#What to Wear for an Interview for Plus-Size | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cressidagrey · 2 months ago

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Through The Looking Glass

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Lea Willems - Verstappen (OC)

Summary: Max Verstappen and his wife’s relationship as told by Twitter.

Notes: So this came about, because I was on Instagram and looked at pictures from Alexandra Saint Mleux and was like…so what if a driver’s girlfriend looked more like me and less like her?

Then it became a whole thing, and I went down a rabbit’s hole about people online boyshaming athletes’ wives and girlfriends. This is the result. Also, it’s incredible difficult to even find aesthetic pictures to use in a smau that depict women that are even just mid-size, not even plus size. As a in-between girlie, I tried my best.

(Also I finally made a nice Lea 😂 I know somebody who will be very glad about that.)

Warnings: The internet being a horrible place. Nikita Mazepin bashing, but like…he is canonically a horrible person, so is it even bashing? Bodyshaming, fatphobic comments and the media being horrible. If I missed something, please let me know.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

@/gridarchives: The most underrated long game in F1 history is how everyone thought Max Verstappen’s marriage wouldn’t last.

How Max and Lea Verstappen went from “mad max mistake” to “paddock’s power couple”. A thread:

@/gridarchives: Let’s start with the basics: Max Emilian Verstappen, born 30 September 1997 in Hasselt, raised in Maaseik, Belgium. Lea Willems, born 12 April 1997, raised in Maaseik.

@/gridarchives: They met as kids. Both came from racing families — Lea’s older brother ran the local karting rink where Max used to train. They were inseparable. They met at 8. Were dating by 14. Married at 18.

@/gridarchives: 2015 — Max’s F1 debut. Lea’s still in school. Doesn’t follow him to every race. Doesn't start an Instagram. Doesn’t chase a spotlight.

They do long-distance. Quietly.

And when he gets his first victory in 2016, she’s the one waiting in the garage. Not in the VIP suite. Just… there.

@/gridarchives: max is 18. Fresh off a win in Barcelona. Deep in his Mad Max era—aggressive on track, icy in interviews, throwing elbows and collecting penalties like candy.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, He marries his high school girlfriend.

And announced it on Instagram:

@/gridarchives: Red Bull had no idea. Reportedly, Christian Horner found out when the rest of the world did.

Max showed up to the next debrief wearing a ring.

When asked about it, he just shrugged and said, “We got married.” Like it was no big deal.

@/gridarchives: Cue chaos. The media ripped it apart.

“Too young.” “Too fast.” “Is she pregnant?” “He’s ruining his focus.” Lea was called everything from clingy to irrelevant. She never said a word in response.

@/gridarchives: The Internet:

“This won’t last” “teenage hormones” “he’s too immature” “What is he even doing getting married?” “career suicide” “She’s just a karting fling, right?”

@/gridarchives: After the announcement, the backlash wasn’t just about the when. It became about the who.

The internet took one look at Lea Willems — now Lea Verstappen — and collectively lost its mind.

And not in a good way.

@/gridarchives: She didn’t look like what people expected. She wasn’t tall and wafer-thin. Wasn’t a size 0. She didn’t wear designer brands. She wasn’t a model, or a socialite, or someone famous in her own right. Wasn’t doing sponsored beauty campaigns or sitting front row at fashion week. She was a normal teenage girl who had the audacity to exist beside the fastest boy in the world. And that wasn’t enough for some people.

@/gridarchives: They called her fat.

They called her plain.

They called her a phase.

They called her “a distraction.” They said she was “a mistake made by a hormonal teenager.”

@/gridarchives: Some actual headlines from 2017:

“The Wife Verstappen Doesn’t Want You to Know About” Like she was a scandal, not a person.

“Not Exactly A Model Marriage” “Can Verstappen Do Better Off Track?” “Too Much Wife, Not Enough Wow”

because she wasn’t a size 0, because she didn’t wear makeup, because she had hips and curves and didn’t fit the “WAG” mould.

@/gridarchives: It wasn’t just tabloids.

Comment sections. Fan forums. Reddit threads.

People picked apart her weight, her clothes, and her posture. Zoomed in on photos to circle “problem areas.” Compared her side-by-side with other girlfriends in the paddock like it was a contest.

@/gridarchives: And she never defended herself. Not once. She didn’t clap back. Didn’t give an interview. Didn’t even post a Notes app statement. She just stayed by his side. Quiet. Steady. Private. Which, of course, only made them nastier.

@/gridarchives: Comment sections were disgusting. Fashion blogs ripped her apart. Paddock gossip accounts used blurred photos of her in jeans and sneakers with headlines like:

“This is the woman who tamed F1’s hottest young star?” It was sexist. It was fatphobic. It was constant.

@/gridarchives: Two headlines from 2017:

“Not Quite Paddock-Ready: The Woman Behind Verstappen’s Downfall” Another: “The Weight of Love: Can Max Stay Focused With Her Around?”

It was cruel. Dehumanizing. And relentless.

@/gridarchives: She wasn’t flashy. She didn’t care about glam paddock fashion. She wore baggy Red Bull hoodies and old Adidas. She didn’t post bikini pics. She didn’t post at all. She still doesn’t even have an Instagram account. And for some reason, that made people furious.

@/gridarchives: And it all came to a head in Malaysia. 2017. Max won his second career race. It was one of his best weekends. And then… that interview happened.

@/gridarchives: The interviewer, midway through what was supposed to be a fluff piece, decided to get clever.

“Now that you're a more high-profile name, have you ever thought of… upgrading the wife situation a bit?”

“I mean, she’s not exactly the grid’s most glamorous, is she?”

@/gridarchives: Max went completely still. Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. The silence lasted a full 5 seconds—uncomfortable, searing.

Then he stood up. Took off the mic. And walked out.

Didn’t say a word.

@/gridarchives: Red Bull PR went into meltdown. The outlet tried to backpedal, claiming it was a joke. But Max? He was done. Hasn’t given that outlet a single interview since. Won’t speak to that journalist. Won’t allow access. Nothing. Complete blackout.

@/gridarchives: When asked about it later, he said only: “I’ve tolerated a lot of things in this sport. Insults. Pressure. Hate. But you don’t get to insult my wife. Ever.”

And that was that.

@/gridarchives: For nearly three years afterwards, Max refused to answer any questions about Lea. No interviews. No comments. If asked, he would shut it down with the same two words:

“No comment.” Sometimes cold. Sometimes biting. Always final.

@/gridarchives: At one point in 2018, a reporter tried to ask about Lea’s “lack of media polish” during a press conference. Max didn’t flinch. Just stared them down and said: “Keep my wife’s name out of your mouth.” The room went silent.

@/gridarchives: He wasn’t just protecting her—he was making a point. If the world couldn’t treat her with basic respect, it didn’t get to know her.

@/gridarchives: Max Verstappen might be aggressive on track. But when it comes to her? He’s pure protection. No compromise. No apology.

@/gridarchives: Till this day, Max rarely posts about Lea on his Instagram. And when he does, he shuts the comments off. Not for the attention. Not for the aesthetic. But because the internet has never deserved her.

@/gridarchives: Once a year. Maybe twice. Usually on her birthday. Or their anniversary. Or something small and intimate—like a quiet photo of her walking ahead of him, holding their son’s hand, not even looking at the camera.

@/gridarchives: And the comments? Disabled. Every time.

Not to avoid backlash. But to cut it off before it starts.

@/gridarchives: A fan once asked in a Q&A why he disables comments.

Max said, “Because she didn’t ask for this. And if you’re going to look at her, you’ll do it with respect. Or not at all.”

@/gridarchives: He protects her like he protects his lead on the final lap— With focus. With fire. With zero margin for error.

Because that’s love, in Max Verstappen’s language.

Not public declarations. But boundaries.

@/gridarchives: And then came one of the wildest moments of the 2021 season that never made Drive to Survive:

@/gridarchives: mid-2021. Tensions are sky-high. Max and Lewis are locked in one of the most intense title battles in F1 history. Every race is war. Every point counts. And through all of it, Lea is quietly there. Present. Steady. Visibly keeping her distance from the media.

@/gridarchives: But as the summer break ends, rumours start. Whispers online. Tabloids are posting unflattering shots of Lea in the paddock. Comments like:

“Max’s wife letting herself go?” “Not paddock pretty.” “What happened to her figure?” And then… Nikita Mazepin opens his mouth.

@/gridarchives: Overheard at a hospitality lounge, according to multiple sources: Mazepin, laughing with some junior sponsor rep, said: “No wonder Max is driving angry. Imagine going home to that every night.” Gesturing toward Lea.

Someone told Max.

@/gridarchives: That weekend, Max cornered Mazepin. Not at the press. Not on camera. But behind the motorhomes. Multiple witnesses said you could hear him yelling. But the only quote that’s ever been confirmed?

“Talk about her again, and I’ll end your career before your car does.”

@/gridarchives: Mazepin reportedly tried to laugh it off. Max didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. Just turned and walked away—straight back to Red Bull. Team management never commented.

@/gridarchives: And then came the Instagram post:

@/gridarchives: The internet went feral. F1 media tried to scramble for quotes. But Max didn’t say another word. Not about the incident. Not about the pregnancy. He just showed up at the next race and put the car on pole.

@/gridarchives: And then? Abu Dhabi 2021. The title fight went down to the wire.

@/gridarchives: According to multiple team sources, Lea stood quietly at the back of the garage the entire race. Didn’t pace. Didn’t panic. Just watched. Hands on her baby bump. When asked if she was nervous, she reportedly said:

“Why would I be? He was born for this.”

@/gridarchives: A Red Bull mechanic was overheard saying, “I’ve seen engineers cry. I’ve seen Horner nearly faint. But Lea? Lea stood there like it was a normal Thursday.”

@/gridarchives: When Nicholas Latifi crashed and the safety car came out, most of the paddock erupted into chaos. Lea? Sat down. Ate half a banana. Said, “He’ll take it. You’ll see.” Then leaned back like she knew something the universe didn’t.

@/gridarchives: After the race, everyone was losing their minds. Celebrating. Crying. Lea? Still calm. Still glowing. Walked through the crowd, straight to Max. Hugged him. Kissed him. Whispered something in his ear.

No one knows what she said. But he started crying.

@/gridarchives: Someone once asked Max what got him through that day. He said, Seeing my wife. Knowing she was there. If she was calm, I had no excuse not to be.”

@/gridarchives: Two months later, Max did maybe the funniest thing he has ever done: announcing he became a father during a random team redline stream like it was a tire strategy update.

@/gridarchives: February 2022. pre-season. Max is on a team redline stream. Chat is flying. Comms are chill. He’s driving like a demon. And then someone asks why he missed the previous session.

@/gridarchives: And Max, completely calm, goes: “Yeah, sorry, I was a bit busy. My son was born that day.”

Another driver on comms:

“Wait—WHAT?” “You had the baby?”

max: “Yeah. His name’s Kai.” casually overtakes three cars

@/gridarchives: Someone in the background (probably Jeffrey Rietveld) goes:

“Max, did you just soft-launch your child mid-race??”

Max:

“He’s perfect. Looks just like his mum.”

Icon. Legend. Zero chill. Zero Press. Just vibes.

@/gridarchives: Chat went FERAL. Clips instantly went viral. F1 Twitter lost its mind. Red Bull PR had to play catch-up for days.

@/gridarchives: Barcelona 2022. Two months after Max casually announced the birth of his son mid-sim-racing stream, he walked into the paddock in black sunglasses, a Red Bull hoodie, and a baby carrier.

@/gridarchives: Inside the carrier: a tiny, snoozing Kai Verstappen, 8 weeks old. Wearing noise-cancelling headphones and a Red Bull baby onesie. Strapped to Max’s chest like the calmest accessory in the world.

“My son’s first race,” Max said. “He should get used to the noise early.”

@/gridarchives: Lea was right beside him. Soft jeans, a linen shirt, hair up, a tote bag with what was presumably enough diapers to survive a national emergency. No makeup. No fuss. The quiet core of a very loud world.

They looked like a family on a casual stroll. Not the title favourites in the middle of a high-stakes season.

@/gridarchives: The media tried to swarm. Max didn’t stop walking. Lea didn’t even blink.

@/gridarchives: A Sky reporter asked if he was more nervous racing now that he had a kid. Max said, “No. I’ve always raced to win. Now I just get a hug either way.”

And then he smiled. Like a real one. And the internet broke.

@/gridarchives: He won that race, btw. Then went straight back to the garage to take Kai out of the headphones and kiss his forehead.

“He slept through the whole thing,” he told Sky Sports, grinning.

@/gridarchives: But Max wasn’t done for 2022. When the FIA banned jewellery in 2022, Max Verstappen responded by getting his wedding ring tattooed on.

@/gridarchives: So the FIA updated their rules: no jewellery in the car. No earrings. No chains. No rings. Supposedly for safety. Cue half the grid complaining, Lewis dragging them in interviews, and Max just going radio silent.

For about a week.

@/gridarchives: Then someone spots it. On the Thursday of the next GP. A thin, clean tattoo around Max’s ring finger. Black ink. No embellishments. Just a simple band.

Someone asks about it, and Max goes: “The rule said I had to take the ring off. Didn’t say I couldn’t make it permanent.”

@/gridarchives: Someone else asks if it hurt. “Not as much as leaving it off.”

@/gridarchives: Bonus: Christian Horner was reportedly told after the fact:

“Max walked in, took his gloves off, and I saw the ink. I said, ‘Is that what I think it is?’ He said, ‘FIA can’t ban skin.’”

@/gridarchives: Let’s also talk about how much Max’s family loves Lea:

@/gridarchives: Let’s start with Jos Verstappen. A man who, famously, trusts no one. But when asked once in a Dutch interview about his son’s success, he said:

“Max has two advantages. His talent. And Lea.” “She makes him better. She makes him calm.”

from Jos. That’s practically a sonnet.

@/gridarchives: Sophie Kumpen, Max’s mum, was the first to believe in Max & Lea. Sources say she knew from the start that Lea was “good for him.”

In a rare interview, Sophie said: “She’s grounded. She sees Max for who he really is—not the driver, not the number. The boy. The man. She’s calm. I like calm.” Mothers know. Mothers see.

@/gridarchives: Then there’s Victoria Verstappen, Max’s sister. Fashion, fitness, mama of three—loved by fans. Has repeatedly said that she considers Lea a sister, not an in-law.

“She’s my family. Has been since we were teenagers. We grew up side by side. I trust her with everything.”

@/gridarchives: And they were all fiercely protective of her during the years. According to a Dutch journalist, Jos once called an editor directly and said, “Write another headline about her weight, and I’ll see you in court.” #DadEnergy

@/gridarchives: Victoria has posted maybe a dozen photos with Lea in the past decade—quiet, untagged, casual:

@/gridarchives: And every single time, without fail, the comments are a mess. Bodyshaming. Comparisons. “She’s not hot enough.” “Why does she look tired?” The usual sexist, vile garbage.

@/gridarchives: But Victoria? She’s not having it.

“You don’t get to speak about my family that way.” “If you wouldn’t say it about yourself or your sister, don’t say it here.” “Delete this comment and never come back.”

“Take your body issues elsewhere”

“You must be exhausted being this bitter online”

That’s in the comments. Publicly. Repeatedly.

@/gridarchives: At one point in 2021, she even posted a story about it:

@/gridarchives: I am not done. Lea Verstappen is as much a part of Red Bull Racing as any race engineer or strategist.

Here’s what the people behind the scenes have said about her

@/gridarchives: Christian Horner (2017) – early days: “Max keeps his private life very private. We respect that. I’ve only met Lea a few times, but she seems like a lovely, grounded young woman.” (translation: Who is this girl and where did she come from?)

@/gridarchives: Christian Horner (2023) – post-Kai, post-3 world driver’s championship titles: “Lea’s been the calm in Max’s storm. She doesn’t need to be in front of the cameras to make an impact. She’s the reason he’s still sharp. Still here.”

@/gridarchives: Gianpiero Lambiase (GP), Max’s race engineer: “Lea is Max’s reset button. I’ve seen him go from zero to rage and back to calm in under a minute because of one text from her. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.” Iconic.

@/gridarchives: Helmut Marko (2023): “I thought she’d be a distraction when they got married. I was wrong. She’s the opposite of a distraction. She made him… sharper. More dangerous, in a good way.” (yes. Helmut Marko said that.)

@/gridarchives: Red Bull comms team (2022), anonymously: “Lea has never, not once, asked for press management. No image control. No story spin. Her only request was: Don’t use Kai for content. And she said it so kindly, we printed it and taped it to the media room wall.”

@/gridarchives: Jonathan Wheatley (2022), Former Red Bull Sporting Director: “She’s the one person I’ll never say no to in the garage. She brings us banana bread and keeps Max from threatening to move to endurance racing when he’s moody.”

@/gridarchives: One mechanic from Red Bull’s pit crew (2020): “When the media was tearing her apart in ’17, she brought us coffee in the garage. No cameras. Just said, ‘Thanks for looking after him.’ I’ve worked 200+ races. That’s the only thank you I still remember.”

@/gridarchives: And the thing is? None of these quotes comes from trying to promote her. Lea has never once been part of the brand. She’s not a Red Bull ambassador. Not an image. Just a quiet presence who everyone, from Horner to the interns, has come to respect.

@/gridarchives And it’s not just Red Bull. Ask around the entire grid, and the way people talk about Lea Verstappen is with quiet awe.

@/gridarchives: Lewis Hamilton (2022): “She doesn’t show up for the cameras. She shows up for him. You can tell—there’s real love there. Real quiet. Real strong. I respect that.”

@/gridarchives: Daniel Ricciardo (2023): “Lea’s been around longer than most of the guys on the grid have even had race seats. She’s part of the Verstappen firmware. Comes with the engine. And her banana bread is terrifyingly good. Like… disarm-a-grown-man good.”

@/gridarchives: Charles Leclerc (2021): “She used to sit on the karting fences next to my mum. Always quiet. Always watching. People talk about Max changing over the years, but I think the best parts of him were always there. She just kept them safe.”

@/gridarchives: And then there’s Kai. Lea and Max’s son. Now a paddock regular with noise-cancelling headphones and strong opinions.

@/gridarchives: A little boy who adores his parents… and who calls Daniel Ricciardo “Uncle Danny”. Who calls Oscar Piastri “Car” and hugs his leg when he’s tired. (Oscar panics every time.) Who once tried to drive Lewis’s scooter, and Lewis let him.

@/gridarchives: It’s been almost ten years since Max and Lea Verstappen got married. They’ve weathered the spotlight. The storms. The silence. The wins.The losses The noise. The pressure. And through it all, they’ve never wavered.

@/gridarchives: Lea has never given an interview. Never done a press tour. Never gone on a podcast. There is no tell-all memoir. No YouTube vlog. No WAG content series.

Just: banana bread, Red Bull hoodies, and a quiet kind of grace that broke the mould.

@/gridarchives: Lea Verstappen didn’t come to the paddock to be famous. She didn’t come to be seen. She came to stand beside the boy she loved at 14— Who became a man. A world champion. A father.

And she never once let the world shake her.

@/gridarchives Max Verstappen doesn’t perform love. He protects it. And Lea Verstappen? She’s not just the woman behind the champion. She’s the reason he stayed human in a sport that tries to turn people into machines.

@/gridarchives: People tried to ignore her. Then tried to ridicule her. And when that didn’t work, they tried to erase her.

But she’s still here. Still Lea. Still standing exactly where she always has— Right next to Max.

@gridarchives Power couple doesn’t even cover it. Max & Lea Verstappen? They built something that lasted.

And in Formula 1? That’s rarer than a clean lap around Monaco in the wet.

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oldmenthusiast · 9 months ago

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18+ content mdni

bookshop owner!joel miller x fem plus size reader

warnings: smut, age gap, tension, reader is in her 20s and joel in his 50s, semi public sex, reader wears glasses, not proofread

it takes many job interviews for joel to hire someone until he finds you. you're not the first young thing to apply for the job, not the most qualified either but joel likes how modest you are.

he also likes the way you avoid his gaze if he stares too long, or how you keep pushing your glasses every time they slide down your nose.

those aren't the only things he notices about you because he's become very observant due to his age; it definitely doesn't have to do with some strange infatuation over you, no.

when your hands firmly pull your sundress down if it's too windy, when you smack your own forehead if you mix up the order of the books before switching them again. joel notices that too but it doesn't necessarily mean anything.

“I’ve taken care of the online orders, mister miller.” you inform him as sweet as ever and joel’s crooked smile appears on instinct.

“thank you, sweetheart. you know how people my age are with those machines.”

you're kind enough to shake your head at his response.

“I think you're doing great,sir.” you tell him and it warms his cold heart to the core.

“go home, sugar. I'll close up soon.” he mutters with the same half smile and watches you go but not without wishing him a good day.

during peak season, the bookshop gets naturally busy but to the point where joel and you have to stay overtime.

he doesn't ask it of you but you insist.

“I can't let you do all that by yourself.” you mutter with a faint pout that he wants to kiss away.

“can’t pay you for overtime,sugar—”

“just let me do this for you,sir.” you cut him off and joel doesn't argue further.

that's how his following nights go. you sit together in the back of the store, tons of books and papers surrounding you as you work. you assist him with every single thing he needs and even if you lack knowledge in some parts, you learn it for him.

peak season ends, the bookshop is quiet and your shift ends but you somehow still sit at the back of the store instead of going home. joel sits across you while holding a bottle of beer in his hand.

“a girl your age should go out with friends and have fun, not rot in here with me.” joel tells you with a hint of amusement in his tone.

even if he's right, you do not agree.

“I like it here, it's peaceful..” you explain and as usual your gaze doesn't linger on his. you look away when joel doesn't and it makes the man smile.

“I like it too.” he mutters after a while and tips his head back to down the rest of his beer.

there's hidden intent behind his reply, or maybe just the feeling of wanting to say something more, but joel keeps quiet. whether you notice it or no, you don't say.

joel doesn't pride himself to be the best boss but at least he's a good enough one. that's what he tells himself when your most recent ex partner marches in his bookshop to cause a scene but joel sends him back with a bruised eye and some vulgar words.

it's probably the first time someone has stood up for you like that but it's more special because it comes from joel.

whether it's out of gratitude or suppressed emotions, joel thanks whatever high power has led him to the back of the store again with his body slumped on his chair and you straddling his lap.

“mister miller.” you moan as you sink down his cock, taking him inch by inch until you're fuller than ever.

his calloused hands wrap around your plush thighs and fondle the skin greedily, loving how it spills between his fingers. whatever you're not proud of, joel touches it like it's a treasure.

“I’m a man, not a boy.” he growls when you hesitate to move on him, afraid of crushing him beneath your weight. “fuck yourself on my cock, baby. come on.” one of his hands slaps your ass possessively and his words alone are good enough to give you the confidence that you lack.

once you start moving, it's over for him.

his thighs flex beneath your weight and his cock twitches within you as you ride him, taking him in so perfect.

“so good. my sweet girl. my favourite girl.” he whispers against your cheek and you melt while swaying your hips faster.

his hands clutch harder at your thighs as you bounce on his cock, buzzing with heat and need for more.

the sound of skin slapping, as well as the wet noises that emit with each slide of joel’s hardened cock inside your folds makes everything better. “so wet. you're coating my cock with it, sugar.” he says through gritted teeth as his fingers dig harder into the skin of your ass.

he slaps it once, then twice.

“mister miller!” you cry out when a particularly hard thrust is delivered straight into your sweet spot.

joel buries his face into your neck and grunts as your walls tighten around his cock, claiming his every inch. “so sensitive. bet your boyfriend didn't know how to fuck like this.” and he's probably right by the way your pussy drools and squeezes around him, sucking him in for more.

his lips find your neck and he marks it unapologetically, biting and sucking on whatever skin his mouth can reach.

when he pulls away and presses his back against the creaking chair he's graced by a sight better than any other.

joel watches you ride him, stares as your tits bounce before his face and your crooked glasses struggle to exist because of the force of his thrusts below you.

he definitely can't last long after that and he uses his strength to shove you on the table and tower over you. only then does he realize the pathetic state of your sundress, butchered up around your waist like it's a belt. he slides his cock inside you again and you whimper softly.

“knew you were made for me ever since you walked through that door.” joel growls while fondling your breasts with both hands, his mouth merely occupied with the tender skin on them.

your hands reach for him, gripping the back of his shirt as he fucks you. you're not used to being given things, only to give them yourself. and this much pleasure is overwhelming but it's good because it's joel giving it.

a particular shift of his hips helps him to slide deeper and the sensation causes you both to moan in unison.

“I won’t last, sweet girl.” he croaks between the space of your breasts while sucking one of your nipples into his mouth.

you can say the same as the stimulation brings you closer to the edge and your eyes can barely stay open at some point.

his hips follow a fast and intrusive pace, and every time joel’s hips collide against the back of your thighs it makes your skin jiggle. you feel embarrassed but not for long as joel drags his lips against yours.

“the prettiest girl. there's nothing better than you, sweetheart.” joel whispers and you kiss him before he does.

your mouths melt so perfectly, your noses brushing intimately, and if joel could bring you any closer he would.

“there.” you beg against his lips when the tip of his cock hits that perfect spot within you.

“here?” he asks teasingly and makes his thrusts purposely rougher. your legs shake around him and he does it again. and again. and again.

the bookshop is filled with your cries and begging. “i’m coming— I can't—” you mumble incoherently but joel gets it as he speeds it up.

you watch his hand disappear between your bodies and you don't question it until you feel that excellent brush of fingers against your clit, accompanied by his savage thrusts into your weeping pussy.

“joel.” his informal name falls off your lips so well and he has to remind himself to breath when you say it as you come around his cock with a cry.

it takes everything in him to not spill everything within you right there.

“where? where, baby?” he asks as he grounds his hips and hopes you'll get it.

“I'm on the pill.” you so graciously tell him while squeezing your thighs around his waist and joel nearly says thank you because of what a desperate bastard he is.

it only takes a few more thrusts for him to let go and come inside you, his hands abandoning your breasts to pull you down by your hips.

your eyes roll to the back of your head as you feel every drop pour into you and fill you up. it briefly shocks you that he's still coming — he's still filling you up with his seed and groaning against you.

“there’s so much.” you mutter breathlessly as he nuzzles his face against yours. joel simply hums and uses one of his hands to caress the bare side of your hip, keeping you relaxed.

“we’re not opening tomorrow.” he tells you in his usual tone of authority.

“it’s thursday.” you tell him.

“good day to go out and eat,yeah?” joel pulls back enough to look at you and he stares at you knowingly. his words bring a smile to your lips, one that he wants to treasure forever.

you nod then, giving him your acceptance.

“yeah. it is a good day to eat out.” his hand moves from your hip to fix your crooked glasses with a fond expression. the glint in his eyes speaks louder than any sentence.

“maybe you should keep your calendar empty for this month. or year.” his words amuse you but you're aware that it's far from a joke — he isn't asking. your eyes regard him as gently as always and you smile that way just for him. “yes mister miller.”

he was glad to have hired you.

#joel miller #joel tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x plus size reader #joel miller x plus size reader #the last of us #tlou #pedro pascal x y/n

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honeydippedfiction · 9 months ago

Note

Can I request plus size!reader where she is dating Charles but instead of her getting hate and stuff for her looks, the fans actually love her and question how Charles can handle all of her? THEY ARE THIRSTY thank you- 🦥 anon

Anon I love you, I enjoyed creating this. It might be extra cheesy but🤷🏽‍♀️🫶🏽

All Mine

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WC: 2.6k

Warnings: Thirsty fans, Charles is clingy, Y/N is a smartass but she loves her man

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

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Charles Leclerc had always been known for his charm both on and off the track, but when the news broke that the Ferrari driver was dating a plus-size Black woman named Y/N, the internet exploded in a way no one quite expected.

Instead of the usual scrutiny that comes with being in the spotlight, especially for women who don’t fit the stereotypical mold, Y/N was met with nothing but love—and a lot of thirst. Leclerc’s fans couldn’t get enough of her confidence, radiant smile, and how effortlessly she seemed to handle herself next to the F1 star. But that wasn’t all. The conversation online quickly shifted to something a bit more… provocative.

“How does Charles even handle her?” one fan tweeted, accompanied by a gif of someone dramatically fainting. Another user posted, “Charles out here pulling a QUEEN like Y/N? Boy, you better be built for this!” with fire emojis.

The more they saw of the couple, the thirstier the comments got.

“Charles, blink twice if you’re okay!” one commenter joked after seeing a video of the couple laughing together at a party, Y/N playfully teasing him.

In an interview with a lifestyle magazine, Leclerc was asked about the dynamic between him and Y/N. His face lit up with a wide grin. “She’s incredible. I think I’m the lucky one, honestly. She’s got this presence… it’s magnetic.”

Y/N wasn’t shy about showing her love for Charles either, posting candid moments of the two together on her Instagram. One video that sent fans into a frenzy showed them dancing in their living room, Charles clearly struggling to keep up with Y/N’s moves.

The comments were on fire.

“How is he not on his knees for her 24/7?” one fan asked under the post. “Girl, you are TOO MUCH. Give him a break!” another joked.

At one point, during a Ferrari fan event, a group of women wearing matching T-shirts that read “Charles, can YOU handle her?” held up a sign that read, “Y/N, teach us your ways!”

Charles saw it and burst into laughter, shaking his head. Y/N, who was watching from the sidelines, waved at the group, flashing her signature smile.

“Maybe they should be asking me how I can handle him,” Y/N later joked on her Instagram story, winking at the camera.

From the moment I stepped into Charles’ world, I knew it was going to be intense. I mean, the guy’s an F1 driver, one of the most loved on the grid. But what I didn’t expect was the complete opposite of what I thought would come my way. The moment people found out about us—about me—it was like the fans flipped a switch. And not the kind of switch where they throw shade. Nope. These people were thirsty.

It started small. A few comments under pictures I posted of us together.

“You’re glowing, girl! But, uh, how is Charles handling all of that?” with a winking emoji.

I’d scroll through my Instagram and see stuff like, “We need to check on Charles’ endurance off the track!” or “How does a man with that much stamina survive with a goddess like her?” It made me laugh, honestly. But the more I saw, the wilder it got.

One night, we were at home, lounging on the couch, and I showed Charles a few of the more… explicit tweets.

“Charles, you good, mate?” I read out loud, barely able to contain my laughter. “Blink twice if she’s got you needing an oxygen mask.”

Charles took one look at the screen, his cheeks turning bright red. “They really think I’m struggling out here, don’t they?” he said, shaking his head with that boyish smile I adored.

I grinned at him, nudging him with my elbow. “I mean, they aren’t wrong. You barely keep up with me when we dance.”

“That’s because you don’t warn me before you start those Beyoncé routines in the living room,” he teased back, pretending to huff in frustration.

But the comments weren’t just about Charles. They were about me, too. The fans genuinely loved me, which was wild considering how harsh people can be. They loved my curves, my confidence, and how I didn’t shy away from showing affection to Charles in public. I was always expecting the backlash, the snide remarks about being a plus-size Black woman dating a guy like him. Instead, I was getting comments like, “Sis, PLEASE drop the workout routine because you look FIRE!” and “Y/N, I need your energy. Charles is lucky to even be in your orbit.”

The first time I saw the group of fans at a Ferrari event wearing shirts that said “Charles, can YOU handle her?” I couldn’t stop laughing. I waved at them, completely blown away by how extra they were. I guess I should’ve been embarrassed or something, but I wasn’t. I was feeling myself. And clearly, so were they.

Later, when Charles and I were back home, I sat cross-legged on the bed, still buzzing from the energy of the event.

“They really love you,” he said, leaning against the doorway, watching me as I scrolled through the photos of us.

I looked up at him and grinned. “They love us. Mostly because they think you can’t handle me.”

Charles raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Oh, really?” he challenged, stepping closer, his voice low. “They’re wrong, you know. I can handle you just fine.”

I shot him a playful look. “Prove it.”

The next day, I posted a picture of us—his arms wrapped around me, me standing on my toes to kiss his cheek, the two of us smiling like we didn’t have a care in the world. The caption read: He can handle me just fine, thanks for asking.

The comments? Pure chaos.

“I BET HE CAN! 👀🔥”

“Girl, we don’t need details, but we’re imagining PLENTY.”

“I’m screaming—this whole thing is too much, and I’m living for it!”

Life with Charles was like this. Fun, light-hearted, but also deeper than the public ever saw. Sure, they saw the surface—how he adored me, how we were always laughing together. But what they didn’t see was the late-night talks, the quiet moments where he’d trace patterns on my back, or the times he’d look at me like I was the only person in the world.

The fans were obsessed, and honestly, I couldn’t blame them. But if they knew just how lucky I felt to have him? I think they’d really lose it.

It was the night before the race, and we were in our hotel room, another triple header. The race schedule had been nonstop, and though Charles loved the track, the constant travel and media pressure was taking a toll. He’d just gotten back from practice, exhausted, sweaty, and clearly in need of a break. I was lounging on the bed, scrolling through my phone, when I heard the shower turn off in the bathroom.

A few minutes later, Charles emerged, his hair damp and messy, a towel slung low around his hips. He looked up and caught my eye, offering me a small, tired smile. But there was something else—something heavy in the way he looked at me, as if he was holding onto something he wasn’t ready to say yet.

“You okay?” I asked, setting my phone down and sitting up on the bed.

He nodded, but instead of going to his suitcase to get dressed, he walked straight over to me and flopped down on the bed, still only in his towel. Without saying a word, he pulled me into his arms, holding me tight against his chest.

“Charles, you’re still wet!” I squealed, laughing as I felt the water from his hair drip onto me.

He just buried his face in my neck, mumbling something I couldn’t quite catch. I ran my fingers through his damp hair, letting him hold me, sensing he needed it. After a few moments of silence, I spoke up.

“What’s going on, baby?” I asked softly.

Charles sighed, his arms tightening around me. “I don’t know. Just… I missed you today.” His voice was muffled against my skin, and there was a softness in his tone that I hadn’t heard earlier.

I pulled back slightly to look at him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’ve seen me like, every day. What’s really bothering you?”

He hesitated for a moment, then finally admitted, “I’ve been seeing some of the comments again.”

I frowned. “Comments? What comments?”

“You know,” he said, his green eyes locking with mine, “the ones about you. The thirsty ones. People going on and on about how… how they’d kill to be with you. And I know it’s harmless, but sometimes… sometimes I just don’t like it.” He sounded almost shy as he said it, like he didn’t want to admit he was feeling jealous.

I couldn’t help but smile, finding it cute that this confident, world-class driver was feeling protective. “Charles, you’re not actually jealous, are you?”

He looked away, his face turning a bit red. “Maybe a little,” he muttered. “I just don’t like the way they talk about you. They don’t know you like I do. They don’t get to have you the way I do.”

My heart softened, and I leaned in to kiss him gently. “You know you’re the only one who has me, right? No one else even comes close.”

“I know,” he said, his lips brushing mine softly before he pulled back. “It’s just—sometimes I get these thoughts. Like… they don’t deserve to talk about you like that. You’re mine, and I don’t want to share even the idea of you.”

I laughed softly, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I belong to you, Charles. All of me. No one else gets to handle me like this.” I gave him a cheeky smile, knowing that would make him laugh.

And sure enough, his expression lightened, a playful glint returning to his eyes. “Damn right, they don’t,” he said, pulling me even closer. “I’m the only one who can handle you.”

I smirked, enjoying this clingy, vulnerable side of him. “You sure you can handle all of this, Leclerc? Because some of those fans seem to think you’re struggling.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, clearly pretending to be offended. “Oh, please. They have no idea what they’re talking about. I’m doing just fine.”

I giggled, giving him a playful shove. “You sure? Because the way you’re acting tonight makes me think you’re feeling a little insecure, Mr. Ferrari.”

“I’m not insecure,” he insisted, his voice a bit defensive but still soft. “I just… I want to make sure you know that I love you. And that… that I’m the only one who gets to be with you like this.”

I smiled, resting my forehead against his. “I know, Charles. And I love you, too. More than anyone could ever imagine.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything. We just stayed there, wrapped up in each other, the world outside fading away. Charles held me like he needed to remind himself that I was really here, that I was his.

Finally, I broke the silence. “You’re so clingy tonight. Is this what I should expect every time someone thirsts over me online?”

He laughed, his arms still locked around me. “Maybe. Guess you’ll have to get used to it.”

“I think I can manage that,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek before snuggling into his chest, both of us content in the quiet comfort of just being together.

Charles tightened his arms around me as I nestled against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat comforting. The room was dimly lit by the bedside lamp, casting soft shadows on the walls, and the sound of the city outside faded into the background. It was just us in our little bubble, away from the noise and the track and all the pressures of the race weekend.

I could feel him relax a little, his muscles unclenching as he held me close. I traced small circles on his bare chest, smiling to myself. I loved this side of him—the part of Charles that wasn’t the confident, cool F1 driver but the sweet, vulnerable guy who just wanted to make sure I felt loved.

“So,” I murmured against his skin, “are you going to get clingy every time someone slides into my DMs or comments on my posts?”

He laughed softly, his breath warm against my hair. “Maybe I will. You’re my girlfriend—can’t let anyone think they have a chance.”

“Oh, they know they don’t have a chance,” I teased, looking up at him. “They’re just living out their little fantasies. It’s cute, really.”

Charles pouted, his brows furrowing just a little. “Cute for them, but not for me.”

I giggled, poking his side. “Aw, is someone a little jealous?” I teased, knowing exactly how to get under his skin.

He rolled his eyes, but I could see the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” I admitted, grinning. “It’s not every day I get to see Charles Leclerc all jealous and possessive.”

He huffed, but his arms stayed firmly around me. “I��m not that possessive,” he mumbled, though I could tell he was lying.

“Oh, really?” I arched an eyebrow, sitting up slightly to look him in the eye. “Then explain why you’re clinging to me like I’m about to disappear.”

Charles’ green eyes sparkled as he met my gaze, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. “Because you’re the best thing in my life,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “And sometimes I just want to make sure you know that. That you’re mine.”

My heart fluttered at his words. As much as I teased him, I loved how deeply he cared for me. His jealousy wasn’t about insecurity—it was about how much he valued what we had. I leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

“I know, Charles,” I whispered against his mouth. “I know, and I’m yours. Always.”

He kissed me back, his lips soft and slow, like he was savoring the moment. When we finally pulled away, he sighed, his forehead resting against mine. “I’m sorry for being weird about it. I just… I don’t want anyone thinking they can take what’s mine.”

I smiled, brushing my fingers through his damp hair. “No one could, even if they tried.”

He pulled me back down to lay against his chest, his hand gently stroking my back. “Good. Because I don’t think I’d survive without you.”

I laughed, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going anywhere.”

For a while, we lay there in comfortable silence, my head resting against his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. The tension from earlier melted away, leaving only the warmth of being close to each other.

Just when I thought he had drifted off, he spoke again, his voice soft and teasing this time. “So… you’re saying if they thirst over you more, I get more cuddles?”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned, pulling me closer. “Yeah, but you love me for it.”

I smiled against his skin. “I do.”

Charles let out a content sigh, his hold on me never loosening. “Good, because I’m not letting you go anytime soon.”

And honestly, I didn’t want him to.

After a beat of silence, he added, “Just… promise me something?”

I tilted my head. “What?”

“If the fans keep getting thirstier, you’ll remind them who you belong to?”

I grinned. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll make sure they know exactly who’s handling me just fine.”

y/n

liked by fan1, fan2, charles_leclerc, and others

tagged: charles_leclerc

y/n: always asking how he can handle me, GIRL HOW CAN I HANDLE HIM. I’M SLURPING UNTIL IT’S FALLING OFF THE BONE😉😩🥵

[View all Comments]

arthur_leclerc: putain de merde, j’espère que maman mère verra pas ça [holy shit I hope mom doesn’t see this]

⤷ y/n: I will apologize later but rn…

lorenzotl: y/n please there are kids…

⤷ y/n: yes Lorenzo down my legs and soon to be swallowed

landonorris: I need you to log off

⤷ y/n: you’re not tall enough to speak to me like that you funky gremlin

charles_leclerc: Mon amour…

⤷ y/n: literally begging on my knees Sharl

⤷ charles_leclerc meet me in my drivers room 👀

⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.

CL16 Taglist: @esserenorris, @tallrock35, @yourbane, @lightdragonrayne, @really-fucking-tired, @evie-119, @ilivbullyingjeongin, @xoscar03, @ggaslyp1, @icecoldtires, @cmleitora, @d3kstar, @omgsuperstarg

F1 Taglist: @tallrock35, @yourbane, @hiireadstuff, @really-fucking-tired, @evie-119, @donteventry-itdude, @spookystitchery, @dhanihamidi, @decafmickey, @cmleitora, @d3kstar, @mellowluka, @ysnhua, @omgsuperstarg, @qxeenjen

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seungkw1 · 1 year ago

Text

mine — jww

♡ pairing: boyfriend!wonwoo x afab!reader ♡ theme: fluff, smut [18+ mdni], non-idol au ♡ wc: 2.6k ♡ warnings: swearing, size kink, oral (f. receiving), fingering (f. receiving), unprotected piv sex (stay safe y’all), creampie, dacryphilia, petnames (m. & f. receiving - babe, baby), reader is gender neutral but referred to as girlfriend once, gr8 aftercare ofc ♡ a/n: this is a part two to so fucking pretty but you don’t have to read that one first :)

‧₊˚✩彡 moodboard by @myhimbomingi ‧₊˚✩彡

You wouldn’t consider yourself a very romantic person, but your boyfriend’s Valentine’s Day surprise might just change your mind about that.

You’ve never given a single shit about Valentine’s Day. It’s not so much that you hate it or anything, but rather indifference - you simply couldn’t care less. Just another capitalistic holiday for companies to profit off of, right? Plus, red and pink is simply a godawful color combination. So yeah, you’ve never given a shit.

That is - until you met Wonwoo.

You’ve dated here and there over the years, but nothing ever too serious - all of your partners either turned out to be lousy or the relationships were just bland. So, all of them ended, and you were never too upset about it.

But with Wonwoo, everything is different. You’ve only been dating for three months, but your relationship is the complete opposite of lousy or bland. Wonwoo is warm and loving - squeezing you in his arms and giving you kisses every chance he gets. He is caring and kind - listening to you talk no matter whether you needed to vent or just wanted to infodump about your interests. He is sweet and gentle - leaving you cute notes and surprising you with little gifts just because.

He is also incredibly fucking hot, and an absolute god in the bedroom.

You fucked him on the first date, which is very unlike you, but your chemistry was undeniable and it just happened naturally. That was the best sex you’ve ever had in your life - and every time since then has also been the best sex you’ve ever had in your life. You’d be an absolute fool not to stick around.

And so, Wonwoo became your boyfriend. You’ve always found that term to be a bit juvenile, so historically you’ve just referred to your significant other as your partner. But every time you think about Wonwoo you feel the urge to giggle and kick your feet in the air, so the term boyfriend simply feels right. You’re practically head over heels for the man.

“Ooooo you’re so in love with him,” your best friend teased as you were gushing about your boyfriend for the nth time.

“Oh shut up,” you rolled your eyes as you replied. Maybe you’re a bit jaded from your mediocre past relationships, but the phrase in love is not one you throw around lightly.

But deep down, you know it’s true. You’re in love with Wonwoo.

But you’re not ready to admit that to anybody. So you keep it to yourself. You’ll cross that bridge when you get there.

That day arrives much sooner than you anticipate.

—

February rolls around. It’s the dead of winter, arguably the most boring time of year. Your mind is preoccupied with the job interview you have coming up, and you’ve been a bit stressed about it. Wonwoo has been nothing but supportive and helpful - giving you advice, offering to help you practice, cleaning your apartment for you of his own free will - and you are more than grateful to have him around.

One particularly cold Saturday morning, you wake up to a text from Wonwoo.

Good morning beautiful! Text me when you’re awake 😊

You smile sleepily as you reply.

Good morning babe 💖 I’m awake!

The chat bubble pops up as he begins to reply immediately.

Great! Can you be ready by 11am? I have a surprise for you 😁

A surprise?

Y/N: Oooh, what kind of surprise? WW: It’s a secret 😉 Y/N: Hmm 🤔 Okay... What should I wear though? WW: Wear whatever you want, you look cute in everything! Y/N: Hehe okayyyy WW: Perfect, I’ll pick you up at 11! See you soon 😊

You hop out of bed and start to get ready, practically dancing around your apartment. You open your closet and stare at your clothes, trying to decide what to wear - which proves to be hard when you don’t know where you’re going. You end up grabbing the cozy light blue sweater Wonwoo complimented you on when you wore it a couple weeks ago, and a cute pair of jeans to match. You’re putting on your heeled boots when you hear the knockknockknock of somebody at the door. You open the door to see your boyfriend, looking incredibly handsome in his dark coat and black-rimmed glasses. He extends to you a bouquet of a dozen red roses.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says with a soft smile.

As you take the bouquet Wonwoo pulls you in for a kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist. As your lips part you look at him, an inquisitive look on your face.

“But it’s not Valentine’s Day yet,” you tell him.

“I know,” he replies as he gives you a little kiss on your nose. “But I couldn’t wait.”

You feel a huge smile color your face.

“So, where are we going?”

—

The waitress sets a massive plate of the fanciest waffles you’ve ever seen in front of you. You start to salivate at the sight of the fresh berries and cream heaping on top.

A few weeks ago you had casually mentioned the bougie brunch place you’ve always wanted to try, but it was expensive and the wait was always way too long. Turns out Wonwoo immediately called and made a reservation for you two.

You go to dig into your waffles when you notice your boyfriend holding his phone up, taking photos of you.

“Hey! Stop that,” you say as you playfully try to grab his phone.

“What?” he asks innocently. “You just look so pretty.”

He looks at you adoringly. You pout, feigning annoyance, and he snaps another picture - making you laugh. There’s no way you can be mad at him, he’s simply too sweet.

After the decadent meal Wonwoo walks you back to his car, holding your hand, and insists upon opening the car door for you - even helping you take off your coat. It’s silly, but it still makes you feel warm and fuzzy.

Wonwoo starts driving, but in the opposite direction of your home.

“Where are we going now?” you inquire.

“Remember how you said you’ve never been ice skating?”

“Oh god,” you groan. “Can’t wait to make a complete fool of myself.”

“You won’t,” he insists. “You can hold onto me.”

“But you’ve never been ice skating either,” you point out. “How do you know you’re not gonna fall too?”

Wonwoo smiles. “Then we’ll fall together.”

You scoff playfully, but a grin also appears on your face.

Ice skating ends up being a disaster. Neither one of you can stop falling (it doesn’t help that you refuse to stop holding hands, so when one of you falls both of you go down), but you also can’t stop laughing - to the point where your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. You haven’t had fun like this in ages.

You look over at your boyfriend. He is extraordinarily cute right now, his cheeks rosy from the cold air. Wonwoo catches you looking at him and leans over to plant a kiss on your cheek - he then immediately runs into the wall. You let out a giggle - he looks back at you sheepishly.

“Maybe you should pay attention to where you’re going,” you tease as you nudge him with your elbow.

“Hard to do so when my beautiful girlfriend is right next to me, distracting me.” His tone mirrors your playfulness, but the way he’s looking at you - you can tell he means it.

You roll your eyes, but a huge smile lights up your face as you wrap your arm around his, squeezing him tightly.

On the drive back Wonwoo suggests you go to his place, to which you happily agree. Before you enter, he tells you to close your eyes.

“No peeking!” he insists.

“I won’t!” you swear, placing your hands over your eyes.

You walk through the front door and wait in the entryway, resisting peeking as promised. You hear Wonwoo fiddling with things for a minute, and then you hear the opening notes of your favorite album - the sound emanating from his record player.

“Okay, you can look now,” he tells you as he once again is standing right next to you. You remove your hands, opening your eyes to the sight of Wonwoo’s dim apartment - illuminated only by the dozen of freshly-lit candles placed around the living room. In his hands are the biggest box of chocolates you’ve ever seen, and a cute fuzzy teddy bear that’s holding a heart with Be mine embroidered on it.

“Oh my god, you really went all out,” you remark, smiling from ear to ear as your heart practically flutters in your chest.

“Only the best for you, babe.”

He sets down the chocolates and the bear, stopping to help you out of your coat before drawing you into his embrace, kissing you softly and slowly. He then takes your hands in his, pulling you toward the hallway.

“There’s one more surprise,” he tells you.

Before you can ask him what more he could possibly surprise you with, you see the trail of rose petals down the hallway, leading into his bedroom.

“You did NOT,” you exclaim as you laugh, truly bewildered at the sight of it.

You follow the trail as he pulls you into his room, where even more petals lay on the bed, perfectly forming the shape of a heart.

“It’s so beautiful I almost don’t want to ruin it,” you proclaim.

Wonwoo raises his eyebrow at you.

“Hey, I said almost.”

Without a word he smiles, pulling you in so he can grab the hem of your sweater, gently pulling it over your head to reveal the lacy bra you had chosen to wear today.

“So pretty,” he remarks as he runs his hands over your breasts, before reaching around your back to undo the clasp. “But even prettier without.”

He tosses the bra aside, taking your tits in his hands. You begin to undo his shirt buttons, revealing his incredibly toned body that still turns you on so much every time you see it. His shirt gone, you move to his belt. You unbuckle it and pull it off, throwing it to the floor as you take the bulge in his pants in your palm. He lets out a soft groan as you caress him, his erection quickly growing. You go to unfasten his pants, the taut fabric giving way as you undo the zipper, his cock now bulging through his underwear, begging to escape.

Wonwoo suddenly grabs you by the hips, twirling you around and pushing you onto the bed.

“Get comfy, babe.”

As you recline into the soft pillows, he removes his pants and then begins to take off yours, pulling them off of you in one go. He gently pushes your inner thighs open and situates himself right in between your legs, the only barrier between his face and your cunt being the thin lacy underwear that do nothing to hide how wet you are right now. He softly kisses your clit a few times, then licks a stripe over the sheer fabric. You run your hand through his hair as he starts kissing your clit again, this time more intensely. You begin to squirm slightly against his face - silently begging for more. Wonwoo gazes up at you, giving you a little smirk as his lips hover right above you - so close that you feel breath against your core.

“Stop teasing meeee,” you whine.

You feel his finger slide under the fabric, pulling it aside to reveal your soaked center. You feel the sharpness of the cool air hitting you, followed by the warmth of Wonwoo’s mouth against your cunt. You mewl softly as his tongue traces against your folds, lapping up your juices but only making you wetter in the process. You continue to stroke his hair as he goes down on you, enjoying the view. You love the way his nose brushes against your clit as he alternates between sucking on the bud and fucking you with his tongue.

Eventually you feel his fingers delicately graze your entrance - he inserts only one finger at first, but it still feels so good.

“More,” you beg. “Please.”

Wonwoo slides a second finger into your cunt. He knows how to curve them perfectly, hitting you in just the right spot to drive you insane. He fucks you as he continues licking your clit - you become a moaning mess as your orgasm draws closer and closer. Your hips begin to buck involuntarily, grinding your cunt against his face - overwhelmed with pleasure. Wonwoo wraps his arms around your thighs, holding you down against the bed as he devours you.

“Fuck, baby - I’m cumming,” you cry out. Your legs shake as the incredible sensation takes over your entire body, the white-hot flashes of pleasure flowing through you as your pussy throbs against your boyfriend’s tongue.

As you come down, Wonwoo gives you soft little kitten licks. You sink into the pillows, your whole body relaxed in bliss. He kisses your stomach before crawling up, his body weight laying against you cozily as he presses his nose against yours. He kisses you, his lips and chin covered in your juices. You begin to make out, his tongue moving against yours, his bulge pressing against your core. You reach down, slipping your hand through the band of his underwear, and pull his cock out. You’ve fucked your boyfriend countless times by now, but every time you’re still in awe of his size. You wrap your hand around his thickness and stroke him a few times, causing precum to leak out. You guide his tip to your entrance - you moan as it easily slips in, his size stretching you out so perfectly. He slides his entire length into you, letting out a groan as he bottoms out.

“Your pussy’s so perfect for me, babe,” he says in a low voice. He begins to fuck you, slowly pushing his cock in and out, letting your walls adjust to his size.

“So good baby, fuck,” he says, practically growling. “Your pussy’s all mine.”

You moan as he picks up speed, thrusting his huge cock into you further and further. His lips meet yours again - your mouths and tongues dancing against each other as he fucks you, more passionately than ever before.

“All mine, you’re all mine.”

“Oh my god,” you cry, tears forming in your eyes from the intense pleasure. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

“I’m close baby - wanna cum in you,” he groans.

“Please,” you beg.

Wonwoo’s rhythm picks up speed - tears are fully running down your face as you let out cries of pleasure. You feel his cock pulsate against your walls as he releases, groaning as he thrusts into you, filling you up with his cum.

As he comes down from his high, his warm body melts into yours - he’s squishing you, but you’ve never been more comfortable. His cock still inside you, he plays with your hair as he kisses you slowly.

You lay there together for a while. Eventually, Wonwoo slowly pulls out of you, giving you a kiss on the cheek before he gets up to grab a warm towel. After he cleans you up he plops back into bed, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you in, squeezing you so tightly it makes you giggle.

You draw your head back just enough so you can look your boyfriend in the eyes. He’s so hot, so cute, gazing at you so lovingly - you truly don’t think you’ve ever been happier than you are in this moment.

“I love you,” you tell him - for the first time.

You didn’t plan on saying it, it just came out naturally. Because it’s true - you love him, more than you’ve ever loved anyone.

Wonwoo smiles, caressing you softly as he holds you warmly against him.

“I love you too.”

[end]

#ren's fics ੈ♡₊˚•.#jeon wonwoo #wonwoo smut #wonwoo fics #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo imagines #svt fics #svt smut #svt imagines #svt scenarios #seventeen smut #seventeen fics #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #wonwoo x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader

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wheeloffortune-design · 4 months ago

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guys the interview was a disaster but it's not my fault lol

already i was a bit skeptical because their website said they did customer service but didn't name their services, and the emphasis was on how great it was to work for them, apply here

so yesterday my friend decided she would wait at the café downstairs because she didn't trust them or the neighborhood (it was mostly office buildings).

i get to the interview, early, showered, makeup on, practicing my lines.

first alarm bell was the waiting room. it was a small office, brightly lit, with a nice receptionist, but it gave me the feel of a startup, possibly an MLM (multi level marketing, it's a legal pyramid scheme).

from the waiting room i could catch a glimpse of the main comference room. there were huge posters defining the jobs at their company and the perks. "Step 4, Local office manager" said the one I could see.

On the table, magazines.

That's the owner. Inside were all full page spreads on workers and how cool they were. One was litterally the receptionist. The first quality listed was "she's resilient". Why does she need to be resilient, job? No one's first quality should ever resilient!

Still zero information about their products. Only how amazing it is to work there.

(If a company is trying to sell you working at said company more that it sells products, you are the product.)

I'm like, lol I love a good story, I'm going through and see what happens.

Interview time, I'm led to an office as big as a bathroom, stark empty walls, minuscule desk, no windows. (This will be important later.)

It starts normally, I'm good at interviews, no problem.

Now, I need to specify that the job offer said two things. One, it was sales and customer service, and two, it said a salary range + commissions.

The woman seems pleased with my experience and tries to gage how far I want to go in my career, how humgry I am for advancement. (This, also, is a red flag.)

She asks "Do you see yourself working for a great company like this, with amazing opportunities? Having an office like this?"

I look at the bathroom sized office, stark white walls, no windows, no decorations, a singe ceiling bright light. It tried not to laugh. This was straight out of a Severance episode.

Then she tells me the job is actually only sales, for a reputable phone and internet provider (Videotron), and it's paid by commission.

I'm like "The job offer stated it was salary plus commissions."

She's like, "The company cannot make money if you don't make money."

I'm like "That’s not how employment works, lol."

She ended the interview there, wished me coldly a good day.

"If the company is dishonest from the start you can't trust them," I said, laughing and leaving.

"Have a nice say, please leave."

I knew it would be a waste of my time (I woke up early! traveled at the other end of town! i'm wearing makeup!!), but I didn't think it would be that ridiculous. I wasn't expecting the magazines, lol.

At least my friend was waiting for me and now we're hanging out, so not all is lost.

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vxsellie · 6 months ago

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‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔦𝔦𝔦

summary. a train ride to one's demise alongside an addict and a capitolite. only to be followed by a flowery attempt at beautification as to be flaunted like cattle to your soon-to-be butchers. what a lovely way to go, though, right?

content warnings. mentions of addiction, abuse, exploitation, nudity, and murder.

total wc. 10,802

notes!! i'm gonna so honest rn: i rewrote this entire chapter 5 different times. my writers block did, in fact, return after writing last chapter. surprisingly, the push it took to get my thoughts flowing again was getting drunk for new years. so! yay for alcohol! (im kidding) (no im not) anyway. once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

21:23.

DISTRICT FOUR’S TRAIN.

Seductive. Smart. Dull. Funny. Strong. Fragile.

There are infinite ways one could present themselves to the Capitol prior to the Games. The catch, however, is that whichever of these facades is chosen must be completely reliable; mustn’t be a doubt whether the tribute can withhold the mask. Usually, this is something that the tributes’ mentor is burdened with — figuring out how best to please the Capitol. But your mentor is Ruben and, seeing as you’re not exactly on talking terms, you’ve decided to take matters into your own hands. Plus, nobody knows you better than you know yourself. This should be easy.

Except it’s not. You’re good at wearing masks in front of authoritative figures. You’d done it all your life for your mother. So it’s really just a matter of which of these facades will work best. And you’re coming to realize you don’t know yourself at all. How could you, anyway? To perceive oneself is nonviable. You know how you look and where your mind resides on certain topics, sure, but you’re oblivious as to how others deem you. You’d never really had friends, what with your parents’ belief that other children will taint you. Do people think you’re funny, attractive, strong? You haven’t a clue.

You tear yet another piece of parchment from your notebook, balling it up in your fist.

I’ll come back to that later. You tell yourself, despite knowing you won’t be doing any such thing.

The room you’ve been given is rather remarkable, considering it’s on a train. You have your own private bathroom and dressing quarters. The space is smaller than your bedroom at home, but you honestly prefer it this way. You don’t feel nearly as suffocated, despite the irony of the size to tolerance ratio.

The floors are hardwood, perfectly cleaned by virtue of the Avoxes aboard. The wallpaper is tan with floral designs, small metal windows providing evidence to how unnaturally fast the train is moving. Though you’ve long since shut the curtains, as the speed made you dizzy. You’re currently sitting at a wooden desk, a plethora of papers and notebooks flooding the surface. Your thoughts are running at a speed of which rivals that of that train. You’re trying to puzzle everything out within one night, think it best to have a plan laid out.

You pick up your pen once more, tapping it against the newly blank page as you ponder on where to redirect your attention. There’s so many things to be solidified — how your stylist will dress you for the parade and interview, how you’ll manage to survive the arena considering, what to think of what Ruben told you regarding the other tributes, what life you’ll lead after returning back home. Will you get married or will you remain a Capitol diamond all your life, forever single in order to remain desirable to them?

You’re about to resume your mental mania when a knock is heard at your door.

With a heavy sigh, you push to your feet and head toward it. You open it only a few inches, just enough to poke your head out. Alice Reymond is standing in the hallway, a plate of food in her hands and a freakishly white smile on her face.

You open the door wider to allow her entry. She saunters in, nosily peering around as she takes in the sight of your current living quarters. Her nose is upturned in judgement of the mess, though she doesn’t dare utter a word. Instead, she moves to place the plate atop an open book on your desk. You grimace at the sight of the steaming dish resting on the delicate pages.

“Oh, I hope the meal is up to your standards. I’m sure, as a L/n, you’re fed only the best Four has to offer.” Says Alice Reymond as she begins an unprompted spiel about, well, who knows what. The assumptions she makes about you cause you to bristle, though you remain silent. “I gave very strict instructions to the Avoxes, informing them to make sure the food is as perfected as possible. Though you can never trust an Avox. I mean, they’re made into silent servants for a reason, yes?”

She falls into a tangent following that, one that entails elongated complaints regarding the Avoxes and the loathing she holds for them. You’re forced to bite your tongue so as not to shout at her for withholding such ignorance. But you should’ve expected such idiocy from a Capitolite of ehr standing.

You find yourself tuning her words out, smiling and nodding as she practically talks to the wall. Her chatting flows from one topic to the next like a never ending river of panache. All the while, your meal grows cold with neglect atop your residually blank notebook.

You’re only brought consciously into the conversation when she speaks Ruben’s name. Your head snaps up, now deeply invested.

“—I’ve worked with him for years, you see.” She says. You suppose that’s true as she’s the escort to his mentorship, the two of them working as a pair to train the yearly tributes and attempt to bring them home. Frankly, you haven't a clue how Ruben can tolerate her when she talks so fucking much. “I think I’ve come to know him rather well, due to this. But, in all the lovely years spent in his company, I’ve never since witnessed such seclusion. He’s hardly eaten since the Reaping and prefers to hole up in his room rather than speak with me as he usually does. He’s not taking care of himself and I’ve begun to worry.”

“He’ll come around.” Is all you can think to say in response.

For some reason, her claim to know him oh so well sparks a sense of irritation in your chest. You’re aware that your irascibility is due to more than her mere claim of rapport with your brother — it’s due to the Reaping, to your mother, and to your lack of ability to do everything yourself.

But gall is a creature of impulsivity, rearing its head in the most accessible direction possible. And, at the moment, the easiest target is Alice Reymond and her lack of affinity. It takes everything in you to hold that tangible feeling back, gritting your teeth as you bite your tongue. Though, like the dull magnate she is, the woman continues on, completely heedless to your rising temper.

“Perhaps.” She hums, though it’s evident that her worry for Ruben’s recluse remains ceaseless. What she says next plucks the final thread that’d been holding the leash around your animalistic gall. “At times, he feels like a brother to me, y’know? That’s the kind of relationship—”

“Get out.” You interrupt, the tether snapping like a twig. The sharpness to your tone mocks that of your mother’s, only further fueling your rage as you scowl at the Capitolite before you.

Her overly large eyelashes blink dumbly, “What?”

“I said, get the fuck out.” You repeat, lip upturned with disgust as you take a threatening step toward her. Her eyes grow comically wide as she registers your words, surprisingly hasty to put the pieces together.

“Oh, dear,” She bleats, “I didn’t mean—” “Out!” You shout, voice reverberating off the metal walls of the train. You sound so similar to your mother that it makes your stomach churn. You vaguely wonder if Ruben had heard you, possibly mistaking your voice for hers.

One good thing comes out of it, though, and that’s Alice Reymond’s swift exit. She shrieks, turning on her heel and quickly traipsing out the door.

A week. You’re expected to live like this for a week.

Not always in the train, of course, but always in the company of three people — First of which being Ruben, your mentor, who you’ve yet to speak a single word to. The heavy tension between you two is nigh palpable whilst surrounding your proximity, albeit rare. Second being Alice Reymond, the nosy escort who can’t seem to mind her own damn business. In the past two hours, she’s asked you about fifty questions regarding your family, your financial decisions, and your relationships with certain people. And lastly, Remy Wilson, your fellow tribute. He’s, admittedly, the most tolerable of the bunch. You pity him greatly due to his being Reaped at such a young age. And, despite having nothing in common and not having said a single word to one another, you’re pretty sure the two of you have come to form an alliance of some kind. Wordlessly, of course.

See, after being separated from Ruben in the Justice Building, you and Remy were led to District Four’s train station. There, hundreds of cameramen were buzzing around the both of you, trying to get the clearest shot for the Capitol news. They reminded you of bugs; pestering and obnoxious. Not to mention their appearances. It’s kinda funny, the way the Capitol treats the people of the Districts as less than human when they’re the ones that look like monstrous deformities.

Under the flashing lights, your mother’s voice rang through your mind. “Back straight, chin high, eyes level, brows set.” She’d repeatedly told you this, slamming her cane into your spine to ameliorate your posture. You had been so occupied trying to recall each technique your mother had beat into you that you nearly failed to descry Remy. He was hiding behind your dress. He’d done so with such subtlety that nobody else noticed, this act being made especially easy when you were unintentionally taking up most of the reporters’ attention.

You glanced back, catching sight of his watery eyes and rapid breathing pattern. For a split second, a voice in your head told you to shove him away. Catering to a kid would be a look of weakness, of vulnerability. But nobody was even looking at him; they’d be unable to deem you weak if they hadn’t seen the act to cause it. Plus, the voice in your head sounded oddly like your mother. And you’ll be damned if you abide by her senseless rules in her absence.

You then flicked your dress, flashing the gemstones on your waist. The cameramen gobbled it up, taking a million more photos. Though, unbeknownst to them, you’d only done so in order to fully shield Remy from their sight.

Knock knock knock.

You’re broken from your thoughts at the sound of a second visit to your bedroom.

You’d just begun eating, having returned to your prior endeavor of mapping out every plan for the Games possible. You’re not very hungry, though, so you hardly mind the interruption in regards to dinner. But you’re still irritated at Alice Reymond and don’t particularly wish to see her so soon after your last interaction. Not wishing to stand up again, you simply call out for her to enter.

But it’s not her whose voice reaches your ears. It’s Ruben’s.

“Alice sent me to tell you that the Reapings are about to be aired.” He says, voice uncharacteristically rough. Perhaps he hasn’t been taking care of himself. “She claims that the two of you got into a ‘squabble’ of some kind.”

You spin your chair to face him. There are bags under his eyes, his lips chapped. Worry settles in your chest at the sight. Though the moment you recognize it, you squash it beneath feelings of distaste.

“I’ll be out in a bit.” You reply, surprised to hear how steady your voice is.

He pauses, appearing as though he wishes to ask you something more. Probably what you and Alice Reymond could possibly have argued over. But he never voices it, instead giving a curt nod before shutting the door.

Upon his exit, you release a heavy breath.

You don’t hate Ruben, despite how much you sometimes wish you did. Frankly, you don’t think you could ever hate him. When your parents were abusive, Ruben protected you. He raised you. And for that, you’ll forever be in his debt.

When you were six and Ruben was eleven, your father was Reaped. He won his Games, as expected, and thus began the lush life of a diamond. He still lives in District Four, but he’s a full-blown Capitolite in every other sense. He became so obsessed with the life of wealth and riches that he never returned to normalcy.

The closest you’d gotten to having a conversation with him is watching his interviews on the television — which you did a lot as a kid. He was presented to the public as a sweet man and a loving father, wearing that mask so well that you nearly believed it in spite of how he’d treated you.

You and Ruben lived with your mother for two years. She trained you two so strictly than it was more rare to go to sleep sweaty than it was to not. From dawn to dusk, you’d train. Just in case you two were Reaped. This was the height of your relationship with Ruben. You only had each other.

You’d sneak into his room at night, loathing the vastness of your own bed. You’d stay up until midnight, laughing into the darkness. Then, at dawn, you’d be woken together by your mother and made to train as one. Whether you got food depended on how well you’d performed. If he were to be punished, you’d sneak some bread into your pocket and give it to him when you’d slip into his room at night. And vice versa.

Though that relationship didn’t last long. When Ruben was thirteen, it was his name to be pulled from the bowl. You screamed and cried, the cameramen gobbling up the image of an eight year old sobbing over her big brother’s sealed fate; of a L/n showing such raw emotion. Your mother, however, was not pleased. She threatened to forbid you from visiting him in the Justice Building. Though, as it turned out, she had at least a small ounce of morality in her heart because she ended up allowing you to say goodbye.

“Don’t leave.” You’d pleaded, crying into his chest as his shirt became soaked with your salty tears.

“I’ll come back.” He promised. “You know I will.”

He hadn’t lied then. He did return, though he wasn’t the same. Never again would he be the same. He was distant and oftentimes thrashed out on you when you tried to be around him. One night, two months following his return, you were sleeping beside him when you awoke to a pair of hands around your throat. Ruben was choking you. Luckily, your mother intervened before he could kill you, though you were left with bruises around your neck for a week.

He was a child; you both were. He could hardly be blamed for having nightmares considering all he’d been through during the Games. To have been forced into killing people at such a young age… it’s no shock what befell him.

You insisted you’d forgiven him, but he never forgave himself. Because, after that, he moved out of your family home and into his assigned house in the Victor’s Village. He was only fourteen, living all alone in that mansion of a building.

He’d visited home often, though that dwindled as well over time. Then, when his Victory Tour rolled around and he’d visited the Capitol, that’s when he officially became a diamond. They loved him so much, infatuated with all he entailed. And, due to having been so young and so deprived of love from his own parents, Ruben became just as obsessed with the lush life as his father before him. The more time he spent with Capitolites, the more he mimicked their etiquette and behaviorisms. And, at some point along the way, he became addicted to Capitol-enhanced drugs at a young age. One of his creepy “friends” made the drug specially for him, to rid him of memories regarding his traumas.

Nothing that happened was his fault and you know that.

But you were a child yourself, left all alone in that house of horrors. Alone with your mother, given no explanation to why your beloved brother left so abruptly. To be nine years of age and abandoned twice is no small feat. Not to mention the way your mother spoke of Ruben and your father, cursing them for having left. It gets to a child’s head. And, eventually, you came to resent him.

Whenever you saw Ruben on TV, he was smiling and talking about how much he adored the Capitol. And all you could think of, in those moments, was how vehemently he’d once hated them for having stolen his father away. No, your father wasn’t a good man, but he was still your dad. Even more so to Ruben than you. Due to this, Ruben should know better than anyone how badly his own absence would affect you.

And that’s what hurt most — he knew leaving would ruin you, and he did it anyway.

“There she is!” Alice Reymond grins as you enter the living room.

Everyone else is already settled in, three couches surrounding the television. Two single chairs and one triple cushioned sofa. Alice and Ruben sit in the chairs, postures perfect and movements impeccably graceful. Your mother would be gushing over her son’s flawlessness. The thought makes you frown. On the larger couch, Remy sits alone in the fetal position. His legs are hugged against his chest as he peers over his knees at the TV. He looks every bit the helpless child that he is. You move to sit beside him, leaving an entire cushion empty between you two.

You seem to have arrived at the perfect time because the Reapings begin playing just as you settle down. They begin with One, going through each of the other Districts until ending on Twelve.

Ruben hadn’t mentioned the tributes of One, causing you to assume they’re unimportant. Oh, how wrong you’d been. Anthea Solace is the first name to be called. A small girl, sixteen years in age, walks up to the stage. Her hair is dirty blonde, her face contorted into one of wonder as she overlooks the town square. Next to be called is Thalia Thatcher. You know who she is the moment you see her as she looks exactly like her older sister, Thea, who was the victor of the 68th Games six years ago. Thalia appears absolutely elated to be Reaped, a viscous grin on her face.

The screen cuts away from One and moves onto the next District.

Ruben told you about the tributes of Two — Lev and Yara. Siblings. Yara is called up first, walking onto the stage with a raised chin. She appears even younger than Anthea Solace from One, though she stands with such valor. This bravery quickly fades when her younger brother’s name is called. Her face drops as he walks up to the stage, taking his place at her side. They look absolutely distraught to have been Reaped. The Capitol must hate that, their humanity. This assumption is proven correct as the program flicks to District Three the moment Yara begins to shout in protest. No shock there, the rush to get away from the pain that the Games induce.

You were informed of Three as well. Sam and Henry. Another pair of siblings. Their Reaping is far more peculiar than Two’s, though. Sam’s name is called and Henry volunteers for him in a heartbeat. Sam screams for his older brother as he’s yanked onto the stage. Though, right after, Sam’s name is called a second time, something unheard of. To have one’s name called twice in a single Reaping? It’s outlandish. Henry’s act of volunteering proves futile by Sam’s second name call. Henry’s eyes are wide with horror as Sam walks onto the stage. The cameras are cut off just as Henry begins screaming at the escort who Reaped them both.

Next is Four. Your District. You watch as Remy’s name is called, the boy beside you hiding his face in his knees as he refuses to look at the screen. Your name is pulled next, the entire square going silent as you walk up to the stage. From this angle, you’re able to see the trepidation that floods Ruben’s face as you exit the mass of people. You hike up your navy dress as you ascend the stairs, careful not to lift the hem above your ankles. As you turn to the crowd, you’re rather pleased to see that your expression is blank, appearing more bored than anything. Good. Had you cried or screamed, the Capitol would know of your agitation. You relish in knowing that they’re clueless to how you feel at this moment.

Ruben told you about Five’s tributes as well. Best friends, Ariadne Evans and Selene Jones. They both seem to be around the age of eighteen. Ariadne is called up first, a woman with jet black hair and bright green eyes. She ascends the stage with a set jaw and darkened gaze. Selene is the polar opposite with platinum hair and brown eyes that glint with something akin to hope despite the situation she’s been thrusted into. They’re the face of perfectly balanced dualism, yin and yang. Though they’re both wise enough to keep their emotions shielded from the cameras.

District Six you heard of as well. They’re the ones in a relationship. Archie Bardot and Roland Jennings. The two men stood side by side in the crowd, hands clasped together. Archie’s name is called first, his eyes wide and glossed over as he’s yanked to the stage and away from his boyfriend. Roland screams, the sounds guttural and ringing through your ears; pure agony, fear. The escort utters not one syllable of the second tribute’s name before Roland is volunteering in their place, yearning to be with his lover despite knowing the pain it’ll bring them both.

It’s horrible. It’s absolutely horrible that they’re put in this situation, that anyone should be put in this situation. Though, before you’re able to fully register the awfulness of Six’s Reaping, the program moves onto Seven.

Ruben told you about this pair as well. Another duo of best friends. Riley Abel is called up first, her coiled hair tied back into a low bun at her nape. Her gaze is condescending as she approaches the escort. You recognize the expression all too well; this girl is pissed. Whereas most tributes exude fear, sadness, or even avidity, Riley is irate. The next name to be drawn is Ellie Williams, a girl with short auburn hair done half-up. Her eyes are light green, mocking the hue of Seven’s leaves. Freckles fan across her tanned skin. She’s wearing a wrinkled linen shirt and a pair of worn out jeans. You almost laugh at the sight of such laxity in her outfit. Ellie walks onto the stage with wide eyes, a faraway look to their viridescence. It’s not long before Riley grabs her by the hand and lifts it into the air.

You instantly wince, knowing exactly the intentions of such an act. To others, this may look harmless. But it’s the very opposite. Tributes are meant to be enemies. Duos are being called together this year, likely in hopes that they’ll turn on each other and provide the Capitol with a good show. But Riley doing this is a direct defiance against the Capitol, a clear way to say ‘Fuck you, your plans to separate us are idiotic.’ It’s smart in the fact that only certain people will understand its gravity. But it’s impulsive and thereby foolish.

The cameras cut quickly after the show of repudiation, flicking over to District Eight.

The first name called up is Raven Hansley, a girl with frizzy brown hair and doe shaped eyes. She looks so small on stage despite clearly being older than you. Ashley West is the second tribute, a girl with fiery hair done into a braid down her back. She wears something strange on her ear. You only realize what it is when a ginger man — who you assume to be her father — turns to her and does something weird with his hands. Sign language. She’s Deaf. Your heart drops in realization that they’re Reaping a Deaf girl. Is that not immoral? Ashley seems rather strong, though, as she nods curtly to her father and then walks up to the stage with a hardened expression. Frankly, she looks more resilient than half the other tributes.

District Nine Reaps Elliot Delcan, a blonde boy with circular glasses and dopey hazel eyes, and Whitney Sato, a girl with a slick back bun atop her head. Whitney is quick to shove something into her jacket when her name is called. It looked almost like a game system, though you’re unsure how someone from Nine would get their hands on that.

From Ten comes Nolan Barlowe and Violetta Yaxley. Nolan is huge in the muscular sense of things. His shirt appears too tight for his biceps as he walks to the stage with a wicked grin. Violetta, on the other hand, is nigh impossible to read. She looks terrified when her name is called, though she looks bloodthirsty once she’s on the stage. Perhaps she changed her expression for the camera? Or maybe she truly did have such a hasty change of heart? Who knows.

Eleven offers two children. A small boy named Cooper Whitlock and an even smaller girl named Dahlia Hart. Dahlia has poofy black hair that form two buns atop her head and big brown eyes that are glistening with tears. Her hands fumble together in front of her as her bottom lip quivers. The mentor for their District, who you believe to be named Dina Woodward, reaches forward to comfort her. The show of humanity causes the scene to be cut short.

District twelve, last but not least, Reaps two old men. James, who has a scar down his face and a heavy beanie atop his head, and David, who had a thin beard and huge red nose. You briefly wonder why Twelve Reaps such old men, as they appear to be in their forties, then you see that the crowd is mostly middle aged people. Twelve is the lowest District and thereby the poorest. They barely have enough food to scrape by; it’s no shock if they simply don’t have any kids to offer up.

The program ends with the anthem playing solemnly.

The room is silent for a long time, none of you knowing exactly what to say. There’s so much to address — the amount of pairs, the vicious boy from Ten, the Deaf girl from Eight, the show of defiance in Seven, or, most hauntingly, the two lovers from Six.

With so much to take in and process, one thing rings through your head loudest. The Capitol wants a show this year. And with who they’ve Reaped, it’s no doubt that they’re sure to get one.

22:00.

DISTRICT SEVEN’S TRAIN.

The program hadn’t even ended when Riley stood from the sofa and stomped off to her room. Eleven’s Reaping was being aired and, upon the sight of such young children being drawn, Riley left. Ellie can’t blame her for this, of course. Seeing such a display of cruelty is rather hard to stomach.

But, the thing is, Riley has been acting off for a while now. In fact, she hasn’t yet spoken a single word to Ellie since the Reaping. And, considering they now only have each other, this act of neglect is infuriating. What with Cat’s departure and Marlene’s peculiarity, Riley was supposed to be the break in that. The calm to the chaos. Instead, she’d done nothing but add weight to the burden on Ellie’s shoulders.

Ellie only realizes she’d missed the entirety of Twelve’s Reaping when Joel powers down the screen with a huff.

Joel Miller has proven to be a strange man. He’s easily irritable and drinks a lot — though he claims that he always remains sober enough to do his job as a mentor. Ellie’s not so sure that’s true. Setting alcoholism aside, he’s not too bad. He’s got a country drawl, the Millers having come from the deep South before the formation of the Districts. He’s not talkative, but doesn’t shut down conversation when it’s offered to him. Ellie can’t tell if he hates her or not.

“Fuckin’ Four.” He curses under his breath, tossing the remote onto the coffee table with a scoff. “‘Course one of them had t’ be Reaped this year.”

“And Ruben’s sister, no less.” Chimes in the escort — whose name Ellie has found to be Tilly Reymond. The Capitol woman huffs, nose upturned in displeasure. “Oh, I’m sure my sister is rapturous beyond her wits about this. Not that she has many.”

Ellie has no clue who Tilly’s sister is, though she doesn't dare ask when both she and Joel appear so vexed.

“Alice is always pleased when one of ‘em is Reaped.” Joel points out, leaning back in his armchair with a distasteful expression. He crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursed. “Only adds t’ her inestimable mountain of wealth.”

The two continue to complain about Four’s tributes, speaking without providing context. Ellie finds herself swimming in lack of information, completely lost on what they’re talking about. Tilly’s sister, some guy named Ruben, some girl in a navy gown, etc etc etc. It’s dizzying. After a few more minutes of cluelessness, Ellie finally cuts into their conversation.

“Okay. What the hell is so special about Four’s tributes?” She asks. She’d watched the same program they did. Though, to her, all she saw was some rich girl and a teary-eyed little boy.

The two of them face her with mirrored expressions of shock. Joel is the first to speak, tone laced with annoyance. “Don’t play dumb, kid. We ain’t got the time for this.”

“I’m not playing dumb!” Ellie exclaims, her own annoyance spiking.

He scowls at her before pushing to his feet And, without another word, he exits the room. Ellie continues to seethe, sitting on the sofa with a glare despite the person of cause no longer present. She scowls at the doorway he exited through.

Tilly turns to Ellie with comically wide eyes. Her hair is green, done up in a star-shaped braid that balances crookedly on the top of her head. Her eyes look upside down, having only the bottom row of lashes made three inches long. A Capitolite, she is. And, even more so than that, she’s terrifying. All of them are, having been shifted into humanoid concepts of people rather than natural beings. The Capitol always has a new style trend, each more insane than the last in terms of unattainability.

“The tributes Reaped from Four are Remy Wilson and Y/n L/n.” Tilly explains. Her voice is so gentle that Ellie nearly feels bad for having judged her for being a Capitolite. “Remy isn’t the one that causes such fret. It’s the girl. The L/n.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of the family.” Ellie brushes her off. “Dunno anything about them aside from the fact that they’re crazy rich.”

“You don’t know why they’re rich?”

“Nope.”

“Oh dear,” Tilly hums, lips thinning as she ponders on how exactly to explain. “The L/ns are Capitol diamonds, you see. Reaped more commonly than any other family in the country, they’ve built a long line of tributes in the Games. The catch, however, is that they’ve all come out victorious.”

“All?” Ellie questions, finding this hard to believe.

“All.” Tilly confirms with a solemn nod. She then holds up a hand to her side, counting on her fingers as she lists off your esteemed relatives. “Ethan L/n, victor of the 32nd Hunger Games. Cassiopeia L/n, victor of the 38th Games. Emiliana L/n, 42nd Games. Lysandra L/n, 47th. Penelope L/n, the oldest of their living lineage, victor of the 50th Games — the second Quell. The Capitol adores her. Yasmin L/n, 54th Games. Elina L/n, 57th. Then, for the 60th Games, Y/n’s father was victorious. Two years following his victory came his son, her brother, Ruben L/n, for the 62nd Games. Theodore L/n for the 64th. And now, for the 74th Hunger Games, ten years after the last one of them was Reaped, there’s Y/n L/n.”

Ellie’s eyes narrow, her mind struggling to keep up with Tilly’s unprompted history lesson. Truly, all she managed to process just then is that this family has a lot of kids. She shoots Tilly an incredulous look. “And you’ve memorized them all?”

The woman simply shrugs, “They’re diamonds, Ellie. Everyone has memorized them.”

“Not me.” She points out.

“Well,” Tilly tilts her head, “You’re the only one.”

God, these Games are even more insane than Ellie has initially deemed them to be. She knew they were malicious, everyone knows that, though some people choose to ignore it. Children are killed and starved for entertainment. Nothing should shock her considering that. But here she is, mind unable to keep up with even more lunatic information thrown her way.

An entire family tree memorized by almost the entire country purely because they’re inherently skilled at murdering people. What the fuck? But yeah, Ellie’s the weird one for not having all of their hundred children known by heart.

And what’s worse is that one of these crazed L/ns will be tossed in the arena with her. With Riley. Does Riley know about this? She probably does, but that doesn't stop the worry from seeping into Ellie’s chest at the thought. Had Ellie not known of this, she’d likely have not thought the navy woman to be any different from everyone else. She would likely have died for her lack of care for the Capitol. Perhaps that’s the point.

Before she can spiral further down the rabbit hole that is her mind, a soft gasp escapes Tilly’s lips, pulling her attention back to reality. The woman moves toward the window of the train, her upside down eyes impossibly wide as she looks outside. She pulls the window open with a loud thud. She attempts to poke her head outside, though her hair is too large to fit.

They’re in the Capitol now, crowds of people swarming the tributes’ trains as they coast down the tracks. Despite Ellie’s loathing for the Capitol, her curiosity gets the better of her and she ends up walking over to the glass alongside Tilly.

It’s gorgeous, the Capitol. Skyscrapers stretch high above the clouds, built into a plethora of colors, the entire city bursting with vibrance. Below the skyline, is a huge crowd of people. They’re all just as silly looking as Tilly, their hairstyles larger than their heads and their makeup reminding her of clowns. Their clothes are industrialized, some people wearing literal paper or leaves or other unfathomably odd fabrics.

“Wave!” Tilly says, placing an excited hand on Ellie’s shoulder. Ellie shrugs her off with a scoff, wordlessly refusing to do such a thing. Tilly frowns, “They’re here to see you! One wave or one smile could go a long way, y’know.”

Ellie looks back out the window, scowling at the mass of people. “They’re here to see me before I’m in a casket, you mean.”

Tilly groans, “Is it so hard for you to be pleasant?”

“Yes.”

“They’re clueless, you know.” Tilly says, tone far more somber than that of before. “They’ve been conditioned to enjoy this. Just as you’ve been conditioned into loving the woods as a person of Seven; just as those in Four are conditioned to love water; just as those in Twelve are conditioned to fight for scraps. Everyone is equally as controlled by the president’s thumb.”

“Yet the effects of such control vary in morality.” Ellie points out harshly. “Capitolites are controlled into enjoying the death of children and eating feasts until they puke whereas Districts are controlled into offering their kids to the Games and be well off with eating only a crumb. There’s a colossal difference between the two.”

Tilly says nothing for a while after that, only frowning. Then, after a few minutes of silence, she says, “Y’know the word Capitolite is offensive,” and walks away.

Her lack of reprimanding in response to Ellie’s entire spiel speaks more than a lecture would have. In her last six words of acknowledgement, she manages to point out yet another thing that Ellie has been ‘conditioned’ into. Something harmless to her yet the opposite to others. Everyone in Seven refers to them as Capitolites. Since when was that offensive? Perhaps it’s always been, Ellie oblivious to it just as they’re oblivious to their malice.

But she can’t process it. They love the Games, gathering ‘round the television to watch twenty-four innocent people fight to the death. They relish in the gore of it all. Something like that can’t be controlled, she feels. Something so malicious can be altered if one cares enough to do so.

But they don’t.

8:33.

REMAKE CENTER.

Tributes are to meet their stylist today for the Chariot Parade. Ellie, however, already knows who Seven’s is to be this year.

For the first time ever, she dreads seeing Cat’s face.

“No need to be so nervous!” Tilly says kindly, taking notice of Ellie’s fidgeting fingers and weary expression. Beside Ellie stands Riley, her face hardened. They still haven’t spoken. “They’re just going to make you nice and pretty. Then you’ll be paraded around as an introduction to the Capitol.”

They're currently in a building called the Remake Center, though it feels more like an asylum than anything. The walls are white concrete, the floors and ceilings both made of shiny tile. There are two rooms on either side of the one they’re currently waiting in. Behind one of those doors is Cat, waiting.

Joel is nowhere to be found, though Ellie supposes that’s a good thing. He’d probably manage to get into an argument with the stylists about one thing or another.

“So you’re saying we’re to be flaunted about like cattle?” Riley asks dryly. “Makes fucking sense.”

Ellie says nothing, her hands continuing to pick at the skin around her nails. Marlene would always tell her to drop that habit because it made her fingers look dirty, but the stylists will probably create her new ones anyway.

“See, that’s what we’re not going to say.” Tilly replies pointedly.

Though, before she could say anything more, Riley and Ellie are being pulled into separate rooms by their respective designers. As she’s being led away, Ellie looks over her shoulder. A small ounce of her hopes that Riley will be looking back as well. But she’s not.

“Here, here,” Says a male voice she doesn’t recognize, “Have a seat.”

The man gestures behind him where a metal table resides. A mini mattress is placed atop the table, pure white in color with a thin, crinkly sheet embodying it. It adds a hospital-like effect to the entire situation, making Ellie a bit uncomfortable. Despite this, she obliges and sits on the mattress. The room is exactly like the rest of the Remake Center, white in every place, made of tile and concrete.

The man stares at Ellie, looking her up and down with intense eyes. It makes her feel like some sort of animal to be tested on. She supposes, in his eyes, she likely is.

“Ah, sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable!” He apologizes. His hair is bright blue, matching his vibrant makeup. “I’m Clay, your designer, aka your stylist’s helper! She should be here shortly. I’m going to prep you, and she’ll dress you.”

Ellie nods, a bit dazed by it all. “Yeah, okay.”

“Perfect.” He chirps, clasping his hands together with a kind smile. “Now, now, get undressed.”

“Excuse me?” She blurts out.

“Hm? Oh! No no no.” He chuckles as he pieces together the reason for her defensive tone. “No need for modesty, Miss Williams, I mean nothing indecent by it. My job is to help you look perfect for the parade! Nothing more than that shall be done. You have my word.”

But Ellie doesn’t trust his word. She doesn’t even trust him. “I’m keeping my underthings on.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable!” He smiles. “That’s fine until you get into the bath. Then, I’ll have to see you at least a bit.”

Ellie does not like this, but she has no choice but to agree. The Capitol has no issue with nudity, they deem it normal. Tributes strip in the arena all the time to bathe, change, or get out of old clothes. Nobody minds. So, she knows this is normal to Clay. He thinks not a thing by it. But, as Ellie is not from the Capitol, she loathes it.

She eyes Clay, taking in his build. He’s thin, his clothes hanging off his shoulders. It comforts her to know she’ll be able to fight him if need be. Ellie vaguely wonders about Riley — is she arguing with her designer or is she silent and abiding?

It’s driving her crazy. The disregard, the lack of communication. She used to know everything about Riley, knowing her better than she knew herself. And yet.

“I’ll turn away while you bathe.” Clay offers.

Ellie’s grateful for this, though it’s the bare minimum. God, how do other tributes do this? Nobody mentions these parts of the Games — the people she’s expected to just trust. She’s putting her life in Joel’s hands by trusting him with gaining her sponsors, she’s trusting Tilly to manage her schedule and meals and everything else domestic, and now she’s trusting Clay to see her nude. It’s maddening.

She bathes quickly, scrubbing her skin harshly with the floral scented soap. The aroma of the wash is so strong it makes her nose hairs sting. It’s a good smell, though way too pungent for her preference.

When she steps out of the tub, she wraps herself in the robe Clay provides her. His hands remain over his eyes as he passes it to her, though it’s clear he’s unused to doing such a thing.

She ties the robe around her waist and follows Clay into another room. He does his job within that space, then leads her into another. Then another. Then another.

By the end of it, Ellie is sure she doesn’t have a single strand of hair on her body. It makes her feel vulnerable, the lack of it. In Seven, where she hunts year-round, body hair is useful in cold weather as it provides an extra layer of warmth. Plus, nobody there gives a damn if you have hair. It’s normal. In fact, Ellie had an abundance of it — much to Clay’s distaste.

Her brows are shaped, her nails are filed, her legs are waxed. She feels like a plucked bird, ready to be roasted and feasted upon. It’s unsettling, the way she’s being prepped for death. The arena would be the equivalent to the butcher shop, the other tributes being the weapons wielded by the president to kill her.

“You have so many scars.” Clay comments bluntly, once the entire ordeal has been completed and she’s sitting atop the thin mattress once more. “I tried to hide the one in your eyebrow since it’s on your face, but some of them can’t be covered. You have tons on your legs and back. It’s—”

“It’s fine.” She finishes for him.

He nods kindly, though it’s evident he doesn’t necessarily concur. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s— Uh, it’s human.”

She gives him a condescending glance, “Exactly.”

Clay shifts from one foot to the other as he tries to think of what else to say. He inhales deeply before deciding on his next course of action. “I think you’re ready to be dressed, don’t you? Yeah, I’ll go fetch the stylist. You’re gonna love her.”

Without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves the room, leaving Ellie in naught but a robe and lack of hair. In fact, it feels like he’d ripped off at least three layers of skin when he waxed her. She didn’t make a single noise of pain nor complaint, refusing to show any sense of pain to the Capitolites people of the Capitol.

The Chariot Parade isn’t something she’s exactly looking forward to, either. It’s where each pair of tributes are stuffed into little carriages and shown to the Capitol. If the tributes don’t stand out, the Parade hardly matters. Though, if they do, it can be a great way to gain sponsors before anyone else. For as long as she can remember, Seven’s tributes are always dressed in odd tree-like gowns or suits of paper. However, since Cat’s rise to diamondcy, the game has changed a bit. She branches out more into unexplored territory — using designs inspired by leaves, wood, textile, and other things that a Capitolite wouldn’t think to use. But, as someone from Seven, Cat appreciates the trees more than the past stylists did.

The one good thing that’ll come out of the Parade, though, is the fact that she’ll be able to catch a glance at all the other tributes. After being dressed, they’re all stuffed into a room together. It’ll only be for a few minutes while the chariots are being set up, but she’ll make the most of the time. She can analyze them, get an idea for each character and their structures. She hopes to analyze everyone, of course, but most of all you. The infamous L/n of whom she’s heard so much. Will you be modest or will you flaunt your wealth and predetermined fame? Will you be kind or rude to the child you were Reaped alongside?

“Miss Ellie Williams!”

Before she can even turn her head to the sound of Cat’s voice, she’s being hugged. Ellie is taken aback by this, the public show of affection not exactly Cat’s forte — even if it’s only in front of one person who she works with.

But then she’s whispering something in her ear and the odd behavior suddenly makes sense.

“We’re being recorded, don’t say anything about our relationship.” She whispers, speaking fast and almost frantically. Almost like she’s in danger. “Act as though you’d just met me.”

Cat pulls back, hands on Ellie’s shoulders and a wide smile on her face. Worry instantly shoots through Ellie’s chest, but she’s quick to play along.

“You must be my stylist.” She speaks, slowly removing Cat’s hands from her shoulders as though the action makes her uncomfortable. Despite, in all honesty, wanting nothing more than to pull her closer.

Cat laughs, her arms falling to her sides, “Yeah, sorry, I’m an affectionate person. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine.”

“Let’s get a look at you, shall we?” Cat says with a smile. She looks over her shoulder at Clay, wordlessly telling him to leave the room. He abides by this, quickly exiting the space and rendering the two alleged strangers alone.

Ellie takes this time to examine Cat. She’s wearing another Capitolistic outfit, dressed in silver head to toe. Her dress has one strap, thick on her right shoulder, and is tight around the torso before turning into a muffin shape past the hips, ending at her knees. Her shoes are just as blindingly shiny, their tall heels adding a significant difference to her height. Her makeup is all silver as well, her eyeliner forming an artistic wing of metallic lines.

“Remove the robe, please,” Cat asks kindly.

Considering their history, Ellie wouldn’t hesitate. Cat has seen her body too many times to count. But with the knowledge that they’re being watched, Ellie feigns defense. She pulls the cloth closer around her body, scowling at Cat in a way she’d never do outside of peering eyes. “No.”

“I just need to see what I’m working with, ma’am.” Says Cat. “You can cover your chest and private area with your hands, if you’d like.”

Ellie pretends to think on this, considering the thought before nodding in agreement. She unties the robe and quickly moves her hands to shield her body. Cat pretends to examine her, though they both know she doesn’t need to.

“Okay, you can put your robe back on.” Cat says. “Follow me.”

Ellie obliges, trailing behind Cat as they enter a new room. One that Clay hadn’t taken her into. It’s large, the all white interior now feeling more fancy than stifling. There are two couches at the center, clothes strewn about everywhere. Cat sits on one of the couches, crossing her legs elegantly. She looks like she belongs here, among such wealth.

Ellie moves to sit on the sofa opposite her, surely looking far less comfortable than Cat. She fidgets with her hands, looking around the space. She can feel Cat’s eyes on her, raking up and down her body. Had they not been in this particular situation — broken up and forced into roles of formality — Ellie would probably be flustered out of her mind. But she knows Cat’s only analyzing her like this for work, to imagine certain pieces on her for the Parade.

“I’m thinking of putting you and your partner, Riley, into something that matches.” She says. “To highlight the show she’d put on at the Reaping.”

The words are innocent enough, but Ellie knows the passiveness to Cat’s tone. She recognizes it from all the times Cat would curse Riley for her impulsive defiance. Ellie can tell that Cat is pissed. Well, until she sees a hint of something else in her gaze. As though her irises caught the light, her eyes sparkle with something Ellie can’t quite place — amusement, admiration, mischief? But that can’t be right. Cat isn’t defiant. To the Capitol, she’s loyal to a fault.

“What’re you thinking?” Ellie asks casually, trying to hide the way her mind is reeling with confusion.

“Well, as you likely are aware, the Chariot Parade is meant to introduce the tributes to the Capitol. You’re to be dressed in something that relates to your District, rather than to you yourself. That is saved for the interviews.” Cat explains, talking with her left hand as her right reaches for a wine glass sat on the glass coffee table between them. She holds it between her fingers as she continues on. “I hope to bring attention to Seven in a unique fashion, whilst simultaneously making you and Riley to be deemed a pair. An unbreakable duo.”

Ellie thinks back to all the past Parades for Seven. A few years back, the tributes were rendered completely naked, covered only by paint to make their skin resemble the bark of a tree, their hair dyed green to mock the leaves. In short, most Parade outfits are hideous. People expect them to be because they mirror Capitol fashion — which is, well, hideous.

The catch, however, is that it’s Cat this year. Not some random elder.

“Sounds good.” Ellie agrees shortly, still attempting to maintain a facade of distrust.

Cat smiles kindly, professionally. She takes a sip of wine before standing from the couch with a flourish. It’s unsettling how she moves. The very way she places down her glass and crosses the room is sickeningly Capitolistic.

Ellie loves Cat, she likely will for a long time following their disbandment, but she’s beginning to see things she’d not noticed when she was blinded by adoration. Like the sharpness to her gaze, the fluidity to her actions, the rise and fall of her voice — all traits of the Capitol. But then again, perhaps she’s only doing these things to keep up their act. Ellie can’t tell and that irks her.

“Come, come,” Cat beckons her toward one of the many overflowing closets.

And within a half hour, Ellie is dressed. She’s adorned in a suit-like outfit. It’s far too tight around her thrtoat and she feels as though she’s being suffocated. Her pants are forest green and flow around her legs so, at certain angles, it might appear to be a skirt. She’s wearing a blazer, which fits snugly on her shoulders and neck. It’s the color of Ellie’s skin with black lines that mimic tree roots, these lines coming out to cover her chest. It gives the appearance that she’s hardly wearing anything, though she is.

Cat positions her in front of a full-body mirror, asking for her opinion on the outfit. Ellie doesn’t respond, though. She looks like herself well enough, just accentuated oddly. Her face looks too symmetrical, her hair pulled into a half-bun to highlight her cheekbones. Cat is quick to pick up on Ellie’s hesitation to respond.

“You’re an attractive woman, Ellie.” Cat tells her, though her tone remains casual, conversational. She places her hands on her shoulders from behind, a friendly act between strangers. Ellie visibly stiffens at it. “The Capitol loves an attractive tribute. Take Ruben L/n for example, do you think he’d be nearly as successful if he weren’t so hot? No. So, in my choice to dress you like this, I provide the Capitol with thinking they’re seeing your bare skin, whilst also providing you with the consolation of knowing that they’re not.”

Well. Ellie definitely hadn’t viewed it that way initially. She’s right, though. If the Capitol finds a tribute to be appealing, they’ll have a much easier time obtaining sponsors for the Games. This way, everyone gets what they want — the Capitol gets to exploit a young woman and Ellie gets to know that she’s tricking them. In knowing this, Ellie actually kind of likes the outfit.

She gives Cat a nod in the mirror, “I like it.” She grins, “Oh, I’m glad! Come now, Kenyon Clampitt should be finished with Riley.”

Cat leads Ellie out of the room. As they exit, Clay spots them. His eyes widen with glee as he sees the design. He compliments Cat on her work, trailing behind them as they continue on their way to the bottom floor of the Remake Center where all the tributes will be loaded into Chariots for the Parade. Clay doesn’t stop talking the entire way down, Cat kindly nodding and indulging him.

The bottom level feels like a horse stable, everyone lined up by District as their mentors, escorts, and stylists assist them in readying their chariots. Ellie instantly spots Riley. She’s wearing a long green dress, the same color as Ellie’s flowy pants. She wears fingerless gloves that are the same material as Ellie’s top, root designs tracing up her arms, stopping at her elbows.

Tilly holds out a hand, offering her help to Riley up. Though, expectantly, she declines the offer and hoists herself into the chariot on her own.

Ellie and Cat near the carriage, Clay in tow. Joel is the first to notice their presence, eyes widening at the sight of Ellie’s outfit. He turns to Cat with a deepened scowl, pulling her aside to reprimand her style choice.

He speaks lowly, though Ellie can still hear his words. “That’s way too showy!”

“It’s not actually her skin, Miller.” Cat argues back. “She’s completely covered, the fabric is just the same color as–” “It doesn’t matter!” He exclaims. “Fake or not, the Capitol’s reaction’ll be the same. Exploitation. She may be an adult, but she ain’t old enough for that shit!” That’s when Ellie tunes them out. She vaguely wonders if they’d ever met formally before, though the answer is obvious. No. Joel is the mentor, assigned to pass the tributes off at the Remake Center to the stylist. He then waits by the chariot on the bottom floor until the tributes are brought to him, then the stylist leaves without making much conversation. Sometimes, if the tributes come to like their stylists, they can visit their suites in the Training Center. Ellie wonders if that’s ever happened. She can’t imagine it, though. Joel, Tilly, Cat, Clay, and two tributes all eating dinner together. She almost laughs at the mere thought of it. The awkwardness.

Ellie hops into the chariot, standing beside Riley. Riley says nothing, expression hardened as she overlooks all the other tributes. Ellie decides to do the same thing.

She recognizes everyone from watching the Reapings. The people who stand out most to her are Thalia Thatcher, who is the younger sister to the 68th victor; the pairs of siblings — Lev and Yara, who stand shoulder to shoulder, then Sam and Henry, where the latter is giving what seems to be a pep talk to the former; Ashley West, the Deaf girl who is signing with a translator as means to communicate with her mentor; the couple, Roland Jennings and Archie Bardot, who appear to be inseparable and always touching in one way or another; and — who everyone else is already staring at — you.

You’re dressed in a pirate outfit. You’re wearing an overly large linen blouse, a corset atop it that’s a blue so dark it’s almost black. An abundance of belts are secured around your hips, adding layers to the look. Below them resides a few layers of skirts — ranging from light blue to navy. The back of the skirt reaches the floor, the front coming to your mid-thigh. Combat boots are on your feet, heeled to add a few inches to your height.

It’s clever, Ellie thinks, to take such a unique approach to your District’s fishing fixation. Most past tributes of Four wore odd outfits of flowing blue tunics or, three years ago, they wore nothing but seashells to cover their chests and crotches. As it turns out, most stylists yearn to have attractive tributes because they can exploit them to the Capitol and be praised for having as little clothes on them as possible. Ellie is, admittedly, shocked you’re so covered. Not that she finds you attractive or anything personally, it’s just a fact. You’re good looking. Everyone knows it. It’s more than just your body, though, it’s your eyes and hair and—

Yeah, okay. Moving on.

A young boy stands beside you in your chariot, two feet shorter than you. He’s wearing a pirate hat and a linen shirt the same color as yours. As he’s not wearing a bodice, his pants are the dark blue shade that your corset is. His outfit is much less complex, though still gives off the same piratey feel to it that yours does.

“Don’t stare at her.” Riley’s voice takes her by surprise, Ellie’s head snapping to face her. “Her ego is probably inflated enough as is.”

“Nice of you to fucking speak to me.” Ellie snaps, unable to help her irritation.

Riley scoffs, not saying anything more. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Ellie turns her attention to where Cat and Clay are retreating back into the building. Joel watches them leave, standing with his arms crossed in disapproval regarding their conversation. Ellie looks around for Tilly, unable to find her. But when she does, she sees that Tilly is speaking with Four’s escort, your escort. They look similar, actually. They have the same bone structure, mouth shape, and stand the same way.

Realization smacks her in the face. That’s Tilly’s sister. That’s why she was talking about her sister being happy for a L/n being Reaped. Because she gets to escort you. Fucking duh. Ellie suddenly feels stupid for not having realized earlier.

Ellie watches the back of your head, not at all heeding Riley’s words. Your head is chin held high, shoulders back. You exude power, wealth, and confidence. Anyone would be a fool not to sponsor you. Ellie’s sure she would, had she been a Capitolite person of the Capitol. Well. For logical reasons, not personal preference. Of course.

Just then, a blinding light stings her eyes. The front wall opens up like a door, allowing the sounds of cheers and screams to pass through the opening. The crowd is already lined up, anxiously waiting to see this year’s tributes. The mentors and escorts back away from their respective carriages, allowing the horses to pull the chariots out.

First to leave is District One, Anthea Solace and Thalia Thatcher. Directly behind them, Two comes out. Lev and Yara. Then Three, Sam and Henry. Ellie finds it rather odd how many sibling and friend duos there are this year. She’d recognized the peculiarity to it, though she never gave it much thought, as she was preoccupied with other concerns such as Cat and Riley and the fucking Hunger Games.

Her attention is snapped back forward as the crowd goes wild. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who they’re cheering so loudly for. And, when she looks up, she realizes her assumption was correct. Four’s chariot is being pulled out. Yours and Remy’s faces flood the screens overhead, all cameras pointed in your direction. Ellie watches from within the building as you wave at the crowd, smiling brightly. She wonders, briefly, if it’s fake, your elation. She doubts it. Someone who grew up in the spotlight has to love it. Right? God, you’re probably eating this up.

Before long, Seven’s chariot is being pulled forward. The crowd cheers, cameras now turned to them. Cat was right, the Capitol is loving Ellie’s outfit. They whoop and clap, and it makes Ellie feel sick. They’re cheering, yes, but for what? For their excitement to see her tossed into the arena to be killed?

She then feels Riley grab her hand. Ellie has no time to react before Riley is hoisting it into the air, a carbon copy of what she’d done at the Reaping. The crowd goes wild, loving their show of amity. But now that she’s aware of what it symbolizes, Ellie can’t help the way her stomach churns. Marlene’s words ring loudly through her skull.

“I’ve seen the Capitol kill people for less than holding hands.”

She wants to drop Riley’s hand. But she can’t, not when the cameras are zoomed in on their clasped fingers. So she simply puts on a mask, just as she’d done with Cat. She lifts her chin, mimicking the way she’d seen you do it. She hopes desperately that she exudes that same air of confidence that you had. She’s dressed to be attractive so her personality must match that, yes?

Ellie adjusts her expression as to appear more alluring — a sharp gaze that she’d learned from Cat, set shoulders that she’s learned from you, and parted lips that she’d learned from Riley. Ellie isn’t sure how to naturally look a certain way. But she’s observant. She’s able to use people like puzzle pieces to form her own image. Taking features from those she finds most appealing, she’s able to concoct that puzzle of hers. And, when put all together, she looks beguiling. The crowd loves her.

The commotion dies down only when the carriage comes to a halt, Riley releasing Ellie’s hand as she peers up at something. Ellie follows her gaze to see a building that holds people of status — Capitol Diamonds, early victors, and the president himself. His first name left unknown, President Fedra is the puppeteer pulling the strings behind every malicious act that happens within this country. The Games, the deaths, the wars. It’s all him.

The look of hatred within Riley’s gaze is evident as she scowls up at President Fedra. Ellie kicks her in the ankle, subtle enough nobody aside from her would notice. In an instant, Riley has managed to tone down her loathing, though it’s still painfully obvious.

Fedra rakes his gaze over the tributes, all twelve chariots stopped in front of the building for examination. His eyes go to Four first, as expected, analyzing you harshly. Ellie doesn’t fail to notice the way your jaw clenches under his gaze. She wonders if it’s due to nerves, pride, or if you loathe the president as vehemently as she and Riley do. Afterall, you’re a pawn in his games as well, Reaped just as unwillingly.

Then, Fedra gazes at the other tributes, pausing for a brief moment on Riley. Ellie prays that he’s not taken her hatred as a threat, though it definitely is one.

And, with that and naught more, he turns and walks away from the window he’d been peering out of. As though the tributes matter no more. As though they’re already six feet under his expensive boots.

Following his sudden absence, the carriages pull forward to complete one more circle before retreating to the Training Center. Ellie watches your chariot as it pulls away, your hands holding onto the rail tightly. Beside you, Remy has wide glossy eyes.

It takes Riley kicking her in the ankle to pull her gaze away.

[post] notes!! ellie’s top for the parade is heavily inspired by the root designs that zuhair murad explored in fall of 2013 for vogue. specifically the back of the red velvet dress (idk who the model is, i've been searching for hours & can't find her name). anyway yippee for me FINALLY getting this goddamn chapter out. i feel like i just fought goliath (he definitely won).

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo. @ilovewomenfr. @zzombiegirl. @elliessweetheart. @shawangel. @defnoteleonor. @fatbootymuncher. @autisticintr0vert.

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss. @dsybouquet. @serraphinm. @smellovie. @sakiigami. @opt1mistic. @spacecinnamonbuns. @clouded-whispers. @sappicarribean. @corpsebridenightmare. @jaliyah-s. @pixiec4t. @chappellroankisser. @mxquelo. @vahnilla. @moshuka. @cupidluvzz. @elliewilliamssrealgf. @h4-rt3s. @tmbpyv. @prwttiestbunnies. @jinxtheplanet.

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blindmagdalena · 1 year ago

Text

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter three )

18+ 7.3k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, assault (not perpetrated by HL), violence, smol murder, manipulation/gaslighting, hurt/comfort. nebulously takes place post s1. part 3/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander will do whatever it takes to convince you that he's the hero you need.

It’s shortly after one o’clock when Homelander knocks a whimsical melody against your office door, deciding he shouldn’t be precisely on time, lest he look as eager as he feels. He can already smell your perfume wafting through the doorway–the same scent he feverishly pumped his cock to the night before–as a teaser of what’s to come.

“Come in,” you call from the other side.

Homelander takes in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He screws his eyes shut, pinching his expression in a tight squeeze before he replaces it with a flashy grin, squaring away his anticipation in favor of his showman persona.

“Goooooood afternoon,” he drawls, strolling in with the same feigned level of confidence he’s entered every other moment of your life since stumbling across you, whether you knew it or not. He’s taken aback almost immediately, slowing in how he closes the door behind him.

You look nicer than usual. Your hair is styled with more conscious effort, and he’s been in show business long enough to recognize the makeup on your face. The shine of your blouse is a quality silk blend, and he can’t hear the scrape of cheap cotton underneath it anymore. No, you’re wearing something nice below, too. His lips slowly spread into a self-satisfied smile.

You dressed up for him.

Homelander takes the seat set across from you, sweeping his cape to the side with a flourish. He watches you tuck an empty container–your lunch, presumably–into a side drawer of your desk. His eyes closely track the way you lift your thumb to the corner of your mouth and swipe residue from it, sucking the mess from your digit. A distinct pang of arousal hits him just watching your cheeks hollow.

Imagine what she could do with that mouth.

“And good afternoon to you, Homelander,” you respond, straightening up in your seat. His gaze briefly dips to the swell of your breasts as you adjust yourself, casually dusting away any remnants of your lunch. Saliva gathers on his tongue at the instant memory of you scantily clad in your sleep wear, nothing but a thin sheet of worn fabric between you and his hunger. His eyes snap back up before you can take notice of how they wandered.

Lucky for him, you’re busy splaying out the folder he brought you the day before, scanning over the list of bullet points he’d slapped together for the sake of having enough talking points.

“I wanted to start with your concerns regarding the marketing for your upcoming miniseries,” you say, glancing up at him.

He clicks his tongue. “Wow, alright. Straight to business then,” he says, absently rolling his palms over the ends of the armrests on either side of him.

“I’m very bad at small talk,” you say. Probably to diffuse any notion that you were being rude on purpose.

“Ch’yeah, I’ll say,” he says, smiling thinly. “Lucky that you’re good at your job.”

“Shockingly, I was actually a personality hire. I don’t know what any of this means,” you say, matching his thinly veiled snark while gesturing to the spread of documents in front of you. He snorts softly. You have a knack for using that sharp wit to diffuse, but he doesn’t feel manipulated. You actually are funny. “I was hoping you’d explain your concerns.”

Smooth segue, he thinks, his eyes narrowing appraisingly. He’s worked enough interviews to know when he’s being led, but he takes the bait anyways, widening his smile.

“Sounds great.”

Homelander knows that you’re sharp, good at your job, but he needs to needle you into giving him what he wants. He wants to understand you, and the stack of his films he found hidden in your apartment. What he gets in the meantime is ample taste of your silver tongue, parrying his every jab with an equally sharp counter.

He can’t keep the smile from his face.

Gradually a level of familiarity slips into the air between you. He can see some of that tension in your shoulders easing. He’s steadily wearing down the walls you’ve managed to construct.

“I still think audiences will be confused,” he says, feigning a profound concern, stretching out the time of your little appointment.

“Well, audiences are a lot like celebrities,” you say, the hard candied shell of your professional exterior thinning with every back and forth, poised to crack at any second. “They’re smarter than we think they are.”

“Oohh, ouch,” he purrs. “Nice backhand you got there.”

A twitch at the corner of your mouth. He knows you’re fighting a smile of your own, and pride blooms warmly in his chest. He likes sparring with you, but he likes pleasing you even more.

“I disagree about market confusion. Your diehard audience will already be up to speed, your broader target audience will show up for anything with your face on it, and anyone more casual than that likely won’t have seen the miniseries anyways, so there’s nothing to confuse it with,” you say, scanning down through one of the pages of the document he gave you.

Perfect opening.

“And which audience is it you fall into, exactly?” He asks, cocking his head a degree. “I mean, given your position, I have to imagine you’ve seen my range of film and television.”

“I’ve done my due diligence,” you say vaguely. You’re good at answering without answering. Normally it would irritate him, but your forced aloofness combined with your closely guarded–and inexplicably secret–veneration of him makes it into tantalizing bait begging for the sharp sink of his teeth.

“So you’ve seen all my movies, then?” He extrapolates, setting a line of his own.

You chuckle, gaze flickering to him before back down to the pages. Too brief a glance to even come close to satisfying his hunger. “I didn’t say that.”

He scoffs lightly. “But you’re a fan of mine?”

“I definitely didn’t say that.” He can sense he’s hit a vein, and like any good predator would, he’s eager to bite into it.

“C’mon. Don’t tell me you’re shy,” he continues to prod, leaning forward slightly in his seat.

You inhale a breath that you barely prevent from sounding too obviously irritated. His grin remains untarnished by the scrutiny of your unwavering stare. There it is, that’s what he wants. The weight of your gaze upon him, evaluating, taking him in fully. He doesn’t care how he gets it, he just knows he wants it.

“You are shy,” he accuses, knowing you aren’t.

“I’m not shy, I’m a professional,” you say curtly, the scratch of your pen scathing while you write notations on the document.

Good, he thinks. More likely to slip up now.

“Jeeze,” he laughs. “You’re wound up tighter than my fictional manager in Darkest Day.”

“You didn’t have a manager in Darkest Day, that was Origins,” you correct. After a beat, your hand stills.

Homelander’s gaze slowly slides to meet yours. He watches your face fall and clicks his tongue. He positively relishes how your mask of indifference slips into subtle dismay at your misstep. Such a simple bit of trivia, and yet it spoke volumes.

Got’cha.

“You do watch my movies,” he said, tone dropping to a near whisper. He revels in the quiet way you groan, leaning back in your chair.

“Only the ones I was paid to,” you say, straightening up in your chair, but he can hear the defeat in your voice.

“Liar,” he says through his perpetual grin. “Don’t be embarrassed. How long have you been a fan?”

“Stop,” you say, burying your face in your hands. Oh, this is good. Was he your first crush? Your favorite hero? He must be still, judging by the flush of heat moving through you. All that pretense, all that haughty glowering, and beneath it all you’re a fan girl. He almost laughs at the thought of the face you’d make if he called you that.

“Which was your favorite?” He asks, burying the knife deeper, eager to cut through flesh and muscle and bone to get to the heart of truth beneath. “Bright World? Rise of a Hero? Justice Dawning?”

“I despise you,” you say melodramatically, digging your thumbs into your temples. “Also, Justice Dawning was cheesy, I’m offended you’d even offer it.” You try not to smile, but it happens anyway, and as soon as that secret little smile sneaks onto your lips it brightens Homelander’s eyes, reflecting your amusement back to you. Not just that, but amplifying it.

“You’ll learn to love me,” he tells you with confidence. You drop your hands, looking at him with subtle surprise. He holds your gaze. The earnestness of his words seems to dispel your mortification and replaces it with something more difficult to define, but he likes the shine it brings to your eyes.

The taste of your defeat is sumptuous. He’d prefer licking it straight from your tongue, but he’ll settle for this for the time being. An easiness settles into the air between you, deeper even than before your hackles rose with the lurking reality of your hidden opinion of him. It’s like a bubble has popped, dissipating uncomfortable tension, replacing it with something warmer.

He has every intention of turning up the heat even further.

The meeting moves forward. You work your way through his folder, and during a natural lull in conversation, he finally broaches the topic that’s been plaguing him since he stepped into your office.

“So,” he begins, interlacing his gloved fingers in his lap. “Gonna tell me what you’re all dressed up for?” He asks, wearing the same smile and speaking in the same tone he had when he baited you into admitting your secret love affair with his cinema.

He wants to hear you say that it’s for him, but he’ll settle for a flustered deflection. They’re as good as the same.

“Oh,” you huff with an airy little laugh, the sound like silver bells chiming. “I have a date tonight.”

You say something else, but Homelander doesn’t hear it over the tidal-like rush in his ears. He watches your pretty lips form words that he can’t understand. Everything falls out of focus as he tightly reins in the white hot rush of furious jealousy that floods his gut and erupts up the back of his throat like bile. He swallows the burn of it, jaw tight, and manages a tense smile.

“Great,” he barks, not realizing–or perhaps not caring–that he interrupted you. “First date?”

“First date,” you confirm, your tone less conversational than it had been a beat ago. The walls are going back up, but he’s too fixated on what feels like a stabbing betrayal.

“Exciting,” he says, adjusting his tone and mannerisms until they once more resemble something genuine. Something civil, despite the hostility in his gut. “Someone you know? Going anywhere special?”

“No, and not really,” you say evasively. He loathes how withdrawn you’ve become. You should be pleased he’s put off. Gloating even. It’s proof he cares, isn’t it? “It was his suggestion.” His. The leather of Homelander’s glove creaks subtly in the fist he makes. “I forget the name of the place,” you say, avoiding his gaze.

His right cheek tics. Liar, liar, pants on fire. People always underestimate his ability to read them.

You’ll learn not to lie to him.

“But you have an out if you need it, don’t you? Someone to bail you out in case he turns out to be some kind of freak,” he says, huffing the word with a lick of venom. It takes significant effort to keep the disdain from his face to imagine you as you are now sitting across from some nobody schmuck, lit by candlelight and smiling sweetly for them instead of for him.

“I always do,” you say, smiling thinly. He curates his own tone often enough to hear it in yours, and it pierces his ears like a thistle. He taps his fingers on his thigh, scrounging for something, anything else to needle you for, but your responses don’t give him much to work with.

“Well. If you did need someone–”

“I’m a big girl,” you interrupt, surprising him. He’s rarely interrupted. “I can take care of myself.”

At that, a thought strikes him. The slack line of his lips curls into a thin smile, and his hands relax on the armrests of the chair.

“I’m sure you can.”

Shaking off the aftermath of your one-on-one with Homelander proves to be more difficult than you’d anticipated. You replay it nearly moment for moment in your mind while freshening up after work.

Homelander has an uncanny knack for moving through demeanors as though he’s trying hats, determining which one best suits the situation. One moment he’s a slick carnivore licking his chops in anticipation of his meal to come, and the next he’s every ounce the hero they market him as. He’d been relentlessly charming during the meeting, his charismatic smile becoming one you’d wanted to earn again and again.

Then came the news of your date, and all at once Homelander possessed the ominous calm of a sentient statue. The moment still sends an eerie chill down your spine, even in recollection. How radically his appearance can change with mood or thought alone. You’d hate to ever see him truly angry.

“Get a hold of yourself,” you say to the bathroom mirror. You have a date tonight, and the last thing you need is to bring this kind of nervous energy to it. Powers or not, the commonality of man is easy to rely on, and you’ve developed the tactical mindset of an aloof cat. Never beg for what can be given freely. Never give more than you get. Never settle. “Be the cat,” you tell yourself affirmatively.

A directive which, unfortunately, winds up being exceedingly easy to follow through the course of your date. James, bless his heart, struggles to wring more than the occasional piteous chuckle from you. Conversation with him is akin to drinking seltzer water–he is neither offensive nor particularly exciting, being only a step above plain water.

Perhaps James’ blandness isn’t entirely his own fault, but rather the basis of comparison he is subjected to. Throughout the night, you find yourself critical of the way he looks at you–or rather, the way he fails to look at you. Your thoughts keep drifting back to your meeting with Homelander and the way he looks at you. The intense ocean-blue caress of his eyes summons a blush to your cheeks even in hindsight.

He looks at you in a way that no one else does. It's as if he's trying to memorize the smallest details in your skin, to uncover every secret trapped behind your guarded gaze. He has a stare determined to lay you entirely bare to him.

James’ wine dulled ogling could hardly hold a candle to that. Looking into his eyes, you see only the planning for whatever dullard comment he was going to make next.

Still, it’s not until the end of your date–an exceptionally long two and a half hours thanks to a mishap with your order–that James displays a behavior unsavory enough to elicit a truly unpleasant feeling in you. He’s quite clingy after a few too many glasses of wine. He walks you out of the restaurant with an arm around your waist, and more than once you have to bat his hand away from the seam where your blouse is tucked into your skirt.

“You in the parking garage or the back lot?” He asks, smiling in a way he must mean to be salacious, eyes half-lidded like he’s lost control of them.

“The back lot.” Parking was a nightmare with how late you arrived after work. “Is that where you are?” You ask, hoping it isn’t.

“No, no, I actually took an Uber in,” he says, and you know immediately by the way he starts tapping your hip with his index finger why he chose to do that.

“Want me to wait for you here until your Uber arrives, then?” You ask, turning out of his grasp to stand face to face with him outside of the restaurant. It’s late enough now that the streets have calmed some, at least by New York’s standards.

James’ expression falters, but he tries for a recovery with a hopeful smile. “Well, you know, I was sort of hoping we might continue this elsewhere,” he says, slipping his hands into his pockets. Is he trying to look suave?

“Oh, no,” you say, putting forth your very best sympathetic head tilt, matched with a well placed brow furrow. “No thank you.”

This time his expression doesn’t recover. His hands lift from his pocket and he makes a helpless gesture with them, very nearly pleading. “Really? I thought we were having a nice time.”

“And I’m so glad for that,” you say, and even you can hear the corporate edge sliding into your tone, which doesn’t seem to soothe him any. “But it’s for the best that we part ways here, James. Thanks for your time.”

“But–” Your inarguable dismissal staggers him. He gropes for recourse. “I paid,” he blurts out, which proves to be his final mistake.

Your polite facade drops. “For what?“ His booze addled panic shifts into confusion. “F…For dinner, but I didn’t mean–”

“And that entitles you to fuck me?” No sense in mincing words now.

His expression morphs again, this time into mortification. “No! No, but–”

“You thought this would be a transaction? God, and here I was thinking your gravest flaw would be how mind-numbingly boring you are. But to be boring and stupid?” You scoff, waving a dismissive hand. “Goodnight, James,” you say, the kindest dismissal you can muster. You turn on your heel before he can sour the evening any further, and luckily for him, he doesn’t pursue you further.

Unbelievable. As if you hadn’t offered to split the check. As if he expected it to be a transaction that he cashed in your bed. As if the cost of dinner was worth anything more than a polite smile from you. As if.

New York doesn’t sleep, but it does grow very, very dark. You’re on a narrow street, not an alley exactly, but not a main road, either. Still riled up, you bring up the parking app on your phone as you walk, swiping through to get ready to pay for your crummy back lot space. A clatter brings your attention up, and that’s when you see them—two men. One wearing a black leather jacket, the other with a kerchief slung around his throat.

You stop walking, caught between turning around, which would mean putting your back to the men up ahead, or continuing forward, which would mean passing within arm’s reach. They haven’t noticed you yet, or at least they’re pretending not to, but now they look right at you and smile.

The men don’t look dangerous, not like they do in the movies, but you know that means nothing—plenty of the worst people in the world looked safe. Yet the longer you stay put, the more you sense the ill intent wafting off of them like cheap cologne. “Hey, baby,” says one of them, moving toward you. “You lost?”

“No,” you say curtly, taking a step back. “Not lost. Excuse me.”

“You sure? We’re real good with directions,” says the second man, leering. Your eyes snap between them, phone clutched tight in your hand. “Y’look like you could use some.”

“No,” you say again, louder. How loud would you need to be for anyone to hear you over the sounds of the streets? Panic swells in your throat.

You don’t know how they got so close so quickly, but as you turn to run, a hand catches your collar. The guy in the leather jacket wrenches you back against him, one arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your phone clatters to the ground.

“Hey now, what’s the rush?” He asks, yanking you backwards. “Get off me,” you snarl, but he’s squeezing you tightly across the chest, making it hard to think, let alone breathe. You struggle until you feel something hard dig into your hip. A knife? No. You realize coldly that it’s a gun, the handle of it jutting out from his waistband and digging into you. In a desperate bid, you twist in his grip, trying to grab it.

“Careful,” says the other one, moving in front of you, closing in. “She’s got spirit.”

You kick out at the other guy but he jumps back, laughing at you. They’re both laughing, relishing in your fear. Your fingers skim the gun, but you can’t quite get it.

The first man’s breath is hot and sour on your cheek. “Come on, now, let’s have some fun.” You slam your head back into his nose—or try to, but you only manage to clip his chin. Still, you hit bone, hear the crack of a tooth, and just like that you’re free, stumbling to your hands and knees as the man reels. You hit the ground hard, the shock of landing lancing pain through your arms and legs. The gun tumbles from his waistband. Without thinking twice you lunge for it, fingers successfully closing around the grip right before one of the men grabs your ankle and pulls.

The street bites into your elbows and scrapes your knee bloody as you twist around and raise the gun, barrel leveled at the man’s heart. “LET GO!” You scream, heart hammering against your chest. “Oh shit,” says the man in the kerchief, eyes wide at seeing you armed, but the other one sneers at you, blood spilling from his mouth. There’s fury in his eyes, and the unmistakable intent to hurt you. “You ever held a gun that big, baby?”

“Let go,” you say again, voice firmer than the tremble of your hands. Your finger flexes on the trigger.

“You even know how to use it?” He asks, using his grip on your ankle to pull himself over you, his other hand falling to your thigh. He gives a pointed squeeze as he lifts himself up to tower above you. He reaches to take hold of you again, but you won’t let him. Can’t let him.

“Yes.” You squeeze the trigger as you say it, bracing for the recoil, the bang. It’s always so loud in the movies.

Nothing happens. You panic, looking at the weapon in your hands in dull shock. The safety isn’t on. You pull the trigger again, but the chamber rings hollow. It isn’t loaded. You look up at the man as his shadow falls over you. He bares his teeth at you, painted an ugly dark red with the blood spilling from his mouth. The man laughs, a short barking sound, and knocks the gun from your hands with a harsh slap. It goes skidding away.

“Stupid bitch,” he says, raising his boot as if you were an oversized bug, something to crush. You close your eyes and scream as he brings it down hard.

Or at least, he started to, but his leg locks up halfway, and then he topples, a single horrifying sound leaking from his clenched teeth. Your eyes open just in time to see his body hit the ground, a smoldering wound smoking from his chest. An instant later, the second man falls. This time you see the flash of crimson light that drops him.

Homelander’s cape billows in the wind with all the majesty of the flag it’s designed after as he descends from the sky. He lands in front of you, backlit by the distant street lights that give him an artificial glow. He’s beautiful, a perfectly manufactured angel delivered straight from some market tested Heaven.

“Hey, you hurt?” He asks, reaching for you.

Awestruck, all you can do is stare at his outstretched hand. Tears well in your eyes. Shock is setting in the aftermath of all that adrenaline in your veins crashing your system. Through the blur of your tears, Homelander’s expression shifts from concern to that of determination.

“It’s alright, I’m here now. They can’t hurt you,” he says, bringing your arm around his neck while he slips his own around your waist, effortlessly lifting you from the ground. Before your gaze can drift to the corpses–whose burning flesh you can smell mingling with the acrid city air–Homelander rotates, taking them from your line of sight.

With a flourish, he unhitches his cape from his shoulders and swings the fabric over yours. It settles on you heavier than you expected it to be, and impossibly warm. Moving back in, Homelader readily takes you back into his arms. He cradles you in his embrace, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other drawing lines up and down your back.

You try to choke out a sound, to ask him, how? How did he find you? How did he know you needed him? But none of the noises you make form any actual words. Your throat is too tight, and your tongue feels too big for your mouth, gnarled silent by panic. Everything is just too much. Your breaths only grow sharper as tears burn hot streaks down your face.

“Sssshhhhhhh,” he shushes by your ear, lifting you just enough to keep you on your feet, but take the weight of your body from you. His hold is compressive, but not oppressive. It takes everything you have left to lift your other arm around his neck while the sobs overtake you. He continues to hush you, whispering a menagerie of honeyed assurances in your ear, the core sentiment always the same.

I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you.

You cry harder, coiling your arms tighter around his neck. He lets you cling to him, lets you sob away your makeup and soak the collar of his suit with the mess of it.

You don’t know how much time passes in your addled state of panic, but eventually your breaths begin to even out, though your heart continues to thunder. Your body isn’t convinced that the danger has vanished yet, eager to turn to flight now that your fight has gone.

“That’s it, just like that,” Homelander praises. “Breathe. Breathe. Good… Light as a feather now, okay? Like you can fly,” he tells you. The weightlessness you feel in his arms helps the idea, helps you to feel like you aren’t being crushed by the terrible weight of such a moment of horror. That’s all it had been, a moment–two at most–and yet the torment of it had felt hours long. Exhaustion falls over you in the wake of adrenaline, and you’re glad for Homelander’s arms around you. You doubt you’d be standing without them.

“Home,” you manage to croak. “Please.” You can still smell the man’s sour breath, the memory even more powerful than the stench of reality.

“I can take you home,” he coos, maintaining that same soothing tone of comfort. “Is that what you want?”

You nod, focusing instead on the vetiver fresh smell of him. You’ve never been near enough to him before to notice it, but now you fixate on it. Anything to drown out the stink of the alley. He smells so much cleaner, like fresh linen drying over green grass in the summer sun.

His arms flex around you before he adjusts them, lifting you smoothly into his arms. Your stomach flips the way it does when you go down a hill in the backseat of a car, gravity loosening its hold on you. You can feel the motion all around you, the wind ghosting over you, but Homelander himself feels motionless against you.

Flying. He’s flying. And so are you.

His cape shields you from the night air bite, pulled snug around you and secured where your bodies are pressed together. You haven’t felt like this since you were a child, cradled with such care and strength that feels beyond your comprehension. Homelander serves as both place and person–somewhere safe, someone kind–and you tuck yourself closer into the sanctuary of his arms, hands fisted in the protective fabric of his cape.

“I’ve got’cha,” he assures you, voice warm in your ear.

Without a shadow of a doubt, you believe him.

Homelander doesn’t need to ask where you live. It’s an easy detail to brush off if you question him. He doubts you will with the way you’re clinging to him, though. You feel good in his arms, settling so naturally against the contours of them he might convince himself you belong here. He doesn’t mind your weeping when it comes with your arms around him, fingertips brushing the nape of his neck.

A small shiver rolls down his spine.

Of all the ways Homelander expected the evening to unfold, he hadn’t properly anticipated you. While he cradles you, he replays again and again the moment you were snatched. You fought without hesitation. You wrenched the gun free. The fierceness in your eyes as you aimed it had been exquisite. The resolve in your gaze as you fired it even more so.

He’d known you were confident, but that kind of clawing survival can only be learned of a person in action. He’s known many supposedly strong people–supe and human alike–who walk as stone giants, but shatter like glass when faced with any real danger.

You couldn’t have known that you weren’t in any real danger. You couldn’t have known that he’d told those thugs to scare you, but not hurt you. You couldn’t have known he’d ensured the gun wasn’t loaded. You fought as though it was for your life, and it enthralled him.

He hadn’t planned on killing them in front of you. They would have been loose ends to tie up after his heroic rescue, but somewhere along the line that stupid bastard lost the thread. He hurt you, bloodied those pretty knees of yours, and he moved to strike you. To grind you beneath his heel as if you were the vermin instead of him. For that–and for so flagrantly going against Homelander’s own direct order–you witnessed his downfall.

As far as he’s concerned now, everything happened precisely as it needed to. You’re in his arms now, and he’s still half hard from witnessing you choose fight when your instincts kicked in. You’re too fragile to choose it so readily. Your bones feel bird-like compared to the scope of his strength. Hollow and brittle. You would make for a hell of a supe, though.

Still, he won’t break you. He’s spent his entire life learning what it takes to snap bones like party favors, and more crucially, what it takes not to. Yours are safe from him. In fact, you’re the safest person in the whole world now.

Homelander glides down to a soft landing on your driveway. Your car will be an issue for another time. For now, he walks you to your front door before gently placing you on your feet.

“Believe this is you, young lady,” he says, leaving space for plausible deniability. If it occurs to you to interrogate him about it, it doesn’t show on your face. With hands still softly trembling, you fish your keys out of your purse. He watches you fumble with them for only a moment before he steps in behind you, one hand gripping your upper arm to steady and pause you while the other covers your shaking hand, helping you to slide the key into the lock and turn it.

Your hand fits nicely in his.

“Thanks,” you whisper. It’s the first thing you’ve said since asking him to take you home. He takes the liberty of opening the door for you while he’s at it, swinging it wide to allow you in. You grab his forearm, and he thinks you’re only balancing yourself, but when you don’t let go he steps with you, letting you lean on him as you guide him into your home. He closes the door behind the two of you, smiling to himself.

He may not need an invitation to enter, but it’s charming to have one.

Your movements are stiff, a slight limp to your gait. You fell hard, and the delicate flesh of your knee had ripped apart against the concrete when you were dragged. You hesitate at the stairs, but Homelander doesn’t. You inhale sharply when he scoops you back up into his arms with ease and starts up the stairs. He keeps his gaze ahead, but he can feel yours on him.

“Thanks,” you say again, the word barely more than a hiccup, adjusting his cape over yourself like a blanket.

“It’s what heroes are for.” He smiles. It’s a party line, one he’s said a hundred thousand times before, but you make him mean it. This is what heroes are for. To be worshiped and loved, understood deeper than pop stars and false idols like them. There’s a reverence in your stare that transcends the vapid starstruck way most people look at him. You understand now. You know how much more he is.

He brings you to your bedroom and sets you on the edge of the bed, adjusting his cape back up over your shoulders. You’ve scarcely let go of it since he wrapped you in it. Will you sleep with it tonight? He bets you will. The thought sends a pleasant tingle through him.

“Alright, let’s get a look at those knees,” he says, crouching in front of you. There’s blood running down your left shin. He lifts the edge of your skirt hem just enough to catch a glimpse of shredded skin. It looks rough, dirty and embedded with bits of debris. He blows out a breath. “Got a first aid kit?”

You nod numbly. “Under the bathroom sink.”

It’s odd to see you so subdued. He forgets sometimes that you humans can be as emotionally fragile as you are physically. Surely the death of two measly thugs isn’t enough to break you.

Rising, he moves to your bathroom. He feels slightly unbalanced without the sway of his cape behind him, the garment as integral to his physicality as any limb. He rummages through until his hand lands on a bright red fabric pack with a zipper. He gives it a little toss and catches it, bringing it back to you, alongside a wetted towel. He gives the pack a victorious little shake.

“H’okay, down to business.” Homelander kneels before you, splaying open the kit and placing it on your lap. He’s never used one of these before, but he’s pretended to do it on set. How different can it be? He cups your leg, thumb absently smoothing back and forth on your skin while he uses the towel to gently wipe up the blood, dirt and debris from your shin and knee.

You flinch, tense a moment before you relax. “Homelander, you really don’t have to–”

“Am I doing a bad job?” He asks, glancing up at you through his lashes. There’s a playful lilt to his voice.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, the smallest hint of exasperation in your voice. He’s pleased to hear it. Perhaps you’re less wilted from the encounter than he thought. “I just mean that I can–”

“I know you can,” he says, and this time he definitely sees a flare of annoyance. You don’t like being interrupted any more than he does, but you don’t protest further. He smiles, triumphant, and focuses back on the task at hand, petting you the same way one might soothe a wild animal.

There’s a novelty in doing this for real that he hadn’t anticipated. It’s entirely unlike wiping away congealed red corn syrup from an actor. Your skin is sweeter, softer. He suddenly resents his gloves for the barrier they provide, despite his usual reliance for that very thing. He’s meticulous in flicking out the little stones embedded in your skin, spotting each one with ease.

Next, he tears open the alcohol wipes with his teeth and uses them to disinfect, rubbing at the sores. You flinch, sucking in a loud breath through your teeth. “Oopsy-daisy,” he says, switching to gently patting. He has no real concept of what you’re feeling right now. He’s never had a scraped knee before. The scientists at Vought had to get much more creative in order to gauge his capacity for healing.

He imagines they were disappointed to realize that, once damaged, he healed as slowly as a human.

“How’d you find me?” You ask, snapping him out of his unpleasant reminiscence. Your shock seems to have worn off entirely. You look more present, alert to his every move.

“Heard you scream,” he answers simply, unraveling a roll of gauze. That much is true.

“But how? How did you know where I was?” You push, watching him wind the white material around your knee.

“I didn’t,” he lies smoothly. He’s followed enough scripts in his life to do so very well. “If I’d known exactly where you were, I would have been there sooner. I was minding my business on 5th Avenue when I heard you. Familiar voices can…” He makes a vague gesture. “Cut through the din. Voices I want to hear.”

He thinks he catches you flush at that. Just a touch. He bites back a smirk, pleased with himself. Does it matter if it’s true when it makes you look at him like that?

“I didn’t know your hearing worked like that,” you say, fidgeting with the hem of his cape.

His gaze flickers up every so often to watch your finger pick at the seam, inexplicably charmed by it. “Well, there’s some things not even a super fan can glean,” he teases, securing the gauze with tape. He expects to see a familiar indignation in your expression, but when he looks up, he’s caught off guard by the unmistakable fondness in your eyes.

“I was over the moon when I got my job at Vought,” you say quietly, like you’re whispering in a confessional. “I always wanted to work with heroes.”

“With me?” He pushes, lifting his brows.

Very slightly, you smile. “Yeah. With you.”

“Busted,” he says, his own voice equally soft.

You give him a little nudge with your foot. “Gauze won’t stay by itself. Need to use a roll of self-adhesive wrap,” you say, plucking the beige roll from the kit. He likes the shy warmth in your voice. He would have done much worse to see this side of you. Have the intimacy of your pain, fear and relief all to himself. This glowing affection you’re so full of. He feels drunk on the cocktail of it all.

“Right, obviously,” he says, taking the wrapping from you. “I knew that.”

“Probably should have put a gauze pad under it, too,” you continue, eyes heavily lidded, expression soft.

“Everyone’s a critic,” he laments, affixing the textured bandage around the gauze. You laugh, and the sound of it feels like a space he could belong in.

He checks your other knee, your elbows and your palms, but nowhere else on you calls for anything more than some antiseptic and a few bandaids. With the wrappings secure, he shuffles the mess of supplies haphazardly back into the kit, zipping it up much more bulging and misshapen a state than he found it in. He pushes it under the bed with the towel atop it, standing.

“Good as new. Or close to it,” he says, making a small show of dusting off his hands for a job well done.

You stand, letting his cape slide off of your shoulders for the first time since he put it on you, the fabric pooling on the bed. You step forward, and of all the things he expects in this moment, you blow them out of the water by suddenly wrapping your arms around him, the soft curves of your body slotting against his in a way that trips something primal and needy in him. He puts his arms around you the second the shock wears off, holding you with the barest fraction of his strength.

Tension drains from your body. Were you nervous he wouldn’t reciprocate? It’s an endearing thought. He gives a deeper, brief squeeze. He can’t remember the last time someone held him.

“Thank you,” you say after a long beat, drawing back. He reluctantly loosens his grip, but not by much. He’s loath to relinquish you so soon after he’s gotten hold of you. “It’s not enough, but I don’t know what could ever be.”

I could make a few suggestions, he thinks, but he doesn’t give voice to the lewd thoughts that follow.

“I’ll never forget what you did for me tonight,” you say. Your face is so near to his, it makes it difficult to focus on anything other than the curve of your lips as you speak.

Instead of responding, Homelander leans in, eyes falling shut.

“Oh,” you say sharply, your soft body suddenly going tense in his arms, stopping him in his tracks. Both of your hands are braced against his chest now, creating a distance that feels craterous.

He blinks, brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“I’m really tired,” you say, tone shifting to mild diffusion. It reminds him of the way you spoke to James, and his ego stings with both the rejection and the comparison. He’d laughed listening to you reject that pathetic, simpering man. It seems less funny now.

He scoffs an incredulous little huff. But I saved you, he thinks, indignant panic flaring in his chest. To his dismay, however, the thought doesn’t sound like his own voice. It sounds like James’.

But I paid!

Repulsed, Homelander swallows the thought like bile. If the comparison comes so readily to his own mind, there’s no way you won’t make the connection yourself. He feels his skin prickle like there are fire ants crawling beneath his suit. The memory of James’ pathetic begging is the only thing that keeps his composure together.

“Of course you are,” he says tightly. His smile is forced, slightly too wide. “You should sleep. Rest up. Take the day off tomorrow,” he says stiffly, rattling off lines like they’re pre-recorded. Only then does he surrender his hold on you, hands moving to his hips instead. You take a step back, and he stands straighter to disguise the sting of rejection.

“Thank you,” you say, tone indecipherable. It’s full to the brim with something, but nothing Homelander can parse in his current state. “I–”

“No need,” he dismisses, jumping on the opportunity to end the conversation on his terms. “Really. Just doing my job,” he says, tossing you a little two-finger salute off of his brow, already moving towards your balcony door. You don’t move, watching him from the foot of your bed, arms wrapped around yourself.

“Catch you at the office,” he says. He knows he’s speaking too quickly, but it’s all he can do to keep himself in check. Anger and misery broil in him like vinegar and baking soda, the caustic brew threatening to erupt.

“Okay,” you say, which isn’t particularly what he wants to hear. He turns his back to you, and his smile drops, his ego violently stung. With a force that billows wind through your bedroom, he takes off into the night sky.

You just weren’t ready, he tells himself, gritting his teeth. It’s easier to be angry than embarrassed. He wants to make as much distance between himself and your rejection, flying higher and higher until frost begins collecting on his lashes. He flies until there’s no sound, no oxygen, no life but his own. He flies until gravity releases him and he can finally relax, suspended by cold, vast space.

The earth glows beneath him, reflecting the light of the sun where it illuminates a distant portion of the globe.

Closing his eyes, he tips his head back.

He’ll fix this.

( chapter four )

#heavy breathing #icb i actually did it #tysm to everyone who let me scream and cry at them about this fic as i wrestled nonstop with it #homelander x you #homelander x reader #x reader #homelander fanfiction #yandere x reader #my writing

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naturesapphic · 1 year ago

Text

Billie eilish masterlist

“Isn’t it lovely?”

Where little!fem!reader wants caregiver!billie attention and she ones lovely to reader

Trust

Reader got kicked out of her home and billies family doesn’t fully trust reader but when they see Billie take care of reader, will they change their mind?

Last straw

The reader hasn’t been able to drop into her headspace in a while but she gets in a argument with billies family and drops. What will happen?

Future together

Little!fem!reader and caregiver!billie talks about their future together

Concert

Billie brings out reader on stage to sing to her

Lunch

Lunch lyrics (smut)

Sick

Little!fem!reader isn’t feeling well so Billie takes care of her then billies family stops by and gives Billie some stuff to help

Babysitting to official

Little reader doesn’t have a caregiver so Billie offers to babysit her but what happens when Billie wants to be her official caregiver

Billies passenger princess (smut)

You are billies passenger princess and the both of you become horny for each other

Pressure (smut)

Billie fucks you backstage at the Stephen Colbert show

Tease (smut)

Billie teases her best friend

Rough (smut)

Angry Billie takes her stress out on her girlfriend

Dinner ruined (smut)

Billie and her girlfriend are cooking but soon it escalated to her girlfriend being bent over the counter

Double sided (smut)

Billie tries out something new with her girlfriend

Lunch interview

Billie does a interview about her new album but what does she say when a fan asks her something about lunch that she wrote about her girlfriend

“You are no burden”

You haven’t age regressed in a while but when Something goes wrong. You need Billie but you feel like a burden to her but she doesn’t believe that

Claudia’s YouTube

You and Billie had a cute moment that was filmed by Claudia and was posted on her YouTube

Birds Of A Feather Interview

Billie gets asked who birds of a feather is about and she answers that reader is her girlfriend

Billie’s teasing

Billie teases reader by wearing a strap all day

Kitchen Dancing

Dancing in the kitchen with Billie

First Time pt. 2

Continuation of the lunch interview fic I did. Billie and readers first time having sex

Coloring Tattoos

Caregiver!Billie lets us color in her tattoos while we are regressed

Bad Words

Caregiver!billie doesn’t like when little!fem!reader swears

Fake Date

When Billie goes on the chicken stop date with Amelia and reader gets jealous

“Real Date”

Billie is on the chicken stop date with Amelia but Billie gets a surprise after the “date” when Amelia said she’s going on a real date

Stupid People

Mommy!billie standing up for little!fem!reader when she gets kicked out for being a age regressor

Energy drinks doesn’t help with insomnia

Reader is a law student and has insomnia. What happens when Billie finds her girlfriend sleeping at the kitchen counter looking miserable.

Bratiness

Caregiver!billie punished bratty little!fem!reader

Hot ones: versus

Billie and her girlfriend go head to head with personal questions while trying to avoid eating the hot wings that was prepared for them

Headcannon: Billie helping you through depression and anxiety

Mommy’s Family

Finneas and Maggie babysit little!reader while Billie is out working

Favorite Toy (Sequel to Billie’s teasing)

Reader decides to get Billie back by wearing a sundress without any underwear on and that fuels Billie up

Guess

Billie shows her girlfriend the guess music video and things take a smutty turn

Don’t Stop

Rough car sex with your girlfriend Billie

Softie

Billie being a soft dom to her plus sized!pillow princess girlfriend

Taste Yourself

Afraid

Love

Dom!reader used a strap on sub!billie

Beyond Angry

Angry billie smut

Comfort

Little!fem!reader is fussy and sad recently and finds comfort in Billie's boobs

Headcannon: sub!billie Eilish

Auntie Odessa

At the beginning of Odessa's and Billie's friendship, y/n was jealous but as time went on and when Y/n was in her headspace, Odessa became auntie Odessa

Party Crush

You watched a tik tok of Tara Yummy saying that she has a crush on your girlfriend billie and later on found out that she invited your girlfriend to a party which causes you to get jealous

Just Listen

little!fem!reader is clingy and wants Billie's attention when shes working

My little One

Billie introduces little us to her friends

Letting Go

Billie and reader have been on and off for years until y/n changes her ways while billie does not which causes things to happen

Caught Redhanded

Billie walks in on her girlfriend fingering herself

Bluey

Little!fem!reader loves the show Bluey but is nervous to watch it with her caregiver/girlfriend billie until billie reassures us and later surprises us with bluey toys and items

Headcanons: fem!reader having Tourette’s and how Billie helps

Books and Love

The reader is a famous author who is working on a new book and is stressed about it while also being stressed about that her relationship with her girlfriend billie is a secret

Babysitter Zoe

Zoey is babysitting us when billie is in her studio at home working

French Interview

Reader is French and interviews her girlfriend billie on her new album

Insomnia

billie has trouble with sleeping and goes to her girlfriend for some comfort

Regressed

billie regresses involuntarily and her girlfriend doesn't understand why or what it is exactly and billie gets scared that she will lose her girlfriend

Distraction

Dom!billie gives bratty reader punishment since she was teasing and distracting billie all-day

Mommy? Sorry? Mommy?

Reader jokingly calls billie mommy and things take a smutty turn

Dyslexic

Billie helps her girlfriend out who is insecure about her dyslexia and comforts her

Biker Bils

You go on a bike ride with billie

Older

Billie’s girlfriend is older than her and her friends tease her about it, but one night reader joins in and soon regrets it as Billie snaps and shows her who’s really in charge

Ignored

Y/n having a bad week and it didn’t help that Billie had her friends over when Billie kept saying how busy she was and couldn’t spend time with her so reader snaps and has a big tantrum

Flexible

Billie is flexible because of her past and she uses it to it’s advantages in the bedroom with her girlfriend

Not Real Fans

Billie and her girlfriend’s relationship is public but when reader tells the world about her age regression, that’s when the real hate begins and people send in hate and Billie finds out by reader having a breakdown

Love At First Sight

Billie falls in love with a fan when she’s in Berlin at the Billie wall

Too Much

Reader is besties with dua lipa, who has a big crush on her but reader is oblivious to it, even though dua flirts with her constantly. Billie walks in on it and kicks dua out and shows reader who she really belongs to

Secretly Lovers

Billie and her girlfriend are in a secret relationship that no one knows about besides finneas and Claudia. Their record labels pins them against each other and doesn’t want them to been seen together.

Relapse

Silence is Key

My Strange Addiction

Struggles

Strap Sucking (part three to Billie’s teasing/strap sucking)

Bullies

Billie’s friends making fun of Billie’s girlfriend who age regression

Decorating For Christmas

Billie and her gf are decorating for Christmas for the first time together

Safe Word

Fem!reader has to use their safe word during rough sex

Before The Show

Before going on stage, Billie has her way with us

Peaceful Song

Mommy!Billie sings to her little and helps her fall asleep

Sneaky Link ft. Renee Rapp

Billie, Renee, and fem!reader threesome that turns into a poly relationship

Breed me pt. 2

Fem!reader begs g!p Billie to put a baby in her

Slip at the Grammys

Fem!reader accidentally slips into age regression during the grammys

All Mine

Based on the song All Mine by Brent Faiyaz. Fem!reader never got to cum in her past relationships until she meets her gf Billie eilish

Midnight Snack

Fem!reader craves food in the middle of the night and wakes Billie up

Desperate For Relief

Billie is horny for fem!reader but shes on her period so they have to come up with something else to help with billie's needs

Headcannon: Dom!Billie with innocent!shy!fem!reader

Hot Attire

Billie comes home from doing interviews and when she goes to check in on her girlfriend, she sees her on the bed in her clothes. Which causes Billie to go feral

New hair

Since Billie dyed her hair red, you have been out of your age regression, but when you regress out of no where and see Billie's hair, you don't know if you like it

#billie eilish x you #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie elish icons #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish smut #billie eilish x reader #billie ellish lyrics #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish #billie elish moodboard #mommy!billie eilish x little!reader #mommy!billie eilish x reader #caregiver!billie eilish

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ioniansunsets · 1 year ago

Note

I'm totally understand you about college! Mine is slowly killing me sometimes. Know it's hard, but remember to take a break if you really need one. <3

Oh and if you still talking requests... can I get one with Sett or Kayn, where s/o is jealous about rumoms that they're with Ahri/Akali?

Thank you :3

✖ Heartsteel!Kayn and Heartsteel!Sett With a Jealous Reader ✖

✖ Word Count: Sett 486 Words | Kayn 511 Words

✖ Tags: Established R/S | Hidden RS

✖ A/N: It has been so long I am so sorry omg guess who is FINALLY back to writing now that colleg is done I guess. Oops. Oops. Oops. (But yes I wrote this with a, can’t announce they’re dating yet due to circumstance, in mind)

----

SETT

Sett is understanding beyond anything and a gentleman to boot. He would notice before you even say anything about it. Sett can tell from the slightest change in your behavior that something was bothering you and ask you about it.

—

“ Come on babe what’s wrong, don’t like ya lookin’ all sad like that.”

A gentle grip as he pulls you up from the couch onto his lap. Face nuzzling your neck as he tries to get you to talk. Puppy dog eyes from your lover was all it took to get you to sigh as you spoke about your small…ok maybe, your average sized problems. His face breaking out into a comforting smile as you spoke, adjusting himself so that you could lie into his chest instead as you spoke.

—

Telling him the way fans keep shipping him with Ahri just because the two of them were stunning Vastayans in media would just make him give you a hearty laugh. Arms around you he’d shower you in kisses, telling you not to bother about fans like that.

Of course it doesn’t end at just telling you it’s ok. Sett would do his best to show that you are the only one for him too. When there are interviews or shows within their shared music label Sett would consciously stay a respectable distance from Ahri. (Of course explaining to her his want to stamp down the rumors of which she readily agrees to)

Sett is a gentleman so of course he is nice to the girls still, but all the sweet things extend to you too. Plus, beyond that he gives you special treatment when you two are outside together. Letting you know if he has shoots with her so you can drop by to feel the comfort of knowing there’s nothing to be worried about. Wearing things with your initials, wearing your colors or matching accessories with you whenever he can so that so that it is clear to others that he is taken and is in love with someone else.

He comforts you of course, gently making sure you understand that as a public figure he can’t do much about the things people say and do about him online, but at the least, he can post some subtle couple pictures with you online, telling fans (untargetedly) that he isn’t comfortable with being shipped with other idols.

And later on your relationship, when the situation arises and management approves of announcing his relationship with you, it is you he has in his arms. Hand outstretched to help you out of the limo at a red carpet event. Bright smile on his face as he looks at you with all the love in his eyes as you dress to the nines with him looking both amazing, proudly showing you off to the paparazzi to settle things once and for all. He was taken and he was yours.

----

KAYN

Kayn would notice when he comes back from a dinner function with K/DA to see you looking really pouty at him from the bed. Alright, something was wrong here, the real question is, was it his fault?

—

“ Hey babe um…did I…did I do something wrong? It’s not cos I came home so late right?”

Throwing off his branded jacket to the side, kicking off his shoes, Kayn would slowly make his way over to the bedside, sitting by you as he looks at you concerned. Hand reaching out to comb through your hair to try and console you. The soft feeling of his nails gently scratching your scalp to coax you into confiding in him helped of course. A soft sigh leaving you as you showed him all the posts in the KaynKali tags online. You knew he loved you and they were just childhood friends but still it was tough to see fans ship them together.

—

He laughs first, loudly. Thinking so obviously that you were joking to be jealous of Akali of a people. He only suddenly stops as he sees you hurt and glaring at him frustrated.

Apologizing furiously as he pulls you in for a tight hug. Telling you about how he has no intentions like that with her and she definitely doesn’t look at him that way either. As far as he is concerned they are both furthest from each other’s type, she’s a sister to him and that you have nothing to worry about. Whatever ‘chemistry’ fans see were just their irritated banter between close friends, nothing more!

A smug smile on his face as he peppers yours in kisses, jokingly asking you if you wanted him to post all his couple photos of you guys to social media right now. Sure it would start drama and management would kill him but he loves you and mischief isn’t something he shys away from. The only reason he hasn’t was because he treasures his privacy with you afterall.

With you in his arms he whips out his phone for you to see, sending Akali a text to ask about what she felt about all this only to have her reply with a photo of her flipping him off and blocking him. “ See? Nothing to worry about baby. My love only belongs to you.”

But of course, it doesn’t just end there. He doesn’t hard announce your relationship or anything but whenever you two go out together he happily holds your hand or has an arm around your waist. He doesn’t hide you and proudly shows you off but never making it official until management lets him.

When the time comes and he gets to show you off he does it as showy as he could. Calling you out on stage mid solo performance to lift you up with one arm, lips passionately pressing against yours as a smug smile graces his lips. Announcing proudly to all his fans that you were his and his only.

#anon answer #shieda kayn #heartsteel!kayn #kayn x reader #heartsteel #kayn league #heartsteel!sett #settrigh #sett x reader #heartsteel x reader #DRABBLE #IMAGINES #welcome home i love you league of legends fanfics

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whimsiwitchy · 1 year ago

Text

I hear the secrets that you keep (series)

chapter three: you make me nervous

Pedro Pascal x F!reader

series masterlist

series summary: 24 year old y/n is an insecure and struggling actress in Los Angeles until she finally books a leading role in a big Hollywood movie next to her leading male, Pedro Pascal. A spark of friendship flickers between the two and slowly begins to blossom into something more. As y/n is navigating a new found fame and a new found romance, she fears that a lie she has been sitting on might ruin everything.

Warnings: plus size reader (no specific description of reader, slight descriptions of weight: stomach fat, stretch marks, etc.), hefty age gap (24 years/14 years), female anatomy description, she/her pronouns, use of gendered terms (girl, girly, etc.), y/n used, descriptions of nudity, swearing, use of the word fat, warnings may change as the story progresses.

authors note: Hi everyone. I just posted chapter two a few hours ago but my mind was buzzing with ideas lol. This chapter has a lot of awkward energy so I apologize in advance. Enjoy <3

chapter summary: y/n attends the table read for Risky Disco and gets to know Pedro.

╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗

The week leading up to the table read seemed to drag on. Even though you kept yourself busy, it was like every time you looked at a clock, it ticked slower and slower. You were somewhat grateful for the delay as it gave you more time to prepare yourself for your first day working on Risky Disco. Not only did it delay your first day of work, it also delayed having to see Pedro again. You felt so silly. One ten minute interaction was invading your entire nervous system. To prepare yourself to see him again, you started watching interviews and clips of him acting. You wanted to know what his personality was like so you wouldn’t make a fool of yourself when you two are bound to cross paths fairly soon. Whenever you weren’t working your server job, you were reading through your script or watching videos on Pedro. You felt kind of weird finding out things about him when he would know nothing about you, but hey that’s the price of fame right? People knowing things about someone without that person knowing anything about them.

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The table read was set to start at 9am. So naturally, you were up at 5am to get ready for the day. You took a quick shower and started to decide what to wear. Trying to keep comfort in mind, you scanned your closet for an outfit. Table reads usually include a lot of sitting so you knew you didn’t want to wear anything too tight around your stomach. You hated when you sat and your jeans would dig into your stomach or when your ‘baggy’ jeans tightened around your thigh when it flattened against whatever you were sitting on. You really wanted to look as cute as possible though, for yourself of course, not for anyone else…

You decided to wear a pair of sheer black pantyhose, with black shorts pulled over them, accompanied by a simple black v neck long sleeve shirt. For shoes you wore your trusty pair of classic docs. Once you were dressed, you worked on your hair and makeup, keeping it fairly simple. Looking at the time, it was now 7am. You made a quick breakfast and drank a cup of coffee. After you finished eating, you grabbed a tote bag and filled it with all of your essentials: your script, chapstick, lipstick, perfume, deodorant, and wallet. You then filled up your reusable water bottle, grabbed your keys and made your way out of the door.

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The table read was taking place in the same building as the audition, making it a lot easier to find where to go and park. After parking your car, it was 8:30. You decided to go ahead and go inside. When you walked in, you spoke to a receptionist who told you what room to go to. As you neared the room, you realized that you were the first person here and for some reason that was embarrassing for you. Instead of going in, you lingered near the door and tried to look busy on your phone. After five minutes of opening and closing different apps, you heard someone walking down the hallway. You kept your head down and pretended to text someone so you didn’t look like such a loser.

“Hey, y/n right?”

Your entire body tensed up, you know that voice. You know that voice a little too well after all of your ‘research’.

“I’m Pedro, I read lines with you during your audition.” You finally looked up and you almost let out a gasp. He was wearing a pair of light denim jeans, a basic black t-shirt, and a leather jacket. You let your eyes meet his and you saw that he also sported a baseball style cap with a pair of glasses. In conclusion, he looked good. Too fucking good.

“Oh yeah that’s me. Hi, it’s nice to actually meet you.” You let out the words better than you thought you would. He gives you a smile and raises his hand to offer a handshake. You reach out and latch your hand to his. His hand was soft yet rough at the same time and it engulfed yours in a perfect way. You both let go and stand in silence for a moment.

“So, just us so far?” he asked as he looked around. “Yea, I guess so. I feel like such a weenie getting here so early.” You cringed at your choice of words but Pedro let out a laugh. “Well, I definitely wouldn’t say you're a weenie.” he said with emphasis on the word ‘weenie’. “You’re professional, early is good.” You gave him a thankful smile. “I had this theater teacher that would hound us for not being on time. She would always say ‘early is on time and- ""-and on time is late.” he finishes the phrase for you and the two of you both let out a small laugh. “You hear that a lot in the acting world. Yet no one seems to follow it.” He says while looked down at his phone to check the time.

Silence falls over you two and you start fidgeting with your fingers as a distraction. “Hey, why don’t we go ahead and sit down. We can show off our skills of being on time to all of the late weenies.” He smiles and you laugh at his use of weenie again. Pedro opens the door for you and you let out a quick thank you. As you walk in, you see a large table with name tags in front of each chair. You glance around the table, searching for your name. Once you found it, you made your way to your chair and Pedro took a seat right next to you.

He was so close to you and it was too intense. First he comes in looking like sex on legs, now he’s sitting only a few inches away from you. He smells so good. You wish you could just- “You don’t walk much do you?” he asked as he turned to look at you. You do the same. “Sorry, I don’t want you to think I don’t want to talk to you. I do. I just get weird around new people and don’t really know how to act and I just have horrible people skills in general sometimes. You also kind of make me really nervous.” You shut up and quickly turn to face forward with a blush on your face. “I make you nervous?” He asked. You gave him a quick glance and saw that he had that stupid smirk on his face. You actually can’t believe you just said that out loud. You had never been someone who got the nervous rambles. You usually just give a short answer and keep quiet. You were so humiliated it was unbearable. Luckily, the room began to fill up with other actors and crew members. You felt Pedro shift beside you and your leg started bouncing out of nervous habit.

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The table read was surprisingly uneventful. You had been nervous to read lines back and forth with Pedro but somehow your mind locks in when it’s time to act. You could still feel the intensity, especially when it came to the scene that led up to the steamy moment between the main characters. You just ignored the butterflies and kept reading.

Once it was over, the director gave a little speech and the crew gave us a few notices. Letting everyone know to check their emails frequently for any changes made to the schedule. As soon as they released everyone for the day, you gathered your things and began to make the walk back to your car. Just as you were grabbing your door handle, you heard your name being called. When you looked up Pedro was jogging over to you. “Hi.” He said as he stopped in front of you. “Uhh hi.” You said awkwardly, still embarrassed from earlier. “Would you maybe want to hang out, get to know each other a little bit? We’ll be spending a lot of time together on screen and I would love to get to know you outside of filming and stuff.” All you could do is stand there and look at him. “I’ll try my best not to make you nervous.” He teased as he smiled brightly at you awaiting an answer. “If I agree to this, you have to promise to not make me nervous.” You held your pinky up and he linked his with yours, locking in his promise. You both dropped your hands. “So uh, what do you want to do?” “I honestly didn’t think that far ahead, I was just trying to catch you before you left.” You look down at the ground and think. “I mean you could come to my place. It’s small and there’s not much to do but we can just hang around and talk I guess…” You trail off at the end looking up at him. “Yea that sounds perfect.” There's a pause… “Uh, do you want me to give you my address or something?” “Oh yea here, let me give you my number so you can send it to me.” You pull out your phone and go to create a new contact. You hand your phone to him and he types in his number. When he hands it back, you notice that he set his contact name to ‘Pedro :)’. You smiled a little and opened the message app and sent him your address. “I just sent it. Did you get it?” He grabs his phone out of his pocket. “Yea I got it.” another pause… “Uh okay cool well, I’ll see you there I guess.” “Yea see you there.” He smiles. “Just text me or something when you get there so you don’t get lost in my apartment complex.”

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When you got home and hadn’t received a text from Pedro yet, you ran inside and quickly cleaned up as much as you could and sprayed some air freshener.

‘I’m here :)’

Shit. You checked your appearance in the mirror before running out of the door and down to the parking lot. When you saw him, you started rethinking your entire life that led up to this point. What did you do to deserve having a sexy ass man want to hang out and get to know you?? I mean it’s for work purposes but still, it counts in your head as something more. You saw him get out of his car and make his way over to you. “Hi, um, follow me.” God why did you have to be so weird. “Okie dokie, lead the way.”. Once the two of you reached your apartment, you opened the door and walked inside. “You can take your shoes off if you want, I don’t really care but if you’d be more comfortable you can.” You look at him and he’s smiling at you. “Sorry, I don’t know why I keep rambling.”. You sigh and usher him to follow you to the living room. He takes off his jacket and hat. The sight of his biceps in that tight ass black shirt almost has you drooling. You try to collect yourself as quickly as possible before he notices anything. You take off your doc martens and plop down on the couch. You pat the couch and he sits on the other end. This is so fucking awkward oh my god.

“Do you want anything to drink or something?”.

“No it’s okay, thank you though.”

“No problemo.”

Silence..

“Is there anything specific you want to know or um..” You look at him and quickly look away. “Sorry I'm really not good at meeting new people and being myself.” Your leg starts to bounce. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m the one who should be sorry. You told me you had trouble with new people and I sprung this on you.” His eyes move around the room. “You don’t have to be sorry. I promise I want to get to know you too, I just don’t really know how to do that.”

He thinks for a moment.

“How about we start with what we already know about each other, then we can ask each other questions based on that? Sound good?” You nod.

“I can go first. I know your name is y/n. I also know that you’re 35 and that you’re an actress.” You squint your eyebrows together. 35? Where the hell did he get that from? You think for a moment.. Oh fuck. You completely forgot that Angie said you were 35 to get the audition.

“Oh um yeah. Well I know your name is Pedro, I think you’re 49 but I’m honestly not that sure, and I also know that you’re an actor.” oh yea totally believable that you didn’t know this man's age by adding an ‘I think’ super smooth…

“How long have you been acting?”

“Well I moved here like six years ago, almost seven at this point. I did some theater in high school. So however long that is. This is my first big role though.” “That’s surprising.” “What is?” “That this is your first big role.” “Why do you say that?” “Sweetheart, your audition was incredible. You were a natural.”

Sweetheart

“Oh um thank you. I’d like to think I’m good.” “You are good.” He sets his hand on your thigh and squeezes as he speaks and immediately retracts his hand. You can still feel the warmth of his quick touch and the spot tingles. Your heart is beating at an unhealthy speed. You look down at your thigh and back to his stupid handsome smiling face.

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The two of you continued to talk and get to know each other. You spoke about acting, family, interests, hobbies. Once the conversation flowed more, it was easier to let loose and talk to him without stuttering every two seconds.

Pedro was laughing at something you said when your stomach growled.

“Oh my god that is so embarrassing.” You hide your face in your hands. “No need to be embarrassed sweetheart.” There was that name again. “I should leave soon, I didn’t realize it was so late already.” You really wanted him to stay. “You don’t have to go. I was probably going to order something if you wanted to join me.” You offered hoping he would say yes. “I don’t want to be a bother, I’ll get out of your hair.” “Oh. Okay.”. He stood up and stretched his arms up, making his shirt raise just enough for you to catch a glance at his lower tummy. You quickly looked away and stood up as well.

He put his hat and jacket back on. “Well I should head out.” “Yea.. yea um I’ll walk you out.” You both started walking towards the door. “I’ll see you soon yea? Next time you better not be all shy again you hear me?” “No promises. You make me nervous, remember?.” He chuckles. You open the door for him. He gives you a quick goodbye and then he's gone. You close the door and make your way back to the couch to sit down. You ordered some food and tried to process everything that happened today.

As you were eating, you got a text.

Pedro :)

I had a lot of fun today, we should do it again.

You start to text a reply but before you can hit send, another text comes through.

Pedro :)

Did I mention that you looked really beautiful today?

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Thank you for reading <3

next chapter

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redroomwidows · 1 year ago

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'I got one🙋🏻‍♀️ can’t you do Lee Russell x Neal’s younger sister reader? They’re secretly seeing each other behind his back and Neal walked in Lee’s office about to have sex or always having sex…. Up to you ☺️'

notes: everyone loves a good frenemies sister fic. I didn't go fully NSFW with this, it's just a bit steamy, and I made the reader plus-size cos I do what I like lol. Reader is not mentioned to be adopted or biological so view her as you wish. Lee is already divorced from Christine even if it's set at the start of S2!! Christine is a legend and I stand with her.

warnings: making out, inferences to sex, strong language (I mean come on). NSFW! Semi-public sex (they're in an office in a school in the middle of the day lol) Reader smokes and is described as wearing skirts and makeup. Reader is shorter than Lee. Blood mentions. unedited because I'm sleepy. Lee is definitely out if character because he is HARD to write for.

Lee Russell x plus size!fem! reader

North Jackson High was somewhat of a shit hole. Not a huge one, but there was definitely a mild stain somewhere. Two Principles in two semesters - three if you included the singular day Neal Gamby had walked through the halls - and five English teachers teaching one class in a year. The school was cursed.

That’s what you’d told yourself when you were offered the job as a TA for the next semester of school. Your brother, Neal, had insisted you take it - happy to stop seeing your worried face every day when you visited him at his ex-wife's.

“Look, one Gamby leaves, another enters,”

“That’s bullshit. You’ll be back there in no time,”

He was not, and his newfound friend had practically begged you to join the staff after your interview - you tried to tell yourself it wasn’t because of your brother, or the lowcut top you’d chosen to wear.

A few weeks into your new job, you found that Lee Russell was rather… eccentric. Loud, and unapologetic, he had a strange aura that had you pulled in, ending up with both of you going for smoke breaks in the forest near the back end of the school, and ending up with your cheeks flushed and skirt askew.

You didn’t expect it to take Lee so long to initiate office sex - he seemed like the type - but he was surprisingly sweet when it came to intimacy. As foul-mouthed as he was, it seemed he genuinely liked you.

It had become somewhat of a ritual, that every Friday during your final free period, you’d find yourself in Lee’s office, either helping him plan for his ‘get the teachers to like me scheme’, or bent over his desk, his cock buried in you.

“Long day?” you ask when you enter his office, shutting the door behind you and starting to pull down the blinds: Lee was sitting at his desk, head in his hands.

“Better now you’re here sweetheart,” he grinned, flashing you his teeth, you hum unbelievably and continue to pull down the rest of the blinds, before you can turn to him, Lee has stood up against you, his hands snaking over your curves and to rest over your stomach.

“Lee,” you warn gently, his lips starting to kiss along the right hand side of your neck “You gotta lock the door,”

“I’m just playin’,” he mutters, but there’s a teasing tilt to his voice, you smile, and let your head fall back onto his shoulder “I spoke with Neal today,” he starts

“Can we not talk about my brother whilst you’re trying to get into my pants?”

“Yes ma’am,” he smirks and spins you around, playfully pushing you behind his desk, you let out a soft giggle and lean by the centre of it as he approaches, swaying his hips dramatically before grabbing your face in his hands and pressing a long kiss to your lips.

He pulls away to breathe for a moment and you notice his eyes staying on yours “Hi,”

“Hi,” you giggle “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to see that pretty smile of yours,” that makes you smile more, and he leans in for another kiss, helping you to sit on his desk before his hands rest on your spread thighs to steady himself, he squeezes gently and runs his hand up closer to your clothed core. The small moan you let out allows him to slip his tongue inside, and your arms wrap around his neck, Lee pulls away, smudging your lipstick over your chin, and he returns to your neck, lightly nipping at it.

“Lee,” you moan out “I can’t go out there with hicky’s all over me,”

“I’ll be gentle,”

“You’ve never been before,” Lee lets out a huff of laughter that sends tingles down your spine, he breaths into you ear and speaks lowly

“Never complained before doll,”

“Oh, just fuck me,” you sigh, the foreplay already had you near soaked, and although it was only an hour ‘till the bell rang for the end of the day, you were desperate.

Lee hooks his pinky finger under your chin, tilting your head to look at him “Who’s the principle here darlin’?”

“You,” you breathe out and he grins, his other hand cupping at your sex before he drops your chin and goes to unbutton your trousers, he looks down.

“Jeans really? Miss Gamby, that violates our dress code,” he tuts

“You gonna write me up Mr. Russell?” he groans at that and leans his head back

“Oh you know just how to get a man rock hard darlin’” he presses his lips to yours again, and reopens your thighs, this time actually unzipping your jeans and attempting to pull them down. Your own hands keep themselves busy, unbuckling his belt, and slipping a hand down his trousers to palm at his underwear - he really was rock hard.

“Just been waintin’ to ravish you here,” he mutters, biting at your neck again “Wanna show all those cunts who’s boss,” you use your right hand to make him look up again, leaning in for a harsher kiss, biting at his bottom lip, he groans, tasting his own blood slightly. You two become too lost in your own lust too hear the office door open.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Shit!” you pull back, and turn around quickly, seeing your older brother standing there, jaw on the floor, he slams the door shut.

“What the hell Russell?! You’re fucking my sister?!”

Lee backs away quickly as you wipe the lipstick from your chin, staring to rezip your jeans.

“Well we hadn't quite got to that bit yet, and sometimes she fucks me,”

“Lee!” you scold, he puts his hands up in surrender - causing his trousers to drop down, showing only his underwear “Oh lord,”

“You wear briefs?” Neal questions

“Stop looking at my dick!” Lee exclaims

“You’re practically shoving it in my face!”

“Boys!” you jumps off the desk “Let-”

“Oh, you’re not in the clear here either missy!”

“Missy?! I’m a grown woman!”

“Who’s fucking her boss!” Neal shouts

“Do you want the whole school to know?!”

“I do,” Lee raises his hand

“Not now,”

“And we’re not just fucking Neal, we’re in a loving committed relationship,” Lee places his right hand on your waist and pulls you closer, you look down.

“Your dick’s poking me,” you say bluntly and Neal covers his eyes - finally.

“Pull your pants up Russell, you,” he points “I’m taking you home,”

“I’m technically on the clock…”

“So you’ll fuck him but not go home?”

“Yep,” you nod confidently “Look Neal, I get this is hard - Lee’s your closest friend,”

“He is not -”

“I’m not that fucker’s best friend,”

“I didn’t say best friend did I?! You’re close, okay! And I’m your sister, maybe of you read a book you’d know this happens a lot,”

“What?”

“Ask Amanda, she writes Y/A novels…”

“Getting off track darlin’,” Lee nudges

“Right! Anyway, I like Lee, and I can do whatever the hell I want! So get the hell out so he can bend me over this desk ,”

“Ew!”.

“That’s my girl,”.

#lee russell x reader #walton goggins x reader #x reader #vice principals fanfiction #lee russell smut #walton goggins smut

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bitchesgetriches · 10 months ago

Note

Do you have any style guides for business professional versus business casual dress? Particularly stuff compatible with a plus sized disabled person for whom any form of buttoned pants or bra is downright painful to wear?

Here's our guide for what to wear to work, in general:

What To Wear (and What Not to Wear) To a Job Interview

But your question is making it abundantly clear that our guide leaves a lot to be desired! So let's open it up to the masses. Bitch Nation, what do you recommend @rayneydayss wear for business professional v. business casual?

Did we just help you out? Join our Patreon!

#what to wear to work #business casual #business professional #business attire #career advice

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starlightsuffered · 1 year ago

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Be Professional (Part Two)

Warnings - smut, masturbation, oral (male and female receiving), knife play kinda, hate sex, unprotected sex, using some teeth during oral, denying an orgasm, hair pulling, biting

It had been weeks since l'd debased myself in Timothée's trailer. We'd continued on the press tour and he'd been more annoying than ever. It was as if he were glued to my side, plus he was unnecessarily touchy in interviews. I'd come across some fans writing fanfiction about us and I almost gagged.

I hated him so fucking much. He was so stupidly alluring. He would ruin my career, and he didn't have to care because he was set.

I'd become more cold and harsh towards him. He didn't mind, he was used to it. However, I was able to eventually upset him. He'd asked me to meet him at his hotel room. I'd stood him up. Had I spent the night masturbating to the idea of what would have happened if I went, maybe. He'd been moody since then. He was so pouty I felt like I was working with a toddler.

"Fucking, shit, mother fucker," our director cursed after hanging up.

"What's up?" My teeth were chattering relentlessly. We were in Russia, part of the movie had taken place there, so part of the press tour was here too. We'd been here in the warmer months, but now it was freezing.

"Language barrier," the director cursed. "They only got us two fucking rooms! Plus they're all booked up!"

"What?" I demanded.

"Timothée, you go with y/n, I'll bunk with Ethan," the director pointed to the screenplay writer.

"What?" I nearly shouted. "There is no way l'm-"

"Y/n, I can not do this right now! Stop complaining and room with Chalamet, capeesh?"

"Yes sir," | grumbled. Timothée hadn't said a word.

"The rooms are the size of small apartments anyway," Our director mumbled as he stalked toward the building.

We followed suit.

Finally, Timothée and I were in our large room. There were in fact, not two beds, but I immediately started putting my stuff on the sofa, to signal to him where I was sleeping.

"I need a shower," he said blandly, and went to the huge bathroom. I glimpsed a hot tub as he shut the door.

I heard the water turn off as I finished unpacking. I was planning what l'd wear for the interviews tomorrow, when | heard a sound coming from the bathroom. It was a sort of whimper.

No way! was Timothée Chalamet crying? The mean streak in me convinced me I had to see that. I was so focused on wanting to see my rival broken down, that I didn't think of what he would be wearing, or not wearing, as I opened the door.

Timothée was sitting on the toilet, his cock in his hand. He was biting his lip as he pumped his throbbing length.

His hair was still wet, and sticking to his temples. His stomach tensed and untensed with pleasure.

"What is wrong with you," I cried. He looked up at me in shock.

"Did I, did I forget to lock the door?" He asked sheepishly.

"Yes you did, but not only that. You're masturbating in a hotel bathroom while rooming with your costar! Why do you have so little dignity? Why can't you just be-"

"Professional," he finished for me, while rolling his eyes. "Yes, yes, you've said it all before, but I wasn't the one riding my costars thigh in his trailer now was I."

"Fucking Hell," I threw my hands up. "I have to do everything myself," I snapped as I lunged towards him. He looked scared for a moment before I dropped to my knees.

I took his impressive length into my mouth, immediately bobbing up and down.

"Holy shit," he cried as my tongue circled his head. I used the precum he'd had and my saliva to slip his as far down my throat as possible. He was cursing in French and grabbing at my hair. I detangled his hands from my hair while I continued to suck. He whined at that and I let my teeth graze his sensitive member in a warning. He jumped in pain when I did. Being satisfied with that, I continued my ministrations.

I could feel him pulse and I removed my mouth completely. I wiped my lips with the back of my hand.

"There, two more pumps and you should be good to go. Don't let it happen again," I said and patted his cheek.

He was staring at me in utter disbelief.

I got up and began to walk back into the room. In seconds I was tackled to the bed. A naked Timothée was over me with fire in his eyes. I felt his still rock hard cock pressed against me.

"You're going to pay for that," he snarled. His hands had pinned down my wrists, and I was not fighting that. Why wasn't I fighting him? Why was this happening all over again? Why did I want it to happen?

"Oh yeah?" I goaded. "Gonna offer me your thigh again, no thanks Chalamet. You're the one who is desperate now."

He nearly growled at that, and then he was ripping off my leggings. I actually watched them tear with his violent behavior. Why did watching him ruin my clothing make me wet? What was fucking wrong with me.

He grabbed his bag from the bedside table. On his keychain was a small pocket knife. I gasped as he flicked it open. I felt the cold metal against the skin of my thigh. Now I knew I had to have something wrong with me because I wasn't scared, I was getting even more turned on.

In one swift movement he had sliced the side of my panties. Then went the other side, until the fabric fell away.

"Think you're important enough that someone will try to hurt you?" I snapped. "Is that why you carry around a knife Chalamet?"

Everytime I used his surname instead of his first name, it seemed to anger him more. He dove down and began to devour my pussy. I was arching, but trying my damndest not to moan. I grabbed at his curls, to push him further down. Just as I had, he removed my hands from his hair. Angrily, I put them back and pulled on his hair hard. To my surprise, the pain made him groan into my heat, and tingles went up my spin.

He removed his mouth from my heat then. He meanly bit and sucked on my inner thighs, ensuring I'd have marks to look at later. Without warning he was back to my heat, sucking my clit into his mouth. My orgasm pulsed through me unexpectedly, sending pleasure coursing through my veins. I was arching into Timothée's mouth as I cried out.

He lifted his head from my cunt, eyes dangerous. He was climbing back up to me. He gave me a forceful kiss, messily biting my bottom lip.

"You're trouble, you know that?" He said.

"What are you going to do about that?"

He was suddenly sheathed inside me. It took all I had not to moan at his size. He began to snap his hips at an ungodly speed. He dipped down to let his teeth graze my nipple before sucking on it.

locked my legs around him, and let my nails trail down his back, not caring if it hurt. He bit my nipple and I squealed as pleasure and pain mixed delightfully inside me.

"I've got you right where I want you," he purred.

"Shut up," I gasped. He chuckled darkly.

"When you come, you're going to say my name. Not my last name, my first name," he said in a deep tone. "Do I make myself clear?"

"No," I said, grinding up into him, hoping to make him cum first.

"You will do it!" He snarled.

"You're so egotistical I'm surprised it's not yourself you're fucking," | replied.

"You started it."

"Just shut the fuck up," I whined as he slammed into me particularly hard.

"Admit it, you want my cock. You've only been ignoring me because you're afraid of much you'd love it once you got it," he teased.

"I don't."

"Then why are so close to coming hmm?" He taunted.

"I'm not-fuck!" He'd reached down to touch my sensitive clit. When he began rolling it while he fucked me I couldn't stand it anymore. I couldn't remember not to say it, I was too blissed out. It was like the name was exorcised from my body.

"Timothée!" I cried as my walls clenched and the world went white.

"There we go," he grunted before spilling into me, panting.

When he came down, a smirk covered his lips. I looked at him with disgust.

"I hate you," I told him. He just nodded sweetly and pulled out of me.

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hotchs-big-hands · 10 months ago

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The Slaughterhouse

Part 1|Part 2|Part 3|Part 4

Aaron Hotchner x plus-size fem!reader

8.1k words

Minors dni please

Warning(s): VERY DARK, injury detail, medical descriptions, hospitals, gore, injury, blood, extreme angst, sort-of enemies to lovers, flashbacks, reader and Aaron be going THROUGH IT

Please heed the warnings, although the worst of it is over it's still a heavy series.

An escalating string of gruesomely murdered fat women begin to stack up with no end in sight. What started as an unfortunate routine case for the BAU team, takes a disturbing turn as you become entangled in the unsub's web, danger approaching closer and closer. It's only a matter of time before it's too late to bring the madness to an end.

BESTIES I'M FINALLY BACK WITH THIS SERIES OMG IT'S BEEN TOO LONG. I really hope people enjoy, there's still one more part after this which I hope to work on soon!!! Thank you for sticking by me!

Another hour passed by. Another wave of agony tore through Aaron Hotchner. It was like limbo. Everything was still, unable to move and continue on. It was only the intense pain in his chest that reminded him he was actually alive, but his very soul- his heart- was torn away the moment those ambulance doors closed behind you. He barely remembered much after that, although he was wearing different clothes now. A navy tee shirt under a zip-up black hoodie. Some sweatpants. Even his shoes were not his original ones. What he wore before was gone, the fibres so entwined with your blood they were completely unsalvageable.

All he could do was stare at the floor, head hanging low as he propped his arms up on his knees. Sometimes the spotted linoleum floor would blur into a haze of grey and tears would drop onto his clasped together hands. He'd stopped screaming hours ago, whenever that was. And now he could feel how raw his throat was whenever he swallowed, which caused him to press his lips together tightly to prevent a sob from bubbling over. A part of him knew he wasn't alone in the waiting room, but at this point he really didn't care. He said nothing whenever anyone else in the room tried to talk to him, ask him if he needed anything, to just say something. What was the point? You weren't there.

There was a sigh.

“Aaron, you need to drink something. You'll become dehydrated like this.” He heard Rossi’s voice, but he didn't respond. “(Y/n) wouldn't want you to close yourself off like this and not take care of yourself.”

This time, Aaron sat bolt upright and sneered.

“Don't speak on behalf of her. You have no idea what she would have wanted.” He snapped, glaring at the older man. It was rare for Rossi to lose his calm and carefree self, but now he was staring the unit chief down, nostrils flaring and his hands curling into tight fists.

“Actually, I do know. Do you seriously think she doesn't care about your wellbeing, huh? You think she wants you to torture yourself, to shut down and give up? Come on, you know deep down that's not the case at all.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the haze that had shrouded Aaron.

No one in the room moved, staring at the altercation between the two oldest members of the team with bated breaths.

Aaron couldn't speak, opening his mouth and closing it over and over. Why should he be kind to himself? He got you into this mess, he made the decision to close himself off from you in an attempt to put a stop to the blooming feelings he’d immediately developed for you when you first walked through the doors for your interview. He couldn't have you, Strauss would have his head triumphantly or, far worse, she would terminate you and force you to leave the BAU in shame. He was damned from the start, and by trying to keep you from being damned too he had pushed you straight into the grasp of a monster. He gritted his teeth as fresh tears pooled in his deep, brown eyes and his shoulders slumped defeatedly.

There was a knock at the door.

Before anyone could say or do anything, Aaron shot up and strided across the room to pull the door open. An unfamiliar medical practitioner stood in the doorway patiently, not even phased by the rapidness of the door swinging open. They cleared their throat.

“May I come in? I want to discuss Miss (L/n)’s condition with you all.”

Aaron moved to the side wordlessly, allowing them to walk in and he closed the door quietly. He tucked his right arm under the other whilst his left hand curled into a soft fist, running his thumb over the second knuckle of each of the fingers.

Everyone waited. The doctor shoved their hands into their pockets and their eyes flicked from one face to the next.

“To put your minds at ease, she's alive and stable.” They began. Alive? You were alive?? Aaron’s chest heaved with relief. “However, she lost a considerable amount of blood from the injury and while we were stitching the different layers back together. We are giving her a transfusion, and while we did manage to resuscitate her as quickly as we could each time she coded, we will have to wait until she is brought back around from the induced coma she's in to see if there's any lasting neurological issues.”

“Can we see her?” Spencer croaked, eyes glassy as he studied doctor. They smiled apologetically.

“For now it would be best if there's only one visitor, just in case.”

All eyes were on Aaron then, and he swallowed.

“I don't..”

“Go. You need to go to her.” Emily said softly. There was a mutual sound of agreement and it made his face scrunch up a little as a few tears rolled down his face. With a choked out ‘thank you’, Aaron followed the doctor out of the waiting room and down the corridor. They stopped at a private recovery room, the last coherent thing he had demanded for you to have, and he drew in a shaky breath.

“Here we are. I'll give you some privacy.” He heard the doctor say and he shakily reached for the door handle, turned it and pushed it open.

“Oh…” his voice cracked and he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and shutting out the chaos of the outside world.

Laying still looking ashen on the crisp white bed sheets, was you. You were connected to several machines, at least one of them beeping periodically and accompanying the only other sign you were alive; the soft rise and fall of your diaphragm. You looked so frail, so easily shattered by the smallest touch. As he tentatively stepped closer he spotted your injured thigh sticking out from under the sheet with a large dressing covering it. He swallowed back a sob and stopped at your bedside. He didn't know what to say. And so he reached down and took hold of your hand, the one without an intravenous line in it, and cradled it in his own. The tips of your fingers were a little cold.

“God… I'm so, so sorry, sweetheart. I-” Aaron whimpered when he felt tears dribble down his chin and drip onto his hoodie. “This is all my fault.”

He wanted you to open your eyes, much like people always did in movies and TV shows, to reassure him that it was okay; you were okay. But he was met with the beeps of the monitoring machines helping you to breathe in your coma. He fucking hated this.

Carefully, he grazed his thumb over the back of your hand and gazed at your peaceful face. He would never forget the look on your face back in that wretched slaughterhouse. The fear, the absolute agony… He began to cry again.

“I-I-, fuck! I do like you, okay? I know I've done the worst job at showing this. No, I did it intentionally. I-” he scrunched his eyes shut and he breathed shakily. “I have feelings for you, feelings I shouldn't have as your boss and yet I have always had them. I thought I was…. I thought if I kept you at a distance it would save you from getting into trouble with Strauss.” He said softly.

As gently as he could, Aaron lifted your hand up, meeting it half way by bending down, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it.

“I'll make this right, okay? I need you to rest and recover, sweetheart. And then I'm going to do whatever I can to make it up to you.”

For a while he stood beside you, admiring your beauty. Even in the fragile state you were in, you were beautiful. He'd always known and thought you were beautiful.

And then the moment he dreaded came to be when he heard a knock on the door behind him. His lower lip wobbled and he squeezed your hand a little, desperately.

“Mr Hotchner? I'm very sorry, but visiting hours across the hospital just ended.” It was a different voice this time, a feminine voice. He didn't pull his eyes away from your unconscious form.

“I want to stay. Please.”

“I-”

He finally turned his head to the doorway and he sniffled sharply.

“Please, I need to- I can't leave her.”

He didn't care if the nurse pitied him, nothing mattered except staying with you now.

She nodded slightly.

“Alright, I'll ask someone to bring a cot in for you.” She said and closed the door behind her as she left. Aaron turned back to you and pressed another kiss to the back of your hand, but this time his mouth lingered for a little longer.

At first there were shadows. Simultaneously the blur was both burningly bright and too dull to make out refined shapes. Then came the sound. It was garbled, an indecipherable mess until one sound cut through the rest.

A beep. A constant, irritating beep. It grew faster when frustration swelled through this place of limbo, only to fade into the void when unconsciousness cloaked everything once more.

It was a continuous dance between mild awareness and nothingness, feeling infinite and tiring and confusing. There was no such thing as time. It didn't exist in this place.

Then finally, finally everything began to slide into place, piece by piece.

And yet, that fucking beeping would not stop.

Your eyelids slightly scrunched tightly; the beep, the light that was now trying to force it's way through the cracks hurt your brain. Angered you. You wanted to yell.

A hiss escaped you, a low noise that coiled warm air back over your face. What the fuck..?

“Oh my god.” Someone spoke. Someone was there. You wanted to reach out to them, to tell them to switch off whatever was beeping incessantly at you. But your body felt like stone, too sluggish to move.

Now, you realised something was on your face. Constricting your mouth and nose. You tried to reach up and push off whatever it was but all you could manage was a twitch of your finger. Slowly though, your sense of awareness returned to you and mustering all your strength you finally began to open your eyes.

The world was blindingly bright. It burned and you snapped your eyes shut again.

“....hh…” you breathed against the restriction on your face; you needed it off as soon as possible.

“She’s doing her best, just give her a moment.”

You forced your eyes to stay open this time, finding the world to be a blur of colours melting together.

“C… s….”

A blur of dark colours filled her vision, blocking the overhead light from hurting so much.

“What was that? Try saying it again.” Definitely a familiar woman's voice. You blinked a few times to try clearing your vision but it didn't work.

“Can't see… blurry….”

The blur moved slightly.

“Oh, has anyone got some tissues? Her eyes are full of gunk.”

There was movement in your peripheral and then something soft pressed lightly down on your eyelids.

“I'm going to clean your eyes, okay? Just try to stay relaxed.” The voice said. The tissue felt ticklish on your skin and your face twitched whenever it brushed over a particularly sensitive area. Eventually, you were able to make out proper shapes, albeit still slightly blurry but enough to tell what it or who it was.

“E-Emily?” You rasped, throat as raw as sandpaper. It made you cough, only adding to the pain.

“Easy now, your throat is gonna be sore.” Your dear, dark haired friend Emily murmured. “You want some water?”

You nodded slightly, but it was enough for her to understand. She turned her head to address someone else in the room, and you struggled to see who else was there.

“You lift the mask, I'll bring the straw to her mouth.” Her eyes flicked back to you and she smiled gently.

“JJ’s gonna lift the mask up now, okay? Just hold still.”

On your other side JJ approached and beamed down at you, her eyes shining with tears.

“Hey.” She managed to choke out at the same time as her fingers carefully pried the mask off your face. Ah, so it was an oxygen mask then.

Emily pressed the straw to your lips and you accepted it gratefully, slowly sipping mouthfuls of the cool water. God, in that moment it was the most delicious and refreshing thing you'd ever had. You could only have a bit at a time, too big of a gulp hurt your throat, but the smaller sips were manageable. With the added hydration to your body you were able to clear your throat enough to speak a bit better.

“P-please help me sit up…” you whispered.

Emily smoothed her hand over your forehead comfortingly as her smile turned more apologetic.

“Sorry, (Y/n). Gotta wait for the medical staff. Morgan and Reid went to go fetch them.”

You nodded in understanding and closed your eyes for a moment.

“Wh…where's…”

“Ah! Miss (L/n)! It's so nice to see you awake.” A clear, cheery voice said. Your eyes opened again and you were met with the sight of an older woman, most likely in her late forties dressed in a nurse’s uniform standing at the foot of your bed. “My name is Kelly! How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Emily choked, bug-eyed along with JJ and you could have sworn you heard Derek chuckle nearby. You winced a little. “Sorry, that was rude.”

Luckily, Kelly laughed lightly and shook her head.

“No you're fine, sounds about right. Do you know where you are, Miss (L/n)?”

Your brows furrowed slightly as you tried to recall anything from before.

“I know I’m in a hospital, but that’s all.”

The nurse nodded and came over to you to take your vitals. Emily and JJ stepped back out of the way but they kept their eyes on you, the other members of the team, minus one came to stand nearby.

“Are you in any pain?” Kelly asked you as she pulled the blood pressure monitor over to your bedside and carefully applied the cuff around your upper arm, then pressed the button to start the cycle off. You sighed.

“I…I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?” She raised her brow at you. Whilst she continued making observations, making a note of them as she went.

“I haven’t moved so far, so I’m okay.”

“We’ll help you sit up if you’d like in a moment. I’ll ask again after that.”

Your eyes drifted around the room with every passing moment bringing out the clarity of everything. Where…where was he?

The machine beeped to signify the cycle was complete and the tight grip of the cuff released, letting you relax better. Kelly took note of it and smiled at you.

“Well, so far I have no worries about your condition aside from some confusion, which is understandable. But let’s try and sit you up now.” She turned to the others then. “Do any of you want to help? I’ll tell you where to hold her and when to lift.”

Derek approached your bedside with his usual charismatic grin that even in the state you were in right now, you couldn’t help but smile in response.

“C’mon, sugar. Let’s get you upright and comfy.”

The nurse made quick work of guiding him where to hold you, and when she took hold of your other side she turned her attention to you.

“This may cause your stitches to feel like they are being pulled when we move you now, okay? We’ll be as swift as possible though and I’ll assess what to do next, depending on how it goes. Does that sound okay?”

You nodded, just wanting it to be over with.

“Okay… In three, we are going to lift her upper body up and pull her back. Someone please grab the pillows and hold them further up to support her back.”

Emily rushed over and smiled at you reassuringly, and at the count of three you were hauled upwards and adjusted to sit upright.

Oh, how your thigh screamed pure pain. It was only when you noticed the horrified expressions on your friends’ faces that you realised you had screamed. But in that moment you hardly cared, curling over in agony as tears immediately sprung up in your eyes. The nurse sprung into action immediately, pressing the support button and ushering everyone away from the bedside.

It was like fire, like knives, like claws. Tearing and ripping and destroying the nerves on the entire left side of your body. You couldn't stop crying, wailing when hands reached at you to stop your thrashing. And then it was as though a switch was flipped and you calmed, laid still and Kelly appeared into view.

“We've injected a sedative in you to help you relax and we'll give you some strong pain relief now.” She said and took hold of your hand gently. “You may feel sleepy though, is that okay?”

All you could do was nod as stray tears dribbled down the sides of your face and soaked into the pillow below your head.

There was a moment longer of the blinding pain, then it slowly began to ease a little and your eyes felt a little droopy. You weren't sure what was going on for a while, only hearing snippets of conversation further away from your bed which made your brows furrow.

“...not leaving until we at least keep her updated...”

“...staying here with her until she's ready…”

Your eyes flicked to the side when you spotted the oldest member of the team sidling over, and he laid his hand on the side of your head carefully. He offered a tired smile.

“Hey kid.”

Your lower lip wobbled.

“It was bad, wasn't it? Whatever happened.” You croaked. The man leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead and sighed.

“Do you remember anything at all?”

You scrunched up your brows as you tried to remember back. The dull ache in your thigh brought it all to the forefront of your mind and your chest heaved with a quiet sob.

“What the fuck,” you cried softly as you gazed up at Rossi tearfully. The man brushed his hand over your head and allowed you to grab onto his arm for comfort as you let out everything you were feeling.

“I know. You’re gonna be okay, kid.” he soothed. You couldn’t remember it all, only flashes. But it was enough to leave you feeling like you had been shattered into a thousand pieces.

At one point Rossi produced a handkerchief for you to use, refusing when you tried to give it back instead of using it. And so you cleared your face with it, breathing deeply in and out to calm yourself down again. When you finally reached a point where you wouldn’t immediately break down again you noted the nurse was gone and your friends stood around your bed.

“We asked for a little more time, and one of us is gonna stay overnight with you.” you heard Derek explain but you sniffled as your eyes darted from face to the next.

“Wh…where is he? Where’s Hotch?”

There was a shared glance; the absence of the BAU’s leader was uncomfortably prominent. Rossi spoke again.

“Strauss called him in. Actually, he had been staying here up until just a day ago.”

Huh?

“What…?”

You were confused.

“Yeah, slept in the little bed over there since you came out of surgery.” Spencer said. But it didn’t make sense to you.

“W-why? That’s-”

Emily raised her brow at you as she folded her arms across her chest.

“That’s what?”

“Weird as hell.” You finished, frowning as your eyes flitted to the bed that lay closer to the ground than the one you were in. He had stayed there?

“Why’s that, sugar?” Derek asked you and you blanched.

“Because he’s Hotch, duh.” Your eyes drifted down to your hands that were now curled into fists in front of you. “Probably was waiting around for me to wake up to tell me off for being reckless.” You muttered dully. The room fell quiet then, aside from that maddening beep.

“You really don’t remember much from what happened, do you?”

Your eyes flicked to JJ, who appeared almost distraught.

“Not really. I-I take it I’m forgetting something important.”

“We should let it wait for now. It isn’t a good idea to overwhelm you with too much information.” Rossi cut in, sending a pointed look to the others. Well, you certainly didn't like that. You swallowed thickly.

“I wanna know what happened.”

Rossi eyed you.

“Not right now. Your priority is resting and recovering.” He said more firmly. You slumped slightly in defeat; there was no point in crossing him. Tiredness washed over you and you sighed, realising you were going to be recovering for a while. Derek took hold of your hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Hey, babygirl’s gonna video call you tomorrow, she’s missed you so much and been crying on the phone to me about it all.” He said, then chuckled. “But don’t tell her I told you that part.” He then winked and you scoffed tiredly.

“I’ve missed her, too.”

Day by day you slowly recovered, getting to the point of using crutches to move around a little bit, and for a week a different member of the team stayed with you overnight in the hospital- something you were very grateful for with the nightmares that had begun to tear through your sleep. But as life goes, they couldn't stay forever and eventually the call came in to summon them all back to Quantico.

“I don't like the idea of leaving you here alone.” Emily said after the text came through. It had been her turn that night to stay with you. You shrugged.

“Criminals aren't going to stop just because we're one member down, Em.”

“I know, but… We're all so worried about you. You- you didn't see what we witnessed when we found you.” She trailed off and you could see her fighting off the urge to cry. You reached out and took her hand gently, rubbing your thumb over the back of it.

“Hey… I'm-I’m okay, yeah? I'm in safe hands. And before you know it I'll be back in town.” you tried to smile at her, which she appreciated but could barely return the gesture.

It had been a week since then, and finally you were being discharged. The idea was to have whoever was available from the team to fly back over to you and stay with you in a hotel for a few days, just to be sure all was stable, then return to the home state together. You had no idea who it would be though, it was highly dependent on the nature of whatever case the team was on at the time.

You sat waiting, perched on the edge of the hospital bed you'd been living in for the past while now, when there was a knock on your room door. You shifted on the bed carefully, keeping your thigh secure as you moved, then called out.

“Come in!”

There was a pause, then the handle turned and the door pushed in. Your breath caught in your throat. Hotch stood in the doorway, just as breathtaking as ever wearing some dark jeans and a dark blue button down shirt underneath a casual jacket. Cautiously, he stepped into the room.

“Hey, (Y/n).” He said. Your hand grabbed the untidy bedsheet tightly.

He had referred to you by your first name.

“S-sir.”

His face twisted into an expression you hadn't seen on him before for a split moment, then it returned to his normal stoicness. He cautiously approached the bed, stuffing his hands into his pockets and his eyes darted around the room. Was he nervous? Why?

“I'm taking you to the hotel, then home.”

You nodded. What were you to say to him? You sniffled loudly.

“I… I’m sorry for what happened, sir. I hope there wasn't too much paperwork.” You mumbled. Hotch looked at you, bewildered.

“What? You don't need to worry about that.”

“But-”

“Please don't stress yourself out over it. I've handled it. Everything is fine.” He cut you off gently. What in the fuck was happening? You expected to be reprimanded, to lose your job, for him to be cold and angry at you. But this?

You sighed gently and the nurse entered the room with your discharge paperwork. She smiled sweetly at the both of you.

“Ah, I see your boyfriend was able to return to take you home!”

The both of you tensed up as your eyes flicked to one another, then as Hotch opened his mouth to speak you beat him to it.

“Oh no, he's not my boyfriend. He's my boss.” You said quickly, returning your gaze to the nurse and immediately a look of horror crossed her face.

“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to assume.” She handed over the paperwork to you and gave you an awkward smile. “Here's your paperwork, I'm going to get you a wheelchair to take you downstairs, then you can continue on your crutches.”

You nodded and thanked her, then sat quietly avoiding looking at the man opposite you. He shifted from one foot to another whilst you messed with the crutches propped against the side of your bed.

“I wanted to get back sooner instead of making you stay here alone.” You heard Hotch say after a moment. You lifted your head slightly to look at him. The expression on his face struck you, you'd never seen such remorse from him before. Well, at least not aimed at you. You shrugged.

“That's how it goes in this line of work.”

“No, it really doesn’t.”

You stared at him; your brow twitched.

“I…”

The nurse returned then with a wheelchair and the both of you turned your attention to her approaching figure.

“Here we are! Right, let’s get you into the wheelchair now.” The nurse glanced at Hotch. “Are you able to help?” She asked, more cautious this time. He nodded.

“Of course, yes. Tell me what you need me to do.” he responded sincerely. She eyed him for a moment longer, then nodded once.

“We are going to support her from under her armpits and lift her up to stand after I lower the bed.”

She took hold of the remote that controlled the hydraulics of the bed and lowered it to the correct level for you to stand. The both of them prepared to help you then, slinking an arm under your pit and round your back securely. While you were still wary of Hotch, confused by his sudden change of heart, you still had feelings for him and the sensation of his arm around you was something you’d had craved for so, so long. And as you pushed up off the bed to stand you winced at the sharp pain in your thigh, burying your face in Hotch’s chest as you whimpered.

“Easy, you’re okay.” you heard him say softly, his thumb rubbing against your back soothingly.

He didn't let go, not even when you were finally sitting in the wheelchair. Instead moving his hand to your arm comfortingly. The nurse didn't question it.

“Alright, I have a got you your prescription of pain medication here, I'm putting it on top of your discharge papers. You're able to leave when you're ready now, Miss (L/n).” She said and you nodded tiredly.

“Thank you…”

She smiled and moved to the side to allow Hotch to wheel you out.

“You take care now, okay? Call us if there's anything you need.”

You nodded at her and offered a weak smile in return, then Aaron began to wheel you out of the room. You lost track of the many winding corridors you travelled down to reach the exit, but soon you were outside and you breathed in deeply when the air hit your face.

“God… you forget how nice it is when you go outside.” you said softly. Aaron hummed and directed the wheelchair to the car he must have hired- much lower to the ground than an SUV, that you were worried would have been your mode of transport. He locked the wheels in place and took hold of your crutches with one hand while the other hooked around your back to help you stand.

“Squeeze as tight as you need to onto me.” You heard him say, then when you were ready to try you pushed up from the chair painfully, wincing and once again burying your face against his chest.

“F-fuck- hurts-”

“I know, swe- (Y/n), I know. You're doing very well.” Aaron murmured as he passed you your crutches. You thanked him and rested your weight on them, taking it off your poor leg instead. He pushed the chair out of the way and opened the passenger door open for you and helped you lower down onto the chair slowly. It was all so painful still, straining your wound site and sending sparks of pain up and down the side of your body. By the time you were belted in you were exhausted.

Hotch nudged the brakes off the wheelchair and grabbed the handles, then turned to you.

“I'm going to take the chair back. I won't be long, okay?”

You nodded and he bumped the car door with his hip to close it for you. You sighed softly and settled back into the chair. You weren't so sure what to think of feel right now.

“I'm going to order food in, what would you wanna eat?” Hotch asked you hours later. You were sitting up on one of the beds in the twin room you were sharing with him now. It was a different hotel to the one you'd stayed in for the case, more luxurious and you were on a floor much higher than the room you had been staying in at the other hotel.

You sighed softly.

“I'm not really sure. What places are there available in the area?”

The man crossed the room to you and held out his phone, showing the food delivery app to you.

“I think it might actually be easier if you take a look than me reading them out. There's quite a lot.” He said with a barely there smile. He… It made your stomach feel funny and you looked away quickly, taking the phone off him with a quiet ‘thanks’.

“You have any preferences?” You glanced in his general direction, keeping your eyes away from his face.

“I will find something on the menu wherever you choose. Don't worry about it.”

“Alright then…”

You heard Hotch sigh and he moved to sit on his bed, perching on the edge facing you.

“Is something wrong?” He questioned you. You continued scrolling.

“I'm tired and in pain. That's all.” You knew you sounded unconvincing.

“Please don't lie to me.”

You finally turned your head and looked at him, lips pulled downward.

“Well then I don't want to talk about it. Please leave it alone, sir.”

He stared at you and his brows began to furrow deeply. His jaw clenched slightly.

“(Y/n). When I thought you were going to die, I-” He cut himself off, swallowing thickly and his left hand curled into a fist and his thumb began to stroke across his second knuckles. “I was fucking terrified. Seeing you like that, I don't think I'll be able to forget it.”

You stared wide eyed at him for a moment in silence. You didn't expect this, didn't think he cared this much. In the artificial light of the room you could spy the glint of tears threatening to spill from his sad, brown eyes.

“S-sir… I-I didn't realise you felt so strongly about it.”

He sniffled and lifted his hand to wipe his eyes with his thumb and fingers. You bit your lip, trying to stop it from trembling.

“That's also my fault. I kept pushing you away and this is what happened as a result.” He mumbled. The room was quiet for a while, the hum of the AC filled the silence as you stared at the man before you. Far gone was the person you'd come to expect and were used to, the closed off and cold unit chief who would barely do so much as stiffly discuss work with you when he needed to, in his place was a man filled with regrets, with concern and an emotion you couldn’t recognise. Or at least, you didn’t want to. For all you knew you’d be misinterpreting things and your heart just couldn’t take it.

You sighed.

“What happened? I only remember parts, the others won’t budge when I ask them.” You finally settled on, hoping he would be the one to bring you from solitude. He shifted on his bed and you opened your mouth to push for answers, when he spoke.

“The day you were kidnapped, we found another victim’s body- Carla Reynolds- who you’d spoken to a few days prior. Your FBI badge was with the body and- and you blamed yourself.” He paused, letting the words sink in. You remembered her, and you remembered the state her corpse was in when you visited the body dumping site. Hotch noted the tremble of your hands and his brows creased. “If you need me to stop…”

“No. No, I- I need to remember.” You cut him off and curled your hands into fists. He was quiet for a moment, then nodded.

“You- you fell into a dark place of blaming yourself. You tried to remember faces from the day you interviewed her but you couldn’t. Her parents were let in and they confronted you when you were by yourself. I-“ he clenched his hands into fists and dropped his gaze. “I should have said something then, did something. And when you snuck out of our hotel room with the car keys from my jacket that night? My heart sank.”

Oh… it was coming back to you now. Your lower lip trembled.

“He… he had a knife at my back when you called me. That’s why I, um, ended the call.”

“(Y/n)…”

You dipped your head and wrapped your arms around yourself.

“I’m sorry for the stress and grief I put you all through, I just… I didn’t think straight at all. I- I’ll understand if I do lose my job based on my actions during this case.” You mumbled and you clenched your jaw in an attempt to stop yourself from crying. You heard Aaron sigh, then a moment later the mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down beside you.

“Hey, I have no plans on doing such a thing. You’re a valuable member of the team and terminating you would be not only a poor decision, but also hypocritical.” He closed his eyes for a moment and laid his palm against his forehead, breathing deeply. “I think everyone on the team has done something reckless, including myself. And yet we’re all still here in the team.”

He could see you were not entirely convinced from the way you fussed with the hem of your shirt and the wrinkle of your nose. But you were tired and hungry and just wanted to sleep. And so you picked his phone up from where you’d set it down beside you when you curled up earlier, and chose a random restaurant to order from and picked something. You offered his phone back to Hotch and avoided his gaze.

“I chose something. It’s your turn to now.”

His fingers barely brushed against yours as he reluctantly took the phone back and you gritted your teeth a little, trying hard not to show a response to the touch. Hotch sighed again, but didn’t push the unresolved conversation for he could see the exhaustion weighing in on you. You knew he wouldn’t let it slide forever, though.

Little by little, you began letting your guard drop slightly around Hotch. While you still felt uncertain about him, questioning if he really had cared about you all this time, hearing his soft voice as he checked in on you at your apartment and brought you groceries to cook meals for the week for you. It was, frankly, weird. But not an unpleasant weird. It had your feelings for the man in turmoil though, what should you be feeling towards him, if it was perhaps something to still cling onto.

There was always a certain look in his eyes whenever he visited you; a sadness, the look as though he had much to say but not knowing how to, or if he even should say. You never brought it up.

The others would stop by as well, especially Penelope with her being in the area all the time. Sometimes they’d all visit at the same time, having a group dinner and helping you around the apartment- even when you at first protested. Thinking back on it, you weren’t so sure why you were so reluctant to let your friends help you. They’d been so supportive and caring, and you felt as though you were close to being back on your feet in a way. Nightmares plagued you though, tearing through the night mercilessly and leaving you more exhausted than you’d started out. You had yet to make any of them aware of it, not quite ready to talk to them about what you experienced. Sooner or later you would have to if you wanted to return to work smoothly.

It was a few months later when things took a turn. After another round of extensive physical therapy and talking to a psychiatrist, Aaron had brought you back home- as he always did after such appointments if he could- to make sure you were okay. You never asked him to attend any of them, he had took it upon himself to see to it if he wasn’t away with another case. Part of you was curious as to why, but decided against asking. It was… nice having him care about you like this.

He was finishing up washing the dishes (despite your protests) after the two of you had shared a meal again when your phone began to ring. You picked it up and raised a brow at the number; it wasn’t one in your contacts. The area code was for Virginia though and you decided to answer it.

“I’m gonna take this call, s-Aaron.” You murmured softly to him and he nodded.

You swiped to answer and held the phone to your ear as you walked through to the living room.

“Hello?”

“Hello, this is Section Chief Erin Strauss. Is this (Y/n) I’m speaking to?”

A chill shivered through you. What on earth was she calling you for?!

“A-um yes! It is, yes. Uh, how can I help you, ma’am?” You answered quickly.

“Upon your return to work tomorrow, I would like you to report to my office first thing. Is that understood?”

That wasn’t good.

“Y-yes, ma’am. I can do that. Is that all?”

“Yes that is all. I hope you have been recovering well, agent (L/n). I’ll see you tomorrow, good bye.”

The line disconnected before you could say anything else and for a moment you merely stood rooted in place.

“(Y/n)?” You heard from behind you, snapping you out of your trance. Turning to face Aaron, you blinked at him. You noted the front of his shirt had damp patches from where the water in the sink had splashed onto him as he washed up.

“Mm?”

“Who was that on the phone?”

You were quiet, debating what to say to him. His brows creased as he stepped closer, concerned about the extending silence.

“You don’t have to tell me, but I just want to make sure you’re-“

“Strauss!” You blurted, stopping Aaron in his tracks. “It- it was Strauss. Wants me to um, visit her in her office tomorrow when I arrive back.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed now as he folded his arms across his chest, covering up some of the damp splotches on his shirt.

“Do you know what she wants?”

“No… do you?”

He shook his head as you and dropped his gaze.

“Listen, tomorrow… when you return to the office. I want you to come to my office whenever you have the first opportunity to do so. I will issue you your new FBI credentials and your gun.” He said sincerely. You nodded.

“Sure, I can do that.”

“That isn’t all.” He moved closer towards you and laid a hand on your shoulder, causing your breath to catch in your throat. “I have something I need to discuss with you, it’s important. As well as that, I want you to know that if anything becomes too much; come to me and tell me. You’ve been through a hell of a lot, it’s okay if you struggle to find your footing.”

He squeezed your shoulder gently and you finally found the ability to breathe again, nodding quickly as you glanced away bashfully.

“Y-yes. I- I can do that, sir- Aaron.”

A slight smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you.” He said softly.

You were almost nauseous with stress and worry as you rode the elevator to the correct floor. It was hard to remember the last time you’d been here. but it wasn’t even just the nerves of returning to work after so long, you were on the way to talk to Strauss. You’d hardly slept that night after Aaron left your home, instead wracking your brain as to what she could possibly want to talk to you about. As the elevator dinged, you knew you didn’t have anymore time to think about it.

Briskly, you walked towards her office, avoiding other people who were at the office as early as you were. You hadn’t looked through the glass doors to the bullpen yet, you weren’t ready.

Standing outside Strauss’ office, you knocked and waited. Every second that ticked by felt like an eternity, then the door swung open to reveal Erin Strauss. She smiled slightly at you.

“Hello agent (L/n). Do come in.” She greeted you and held the door open wider for you.

You stepped inside and listened for the quiet click of the door shutting behind you, followed by the muffled clack of her heels on the carpet as she walked back towards her desk. She gestured to the chair opposite her desk as she settled into her seat and you quickly moved to sit down.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She knitted her fingers together in front of her and studied you for a moment.

“You must be wondering why I called you in today before you headed into the office.” She said. You cleared your throat and drew in a deep breath.

“I am, yes.”

“I want to commend you for your bravery first of all, but also offer my sympathies for what happened to you. If there is anything I can do to help you, you need only ask.”

You shifted in your seat and nodded slightly, keeping your head bowed.

“Thank you.”

“That isn’t the only thing I brought you in to discuss though.” The shift in tone caused you to stiffen and you felt a throb of pain in your thigh.

“Ma’am?” You lifted your head to look at her.

“During your… predicament, James Humphrey had a camera set up recording, just as he had done with his other victims.”

She paused for a moment whilst you processed this information, a coldness settling within your core. She continued after a moment, her face expressionless.

“While I have not watched it, I have read the transcripts and I am concerned with what I have read. So I need you to be honest with me when I ask you something: what feelings do you have for agent Hotchner?” She asked, staring at you. Your entire body froze up, eyes wide in alarm.

What?

“M-ma’am, I don’t understand… what has that got to do with-“

Strauss pulled out a piece of paper from a casefile you hadn’t originally noticed was sitting on her desk and began to read from it.

“James said ‘wearing these cute lil’ frilly panties for your boss?’ And you didn’t respond at first, which urged him to continue and you both argued about it. That is until he says ‘You seriously think no one sees it? It’s pathetic really, you being desperately in love with your boss and craving even an ounce of praise from him.’ And even mentions the two of you had been sharing a bed.”

You stared at her in horror, struggling to comprehend any of this, or even why she was bringing it up in the first place. The pain in your thigh throbbed more intensely, to which you pressed your lips together tightly. She continued, eyes scanning the paper.

“That isn’t all, agent (L/n). Later on, when the team did reach your location, you said to agent Hotchner that you have ‘always liked him more than you should’ which, added to everything that transpired beforehand, leads me to believe you have inappropriate feelings for him.” The woman concluded, returning the piece of paper to the casefile.

And all you could do was stare at her.

Was she truly more concerned about this over the fact you had been tortured and almost died?! Besides, you had no memory of-

Your heart lurched in your chest and your hand trembled slightly. It had all come flooding back, the memories of it all, the realisation you had practically confessed to Aaron Hotchner on what you believed to be your deathbed. You swallowed thickly.

“I…”

“So I will ask you again, agent (L/n). What feelings do you have for agent Hotchner?” Strauss asked impatiently now and you felt as though you were on the brink of throwing up.

“M-ma’am, I-“ you closed your eyes for a moment and exhaled. “I- I do have feelings for him. B-but I have never and will never let that interfere with mine or his job-“

“That is not what I asked.” The woman cut you off and you closed your mouth quickly. “You do know about the policies surrounding fraternizing with colleagues, especially that of your superior, yes?”

You nodded and clenched your hands into fists in your lap, fighting the urge to look away.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you’ll know it is not acceptable to have feelings for agent Hotchner, your superior, nor would it be acceptable to engage in relations with him.”

Your jaw clenched.

“I understand, ma’am.” You gritted. Strauss clasped her hands together firmly as she tilted her head at you.

“You have two options: if you do not wish to lose your job, I will assign you to a new position in a different state. You will no longer have contact with agent Hotchner, nor the BAU unit as a whole.” Your chest heaved with utter shock, but she wasn’t finished. “Either that or you hand in your resignation. You will still not be able to have contact with agent Hotchner.”

All you could do was stare at her, unable to say anything. Never see Aaron again? Or talk to him? Even acknowledge his existence ever again? You felt your heart shattering to pieces, the coldness within spreading throughout your body. All of this time slowly building a positive relationship with him during your recovery, your feelings growing stronger for him, would all have been for naught. This was a worse agony than everything you’d been through, entirely heartbroken.

Strauss cleared her throat to bring your attention back to her and she handed you two envelopes.

“One of these is a form to fill in if you wish to transfer, and the other is for resigning. You have until the end of the day to make your decision, agent (L/n). That is all.”

You didn’t remember walking out of her office after that, nor finding your way back to the main precinct where the glass doors were to the bullpen. But as you heard your name being called and you turned to see Emily and the others approaching the doorway, you returned to your senses and quickly made your way into the elevator to leave. You couldn’t bear to face any of them now, especially him.

Just when we thought things were gonna get better for them too 😔😔😔😔 maybe next chapter it'll be different >:3 thank you for reading this far!! It means a lot to me 💖💖💖💖💖

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x plus size reader #aaron hotchner x female reader

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