety.”

You pull away a little and stare at him with eyes brilliant with tears.  “Would you have said anything if I were still with Paolo?”

“Maybe.  I might have changed the messaging.  I wouldn’t have wanted to get in the middle of anything.”

You chuck him weakly on his bicep.  “I’ve missed you, you asshole.  And I wasn’t expecting any of this.”

He grins down at you.  “If you feel too out of sorts, we could argue.”

“Yeah?”

“You pointed out that we haven’t argued once yet.”

“Feels weird.”

“It does. Want a big fight or just a little one?”

“Might as well go big.  It’s been so long.”

Frankie chuckles.  He releases you.  He holds his hands up and makes a ‘gimme’ gesture with them.  A ‘give me your best shot’ gesture. 

“C’mon then.  Let’s hear it,” he says.

You smile and swipe at your wet eyes.  “Okay.  You’re a real fucking piece of work, dropping all this heavy shit on me out of nowhere.”

“Maybe you’re a real fucking piece of work to have never guessed.”

A laugh of surprise erupts out of you.  “How in the hell would I ever have guessed that?”

“You notice everything else.  You noticed I was using before.”

“So you dropping a ton of weight and looking like shit from coke is the same as being in love?”

“With you?” he scoffs.  “Absolutely.  Can’t sleep, no appetite, can’t think straight ‘cos of you—”

“Fuck you, Fish,” you say, and then you’re on him, your mouth sliding over his, and it feels just as he said:  you feel just like home.  It stretches out, long and eager, the two of you obviously missing each other and making up for lost time.  Too much lost time.

He breaks the kiss long enough to get you turned and under him, to get your thin cotton shorts down around your ankles, to get his own pajama pants down enough to free his hardening cock.  He bullies himself between your thighs but you spread yourself wide eagerly.  You grasp the back of his neck with one hand, but you reach down with your other hand, take him in hand, and stroke him to his full length.  He touches you between your legs, feels you growing wet and slick for him, and it’s just like home when he kisses you, and it’s just like home when he notches himself against your entrance and then slides into you.

What’s new, though, is how he drops his head so his mouth is near your ear, and he whispers, “god, I love you so fucking much.”

It’s new, too, how you clench down at those words, then turn his head to make him look at you, so he can see your eyes when you whisper back, “I love you too, Frankie.  Always.”

*****

In the past year, Pope has obtained a prescription for medication to help him sleep, so he misses the texts flying in the shadow group chat that is just him and Miller brothers. He only reads them when he wakes up to birdsong outside his window.

Will:  u hearing this?

Will:  Pope.  POPE.

Benny:  Wkae up, asshole.

Will:  u will never guess what’s happening

Benny:  🍆🍑💦

Will:  Fish told her he loved her.

Benny:  bro, wake the fuck up.  This is wild.

Will:  HE SAID HE LOVES HER

Benny:  disgusting but wild

Will:  I think she said it back

It’s five in the morning when Pope wakes up and reads the texts.  He grins, and he wonders if Benny realizes that the peach emoji usually is a stand-in for an ass, which means Benny was implying that you and Fish had anal sex while they all slept nearby, which seems unlikely. 

Pope climbs out of bed quietly to use the bathroom, and it takes him through the living room where you and Frankie are asleep.  Together, he notes.  You’re both fully clothed—thank Christ for small miracles—but you’re together on the mattress on the floor.  Frankie’s arm is over your waist, and your hand lightly circles his wrist.

Fucking gross. 

But also fucking adorable.

Pope uses the bathroom, then tiptoes back to his bed.  He re-reads the texts, then types out his reply to Will and Benny.

Pope:  🥰

Pope:  FINALLY.

[fanaticsnail]

SNAILLL!DROP ANOTHER KILLER or /KID FIC! AND MY LIFE IS URS🙏

honestly love all ur work💛🙈

But why can't we have both?

Acid, Salt, Fat and Heat

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 5,600+

Synopsis: Your captain has engaged with a petulant challenge that included refusing to make port until both Kid and Law did first. Feeling pent up at sea, you set your sights on the blonde first mate to aid you in finding relief. The catch? He won't unless his captain does too.

Warnings: Eustass Kid x afab!reader x Massacre Soldier Killer, MDNI, 18+, smut, NSFW, throuple, with little plot, double penetration (same hole), facial (reader receiving), eating from the back (reader receiving), cock sucking, poor puns, poor jokes, vibrator play, swearing, pet names (little one, little thing, kitten, Straw-Hat, buttercup, sunshine), messy eating, masked sex, fingering, finger sucking, inappropriate use of devil fruit, size difference (average afab 163cms, Kid & Killer 200cms), praise, cervix touching, Killer has a shrill laugh, overstimulation, aftercare, creampie, squirting.

Notes: the smuttiest smut I have written on main. Shout out to the OC discord chat and @thenotsofantasticlifestory for their input! Love you guys 🖤

“You sure you can handle it, kitten?” Eustass Kid purred at you, reaching his right arm up to flick at your chin. His purple-hued fingernails colliding with your skin caused shivers to shoot down your spine and ignite your senses with anticipation.

Looking up at him through your eyelashes, you nodded your head slowly with your lips parted. He hummed down at you, his close-lipped smile splitting up his cheeks and his eyes narrowing to assess you further. Leaning down to a lower stoop, he hovered his painted lips above yours. The heat of his breath tingled against your skin, your body moving against its will to draw ever closer to the man in front of you.

As you drew yourself closer, the two arms of the man behind you clapped over your upper arms and tugged you flush into his chest. A soft gasp fled your lips, head tilting back and glancing up at the base of the blue and teal mask above your vision. Gulping back a soft mouthful of saliva, you began to double back on your prior over eagerness to engage with not one, but two, very eager playmates.

It had been a while since the Victoria Punk had docked at port, the entire crew feeling exceptionally pent up and in need to release their energy. Engaging in trysts amongst the crew was not unheard of, but it was uncommon. Ruining camaraderie and rapport was the main reason for the lack of entanglements, and Eustass Kid did not want to lose any more of his crew to their own broken heartedness.

Similarly to you, the crew of the Thousand Sunny were not helpful with catering to your needs. Luffy refused to make port due to the fact that both Kid and Law had yet to dock the Tang and the Punk. He was not going to lose to them, no matter how much you were in desperate need of relief.

When the three ships had brushed their hulls together, ropes thrown over the sides and knots tugged firmly to pull them flush against one another, you were bursting at the seams to at least talk to someone who was not a member of your crew. Shachi and Penguin were always a delight, and you couldn't get enough of their chaos.

However, when the blonde first mate of the Kid Pirates stepped over the barricade of the Thousand Sunny with a large pot of pasta, you were just about ready to spread your legs and have him take you on the dining table. Sanji was an excellent cook, but there was something about the blonde’s pasta that made you weak in the knees.

You had never engaged intimately with any member of the other two crews before, but the neediness pooling and soaking your underwear at the first bite of penne encouraged you to be a little bolder in your intentions. Killer was your first target to attempt to woo your way into his pants, but in doing so, it only attracted the magnetic presence of Eustass “Captain” Kid in the process.

“Fucking hell, Massacre Soldier!” you moaned, chewing back on the aldente texture of the cylindrical tubes, “Whoever said sex was the best thing invented hasn't tried this fucking pasta!”

That earned you a shrill giggle from the larger man, alongside a barked laugh from his captain a little further away. You beamed at the redhead, scrunching your nose playfully at him before the blonde recalled your attention.

“If you think my pasta is good,” the larger blonde huffed down at you, leaning closer to your ear, “You should see what else I can do with just a few ingredients.” You giggled at his comment, genuinely enjoying his comradery beside you.

“Oh yeah?” you arch your brows up at him, gently leaning in closer and brushing your thigh against the outside of his, “Tell me, big guy, what ingredients can you see yourself toying with here?” Killer twitched his head to the side, not expecting this kind of sultriness from a Straw-Hat.

Turning on the wooden pew beside you, he cupped the back of your thigh with his larger hand and gave your flesh a gentle squeeze. He gave you a little pause to test how far he was allowed to pursue you, which you would've appreciated in any other encounter. You were simply too pent up to care, arching your back and sucking your lips into your mouth to still the spread of your smile.

“See, I'm easy,” he hums down at you, “Every good recipe has four main ingredients: acid, salt, fat, and heat.” You nod along to his explanation, your brows knitting together as his fingers brush up and down your thigh before clasping around your hip. Holding your bone firmly, he tugs you towards him and engulfs your form with his larger chest.

“You think you can take my fat cock, little one?” he hushed down at you, causing your fluster to rise higher in your face. He hummed at your reaction, bringing his other hand up to capture your chin, “See, now there's the heat. You're practically radiating with it. I bet your pussy would be just as warm.” His thumb caressed the ball on your hip.

“A-And the acid and salt?” You managed to stutter, prompting Killer to raise his hand on your chin to cup your cheek.

“I think we both know about the salt,” he cooed at you, “What I wouldn't give to pump you full of my load. I could fill you up, or use it like a glaze over your perfect skin.” Your eyes widened and your body moved closer to his against its will.

Your underwear was sticking to your pussy with how wet his words made you. Pressing your thighs together for some relief, you could barely tear your eyes away from his mask for a single moment.

“The acid is where it gets a little tricky,” he traces his hand over your cheek and down your jaw once more. He gently pushed your face away from his and drew your attention towards the redheaded captain of the Victoria Punk.

“My Cap’n gets bitter and sour if he's left out of the mix.”

The amber eyes of Eustass Kid looked dangerously over your form from across the deck. Every part of him was solid and tense, the pure lust and jealousy radiating on him like a beacon illuminating complete darkness.

“You reckon you've got a way we can both fit, little one?” he whispered into your ear, the cool puff of air tickling your ear. You shudder, closing your eyes and giving into your desires with a soft moan.

“With the right chef doing the prep work,” you whimper, “I can think of several ways I can fit the both of you, big guy.”

“That's a good little thing,” he complimented you, the smile tangibly felt in his tone, “I'll make sure you're prepped for both of us. Once we're all done with our actual food, go and give him a kiss for me, would you?”

Not tearing your eyes away from Eustass Kid, you nod dumbly and slowly. Kid is taken aback by your action: cocking his head to the side, narrowing his eyes, and furrowing his brows. Darting his attention between you and Killer, he finally has the thought bloom in his mind and shoot straight to his cock.

He was going to fuck his little Straw Hat with his first mate.

And that is where you found yourself, wedged between two broad chests and grabby hands in the captain's quarters aboard the Victoria Punk. The red tint of Eustass Kid's lips finally collided with your mouth as he pressed himself against you. Desperation and neediness arose in you all, Kid's arm snaking around your shoulder prompted Killer to bring his hands down to the front of your pants.

As Kid’s tongue entered your mouth, Killer dipped his fingers beneath your waistline and immediately slipped his fingers between your glossy folds. You whimper into the mouth of Kid, prompting him to chuckle and consume your moans with more fervor. Growling into your lips, he tugged you closer to him while tilting his pointed chin up to get a better angle.

While tugged closer to Kid, Killer's fingers ground themselves against your clit in small circles. The pads of his large fingertips rocked against your hooded pearl and caused your slit to gush out a fresh wave of arousal. You parted your lips to mewl into Kid's mouth, which caused his teeth to seek out and bully your lower lips with soft nips.

“Fuck, our little one is so wet, Cap’n,” Killer gasped behind you, “I think I can make them cum just like this-...” He increased his speed, flickering your sensitive nerves with each different motion. Kid pulled his lips away from yours, a string of saliva attaching to both his and your lips with the soft tint of red paint lingering within.

“You gonna cum, kitten? You want the big guy to make you cum on his hand?” Kid goaded you, prompting you to pout at him. He removed his hand from your shoulder and pinched your chin in his thumb and index finger.

“Look at me while he makes you cum,” he ordered you, looking down his nose at you as your body continued to be worked at by Killer behind you. As much as you wanted to hold back from submitting to his request, one more swipe at your clit had your pussy contracting and fluttering with the overwhelming bliss of your orgasm.

“F-Fuck,” you stuttered, holding your eyes against Kid's as Killer continued to usher you through ecstasy. Slouching your back against Killer, you keened into his neck as he held you firmly against his chest. His forearm rocked against your chest, prompting you to buck your hips into his hands.

“There you go, little one,” Killer cooed down at you, slowing down his rocking to a steady pause. Running his fingers through your oversensitive folds causes you to shudder and mewl at the sensation. Withdrawing his hand up in front of you, he scissors the glistening slick on his fingertips.

“Fuck, look at that,” Kid gasped, his former abrasive attitude melting away as soon as he saw your essence, “Give us a taste, would you?” Killer offered Kid his hands, Kid making eye contact with you as he parted his lips and swirls his tongue over Killer’s fingers.

Humming, he immediately closes his eyes and cleans Killer’s fingers with his lips and tongue. Killer huffs out a sigh, bucking his hips and grinding his clothed cock against your ass, his neediness growing the longer he holds off from sinking himself into you. Kid pulled his lips off Killer’s fingers with a soundly ‘pop’ before looking up into your face once more.

“You need to get prepped before you take the both of us, kitten. All fours for me, would you?” Kid ushered you over to his large bed, the duvet astray and pillows askew, “Pants off, sunshine. Lemme see it all.” Killer whimpered at your absence, his cock aching and twitching beneath his pants.

The three of you were all as needy as one another, your pussy already dripping with desire thanks to Killer's earlier words, and coaxing an orgasm from you by just rubbing your clit alone. Your pants and shirt were cast aside hurriedly, your chest now exposed and nipples peaked within the cool air. Hooking your fingers into the hips of your underwear, you began pulling them over your ass slowly. The groin of the material stuck to you, the dark patch of arousal from your core painted the center and dampened the fabric.

“Fuck, you're so wet,” Kid stuttered out, his voice breathy and body immediately sauntering over to you with desperation in his footing, “Where do you want, Kil? You want our little Straw-Hat’s pussy, mouth, or ass?” You could barely register any words, arching your back and planting your head onto Kid’s mattress as they discussed what to do with you.

“Wherever you don't want, Cap’n,” he whispered huskily, his eyes hungrily consuming your body with his pointed gaze, “Fuck, that ass does look good, though.” Kid laughed at his oldest friend, clapping his right hand over his right shoulder while pressing a curt kiss against his right.

“Go put their head in your lap, hm?” Kid directed his first mate, “Hear that, kitten? You're gonna suck Killer's cock and treat him right.” You begin to raise your head off the bed, halting when you felt a metal casing cage around your stomach and hold you flush against the mattress. The ringing of belts and dropping of heavy materials on the floor indicated your two bed guests had shed themselves of their clothes.

Kid's metal hand elevated you effortlessly, your face growing more flustered as you felt him pant against your pussy from behind. Killer crawled into the bed, your hands hastily drawing his large thighs closer to you. Nestling your head between his thighs, your eyes drank in the pretty cock bobbing in front of you. Without any further word or direction, your smaller hands wrapped around his large cock and your lips found his inner thigh.

Chasing a trail of kisses over his inner legs, you ground your palm against his cock before pumping his shaft. Killer panted, his cock involuntarily twitching and bobbing with every subtle change you made. Drawing yourself up onto your forearms, you lulled your tongue outside your lips and licked a heavy stripe along the underside of his cock. Following the bulbous vein up his shaft, you flickered your tongue over his blunt tip and collected the first few drops of precum onto your palate.

As soon as you parted your lips to take his knob into your mouth, you cried out as you felt your folds part by Eustass Kid’s large, red tongue. Your eagerness to take Killer’s cock into your mouth multiplied tenfold, using him as a tool to ground yourself to the earth while the motion of Kid's tongue had you ascending. Flicking and bobbing his head, Kid mouthed at you, rolling your sensitive clit over his tongue and sucking briefly on whatever took his fancy.

You had never engaged with anyone so eager to please you with their mouth, feeling yourself truly unable to hold back the rocking of your hips into his face as you began to take Killer's cock into your mouth. Filling your lips with Killer's fat tip, you whimpered and keened around it as Kid rocked your body against his face with his cool metal arm.

“Fuck, little one,” Killer gasped for you, his hand falling down to cradle your scalp and coax you to bob against him, “You feel so good. How you doing back there, Cap'n?” All Kid could find in his coherence was a groan at the back of his throat, too drunk on your essence to give either of you an answer.

Taking what you could of Killer's cock in your mouth, you pumped the remainder of the base with one hand, while the other caressed his balls.

“Hhah-... F-fuck-... I-I-...” Killer threw his head back, bucking his hips up to fill more of your mouth with his fat cock, “...-I don't know how long I'll last like this. Fuck, little one. Who taught you how to suck cock like that?” You attempted to giggle at him, only halting as you felt Eustass Kid pull away from your pussy to spit on it. You whimpered, feeling his lips dive back in and flicker over your clit.

You had half a mind to talk to Killer and tease him, but Kid’s skilled lips and tongue had your mind foggy and clouded by each fell swipe. The coil in your abdomen began to stir and tighten to a tense pinnacle, just as Killer felt his balls twitch and draw up into his stomach. Kid’s tongue pressed against your entrance, lapping messily and greedily into your slit while humming and moaning at the taste of your arousal.

“Nghhm-... F-Fuck! Stop- I'm gonna c-cum!” Killer attempted to warn you, already past the point of halting his eruption while desperately trying not to cum in your mouth. Tugging at your scalp to halt you, you managed to shake your head and bob it faster over his shaft. “No, no, no, no, no-...” He stuttered, finally getting a foothold on your head and hastily tugging you away from his cock.

Just as your lips left his knob, you couldn't help but desperately pump his shaft as Kid has you unravel on his tongue. The coil in your stomach snapped and your walls spasmed around his tongue with the first waves of your orgasm. Massacre Soldier Killer held the back of your head in a firm cradle, his cock twitching as you pumped him. Your thumb flicked over his tip, which switched the final channel of lust in Killer's stomach and had him cry out for you.

His cum shot out and immediately splashed over your forehead, cheek, and chin in thick ropes. The milky-colored seed littered your skin in hot splashes, immediately causing you to cum harder against Kid’s face and tongue.

“Shit!” Killer cursed at the sight laid out before him. His captain's face buried deep within your thighs, lapping greedily and messily at your walls while he coated your face in his thick cum. Each splash from Killer seemed to propel you to cry out and cum harder against Kid's face, truly basking in the fact he couldn't contain himself or force himself back from that edge.

Both riding your highs down, Kid gave your clit a quick kiss before bringing himself up to the sight above him. Killer's chest rose and fell in a thick pant, his cock still proudly standing as it dribbled with the soft aftershocks of his release. Your face was riding the blissful waves of a soft afterglow directly after contorting in ecstasy. Lips parted, eyes closed, and face completely covered in several waves of Killer’s heavy load.

“Fuck, big guy,” Kid chuckled at his first mate, “There’s so much.” Kid gives your ass a gentle slap as he crawls up to hover over your back. “So messy, kitten,” he commented on your face, “Hand us a tissue would you, Kil?”

“I-... I got it…” Killer panted, reaching to the bedside table to the right of him. Tearing four leaves in hasty consecutive motions, he drew the material to your face and began dabbing at the cum while Kid rubbed his hand along your back and traced every dip and crevace along your spine.

Several fragments of the tissue paper stuck to your face, prompting you to giggle up at the big guy as he cleaned you.

“Sorry about that, little one. I tried to warn you it was gonna happen,” he spoke in a low and warm tone, “What would you have preferred, me cumming in that beautiful mouth of yours?”

“I would prefer it if you came in my pussy, honestly,” you admit with a shrug, causing Kid to let out a sound between a growl and a whimper. Kid gave you a final dab of the cheeks before giving your nose a gentle, affectionate tap.

“You'll still get some in your pussy if you want it,” Killer cooed at you, turning you to face Kid as he knelt back. His red lip paint spilt over his lipline, the juices of your release glistening against his chin and nose. Smirking up at him, you barely had the opportunity to raise your hand before he pounced on you.

Pushing your back flush against Killer’s chest, Kid rose your hips and sat you on Killer’s Adonis belt above his deflating cock. Eustass Kid’s angry cock twitched it's shaft as he caged both you and Killer beneath his looming form.

“Feeling adequately prepped for me, kitten?” Kid purred down at you, playfully nudging your chin with his forehead to push your head back to lull into Killer’s shoulder, “Or should I fuck you with my metal hand to stretch you a bit?”

“I can take your cock, Captain,” you scoff, attempting to look down at his steely shaft, only for him to push you back down into Killer’s shoulder once more.

“You say that now,” Kid cackled at you, rubbing his tip against your folds before placing the tip at your entrance, “...but once I sink in a little-.” He rocked his hips forward a little,

“-Ah, fuck!” you cry out at the stretch, prompting him to immediately pull his cock head away from your entrance. Killer wrapped his hands around your waist, soothing circles into your skin with his thumbs. Kid and Killer both share a glance with one another, communicating wordlessly before Kid placed his tip at your entrance one more time.

As he slowly pressed his mushroomed knob into your needy cunt, Killer reached his hands down to pry your folds apart with the heels of each palm, seeking out your clit and gently caressing it with his thumbs. Immediately your body relaxes and your hips rock against each roll of his digits in your clit. Kid sunk himself down further, eyes not leaving your face as he watches intently for any discomfort.

“There you go, little one,” Killer praised you, enjoying the feeling of your ass rocking against his Adonis belt, “Taking the Cap'n so well. Good job, just a little more.” Kid fought back the urge to slam his hips forward and immediately sheathe himself in your gummy walls. Using each fiber of his being to not give in to the temptation, he inched himself slowly into your needy core.

“You're doing well too, Cap'n,” Killer hummed up at the redhead, “Being gentle with our little Straw Hat, while I know you want to give in.” Kid whimpered, pressing his goggle-adorned forehead against your chest to hide his fluster. Gently rocking forward, your back bowed as you finally felt him press up to the hilt.

Giving a testy buck of his hips, Killer ensured both you and Kid felt secure enough while still gently rubbing circles against your clit. Kid felt your walls flutter and adjust to his size.

“Nggh-... Fuck…” Kid whispered against your flushed skin, pressing a soft kiss against the bone in the center of your chest. “...why haven't we done this sooner again?” He chuckled into your chest, rolling his head up and resting his chin at the center.

“Because we haven't been desperate enough to try?” you offered him with an arched brow. He huffed aggitatedly, rolling his hips against yours and testing the stretch. Killer braced you against him, holding you completely against his broad chest and taught stomach muscles.

“Fuck,” you keen for Kid, feeling the way each rake of his cock inside you molded you to the shape of him, “That, and I didn't think you were interested in fucking a Straw Hat.”

Kid stopped his movements, sheathing himself to the hilt within your pussy and turning your chin with his flesh hand. Your eyes met his through fluttered lids, examining his expression with curiousity. He drew his face towards yours, all prior cockiness melting away and a stern seriousness left in its stead.

“We don't want to fuck a Straw Hat,” he uttered, his lips almost brushing with yours, “We want to fuck our Straw Hat.” You only had a moment to react to the admission before Kid started properly rocking his hips into you. No more timidity, no more subtlty, all of Eustass Kid’s hulking form finally giving in to his feral urges now that you had fully adjusted to his size.

“Our little Straw Hat,” he growled into your skin, pressing his lips to your neck and mouthing at the skin, “Our spicy little kitten,” he chuckled into you, cementing and punctuating his exclaim with a crude slap of his hips meeting your pelvis. Killer let out a squeak of laughter at that comment, to which you would've laughed along with him if Eustass Kid wasn't slapping his balls against your unexplored ass hole with each heavy, deep thrust.

Killer hummed down at you, removing his hand from between you both in favour of hooking his legs beneath your thighs and raising them to your chest. Kid rose his right leg, trapping Killer’s leg beneath him and changing the angle of each stroke. You mewled out, gasping for air as Killer exposed more of your pussy for Kid to drive into. Killer never took his eyes off you, insuring you were enjoying the feeling of how deep Kid burried himself into you with each buck and rock.

As you adjusted to the depth of his deep rocking, Kid hooked his other leg over Killer's, crouching in a deep lunge. His motions were now so deep, you felt your air being pushed from your throat, and his bulge deep in your abdomen. Kid's lips parted, huffing and panting with his eyes scrunched tightly shut. The crude, squelching ‘plap,’ of his balls slapping against your overstimulated pussy was enough for Killer’s cock to twitch back to life, his own empathetic waves of pleasure coiling in the pit of his stomach.

Your lips parted, brows raising to a peak at the center of your face as you felt Kid finally hit your g-spot with each crude hook of his blunt tip. Your collective moans grew louder, all carelessly flinging them from your chests as you raised your hand up to cup at Kid’s neck.

“Fuck, I-I’m gonna cum! F-F-Fuck- I'm cumming,” Kid cried out, his cock twitching and motions drawing into a manic pace. You barely had any chance to catch up to him, feeling far too overwhelmed by the depth of his cock to properly contract around him. Hot waves of his thick release blew out of his small slit and splashed back against your cervix. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he changed with each languid thrust, falling into his knees and continuing to rock into you. You moaned with him, feeling his release coat your walls with each motion.

Killer couldn't stop what happened next, his body reacted of his own accord. As Kid pulled out, Killer’s fully erect cock danced at your entrance. Kid looked down at Killer's cock brushing against his knob and smirked at him.

“You reckon you can handle both now?” Kid asked with a chuckle in his tone. You were simply too out of it and desperate for your third release that you nodded without any afterthought. Kid reached down and pressed his cock against Killer's, Killer moaning at the immediate attention.

Squeezing his still drooling cock with his first mate's, Kid placed both tips at your slit. Using his prior release as lubrication, Kid rocked both Killer's and his own shiny tips into your slit. You have a soft whine at the stretch, but immediately nodded while bracing Kid's body against yourself. Kid moaned into one shoulder, while Killer hissed in the other. Both cocks slowly stretched your walls, the soft sting of your body accommodating them aided with your’s and Kid's prior release.

Only making it halfway into your pussy, Killer began to set a lazy pace inside you, brushing his frenulum against Kid’s and gasping at the feeling. You felt the most full you had ever been, sandwiched between two walls of flesh on a foreign ship, and taking two cocks deep into your pussy.

Kid pulled his head away from your shoulder to check in with you, sensing any discomfort from you by darting his eyes all over your face. He tilted his head at you, a small thought crossing his mind and causing him to chuckle.

“Mind if I try something, kitten?” he whispered in your ear, giving your skin a soft kiss after you shake your head in response.

“We're already trying a lot of new things for me,” you attempted to laugh along with your confession, huffing out while Killer rocks his cock deep inside you. Kid grins broadly, raising his hand and activating his devil fruit ability. Soaring through the air were six, small, egg-shaped objects no bigger than your thumb.

“This is gonna be new for all of us,” Kid nodded nonchalantly, his cock already twitching with interest while half-sheathed within you. You felt each rock of Killer’s hips press Kid’s knob against your g-spot, causing your walls to flutter and constrict both of them deep within you. Just as you felt yourself build up to your third climax, two of the objects attached themselves to your clit and vibrated them with a hard intensity. Two more were placed on each of the two men's balls as they buried their cocks in syncopated rhythm.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” you screamed, your pussy immediately releasing a gush of fluid directly splashing against Kid’s pelvis and Killer’s thighs. Kid gasped in surprise, groaning against the feeling of your walls fluttering against his and Killer’s cocks.

“We've got ourselves a squirter!” Kid laughed, immediately rocking with more intension, craving more immediately. “Hear that, big guy? A squirter!”

Killer was completely lost, his mind foggy and need for release causing him to whimper and whine out soft squeaks. Kid barked a soft string of laughter, riding your pussy through the waves of absolute overstimulation, increasing the intensity of the vibrating bulbs on your clit and his and Killer's balls.

“One more, one more, one more,” Kid desperately chanted, feeling his own release propel forward at the knowledge he can make you cum hard enough to splash him with it. Killer gripped your thighs harder, bucking up into your pussy with a desperation he had not felt prior. You were experiencing an outer body encounter, your body flooded with pleasure. Still riding through the waves of your prior release, you felt another creep up onto you.

“You gonna cum? You gonna cum, kitten?” Kid asked, his balls slapping against Killer's as they both thrust up into you, “You gonna squirt on our cocks again? C'mon little one. You've got more for me. Just one more. I'll cum with you, baby. You want that?” You nodded dumbly, feeling your body becoming as pliant as a marionette dancing on Kid and Killer's strings.

Kid increased the intensity of the vibrations one last time, prompting Killer to roar into your shoulder immediately. Hot spurts of his release splashed up and swirled against Kid’s former waves. The chain reaction of Killer’s release caused both you and Kid to cum alongside him. As Kid shot up into you, you released another gush of fluid over Killer’s thighs with enough power to splash against Kid’s stomach and trickle down his balls.

“Just like that, just like that,” Kid praised you, manicly rocking into you with each spurt of his cum dancing with the three fluids.

“Fu-ck!” you keened, crying tears of pleasure down your cheeks at the impact of your fourth release. Kid and Killer's movements stilled, opting to pull out of you and roll you onto your side. Killer tucked himself behind you, resting his covered forehead against your shoulder blade while Kid immediately sprung up and removed the vibrating bulbs from your bodies with a flick of his wrist.

Although he was wonky on his feet, he stumbled to the bathroom and dazedly turned the taps on for his large bathtub to fill with waters and bathing oils. Bracing himself against the side of the tub with his metal hand, he snuck a look over his shoulder at the two of you panting and catching your breaths at the intensity of your climax. Chuckling to himself, he set to work on taking care of his first mate and his little Straw Hat.

Filling a large decanter full of water, he managed to only locate two mugs, and three shot glasses in his bedroom that seemed to match. Opting for the matching set, he cleaned them in the sink and set them aside to dry. As soon as the tub filled with enough water, he turned off the tap and dipped his fingers in it to test the temperature. Nodding and feeling rather proud of himself, Kid returned to his bed and noticed the two of you had finally caught your breath and were almost asleep.

“Nope, none of that,” Kid warned you, rousing you from your almost slumber with a pout on your lips, “Gotta clean you up, buttercup. We stretched you pretty good just now, don't want you to regret it more than you already probably will.” You scoff at him, slowly drawing yourself away from the man behind you by wriggling on the mattress.

“I don't think I'm gonna regret being sandwiched between two legendary pirates, Captain,” you hummed at him, your legs feeling as stable as a plate of jelly in an earthquake. As you stumbled forward, Kid chuckled at you and caught you in his arms.

“You might not,” he shrugged, hoisting you into his arms and carrying you to his bathroom, “But your pussy might feel a little raw after a while. Lemme take care of you for a bit, alright?” Killer hummed from behind you both, rolling onto his stomach and rocking back onto his knees.

“M’coming too, Cap'n,” Killer nodded, springing to his feet and walking beside the two of you, “You reckon we can all fit in there?” All of you look down at the triangular spa and tilt your heads to the side. You giggle, looking to the mask-wearing first mate and shoot him a winning smile.

“I can think of several ways to make us all fit in there, big guy,” you hum affectionately at him with half-hooded lashes. He shakes his head, giving your chin a soft pinch, and beginning to ready the three of you by finding towels and wash clothes to dote on the both of you.

Filling up the three short glasses with cool water, Killer passed them two both you and Kid sitting beside him in the scented water. All relaxing in comfortable silence while enjoying one another's bare skin, you all finally felt the tension wash away and recline into one another. Finally finding a small semblance of peace between ports, you had never felt more content than you were with your two allied crewmen.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady

[reiding-writing]

Can i get a workshop session? How about spencer with a reader who's actually smarter than him? Maybe she's younger too, thanksss

GENIUS² — SPENCER REID!

working alongside another genius was a blessing, in more ways than one.

early!seasons!spencer x reader | fluff | 1.3k | event masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n— the genius x genius trope is great i love it

Spencer Reid prided himself on being one of the smartest people in the room.

At 24 years old, he was a genius with an IQ of 187, three PhDs under his belt, and an eidetic memory that made him practically a walking encyclopaedia.

His mind moved faster than 99.7% of the world’s population, processing information, analysing patterns, and solving puzzles with ease.

But none of that prepared him for you.

You were younger than him by two years, and while you didn’t have a wall lined with degrees like Spencer, your intelligence was undeniable.

A bachelor’s degree in Theoretical Physics had been enough to earn you a spot in the BAU, something that had surprised even you.

Hotch had seen something in you—your ability to not only understand the unsub’s behavior but to intuitively connect pieces of information in ways most people couldn’t. It was something the team found invaluable.

And it didn’t take long for Spencer to notice.

Where Spencer excelled in academic brilliance, you had a talent for thinking outside the box. You connected dots faster than most people even realized there were dots to connect.

Spencer was used to being the one with all the answers, the one who could solve problems others struggled with, but you? You were different. You weren’t afraid to speak up, even if it meant contradicting his carefully constructed theories. You didn’t care about bruising egos, least of all his, and it fascinated him.

The first time Spencer realised you were special was during a particularly tough case.

The team had been chasing down a serial killer for weeks—a cryptic unsub who left strange, undecipherable messages at each crime scene.

Spencer had spent hours poring over the notes, scrawling down numbers, symbols, and trying to make sense of the pattern, but nothing clicked. His frustration was palpable; his fingers were tapping restlessly on the desk, and his usually sharp mind felt like it was hitting a wall.

An iron wall, covered in spikes and barbed wire.

Then you had walked in. Quietly, unassuming, you hovered over his shoulder for a moment before making a suggestion that cut through his fog of confusion.

“You might be thinking about this too literally,” You said casually, your voice breaking through the silence.

Spencer looked up, frowning slightly, both intrigued and a bit defensive. “What do you mean?”

You slid into the chair next to him, your eyes scanning the pages spread out across his desk. “You’re trying to solve this like a mathematical puzzle, but uh— the letters in the corners of his notes are literally just spelling out ‘library’, so I went to the nearest library and spoke to the librarian on staff, she gave me this,”

You pull out a scrap piece of paper from your pocket and hold it out towards him, a handwritten poem.

Spencer blinked, the pieces clicking together in his mind with almost audible force as he took the poem from you.

You’d identified the connection instantly, something Spencer would have done himself had his mind not been knotted up in frustration. But instead of feeling defeated, he was astonished.

“How did you-?” He asked, genuinely curious.

You shrugged, as if it were obviousLooking at the bigger picture can be really useful sometimes,”

Spencer stared at you for a moment longer, watching as you calmly began jotting down more notes, your mind racing ahead as if you’d never even paused for breath. He realised, in that moment, that you weren’t just another member of the team. You were his equal—possibly even more than that.

From then on, Spencer found himself constantly intrigued by you. The two of you often ended up working side by side, bouncing ideas off each other in a way that was both exciting and intimidating for Spencer.

You were quick, your mind moving in a different way than his, and he found himself almost eager to keep up with your train of thought. You saw things he didn’t, caught details he might have missed, and he wasn’t sure how to handle that. No one had ever made him feel… not inferior, but challenged in such a unique way.

The conversations between you were often odd. Both of you were too intelligent for typical small talk, so you found yourselves discussing obscure facts or debating over scientific theories in the most random of moments.

Spencer would mention something about a 14th-century mathematician, and you would immediately counter with a parallel discovery made in physics centuries later. Neither of you really knew how to navigate personal conversations, so you stuck to what you both understood—facts, theories, and knowledge.

One evening, after a particularly long day spent on another complex case, the bullpen was empty except for the two of you. The team had gone home, but you stayed behind, just like Spencer always did, combing through the evidence again, searching for a missing piece.

You were seated across from him, your brow furrowed in concentration, scribbling notes onto a pad of paper.

Every few minutes, Spencer found himself glancing at you. It wasn’t something he could control—his curiosity about the way your mind worked was something that pulled him in, a constant mystery to unravel.

You were focused, absorbed in your task, and Spencer couldn’t help but admire how quickly you picked up on things. Sometimes, you were faster than him, and that realization both thrilled and unnerved him.

“You’re staring again,” you said, your voice breaking the silence without even looking up.

Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise. He wasn’t used to being caught off guard, and you did it effortlessly. “I—I wasn’t staring. I was just… thinking.”

You finally looked up, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “What were you thinking about?”

He swallowed, his brain scrambling for an answer that didn’t sound ridiculous. “You’re really good at this,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Your smirk softened into something more genuine. “You are too.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure how to respond. Compliments weren’t his strong suit, and he wasn’t used to receiving them either. “I mean, you’re younger than me, but you’re just as—no, sometimes more—effective than I am. It’s… impressive.”

For the first time since he’d met you, you looked almost shy. “I’ve always looked up to you, you know,” You admitted quietly. “When I first started here, I thought you were kind of untouchable. Like, how could anyone keep up with a guy who knows literally everything?”

Spencer stared at you, speechless. The idea that you—someone he viewed as his intellectual equal, if not superior—had once looked up to him was almost unbelievable. It made him see you in a different light.

“Well,” he said, after a long pause, “I guess we keep each other on our toes.”

You smiled at that, leaning back in your chair. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. It was a strange dynamic—two people too intelligent for normal conversations, yet too awkward to fully acknowledge the unique bond that had formed between you.

But it worked. You pushed each other, kept each other sharp. Whenever Spencer stumbled over an obscure reference, you were there to catch it. When you went too far into the realm of abstract thinking, Spencer reeled you back in with hard logic.

You were a perfect balance—an unstoppable team, even if neither of you would say it outright. And in a world where people rarely understood either of you, you had found something important in each other, an unlikely equal.

[eternal-evergreens]

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧"Into the looking glass - III"｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

Post format: Multipart series

Pairing: Yandere!Male!DoL x Fem!Isekai!Reader

Word count: 5.1k

Synopsis: You gain the chance to wake up in the world of one of your favorite games. Unfortunately, the 'favorite game' happens to be one about rape, violence, and stalking. Not only that, but the game seems to be rigged against you. All you want is to find a way home and put this all behind you, but is that even possible...?

Warnings: Sexual Assault, Attempted Non/Con, Drugging, Attempted Kidnapping, Stalking

Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible

No, no. Not happening. Never.

You need money. But you won’t get it through unscrupulous means. You still have your morals, and you’ll abide by them. That’s why you saved Kylar. That’s why you’d save him again, should it happen in the future.

You push the thought out of your mind and exit the temple. As you pass by Danube Street, a thought hits you. 

The spa. Why haven’t you been working at the spa? 

It’s not really an early-game option due to the stat checks required, but those shouldn’t be a problem for you. With your hand skill at C by default and your beauty over the max, working as a masseur is as simple as walking up and asking for work. 

You head over and ask for work, and the lady at the front desk takes one look at your hands and gasps. Her bored demeanor quickly melts away into an excited one as she quickly shows you the ropes. You get the basics down pretty quickly and soon take your first client, a trim woman who looks to be in her early 30s.

“Hello, I’ve not done this before. Do I just lie down?” That makes two of us, you think to yourself. 

“That’s right! Just lie down, and I’ll take care of the rest,” you say, smiling. The trim woman seems reassured and quickly lies down on the table. You get to work on her shoulders and neck first, cautiously looking for knots and tension as you knead her muscles. The woman relaxes under your touch and begins to make small talk. She tells you about her family, how her kids are both bright young boys, and her husband brings her flowers every month. She seems really happy. -Trauma -Stress

She leaves you a tip. You make £75. 

Your next client is less friendly, but you manage to massage her without incident. She leaves you a tip. You make £80 and decide to take a break, feeling a little worn out from standing on your feet for nearly two hours straight. After fifteen minutes, you get up and head back into the spa, where you take on another two clients. They both leave tips, and you make £120. The spa closes after that, and you head outside. 

Someone throws a water balloon at you from a nearby car, soaking your shirt and leaving it near-invisible. You hear cheers as they speed away, leaving you soaked out in the open. +Stress

You look around, but luckily, no one is around to see your predicament. You cover yourself with your arms as best as you can and head home. You take the alleys to avoid passersby seeing you, walking quickly in hopes of getting home sooner. You don’t watch where you’re going and end up walking right into someone. 

“Watch where you’re going, you—!” You look up, about to apologize, when you see icy blue eyes staring back at you. It’s Whitney, his face, only inches from yours, changes from anger to a smug smile.”Well, what do we have here? A slut all out on her own?” Whitney’s friends giggle. 

“Why is she walking around so exposed?” One delinquent asks. “Is she a pervert?” They giggle, crowding around you.

“I wanna get a picture!” Soon, all the delinquents are pulling out their phones. Suddenly torn between the desire to cover your face and your chest, you end up hiding behind the thing closest to you, which ends up being Whitney. He seems taken aback but soon wraps an arm around you protectively. +Love

“Fuck off,” he says, arm still around your waist. “Get your own slut.” The others seem disappointed but comply regardless. When everyone’s phone has been put away, Whitney releases you and shrugs off his jacket. 

“Can’t fuck a sick person,” he says, throwing his jacket over you. “Make sure to give it back. Now fuck off.” He shoves you out of the alleyway, leaving you stunned. Did that really just happen? 

You check your phone.

Whitney The Bully  Whitney wants to own you.       Fascination: 50% Love: 5% Devotion: 0% Dominance: 40%       Jealousy: 0% Lust: 100% 

You walk home with his jacket wrapped around your shoulders. It smells like smoke.

—————————

It is Thursday, the 8th of September, 2022. -It has been 4 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £729 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You feel cold Fatigue: You are alert Stress: You are calm Trauma: You are uneasy Control: You are insecure Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged

After waking up and finishing your morning routine, you go to Robin’s room and play video games with him for an hour. Some of the games remind you of those you used to play back home. +Love -Trauma +Stress 

“It’s almost time for school,” he says. “Do you want to come with me?” You smile and nod. Robin stands up from the bed and puts his controller away. He holds the door open for you as you leave, and you notice a faint blush on his cheeks as you pass. You swear you saw him glance down. +Lust

You’re suddenly reminded that you’re in a yandere game and that Robin is a target character. ++Stress

You grimace as you round a corner and resist the urge to cover your butt as Robin walks behind you. Your skirt is so short he can probably see your underwear as you walk. +++Stress

You see Bailey holding a mousy girl by the arms, a bundle of rope in his other hand. 

“You owe me £200 this week,” he says. The girl is holding back tears but still manages to keep a strong look about her. Robin looks away. The other orphans do the same. They all look…resigned. You step forward. 

“I’ll pay,” you say. “Let her go.” Bailey raises an eyebrow but releases the girl. You hand over the £200 without fuss. It’s only after parting with the money that you remember you could have just pepper-sprayed him and gained some catharsis. You don’t really need to be stingy with it, after all. Bailey counts the money and leaves, leaving the mousy girl to dust herself off.

“Thank you,” the mousy girl says. “I was really scared.” 

“Will you be okay?” You ask her. She nods. She seems genuinely okay. 

“Yes, thanks to you. I promise I’ll pay you back for this,” she says, running off. 

“You don’t have to!” You call out after her, but she’s already gone. 

You did a good thing today. -Trauma -Stress

“That was really impressive,” Robin says. “It’s not often people stand up to Bailey.” You shrug, and Robin cracks a smile. +Love

You and Robin chat on the way to school, mostly about the games you played earlier. There’s a certain glint in his eyes when he looks at you that wasn’t there before. You have to suppress a shiver every time you accidentally meet his gaze. +Stress

“I just don’t understand why they’d make a tutorial so difficult,” Robin says, shaking his head. “Maybe-” He’s cut off by something, eyes widening. You follow his gaze and see two hooded figures approaching rapidly from the alleyway you just passed. You reach for your pepper spray as the figures get closer, unhooking it from its keychain and holding it at the ready. 

“It’s her,” one says. You waste no time and spray them both, then grab Robin’s arm and sprint to safety with him. ++Crime (Assault) ++Crime (Assault) +Stress +Fatigue

You don’t stop running until you reach the school gates and are safely behind them. You and Robin pant heavily as you struggle to come down from the adrenaline. 

“Where did you get that?!” Robin whisper-yells. 

“A kid in my English class makes them,” you say at a normal volume. Robin’s look of concern only grows, and he spends a few minutes lecturing you on the dangers and illegalities of pepper spray. You mostly tune him out. 

The bell rings, finally putting an end to Robin’s monologue, and you head to class. You focus on the lesson, and Sirris calls you up to the front of the class. A student uses a ruler to flash your panties to everyone. To make matters worse, Sirris wanted you to undress for the demonstration. You comply, feeling humiliated as the class leers at your body. +++Stress

The bell rings, and you rush out of the classroom. You feel your heart pounding in your chest as you walk. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat is too loud, the world is spinning, and—

It’s all too much for you. You pass out. 

—————————

It is Thursday, the 8th of September, 2022. -It has been 4 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £529 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You feel cold Fatigue: You are wearied Stress: You are distressed Trauma: You are uneasy Control: You are insecure Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged

You wake up with something soft yet firm under your head and Sydney right above you. 

“You’re awake!” He says. “I was worried. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I brought you back to the library.” “Not the nurse?” You say, getting up. You realize that you’ve been lying on Sydney’s lap. Sydney looks sheepish. 

“I didn’t think of that,” he says, not meeting your gaze. He looks genuine, but you get the feeling he’s not being honest. +Awareness 

Sydney insists you stay with him for another ten minutes so he can monitor your condition. When you ask about going to the nurse again he makes an excuse of not knowing if you’re good to walk. You decide not to push it any further and spend the next ten minutes chatting with Sydney. When the ten minutes are up, he looks hesitant to let you go but relents regardless. +Love +Lust -Sydney’s purity

By the time you leave, it’s already lunch. You missed two classes. ++Deliquency

Feeling stressed from everything, you decide to sit alone in hopes of relaxing. You should have known better, however, as a group of students soon come by to make your day harder. The second they start jeering at you, you unhook your pepper spray and blast them all in the face. ++Crime (Assault) ++Delinquency +Status

The students are screaming and hurling insults, but the ringing in your ears makes it impossible to hear them. You finish your lunch in silence. 

You spend the rest of school zoning out, hoping your stress will subside. It works, kind of. 

You have detention, but you don’t feel like going. Considering all the shit you pulled today, Leighton is probably going to take off your clothes and smack you or something. You don’t have good enough grades to know where the tunnel from school is, so you walk out the front. Leighton tries to stop you, but you pepper spray him. ++Crime (Assault) ++Delinquency +Status 

A group of students say they’re going to the lake. You could use a change of scenery. You join them. +Status

Hanging out at the lake is fun enough. No one tries to grope you after what happened at lunch, so you end up having a somewhat enjoyable time. 

Then they start bullying another student, who thankfully isn’t here to listen to them shit-talking them, and what little fun you were having quickly melts away. You stand up and walk away, deciding to go for a swim instead. You think about retrieving the lichen for your science project but push the thought out of your mind. 

You swim for about an hour, and when you exit the water, the sun is already beginning to set. Your fellow classmates are still hanging out, but you don’t really feel like joining them, so you put on your clothes and go for a walk, planning to head back after you’re done.

You hear a bullet firing from afar. Something is hunting you.

Fuck. You whip around, trying to locate the source of the bullet. You heard it shoot from behind you, but you don’t see anyone. Going back the way you came might mean running straight into their arms. You glance around one last time, but a second gunshot has you running on your feet in no time.

You dash through the woods, not bothering to look behind you as the gun fires off in the near distance. You don’t think they’re shooting at you, and running zig-zag like you were taught as a kid just means slowing down. So, you run straight ahead with no clear plan in mind. You unhook your pepper spray again (you should probably thank Kylar), just in case, but you don’t know how much good it will do in a gunfight. Still, something is better than nothing, so you hold onto it, keeping it close to your chest as you run, run, run.

Your foot hits something strange and loses balance. You don’t even have time to process it until you’re lifted upside-down by your heel, face to inverted face with a plant person. 

“I caught one!” The plant girl exclaims. “This one’s wearing lacey panties!” You spray her, and she falls, her vines releasing you instantly. It’s only when you see sap pouring out from a hole on the side of her head that you hear the gunshot and realize it wasn’t you that took her down.

“Got you,” Eden says, a hand on your shoulder. You try to turn around, but the second you move, you’re on the ground, nose pressed into the soil, and arms pinned behind you in a painful grip. You feel your pepper spray being torn from your hand and thrown next to a bush. 

Shit. Shit!

He’s got you in a submission hold. There’s nothing you can do but go along with it and wait for an opportunity. It takes everything in you not to thrash and scream against his hold, but you know that would only make things worse. Eden runs his hand down your back, stopping when he gets to the hem of your skirt. He flips it up, taking a moment to admire it before giving it a light slap. You jump when he hits you, though it’s more about the surprise than the pain.

“You’re hurting me!” You cry, trying your best to sound helpless. “Please let go!” You weakly struggle against his grip for good measure. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, voice gruff. “Can’t do that. You’ll run away.” 

“I’ll be good! I’ll be good! Please, please, let me go!” You wiggle around, pretending this is as much strength as you can muster up. Eden leans down and studies your expression for a moment. You can feel the outline of his cock on your back as he leans down to look at you. The scrutiny in such a position is near-unbearable, but he releases you without a word. 

You force yourself to be still for a moment, not to do anything that would alert him. Then, slowly, you turn around and, mustering up every bit of courage you have, lean up and kiss him. He seems taken aback but soon reciprocates the gesture. You press into him, stroking and massaging his skin as you cautiously lean him back into a more desirable position. 

Though it costs you your dignity, you’re eventually able to get on top of him, grinding against him through his pants as you lower him to the ground. When you’ve got him completely below you, and you’re straddling his hips, you break the kiss and pull yourself up. 

“I think it's time we get rid of these,” you say, grabbing your panties and lifting your hips, then swaying them suggestively. You shift your weight to one knee and lift your other leg up, then, in a sudden, adrenaline-charged burst of speed, you throw yourself off of him and stagger to your feet. You kick him in the crotch and run towards the bush where your pepper spray landed. 

Eden catches your foot, and you nosedive towards the ground. You fall, but pepper spray is just within reach. You grab it and go limp. Eden drags your body closer to his, and you use it as an opportunity to spray him. He grabs his eyes and recoils, and you quickly gather yourself and run back the way you came. 

Your clothes snag on bushes and branches as you run, but you pay it no mind as you force yourself to run. You can’t hear anything but the wind in your ears, so you have no idea if Eden is chasing you or not. 

Silly you, it shouldn’t have been Eden you were worrying about. 

You feel yourself hit the ground before you even register being knocked down. There’s a growling above you and two hands on either side of your body. You twist around, barely even registering the wolf ears and sharp teeth of the man on top of you. You spray him, and he staggers back. You rush to your feet and keep running until you’re safely out of the forest. Your clothes are practically in scraps by the time you’re out, and at this point, you think it’ll be cheaper to just buy new clothes instead of fixing them. 

Then, it hits you. The pain and exhaustion. 

You drop to your knees, suddenly aware of every scratch, scrape, and bruise you acquired while running through the forest, suddenly aware of the strain on your muscles from the fatigue. You stay sitting for a few minutes, waiting for your muscles to stop hurting or for you to stop caring. When you notice the sun is starting to set, you pull yourself up and drag yourself back home, where you run a bath and then go straight to bed. 

—————————

It is Friday, the 9th of September, 2022. -It has been 5 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £529 Pain: You are upset Arousal: You feel cold Fatigue: You are wearied Stress: You are distressed Trauma: You are nervous Control: You are anxious Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged

You get up and check your socials on your phone.

Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible Primary relationships:  Robin The Orphan Robin wants to be your best friend.              Fascination: 100% Love: 5% Devotion: 30% Lust: 40%         Confidence: 0% Trauma: 0% Jealousy: 5% Whitney The Bully  Whitney wants to own you.       Fascination: 50% Love: 10% Devotion: 0% Dominance: 40% Jealousy: 0% Lust: 100%  Kylar The Loner Kylar is obsessed with you.       Fascination: 100% Love: 9% Devotion: 55% Jealousy: 55%        Lust: 90% Sydney The Faithful ? Sydney is conflicted.       Fascination: 70% Love: 8% Devotion: 25% Purity: 20%        Jealousy: 0% Lust: 70%  Avery The Businessman Avery thinks you’re cute.     Fascination: 55% Love: 1% Devotion: 0% Jealousy: 0%     Dominance: 0% Lust: 30% Rage: 0% Eden The Hunter Eden wants you back.     Fascination: 80% Love: 0% Devotion: 0% Jealousy: 0%     Dominance: 0% Lust: 100% Black Wolf The Alpha Black Wolf wants to see you again. Reputation:  The police consider you a person of interest, and have enough evidence for an arrest. The atmosphere in the orphanage is calm. You are considered a normal student by teachers. Your fellow students desire you. Lust: 100% Status: 60% Sex: Unknown. Prostitution: Unknown. Rape: Obscure. Beastiality: Unknown. Exhibitionism: Obscure. Pregnancy: Unknown. Combat: Low-key. Kindness: Obscure. Business: Unknown. Socialite: Unknown. Overall: Notorious. The townsfolk call you Darling. Those in the criminal underworld call you Darling.

Your eyes hover over your police reputation. You sigh. You’ll have to visit Landry after school. You throw your covers off of you and climb out of bed, groggily going to your wardrobe. 

Right. Your clothes got torn. You pick up an undamaged skirt and shirt, tossing the tattered garments into the trash. You put on your clothes and pick up your bag, not bothering to stop by Robin’s room this morning. You take a bus to the shopping center, where you do what you should have done on day one: buy clothes that actually cover you. You browse for a few minutes, looking for something as pervert-proof as possible. You settle on a school blouse, shorts, a sports bra, suspenders, and a pair of work boots. 

The shorts provide you protection against people lifting your skirt, the suspenders (which you’ll have to sew on) keep you from being pantsed, the sports bra can’t be unclipped and provides support in case you need to run, and the work boots will help you keep your footing when you need to go to the moor or the woods. 

You buy what you’re wearing as well as a few backups of the shorts and shirt, totaling £215. You pay and leave, arriving at school just in time for your science class. Today’s Friday, so you have a chance to improve your grades if you do well on the tests. 

The lesson pace is a little different from usual. It’s just a review of everything you’ve learned this week. Nothing new is being covered, so you don’t bother to take notes. Not that you’ve had any time to study your notes since coming here.

The test is easy enough, despite your terrible study habits, and you manage to improve your grade to a D. -Stress

The rest of the day continues similarly, and soon you have D’s all across the board. --Stress

You go to the pub after school, looking around for a thin man or woman with black hair and a grey sweater. You feel a hand on your shoulder and turn your head. It’s a tall man you’ve never seen before. He’s covered in tattoos.

“You’ve been busy,” he says, booze on his breath. “Don’t think I don’t recognize you. You’re the talk of the town. Bit surprising not seeing you being fucked raw, though.” His grip on your shoulder tightens. “I reckon it’s time I got my slice of the pie. You like it rough, right? That’s what I’ve heard. Come ‘ere, sweetheart.” 

“Am I interrupting?” You hear a man’s voice, and the tall man’s hand on your shoulder loses it’s grip. You look over to see the face of your savior and realize it’s the very person you were looking for. Your face shifts to one of relief. -Stress

“Yeah,” he says. “Piss off.”

“I recognize you.” 

“You should, I come here more often than I-” 

“March 3rd, 2009. Nightingale Street.” The tall man pales. “So you know what I’m talking about. I wasn’t there myself, but I’ve heard the stories. You were the talk of the town.” 

The tall man stutters. “Y-you’re not with the fuzz. You won’t turn me in.”

“You don’t know that. And either way, we both know you’re not hiding from the police. So how about you let her go, and I won’t tip off the Elk about your latest haunt.” The tall man looks at you, then Landry, then you again. Landry smiles. He throws his hands off of you.

“Fine. Shit, fine. You her lover? You picked a damn slutty one.” Landry waits until the man is out of earshot before turning to you. 

“Come with me,” he says. “I want to talk to you in private.”

“Reputation isn’t always a good thing,” Landry says as you sit down. “Word’s spread about you. You’re notorious. That’s why that drunkard went for you. You remember what he said, right?” 

“I haven’t even done anything,” you say. 

“No, but you’re pretty while doing it,” Landry retorts. “Not hitting on you,” he says. 

“Thanks?” 

“It’s not a good thing. You attract attention wherever you go. Where a normal person might have to fuck a hundred people to start getting known as a slut around town, you’d only have to fuck one.” 

“Oh,” you say, slinking in your seat. “So, what can I do?” 

“I think I can help you,” he pauses. “Well, not me. But I think I know someone. This orphan at the home on Domus Street. A computer whiz. Mickey, or McKay, something like that. Best hope is to find this orphan. If you can get them to come work with me, they’ll be able to hook you up. There’ll be some money in it for you, too. Just don’t step on Bailey’s toes.” You nod. 

“Thank you,” you say. Landry smiles.

“There’s another thing, too,” he says. “I’ll be frank. I know you need money. Don’t ask me how I know, word gets around. I think I can help you. If you come across any jewelry or other items you don’t know what to do with, I can take them off your hands. I’ll pay well.” He looks over your shoulder. “As well as can be expected, anyway.” 

“Can you help me get the police off my trail?”

“I can help you,” he says, reclining. “But I need you to do something for me. And no, it’s not about money. I was expecting a package, but it never arrived. Good thing I know where to find it, it had a GPS tracker. It got lost somewhere deep in the moor. Get it for me, and I’ll prevent any of your past misdemeanors being pinned on you. It’s a small black box.” You nod and stand. 

“Oh, and do be careful,” Landry says. “I don’t believe the tales of monsters, but there’s a sensible reason behind some superstitions.” 

You’re already wearing work boots, but you want to wear something that you can afford to tear, too. Preferably something resistant that can protect you. But you don’t have the money for that, so you head back to the orphanage and wear the only other outfit you have, a sundress. You put your pepper spray keychain on your bookbag and take it with you, hoping you won’t run out during this trip. 

After double checking everything is in order, you leave the orphanage and begin to make the long trek to the moor. 

Several people attempt to pick you up along the way. By which you mean literally every person who passes by you has slowed down to talk and ask where you’re headed. Not willing to risk anything, you turn them all down, running when they get too persistent. By the time you finally make it to the farmlands, you’re exhausted. So you sit down near the entrance to rest, knowing you’ll need your energy for the moor. 

“You alright there?” Someone asks. You look up to see a suntanned boy under a straw hat, looking concerned. He looks around your age, with red hair and a boyish appearance. He must be Alex, you realize.

“It was just a really long walk to get here,” you admit sheepishly. 

“You walked all the way from town?” You nod. “Well, Jesus! No wonder you’re so tired. Come in and get some water, my place isn’t far.” 

“Do you own the farm?” 

“Yeah, I do! It’s a work in progress, but it’s home.” You smile. 

Alex is right, and it doesn’t take long to reach the cottage, where he offers you a glass of water. You thank him and gulp it down. +++Drugged

…Huh?

You stare at your phone. The screen seems to shift.

Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You feel cold Fatigue: You are wearied Stress: You are calm Trauma: You are nervous Control: You are anxious Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged A lewd warmth fills you Your perception is altered

You look back up to Alex, who’s staring at you with a grin. You stand up but nearly fall. Alex stands with you, his hands on your shoulders. 

“Easy, there,” he says as if you’re a horse that needs to calm down. You shove him off of you and  run, reaching for your pepper spray, but in your altered state, you can’t figure out how to unhook it. 

>Try again (Skullduggery: Impossible) >Rip it off (Athletics: Challenging) >Spray without unhooking (Dance: Very Difficult) 

You rip it off, but the fabric holds firm. Alex is close behind you.

>Try again (Athletics: Challenging) >Spray without unhooking (Dance: Very Difficult) 

You try again and the fabric doesn’t yield. Alex is right behind you.

>Try again (Athletics: Challenging) >Spray without unhooking (Dance: Very Difficult) 

This is taking too long. You spray without unhooking, managing to get Alex, but in your flailing, also manage to spray yourself. +++Pain ++Willpower

You run, you don’t even know where you’re going you just run.

You can’t open your eyes, but you know they wouldn’t be of much help in this state, anyway. You run until you hit what feels like tall grass, then slow. You’re in the moor now. 

You try to quiet your breathing as you listen for anything that may be chasing you or lying in wait. You hear nothing. You go a little further in, just enough to be hidden among the grass and wait. 

Eventually, the pain subsides, and you open your bleary eyes. You still feel unsteady, though, so you wait longer. It takes another forty minutes for you to regain full balance and control of your body. When you do, you trudge deeper into the moor, relying on the map on your phone to guide you to the box. After what feels like two hours of searching, you finally find the box across from some water. 

You grimace as you step in, your shoes and socks instantly soaking with dirty water. The water is about knee-high, so not enough to touch your sundress but just enough to make movement heavily uncomfortable. You hobble over the box, just about to reach it, when you feel something suck you in. 

You look behind you and recognize the thing as a lurker. You waste no time and spray it, freeing yourself and grabbing the box before leaving. 

Of course, nothing is ever that simple, and just as you leave the water, you see a terrible shadow overhead. You look up and notice a harpy in the sky. You are being hunted.

You start to run. Your pursuer approaches rapidly. ++Stress

You run faster, pushing yourself to your limits as you sprint across the moor. But luck is never on your side, and your foot sinks into something as you land. You look down, and it’s a fucking foxhole. Not big enough for you to run through or hide in. You pull yourself out, but it’s too late. 

“Found wife,” he says. You spray him and keep running. That should keep him out of commission for a while. 

Eventually, you feel safe enough to walk the rest of the way out of the moor. You sneak around the farmlands and begin to walk the rest of the way home. You’re too tired to make it very far, however, and soon pass out on the road. You feel yourself being lifted onto a stretcher before passing out again.

You’ve unlocked a fragment.

<Prev Next>

[softspiderling]

illicit affairs - part three | r.c

summary:

“Are you crazy?” he asked, his voice suddenly all breathy. “I’m still worked up off of Monique last week. I will literally cum the second you put your mouth on me.”

“Don’t mention Moany while I have your dick in my hand.”

“Technically-”

Rafe broke off when you lifted your head, raising a brow at him.

“A’ight, precious, I didn’t say nothin’.”

OR; You and Rafe move in unfamiliar territory

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

warnings: SMUT! 18+ MDNI! p in v, oral sex (female receiving)

word count: 2,4k

author's note: uhm.... this is basically just porn. yeah. also can't believe that the first time i post rafe smut is part of this series lmaoooo. happy reading, i hope you love it <3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

pt. three: "a dwindling mercurial high"

Pulling away for a second, Rafe tugged his shirt off, tossing it somewhere over his shoulder, before his hands were already back on you, helping you out of your top and letting it drop on the floor. Even though you just lost an item of clothing, you still felt so hot, and it didn’t help that Rafe’s eyes immediately zeroed in on your chest. But before either of you could get carried too far away, you stopped, heaving breaths.

“Wait.”

“What?” Rafe asked, fingers playing with the straps of your bra, eager to take it off.

“We’re not having sex on the couch.”

He sat back, as if just realizing you were still in the living room. “Right, shit. Sorry.”

Before you could ask what he was sorry for, he looped his arm around your waist, easily picking you up and if you weren’t already wet, your panties would be drenched by now. Your legs hooked around his side, as if you had done it a million times before, clinging to him as he carried you upstairs into his bedroom. Without much ado, he tossed you on the bed, and you yelped, glaring at him.

“Is this how you treat all the girls?”

Rafe grinned at you, kneeing on the bed and tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, thumb stroking your inner thigh.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make up for it,” he promised, and before you could say anything, his face was already between your legs, tongue delving between your folds.

“Fuuuuck.”

Your hands dove into his hair, nails scratching over his scalp as he ate you out, the pad of his thumb pressing onto your bundle of nerves like there was no tomorrow. God, you really missed this, missed some good oral sex, because for some reason, your exes either refused to go down on you or were terrible at it. But Rafe? Rafe was excellent. And you weren’t surprised.

Lips parted, to let out small, breathy moans, which turned into a groan when Rafe slowly pushed a finger into you.

“Shit, give a girl a warning,” you gasped out, your hips arching from the bed, but Rafe pushed it back down easily with one hand, grinning up at you.

“I did. Told you I’d make it up to you, didn’t I?” He asked, lazily pumping his finger in and out and if you weren’t rolling your eyes out of pleasure, you’d be rolling them out of annoyance. Beads of sweat were rolling down your temple as Rafe added a second finger, your toes curling as he added a third. It didn’t take long for you to feel the warm, familiar sensation of an orgasm building in your stomach and let out a soft moan, causing Rafe to look at you, eyebrow raised.

“I’m so close Rafe,” you whined, voice breathless.

“Yeah? Are you going to cum for me?”

“Just shut up and put your mouth to better use!” You huffed, pushing his head down towards your cunt. You could feel him chuckling against your skin, but he obeyed your orders anyways. He brought his mouth down, sucking on your clit, his fingers never stopped moving. You let out a gasp, feelings the knot uncoiling, so close.

“Yes, so close,” you moaned, hands dropping on the mattress, fingers curling around the bedsheets, your hips arching off the bed when your orgasm finally washed over you, Rafe’s name leaving your lips like a prayer.

“Fuck that was hot,” he muttered, licking his fingers clean like he just finished the meal of his life. You let your head fall back on the pillow, letting out a breath, your eyes fluttering close.

“Did I wear you out already?” Rafe asked, leaning up to place a rather soft kiss on your lips. You huffed, kissing him back before pulling away, peeking an eye open at him.

“Don’t ruin it by opening your mouth.”

The corner of Rafe’s mouth quirked up, and he pushed your sweaty hair out of your face. “Are you always this mean to guys you have sex with?” The way he looked at you made your cheeks heat up, despite the fact that he was just between your legs.

“No. Just you.”

Rafe opted against replying, only grinning, leaning up to reach behind your back to finally unclasp your bra, which you glad let fall off your shoulders. He didn’t waste any time to put his mouth on one of your tits, his hand on the other, kneading it gently, his fingers rolling your nipple, while his tongue laved around the other, until it turned into a stiff peak.

“I can’t believe it took you this long to show me your tits,” he said, leaving a wet trail of kisses on your chest. You let out a breathy moan, giving him a look.

“Why the fuck would I have shown you my tits?”

“Why not?”

You pushed him on the forehead gently, so he’d fall back on his back, a crease forming on his forehead, and you could tell he was not done playing with your tits, but this was your turn. Now it was you who was getting between his legs, pulling his shorts down, hand immediately palming his erection through his boxers. “Can I blow you?”

“Are you crazy?” he asked, his voice suddenly all breathy. “I’m still worked up off of Monique last week. I will literally cum the second you put your mouth on me.”

“Don’t mention Moany while I have your dick in my hand.”

“Technically-”

Rafe broke off when you lifted your head, raising a brow at him.

“A’ight, precious, I didn’t say nothin’.”

Slowly, you tugged his boxers off, not quite sure what to expect. Your jaw did drop when you saw his cock sprang free, bouncing off his abdomen.

“Shit.”

You didn’t have to look at Rafe to know he had a shit eating grin on his face, he was your best friend after all. You knew him like the backside of your hand.

“Do you have a condom?”

“In the top drawer, can’t miss it,” Rafe said and you leaned over the bed to open the drawer. “The XXL ones.”

“Oh my god, literally shut up,” you groaned, fishing a red foiled packet out of the drawer, shutting it close again. Settling back between his legs, you were about to open the foil, when you noticed the look on his face.

“What?”

Rafe only shrugged, running a hand through his hair and you gave him a look.

“Rafe, what?”

“You’re gonna yell at me.”

You followed his eyesight to the condom, before you realized what he didn’t want to say. “You want to do it without a condom?”

He shrugged again.

“Rafe, you have sex with like ten girls a week.”

“Are you slut shaming me right now, precious?” Rafe asked with a snort. “I never fuck anyone without a condom and you know I get tested regularly. And I trust you. You’re on the pill, right?”

You shifted on your knees, contemplating his suggestion. You usually had sex without condoms becuase you liked it better that way, but you were afraid that one less layer between you and Rafe would change even more between the two of you. And yes, you realized how stupid it sounded.

Rafe interpreted your silence as turning his suggestion down, wrapping his hand around your thigh. “’s fine. Let’s use a condom.”

“No, I’m good. I was just thinking,” you assured him, tossing the packaged condom on the drawer. “I trust you.”

“Are you sure?”

You tried to ignore how concerned Rafe was looking and you nodded, wrapping your hand around his cock.

“Yes.”

“Shit okay,” Rafe groaned, bucking his lips a little. You gave his cock a few good pumps, anticipation building in you, before you crawled over him until you were hovering just over the tip. Rafe’s hands found their place on your waist and you felt him squeezing you as you slowly lowered yourself on his cock, the both of you moaning out.

“Fuck.”

You gave yourself a second to adjust, mostly due to his sheer size, but also because you felt like you had to take a second. This was Rafe. Your best friend. For some reason, you thought this had to feel weird, but all you could think about was how right it felt.

“You good?” Rafe asked, his voice tight.

You exhaled, nodding, before started to move up and down on his cock, movement fluid from your slick and his precum, your hands leaning on his chest.

“Shit, precious.”

Your cheeks flamed, hearing the familiar nickname being used in such an unfamiliar setting with Rafe. Terrified that you were wearing your emotions on your face, you leaned further forward so he couldn’t see your face, while simultaneously giving yourself more space to move. Soon, the bedroom filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, coupled with both your and Rafe’s moans, as the two of you found your rhythm.

Rafe was right, the sex with him was amazing, because of the two of you just worked. He knew just the right moment to snap up his hips to hit the right spot as you rode him, knew how to guide your waist on his cock and when your hips started to stutter, Rafe didn’t hesitate to flip you over, laying you on your back.

“Hey, I wasn’t done,” you protested breathlessly, hair fanning around his pillow. Rafe scoffed, lining up his cock, sliding in, before he pounded into you, holding into the headboard as it kept banging against the wall. Gasping, your eyes rolled back, as Rafe kept fucking into you, your eyes fluttering open when you noticed him getting closer to you, his breath hot on your face as he panted.

“You were saying?”

“Shut up,” you moaned, pulling him down to kiss him, bringing his body closer, his movements never stopping. Slowly, you could feel another orgasm build up, your toes curling. It must have shown on your face, because Rafe pinched your nipple, his cock driving in and out of you.

“You close?”

Nodding, you let out a soft moan, arching your back a little, yearning for your orgasm, even though you had just cum not that long ago,

“M’too,” he groaned, his hips stuttering. He reached down, applying pressure in circular motions against your bud with his finger, keeping fucking into you.

“Fuck, don’t stop,” you whined, nails digging into his shoulders, “Yes, yes, yes, fuck, Rafe!”

“Can I?” he breathed out, his face contorting, and you only nodded, muttering a soft yes, before he finished inside of you, and when you felt his warm come spurt into, you reached your peak, your breath stuttering out as you came, body arching off of the mattress, before you slumped back down, exhausted. Carefully, Rafe pulled out, flopping down on the bed next to you, catching his breath.

“Fuck,” he said, pushing his hair out of his face, glancing over to you. “Wait, let me grab a towel.”

You didn’t even have any energy to protest as Rafe got up to pad to the bathroom. Your eyes were shut as you recovered from your orgasm, before realization suddenly hit you.

You just had sex with Rafe.

Your best friend, Rafe.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, rubbing your hands all over your face. It wasn’t like you regretted it per se, you just wasn’t sure if this was the smartest move to do.

It didn’t take long for Rafe to return, having put on some boxers somewhere on the way to the bathroom. He knelt down on the bed, careful to wipe the cum off of you, and you winced when he brushed over your still sensitive cunt.

“Relax, I know what I’m doing,” he said, pressing a soft kiss on your inner thigh. And he wasn’t lying. His hands were gentle as they moved over your lower body, applying soft pressure with the wet cloth where it was needed to clean you off.

“Who knew you were so gentle with your sex partners,” you teased, leaning on your elbows to watch him. Rafe’s cheeks tinged pink and he tossed the dirty towel into the hamper after he was done.

“Shut up.”

He reached over to the side to hand you his shirt, and you pulled it over your head, glancing around, eyes squinted.

“Where did you toss my panties?”

“Uh…” Rafe looked around, before pausing, picking up your panties from the floor at the end of the bed. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” you snorted, putting your panties back on, before you got off the bed. Rafe watched with careful eyes, scratching his head.

“You’re seriously not still going home, are you precious?”

“Rafe,” you sighed, giving him a look. “I need to pee.”

“Right, sorry.”

You shook your head in amusement, before making your way to the bathroom, the nickname ringing in your head. As you did your business on the toilet - since you did not want to end up with an UTI - you wondered if you could get Rafe to stop calling you precious during sex. It just felt weird, like a permanent reminder that you were still just his best friend.

With the difference that you were having sex now, that is.

Flushing the toilet, you went to the sink, washing your hands and frowned at your reflection in the mirror, before calling out his name.

“Hey, can you maybe not call me precious while we’re fucking?”

He didn’t say anything and you weren’t sure if he fell asleep, so you tiptoed into the bedroom, pausing in the doorway when you saw him look at you with an odd look on his face, halfway tucked into bed.

“Why?”

You shrugged with your shoulders, feeling like he was staring you down, so you crawled under the blankets on the left side of the bed.

This? This felt like familiar territory. You had spent countless nights sleeping in the same bed as Rafe. But everything before that? Terribly unfamiliar.

“I don’t know, it’s weird.”

Rafe sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Sure precious,” he said, leaning over to the nightstand to shut the light off, basking you in darkness.

“Whatever you want.”

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author's note: thoughts?

[suguru-getos]

୨・┈﹕✦﹕ Kinktober Day 8﹕✦﹕┈・୧

Hawks x f!reader -> Cockwarming

Event Masterlist

a/n: soft hawksie, comfort, slice of life <3, cockwarmin.

there are times your work, your day absolutely drains the fuck out of you. you want nothing more than keigo and to be covered in the duvet of his wings. today you were late from work, reaching home at 10 pm. it was irritating— you were drained and your shoulders were slumped, keigo noticed the lack of ease and effortlessness in your body language and facial expressions in the morning itself. a sudden murmur when he wore his hero jacket, “why don’t you take an off from work sweetie? take my card and spoil yourself a bit mm?” keigo tried, but you dismissed his proposal. “no, im good thanks kei” your smile also seemed forced—

now that you had returned home, keigo came over to you immediately. wearing his grey joggers and a white tee. fuck he didn’t even have to try !! he was so ethereal. the blazing sun had toned down in japan & keigo’s golden tan with it. you walked towards him, hugging him eagerly. a musical chuckle escaped him as his hands groped your back, “aww~ my cute little birb.” he mumbles, leaning back and kissing your lips softly, melting away your stress and worries. “dinner?” he muses, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.

“mhm, what do we have?” you asked him, nuzzling against his palm when he cupped your face. “mm, whatever you want is what we have. keigo’s kitchen especially catered to his baby girl.” he grinned. you love that he addressed himself as keigo and not ‘hawks’ in front of you.

“some chicken soup.” you hummed, smiling back at him tenderly, through tired eyes.

“gotcha~” he took out his phone to check for outlets and you chuckled, “hey now, wasn’t this keigo’s kitchen?” keigo bit his lip, blushing with a grin. “yes it is, just out sourcing some stuff.” he winked, sounding exactly like the man of your dreams — oh wait, he is.

the dinner came in quick, by the time you were out of the shower, a stray plume caressed your cheek, making you giggle as you paved your way towards the dining area. “dinner is ready missy, sit down.” keigo looked at you, still in the bathrobe and whistled. “oh my~” you blushed and rolled your eyes at his antics, sitting down and having dinner with your husband. things seem so great when you start counting these little moments that life awards you with your man.

once the dinner was finished, where you talked to him about work, he talked about his— well, as much as he could share of course. you got up. flustered at what you’re about to ask. “wanna, cockwarm.” the words came out of your mouth easy. keigo smirked, “mm? want to feel daddy that close huh?” you nodded, blushing and looking down.

you nodded, looking into his eyes because you know he likes it. “yeah, wan’- wan’ to feel you close keigo.” you looked down, fuck his siren gaze with his marked golden eyes made you shiver. “and too tired for the whole sex.” you pouted, while keigo observed you in awe.

“mkay, if my sweet little girl wants that, who the hell am i to deny her demands? don’t want to be a bad daddy to my kid.” he winked, carrying you bridal style, a low purr escaping him when you lean against his chest as he took you to your shared bedroom.

“looks like gotta work you up first mm? how else are you gonna take daddy’s cock?” keigo smirked, oh he had no filter at times… you pouted, quite impatient and wanting to feel stretched & full already. after all these years with you, keigo has become an excellent mind reader. “okay okay~ let me get the lube, mm?” he cooed, pulling the knot of your bath suit and kissing your exposed tits. tugging at your nipples just to check how far he could go with them. they get really sensitive depending upon the time of the month & keigo doesn’t want to hurt his darling.

spreading your legs, pupils dilating in anticipation, keigo lubed up your pretty pussy and groaned when you arched your back at him rubbing your clit. “there she is, there she is.” he hums, spreading your cunt lips and thrusting himself in slowly. you arched your back and whined, gasping at the stretch. “fuck— i can’t.” you moaned when keigo pressed your pelvis, making you feel just how deep he’s reaching.

“that’s it sweetness, that’s it. ssh~ you’re taking it so well.” he crooned, kissing your neck and stilling. your eyes were glossing up. overwhelmed by the smouldering amount of love keigo showers you with. “i love you.”

“i love you too.” he said it like a silent prayer, smiling tenderly at you and leaning beside, adjusting your position & kissing your forehead deeply. “cute. my cute little angel birdie.” he smiled, kissing your eyelids. “let it go for me okay? all your worries, all your stress. because i’d always be here.”

and he’ll always be there for you. <3 you don’t doubt that.

[liveyun]

EYES LIKE STARS | 1

banner by the amazing @itaeewon 🌧️

summary. “He was everything you were not. He was perfect—too perfect. Always kind, always excelling, always loved by everyone, even your own parents, like a reminder of everything you weren’t. And you hated this. You hated him. You hated the way he always included you, the way he tried to help, as if you ever needed his pity. He was always there, almost like a shadow you could never escape.

Returning to the town that holds both your earliest memories and silent secrets, you’re forced to confront not only the unsolved knots you’d left behind all those years ago, but the boy who was always at the center of your pain. Whose eyes have always seen right through you : Jungkook.”

title. Eyes like Stars

pairing. Jeon Jungkook x afab reader/oc

status. ongoing

rating. M (18+)

genre. e2f2e2L (you get it), angst, drama, romance, boy next door sorta situation, emotional baggage, slow burn, eventual smut

wc. 9.5k +

warnings. (for this chapter) coarse language, OC being in denial and this is just the beginning LOL , parental negligence / toxic parenting , flashbacks, slight mention injuries (knee scraping) and crying , panic attack :( , oc is kinda.. eh, SOMEONE is introduced 😵‍💫, this is it for the first part, lmk if i missed any other warnings, “english isnt my first language” so can contain grammatical errors, not proof read + the last part omfg

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Some doors, no matter how tightly shut, always find a way to open.

The sun was up after the drizzle, which bathed the town in a subtle golden haze, the kind that made everything feel a little too warm, a little too nostalgic. You walked slowly, almost as if your feet were dragging against the weight of the years you’d left behind. A part of you did not really want to be here, but a greater part of you knew you cannot continue to run away from everything like you always have.

Such a coward.

Your home stood at the end of a narrow lane, tucked away like a secret that had been kept for far too long, to the point you felt like it maybe didn’t exist anymore. The house looked the same, yet different, almost as if it had aged in your absence - funny, because although it looked pretty worn out, nothing really felt off. Or did it? The paint was chipped, the garden overgrown, the lawn and grass both destroyed.

But it was still the place you’d once called home—a place that had witnessed more arguments than apologies, more silence than understanding. You pause, staring at the old, browned door as if it’s a portal to another world— always has been— to a world where you were always second best, always compared, always found wanting, longing, no— yearning for the bare minimum. Your own once called home which always felt like a far distant place for you.

It still does.

The windows stare back at you, blank and lifeless, just like the eyes that used to watch you so closely, judging every move, every breath. You don’t want to go inside, but you know you have to. You cannot keep on running away anymore. You are tired, but you dont exactly know if doing something which has your gut churning with disdain can be exactly considered as rest or relaxation.

You notice that the shabby WELCOME door mat which was once a home for mites is no longer at the front door anymore.

As you drew closer, your eyes involuntarily flickered to the house next door. The garden was well-tended, prettiest of the flowers scattered in the greenery in full bloom, just like how you’d remembered.

As always.

The house stood as if nothing had changed there— as if time had preserved that house and all its memories in a neat little bubble. Always so full of life, always so welcoming. You bite down the bitterness which floats up your chest at the thought. Push down the small voice in the back of your head which insists that you will never be welcomed the way a static house makes you feel.

A part of you, the part you’d tried to bury, kick away— wondered if he still lived there. If his parents still looked out from the same windows, waiting for their golden boy to come home.

Who cares.

You quickly turned your gaze away, focusing on the worn steps leading up to her own front door. Your hand trembles as you reach for the doorknob, the cold metal biting into your skin. You’d previously informed your mum through a text message that you will be visiting them, which you didn’t bother or have the energy to check if she’d actually seen.

Your hand on the knob stills, and you purse your lips in thought. You’d decided it’d be a bit courteous to knock instead of just barging in — perhaps some basic decency to spare — although if it was your own home — as if it ever was. You raise your fists to knock— and the door creaked open before you could really.

There she stood.

The same face that had greeted you with tired smiles and even more tired expectations, back in the days when her face was devoid of wrinkles, and full of youthful beauty. The same person who’d cradled you on her bosom and cherished you; the same person who at least tried to make an effort to mend some broken ties, although when she was very well aware it was way too late.

“You’re back,” your mother said, her voice heavy with something that wasn’t quite disappointment but wasn’t quite relief either. She sounded tired— and your mind partially thought if it was because of you. You really felt overwhelmed by emotions, you really did.

You felt the back of your eyes burn with tears — that familiar feeling which you’d remembered was a staple one when you used to live here back in your teenage days. You wanted to engulf her in a hug and just cry, hoping that you could just, for once, forget about whatever had ever happened, and truly be a child once again.

“I’m back,” you reply, deciding to push aside any fleeting emotions which dared to threaten you. You stepped inside as soon as your mom moved aside and let the familiar scent of home—of old furniture — of broken communication — of forgotten dreams —wash over you.

— — —

Inside, the house was just as you’d remembered it. The wallpaper was still peeling in the corners, the furniture still arranged the way it had been since you were a child. It smelled like old wood, dust, the old sandalwood diffuser — and something bitter that lingered in the air, like the remnants of a fight that never really ended.

The walls seem closer than you remember, the space smaller, suffocating. Everything is the same, yet different, distorted by the journey of time and the weight of all that’s been left unsaid. Was any of the furniture ever even moved ever since you’d left? You’re in doubt.

However, the air was thick with unspoken tension, a tension that had always existed— but was now more prominent, more suffocating. You could feel the weight of your mother’s gaze on you, as if she were waiting for her to say something, anything, to break the silence that had settled between them like thick snow.

Although it’s been so long, surprisingly, you didnt really have anything to break the ice with.

Or even if you did, you didn’t want to.

You move through the house on autopilot, your feet carrying you to the living room where you remember the echoes of your parents’ voices being the loudest. You felt disgruntled — upset, at how memories of your parents fighting are the only prominent thing you can remember vividly inside this house. You wanted to laugh ; you can almost see them standing there, locked in yet another battle of wills, their words sharp and cutting, slicing through the air like knives, and you— you ?

Perhaps standing in some corner with your favorite old teddy bear, covering your ears the best you could, trembling with sobs, wondering if this would ever stop. Their words, though, are like a very vague memory to you. Almost as if someone is tingling a metal glass in the back of your head, far away, and the echoes which reach you are the only thing audible.

They were always fighting, always tearing each other apart, and you were always caught in the crossfire, collateral damage in a war that wasn’t even yours to fight.

But it was you who paid the price, every single time.

You hear footsteps, and your throat goes dry. The realization that you recognize the footsteps is beyond disturbing to you, as the fact that you even know who the owner of the footsteps is.

From recognising footsteps to vehicle horns, you grew up, and this would never not be able to turn on a switch in the back of your head. You knew the footsteps, their urgency, or even their tone, may you be called crazy. And you perhaps are delusional to think that maybe these steps are rather relaxed and slow. . .

perks of growing in a strict family, you guess.

Your father emerged from the kitchen, his steps slow and deliberate. His eyes, now very much lacking of the light they used to radiate, widen ever so slightly, but then again, come back to their usual resting form. Almost as if he tried to mask his. . . disappointment?

You weren’t sure, and his expression wasn’t one of happiness, either.

He looked older, more worn, but his eyes held the same disapproval you had seen so many times before. The kind of disapproval that was never voiced but was always felt.

A kind of disapproval you felt in your veins even before you were faced to force it, almost as if it was imprinted deep in your veins, that no matter what you’d do, you’re going to get this stamp of resentment passed onto you.

“Long time,” he muttered, his eyes flicking over yours as if assessing the damage of the years. The silence which has stretched all over these years. You were surprised that he even decided to speak up, remembering the time when you departed.. wasn’t exactly as serene as a teary goodbye sounded like, but that was a memory you refused to unlock.

“Yeah,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

You grimace at how dry you sounded, but you couldn’t help it. Maybe because it’s partially the fact that you didn't know what to answer, or maybe because..

Well.

You stood there, the three of you, now, in the cramped living room that had never felt like a home to you. You wonder if it did to them too, or was it just the forced idea of it being a home to rest their heads in made them used to the idea that it was a home. Misunderstandings which haunt you, as their child, you sure are to know that they must haunt them too.

You were someone who tried fixing them, who never once tried to do that themselves, right in the place where it all began, pretending it was home, when all it ever felt like was a place they were too tired to leave.

The silence in the room felt heavy, oppressive, broken only by the faint ticking of the old clock on the wall which seemed to drag time over and over.

It once again felt like their eyes pierced your very own soul, trying to burn you with their gaze.

“I’ll get dinner started,” your mother echoed, turning away before anyone could respond. It was easier, you supposed, to keep busy than to confront the reality of your return.

Or her expectations. Who knows.

You nodded, more to yourself than to anyone else, and followed your mother into the kitchen. You weren’t surprised that your father opted to go outside — a habit you’d recall which was so frequent back in the olden days when everything was a frenzied mess. Either he used to be out puffing out nicotine, or simply. . . didn’t return home until he felt like it.

— — —

The kitchen was smaller than you’d remembered, or maybe you’d just grown up. The shelves were no longer as tall as Burj Khalifa to you, and neither were the long random cabinets— who were the same dull brown, the countertops cluttered with the same appliances that had seen better days.

Your breath stuttered at how even the products you’d seen were the same, not a single new thing filled there— from the good ol’ crunchy cereal cornflakes (which was barely even consumed for breakfast,) or the chilli crisp you’d loved to drizzle on top of nearly any dish you’d had.

Truly, nothing really had changed.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” your mother’s voice reached out to you as you nearly flinched, not having expected her to begin a conversation. She was diligent in her chore; her question was like a soft command which demanded an answer, not looking up from where she was peeling potatoes, with that same old lilac handled peeler.

“Yeah,” you repeat, this time truly not knowing what else to say. To say you felt like a dumbass was an understatement; because truly, after so long, you seem to have lost the spark to even think to answer.

However , you didn’t want to explain yourself, didn’t want to justify why you’d stayed away for so long. You didn’t owe them that. You didn’t owe them anything.

At least, that’s what you told yourself. It felt better that way.

The silence returned, heavy and uncomfortable. You found yourself staring out the small kitchen window, your gaze drifting to the house next door. You could see the top of the garden wall, the vibrant green of the plants that lined it.

It was strange how one small thing could hold so many memories, how one small thing could make you feel so much. Much more than being inside of your own house ever did, or ever could.

Yet, something about it feels different now, like a memory you’ve revisited too many times, its edges blurred with the weight of all you’ve carried inside you for decades.

You can almost see him there, in the yard, surrounded by laughter that wasn’t just his—it was a magnet, he was like a magnet, pulling everyone into its orbit, everyone except you. You were always on the outside looking in, (and it’s nearly ironic how you are now too,) your heart a silent witness to the joy you could never touch, never reach.

Even when he reached out, trying to pull you into that magnetic circle of warmth, you resisted. Your pride was too wounded, your envy was too sharp. How could you join in when every smile of his was a reminder of everything you could never be?

.....

Fuck.

You quickly look away, focusing on the mundane task of setting the table, very well knowing that your mom is gonna do that again. But the curiosity lingered, like a small fucking bug, a small, nagging feeling that you couldn’t quite shake out of you.

You did not want to think about him. You did not come here all the way to remember someone who has always just,. . . you sigh, gritting your teeth. Here were you again, fretting and sweating. Your mind whirred, not wanting to remember the way his smile had once made you feel both seen and invisible at the same time.

— — —

You decide you could take a walk around to fuck around and.. uh, find out, maybe? (You weren’t sure what exactly, though.)

As you maneuver through the hallway, your gaze drifts to the old family photos hanging on the wall. They seem. . out of place, like relics from a time that never really existed, or more like pieces on . . a museum? A museum where no one cared for its content , and everything was just randomly added to make something out of nothing.

You were always smiling in those pictures, but it was a smile that never reached your eyes—a smile that hid the exhaustion inside you. And there, in the corner of every photo, was him.

Even in those memories, those old photos, he was perfect. The golden boy with the bright eyes and the easy smile. His eyes were so bright and full of a happiness that seemed to come so naturally, would crinkle at the corners when he smiled—an easy, effortless smile that lit up his entire face.

His hair, always a little tousled from running around, caught the sunlight in a way that made it glow, adding to the image of him as the golden boy. You remember the way his front teeth, slightly larger and giving him that bunny-like appearance, would peek out when he grinned, adding a touch of innocence to his already charming features. He’s grinning widely in this picture, his nose crinkled up and his fingers poised in a victory sign, aligned to his face, right above his eyes, a smile so infectious that you feel your lips stretch to a smile even before you know it.

Your heart drops to your ass.

You’re smiling.

You can still hear their voices,though. Dripping with disappointment every time they said his name, their expectations pressing down on you like a weight you could never lift. You were expected to be someone’s walking copy— perfect and what not. You were the one who couldn’t measure up, the one who always fell short, who always came last in the race.

You take a deep breath, but it feels like you’re inhaling shards of glass, each breath painful, deep and cutting. The silence in the house is deafening, only the distant noise of your mother chopping up vegetables with that same dull thud against the chop board audible.

It doesn’t take you long to realize that the absence of your parents’ voices is more suffocating than their arguments ever were. You had always wished for the fighting to stop, but now that it has, you find yourself wishing for the noise, the chaos—anything to drown out the silence that presses in on you from all sides.

Maybe you had finally gone insane.

You had run away from it all. From the piercing noises, comparison, disdain, disappointment, everything. You were so young back then, with no knowledge of the outside world or its secrets.

You’d try to settle in different parts of the world, failing miserably each time because that feeling of something missing in your soul— that deep longing and yearning for anything that wasn’t as quick as getting a quick whiff of dopamine.. never quite left following you.

And now, here you are, back where it all began, and nothing has changed. Except, perhaps, you. You’re not the same girl who left this place. You’ve seen too much, been through too much. The world has carved its mark on you, left you scarred and weary, and you’re not sure if there’s anything left of the girl you used to be.

But as you stand there, looking out at the endless pictures which hang on the old plastered walls where the past that still haunts you, you realize something.

You’re not just angry anymore.

You’re tired.

Tired of carrying this weight, this burden of resentment and hurt. Tired of blaming all the misunderstandings that were woven into the delicate fabric of your mind as you grew up, to someone who perhaps wasn't even slightly related to your pain.

Perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t really him you despised, but the circumstances that had pushed you to see him as the source of your pain, which had settled like dust in the chambers of your heart. The misunderstandings that had tangled themselves into the delicate fabric of your mind as you grew up, weaving him into the narrative of your suffering, were unfair to you both.

It felt easier to blame him than to confront the truth—that your pain had roots far deeper than just one boy with a bright smile and kind heart.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to let go.

The thought surprises you, shakes you to your core. Where the fuck did that come from?

The thought not only surprises you, but mostly, scares you. You take a cautious step back. It comes with a dozen questions which you fear that you don’t know the answers to, or are way too confused to even think about them.

You’ve held onto this anger for so long, let it define you, shape you. Who will you be without it? Can you really let go of something that has been a part of you for so long?

Did it really take you this long to realise this, all that, too in the place where you desperately ran away from?

You don’t have the answers, not yet. But standing here, in this place where it all began, you think that maybe you’re ready to start looking for them.

And that scares you more than anything else.

You find yourself staring at a sketchbook, after dinner, which was all just . . . once again, all silence. You remember how you realised that the food tasted bland, despite having a home cooked meal after nearly a decade. You tried adding salt till it was way too salty, and you had to gulp down each morsel because it became too bitter for your taste. The suffocating silence was broken when the bubbling hot stew burnt your tongue, as you yelped in pain. The only relief you got was gulping down a whole bottle of iced water from the fridge.

Your tongue feels numb now. Great.

Your eyes roam over the sketchbook again, its once pristine pages now yellowed with age. It was a relic from your childhood, buried deep in the attic with dust for years until your return home unearthed it. As you trace the lines of the drawing on the first page, you remember the day you made it—a simple scene of a house on a hill, surrounded by trees and bathed in the warm glow of a sunset, and those huge “V” shaped birds marked randomly near the sun.

You remember that you were so proud of that drawing, each line and color carefully chosen by your younger self, an attempt to capture a world that felt safe and beautiful.

An imaginary place where you’d even thought of making stick figures to show you and your parents, a world where they lived happily, but the vague pencil traces underneath the pastel scribbling show that you’d decided it was better without it.

But the memory of showing it to your parents is what lingers most. You remember how your excitement had bubbled over as you presented the drawing to your parents, your young heart brimming with pride. You’d spent hours on that piece, the house on the hill, the yellow-ish hues of the sunset, the trees swaying gently in the imaginary breeze. You thought it was the best thing you’d ever created.

But when you placed the sketchbook in front of them, eager for their approval, their reactions were far from what you had hoped.

Your mother’s eyes had flickered over the page, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn’t say anything at first, just handed the sketchbook over to your father, who barely glanced at it before returning to his newspaper. It was your mother who finally broke the silence, her voice flat and dismissive. “It’s… fine,” she’d said, and that single word was like a bucket of cold water on your excitement, your hard work.

You remember vividly, how your heart sank, how the colours of your drawing seemed to dull right before your eyes. How hours of scribbling felt like it’d all been to waste. The pride you’d felt moments before quickly evaporated, replaced by a hollow ache in your chest. You were too young to understand why her words stung so much, but old enough to know they did.

But then your mother’s tone shifted, a hint of something sharper creeping into her voice. Her eyes, dark and clear, were on you. “You know,” she’d continued, “Jungkook showed us a drawing he did just last week. It was a landscape too, but he added so much detail. The way he captured the mountains and the way the light reflected on the water… It was really impressive. His technique is really improving.”

Your father chimed in, not even looking up. “Yes, he’s always had a good eye for these things, hah. Natural talent, I suppose.”

You’d just stood there in the corner, your limbs feeling way too weak and shaky to hold you up.

You’d tried to keep your expression neutral, tried to swallow the hollow pain in your chest, but it was no use. The resentment boiled inside you, twisting something in your chest until all you could feel was the unfairness of it all. You had wanted to create something beautiful, to show them what you were capable of, that you could do better, but instead, your drawing had become just another reminder of how you didn’t measure up.

The sting of their words burned hot behind your eyes, and before you knew it, tears were blurring your vision. You didn’t want to cry in front of them, didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing how deeply they had hurt you. So you bolted from the yard, the sound of their conversation fading behind you as you ran, feeling even hurt that none of your parents bothered to ask about where you were going.

But your vision was too clouded by tears, and as you reached the stairs, you’d feel your foot catch on the edge of a step. You stumbled forward, eyes widening, your arms flailing as you tried to catch yourself, but it was too late. You’d fallen, hard, the impact of your knee against the hardwood sending a sharp jolt of pain through your leg.

You remember the way your mother had smiled when she talked about Jungkook’s drawing, a soft, admiring smile that she rarely directed at you. It wasn’t just the critique of your work that hurt—it was the realization that, in their eyes, Jungkook would always outshine you. No matter how hard you tried, how much effort you put in, he was the golden child, the one who could do no wrong, while you were just… there.

The tears you’d been holding back spilled over, partly from the pain, but mostly from the overwhelming sense of rejection and inadequacy. You sat there on the stairs, your knee scraped and bleeding, the ache in your chest even worse than the one on your knee. The drawing that had once filled you with pride now felt like a cruel joke, a reminder of how you would always fall short, no matter how hard you tried.

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, angry at yourself for crying, angry at them for making you feel this way, and angry at Jungkook for being the perfect son they never had. The resentment grew deeper, and with it, so did the belief that you were never going to be good enough for them, no matter what you did.

— — —

The moon is full overhead when you finally change into some comfortable PJs and finally feel sleep knock on the back of your eyelids and exhaustion making its way to move gradually along your body. Today wasn’t exactly eventful, but rather a concoction of memories which tickled and stung you like a thousand bees over and over.

You’ve decided to keep the windows open, . . .for tonight, atleast, because you do not dare sleep without feeling suffocated here. It sounds silly, but having nice ventilation feels. . . fresh, or more so.

You were around fourteen, you think, as you remember sitting on the edge of the playground, kicking at the dirt with the toes of your worn sneakers. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the field, and you could hear the other kids shouting and playing, their voices mingling with the distant hum of traffic.

You weren’t interested in joining them. Your eyes were fixed on a figure in the distance, one you knew all too well.

Jungkook.

He was standing by the swings, laughing with a group of boys who seemed to hang on his every word. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he pushed it back, and his smile—God, that smile—was so bright, so beautiful, it almost hurt to look at. You hated that smile. You hated how perfect he seemed, how effortless everything was for him. And you hated how, no matter what you did, you could never seem to escape his shadow. No wonder the girls were so hung up on him, even the class president— it was ridiculous.

That day had started like any other, with your parents reminding you how you should be more like Jungkook. They praised his grades, his athletic abilities, and his charm. Either a direct implication of “Why can’t you be more like him?” or something like “You know, Jungkook— blah blah blah, all that bullshit about how he was better than you in every aspect. Even if it was the topic of increasing acne on your face, not realising—or maybe not caring—how their words cut you down. You knew they meant well, or maybe not, but each comparison felt like a knife to your heart, a reminder that you would never be good enough.

That you’ll never be him.

You were lost in your thoughts when you felt a presence beside you. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Hey,” Jungkook said, his voice soft, almost hesitant. “Why are you sitting here alone?” His voice was always so soft. So gentle.

You hated his voice. Why did he sound so. . . sweet ? so smooth, almost with a slight undertone of a rasp. Why did it make you want to surrender and break down into the frustration which was pent up inside you since ages?

You shrugged, not trusting yourself to speak. Your throat felt tight, your chest heavy. You wanted to tell him to go away, to leave you alone, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because as much as you resented him, wanted him away from you, you somehow wanted him near you, a feeling which was hugely perplexing to you. It was a twisted, painful contradiction that you didn’t fully understand, nor you’d ever wanted to.

Jungkook sat down beside you, right on the dusty ground, his knee brushing against yours. The contact sent a jolt, a feeling of fleeting emotions through you, but you didn’t move away. Instead, you kept your eyes fixed on the ground, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tears that were threatening to spill over.

“Are you okay?” he asked, concern lacing his voice.

Of course he’s gonna be concerned.

And that was the thing about Jungkook—he was always so kind, so considerate, even when you didn’t want him to be. It only made you feel worse. It only made you feel like utter shit, like you were not meant for anything, not even basic human compassion.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your emotions in check. “I’m fine,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jungkook didn’t seem convinced. He shifted closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. He smelled like baby powder mixed with sweat. Irritating. “You know you can talk to me, right? If something’s bothering you.”

You almost laughed at the irony. How could you talk to him when he was the source of so much of your pain? When everyday you had to just, suffer because of him? How could you tell him that every time you looked at him, you felt like you were drowning in your own inadequacy? That every time he succeeded, it felt like another reminder of your failures? While he was always praised, always encouraged, while you were left to wonder why your efforts never seemed to measure up?

But instead of saying any of that, you just nodded, giving him the answer he wanted. Because you couldn’t bear the thought of him seeing you as weak, as vulnerable. You couldn’t let him know how deeply he had affected you.

There was a long silence between you, the kind that felt like it was stretching out forever. You could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, feel the tension in your chest building with every passing second. And then, just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, Jungkook spoke again.

“You know, you’re really talented,” he said, his voice slightly higher than usual, a habit you hate to have noticed when he gets excited about something. “I just saw your abstract sketches the other day. Holy shit dude, they’re amazing!”

You didn’t know if your heart hammering in your chest sounded more or the silence after his praise did. He, however, didn’t stop there.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

His words were meant to be comforting, but they only served to twist the knife deeper. Because at that moment, you realised that he didn’t understand. He couldn’t. To him, everything came so easily—success, praise, admiration. But for you, it was a constant struggle, a battle you fought every day just to keep your head above water.

You turned to look at him then, really look at him, not caring if your eyes are brimming with unshed tears or if your nose is runny with snot and tears.

And for the first time, you saw the boy behind the perfect image. There was a softness in his eyes, a sincerity that made your heart ache. And for a fleeting moment, you wanted to believe him, to believe that maybe, just maybe, you were more than the sum of your insecurities.

But then reality came crashing back, and the bitterness you had tried so hard to suppress bubbled to the surface.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice flat, on the verge of cracking, devoid of the warmth you knew he was expecting. “But I don’t need your pity.”

Jungkook blinked, his doe eyes widening, taken aback by your sudden harshness. “It’s not—”

“Just leave me alone,” you’d hissed, standing up abruptly. You didn’t give him a chance to respond before you turned and walked away, your heart pounding in your chest, your blood rushing onto your face. You could feel his eyes on your back, but you didn’t dare look back. Because if you did, you knew you would see the hurt in his expression, and you couldn’t handle that. Not when you were already so close to breaking.

And so you ran. Ran so fast, so hard, that you felt your chest constrict and gulp for air— the static breeze feeling like wind on your face as you ran, ran, ran. Ran till your limbs gave away and your head hurt, till you feel your insides eat you up with a strange mix of emotions—anger, regret, sadness.

But most of all, you felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness, even if you felt like you did the right thing. Because in pushing Jungkook away, you had also pushed away the one person who might have understood, who might have been able to help you. . . only if you hadn’t pushed him away.

But it was too late now. The damage was done, and you were left to pick up the pieces alone.

But as you stare at the sketchbook now, under the glowing moonlight, running your fingers over the faded lines of the drawing, the sketches you’d made again — you see it with different eyes—eyes that can appreciate the innocence in those lines, the earnestness of a child who only wanted to create something beautiful. The proportions might not be perfect, almost nothing in those sketches were — but there’s a charm in their simplicity, a warmth in the colors that you hadn’t noticed before. They were all good drawings, you think, not because of their technical skill, but because they were a reflection of who you were back then—hopeful, imaginative, and full of dreams.

And maybe, just maybe, you had been a little too hard on yourself all those years ago.

You hadn’t even planned to be here.

The moment your father casually mentioned that the Jeons still lived next door, you felt that familiar, uncomfortable pressure building in your chest. You didn’t absolutely know why that information passed on, especially when after a heavy restless night of feeling like crap, your muscles aching from exhaustion , your brain unable to process every thought which you’d thought, you were finally up to join your parents for an early evening tea.

His voice was cheerful, like he had no idea the gravity of what he was suggesting, but you felt it immediately. Every time the conversation veered toward your neighbors, it dredged up feelings you weren’t ready to confront. The Jeons—his parents—meant one thing, and ultimately, one thing only: Jungkook.

The mention of their name was enough to send your mind into overdrive, painting images of polite conversation and awkward laughter, images that twisted into something far more unbearable—seeing him. You could already hear the follow-up conversation in your mother’s saccharine sweet voice, “Why don’t you come over and say hello? Catch up with the Jeons?” And worst of all, they’d ask about you. You felt despondent to even think of the conversation, if it ever took place.

You weren’t used to the warmth which Mr. and Mrs. Jeon had shown you throughout the years, which only made you doubt if they ever knew the thick wall of ash between their son and you. They were so copacetically well humored, it almost hurt to be in a conversation with them.

Almost as if you never were used to this form of decency, that it shocked you to your core.

Jungkook’s parents would definitely ask, and you'd be expected to stand there and smile like you hadn't left everything behind. You know they definitely wouldn’t mean anything hurtful, but you do not believe your mind.

Not yet, atleast.

Before your parents could suggest anything more, before they could casually lead you down that path of small talk and forced interactions, you’d mumbled a vague excuse. Something about needing to stretch your legs, or needing some air.

You really did, though.

You’d slipped out the front door like you were running away, and you shook away the bitterness forming in your throat. You weren’t sure where you were going, only that it had to be away from that conversation, away from the chance of seeing him.

As your feet carried you through the familiar streets, your mind raced faster than your heart. The narrow, winding streets were the same, the faded signs on shop windows were the same, but the memories that clung to the air—they were suffocating.

You’d always thought coming back would be simple. Walk down memory lane, see familiar faces, and pretend you were someone new. But the weight of those memories hung over you, each one sharper than the last. With every corner you turned, you felt the tug of your past, a pull you couldn’t quite shake away, no matter how hard you’d tried to shrug it off.

— — —

You found yourself slipping into a small café you hadn’t noticed before, just off the main road, desperate for a reprieve.

What’s the name— 134340? Quite strange, you think, but shrug it off once again. People are creative with their business requirements, even if that means that you probably make out nothing from eyeing the café from outside. except the fact that. . . it’s possibly space themed?

Now that is strange for a coffee shop.

You think that it’s quite new. Or, who even knows. It stands out from the dull shops lit nearby, and there’s quite a buzz which attracts you here, although you’d prefer a quiet café over a bustling one any day.

Well, fuck it.

The smell of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries greeted you as you stepped inside, the hum of quiet conversation and the soft clink of mugs providing a much-needed escape. It’s surprisingly cozy, something you’d never guessed from the odd name and the theme previously. The café is small, actually smaller than most you’ve been to. Though, it’s nice, there are fewer people here, and you quite find yourself at peace already. You chose a table near the back, away from the windows, trying to create some distance from the life outside.

You hadn’t planned to stay long, but the peaceful atmosphere lulled you into a false sense of security. You let out a long breath, allowing the tension to ease from your shoulders as you sipped your coffee. Ha, thisfelt nice. For a few blissful moments, you felt like you could breathe again. Almost like. . . maybe you could handle this return to your hometown after all.

And then, the door chimes.

You barely looked up at first—just another customer, maybe a loner like you, someone else in this quiet café. But then the barista’s voice cut through the room, clear and distinct.

“Macchiato for Jungkook!”

Huh?

Your hand froze halfway to your cup. The familiar sound of his name hit you like a punch to the gut, making your breath hitch.

No fucking way.

Your gaze shot up, almost instinctively, and that’s when you saw him. There, standing by the counter, picking up his drink like it was the most casual thing in the world. Him.

Your heart seemed to lurch into your throat. It couldn’t be him—it couldn’t. And yet, there he was, right in front of you, a few inches away.

The room seemed to shrink around you, your pulse quickening as your eyes locked onto him. You felt yourself gasping for air, your peace long broken. Your body felt suddenly too warm, your chest tightening painfully as every nerve in your body screamed for you to look away.

But you just couldn’t.

He had changed.

The boy you left behind had grown into someone you barely recognized. His back was visible to you— his frame was broader, more solid than you remembered, and his shoulders— God, what the fuck? they seemed to stretch forever beneath the dark jacket he wore. His hair, slightly tousled, deep raven — as you’d remembered— framed his face in that familiar, careless way, but it was sharper now. Defined. There was no mistaking the confidence in the way he carried himself, something he hadn't fully grown into back then.

But what stood out most—what nearly knocked the breath from your lungs—were those— were those. . . tattoos peeking underneath his jacket?

Jungkook's arm, the one that used to be bare, now carried intricate black ink that snaked from his wrist to his elbow, disappearing under the sleeve of his jacket. The lines were bold, winding and curling, and you felt your jaw drop, even if he was standing at a distance. The tattoos seemed to catch the light as he reached for his drink, each motion of his arm drawing your attention like a magnet.

You couldn’t stop staring. The boy you remembered—the one who had always been so kind, so open—had become someone else entirely.

One who stood in stark contrast to the memories you had clung to.

And he was alone.

Jungkook had always been surrounded by people. He was known to be the crowd attractor, always having his admirers petting him by his neck. He was never the type to go anywhere without friends trailing behind him, their laughter filling the spaces around him. But here, now, in this café—he was by himself. There was a stillness about him that you didn’t remember, something quiet and self-assured.

Now, it almost felt like he didn’t need anyone around him to validate his presence. He was comfortable in his own skin, by himself.

That realisation hit you harder than you expected. He had changed in ways you hadn’t anticipated, ways that made your chest tighten with emotions you couldn’t even begin to name.

And then, just as you thought your heart might explode from your chest, Jungkook turned slightly, his eyes sweeping across the café—casually, as if he were taking in his surroundings—and your stomach dropped.

Fuck, fuck. The coffee was so strong, you feel it lurching up your stomach now.

You flinched, ducking your head quickly, heart pounding so loud you thought he might hear it across the room. Did he see you? Could he have recognized you after all these years? Your breath was shallow, uneven, panic rising in your throat as you wrestled with the urge to bolt from your seat.

You weren’t ready for this.

You weren’t ready to face him. Not here, not now. Not when you were still so caught up in your own thoughts, still trying to piece together the fragments of what your brain showed you. You’d come here for a cup of coffee— some peace— and seeing him again, after all this time, felt too much, and too little at once. It was like a bomb, or a bucket of ice cold water thrown directly at you.

It was overwhelming.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for your bag, your movements jerky and uncoordinated. Your heart was racing, and every instinct in your body was telling you to run. But you hesitated, torn between the undeniable urge to leave and the part of you that wanted to look at him just once more. Just to see if he had really changed as much as you thought. Just to see if he, unlike this town, your home, had changed.

But you knew better. You couldn’t stay. Not with your emotions so close to the surface, threatening to spill over. If he saw you, if he recognized you—if he spoke to you— you didn’t know if you could handle that.

Because you know you can’t.

The café, once so peaceful, now felt stifling, the walls closing in on you as your breath quickened. You couldn’t breathe. You needed to get out of here, needed to escape before everything came crashing down.

With one final glance at his figure, standing there by the counter, you pushed your chair back, the screeching sound drawing more attention than you would have liked. But you didn’t care. You grabbed your things and bolted for the door, your pulse pounding in your ears, your steps quick and uneven.

You’d nearly made it. The door was just a few steps away, and all you had to do was keep your head down and walk.

Your heart was still hammering in your chest, the anxiety twisting your insides as you tried to steady your breathing. Jungkook hadn’t seen you—or at least you hoped he hadn’t. You prayed to heavens and hells that he hadn’t. But just as you reached for the door, you saw him lean against the counter, much closer now. Far closer than you had anticipated.

Fuck. Fuck!

The café’s single door was right beside where he stood, and there was no way out without passing directly by him.

Oh no.

You shouldn’t have chosen this café. Was there no other cafés for you to try? Did HE necessarily have to be in the same café as you?

Your stomach churned, your pulse thudding in your ears, drowning out everything else. He was right there. Right there. And you could feel the heat radiating off him even from where you stood. Panic crawled up your spine, making your movements sluggish and jerky. You just needed to keep your head down and walk—walk past him without glancing his way, without catching his eye. But he was so close, and as you stepped forward, trying to make yourself as small as possible, you caught it—his scent.

That familiar scent, one that had changed just as much as he had. He no longer smelled like baby powder. It was manly now, deeper, some sort of an expensive cologne, which was strong on its own— yet soft, almost comforting in a way that made your chest constrict painfully. The scent wrapped around you, making your knees feel weak, and for a second, you nearly lost your footing. You fought the instinct to look at him—to take one glance and confirm that yes, this is the Jungkook you left behind, the one who had grown into a man. But you couldn’t. If you looked at him, you’d be done.

You were beyond cooked.

Your legs carried you forward, faster than they should have, your mind racing with every step. You felt your arm brush something—him, the edge of his jacket maybe, or his hand on the counter—and your pulse spiked violently.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

You shoved the door open, your breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts as you stumbled outside, the cool air hitting your face like a hard slap back to reality.

You were outside. You’d made it. But the world around you was spinning, the street and the sky blurring together as your heart continued to pound in your chest. You leaned against the wall just outside the café, your hand pressed to your chest, trying to catch your breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside you.

Your palms felt uncomfortably clammy and you felt a sweat head run down your temple. Your thoughts were a mess—disjointed. Everything was hitting you at once; you had run away again. You had seen him, been close enough to touch him, and you had run. Just like before.

You squeezed your eyes shut, the ache in your chest spreading as you tried to pull yourself together. It was stupid. So stupid. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid ! You were an adult now, one with full responsibilities for your actions, and yet here you were, fleeing like a scared child.

You took a deep breath, forcing the air into your lungs. Maybe you could handle this. Yeah, you needed to clear your head. It’s just the coffee messing with you. Maybe you could—

“Excuse me?”

Your entire body froze at the voice directed at you.

That voice.

Deep. Smooth. Rich. The sound of it sent a shiver down your spine, catching you off guard, wrapping itself around you like a tether, pulling you back toward the very thing you were trying to escape.

It wasn’t the voice you remembered—but it also very much was— heavier, weighted with a kind of maturity that made your breath catch. The boy you once knew had never sounded like this. This voice was deeper, more assured, like it had weathered years of life since you last heard it. The softness which his voice held in your memory still was back somewhere, but you couldn’t find it. And that hit you hard. He wasn’t that same boy anymore. The boy who used to tease you, who laughed with that bright, carefree chuckle—he was gone.

And now, that very voice was speaking to you.

You slowly turned to face him, your heart thudding violently in your chest as your eyes locked onto his face.

Yeah, this was your end.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Jungkook.

He was right there, just a few feet away. And this close, you could see everything.

The sharpness of his jawline hit you first, carved out and more defined than you ever remembered. It was strong, angular, like someone had taken the softness he once had and sculpted it into something more. . . commanding. His lips, parted slightly as he waited for you to respond, were full and soft, but even they held a sense of control, like every movement was deliberate. Fuck, was that a piercing at the corner ? His nose—perfectly straight, leading up to those eyes.

Those eyes.

Dark, deep, and searching. They hadn’t changed much in shape, but the way they looked at you was different now—more intense, more aware. His gaze wasn’t filled with youthful curiosity or mischief anymore. It was deeper. Grounded. Like he saw more, understood more.

He was a man now.

Your stomach twisted violently, and you had to force yourself to breathe.

Your gaze traveled up, noting the way his thick brows framed his face, darker and more defined than you remembered. They furrowed slightly as he watched you, as if trying to figure out why you were staring, why you hadn’t taken the phone from his hand yet. The small furrow in his brows only made his expression more serious, more focused. He was looking at you—not just glancing, but looking.

His dark, inky black hair brushed just above his brows, a few strands falling forward in that effortless, tousled way. It was longer now, framing his face, giving him an edge that made your chest tighten.

But it wasn’t just his face. Your eyes flickered down for just a second, barely able to handle it. His neck—strong and sinewy, leading to broad shoulders that seemed even broader now in the fitted jacket he wore. He’d filled out—a lot. His arms were no longer just lean muscle from teenage years of sports. Now, they were thicker, more muscular, straining against the fabric of his sleeve. Oh my God.

Your mind raced, every detail crashing into you at once, overwhelming your senses. Your chest felt tight, and you felt like your hands were shaking by your sides.

The more you looked, the more you realized how much had changed. How much you had missed. How much you had run away from?

It felt like the world was tilting, spinning, and you couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop the flood of memories, the weight of time lost, the realization that Jungkook had grown into someone you barely recognized—yet you knew it was still him.

He was still him.

You were losing yourself in it, in all of it, your thoughts spiraling out of control, unable to process the fact that he was standing here, holding something that belonged to you, waiting for you to take it from him.

Your eyes flickered back to his face, your heart clenching painfully. He was watching you, studying you in a way that made your skin prickle with awareness. And yet, as much as he was looking at you, he didn’t know you. Didn’t recognize you. Not yet, anyway.

That hit you harder than you could’ve expected. How could he not know who you were? How could he not see it in your face, in the way you were trembling, in the panic written all over you?

But then again, why would he?

You were no longer the same girl he once knew.

And as his eyes narrowed in mild confusion, his brow furrowing just a little deeper, it became clear—he didn’t see you as the person who had disappeared from his life. Not yet.

“Hey, are you alright?” he asked softly, his voice sending a tremor down your spine. You couldn’t miss the concern in his tone, the slight edge of worry that made your throat tighten even more.

Fuck. Of course he’d be concerned.

You blinked, the world rushing back into focus, feeling like your pupils zoomed like crazy— and suddenly, you realized you had been standing there for far too long, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. Standing there like a damn weirdo.

Your phone. He is holding your phone.

For a split second, your eyes met his, and time seemed to freeze.

His gaze locked onto yours, and for the briefest of moments, something flickered there—something like recognition. You feel your eyes widening, bells ringing at the back of your head. His eyes softened, just slightly, as if he was searching your face for something familiar, something from the past. But then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by that same polite curiosity.

For a moment, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Your eyes flickered between his face and the phone in his hand, your chest tightening with each passing second. What should you do? He was right there, right in front of you. He was close enough for yoh to reach out and take back what was yours.

But you couldn’t.

Your hand now actually trembled at your side, your body frozen in place. The air felt too thick for you to gulp in, and your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

“I—” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard, trying to force the words out, trying to make your body move. But you couldn’t.

You just couldn’t.

He tilted his head slightly, concern flickering across his face as he waited for you to take the phone. Why is he so concerned!? But you just stood there, rooted to the spot, like your feet had been glued to the ground. You felt the panic rising inside you again, the walls closing in as your chest tightened painfully, slowly.

“I—” you tried again, but your throat was too tight, and the word came out as nothing more than a strangled sound, like a muffled voice.

He took a step closer, and that was it. That was it.

Your body went into overdrive. Without thinking, without even trying to reason with yourself, you turned on your heel and bolted down the street, not caring if people stopped to look at you, thinking if you possibly were either a lunatic or someone who just won a lottery.

You didn’t care. You ran, ran, feeling your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as you ran. Your legs felt shaky beneath you, your pulse pounding in your ears as you darted around the corner, as far away from him as possible.

You couldn’t do this.

Your heart was hammering so violently you thought it might burst right out of your chest, and all you could think about was getting away. Far, far away.

You ran till you feel your chest burn, you ran till you felt like your limbs would give up. You ran till you feel like nothing again, you ran till your mind was empty.

When you finally slowed, your breath came in harsh, ragged bursts, and your vision blurred with tears you hadn’t realized were there. You collapsed onto a bench, your whole body trembling violently as the weight of everything crashed down on you.

You had run away.

Again.

And this time, you didn’t even have an excuse.

a/n : phew.. 😵‍💫 if you’ve made this far, thank you for reading 💜 what do we think? i’d be very glad if you let me know your thoughts 🫶🏾 if you want, there’s an anonymous feedback box where you can drop your thoughts anonymously 💌

[gay-dorito-dust]

Love and deepspace boy getting you back for touching their butt when theyre angry and turn away from you pls (I hope you know what I mean)

Honestly had no idea what Xavier would do in retaliation, so I kinda just skipped him. Plus I didn’t want any of them sounding repetitive of each other and that I couldn’t think of anything…

Rafayel

‘I’m not just gonna grow a tail, even if you touch it over and over again.’ He muttered after you smacked his ass, pouting as he rubbing his backside as though you bruised him with your playful swat.

You scoffed, he always acted as though that any form of activity would make him bruise like a peach but when in reality he was just being extremely dramatic; so basically being himself.

So when he began to ignore you shortly after the incident, you weren’t at all shocked nor were you worried as in the end Rafayel always tended to be the one to come crawling back for your affection and attention; you often joked that he couldn’t last a day without pestering you with text and voice messages, attempted FaceTime calls and calls in general and needless to say he took that as a personal challenge but failed just under a record breaking five seconds into it.

However this felt a lot different then to the other times he’s ’ignored’ you.

He was scheming and you were rightfully skeptical.

One day, you had grown bored of his recent antics that you started to head towards the front door and were just about to leave when something caught the corner of your eye; a discarded paintbrush. ‘What the-‘ you sighed before marching over to pick it up, less then amused. ‘I swear I’ll have to get on Raf’s ass for leaving his shit lying about sooner or later because one day someone’s going to get hurt-‘

SMACK

You looked over your shoulder to see a smirking Rafayel and everything started to come together for you.

‘You just smacked my ass.’

‘Yep.’ Rafayel replied, almost as if feeling accomplished.

‘But did you have to do it that fucking hard?’ You complained as you were now the one pouting and rubbing your sore backside as though you were an easily bruised peach.

Rafayel shrugged. ‘You did it to me first, so-‘

‘Yeah but I didn’t smack you nearly as hard as you did just now.’ You cut him off before muttering to yourself. ‘That’s gonna bruise and make sitting down a whole lot harder. Thanks for that.’

Rafayel pretended as though he didn’t hear you and moved past you to pick up the paint brush with a look upon his face as though he had been searching all over his impressive studio for awhile, pocketing it not long after. ‘Aww that must really suck, for you that is, hope you’ve got an excuse on hand for the instance that someone takes notice and starts asking questions.’ He then gave you a look of false sympathy, patting you on the shoulder before leaving you to focus on his latest painting.

You fucking hated him sometimes but couldn’t help but love him twice as hard for his stupid antics that you secretly adore.

Zayne aka ‘mr surgical knots.’

‘Is this really necessary?’ You grunt as you tried to break your hands free from the knot that was currently keeping your hands bound together.

‘Consider it a precaution for your,’ Zayne pauses to watch you struggle before continuing, ‘wandering hands.’

You chuckled humourlessly as you decided that it was hopeless in trying to get your hands untied, Zayne had done an excellent job in making sure that the knot was strong enough to keep your hands restrained but yet not tight enough to cause discomfort to your skin. ‘all this just because I might’ve touched your ass?’ You asked rhetorically, gauging at how his ears became red at the memory, before his evol kicked in and cooled his temperature significantly. ‘Seems a little excessive if you ask me but then again…it’s not exactly the worst punishment you could’ve come up with.’ You drawled, causing one of Zayne’s brows to raise in question.

‘So you find your current predicament to be…pleasurable?’ He inquires as he steps closer to you, making sure that he took his sweet time to admire his work and make internal pointers on how he could improve for instances where he maybe in need to use this certain knot again.

‘I mean you’re the one that’s putting words in my mouth.’ You replied, shrugging your shoulders,fully aware what this attitude of yours would bring should you keep it up.

Zayne’s jaw twitched unseeingly, he knew what you were doing and also knew that you were blatantly aware of what you were doing and so he tears this theory out by reaching a hand out, grabbing you by the restraint and swiftly pulled you closer to him until your chests were practically touching. Your eyes flickered to every inch of his face to see any signs but nothing; His face was still perfectly set in stone as it usually aside from his eyes, his eyes were glittering with an unusual look to them as they peered at you, that you couldn’t help but feel a little hot and flustered under such a unique gaze.

He then leans his head towards your ear and whispers in a low falsetto, ‘Would you like to find out just how pleasurable being tied can be?’ He drawls softly. ‘I can happily show you and help you get closely acquainted with human anatomy.’

[moralesluvr]

Y.D.L.R | MILES MORALES

♡ pairings & aus: earth 42!miles morales x barista!black!fem!reader (they are 19 in this for the plot's sake), exes 2 lovers au. ♡ summary: it's been three months since you broke up with miles. it took you those three months to get over him-- and now you finally have, until he unexpectedly ‘bumps’ into you as you wait for your new man at a restaurant. and boy, does he have so much to tell you. ♡ warnings: cursing, arguing, mentions of sex i think? ♡ a/n: whew chile...my first e42 actual FIC FIC im screaming!! this lovely fic was inspired by my bae bae @luvjunie and her WONDERFUL PLAYLIST XOXO!! i love u endlessly <3 ♡ got a request? | masterlist ♡ ♪ - Y.D.L.R by Tory Lanez

There's something enigmatic about going on a date after a break-up.

Maybe it's the way your stomach flutters when plans are set in stone, or the way your lips inevitably curl upwards when you swipe your makeup onto your face to the beat of your getting-ready tunes.

Or maybe, it's just because it's not with Miles.

Your heart twists within itself at the very mention of his name, or at the mere thought of it— that's for sure. Anything that had to do with him in the slightest had your stomachs in knots, the bitter taste of acid playing on your tongue when you dwelled on the past of your former relationship.

It was his fault, that’s what you had settled on. Mostly to deny the fact that your chest locked whenever you saw him in public, or whenever he would come into your job during the morning time, ordering the same chocolate muffin and coffee that he always bought.

And you had to act like it didn’t bother you, although it did, for a while. You always called him “Mr.” when you saw him in person because the hurt restricted your mouth to even fix itself to say his name.

But months passed, and you were sick of coming home from work and falling asleep to the sound of your own tears hitting the pillow, accompanied by constant rewatching of old videos and pictures that you and Miles had accumulated over the past two years.

As long as your relationship was, you knew that it would be hard to get over him if you just sat around and sulked all day for the rest of your life. You caught yourself opening up the App Store and downloading multitudes of dating apps, at first— just for fun and games, until one guy that you matched with came into your work.

Sebastian was extremely different in relation to Miles. He was taller, buffer, and owned the deepest of emerald eyes, which seemed to always sparkle when he was under the opiate of light. He was kind-hearted and tender and often told you how beautiful you were when he had the chance.

He had the thickest of caramel curls and was two years older, as well, which definitely appealed to you because you assumed he would be more mature then your former lover. He introduced himself one day when you were working, sliding a twenty across the old oak counters as a “tip for your excellent service.”

Ever since he had became a regular at the shop, you would often go out with him after your shifts would end, which halted the amount of times you would see Miles at work, which you used to your advantage.

As completely horrible as it sounds, you didn’t really have a strong intention to fall for Sebastian. He was cute and you were pretty and he liked taking you out, especially to lunch, which you viewed as free meals with a close friend. Until he started to hug you and place his hands on the curve of your waist when you walked down the street, thick and veiny hands kneading at the doughy flesh of your sides from time to time.

You didn’t intend to fall for him until he kissed you on the cheek that night that he took you on a picnic and asked you to be his girlfriend. And when he looked at you with his deep, viridescent eyes, you couldn’t say no. You had fell for him, so you nodded your head and whispered a ‘Yes’ as he pressed his lips onto yours softly, so gentle and tender, like he was afraid to hurt you.

Eventually, time stretched to today, where you were celebrating your one-month with Sebastian. You were surprised you held out this long, but day by day, the mere memories of Miles had faded from your knowledge and you liked to keep it that way.

In current time, you tapped your phone with a freshly manicured acrylic, your other hand occupied with brushing away your setting powder that brightened up your under eyes. It was nearly six-thirty, and your date was at seven ‘o clock.

Sebastian claimed that he couldn’t pick you up because it would ruin an alleged surprise, but you just shrugged it off as you finished off your look with a pair of lashes and red lipstick.

You carefully smacked your lips and smiled in the mirror as you grabbed your purse and phone, swiping it open and texting Sebastian that you were on your way.

As you walked out of your house and got into your car, some unknown emotion was crawling through your veins that made you anxious. Something was going to happen— you were sure of it, but you couldn’t quite place your finger on it. So you just set the feeling aside and sped over to the steakhouse that your date was being held at, paying for a valet parking spot and taking a seat at your table.

And that’s when you got the text.

[from] seb <3: Hey sweetheart. I’m running a little late, is that okay with you?

You felt a sigh tumble past your lips. There wasn’t really much you could do other than just deal with it, so you informed him that it was all alright and that you would just order an appetizer to hold you over.

You were doing fine until you saw a figure outside the large glass windows that faced the front of the restaurant. It was someone in an all black suit, with two braids running down their back. And you would’ve suspected it was someone else until you look at the shoes that they were wearing— that being a pair of limited edition Jordan’s.

It was Miles.

Chambering up from your slumped position in your chair, y you watched as he spoke to some waitress about something, expressing his feelings through his hands. You felt a scoff hitch in your throat— he’s never that expressive, so clearly something was up.

Wait.

Why should you care?

You have a boyfriend.

But something was still wrong, you could feel it.

Your eyes fixated on him as he walked towards your table, and your blood immediately ran cold when you saw him smirk at you, pulling out the reserved chair in front of yours, taking a seat on it. He folded his hands on top of the table, cocking his head to the side, “Nice to see you again, mi vida.”

“Don’t.” You warned shakily, shifting in your seat in full discomfort, “Leave. I won’t ask you again.”

“This chair was a lil’ empty before I got here, don’t you think, ma?” He questioned you, picking up a menu as his eye scanned the contents of it. “What you gon’ order? I’ll have whatever you have.”

“Morales.” You spat, venom laced within the mention of his name as your bracelet-clad wrist slammed against the table. It doesn’t phase Miles, though— his stoic expression still remaining, playing on his strong facial features.

Miles scoffs, a sarcastic and playful grin residing on his lips, “¿Que pasa, mami? You ain’ miss me?”

“Why are you doing this?” You questioned, but your inquiry is provided with no answer. Instead, Miles sets the menu down and looks at you with intense eyes, fire reigning in their irises as he speaks.

“I’m not gon’ sit here and front, Y/N, but that new, shitty excuse for a man you call yo’ boyfriend?” He tuts, “He not the one for you.”

You give him a disgusted look, “I can’t believe you would say that.”

“It’s just the truth. I’ve seen all the pictures on Instagram and whatnot, and sure, y’all cute. I’m not even tight about it- but y’all just don’t look right together. And he prolly not who you think he is-“

You immediately stand to your feet, hands grasping either sides of the table as you lean in close to the man in front of you— so close that your noses are practically touching. “You shut the hell up.” You hiss, “You have no right to come here and give me a piece of your mind on somethin’ that don’t even effect you. So you get up, and go home, or I’ll make it happen my own damn self.”

There’s a pause of silence for a moment before Miles chuckles at you, leaning back in your seat. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip so hard that it ought to draw blood, but you’re doing it to prevent the provoking of you screaming across the restaurant at him. He looks up at you with hard eyes, licking his lips, “Aight. I’mma let that slide, because you prolly hurt, and I understand. But I’m tellin’ you that he ain’t no good. I’ve seen it. I know. I ain’t come here to win you back or nun- I came here because I actually care, but you can’t seem to get that through your thick skull.”

Something about the way that his sentences roll of his tongue push you to believe that he isn’t lying. You back off, crossing your arms, “If you claim to know all this, then what is he hiding?”

“Come outside with me.” He says, standing up and heading for the door, just like that. And you follow him, because you know that his statement was much more of an order then a question.

It’s late now, the moon shining over the sidewalk that you and Miles both walk on. He grabs your shoulders and moves you to the inside, switching so that he’s now walking closest to the cars. Your heart pumps with anxiety and your mind is swirling with questions that your mouth can’t seem to form. All you can muster up is, “Why are you here?”

“I’m not tryna hurt you, hermosa,” he starts, exhaling before he continues on, “But I just can’t see you with him. I knew I made you upset and shit and that’s on me, I know, but after you left, everything you do seems to make me so sad. And I can promise you that that lil’ Sebastian dude is not gon’ treat you right.”

“You don’t know that.” You speak, continuing to walk until you realize that Miles has stopped. He’s standing in front of a window to another restaurant, and when you peek inside, your heart shatters at the view that awaits you.

It’s Sebastian, sitting with another woman who looks quite older than you are. There’s some sort of ring on the table and you assume it’s a promise ring, because it’s just in a simple box that’s from Pandora. You immediately tear up, and Miles opens his arms and engulfs you in his embrace, although it’s unwanted from you at first, he still does it anyway. You’re crying in his coat as he soothingly rubs circles on your exposed back, “I told you. I wanted to beat his ass but I knew if I did it without seeing you, you would be pissed off.” He then tucks his index finger underneath your chin, “I’m sorry, mami.”

You know he means it because it’s something that he rarely says. It’s always ‘his bad’ and ‘his fault’, but when he tells you that he’s sorry, there’s not a hint of untruthfulness in his statement.

“Why do you do this to me?” You sniffled, looking up at Miles with soft, reddened eyes, “Why are you the only one that seems to treat me right? I can’t get away from you no matter how hard I try.”

Miles’ hand trails up from your waist to your cheek, where he leans in closer to you, “Because you’re mine forever. Do you not realize that? Do you not realize that I would kill for you? I would burn down this entire planet if it meant that no one else could touch you. But you’re so hellbent on thinking that your somebody is some random on the Internet. And it’s not. It’s me, Y/N. I’m here.” His voice gets quieter as his eyes soften, “Don’t go. Please.”

“Fuck,” you cursed, sniffling with a small chuckle as you looked at him, “I left because you never told me the truth. You were always sneaking around and I thought you were with some other girl.”

“I wasn’t, mi princesa, I promise that to you.” He starts, “We’ll talk about it later, but I was only looking out for you. Drop this piece of shit and come back to me, mama? Please?”

You’re shocked at Miles’ demeanor. Usually he’s so nonchalant and laidback, but now here he is, begging for you to take him back in the middle of the moonlight. There’s not a bone in your body that even pondered about saying no, though, and the smooth kiss that follows his statement is more than enough confirmation that you belong to him, that you were his.

And if you were speaking truthfully, you always were.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 ☻ thank you for reading!

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @enj4i // @chrissytalia // @chaoticevilbakugo // @motheroffae

𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑-𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓🕷️: @queenesther996 //@sukunas-slutty-bitch // @c3f21 // @wydney // @rinnyisnothere // @brieryann // @moisttowllet // @Dee-m-cee // @liliummz // @starhrtz // @daisydark // @randomhoex // @solanawrld // @whore4hobie // @tanakaslastbraincell // @simp4miguell // @nyrovi3 // @my3tumbles // @aziulsworld // @enchantingfoxsparkles // @mancerseedu // @cafehyunji // @personofyou // @mcdvsr // @kopiivie // @ellatienesuscosas // @venuswash3re // @calliarlerte // @pr0wlerpunk // @tzuyuzzs // @wisepoetrycheesecake // @clearskiiiess // @d3atht3hek1d // @vienreina // @pixqlsin // @caulifloweron // @aizawassimpblog

𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ✎: @Dee-m-cee // @euphorichappiness10 // @adoree-kaelynn // @mhadnirb // @mmst4rz // @iris-theflower // @fleurrieerecs // @kenlani // @kala2022 // @ilyless // @milesmolasses // @laylasbunbunny // @all444miles // @thecoloredpages // @bl00dsuccker

[vampyrris]

<3

levi waited as he patiently watched you bargain with a vendor for a silk scarf you fancied.

“but it’s such a small scarf!”

“it’s made from the finest silk, ma’am, imported from overseas.”

a small smile made its way to levi’s lips as he watched your face turn into a red tomato from frustration. you humphed loudly as you handed the bag of coins to the vendor and snatched the scarf from the stall.

he watched you with an amused expression as you wrapped the evidently small scarf around your neck and began to knot it. he could see your lips muttering words to yourself as you proudly walked back to him.

“that was real mature.”

you narrowed your eyes at him. “don’t you patronize me, levi ackerman.”

levi huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. “at least you entertained everyone around you including myself with your excellent bargaining skills.”

you humphed loudly again as you walked alongside him, your hand casually finding its place on the back of his chair as you moved forward. before you even got the chance to step ahead, headed to your next destination, levi maneuvered himself in front of you.

he levelled you with a calm stare.

“sit.”

you regarded him with a puzzled glance. “huh?”

levi moved himself closer to you, and patted his lap. “sit.”

you assessed him carefully. “i don’t want to hurt you”

he rolled his eyes. “you won’t hurt me. you’ve walked long enough, let me take us wherever it is we are going next.”

your eyes softened at his words, so you let out a small sigh before doing as he asked. you carefully put most of your weight on his good leg as you splayed your legs over the other.

levi’s hand came up to adjust your skirt that had ridden up a little, before going back to the joystick on the armrest. you looked at his solemn expression as he shuffled on the seat, making sure both of you were comfortable.

something twisted in your chest.

unable to help yourself, you leaned in, your lips brushing against the scars on his cheek as you planted a soft kiss.

“thank you. and just so you know, i never want you to feel like you somehow owe me something in exchange of me loving you.” you then kissed his lips. “i love you and i care about you so, so much.”

levi looked at you with an expression that made you want to embrace him tightly and never let him go, and never let harm come his way ever again.

he silently took your hand and brought it to his lips, his eyes falling shut as he kissed your knuckles gently.

wrapping your other arm around his shoulders, you leaned in to kiss him once more. “let’s go get those baked cinnamon thingies you love so much, and then take a stroll in the park.”

levi smiled and nodded, but not before correcting you that the baked cinnamon thingies were called cinnamon rolls.

the sky had turned into hues of lilacs, pinks and oranges by the time you and levi reached the park. in one hand you held your cinnamon roll, and with the other you fed levi his.

“mm, this is actually so good. why did i hate it again when i first tried it?” you moaned in delight through a mouthful of sweet goodness.

“because it wasn’t drowning in diabetes. you’re gonna get sick.” levi remarked, eyeing the bun in your hand as he navigated you both through the wide expanse of the green and flowery park.

your cinnamon roll was oozing with an unhealthy amount of the creamy icing, but you couldn’t care less.

levi opened his mouth for another bite. you lifted the bun to his mouth, but just as he was about to bite into it, you pulled it out of reach with a giggle.

a burst of laugh escaped you when levi shot you an annoyed look, daring you to test him again.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry. here you go,” you lifted it to his mouth—only to pull it away again, breaking into another fit of laughter.

“i’m gonna throw you off my lap.” levi muttered.

you let out a dramatic gasp as you held the roll to his mouth again. “don’t make fun of me because i like sugar, you turd.”

“you mean diabe—mmf!”

you shoved the bun into his mouth. his eyes widened in shock while you grinned foolishly at his look of despair.

he began chewing angrily, as he whipped out his white kerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped at the corners of his lips.

“i can’t believe you manage to look this adorable even when you’re mad. oh my god,” you kissed his cheek, puffed and stuffed from the big bite thanks to your assault of the cinnamon roll.

you went to kiss him again, but he dodged it, your puckered lips meeting nothing but the air.

you huffed in frustration half-heartedly. “i’m sorry, i won’t do it again. promise.”

he grumbled under his breath. only then did you notice a remaining crumb of the bun still lingering on his chin. using your finger, you caught it and put it in your mouth.

levi’s cheeks turned pink at that.

you smiled as you leaned your head against his and began finishing the rest of your rolls.

fortunately enough, you were strolling closely near the flower bushes. you seized the opportunity and plucked a handful of hydrangeas.

“relax,” levi muttered.

you pouted as you dropped the flowers on your lap. “why do you sound so mad at me.”

you picked one and placed it behind levi’s ear. “i’m sorry for making you choke on a cinnamon roll. i love you.” you pouted again, looking at him with puppy dog eyes.

levi shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips, before absentmindedly placing something in your hair.

you scrunched your brows, immediately plucking it out.

it was a red rose. a loud gasp escaped your lips. “where did you get this?”

levi only rolled his eyes. “while you were too busy bullying me, we passed rose bushes.”

you sputtered dramatically. “excuse you, i was loving you!”

his lips quirked to one side at that. he placed another red rose in your hair.

“that one has a lot of thorns.” he warned, as he reached up and tucked a loose strand of your hair.

you brought the rose to your nose and inhaled the familiar scent. “i’m sorry for bullying you.” you said, your head falling against his chest.

his arm snaked around your waist and squeezed your side.

“you can make it up to me, when we get home.” he whispered, his warm breath fanning your temple.

you looked up at him, your hand going around his torso. “i shall, mr. ackerman.”

he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a while.

“i love you, mrs. ackerman, bullying and all.”

you bit your lip to contain your huge smile as you looked at him.

“take us home, please. i’ve got a little surprise for my dear husband.”

[nanamis-bigtie]

nonsexual acts of intimacy ↬ head scratches

❧ inumaki toge x gn!reader | cw: aged up character, established relationship, domestic fluff ❧

It's surprising now how little is said between the two of you without any words. It's Inumaki who's bound by vows and limitations, there's nothing that forces you to adopt the same habits—and yet, you follow almost religiously. Silence has grown only natural, the sound of your voices scrunches like wet sand in your ears; not quite unpleasant but alien and unexpected. Even your own seems so out of place when you use it within your four walls. As if someone uninvited sneaked into your home and joined the conversation.

Frankly, you don't really need verbalization when everything that's needed could be read from your faces and bodies. Inumaki hasn't made a single sound but a gentle hum to announce himself when he's come back and yet, you already scoot to the side of the sofa, just enough for him to fit and enjoy some of the warmth your body left. He strays only to grab a blanket and a pack of snacks before he finally settles by your side, head in your lap.

"Rough day?" Your fingers ask, brushing strands out of his eyes. They're velvet-soft, slick and skim through your fingertips with ease, like threads of silk. It's almost unfair, for a guy who's dyed his hair since high school, if not earlier, to have it in such excellent condition. 

Inumaki's eyes smile at you through the net of little wrinkles. Out of you all, he's been touched by the passing time the least, but even his youthful appearance couldn't avoid all marks of years. Still, his weight pressed to your thighs, would suit rather a teenager than an adult man at the edge of his thirties. He's so thin…and it always worries you a little.

Again, no word or sign was exchanged, but Inumaki is smiling wider, understanding, when he opens the snack as soon as a grimace runs through your face.

"Don't worry about me," cookies crunch in his mouth. "See? I'm eating."

You indulge yourself and sink fingers deeper into his hair, shamelessly messing it. You don't have to worry about tangling it, it's too slick to tie into knots, so you reach straight for the scalp. Threading through strands, you gently scratch his skin and return his peaceful smile, blooming with appreciation for your care.

"Thank you, love," is said by a low, pleased rumble straight from his chest—the louder the closer you are to one of his favorite spots. He shamelessly presses against your hand to have them reached faster and almost pouts when you tease him and act against.

When you finally give in and curl your fingers to scratch him exactly to his liking, Inumaki visibly melts, all muscles relaxed and eyes closing in pleasure. Right now, he reminds you of a cat, arching its back for the willing hand of a favorite human. He even sounds similar—and the softness of his hair beats any feline fur you've touched so far.

"A kitty," you speak with your own voice this time, unwittingly, and far from a whisper. 

Inumaki lazily opens one eye, studies your surprised expression with a growing smirk.

"Go on," he asks through the dimples showing under the clan seal.

Or so you think at first, through the few seconds before the characteristic tingle of his cursed energy sneaks around your brain.

"You're my good kitty," you continue, embracing the soft encouragement pushing the words out of you. 

a/n: yes, I placed this drabble roughly 10 years past current manga events. dyed hair is just a silly headcanon of mine but I'd not be surprised if it was somewhat canon. don't kick me if it is, details easy escape my mind lmao

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Since you've done a mini ask with winged Mc how do you think the M6 would react to a winged Mc that doesn't take proper care of their wings?

I.E Mc should be preening them weekly but only does it when they feel as uncomfortable as they look. Having ruffled, bent, and broken feathers

The Arcana HCs: M6 with a Winged MC

~ put a spin on this so I could apply it to the vesuvia weekly prompt, hope you enjoy it anon friend! ^.^ ~

-- to set the scene --

You like having wings. You really do, but sometimes you wouldn't mind forgetting about them for a bit. Just putting them away, where they can't catch on door frames or whip into people's faces or make you wince every time the sensitive feathers snag on something. Folding them out of sight and being able walk around without the stares is so nice, it becomes your new normal.

Until one day, the pain that's been slowly twisting knots into your shoulders and back becomes too much to bear, and you pull your wings out for the first time in months. They're crushed. Ruffled. Just looking at them is the stuff of nightmares.

Thankfully, your beloved seems to think they're the stuff of daydreams.

Julian

He'd known that something was wrong with your back - the only other person he knows with that many knots in their shoulders is himself - but he'd had no idea it was because of this

Why didn't you say anything? Did you think you'd be asking him for too much work?? Don't you know that taking care of you and seeing you depend on him makes him the happiest man alive???

Rummaging through his overstocked medicine cabinet, rambling between self deprecation for not noticing more and nerding out on winged human anatomy

Doesn't think to ask if it's okay to help until he's already seated behind you, reaching for your wings and realizes your closeness

Excellent at wing care once you tell him what he needs to know, his eyes and hands are trained for spotting physical issues and delicately treating them. He touches you like he's cherishing you

Can't stop daydreaming about how romantic it would be if you ever saved him like this, swooping through the air and snatching him from a burning pirate ship where he'd been held hostage ...

Asra

They'd been the one to teach you about how to manage your wings, and they'd been hinting at maybe taking care of them sooner, but they'd also done their best not to interfere

Approaching you quietly with a pained but sympathetic look on his face, bringing you the stuff you need and telling you however bad it is, you'll fix it together

Has the softest touch, running their warm hands over your shoulders and back as they work through your feathers, easing the pain both in your wings and through your muscles

The funny thing about his daydreaming tendencies (and goodness, does he love to spend time doing that -) is that when he's relaxed, he mumbles

Which is how you begin to hear all kinds of muttered whispers about how gloriously soft they are, how much they just want to hold you in their arms while you shroud them in your wings

All wrapped up in a tiny, feathery, world of your own, with nothing in your shared space but each other - MC, why are you blushing??

Nadia

Let it be known that this Countess is the queen of self-care and values it so highly that she sets aside a weekly budget for it

Which is why seeing your state is enough to horrify her

Your wings! Your glorious wings, they're in such poor shape, you must be in so much pain, her darling deserves so much better

She's dragging you to her private bath. She'll put you in a robe that lets your wings loose and set you up for an afternoon of recovery

Her perfectionist tendencies make for a thorough preening. She'll sit with you between her knees, carding through your wings feather by feather, straightening each one

And with the top quality products from her own personal stash, you slowly begin to glimmer in the sunlight through window

It captures your Countess's attention, making her linger over each feather and cover your wings in loving touches

She wants to see you glorious - she wants to cover you in fabrics and adornments so fine you look like you've stepped from a stained glass window, her own angel on earth

Muriel

He knows you have wings and he'd falsely assumed that the reason for never seeing them was because you didn't want to risk him crushing them with his big, clumsy hands and rough touch

(Note: his hands are not clumsy and his touch is actually quite delicate, he just needs help believing that he's not a danger to you)

Thankfully, the painful state of your wings when he sees them causes enough concern to override his anxiety

He'd be lying if he said you didn't remind him of a very tired, gorgeous bird who's been roughed up by a bad storm

Starts by silently bringing you everything you need, and then standing watchfully nearby until you invite him to help you

He's cared for wings before (though never ones this big, or attached to a human) and he doesn't need much help to get started. Feeling your feathers between his fingers is grounding

He keeps seeing visions of you at peace, the sunlight between the leaves dappling your wings as you walk through the trees, his own heart in the forest bringing beauty and wholeness into the world

Portia

Her first reaction (to someone who doesn't know her well) is anger

How could you do this to yourself? You have the most beautiful wings, they're such a big part of you, and you neglected them like this?? How dare you cause yourself this much pain -

All while she bustles around you, pulling out every product you could need and plenty of other comforting items, pulling up a stool behind you and rolling up her sleeves like it's her calling

She'll figure things out as she goes if she needs to, so don't even think about trying to tell her that you'll handle it yourself

With her background in Vesuvia's version of cosmetology, she understands quickly what you need to get done and already has the skill set to do so. Her hands are fast, thorough, and gentle

The longer she works with you, the more excited she gets. How often are you supposed to care for them? How high can you fly? How sensitive are they? Can she keep one of your feathers?

Soon she's telling you snippets from her favorite novels, about flying together through the sky, an angel and their lover

Lucio

He doesn't really notice how bad your wings are at first, because he's busy being briefly jealous. How come you get to have them and not him? He could totally be trusted with wings!

It's only as he pouts a little closer and gets a better look at the pained look on your face (and the frankly terrible state of your feathers) that he shifts from annoyance to concern

You're the best thing in his life, MC, why aren't you treating yourself like it? Why would you neglect such an awesome thing?

He gets your reasons, but he's also asking right away if he can help

(Because he loves you and he doesn't like seeing you in pain, but also because he really, really wants to touch them, please let him touch them they looks so cool and soft and ... safe?)

It's the safety that gets to him. When you nod and let him sit behind you, literally watching your back, showing immense trust and vulnerability by letting him hold your wings

He wants to know what it's like to hold onto that safety, the brief respite from violence, securely hidden behind your wings ...

[sometimesanalice]

Like I Can (Part 2)

Summary: After yet another bad date and tired of swiping on apps, the Dagger Squad steps in to help you out by setting you up on a series of blind dates. Much to Rooster’s dismay.

Warnings: fuff, language, slight angst. Minors DNI

Length: 5.7K

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw X Female Reader

Part 1 | Part 3

(Here you go, lovely people! The wait is over! Enjoy❣️)

When you had first told Rooster that you were moving to San Diego, it had felt like the first time in a long time in that things in his life were finally going his way. He was excelling in his career, he was mending his relationship with Maverick, and he finally had the opportunity to start putting some roots down.

He knew how lucky he was.

He had been thrilled to know that you would both be living in the same place for the first time since you were teens. Sure he might have gone a little overboard helping you find a place near him and showing you the hard-learned secrets of navigating the SoCal highway system, but he wanted you to be as happy here as he was.

You were the only person left in the world, outside of Maverick, who had known him the longest. You mattered to him.

It was clear that you thought it had been his doing for how quickly his friends had included you as part of the group, but he knew it was all you. They’d all been so surprised when his nice, sweet friend was the one who kept playing the raunchiest hands during Cards Against Humanity. You’d pretty much swept every round that night. He was pretty sure more than a few of them would trade him for you in a heartbeat.

While they liked you, they loved a competition. He should have seen it coming the second Phoenix volunteered to set you up on a date, because what one person does the rest will undoubtedly follow suit. 

And that’s how Rooster found himself watching you on your first of the dates from inside the Hard Deck, the chaos of it all drawing more than one set of eyes to where you were on the outdoor patio.

When he’d arrived at the Hard Deck earlier that evening, he was surprised to see you there already seated next to Bob with his other friends chatting away nearby. He didn’t remember you saying you were planning to stop by. 

You looked a bit more dressed up than how he usually saw you, wearing a fluttery looking sundress and your hair piled up on the top of your head. After making a quick stop to get a beer, he’d made his way over to you.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you tonight, kid.” Up close now, he could see some of the soft strands that had escaped your top knot and were framing your face. 

He was briefly reminded of the time you got bangs in high school. While he’d thought they had look nice on you, you on the other hand had immediately regretted them, pinning them back until they’d grown out.  

“Hey you,” you’d greeted him with an easygoing smile on your face, “I got here a little too early, but thankfully Bob was already here. He’s been keeping me company as I wait.”

“Huh? For what?” he’d asked a bit dumbly, his gaze bouncing between you and Bob.

Shit, did he forget someone’s birthday?

“She’s meeting my friend Casey from the animal shelter tonight,” Bob chimed in, speaking around a mouthful of sunflower seeds, “For the bet we all made the other night.” 

“Oh,” he’d felt his eyebrows pull together, glancing back to you, “I didn’t know you were actually going to go through with that.” 

He had never understood why you had such bad luck when it came to dating. He assumed you probably got a lot of attention in your day-to-day life, so your stories of dates gone wrong always left him baffled. Anyone could see that you were funny, intelligent, and had the best smile. If you’d been a stranger, he probably would have approached you out in a coffee shop somewhere if he’d seen you drinking one of those extra foamy cappuccinos you liked. 

But you weren’t a stranger you were his longest time friend, his most important friend.

“Why wouldn’t I?” you’d asked quizzically, tilting your head at him. “Outside of how competitive you all are, your friends were nice enough to go out of their way for me by setting this all up. Plus, it seems like it could be a lot of fun.” 

That was the thing though, he didn’t think you should have to be jumping through so many hoops to find a decent guy to date.

He’d met the guy you had dated before moving here a few times over FaceTime. He would usually try to engage him in some small talk always asking him about how many G’s he’d pulled that day before leaving for beers with the guys or some pick-up basketball game. It seemed to him like you guys had led pretty separate lives, but you liked him so the guy was fine in his books. However, when you had told him that you were moving out here alone, he couldn’t say he was too surprised. That guy was probably kicking himself now, because California looked good on you.

“Speaking of,” you’d reached out taking right forearm pulling it closer to you, he had let you turn and adjust it until you could read the time displayed by the dials on his watch. “I should probably head outside to wait for him there. You said we’d probably need to grab a spot on the patio, right Bob?” you’d asked turning away from him to confirm with the WSO.

“He said he was still looking for a dog sitter, but if he couldn’t find one he’d be bringing them with him,” Bob replied as he scanned the text on his phone, “That’s probably a good idea, just in case.”

He’d known this whole thing was going to be a bad idea, grasping the back of your stool he briskly turned you back towards him to give you a pointed look.

You’d just shook your head at him blithely and rolled your eyes, “It’ll be fine.” The expression on your face told him not to press the matter, even though he knew that would take a lot of willpower on his side.

Sighing in resignation, he had helped brace your forearm as you slid off the tall stool. You’d patted his chest a couple of times before making your way outside, the hem of your dress dancing around your thighs.

He had drunk that first beer a bit faster than normal, trying to focus on the conversation Coyote was attempting to have with him. Then he was waylaid at the bar for a while when he had gone up to get a second, spending some time catching up with Mav who had shown up and was sitting at the counter watching his fiancée as she ruled over her bar.

When he got back and looked out the window to check on you, he was expecting to see you out there talking with Bob’s friend and maybe a dog or two sitting at your feet, instead the scene before his eyes had him storming over to Bob who was already watching the madness unfold.

“What did he bring the whole damn shelter with him? There’s like 7 of them out there!”

“I had no clue he had that many,” Bob admits sheepishly.  

“He’s your friend, isn’t he? Shouldn’t that have come up in a conversation before this?” He liked Bob, but you were getting assailed by a few too many energetic dogs for his comfort. He can tell the guy is trying to wrangle them under control, and you’re generously laughing along while they vie for your attention, scratching as many ears as possible. 

“They seem to really like her. See how they keep licking her? Did you know that’s an instinctive behavior learned from when they’re puppies? It’s how they bond with others.” His attempt to bring some humor falling flat in Rooster’s ears.

“Not helpful, Bob,” he grunts into his beer his eyes glued on you.

Hangman struts up to them no doubt curious about what has the two of them staring so intently out the large window and lets out a low whistle, “Damn, that’s a lot of dogs.”

The sound naturally draws the attention of his other friends, and they are quick to drop everything to come gather around the window and observe the circus that is your first blind date.

The guy is standing trying to unravel the many leashes he is clutching onto, handing you a couple to hold on to as he works to disentangle the knot that’s formed. Your beer a casualty of the chaos when what looks like a Border Collie mix jumps up on the table.

“Oh shit,” he mutters when he sees you sneeze.

“What’s up, Rooster?” Natasha asked, glancing at him briefly before turning her eyes back to the flurry of fur outside.

“She’s allergic.” 

This is what he had been worried about when Bob mentioned your date might be bringing his dogs. He knew your pet dander allergy wasn’t usually too bad with a couple of animals, but being around this many couldn’t be good for you.

Now that you were settled in San Diego, you had told him you had been thinking about getting a pet. It was something that you were never able to have as a kid for the same very reason you were out there fighting back another sneeze. You were adamant about adopting one, but finding hypoallergenic pet in a shelter was harder than it was getting a missile to hit its target. 

When he sees you bring the back of your hand up to wipe under one of your eyes, he abandons his mostly untouched beer on the windowsill and marches towards the exit in a few long strides. Fingers already raised to his lips before he’s even made it outside. The sharp whistle he lets out the second his shoe hits the wooden planks of the patio surprising the tangle of dogs surrounding you into momentary stillness.

“Time to wrap it up, kid,” he hollers, jerking his head back towards the door.

Even haloed by the golden light from the setting sun, he can see how watery and red-rimmed your eyes have gotten. 

He sees you saying something to your date, handing him back the leashes as you step gingerly around the dogs towards him, making sure to avoid stepping on any of the happily wagging tails. 

You’ve got your shoulders pulled back tightly as you walk towards him, determination in every step you take. The force of your glare would be intimidating to anyone else, but he’s developed an immunity to it after so many years of having it directed at him. 

Although he doubts you can even actually see his face right now with how puffy your eyes have gotten.

“Are you kidding me right now? What the fuck, Rooster?” you fume at him.

Oh, yeah, you’re pissed. He’ll deal with that later. Standing up to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest, steeling himself in anticipation for whatever comes next.

“C’mon, I bet Penny has something for that,” he says gesturing to your face, “And then I’m taking you home.” 

He can tell you’re getting ready to give him a piece of your mind. Probably a very loud and vividly descriptive piece of your mind, but can’t be bothered to regret a thing. He knows he is in the right to intervene on your behalf. 

He’s looking out for you, like a good friend should. 

And you’re just standing there shaking your head at him, instead of listening to him when you know he’s right.

You’ve always been so frustratingly hardhead, so he pulls out the one thing he knows you can’t resist, “I’ll even stop for milkshakes.”

You look up at him skeptically with narrowed eyes before asking, “And I can drink it in the Bronco?”

That makes him chuckle, of course you’re negotiating with him. “Yeah, yeah. Now c’mon, time to call it.”

Rooster sees the moment the fight goes out of you as you turn back to Cashew, or whatever this guy’s name is. He looks a little like the crunchy granola type, if you ask him.

He grabs your hand pulling you with him back inside, not wanting to let you change your mind while the promise of a milkshake is still at the height of its power.

You tug back making him pause at the entry as you call back to Bob’s friend, “Thank you for coming, Casey. It was nice to meet you, but I think I’m going to head out. Good luck with your fundraiser for the shelter, I’ll make sure to spread the word.” 

That makes him smile to himself as he tows you with him, here you are clearly suffering with your allergies and still going out of your way for this person you’ve just met. You’ve always been too nice for your own good. Hell, you’ll probably get the whole team to donate to the fundraiser before he can even get you out the door.

Once back inside he pays the tab for both of you, while you swallow down the antihistamines Penny was able to find in the med kit she keeps behind the counter. The team is surrounding you asking questions about the date.

“I’ll tell you, but that information will cost you. You can Venmo the shelter your donation to their fundraiser and I’ll be happy to answer any questions once you send me documented proof of payment,” you say with a smug smile on your face.

He huffs a laugh while signing the receipt that Penny hands him as the cellphones are whipped out of various pockets. 

Such a little hustler. 

In school, you were usually the one to sell the most candy bars and wrapping paper during fundraisers. And he was always an easy target, you usually got at least $30 out of him every time. He was never one to say no to a good cause, or to you most of the time.

Bob apologizes profusely to you as he hands you a couple napkins when you start sniffling while gathering up your things. He watches as you just wave him off, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek and tell him not to worry about it. 

Huh.

Shaking out the thoughts of you with the soft-spoken WSO from his mind, he starts to guide you out the door to his car with a hand on your back. His other hand involuntarily tightening into a fist as Fanboy calls out promising to do better than Bob when you’re both almost out the door.

He can hear your phone already blowing up with the nosy questions from his squad before he’s even buckled got you in.

And on the drive back to your place he lets you drink your chocolate cherry chip shake in the passenger seat of the Bronco, just as he promised he would.

You weren’t too proud to admit that first blind date was a bit of a mess. 

While your eyes had been puffy for a couple days afterwards, you had also managed to get $700 in donations for the shelter from the Dagger Squad with all the questions you had answered for them while bleary-eyed. 

And it was Rooster who had ended up sending in the largest donation, which had surprised you since he wasn’t even participating in the bet. He had sent you a screenshot of his $200 contribution along with a text that simply said: “For the animals, thanks for not spilling your milkshake in my car like you did when you were 15.”

You’d sent him back a heart promptly followed by the middle finger emoji.

Thankfully the second date the next week was less eventful.

Fanboy had set you up with one of his friends from the escape room group he was in. When you’d admitted that you had never done one before he’d talked you through all his tips and strategies for how to beat it when you eventually tried one out. His enthusiasm could have been charming had it not come across as entirely mansplain-y. 

Why yes, you did know what a topographical map was and how to read it, thank you very much. 

You’d felt like some kind of oversized bobblehead since all you had been doing that evening was nodding along as an attempt to stay engaged with the conversation.

Rooster had stopped by when your date had left for the restroom. He was glistening a bit from the sweat he had worked up from the performance at the piano he had just given. It was a newer song for him, but he had still swept the rest of the bar up with his infectious energy.

“I can tell you’re bored out of your mind, kid. How about I show you how to do that four-in-one shot? Once you pick it up you might finally be some competition at the pool table,” he’d said grabbing your beer and swallowing down a few large mouthfuls.

From your spot at the high-top table, you could see more than a few hungry gazes in the crowded bar tracking him. Probably trying to figure out the nature of your relationship with him. 

When you shooed him away, he’d pulled down his sunglasses to give you a knowing look before taking your beer with him as he strutted away with a casual: “See you soon, kid.” 

He knew you too well. 

You weren’t bored per se, but you also weren’t having the greatest time.

When your date got back, it didn’t take long for the conversation to fizzle out, the long pauses feeling awkward rather than companionable. You’d both agreed that it probably wasn’t a great fit and left it at that. You’d even had Penny put his beers on your tab as a gesture of goodwill.

Plus, you had been trying to get Rooster to teach you that trick for ages, and you didn’t want to miss your moment now that he was offering. 

True to his word, he spent the rest of the evening teaching you his trick. You warred between watching him intently determined to nail the shot, and avoiding looking at him too closely. The tight jeans he was wearing bringing up some less than strictly friendly thoughts as he bent over the table to line up his shots. 

You were still terrible, but you also hadn’t had so much fun in a long time as you traded shit-talk back and forth with him. Cackling at the confusion on his face when he went to grab his beer only to find it empty. It was only fair, after all, he had taken yours.

It’s been a few days since then, and you are back at the Hard Deck for date number three.

From your time hanging out with the Dagger Squad, you’d learned that Coyote was a bit of a classic car aficionado. He had set you up with his friend, Will, who he had met at one of the vintage car conventions he had gone to in the area.

Will was already twenty minutes late when Hangman and Phoenix made their way up to the bar. The two keeping you company for a bit while they waited for Jimmy to get their next rounds, letting you know that Jake had already called dibs on setting up your next date.

“Get ready for a good time, Darlin’,” he boasted. 

“I keep telling you my guy is perfect. I already know they’re going to have some instant chemistry. I don’t know why you’re even bothering, I have got it on lock,” Natasha had retorted back.

He’d sent you a cocky salute before they’d both made their way back to the rest of the group in the corner of the bar.

When your date eventually arrived, you guys went through the typical small talk motions, trading the same tired questions that feel more like a casual interview than an actual conversation.

Since you already knew he had an interest in classic cars you had casually mentioned Penny’s ’73 Porsche to him as something to talk about other than the weather or what you did for work, and that’s how you found yourself sitting on your own waiting for him to return from where he was outside snapping away pictures of the sleek looking car.

You’re picking at the label on your bottle of Blue Moon to kill time, when you feel Rooster slide up next to you, the smell of his woodsy cologne giving him away before the print of his Hawaiian shirt does out of the corner of your eye. 

“Hey kid, you hungry? I could eat. What do you say to hitting up that taco place we like?”

You gesture to the coat draped on the back of the stool next to you, “I’m kind of on a date right now, Rooster.”  

“You sure about that? Kinda looks like you’re just sittin’ here alone to me.” Mimicking you he also signals to the empty stool next to you.

His words landing like a sucker punch.

“I mean, he hasn’t been out there for that long. It’s a sexy car, I get it.” 

And you did. 

However, it has also been like ten minutes now since he left you, and having Rooster point it out like that made you feel more than a bit self-conscious.

Especially when you look over and catch the rest of the team watching you guys with curious stares from across the bar. 

You knew having the dates here for their bet would put you directly in the spotlight, everyone wanting to see how things were going and how their friend stacked up against the competition. First dates were awkward enough without that kind of extra pressure and extra eyes. 

Now you were on the third one and things weren’t looking as promising as you had hoped when you first started. It would be humiliating if by the end of this they all thought that you were the problem. And it wasn’t like you weren’t trying, but being on display like this makes you feel like you’re wading through waist-deep mud while everyone watches you struggle from solid ground. 

When it came to dating, Rooster always had a much easier time of it compared to you. With those sunkissed curls and that toned body, it was rare if he didn’t get passed at least three napkins with phone numbers scribbled on them during nights out.

Even in high school you were always the one fielding questions from all the girls who were interested in him. Is he seeing anyone? Can you give him my number? He was naturally charismatic, of course people were drawn to him.

But you? You were just Bradshaw’s younger, tag-along friend. And then in college, it had always felt like you were the one who had to keep making all the first moves only to be left wondering why you had even bothered in the first place.

You never had a great poker face, and it’s clear you’re wearing your emotions on your face because when you turn back to Rooster his face immediately softens.

“I’m not trying to be an asshole,” he promises gently, as he reaches out to tug lightly on the end of the braid you had woven your hair in for the evening. “I just don’t get why you’re putting up with this guy ditching you like this. Especially when we could be getting tacos instead.”

Shaking your head ‘no’ to both the invitation and the insecurities that were trying to creep in, “I’m sure he’ll be coming back in any minute now.” 

You weren’t excusing his behavior, but you did also want to give him the benefit of the doubt. It could still get better, he could still surprise you.

“And guess what? Apparently Will drives a Bronco too. He pointed his out earlier when he brought it up, but I can’t see it from where I’m sitting. I bet you guys could talk about that if we decide to see each other again.”

Rooster stands up to get a better look out the window that faces the parking lot, “Well, that certainly is interesting, kid.” 

There’s a weird tone to his comment, but it isn’t one you are able to investigate further as Will returns back inside making his way to you.

You expect Rooster to go back to the rest of the squad, instead he makes himself comfortable on your other side. 

“That’s not a bad looking car, the Fuchs wheels are a nice touch, but I’ve seen better,” Will ignorantly gloats as he sits back down, pulling up photos of another car on his phone to show you. “It definitely doesn’t have anything on the 1975 Porsche 930 Turbo, with its single turbo flat-six and the flared rear wings. Now that beauty was made for speed.”

Mortified you glance to Penny hoping she didn’t hear any of that, but the stiffness of her spine tells you everything you need to know.

This obnoxious motherfu-

“Wow, that’s really something. Do you mind if I take a look, man?” Rooster asks pointing to Will’s phone before you can say anything in response.

“Yeah, bro. Go for it,” he says as hands his phone over, “Spotted that one at the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance last year.”

You watch as Rooster swipes half-heartedly through a couple of the pictures before catching Penny’s eye.

“Uh-huh, neat. Hey, Penny?” he calls to her, as he sets the phone down on the bartop. “That’s your 911 S out there, right?”

“Sure is, Rooster.” She confirms playing along as she rests an elbow on the polished surface in front of him, a knowing smirk already gracing her features. 

“Well then,” a conspiring grin takes over his face as he nods his head towards wood sign strung up between the taps, “I do believe we’ve had not one, but two violations this evening.” 

Penny sends a wink his way as she wastes no time ringing the bell loudly and for longer than usual, undoubtedly for the slight at her car’s expense. The action causing the raucous crowd to erupt in cheers.

Disrespect a lady, the Navy, or put your cellphone on my bar you buy a round.

Will is still trying to figure out what’s going on as Rooster leans across you pushing the phone slowly across the counter back to your date with two fingers.

His face suddenly very close to yours. You can see the warm brown starbursts that surround the pupils of his eyes. 

“Let’s go get those tacos, kid. Drinks are on him tonight.” 

You watch as he slides off of the stool, pulling out his keys from the back pocket of his light wash jeans. 

He makes it a few steps towards the door before turning back to you, “I’ll meet you at the Bronco. It’s the only one out there so you can’t miss it.” Giving Will a sharp, pointed look as he passes. 

Slipping on his aviators and swinging the fob around his index finger as he struts out of the bar.

Not too long later you’re sitting on the beach with the warm California breeze on your skin, laughing as Rooster tells you about the time during training when half his squad ended up cleaning their gear naked. The Al Pastor tacos you ordered tasting extra delicious for whatever reason.

Try as he might, Rooster could not stop watching you on your date with the guy Hangman had set you up with. 

And if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t trying at all. In fact, he was probably outright glaring and he didn’t give a damn. 

It was too loud in the bar to hear your laugh from where he sat, but he could certainly see you grinning at something this guy was saying to you.

Did you go shopping for this? The top you were wearing didn’t look familiar to him, he liked the way the straps were tied into pretty bows on your sun-freckled shoulders. Did you mean to look like some kind of a present waiting to be unwrapped?

It was clear to him that you were taking this whole thing more seriously than he ever thought you would.

“Jesus, Rooster. What gives?”  

“Huh, what?” he asked distractedly, his eyes remaining on you. He was barely paying attention to what was going on around him let along the game of pool he was supposedly playing with Hangman and Bob.

“Your leg, man. You’re about to set off the San Andres with all that shaking your leg is doing,” Jake says slapping him hard on the side of his thigh as he passes by to line up his next shot at the pool table. 

“Actually, San Diego sits on the Rose Canyon fault,” Bob corrects. 

“What is this, Jeopardy? That ain’t the point. What I’m trying to figure out is what’s got ol’ Rooster’s feathers in a ruffle over here.” His eyes calculating and his grin sharp.

Rooster hadn’t realized his leg was even bouncing up and down from where it was balanced on the foot rest of the high-top stool he was perched on.

What he did notice is that your date had gotten you a Michelob Ultra. 

You hated light beer. 

Who did this guy think he was just ordering you something without actually asking you what you wanted? Because there was no way in hell that you ordered that on your own. God, were these the type of men you were forced to put up with here in San Diego? He hadn’t even pulled out your chair for you, for fuck’s sake.

He could tell you were being polite by resting a hand on the base of the bottle, lifting it up like you were about to take a sip before remembering what was in your hand, and setting it back down again. 

He might as well have ordered you a water, at least you would have actually enjoyed that. 

The guy is massive and covered in questionable looking tattoos, in both quality and taste. Just like his choice of beer.

“Hangman, how do you know this guy again? What’s his name?” he asked, finally pulling his eyes away from you and your date.

“He’s a gym buddy, does those body building competitions,” Jake told him, probably for the second time that night based on the annoyance in his voice. “Really helped me to grow my pecs.” 

Why was he flexing instead of answering the goddamned question? 

“And his name?” he presses again, pushing his cue into Bob’s other hand officially done with the game. He pulls out his phone and sets to opening up a new tab on his browser getting ready to run a web search on the guy.

“Elijah, why?” 

“Elijah what? What’s his last name?” Rooster wasn’t sure what was so hard about this. For how much Hangman bragged about being the fastest pilot, he was really struggling to keep up.

“How am I supposed to know? We’re not that close, man. We share trainin’ tips, not life stories,” he lets slip. 

That would not work for him.

Downing the rest of his beer, tuning out the rest of whatever Seresin was saying to him as he stalks off to the bar. 

He’s just being a good friend he tells himself, since it was obvious Hangman hadn’t done enough due diligence when it came to you. 

Once there he orders another beer from Penny before rounding the bartop to where you sit with your back turned to him. He reaches out and plucks the room temperature Michelob Ultra out from your hand.

“Hey! What the-” he heard you start before turning to see him, “Rooster?” Your eyebrows pulled up in confusion.

“You’re welcome, kid,” he states concisely as he wraps your hand around the fresh, cold Blue Moon he had gotten for you instead. 

His fingers brushing the end of the long tail of the bow that danced along your arm as he pulls away, heading back to his vantage point by the pool table.

The pressure in his chest lessening now that you at least had a beverage you actually liked in your hands.

“What the fuck, man? That stunt better not have screwed with my chances of winning, they were clearly hitting it off. Did Phoenix put you up to this?” Jake complained, pointing an accusatory finger at him. 

Not bothering to reply, Rooster just waves him off as he watches you lift the bottle to your mouth, taking a sip for the first time that evening. A small smile on your face as you savor the flavor on your tongue.

Good. That’s good. 

He’s very pleased when he sees Elijah head out the door less than 10 minutes later. And downright smug when you settle yourself next to him with your Blue Moon in hand.

“Well?” Hangman presses, leaning on the cue stick in his hands, “How’d it go?” 

“It was going pretty well until he decided it was more important to lecture me about calorie content and muscle protein synthesis instead of just letting me enjoy my beer,” you said as you rolled your eyes. “So I told him we were probably on two different levels, and we decided to wrap it up for the night. I definitely heard him mutter something about needing a second pump session on his way out though. I hope he meant at the gym.” You scrunch your nose at that.

“Atta girl,” he smiles down at you as he bumps his shoulder against yours, watching as you blushed a little under the praise. 

“You all might as well just give me the winnings now, there’s no way any of you idiots are going to beat me. I hope you’re ready to have your feet swept out from under you, my guy is going to be your dream man,” Nat declares, her tone self-congratulatory.

And just like that, he wasn’t feeling so smug anymore.

Read Part 3 here!

I am so blown away by the response Part 1 got! Thank you all so much for reading and all your kind comments! I appreciate every single one of you!

Written as part of @roosterforme’s #Love Is In The Air TGM Fic Challenge! Please go check out the fics on the playlist! There’s some great things already posted!

Song Inspiration Sam Smith’s “Like I Can”.

Thank you Jordan (@gretagerwigsmuse) and Emily (@roosterforme​) for your all caps energy and for letting me spam you with ideas!

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