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p0orbaby · 1 month ago

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Extinguish the Flames with Some Champagne and Pills

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

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

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

word count: 3k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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amywritesthings · 4 months ago

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in the wrong. / levi x f!reader

for @levievent #levimonth24. (day one: pre-canon, first time)

pairing: gang leader!levi ackerman x military police!reader word count: 2.4k summary: You're Military Police. He's public enemy number one. Getting involved with one another is wrong.

tags: 18+ MINORS DNI! pre-aot, in the canon of 'a choice with no regrets', smut, enemies to lovers, military brutality mention, first time, bottom!levi, virgin!levi credit: dividers by @saradika-graphics

And so it goes—

There’s no disputing if waiting here in the dead of night is right or wrong.

Leaving your post, forcing your colleagues to pick up the slack — it’ll catch up with you eventually.

Military Police stationed within the Underground City is about as much of an oxymoron as it comes. You see the irony of walking these streets as the symbols of order when it’s a place that thrives in disorder.

Your superiors don’t wish to save these people.

You — your squadron — will do nothing here.

(But he could.)

Meeting with the leader of the most notorious gang in the city started out as an accident, really.

You’d minded yourself down here, still trying to do your job when you could: helping elderly people walk their rotting groceries to their door; aiding a young child who found themselves lost, only to witness the dilapidated home they came from; smuggling your own rations down from the surface to feed the sick.

In their eyes — wrong.

In his — confusion.

If you ever came into contact with the perpetrator known as Levi, then you were meant to engage.

Albeit fast on his feet and even faster with a weapon, his ever-growing group of goons were the Military Police’s biggest enemy.

You’d just spotted a redhead doing her best to creep up one of the staircases towards the surface, assuming no one was watching.

There are people up there, you remember saying.

Her wide eyes stared back at you with uncertainty, like perhaps getting her attention was a trick to set her up, but you’d managed to grab her by the scruff of her dirtied vest.

The small girl made a noise of protest, but you did your best to press a finger to your lips:

Silent.

Pulling her back into the shadows with you had been the smart move — the unit at the top of the stairs trudged down the stairs and into the Underground pathway, presumably to cause trouble.

They always did.

You held onto the stranger until the unit disappears, letting go only once the place is clear.

The girl turned around, seemingly breathless. “You… why?”

You didn't know.

“I don’t know,” you confessed, blinking between her face and the pathway. Paranoid. “Those two are pieces of work. Nasty. Would’ve had your damn head on a platter.”

“So you saved my life?” she asked, and the musical naivety of her voice squeezed your aching stomach.

“It wasn’t that noble,” you promised softly. “Just… be more careful.”

She realized as seconds pass: you’re letting her go.

There’s nothing to arrest her for.

The people down here suffer enough.

When she left, you thought it was the last time you’d ever see her.

— —

It isn’t.

— —

“The hell is an MP doing here, Isa?”

You can’t say. You’re not sure.

The redhead, a common recurring figure in your time patrolling the Underground, seems to have taken a liking to you when she surely shouldn’t.

Isabel Magnolia, you learn, is her name.

Talking to you about her life, asking questions about the surface, wondering if there’s a better life up there—

She’s a part of a found family she definitely shouldn’t be telling you about.

You explain that, while the sun is beautiful, the surface isn’t much better sometimes.

If there’s a better life, then clearly you wouldn’t know it.

You’re stuck down here, too, whether you’d like to admit it or not.

Perhaps by choice — you enlisted for a reason — but nonetheless stuck.

She’s so cheerful. Trusting.

You hate that for her.

(Someone could take advantage. Doesn’t she know that?)

Yet when Isabel grabs your hand one day and excitedly pulls you down an alleyway, telling you she has to show you something, you wonder if this is the moment where your stupidity catches up to you with a final blow to the head.

So it begs the question while you’re standing in an oddly pristine, clean-to-the-edges apartment in the middle of the city where two boys stare at you like you’re the devil incarnate:

What the hell is an MP doing here?

An ashy-haired boy yelps from his spot at a round dining table, catching a second dark-haired boy’s attention. He whips around, the whites of his eyes growing while he stares directly at you.

Immediately you recognize the cold stare, the raven-black fringe sweeping against them.

A smaller frame for a man but nevertheless daunting.

Billowing white sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His hands are busy scrubbing dishes at the sink of their quaint kitchenette.

The one they call Levi.

“This is the girl who saved me a few months ago,” Isabel chirps like it’s nothing, happily tugging you further into the apartment.

Your uniform feels constricting, like it’s threatening to choke you out.

“You never said it was a goddamn MP, Isa,” the lankier boy whisper-shouts as he stands from the table, his head whipping between the other two. “Levi? The hell do we do?”

Levi’s silent, observing you.

“Isabel, I should go,” you murmur to your odd friend, looking over the ginger warily. “They’re right. I shouldn’t be here.”

“But why not?” Isabel asks with confusion. “You’re not like them. Furlan, she’s really not, she’s actually really—”

“You’re the one who saved her ass from MPs?”

Levi’s voice, smooth like honey and deep like a rumble, cuts through your panic.

You turn your chin to regard him, lips parted with an apology you shouldn’t owe.

“She was getting too close to the stairwell,” you confess softly to him, clenching your fists at your sides. “I know how the MPs treat people down here. I didn’t — I couldn’t let something happen to her.”

“Why?” he asks abruptly, eyes narrowing.

Isn’t that the question of the hour:

Why are you trying to get yourself fired and tossed down here with the rest of them?

“Because it… was the right thing to do.”

He makes a noise, something of a tch, before picking up a fourth tea cup.

— —

If your colleagues knew you spent the better part of your shifts in the Underground talking to their number-one public enemy, with your backs against adjacent brick walls — you facing the street, him in the shadows of an alleyway — they wouldn’t hesitate.

Execution style, side by side.

You confess the routes of your brethren.

You warn them of the dangers of different colleagues that want nothing more than to hurt people, to use their position of power for worse.

It takes time — months upon months — but eventually his group grows stronger than your unit.

They could very well kill you themselves, if they wanted.

Maybe you’re like Isabel with the desperation to connect.

Maybe you find yourself hating the animals your colleagues become under the guise of an endless night.

Levi meets with you weekly, if not daily, by this point.

For the good of his friends, he claims. Nothing more.

You don’t blame him.

(Yet the more you talk to him, learn about what he’s built, what he’s about, the less you feel like returning to the sun.)

— —

He likes tea.

That much you’ve gathered in your time sitting in the living kitchenette of their apartment.

You’ll never forget the change in his expression, usually so stoic and emotionless, when you produced a small bag from under your emerald cloak late one evening.

“The traders down here don’t carry these blends,” you tell him, pushing the bag towards him.

His eyes squint, observing the brown pouch with confusion, before reaching to delicately unravel the tie holding it together.

Levi lets out a gentle huff when the aroma hits him, face smoothing with recognition.

Fresh leaves.

“Why?”

It’s a question you’ve even asked yourself.

You get things for Furlan and Isabel all the time, their requests for surface goods fairly frequent, but—

“Because you never ask for anything,” you confess. “And it’s the least I can do.”

“But why?” he questions again, softer this time.

His gaze flickers to yours.

Your throat clenches with the truth.

“I don’t know.”

A lie.

— —

You’re meant to be patrolling the streets of the Underground City in the dead of night.

Another lie.

All you’ve learned to do is hide, steal, and lie.

Yet nothing feels closer to the truth than Levi letting you into the small, cramped apartment.

Opening his home to you.

The enemy.

“Furlan and Isabel are elsewhere tonight,” he confesses under his breath when he closes the door.

“Elsewhere?” you ask him quietly. “Are they safe?”

“You would know if they weren’t.”

You step forward, anticipating the same song and dance you’ve played for over a year now.

Instead of dancing with you, playing the game, Levi stays put.

It forces you chest to chest, eye to eye, and suddenly you realize just how blue those gray eyes really are.

Stormy, like a sky he’ll never see.

Something shifts in his expression. Something lighter, tangible, as he takes a slow inhale through his nose.

You shift on impulse, angling closer, until you feel the heat of his face.

“Can’t,” he states, like you know what he’s saying.

By now, you do.

“I know,” you whisper, and those eyes dart lower.

Cheeks.

Nose.

Lips.

“Shouldn’t,” he argues to no one but himself when he leans closer.

His breath tickles your face.

“Wrong,” you agree, accidentally brushing your lips to his.

A single act opens the floodgates.

Both pairs of hands jump as your lips smash into one another’s.

His palm cradles the back of your head while yours guides his cheek closer, directing the angle of the kiss.

With a purposeful push, he slams you into the front door, caging you in and causing stars to flash behind your eyelids.

You’re already undoing the straps of your uniform with haste — he may have stolen ODM gear in the time you’ve known him, but you’re not confident he knows how to disrobe a military uniform.

He seems grateful, because he grunts against your lips and flicks his tongue against your lower lip in thanks. You part your lips obediently.

Can’t, but you’re still hopping up into his arms the second you free your lower half of white uniform trousers.

Shouldn’t, but he catches you with ease, digging his free hand into the flesh of your ass while he pivots and walks with you in his arms.

Wrong, but he drops down to his couch anyway, letting you sit in his lap.

There’s no time for decorum.

His hand blindly dips down your lower belly and slips under the fabric of your panties, groaning when he realizes you’ve been wet since you saw him.

You make the tiniest noise, a strangled moan at best, and you feel it right against your lips:

A smirk.

Brief and fleeting, but you felt it.

Lazily dragging his fingertips in a circle around your clit, your breath becomes stagnated. Shaky.

Your bare thighs clench around his, trying to keep your wits about you, but his hand only proceeds faster to ruin those efforts.

“Off,” you weakly state, reaching between you to pathetically tug at his own trousers.

Levi pulls away from your mouth, staring up at you in his lap. “That’s—”

“What I want,” you interrupt, and you see his throat bob with a swallow.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confesses, and it feels like the closest you’ve ever gotten to knowing the essence of him.

“You don’t have to,” you promise. “I do.”

Once, fumbling at the cadet barracks.

It was awkward and quick and unremarkable.

Yet the way Levi’s eyes widen with recognition, you already know this is what you want — him, every fragment of him, hidden away from the world.

Pushing him to the couch cushions, you raise your hips to help him push down his trousers and underwear.

His cock springs free and his hisses at the contrast of the cool air and his hot skin.

You take advantage of the moment, wrapping your hand around him.

The way he whines when your hand leisurely pumps will be burned into the back of your skull.

“Are you sure?”

His question manages to weave itself through the hazy maze of your mind.

Glancing down at him, you note how flushed his cheeks have become; how his chest rises and falls under that flowing white shirt. He looks utterly wrecked without having to do much of anything.

“Are you sure?” you ask in return, giving your answer rhetorically.

Panting, the dark-haired boy nods.

Certain.

So are you.

“Just touch me,” you tell him, and Levi leaps at the damn opportunity to do so.

He raises up from the couch to loop his palm around your neck, dragging you down with him into a searing kiss. You moan into it, gently nudging the tip of him to your entrance.

When his hand returns to your clit, eager to draw those noises out of you, it only makes it that much easier to slowly push yourself down onto his length.

Both of your mouths drop open, wide with a soundless shout, as you ease him fully into you.

Wrong.

Over and over, the word plays in your mind.

Levi groans as you drag your body up, then down, beginning a tentative rhythm.

Wrong.

Nothing fills you like him.

Nothing fills you like this.

He lets you set the pace as you fuck him on his couch, the sounds of your pleasure mixing in the midnight air.

Faster.

Harder.

His hand grips your hip so hard it could leave a bruise.

You don’t care.

He groans a semblance of your name, something he rarely does, and squeezes harder.

Close.

If he’s never done this, then you know he won’t last long.

With your own climax coming at you with a vengeance, you can’t find a reason to care.

Suddenly you feel it — the wave rises so fast and falls that you don’t have time to warn him.

Within seconds you cum around him, violently shuddering around him as you cry against his mouth.

The sheer force of it causes Levi to gasp sharply, hips slamming abruptly into you so he’s buried deep—

He doesn’t have time to warn you, either.

He cums just as hard, sealing the loud moan with a kiss to your lips.

You still your hips, spent — his arms catch you when you crumble against his chest, desperately trying to catch your breath.

You’ve passed it: the point of no return, forced to confront a choice with no regrets.

The aftermath, euphoria clouding judgment, hasn’t quite hit yet.

Wrong.

(Neither of you care.)

author's note:

Thank you so much for reading! This one shot was unbeta'd and written in two hours so I hope this insane "I woke up with this idea and really wanted to participate" story made you as sweaty as it made me this morning.

#levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman smut #aot fanfiction #snk fanfiction #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan fanfic #levi x you #levi x reader #levi smut #aot fanfic #aot fic #snk fanfic #snk fic #levi ackerman fanfic #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman fic #levimonth24

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jujutsusimp · 6 months ago

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SMAU Master list

Hello, here is my SMAU Master list! I try to post one every even day!

I've decided to sort them by relationship stage, I guess it's my librarian brain, I was so close to create a Dewey for this /die/)

Updated 17 August 2024

Pre relationship

You are insecure about your weight (thicc y/n)

They text the wrong person when picking you a gift

Early relationship

They find your "toys" 🔞

Pranking them with the black eye filter

"I am horny" 🔞

You hug your pillow when you sleep

"There's nothing that fits me"

"Would you still love me if I was a worm" 🔞

They ask their contact name

They are sick

You forgot a clothe at their place 🔞

"My mom wants to meet you"

They meet your father

"Can I sit on your back while you do push-ups"

Mid relationship (they live together)

Talking about threesome 🔞

You are insecure about your weight 🔞 (thicc y/n)

Sending them a pic of you with a baby

"I am bored"

Finding their porn 🔞

You want to adopt a kitten

You are jealous because the cat prefers them over you

You put their clothes

You forgot the goodbye kiss

You called them "my husband" while ordering food for them

Late relationship (married, baby etc.)

Weird pregnancy cravings

Their daughter wants to fight them

#jjk texts #jjk smau #jjk #jujutsu kaisen

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foragerknits · 3 days ago

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Sometimes I think about how in order to be a writer today you cannot have internet privacy. I was reading an article in which a journalist recalls collaborating with Mary Oliver, who was notoriously private. Oliver refused to communicate with them through fax or email and said (through her publisher) that she would hand them written notes at an event she was doing in New York City. It struck me that Mary Oliver in 2024 would have almost no chance of becoming a successful poet. Writers today have to have a social media presence to have a built in audience so publishers can be assured that they will get sales and to bear the brunt of social media marketing. They have to be available and put themselves on the internet in every way possible.

More and more I read interviews from artists across many mediums talk about how if you cannot market on Tik Tok your chances of success diminish. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be an online influencer and I am surely not saying that the author-influencer is a new phenomenon, but it should not be a pre-requisite for being a successful writer. I love that writers like Mary Oliver, Elena Ferrante, and Donna Tart exist, and it is not talked enough about how they could not begin a career in 2024 and achieve the same amount of success unless they were well connected or extremely lucky. It makes me sad that this is the state of publishing.

#mary oliver #wild geese #influencer #capitalism #late stage capitalism

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worldlxvlys · 7 months ago

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listening

part 5 of the CRUSH series

bsf! matt sturniolo x reader

warnings: smutttt, p in v, unprotected sex, fingering, orgasm denial, cream pie, squirting, cursing

a/n -> read the previous part for context!!

hope you like !!

matt must have been driving pretty quickly, as his usual ten minute trip to my house was shaved down to five.

he didn’t say anything, letting out a quick “i’m coming in” before hanging up.

i don’t even know how it was possible, but he was in my room less than a minute later.

neither of us made a move, both of us just staring at the other. every action that we took prior to this moment was based off of our desires.

this was the first time that night that we were actually stopping to think about what we were doing. this wasn’t just anyone, it was matt. we flirted often, but i never expected it to go any further than that.

i knew it was wrong, wanting him like this. but i also knew i wouldn’t be able to help myself, not after seeing the faces he makes with his hand wrapped around his dick. the thought of that alone made my legs clench together while he walked towards me.

my breathing picked up slightly as he leaned over me, his hands on either side of my body. his face was only inches away from mine when he spoke up, “are we- is this okay?” he asked, eyeing my lips.

“yes, please matt. you can do whatever you want to me” i told him, grabbing his hand and guiding it to my thigh. “anything?” he asked in confirmation, his fingers sliding under my skirt.

“yes, matt. just fuck me, please. need it so bad” i whined while he swiped his finger through my folds, collecting my arousal.

“so fucking wet, bet you taste amazing” he whispered, bringing his wet finger up to his mouth and tasting it. his eyes rolled back and he let out a low moan, “of course you do”

he hooked his finger under my jaw, pulling my lips to his in a slow kiss. i moaned at the taste of myself on his tongue, tilting my head to deepen the kiss.

my head flew back when i felt his finger poking at my entrance teasingly, before moving to my thigh. “matt, please. no teasing” i sighed out while he trailed kisses down my neck.

“didn’t you just say i could do whatever i want?” he spoke, his lips tickling my skin. “yeah, but-” i started, quickly being cut off by him, “no buts, you don’t have to do anything. just sit there and take it” he spoke as he pulled down his sweats and boxers in one swift motion.

his thick, veiny dick sprung free. it was red, covered in pre-cum, and it was so hard it looked like it hurt.

he pushed my skirt up, bunching it at my waist to expose my heat to him. “look at that pretty little pussy” he whispered to himself, spreading my thighs apart.

he began to rub his tip up and down my folds, dipping it into my entrance momentarily before taking it out. he did this over and over again, watching while i squirmed underneath him.

i was a whining mess, hand slapping over my mouth while he continued to torture me. “rub your clit” he ordered while he continued to grind himself against me. i let out a long moan when i followed his instruction, my free hand gripping the sheets next to me.

“matt, i’m so close” i cried out, clenching around nothing. “hold it” he spoke, pushing in just the tip.

“i-i can’t, matt. please, i-” i cut myself off with a loud moan when he pushed himself in fully, without warning. “you can take it. hold it” he spoke as he began to thrust into me quickly.

i was about to move my hand from my clit, finding the added stimulation to be too much, but matt spoke up before i could, “and don’t move that hand either. this is what you wanted, right? take it”

my eyes screwed shut, teeth digging into my lips as i tried desperately to hold off my orgasm. “eyes on me when i’m fucking you, princess” he said, my eyes flying open in obedience.

“you’re such a good listener when you want to be, baby. we’re gonna have to work on that attitude though, aren’t we?”

i nodded my head in response, was he implying that this would be happening again?

he hooked his arms around my thighs, lifting them up to thrust into me at a different angle. his dick brushed against my sweet spot and i was gone.

“fuck, fuck, fuck matt!” i screamed as i released all over him, my body shaking under him. i clenched around him, making him cry out in surprise as thick spurts of his cum shot inside of me.

he continued to thrust into me sloppily, eliciting several high-pitched moans from me as my juices spilled out of me and onto him. after a few more thrusts, he pulled out of me carefully.

“fuck, you’re on the pill, right?” he asked as he watched our combined pleasure drip out of me. “yeah, and now’s a fine time to ask” i spoke.

“yeah, well maybe if you had actually listened we wouldn’t have had to worry about it” he said, squinting his eyes and flashing me a sarcastic smile.

“not my fault you got horny and decided to screw your best friend” i countered.

“what’s that you were saying again? matt, please ! please fuck me! need it so bad ” he spoke in a high-pitched voice, mocking me.

“shut up” i fought the smile taking over my face, rolling my eyes at him. he leaned forward slightly, making me move back until i was laying down.

“that’s funny, you seemed to like how i was talking to you a minute ago. eyes rolled back, toes curled, when was the last time you squirted like that?” he asked, tilting his head at me.

he gave me a pointed look, waiting for an answer. “i haven’t” i admitted, “that was the first time”

a wide grin quickly grew on his face at that as he picked me up bridal style. “matt!” i yelled in surprise, “where are we going?”

“to take a shower” he spoke as we made our way to the bathroom, “and make you squirt again. we wouldn’t want your first time to be the last, would we? ” he spoke, his cheeky grin never leaving his face.

yeah, that was far from the last time.

the way i already know what i’m doing for p6 😋

masterlist

tag list: @lustfulslxt @flowerxbunnie @sturnssx @mattslolita @its-jennarose @sophssturn @bernardsleftbootycheek @queen161718 @cupidsword @imwetforyourmom @nickmillersn1gf @mattsneezing @chrisstankyleg @sturniolobltch @bethsturn @bernardenjoyer @mbbsgf @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @ssturniolo @blueeyedbesson @mxqdii @sturniolowhore @readerakayourname @defnotayonna @urmom2bitch @rootbeerworshiper @starsturniolo @hearts4chriss @theyluv-meee @carolinalikesthings @itzdarling @chrisstopherfilmed @judespoision @sstvrnioloo @littlebookworm803 @nicksdrpepper @chrisloyalgf @robins-scoop @fandomhopped @chr1sgirl4life @bbglmfao @55sturn @nickgetsmewetter @meg-sturniolo @yamamasjumpercables @vanteguccir @ineedchriscock @junnniiieee07 @breeloveschris @luverboychris

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phoward89 · 6 months ago

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Professor!Coriolanus x Innocent!Reader

Masterlist

WARNING ⚠️ Coriolanus Snow is a warning in and of itself. Dark!Coryo, Obsessed!Coryo, Innocent!Reader, Sweet!Reader, Naive!Reader, manipulation, obsession, professor/student relationship, power imbalance, age difference, cussing, drugging, dacryphilia, smut, dub con, non con?

Based on a request a while back where your professor's obsessed with you and manipulates you to be with him.

Part 1

Coriolanus Snow flourished in his studies at the University: a double major in Political Science and Military Strategy. He also impressed Dr. Gaul while interning with her as a gamemaker. But, although his ideas were implemented and well liked by the mad scientist, Dr. Gaul didn't feel like Mr. Snow had the raw, insane, sadistic gumption that it took to be an official Gamemaker.

The mad scientist also didn't like Coriolanus’ presidential aspirations. Truthfully, she feared the young Snow because, in her opinion, he was too ambitious. Ambition is a very dangerous thing when given the absolute freedom to bloom into real, tangible, outcomes and goals. Dr. Gaul knew if Coriolanus became an Assistant Gamemaker that he'd stop at nothing to attain her job; use that position to further his goal of politics.

Coriolanus Snow dreamed of becoming the youngest President Panem has ever had. And Dr. Gaul knows that in order to do that, well, her little pupil has to win people over; kill a lot of them too in order to clear the way for his stepping stones to the Presidential Palace.

Coriolanus Snow as the president is the last thing Dr. Gaul wants on God's green earth. Her former student is very cunning, but uncontrollable. He likes to be in control; doesn't want to be told what to do. Has a godlike complex too. And the mad scientist can't have that because, in reality, the President of Panem is just a figurehead- a puppet that Dr. Gaul pulls all the strings of.

And after mentoring Mr. Snow for his 4 years of University, well, Dr. Gaul has come to the conclusion that he's a failed experiment. To a certain degree he passed some of her tests, but not the one where ambition and falling in line were concerned. Plus, the woman has a suspicion that Coriolanus poisoned Highbottom a few years back; no way in hell is she letting an arsenic happy little sociopath work close to her.

She's not crazy enough to trust Coriolanus Snow not to poison her. Give Dr. Gaul some credit, she didn't become the Head Gamemaker and the Head of the War Department for nothing. She's very bright, just a bit insane and morally evil.

But, since Dr. Gaul, his personal mentor during his entire University career, claimed that he just wasn't the best of the best or the brightest star out of the University students under her tutelage, Coriolanus wasn't offered any positions that could be of power or use to him in his dreams of politics. He was blackballed from the Citadel and from anything Gamemaker related, per Dr. Gaul's request.

But he was offered a position as a professor in the Political Science department of the Capitol's prestigious University. But the class he was assigned to teach just happened to be an elective class.

Political Policies In Utopia/Dystopia Pre-Panem Literature/Media

It was basically a class that broke down what was right and wrong with the politics of various pre-Panem books and movies that were usually apocalyptic or post-apocalyptic (sometimes even sci-fi in nature). Coriolanus felt that the class was idiotic, but he was stuck teaching it. Apparently the class was designed as something fun for the Political Science students, as something light amongst their heavy coursework. But still something that'd keep their minds on the strengths and weaknesses of politics; the importance of them.

The first couple of years teaching the course, Coriolanus would cringe at some of the books and movies he was forced to make the class read, watch, and disect. But as the years went on, well, he got immune to some of the source material he was teaching. Sad to say, but after a while the shocking things in his lessons didn't phase him.

So, as his old classmates and acquaintances made their mark in the world in either politics, banking, or business, Coriolanus was a University Professor. He was trapped in a mundane life, year and year.

And one day he woke up, a man nearing 28 and going nowhere. He was frustrated with his life: bitter over his dead dreams. But, when you walked into his class on the first day of the Fall semester looking like a fresh faced innocent school girl that had recently graduated from the Academy during early July, well, he knew that his luck had changed.

Yes, he might be stuck being a professor of a useless elective class forever, but at least now he had a sweet angel- you- to lust after and corrupt. And the darkness looming inside of Coriolanus’ soul demands that he corrupts you; takes you as his life partner to smother and never let you.

He swore to never fall in love again and he intended to keep that vow, but that didn't mean that he had to keep fucking useless, faceless, nameless whores. No. It was time for him to get a good girl and unfortunately for you, well, your youth and innocent aura attracted Professor Snow to you like a moth to a flame.

Except he's not the one that's getting burnt in this scenario, but you are.

You're one of the only girls enrolled in Professor Snow's class, but that's because it's a Political Science course. Actually, it's an elective class for Political Science majors of all year levels. But still…it's a political class.

Your parents weren't too thrilled when you enrolled at the University as a Political Science major. Your father, Colonel Javanis Halvir, felt that you should've joined the Nursing Core or should've settled on becoming a socialite and looking for a husband like other pretty Capitolite girls did.

But much to your father's disappointment you did neither and decided to study politics instead. You're older brother, Rein, who was an Officer in the Peacekeepers thought it was hilarious that you defied your father. He backed up your decision to major in Political Science. Your mother could care less; she even told your father to ignore your University major and course load; that you’d either get tired and quit because it was too hard or you’d find a future politician to marry.

So far neither of your mother's assumptions have come to pass. You're still enrolled in all of your classes and you're still single.

Your last class of the day was Professor Snow's and you found the class to be very interesting. Very intriguing in fact. Oh, how you found the class to be unlike any you've ever taken before.

Political Policies In Utopia/Dystopia Pre-Panem Literature/Media.

Oh, the class made you think about how things could be worse in different realities or universes. Yes, you're only on the first assigned book for the semester’s reading, but so far The Handmaid's Tale seems like hell on steroids. Fuck, that book makes you shudder and you're only halfway thru it. You honestly can't wait til it's over and Professor Snow lets you move onto the next one.

When you walk into the classroom, Professor Snow's sitting behind his mahogany desk. He's got reading glasses on and he's nose deep in a book. It's not one of the class assigned reads, so you quickly figured out that it's a personal book.

As you take your usual seat, you can't help but think that your professor (who’s a good decade older than you) looks handsome in reading glasses. That the dark frames make his icy blue eyes pop and contrasts against his slicked back platinum hair. Shaking your head to clear any and all wandering thoughts of Professor Snow, you open your bag and take out your supplies for the class.

Coriolanus discreetly looks over the top of his book to check you out. Oh fuck, how he thinks you look so goddamn perfect and sexy today in your sweater, blouse, skirt, stockings, kitten heels, and your pearls.

Fuck, a simple strand of pearls around the neck and simple pearl earrings in the ears always makes his cock twitch. Oh, how he wants to do some pearl play with the strand and your pussy.

Oh, yes, with how young you are and how innocently pretty you look, he's sure that your cunt's tighter then a Nun's chuff. Oh, how he'd love to take your strand of pearls and slide them up and down your wet slit; tease your clit with them until it's swollen and you're begging to cum. He wonders if you’d suck your juices clean from the pearls too.

But then Coriolanus remembers where the hell he's at, his classroom in the damn University, and suddenly he's thinking of his ex, Livia Cardew, to make his dick soft. Ugh, that shrew can kill a wet dream.

And when he sees all of his students are sitting in their respective seats, he eyes the clock on the wall to check the time. When he sees that it's about time to start class, he closes his book and places it on his desk before standing up and standing in front of the large blackboard. He writes on it in his impeccable handwriting.

The Handmaiden's Tale Chapters 26-28 Review

You listen as Professor Snow goes over the material you read over the last couple of days, literally giving a cut and dry summary that barely touched the topic of the latest chapters. But then, when he's done, he starts asking the class questions. Questions about the book that makes the class think and ponder.

“In chapter 28 Offred muses about the fall of the United States and the creation of Gilread. Now, we find out that women's rights are slowly striped and all bank accounts women have are given to the husband or male in the family, amongst some other revelations about the occupation Gilread slowly does to the government. Now, my question is, do you think the flashback Offered provided about the fall of the United States and the subtle, but sure, takeover of Gilread could happen today in Panem?”

A young man with beige hued hair raised his hand, only for Professor Snow to nod and acknowledge him with a simple, “Mr. Arnoult, you share your answer with the class.”

Eros Arnoult, in your opinion, was a pain in the ass; know it all. Or at least he thought he was a know it all. And he just had to answer Professor Snow's philosophical question with the idiotic and incorrect answer of, “What happened to the United States in the book would never happen here in Panem. Panem has Peacekeepers.”

And you knew Eros’ answer was wrong by how Professor Snow’s cerulean blue eyes narrowed and turning into a pair of cold icicles; how his lips frowned in a thin line.

Before thinking better of it, you turned around in your seat to look at Eros and told him, “You’re such an idiot, Eros. You're wrong, because what happened to the United States could happen to Panem.”

“Miss Y/N, please elaborate.” Professor Snow insisted with a spry smirk on his face.

You turn around to face your professor before telling him and the entire class, “What happened to the United States in the book A Handmaiden's Tale could happen to Panem if, gods forbid, the Districts rise up again like they did during the war; the Dark Days.”

“The Districts would never dream about rising up again. Not with the Hunger Games keeping them in line.” Eros told you before Professor Snow could even make a remark about your thoughts.

Turning around to face your classmate, again, you counter his remark with one of, “The Hunger Games can only do so much to keep them in line. People, if pushed too hard or if they feel too hopeless will try to rebel or will follow the pied piper into something worse than what they have and everyone else will be stunned when it happens because they never thought it could.”

Coriolanus was very impressed with your political insight. For being in your first semester of your first year at the University. At first your beauty and innocence caught his eye, but he has to admit that the more time you spend in his class the more he discovers he appreciates your wit as well.

So much so that he tells you, “Very good answer, Miss Y/N.”, before explaining in length what the United States did wrong in the book to fall and become Gilread and, of course, explaining how those lessons can be implemented and used in politics today.

One day after class you're walking with your neighbor in the courtyard whenever Professor Snow comes marching up to you, seething. You didn't understand what was wrong; why he seemed so upset.

“You need to leave my student alone.” Professor Snow ordered your neighbor, Odysseus, in a firm baritone while using his hand to separate you and your bronze haired neighbor.

“It's fine, Professor Snow. Really, he's my neighbor.” You assure your tall and imposing teacher as he places a protective arm around your shoulder; pulling you into his side while acting as a large buffer between you and Odysseus.

Odysseus’ lips curled up into a deriding smile that dug into his dimples cheeks. Cocking his head slightly at the pristine platinum haired professor, he remarked in a mawkish tone, “Yea, Professor Snow, I live across the hall from her so we'll be seeing plenty of each other.”

Keeping you under his protective wing, Coriolanus craned his neck forward as he towers over the peacock of a bronze haired boy, while coldly stating, “I know exactly what boys like you, Mr. Odair, want from girls like Miss Y/N and I’m not going to let you taint her reputation. Neighbor or not.” Waving him off with a dismissive flick of the wrist, the professor ordered your neighbor to, “Stay away from Miss Y/N or else you might find yourself on an academic probation.”

Odysseus shook his head in disgust and disbelief before stalking off. Honestly, he couldn't believe that you just let your cold, overbearing, astute professor take control over the situation that was your neighborly friendship and turn it into some knight in shining toilfoil coming to an unneeded rescue moment. The sea-green eyed man couldn't help, but have an uneasy feeling about Professor Snow swooping in on you under the guise as your protector.

You're a freshman at the University, you don't need some distinguished professor that's all washed up (everyone in Capitol City knows how Coriolanus Snow aimed high and fell short in his ambitions) ‘protecting’ you from a young man your age.

Coriolanus couldn't help, but to let a smug, triumphant smirk paint his lips as he watched Odysseus Odair slump his shoulder and scurry off in defeat. Yes, once again Snow lands on top.

And Snow’s going to be the only man landing on top of you too. That he'll make sure of.

Coriolanus’ face contorted from a smugly victorious to stricken with concern before he turns to you. His baritone is deep with care as he tells you, “Although Mr. Odair's your neighbor, you need to stay away from him, darling. He's a skirt chaser with a nasty reputation on campus; boys like that'll just use you and leave you.” Patting your cheek, he adds in, “I'd hate to see my best and brightest pupil get hurt.”

Unable to believe your ears, you ask in awe, “I’m your best pupil?”

“Yes, Miss Y/N, you truly are.” Professor Snow nods. Clutching the strap of his leather satchel, he informs you with a thin lipped smile, “In fact, I find your insight on the course material we're currently working on to be very refreshing and mentally stimulating.”

Did you just hear him right? He can't mean that, can he? “Really?” You blurt out in a surprised tone.

“Really.” Your platinum blonde professor nods. “Do you have a class I could escort you to before I leave, just to make sure you're safe from Mr. Odair's nefarious intentions?” He asks, sounding like a concerned angelic man with a heart of gold.

But little do you know that he's as angelic as Lucifer himself; his heart of gold is pitch black and full of selfish desires.

“Oh, I don't have any more classes. Yours was my last one.” You innocently inform Professor Snow, causing the cunning and calculating man to do a mental happy dance hidden behind a neutral mask.

Coriolanus knows that what he's going to do is unethical, but he doesn't care. As long as he gets what he wants, which is you in his bed, he'll break every rule. All of his other dreams are unobtainable, but not you.

No.

His dream of being with you is right in reach and he's going to snatch it up greedily in his large hands.

Coriolanus gives you a smile that's more manic then friendly, as he suggests, “Why don't you join me for a bite to eat? We can always discuss your thoughts on politics or anything related to my class, if you'd like.”

Professor Snow thinks you're his best student and wants to grab something to eat with you to discuss politics and his class with you. Oh wow! You can't believe it. You didn't think you were that great of a student, surely one of the boys must have a higher aptitude for politics. It is, after all, usually a man's world and subject.

“Okay.” You simply reply with a small, flattered smile.

“I know the perfect place.” Coriolanus told you, guiding you into the direction of the parking lot and in extension his black luxury sedan was parked. “I'm positive you'll enjoy the food there.” A slightly sinister smirk crossed over his face as he lightly remarked, “And the wine’s to die for.”

“I'm not old enough to drink wine, Professor Snow.” You remind your professor, who has to be close to thirty.

“Well, you just let me order for us and nobody’ll know how young you really are.” Professor Snow tells you, his tone sounding mirthful and secretive, as he sips his face a bit too close towards yours.

His disposition changes as he holds his head up high and points his car out on the approaching lot. “That's my car right over there, darling. Nice, isn't it?”

“Yes, it's very nice.” You agree with a nod. In fact, his car seems nicer than the one your family has. You even tell him that too, earning you a chuckle from him.

The place Professor Snow took you to was a quaint, but upscale restaurant close to the Corso. The food was very delicious and the wine, as he said, was to die for. True to his word, your professor ordered for both of you and nobody was none the wiser that perhaps you shouldn't be drinking the wine.

But right before desert was going to be served you excused yourself to go to the bathroom. And that's when Coriolanus decided to enact the most vital part of his plan. Something that you knew nothing about; would never believe if told either.

As you wash your hands in the powder room, you look in the mirror and wonder if it's odd that you feel a bit giddy from eating with Professor Snow. You'd be lying if you said that you didn't have a tiny crush on the handsome, distinguished man. Because, you really do have a teeny tiny crush on him. But a girl would have to be blonde not to simp over the man with the perfectly styled platinum curls, striking baby blue eyes, prominent nose with a set of perfect pearly whites.

Deciding that you needed to stop being silly, you splashes some water on your face and took a deep breath before exiting the ladies room.

“Our deserts just arrived, darling.” Professor Snow smiles,gesturing towards the rich dark chocolate cheesecakes set in front of your place settings.

“Oh, you didn't have to wait for me, Professor Snow.” You tell him, feeling a bit embarrassed that he's been sitting and looking at his cheesecake instead of eating because he was waiting on you.

“Nonsense, Y/N.” The platinum blonde picked up his fork. “My Grandma'am taught me that a gentleman always waits for a lady arrive to start a course.” Professor Snow scoops a piece of his cheesecake with his fork while you reach for your own fork. Bringing his bite of the chocolate desert to his lush lips, he smirks, “That includes desert.”

You're using your fork to dig into your own desert whenever your professor pulls the fork from his lips and tells you, “Please, call me Coriolanus.” Digging back into his cheesecake, he adds, “Or Coryo, if you'd like.”

In between eating your desert, you ask, “Is that allowed? I'm your student.”

“I can't see why we can't be friends outside of class. We're two adults that can manage a friendship, aren't we?”

“Yes, but you're like 30.”

Coriolanus narrowed his icy eyes; his mouth sourly puckered as he tarly told you, “Oh, darling, don't age me. I'm a Scorpio; I’m only turning 28 this All Hallows Eve.”

“Oh, you're the same age as my older brother.” You blurt out, causing Coriolanus to just let out a silent huff.

Honestly, he already knew that. He knows that your older brother's Rein Halvir. He remembers the idiot from their days in the Academy. And, frankly, he's glad he hasn't run into him since being back in the Capitol.

“Yes, I believe I attended the Academy with him.” Coriolanus said, pretending to take his brain for your sake. “Is he faring well?” He asked, his eyes lighting up with a slight sparkle as you reached for your win glass.

You think it's nice that Coriolanus asked about your brother. So, of course, you answer his inquiry with, “Rein’s an officer in the peacekeepers. He's stationed in District 12; has a girlfriend and two kids.”

“Capitolite or?...” The cerulean man asks, his deeply smooth tone falling of a cliff of a silent question. A question of District.

“Ashlie's from District 12- the Seam to be exact. Their kids were born on PK Base-D12 so they're registered as Capitol citizens.”

“Aha.” Coriolanus lifts his nose up, in both superiority and disgust.

Coriolanus once spent the summer of his 18th year of life in District 12 as a peacekeeper grunt while foolishly fancying himself in love with the songbird victor of the 10th Hunger Games. Unfortunately, it didn't end well. Sometimes he'd wonder if things could've been different, but then he remembers that him and the songbird were too different to ever work. And that if she truly loved him she wouldn't have betrayed him; try to poison him with a snake and leave him to die.

No, he's much better off without that Covey frontrunner whore in his life. Her love was toxic, made him feel like a fool. And if things had worked out with her then we would've never met you.

Coriolanus is without a doubt certain that you're the girl for him. Innocent, beautiful, young, and intelligent. Oh yes, he's surely met histch in you. And he's certain that you'll never betray his love.

No, not with how kind and gentle your smile is.

“My family's proud that my brother followed our father's military footsteps, but they're not too fond of his girlfriend or their kids.” Your father's still pissed that his grandchildren are half-District. “Believe it or not, I'm the family disappointment.” You admit to your professor, even tho a part of you knows you shouldn't, before taking a large sip of your wine.

Your admission took the platinum haired professor a back. He was quite befuddled by it. How could you, a smart and innocent angel of a girl be the family disappointment? It doesn't make any sense.

Scratching his chin in a pondering way, Coriolanus asked, “Why would you be a disappointment?” Resting his elbow on the table and curling his hand into a fist, which he rests his jaw against, he remarks in a stunned baritone, “You're my best student and I'm sure you're excelling in your other classes as well.”

Yes, Professor Snow just couldn't fathom why you're not good enough for your family. In his eyes, you're absolutely perfect. But yet again he does have an obsession with you that's just crossed over a dark line; maybe even a sick one too.

“I'm studying Political Science instead of enlisting in the Nursing Core or taking my place in society as a socialite.” You wanted to go back to eating your desert, but you were suddenly feeling a bit odd. You felt as you were getting a bit hazy. Maybe it was too hot in the restaurant? “My mother told my father to just let me study politics as a way to find myself an aspiring politician to marry.” You add, concluding your explanation of why you're a disappointment to the Halvir family name.

“I once had political aspirations, but alas it wasn't meant to be and I'm a political professor for the great University in all of Panem instead.” Coriolanus said with a bit of veiled excitement in his smooth timbre.

Oh, Coriolanus was internally giddy. His plan was perfect. Just a few more minutes and he'll have you right where he wants you.

“Are you alright, darling? You seem a bit flushed.” Coriolanus asked, fake concern in his baby blues, as he placed his fork down on his plate.

“I'm not sure, Coriolanus. I feel a bit hazy.” You honestly tell him. Oh no, are you tipsy? You can't be, it was only a glass of wine. “Maybe the wine was too strong?” You offer as you begin to feel as if the room's going to start spinning.

Coriolanus’ brows knit as he gives you a worried look. “I think we should get the check and leave, Y/N. You really don't look well and I'm a bit concerned.” Your professor suggests, making you believe that he truly was concerned about your well being.

“Okay.” You nod, feeling dizzy and drowsy.

You must've passed out because the last thing you remember is feeling dizzy and drowsy while getting ready to leave the restaurant and then the next moment you're waking up in a strange bed. You automatically start panicking as you sit up. But before you can scream or scramble off the bed, a voice next to you sounds out with, “Oh, you're awake. Are you feeling better now, darling?”, and kills your fight or flight reactions.

You're with Professor Snow- uh Coriolanus. And he's not in his three piece suit anymore, instead he's in lounge pants and a casual shirt. What the?...

You look over at him, only to discover that he's laying on the bed, legs crossed at the ankle with his back leaning against the headboard. A pair of black frame glasses are perched on the bridge of his prominent nose as he reads a book. A book that’s cover looks well worn and battered.

“What happened? Why am I in bed with you?” You ask, feeling a bit confused.

“You don't remember walking out of the restaurant and falling out in the parking lot near my car?” He asked, closing his book and setting it on his nightstand before taking off his reading glasses and placing them on top of the book.

‘No.” You shake your head. “I don't.”

“Well, my darling,” Coriolanus gave you a sympathetic, but pointed look with his icy eyes, “Since you blacked out before I could get your address I brought you to my Corso penthouse.” Placing a large hand on your knee, he gave you a closed lip smile. “I don't want to startle you, but I took the liberties of changing you into a shirt of mine, for comfort.” Raising his hand up, to stop you from even thinking about opening your mouth, he said in a gentlemanly tone, “Don't worry, I didn't cross any lines; your underwear is still on.”

You should be creeped out, but instead you find it endearing that he was worried about your comfort and changed you into one of his shirts while you were passed out. Oh, no. Now you feel so embarrassed and stupid blacking out after a glass of wine. What's wrong with you? The wine couldn't have been that strong, could it?

“Thank you.” You murmur, casting your eyes down to stare at the hand that's on your thigh- Coriolanus' large hand. “I guess the wine was too strong for me.”

“Yes, I suppose it was.” The platinum blonde man next to you nodded. “I was worried about you; kept vigil by your tipsy side.”

Pushing his hand off your thigh, you tell him, “Thank you, but I should probably dress and catch a cab home.”

“Darling, you don't have to leave. You can stay here til you regain your senses; you'll be safe with me.”

“I'm fine.” You assure him, tone a bit snappier than you meant for it to be, as you sat on the edge of the bed.

Knowing you’d be dizzy and at risk for another blackout, Coriolanus leaned over and took your arm in his hand; stopping you from getting up. When you turned around to look at him from over your shoulder, his icy eyes had a hint of something guileful in them.

“Don't go, darling. Please.”

“Profes- Coriolanus, I can't stay here. You're my professor; it'd look bad and you could get into trouble.”

“Why would I get into trouble? I'm just letting you rest after getting tipsy off of some very strong wine.” The imposing man, who's more dangerous than sinai poisoning, pointed out while quickly taking a seat right next to you. Taking his hand off of arm and placing it on your chin, tilting it in a way so you'd be able to look him in the eye, he huskily asks, “Or are you afraid to stay with me because you want to get fucked by your cold, stoic, and oh so serious Professor Snow?” His face inches closer to yours as he asks, “I know I'm quite a handsome man, Y/N. So, I must ask, do you get all hot and bothered for your teacher?”

“You shouldn't be asking me this.”

“No, I shouldn't.” Coriolanus agrees with you, his lips ghosting over yours.

Your brain's in a fog and you're beginning to feel a bit woozy again whenever Coriolanus’ lips press against yours in a kiss that's a bit hard and hungry. A kiss that makes you feel lightheaded. And when you attempt to pull away from him, to break off the kiss, he places his hands on your cheeks and pulls your face into his.

His hands, so large and strong, hold your face still as his lips press against yours over and over again with messy enthusiasm. You gasp for air, parting your lips slightly, but it's all Coriolanus needs to deepen the kiss. His tongue slips effortlessly into your mouth, exploring it, as feelings of both dizziness and pleasure wash over you.

Honestly, you don't know how to feel. Your brain's like scrambled eggs right now. You can barely think, can barely tell what's up and what's down right now.

All you know is that your head’s spinning and your body feels like it's on fire; that your professor’s making out with you on his bed as if you've been lovers for years instead of barely knowing each other then inside of his classroom.

“Coryo-” You say when he ends your kiss, allowing you both to catch your breath, but you don't say anything else since that feeling of falling into a dark abyss threatens to take over you once more.

Your eyes grow spotty causing you to blink them in an attempt at clearer vision. All the while, Coriolanus is tenderly stroking your cheeks with a strange look on his face. “I know you're a bit tipsy still and as the older one amongst us I should do the honorable thing and let you rest, but after that kiss we shared I'm afraid I can't be a gentleman with you anymore.”

Coriolanus knows that you're about to lose control of your senses, from the spiked wine you drank, but he needs to have you agree to what he wants to do. He has to get you to say ‘yes’ so that he can remind you later on when you're fully functional that you want him; that you agreed to spend the night with him in his bed- fucking.

Yes, he might be a manipulative bastard that's a tad bit possessive and obsessive, but he's not a monster. Coriolanus does want you to trust him, despite that trust coming from his own tongue weaving a silver tale for you to believe and feel comfortable with.

“You want me, don't you, darling?” Coriolanus asked, softly running his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks while cradling your face in his large hands. Gazing into your eyes with his icy orbs, he demanded, “Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

Your a bit light headed and Coriolanus' words float around your head. It's as if you're underwater and his voice is just a garbled echo. Your ears seem to be ringing and you feel dazed.

All you can manage to do is give Coriolanus a lost look. You're feeling a bit wonky, can barely even make out what he's saying.

Coriolanus’ chest heaves and he internally chastises himself for being a bit heavy handed with drugging your wine. Yes, he wanted you pliable and to his will, but he doesn't want you blacked out the entire time he has his way with you.

Deciding that he needs to do something to sober you up, Coriolanus slaps you across the face. “Snap out of it, Y/N!” He orders in a deep, loud shout.

That seemed to stir something inside of you. Yes, you still felt a bit hazy, but the slap across your face paired with Coriolanus' loud shout seemed to cause your focus to return to you for a moment.

“I'm sorry, did I space out?” You ask your professor, whose baby blues are burning like hot coals with desire.

“Yes, baby, you did.” Coryo told you, soothingly stroking the cheek that he had just slapped. “I asked if you wanted to be with me; wanted to fuck me, but you just stared at me with glazed over eyes.”

“Coryo…” You sigh, feeling an unbearable heat cross over your cheeks. “We shouldn't do anything.”

“You haven't done anything before, have you?” The platinum blonde professor asked knowingly while subtly guiding you to the middle of his king sized bed.

“No.” You shake your head. Wringing your hands in your (his) shirt, you avert eye contact with him and add in, “Not really.”

“You're very special to me, Y/N. I've never met anyone as beautiful, bright, and innocent as you.” Coriolanus reveals in an eloquent speech that has your heart beating fast against your ribcage.

Truthfully, your heart's probably beating fast due to the drugged wine in your system, but since you're unaware of your state you just assume it's a romantic effect from his words. His carefully woven words.

“There's nothing wrong with us taking pleasure from each other, my darling.” He tells you like the master manipulator he is. He's working his magic on you, making your resolve start to crumble under his smooth and amorous words. Pressing his forehead against yours, he promises, “I’ll stay with you and I'll protect you, baby. I won't hurt you like those pervy boys your age would.”

Coriolanus pulled his forehead away from yours, only to press a kiss to your lips. A kiss that was soft and sensual. A kiss that he meant to be persuasive.

Time was ticking and Coriolanus knew that you'd be going back into lala land soon. Either he got you to say yes or he'd just tell you that you said yes once you came to later. But either way he's fucking your tight cunt.

“You want me to fuck you, right, baby.” The platinum blonde with a regal air around him told you, not asked.

You felt yourself begin to grow hazier by the minute. Your limbs even feel a bit heavier. Your tongue began to feel dry and heavy in your mouth and all you could manage to do was nod your head.

You felt as if your head was plunged back underwater. You felt everything around you feel muddled, but you did see Coriolanus give you a Cheshire grin before eagerly shedding his shirt and kissing you. A kiss that you barely felt due to the feeling of falling into an abyss.

You blink your eyes and seem to come back to your senses once again as Coriolanus, your handsome professor, is naked above you, thrusting his cock in and out of your pussy.

You couldn't help, but wonder how drunk you got to agree to this. Yes, you find him attractive, but Professor Snow's your teacher at University. This violates so many cod of conduct ethics.

“Oh my God!” You blurt out, causing Coryo to smirk at you.

“My big cock feels good in your tight cunt, huh, baby?” Coriolanus asked as he snapped his hips in a certain way that had his cock pressing deep against that special spongy spot deep inside of you. “Fuck, your cunt feels so good. So fucking good ‘round by cock, darling.”

Your cunt’s dripping wet and every movement Coriolanus makes causes you to shudder. It does feel very good. Hell, it feels better then all of the times you've ever been fingered.

“It feels good, Coryo.” You admit in a wispy moan.

You try to move your arms, but they feel a bit heavy. As if they're asleep. Coriolanus notices you trying to move your arms and just takes his hands off of your wrists and laces his hands in yours, all while telling you the saccharine lie of, “You're still a bit drunk, baby. Just let me hold your hands while we fuck; you can hold my back or something later."

He brings his face close to yours. His breath fans against your lips as he tells you, “You’re my good babygirl with such a sweet, tight cunt.”

“Coryo…” You whined as you felt pleasure begin to wash over you.

“That's it, baby. Cum for me. Cum right now like my good girl.” Coryo ordered in a husky tone as he pounded your pussy with such force that your body was moving up and down the bed.

His hard and fast thrusts had you cumming harder then you've ever cummed in your entire life. His name's spilling from your lips; your legs shake and spasm from your orgasm as you soak the sheets.

“Oh, I knew you were perfect.” Coryo groans at the sight of you squirting. Watching your juices gush out of you, only to roll down your crimson coated thighs has him in overdrive. His cock’s even harder and his balls are twitching; begging to empty their cum deep inside of your cunt.

Coriolanus wants to grab your legs and bend you like a pretzel so he can fuck you into his mattress, but he's afraid that you might try to lift your arms again. The less you move (without his help) the better. He can't have you realizing what he did to your wine, now can he? So, he settles for just using your laced hands to brace himself as he digs his knees into the mattress and fucks into your cunt as fast as he can.

Your limbs feel tingly as Coryo pistons into your cunt mercilessly. You feel a bit overwhelmed, perhaps even a bit oversensitive. “Coryo, it's too much.”

“You're getting oversensitive, baby. Just be a good girl and take what I give you for a few more minutes, yea?”

“Coryo, please.” Feeling a bit overwhelmed from everything, you cry. “Please.”

As sick and twisted as it sounds, seeing salty tears leak from your eyes and roll down your cheeks has Coryo shooting thick ropes of his hot cum deep into your puffy cunt while moaning out your name.

Coriolanus lets your hands go, only to slowly pull his cock out of your cunt. His icy eyes roll back into the back of his head at the sight of his white cum dripping out of your abused hole alone with a trickle of crimson- the proof that he took your virginity.

You're all his now...

He lays down next to you and pulls you into his side. “Don't worry, Y/N. You're my girl now and I'll take very good care of you.” He assures you while covering you both with his duvet.

“I'm your girl now?” You ask with an arched brow.

“We'll talk more about it in the morning when you're a bit more sober.” Coriolanus kisses you, making you think that when you were in the thick of your tipsiness you must've agreed to get involved with him.

Oh hell, how strong was that wine to make you so tipsy that you became Professor Snow’s girlfriend?

“Just rest, baby. You're safe here with me.” The platinum blonde, whose arms are protectively wrapped around you, coos in his deep baritone; lulling you back to dreamland.

A place that you've been in and out of all night.

And as you doze off Coriolanus looks at you with obsession shining in his cerulean eyes and a manic grin spread across his face. The darkness in his soul's quelled with the thought that you're his forever now.

Oh, yes. Now that he's got you in his penthouse he's never letting you go. But before he can truly begin to be the doting and devoted boyfriend to you, he needs to get rid of Festus Creed- the old Academy friend that gave him the drug he spiked your wine with. Well, Coriolanus supposes that if he poisons him at a teahouse and drinks the poison as well, but in a smaller dose, he'll be able to kill two birds with one stone.

He'll get rid of Festus before he can talk and he'll get you moving into his penthouse to take care of him after a near death experience.

Snow lands on top. And who knows, maybe one day with your father's backing Coriolanus might be able to wiggle his way into politics. And if not, well he has you.

And that's all that truly matters, isn't it? It should, considering what dark deeds he did to get you into his bed.

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