#idk should i tag drug mention?

[thegaslightbrigade]

when u and ur friends've hit the bong and are Desperately trying to keep it together

[n3wlove]

rhapsodic

nam-gyu x reader

summary: bad first experience doing drugs

req: no one, i literally just started this account lmfao

note - firstly, i am so sorry if this fic seems to be long, i usually get carried away when i write and forget not everyone wants to read an 100k letter novel. second, this is a personal AU of mine where nam-gyu and reader are dating but they are not in the games.. i might write a different fic where they are in the games or something :p also.. guys.. ik i said this would be out on friday but things happen, i got all caught up in stuff,yknow... my apologies.

also this just a tad bit cringe. excuse me, i haven't wrote in some time.

tags: mention of drugs, alcohol, throwing up because of substance use, dead dove-ish??? a bit angst-sty but also fluff, im not sure how to do tags uhhhh

also, i did happen to be listening to cigarettes after sex while writing this so this is just a tad inspired by their song "cry". (also somewhat inspired by A$AP rocky?idk) enjoy!!

you had never supported your boyfriends decision to do drugs. in fact, you constantly tried to discourage him from it and convince him to get sober. he would always respond with,

"okay, i'll try."

but you knew it was a lie. he wasn't trying for shit. it made you begin to speculate that nam-gyu had cared more for a high than his relationship with you.

you had never liked nam-gyu's job either. you thought that it made him indulge further into his harmful addictions and habits. of course, that came with being a club promoter, but there were other jobs out there that could get him just as much money as he made now.

everytime you commented on this he simply just snickered and said you "were in his business too often." "what a caring and loving boyfriend you are." you would reply, and it would always end in a harsh argument.

you don't know how you put up with the treatment you got from him, you don't know how anyone would.

one night, nam-gyu had invited you to come to the club he worked at with him. he egged you on by saying things like,

"oh it'll be fun though" and also remarks stating "you wouldn't want to embarrass your boy, showing up with no girl you know."

you couldn't help but fall victim to his guilt tripping and agree. at least it gave you an excuse to doll up and wear a dress for once, right? you never got the chances to do those things like a normal girl your age would. (20-25) you were always working attempting to provide for not only yourself and also your boyfriend. it didn't make it any easier that you were in a TON of debt.

whatever, this night could give you a chance to debrief and thats all that matters. as long as one of nam-gyu's annoying, bastard friends don't come up and bother you, you should be fine. (hehe foreshadowing)

it took you a few hours to get ready that night which very obviously stressed out nam-gyu. he has a thing for worrying he wouldn't get to places on time. the wait was worth it though when he had saw the beautiful black dress you decided you would wear. it highlighted the curves of your body perfectly. the dress was about mid-length and came strapless at the top. inevitably, you felt a bit insecure. you were so used to wearing hoodies, sweatpants, baggy t-shirts and the occasional shorts that it felt almost wrong to be wearing something as pretty as this.

"what? is something wrong?" you spoke up as you noticed nam-gyu staring at you. it made your heart flutter with the way his eyes softened up and the tinge of blush that you could now see on his cheeks. he looked how he looked on the day he first asked you out.

"no.. nothings wrong. you just look.. you look really good babe."

you blushed intensely at his comment. it made you glad that he actually liked what you wore. i mean, it wasn't like you needed his validation but it sure as hell felt great when you were able to get it.

you two then began to walk out of the door and on your way after exchanging compliments and giving each other a kiss on the cheek.

well, the drive to the club was... just a little bit awkward.. in your opinion at least. you kept noticing the desirable gazes nam-gyu gave you and how he slid his hand up and down your thigh. you being in the passenger seat was his favorite thing. this was because he had easy access to touch you.

this wasn't surprising at all. you knew very well that nam-gyu's love language was physical touch and you actually sort of loved that about him. the way he was so clingy and touchy made you feel special. before you met him you were depraved of that.

entering the club made you nervous as all hell. you never liked being around large crowds of people and nam-gyu knew that.

he smiled as he hugged your waist behind you, like he was trying to let everyone at the club know, "hey this is my girlfriend!!"

this quickly changed though when he saw his friend thanos. thanos stuck out from most of the crowd with his purple hair and multi colored nails. he was an upcoming rapper and was getting fairly popular.

"whatts up my boy nam-su!!" he greeted. 'nam-su? thats not his name. you questioned in your head trying not to pay much attention.

"is this your girlfriend you brought with you?" thanos asked. nam-gyu nodded, putting his hand on your shoulder.

"yep, her name is Y/N."

"hello Y/N, you look very good tonight." thanos spoke approaching you. you only backed up closer to nam-gyu, which made him chuckle.

"well.. if you guys don't mind, come to the room i have set up for us. its a bit private, yknow?"

"alright. cmon Y/N." nam-gyu gestured, pulling on your hand as thanos led them to a room a bit closed off from the rest of the club. when you entered you saw two girls and a random boy. you knew none of these people which filled your body with anxiety.

"sit down guys," thanos said as he sat down on a chair next to the two ladies.

you and nam-gyu ended up on a couch together.

time skip and it has now been a hour or so since you two arrived at the club. seeing all these new people around you made you nervous. the only support you had in this moment was nam-gyu and it didn't seem like he was paying much attention to you anyways. he just lousily hung his arm around your shoulder. another bead of sweat rolled down your face as you looked at the bag of pills that laid on the glass table in front of you. 'it's not for me.. you repeated in your head. something in your gut told you should leave before something you regret happens. you watched as nam-gyu continuously sipped on his glass of alcohol and slipped various pills in his mouth. you hated everything about this. suddenly, you then hear a low but smooth voice speak. it was that purple haired guy again.

"so Y/N, what do you prefer? ecstasy or snow?" this startled you. was he asking what drug you preferred? ...none?!

you looked up to nam-gyu for an answer or at least a little bit of guidance but instead of helping you he just grinned. his eyes had a bit of red on the whites and you watched as he slipped another blue tablet in his mouth and this is how you knew he was out of it.

"none." you mumbled, refusing to look him in the eye.

"nam-gyu, is this true? your girl doesn't do anything?" girl? really?

"cmon thanos.. she does.. she just doesn't wanna admit it alright?" your boyfriends speech slurred. it was the mix of the alcohol and random drug he took earlier really kicking in. you mean, he always rode out his highs nicely, he never acted too stupid, but you guessed he took one too many this night.

"so she wouldn't mind taking a few lines or so?" 'thanos' questioned, tilting his head.

you started to loose your mind. why was nam-gyu straight up lying about you? you had never done a drug in your life.

"no.. no she wouldn't," he began. "cmon baby, the lines right there." nam-gyu said pointing at the table. in front of you there were 3 messy white lines of what you could only assume was cocaine. you stared at him helplessly, almost like you were screaming at him to leave this place.

"what are you waiting for Y/N? we didn't do anything to it." thanos added, breaking the silence between you and nam-gyu. you began to think about what he said earlier at the house, how he didn't want to embarrass himself with (or even without you. if you didn't snort up these lines, you would be proving to his friend that nam-gyu lied. would you really sacrifice your dignity for nam-gyu though?

he gave you that lovely dovey sweet look he had on his face when he was high and that immediately made you break eye-contact with him. it swooned you a bit too much.

you finally decided to reply to thanos, and also make your decision on what you were about to do. "i.. i know you didn't."

you then began to slowly get off the couch and from nam-gyu's grasp, sitting down on the floor with the lines in front of you. you had no idea how you could do this. you only ever watched nam-gyu do it, and it always made you so mad. so mad you couldn't even focus on the motions nam-gyu made when he snorted that stuff up.

taking one last deep breath you lowered your nose down to the table and tried all your best to snort it up. it stung and left you sneezing and coughing when you were done. when you looked over to ur side to see nam-gyu's face and reaction to what you had just done he was just smirking cynically. thanos and the two other girls sitting next to him on other hand were just laughing and giggling, this made you feel tiny. you had always hated it when people were laughing in your face.

you couldn't do anything about it so you just rolled your eyes.

"go on, do one more." the purple haired freak spoke up. you just looked down. you weren't sure if you were able to do another one or not.

'don't embarrass nam-gyu..' you repeated in your head. this was the only reason you were betraying yourself, because you didn't want nam-gyu to look like a fool in front of his "friends." so, you took another line.

when you finished you were ashamed of yourself. you couldn't believe you had just done a hard drug just for the sake of a boy.

"do you need a drink to wash that down?" nam-gyu finally spoke. happy to hear his voice you quickly agreed and got up to sit on the couch near him again. when he asked you if you wanted a drink you didn't know it would be alcohol though. this worried you. you didn't think you could stomach both alcohol and drugs... and you were right.

nam-gyu had handed you his half empty cup of svedka vodka waiting for you to take it from his hands. you shook, cursing yourself mentally.

you quickly gulped most of the vodka down, it felt hot down your throat and tasted like hand sanitizer. you weren't a big fan of this stuff.

when you finished drinking you found nam-gyu rubbing your back comfortingly. no matter how mad you were at him you always melted at his touch.

the rest of the night was a blur. the mix of the vodka and also the drugs did not sit well with you. you sort of just watched as the girls, thanos, nam-gyu, and some other random guy conversed, trying to swallow the fact that you felt like you were about to blackout. you hadn't even realized that its been about 5 hours since you first got to the club.

you laid in nam-gyus arms watching as the world around you warped and twisted and felt all the sudden very hyper.

"f..fuck." you whimpered, quickly getting up and covering your mouth. "i need to .. go to the bathroom." you mumbled again, hearing someone snicker behind you as you began to speed walk over to the bathrooms. getting there was a bit of a struggle as you had to navigate through sweating dancing bodies and loud music which only made your ache worse.

when you made it to the stalls you quickly crouched down the nearest toilet and began to throw up your own guts.

you hadn't known that when you left the room that nam-gyu had quickly followed behind you.

when you heard him entering the woman's bathroom you thought it was a stranger so you instantly tried to shut yourself up. you were so out of it you forgot to even shut the stall door behind you. sweat poured down your forehead as you heard footsteps behind you, looking over only to see nam-gyu's sweet face.

"it's okay.." he nodded, grabbing your hair and holding it back for you. you took this as an initiative to get the rest of the stuff you had in your system out.

by the time you were done you were crying and sniffing regretting everything you had done that night. you quickly flushed everything you just threw up down and fell into nam-gyu's arms. you didn't have anything to really say to him so you just cried, your tears landing on his black shirt.

he didn't say anything either. he just stroked your hair like you were some kind of pet.

"i wanna go home." you muttered to him--your tone was serious.

"yeah, i think its time we go." he agreed as he helped you up, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

on your way out of the club he simply just gave thanos the 'yknow' look and he nodded in response.

the drive home was strange. you could feel yourself actively falling in and out of sleep and for once you were in the backseat instead of the front-seat.

when you made it to you and nam-gyu's apartment he grabbed you and took you inside the building bridal style. this sent butterflies through your drunken body because even out of your mind you still knew this wasn't how he usually treated you. you clung onto him anyways.

inside, he set you down on your guys bed. he laid down next to you turning himself over so he could see your face. he brushed some of your hair out of your face and stared at you with desire in his eyes.

ironically, there happened to be some water on the nightstand. he grabbed it and slowly brung it to your lips, helping you get some water intake.

you felt a little better knowing you now had a little bit of water in your system.

suddenly, he grabbed your body, pulling you into a sweethearts cradle and hugging you tightly. his body was warm like a heater. it felt great compared to the cold night outside.

you buried your head in his chest feeling his heartbeat against your cheek.

you never wanted to let go of this moment.

to the soft vibrational hums you then fell asleep being cradled in nam-gyus arms.

why couldn't every night be like this?

[dearlenore]

A COMPREHENSIVE GUIDE TO LOVING YOU • S.REID

SUMMARY: after Spencer attends his first support group meeting, he discovers an odd girl who recently relapsed after using the same drug he did. Weirdly enough, he sticks around to see her reckless behavior

PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer

tags: fluff and sort of angst mentions , reader wears gn clothes, mentions of drug use and addiction, rushed relationship (breaking thirteenth step sort of), Spencer is down bad, reader is sort of manic pixie dream girl coded… (not in a senorita awesome way.) y/n usage

a/n: I’m BEYOND excited to post this one I’ve been working on it for a little while tho🥹 idk why it wasn’t turning out how I wanted

w/c: 1.8K

The first time you met Spencer you were shaking.

Your fingers trembled against the Styrofoam cup of stale coffee, barely steady enough to keep it from spilling over the edge. You’d picked a chair in the corner, shrinking into yourself like you could disappear into the peeling wallpaper.

You hadn’t wanted to come to the meeting — your chest still ached from the hollow pit your fiancé had left behind, and your mind buzzed from the remnants of a mistake you’d sworn you wouldn’t make again.

But here you were.

The meeting droned on in the background — voices blending together — until you heard him.

“I’m Spencer,” he said softly. “And I used to have a problem with Dilaudid.”

That word hit you like a slap. Your fingers clenched tighter around your cup.

He spoke quietly, like he didn’t want to take up space. But there was a weight to his words — the kind that only came from someone who knew what it was like to fall.

“I’ve been clean for a while,” he continued. “But… I’ve been thinking about it more than I should lately.” His voice faltered. “I know where that road leads, and I don’t want to go back.”

You watched him carefully, something about his honesty anchoring you in place. He didn’t look like someone who’d ever touched a needle — not with his too-big sweater sleeves pulled halfway over his hands and his fingers twitching nervously in his lap.

But you knew better than anyone — addiction didn’t care what you looked like.

When the meeting ended, you didn’t plan to talk to him. But somehow, your feet carried you toward him before you could change your mind.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He blinked, surprised to see you. “Hey.”

“I’m (Y/N),” you offered. “I relapsed…recently…”

His eyes softened, and you knew he understood.

—

You hadn’t expected Spencer to stick around after that. People came and went in these meetings — some stayed clean, some didn’t. You figured he’d just become another face in the circle.

But a few days later, he called.

At first, your conversations were cautious — two people afraid to say the wrong thing. He’d show up on his day off, coffee in hand, and the two of you would sit in a park or walk through quiet streets. He talked about work sometimes — something about profiling and the FBI — but mostly, you just talked about life.

It felt… easy. Like maybe you weren’t as broken as you thought.

But the longer Spencer knew you, the more he realized that ‘easy’ wasn’t exactly how you lived your life.

—

The first time he caught you being… you, it nearly gave him a heart attack.

“Y/N!” he shouted from across the street, watching in horror as you sprinted down a graffiti-covered alley — sneakers barely touching the pavement before you leapt and caught hold of a low-hanging fire escape ladder.

“What are you doing?” Spencer demanded when he caught up to you.

“I forgot my sketchbook!” you called down, halfway up the ladder already.

“You can’t just climb things!” he scolded, voice breathless.

“I climb things all the time!” you shot back.

“That’s not comforting!”

Moments later, you hopped back down, landing with an exaggerated flourish and holding up your prized notebook. “See? Safe and sound.”

Spencer stared at you like you’d grown a second head.

“Relax,” you teased, nudging his arm as you walked past him. “You worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough,” he muttered.

But despite himself, he smiled.

—

It became a pattern after that — Spencer watching helplessly as you danced dangerously close to chaos.

He found you sitting barefoot on a bridge railing once, legs swinging as you tossed bits of bread to ducks below.

“You know you’re, like… one strong gust of wind away from falling in, right?”

“Yeah,” you shrugged, smiling as the ducks squabbled over the crumbs. “But I’ve always been a pretty good swimmer.”

Or the time you convinced him to sneak into a rooftop party — not for the drinks, but because you “just had to see the view.”

“What if we get caught?” Spencer whispered as you tugged him through the back stairwell.

“Then we run,” you grinned.

“I’m not good at running!”

“Good thing I am.”

Moments like those made Spencer’s heart race for all the wrong reasons. But somehow, despite the stress you caused him, he couldn’t pull away.

Because no matter how chaotic you were, there was something about you — something bright.

You were like sunshine — golden and warm, refusing to dim no matter how much the world tried to smother you.

—

It wasn’t until a quiet Sunday afternoon that Spencer realized how much he cared.

He’d been walking home from the bookstore when he spotted you across the street.

You were sitting on the pavement, cross-legged, sketchbook open in your lap. A little girl sat beside you — maybe six or seven — eagerly copying your drawing with her own crayons.

Spencer slowed his steps, watching as you laughed at something the girl said, your eyes crinkling at the corners.

You looked… happy. Like someone who hadn’t been through half the pain you had.

“Hey,” Spencer called as he crossed the street.

Your head shot up, smile widening when you saw him. “Spencer!”

The little girl waved too, flashing him a wide, toothy grin.

“Making friends?” Spencer asked, glancing between you both.

“Always,” you said brightly. “I was just showing Hazel here how to draw a dragon.”

“It’s so cool!” Hazel added, proudly displaying her scrawled creation.

“It’s very impressive,” Spencer agreed.

The girl’s mom called for her a moment later, and after a quick hug, Hazel was gone.

“You’re good with kids,” Spencer said as you packed up your pencils.

“I like them,” you replied simply. “Kids just… they don’t assume the worst in people.”

“Not yet,” he said quietly.

You gave him a sad smile — the kind that told him you understood more than you let on.

“I think that’s why I like them so much,” you murmured. “I want to believe people can be good, too.”

Spencer swallowed hard, suddenly desperate to say something — to tell you that you didn’t have to be the bright one all the time, that you didn’t have to run so fast or shine so hard to make people love you.

But all he said was, “I think you’re a good person, too.”

You smiled — a real one this time, soft and grateful.

And for once, Spencer didn’t feel like he needed to save you.

He just hoped he could keep up.

—

Falling for you wasn’t something Spencer planned.

He thought love would be neat and logical — a series of carefully measured steps with clear markers along the way.

But love with you wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t slow. It was loud and fast and messy.

It was him losing sleep because he couldn’t stop replaying the way your smile hit him like a punch to the chest.

It was the way you kept finding ways to sneak flowers into his apartment — a daisy in his mailbox, a tiny sunflower on his desk, a bright red poppy tucked between the pages of his book with a note that read: Because you’re my favorite nerd.

It was that day at the flea market when you’d found a stack of old records and spun him around right there in the aisle, laughing as you hummed along to some forgotten tune.

“You’re a terrible dancer,” he muttered, stepping awkwardly to the rhythm.

“I know,” you laughed. “But you’re dancing with me anyway.”

He fell in love with you then, too.

—

But for every moment of warmth, there was also fear.

Because sometimes your brightness dimmed.

Sometimes your smile faltered just a little too long.

And sometimes, when you thought no one was looking, Spencer would catch you staring off into space — your eyes distant, shoulders tight — like you were holding yourself together with nothing but stubborn will.

It terrified him.

Because he knew what that emptiness felt like — how easily it could swallow you whole.

He remembered the night you called him — voice thin and shaky.

“I messed up,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to, I just… I couldn’t stop thinking and everything hurt and… I just wanted to stop for a little while.”

He was at your apartment in minutes.

You sat on the floor, knees drawn to your chest, tear-streaked and shaking.

“I’m sorry,” you kept repeating. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” he said quietly, dropping down beside you. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I’m trying so hard,” you choked. “I just… I don’t know how to make it stop sometimes.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I know.”

He stayed with you that night, sitting on the floor until your breathing steadied, until your head tipped against his shoulder and you finally fell asleep.

And in that moment — watching you cling to sleep like it was the only thing tethering you to the world — Spencer realized how badly he wanted to protect you.

Not because you were fragile — God knows you weren’t — but because you were the brightest thing in his life… and he couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.

—

Falling in love with you wasn’t graceful.

It was messy and terrifying — full of too-fast heartbeats and late-night worries.

He worried when you didn’t text back. He worried when you climbed things you shouldn’t climb. He worried when you laughed a little too loudly like you were trying to drown out something else.

“You need to stop looking at me like I’m going to break,” you said one afternoon, perched on the railing of a bridge like it was the safest seat in the world.

“I can’t help it,” he admitted.

“Spencer… I’m fine.”

“You say that like it’s true,” he muttered.

“It is true,” you insisted, hopping down beside him. “I’m not perfect, but I’m okay. I’m still here.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

“And you’re still here, too.”

His heart stuttered.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

And somehow, you always made that enough.

⸻

The moment Spencer knew — really knew — was quieter than he expected.

You were sitting in his apartment, curled up on his couch in one of his oversized cardigans. Your head rested against the armrest, a book balanced lazily on your stomach. You weren’t dancing or climbing something dangerous — you weren’t even smiling.

You were just… there.

Soft. Quiet. Safe.

And in that stillness, Spencer realized that loving you wasn’t about chasing your chaos.

It was about being your quiet place — the calm after the storm, the steady heartbeat you could rest against when everything felt too loud.

And as he watched you — curled up and breathing peacefully, like for once you weren’t fighting to keep yourself afloat — Spencer knew there was no turning back.

He was completely, hopelessly, undeniably in love with you.

[kousanosgf]

men, minors dni

sevika x prostitute!reader

sometimes life gets worse, before it becomes better. luckily sevika ready to help you with it.

a\n: i hate how half of this fandom makes "sexy sevika in a brothel" jokes. this was written with the strong despisement for anyone who supports swork and thinks that it's freeing in any shape or form. it's NOT a light one, i'd say, so please be careful with the content you're consuming. also inform me if i should change something about the tags or tws

tw: mention of suicide, not explicit describtion of SA, drug abuse

tags: angst, hurt\comfort (kinda?), no smut (idk if i can call it sfw, sex is mentioned but not with sevika), happy ending

whispers run through the main hall, they won't stop repeating for half an hour at least, every worker and guest is too excited or nervous to be in the haunting dog of zaun's presence. "she's here". "sevika came". it won't be surprising if someone suggests placing a bet who she'll choose next, now that her favorite girl is dead.

well, that's the thing really, you couldn't care less for anyone in here and especially sevika. your best friend is dead and you can't even mourn her properly, because there's always "clients demand our full attention, girls, don't forget that" and "no alcohol or drugs, unless our guests want it, girls". there's numbing pain tugging at you heart, making you want to vomit every time you have to think of your loss and there's no way to drink yourself to oblivion to not feel all this.

so far, the night was calm. the only man for the night left you alone an hour ago after mindlessly fucking you face down into the mattress for couple of minutes and disappearing as soon as he finished. you could only hope for it go as smoothly but luck wasn't on your side for some time now. a shadow looms over before you notice who it belongs to.

you raise your eyes. sevika. "of course," you think, "cause the day needs to get worse".

"are you free?" she asks bluntly. no greetings, no small talk. that's normal really, manageable. it's usually way worse when the client wants to spill all their heartache or frustration before what they actually came for.

"not even gonna buy girl a drink?" you try to put on your prettiest face, smiling coyly and frowning in a fake pout, hoping she'll let you get at least a bit drunk.

"no, come on". she just turns around and heads towards the second floor to the private rooms.

a scream dies somewhere on a tip of your tongue, leaving sour taste.

you have to hurry after her, people as powerful as sevika hate nothing more than to wait and there's no reason to get on her bad side. it's nerve wracking, scary even, to guess what kind of client she will be. there're not much women who come here and not one of them has ever chosen you. a risk of sevika getting frustrated and dissatisfied with your inexperience is high and definitely not what you want since if the customer is angry then madame is angry and you'll be punished in some way.

you take a look at sevika again, following her step by step. she holds herself with great confidence, understandable for someone with such a status, broad shoulders, perfect posture, full heavy steps that make people move out of her path.

you reach the room finally, dreadfully. sevika sits down in the chair waiting for you to lock the door. as you do so, you turn back to her, sliding the straps off your minidress down.

"wait, no." sevika stops you. "i'm not here for this. just sit down." she gestures to the bed and you follow her orders, confused but not daring to ask.

the silence follows. you sit in your place trying not to breathe too hard, a blank expression on your face, while sevika thinks something through.

"you knew yana?" you basically jump in place, hearing your friend's name. "i mean... she was your friend?"

"she is my friend." you snap unexpectedly even for yourself but don't correct the words or make an attempt at apologizing no matter how dangerous that move is.

the corner of sevika's lip rises a little in a smirk but it's gone as fast as it appeared.

"she's dead." "doesn't change the fact that she's my friend." gods, why can't you shut up.

there's a pure rage boiling inside of you. it's painful when no one in this fucking place took time to acknowledged her death. another whore killing herself, what's the news really? but this... it's worse, the way sevika seems more amused with the fact than, you don't know, at least sad that one of her favorites is no longer here.

silence again. sevika studies you like she's trying to find something. the gaze is different from what you usually get from customers, burning, suffocating glances of men who look you over, imagine what you would look like naked under them before making there choice and passing several bills to madame.

"you have a lot of friends here?" what the fuck is she on about?

"i don't run my mouth if that's what you need."

"that's not what i asked." the smirk again. "but whatever."

she lights a cigarette and makes a few puffs. as the smell reaches you, you can't help but scrunch your nose, never appreciative of the smell. as she sees your dissatisfaction, she clicks her tongue and reaches for the ashtray, putting the cigarette down.

"here's what we gonna do. i'll sleep here till morning and you just... i don't know, do your thing? sleep too?" she waves her hand in the air.

you have to take a moment before her words actually lock in. "what?" sevika doesn't strike you as the type to use some euphemisms when she talks about sex, "sleep" here actually seems like she means it.

"you heard me. i already paid for the whole night if you're worried about it." she gives no further explanation and just leans back, dropping her head on the chair and closing her eyes. it's better not to disturb her. there's not much to say or do for you so you just sit there for a while, listening to the steady breathing and fall asleep yourself, not ready to give up a prospect of a calm night. when you wake up in the morning, sevika isn't there.

she comes and goes. for the last two weeks sevika visited you almost every day. the nights go basically the same. nothing much happens, though she becomes more and more chatty with every meeting.

you know her favorite food, know how her day went, know what she thinks about every chem-baron. in return sevika knows what're your favorite flowers, knows what your childhood was like, knows how you got into the brothel.

she's always so nonchalant about her questions, trying not to make a big deal out of it, like she's simply asking to fill the space. but working in a place like this teaches you read people easily and it becomes clear very quickly that sevika is actually searching for something. you're not sure if it's safe to give her the information she wants to hear but it's been too long since you had a person to talk to. it becomes easy to pretend like she actually interested in your stories and opinions.

she also now sleeps in a bed with you, leaving her place in the chair on the third night when you offer it yourself. she's one of those people who can fall asleep on a whim anywhere and anytime, you guess. or she's just very good at pretending.

and when she does fall asleep you lie awake, looking at her, replaying everything she said earlier in your head, trying to make sense of it, of her.

you get caught eventually. one night she just opens her eyes as she wakes up (if she's slept at all) and looks straight at you. both of you lie on your sides, facing each other. nothing is said for good five minutes, she's studying your features as well as you do hers in a dim glow of the lamp post outside the window.

"wanna know a secret?" sevika finally breaks the comfortable silence, a light smirk on her lips. you nod your head slowly, not breaking the eye contact.

"i'm getting you out of here."

the sentence doesn't register, so you have to ask her to repeat it.

"i'm getting. you. out." she says again, slowly, dividing the words.

you rise up swiftly, leaning yourself on the elbow. "you're not funny." of course it's some twisted joke, what else could it be. anger ready to overtake you easily.

the smirk grows wider on her face. "im serious, sweetheart."

that's when she tells you. probably the craziest thing you've ever heard. her visits to the brothel were never for any sexual pleasures, mostly getting intel for her and, by extant, silco's plans. till couple of months ago when she took on a mission of getting such a business out of zaun.

yana was suppose to be one of the first women who sevika and her team would save. they were late in the end.

"why didn't you tell her?" you ask partially frustrated at the coincidence of circumstances and sevika. if only yana knew that the help was on the way, she would still be alive, probably free from her prison. instead she just couldn't handle the life she thought she's bound to till her dying day or when she'll become old enough for madame to throw her out on the streets cause she wouldn't bring enough money.

"i was afraid to risk it, she was too unstable to be trusted such an information for a long term." sevika sighs heavily, dragging a hand through her face. "that was a wrong move on my end."

"and yet you're telling me this two weeks later? there were no guarantee for you that i wouldn't do the same."

"i... had to take a gamble. i knew basically nothing about you before. yana did share some stories but that wasn't enough to ease my anxieties."

you talk and talk and talk. about yana, about your life here. you throw question after question to her and she doesn't seem to get tired of answering you.

"why me? or why... not everyone at once?"

"it's impossible to do this in one go without much practice. look at this as us dipping toes in the water."

"so i'm a guinea pig?" sevika opens her mouth to argue but closes it immediately, realizing that you're only teasing her.

"no, you're something i can fix. give me a week more, okay?" she says it with such confidence in her voice that you got nothing else to do but to believe her.

sevika comes every night now, trying to take as much as she can of your working time so others won't get to you. there's a slight tug of guilt somewhere in your heart, because there's probably girls in the brothel who need this more, who can handle less than you, who just got here and weren't that much ruined with the way people treat them like some meat to jerk off to.

"your arm."

you look over yourself. it is an old bruise that got her concerned, one of the clients getting too harsh. you don't remember much, he let you have a blunt, you didn't ask of what, before everything occurred. it's yellow already, few days more and it'll disappear.

"fuck. probably smudged my makeup somewhere."

sevika's look is heavy, fixed on the spot.

"it's nothing, don't worry."

"it's not nothing." she's now looking straight into your eyes, there's a dangerous fire gleaming and it's impossible to hold her gaze so you just look to the side, noticing her fingers digging into an armrest. it is not nothing, you both know that. but all you can think of is that you would love to feel sevika's palm on you, covering the damned bruise, letting you dream it was never there.

no, you deserve to run as much as the next person. and it's not like you're gonna be the only one. like sevika told you, it's only the beginning.

"good news", sevika says and there's a smile on her face. you're not sure if you ever saw her smile. not a grin or a smirk that she gives everyone here but a genuine, warm smile. she looks lovely with it and you can't help but smile too back at her, not even knowing the reason.

"like what?"

the morning air is cool, autumn starts to take the reigns of nature. there's only a set of underwear and a nightgown on you so you shiver and hug yourself. you couldn't take any of your belongings, she said yesterday night, when she finally announced that it's time to set the plans in motion. some kind of big cloth, a poncho, you regester not as fast as you'd like to, lends on your shoulders, warm from the body heat of it's owner.

"sorry, that's all i got for now. need to get to the safe house, have actually some clothes for you."

you nod dumbfounded and just follow her. everything feels like a dream really, that about to be ripped away and you'll simply wake up back in the room that smells of head numbing incenses, ready to greet another customer.

you look over the clothes she gave you, simple pair of brown jeans, a black turtleneck and a jacket. the jeans are a size too big for you but nothing a belt can't fix.

"the plans to get you out changed so quick, i completely forgot to buy something your size."

"was it for her?" you don't need the answer, you know it already.

"yeah."

there're tears falling down that you can't control. you cry silently, turned away from sevika. you're not sure if she actually doesn't notice or just wants to give you space when she finally says "alright, gonna step out for you to change, meet me in the kitchen when you're ready."

as she takes a step to the door you lounge yourself at her, grabbing calloused hand and tugging it to your waist, looking for contact. now only you can do is cry, your sobs becoming louder and louder, your throat hurts like hell, you won't be able to speak later for sure.

there's a stream of "thankyouthankyouthankyou" coming from your mouth, your body basically presses inside sevika's. she doesn't answer. her other hand gently covers the crown of your head, guiding your tearful face to her chest and she lets you rest it there.

[marcuspikegf]

˖°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Senatus Autem Mala Bestia (but the senate is an evil beast) 

one : Bellum omnium contra omnes (the war of all against all)

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ🃁  you are the daughter of a diplomat, living in a coastal state, now being sieged by rome. and your father is brought to rome to negotiate better terms for your state as rome engulfs it. sharp tongued, short tempered, you are a valuable advisor, sitting in the senate beside your father, having studied politics and policies all your life. you catch the quieter emperor's eye, and he flirts as usual. you are unimpressed. but then he proposes marriage, not for convention, but there is no better way to have an advisor who will always listen to you and think in your best interests than if you tie them to you, geta’s fate is tied to yours now, you harm him, and he catches? you die. you harm him and he falls? you fall too. you just don’t account on falling in love with the man.

pairing: emperor geta x f!advisor!reader | word count 5k | blurb + masterlist | about me + requests + main masterlist | ao3

reblogs and likes and comments are very appreciated!!!

content warnings: 18+ for violence and mentions of concubines and drugs and alcohol, and maybe eventual smut in later chapters, minors DNI. ancient rome is again a warning in itself. misogyny! rome is very patriarchal and it sucks. it sucks so bad. geta being geta. caracalla being caracalla. romans being asses. reader has a SHORT temper. reader is short-er than geta. no age gap, reader is in her 20s, around geta's age. authors note: hello, welcome to my hell (part 3), ancient rome has posessed me. this ginger freak has captured my attentions, and now i don't know what to do except write for him. the ancient world has always been one of my interests, and writing something set in that time period is, like i said in the a/n of my other fic, a dream come true. this fic is bipoc friendly, and reader is multilingual. reader is from the coast because i'm also originally from the coast. also i have thinly veiled mother issues i fear. the prologue and the chapter 1 are just posted together. idk. is this better or should i split it. reader has a short temper and gets annoyed very quickly. reader hates geta's GUTS. she hates him BAD. (or does she) and he hates her right back…or does he? STRONG enemies to lovers here. like they are at each other's throats. reader does not give two fucks about “rome” and “propriety”. comment if you want to be tagged! or just comment, i love comments. reblogs are appreciated!!!!!! i think the title is fitting because both geta and the reader hate the senate in their own ways. but they do hate the senate, and think it is an evil beast. as always my dms are open to talk about fics, and my requests are open! each chapter will have it's own warnings, but there may be eventual smut between the emperor and the reader, and so the whole fic is tagged 18+. reader is sooo annoying and emperor geta is sooo into it.  also reader wants to punch people (geta). reader is lowkey insane but thats ok....so is geta. match made in heaven. there is geta pov too. oh wow that is a WALL of text... oops. i have a LOT to say...

Rome is the enemy, this is what you have known, ever since childhood. The empire had been fighting your state, a neverending conflict. You uncles had died fighting, their helmets brought over whilst their widows wailed in despair, cursing the gods above. You had held your aunt’s hand as she had heard the news that none of her sons would return from the front. You had known loss at the hands of the Romans, felt the blood of the fallen on the battered pieces of armour that survived. You had felt the silence and the empty seats at family feasts. Missed the voices of the names that will now never be spoken of. 

“They are the masters of the sea, and the land.” Those are the whispers you caught, when you hear of the Romans, when your mother speaks with her friends, mending fishing nets. Her fingers steady as they weave the twine, and she had taught you how to do this, knotting each thread. They sat behind the curtains, away from the men in the house, and you sat with them, pricking your hands with the needle as you kept attempting to learn how to repair. 

Most days, you are thankful that your father had escaped being more blood spilt, because he could talk. Talk, charm, convince, he helped forge difficult treaties, soothed the rages of the royals, and stood by the throne, not with a weapon, but with gentle words that could calm the fits of the most stubborn of kings.

For his service, in your childhood, your family was given a house in the city walls, a gift as a reward from the royal dynasty. To be near them, protected, but not quite part of them. The city was full of narrow streets, bustling markets and merchants, and it was different from the villa that sat on the coast where your family lived. It was smaller, taller, mud brick so the heat could have a chance to cool before it burnt you.

Jasmine curled on the frames in the garden, and the smell of their perfume surrounded the house, carried through every room by the salty breeze. Your mother loved the garden, and you came to love it too, sitting beside her as she never let the servants plant flowers. Never let you plant flowers either. She would do it herself, and you would watch, it was for the best anyway, your hands never could quite bless the earth to plant new life.

Your memories of the sea are few and far between, the sea was just a stone’s throw away back from the villa where you once lived. You could wade into the shallow coast, and feel the fishes nip at your feet in the clear water. White sand that encrusted your hands as you dipped them in the water, feeling it pass through your fingers. There the world was smaller. 

Over here, in the capital, you could stand in the courtyard of your house, up on the terrace and you could still not see the sea. The city stood on high cliffs, the walls surrounding it were ancient, immovable, colossal. You could hear the sea crash against the cliffs, and your heart ached to see it again, to touch the sun-warmed water again, but the walls were there for protection. Outside the walls, the Romans could come, and burn everything down.

Sometimes you wonder if your villa by the sea has been burnt down yet. 

You were with nothing quite to do in the house, back in the villa there was always a cousin to play with, an aunt to annoy. Here it was only your mother, and your two baby twin sisters, which were a blessing to your parents, unexpected and almost a decade after prayers. Your mother doted over them, with a softness in her face that you could never remember she had for you, you were always knocking over plant pots with your uncoordinated hands, pricking your fingers with needles, never quiet. You loved your sisters, but they meant that you were no longer the youngest, and now you found yourself with nothing to do in the summers that lasted for months. 

Other advisors had sons to bring to court, and your father had none. He had three daughters, and you were desperate to be seen as someone beyond the caretaker that you were. Beyond the one who would attempt to sew the frayed hems of the clothes in the house, beyond the one who would fetch the ink and papyrus and leave quietly once the men started talking. 

He saw you, lingering outside the chambers when any meetings were held at his house, within the city. Diligent in what you studied, you always had a scroll in your hands, unassuming, sitting on the bench outside. Perhaps hidden behind the bushes, under the swooping branches of the tree. You never intervened, simply listened, knowing you would be dismissed if you ever spoke up.

It was one night when your mother saw you, sitting outside, ears pressed to the closed door. She was drying fish in the courtyard, a village habit she would simply not exchange for the habits of the city. You know she saw you, and you worried she would be angry, but there was simply a smile on her face, with that softness that you craved for.

It was only after then that your father left the doors to the meetings open, enough to let you hear the murmurs, and to let the sound of shuffling maps through.

The years passed faster, and you asked a hundred questions to him after, he smiled as he answered them for you. A quiet smile, brimming with pride, he would reply to all your questions with patience. Sometimes he would catch your mistakes, and point to the maps and treaties to amend them, he would sip tea, and offer you some.

Then, the door was left open wider, sometimes a scribe would be ill, and you would be called in his place, and you would take minutes of the meeting. Your father would ask you for your opinion, sometimes ‘forget’ a figure, and have you call it out instead. The other advisors and diplomats looked amused, a little astonished, and a few looked with disgust and disregard. But they all looked at the girl with plaits chiming into a meeting, you were not the only woman in court, but it was not exactly a woman’s place. 

When your father took you to court, you were elated. You were angry and sharp, you debated with most of the other advisors. And you lost, oftentimes you lost. Your father would laugh, but not unkindly, you were opinionated and angry enough to prove yourself. 

You were desperate, desperate to be seen, heard, when a girl like you should be neither. Your sisters were talented in song and dance, and you were talented in rage. In breaking things, throwing things. A cutting tongue developed, words said with some semblance of remorse coming after.

And as you turned twenty summers, you had made a name for yourself in your kingdom, your father’s daughter. With the same tongue, yet icier words, shorter temper, but the acumen was still the same. You knew kingdoms, understood the whims of men in power. It was all you had seen growing up.

And it is why your father refused to have you married at an early age, have you by his side, assisting him advise the king. You despise the idea of being married to someone, weighed down by a rock, you wish to speak, to debate and learn and engage. 

He had never let you debut, never had you parade in court with the fancy dresses you saw the other girls wearing. You were grateful for the freedom it afforded you. 

You could go anywhere, no hand of a husband leading you; walk the palace unescorted, stand in court and speak your mind. No in-laws to disappoint. Simply your own family, but your father brought you here just to argue and your mother saw the joy it brought you, and that was enough. You had been taught what daughters are rarely taught to do, think. The court had a few species for women, and you slotted into them. 

You were no good at teasing men with a gentle voice, there was no flattery or flirtation. Screw that, you were taught to listen, and your stomach would not rest until you retorted backc backed with political techniques from scrolls.

The freedom, you liked that freedom. 

But you would only be speaking Latin after that. Rome attacked in your third year of attending court, and had been fighting at the borders of the state for years. It had sucked parts of the state, first it was far flung villages, then cities, slowly creeping up to the capital, like poison in veins. 

And here you are, your family part of the entourage that follows your king to Rome itself. To debate for a better treaty for the state, the capital was under siege and could not hold much longer. Peace talks, for autonomy if nothing else. 

The stillness of Rome is striking, from seeing the swaying sea and the passing forests. There are majestic buildings, as if Rome was built by the gods, for the gods. They are rooted in the ground, marble and gold, as if they grew on their own, for a better class of people. 

The horse stops, the carriage stops, and the scene finally comes to a still. 

Your father asks you what you think of Rome. 

Rome is beautiful, and Rome will kill you one day, just like poison in your veins. 

In court one day, you sit. The peace negotations are happening unsuccessfully, the senators act as if they do not care. They speak of matters that are irrelevant to what your state requires. Three hundred Roman men shouting and discussing, raising their hands, with their greying hair, so obviously in their twilight years. They speak of finances, taxation, and they do not speak of the suffering your people will go through with the tax rates so high. They do not speak of citizenship for the citzens of your state, they speak of nothing of relevance for your kingdom, and you see your father’s face fall with every hour spent here. They speak in Latin, fast and difficult for your state’s entourage to translate, and they look down at the group of women who walk into the senate. There is no shame being a woman in your state, but there is an inherent shame of being one here.

You have half a mind to run, hands cramping over the stylus as you write the notes and minutes for your father. There is nothing left to say, nothing left to write of worth, Rome has never cared for any of the kingdoms it devours. The senators speak as if they have won, and they have. The army approaches, the fields have been burnt, the coastline all but seized. There is nothing left to do but give up, and yet the thirty of you that have been brought to court so desperately try to find some sort of deal which will favour your people, rather than the Romans. 

Your hands rub your face, nails scraping against your skin. The stench of Rome is disgusting, and you can’t bear it any longer. It is despicable, it is horrible, and you are going to snap the wooden stylus in your hand if you have to hear another sixty year old man drone on any longer in a language that you hate.

Your eyes stay on the papyrus, writing away in your native script, of the things that Rome is simply unwilling to concede. 

You need to leave this room, full of failure and desperation. Of Roman superiority.

There are no women in the senate, politics is strictly a man’s world. The legions have spilt over the continents, and have managed to chip away more states that held their own against others. The Roman army does not fail, never fails as it continues to seep through the lands. 

Caracalla does not have any care for politics, he who is so indulgent in his ways. He sinks deeper into his lust, with concubines and wine and sugars and substances. He is an addict, in every sense of the word, and his younger brother regrets that it has come to this. In a better world, Geta would have been born first, fitter to rule and fitter to command. He sits into the senate sessions, at least listens into the laws the empire passes and the lands the legions advance into. He is not fit to rule, simply a better fit than his brother. 

Auburn hair that has been lightened with the years, pale, pale skin and black kohl that is a stark contrast to everything on his face, today he sits into the senate’s session, because of his brother’s whims. 

“Dondus wishes to listen to the senate!” Caracalla had pleaded, knocking on Geta’s doors, with that small voice of his that could convince Geta to do anything. Because he was his brother, and he would move the world to make his brother smile, especially when his sickness grew, and festered in his body. 

He, too, should be interested, the senate brings an entourage from another small state, one on the coast, with an impressive port city. Well-made shipbuilding docks, with trade connections. And Rome was to have it. The entourage today was here to plead their case, negotiate better terms for themselves and their citizens. He had seen it a dozen times before, and every time the senate was merciless. 

There would be no change today either, and there was no point in going. The senate’s control was wrapped within itself, and as the Emperor, he barely had a say. Not that he had anything to say. But Caracalla begged, and so he had dressed himself in the purple of the imperial family, and had shown his face to court.

And Caracalla is drunk. The sun had not even reached its peak, and Caracalla is drunk. 

He sits on his throne, eyes flicking over to his brother with worry, wondering if he would throw a tantrum, shout incomprehensible words. It was not his fault, never his fault, simply the fault of the sickness that ravaged his insides and ate away at his brain. The gold is stiff against his back, and he would rather be in bed right now, perhaps a concubine with him. Or just in bed, asleep. Sleep is an escape, perhaps if he dreams well enough, he can imagine his mother’s lap, all soft and full of care. 

There are no women in the senate, politics is strictly a man’s world, and so it surprises him that the state’s entourage comes with a few women. There are thirty men, and some women too, walking in with the same men. The senate looks at them with disgust, and distaste. Caracalla smiles with interest, like he would if he saw a new flavour of wine, and Geta…watches. He tilts his head to the cool of the throne, and attempts to watch. 

Caracalla sips on wine, the senators argue, and he.

His eyes are drawn to the one with the stylus, the scribe, keeping minutes of the meeting. Her hair in a braid, lying over her shoulders. She is listening to the words the senators are saying, and she is occasionally glaring daggers. There is something in her eyes, something that is set on fire, like a pyre of rage and anger, and her hand grips on the stylus so hard, even Geta can see it from the head of the room. 

The youngest, probably, in the room. As old as him, listening to the senate, and instead of ignoring it, she is listening and getting angrier. Perhaps if he were on the other side, he would be paying attention to the senate too. 

And she is pretty, with the mouth set in a permanent scowl – he sees her first. Caracalla too drunk on the wine, too caught with the concubine in his arms, disease in his mind. His thoughts are not clear. 

But Geta’s are. And he sees her, all sharp edges and lines, with hands that look like they’re itching to hit, and he sees her, all softness and curves, hair delicately plaited and wearing a Roman stola to match with the rest of the women in Rome. With the entourage she comes, so she must be an advisor herself. 

What advice comes out of her mouth? He wonders, and before he can wonder any further, he hears the snap of wood. The stylus is broken, mumbled words in a language he does not understand – but which sound distinctly like an apology – to an older advisor, and light steps that lead out of the senate. 

The palace gardens are like those out of a dream, and you wish your mother would leave the villa to see them. But she does not leave the villa, she despises Rome, much like you, and she cannot set foot outside. Having the whole family come to Rome was enough, your father could not function without her. 

Sometimes you wish you could find that, the way your father looked at your mother as if she hung the moon and the stars in the sky, the way your mother smiled when your father showed, like the sun basking her face. 

You tug at the spot of grass that grows where you sit, twisting and pulling with your aching wrist, before throwing it beside you. Something ridiculously childish, and there is no outlet for your rage. Your father tells you you cannot raise your voice with the Roman senators, no matter what they say. 

You debate them as level-headedly as possible, trying to wrangle out a better deal for your state, but it is failing, the empire has sunk its claws in and it wants it all. 

You hear steps behind you, but do not bother turning behind. The sound of wooden sandals against marble is nothing new, especially not the steps of the palace garden, a hundred slaves pass by these halls, officials, nobles, the damn senators. 

“Do you enjoy committing vandalism?” A voice breaks through the idle sound of birds murmuring, haughty.

Your fingers tighten around another few blades of grass, before pulling them out of the ground, roots and dirt with them. You don’t bother rising, nor looking back. You already know who it is, what with the way he speaks, a silent power woven into his words, he owns this palace, all of Rome, and now, you too. 

However free you were, however much you valued your freedom, you would all be speaking Latin now.

“I wouldn’t consider this vandalism.” You glance sideways, and the figure stands just beyond the rose bushes, dressed in luxurious imperial robes, purple silk draped on his shoulders, with gold woven into them. He glows in the orange of dusk, like he is a gift from the gods.

His brown eyes stare into you, lined with kohl, making them stand out against his pale skin. They are wider, deeper, staring right into you, as if looking past your skin and bones, and looking into the soul inside of you. 

“My lord.” You add, more as an afterthought than anything else, a coin tossed into a purse that you do not care for. He is the emperor, after all.

You have seen his brown eyes wander. The twin emperors sit in court like they couldn’t care less, lions on their gilded thrones. One ready to pounce on an instance, with bright blue eyes, the other who watches and waits. The one whose gaze lingers on people, on objects, and now on you, in the palace gardens. You are pulling at his grass, leaving patches of earth dug up on his grounds. He is not your Lord, he will never be your Lord, and yet now with the way things go, with the way Rome eats away at the states that cannot hold their own, he is to be your Emperor. 

The way he tilts his head, amused, makes something sink in the pit of your stomach. There is no reason for him to be amused, there is no reason for him to be here, he should be in the meeting with the senate. And yet he is out here, with you. You have caught his eye. 

 “I should have you punished.” He steps closer to you, saying it nonchalantly, as if it were to have no consequence. You simply just stare at him, perhaps the consequences are better than the fate that you have now. A woman in Rome is a second class citizen, and you weren’t even Roman. 

You don’t know what possesses you when you continue to pull out another clump of grass, and toss it at his feet, “Then punish me.” You have always been quick to anger, making you a foreboding beast to debate with back at home, and now you are quick to retort back to him, the Emperor of Rome.

He should grab you by the arm, strike you for not even bowing your head for forgiveness. Instead he just laughs at you, it’s a cold sound, and you cannot imagine laughing so mirthlessly. He laughs like something about you is interesting, or stupid, or both. 

“This is a poor way of rebelling.” 

You have a good mind to swear at him, but there is no reason to bite the hand that feeds you, or in this case, doesn’t haul you to the dungeons. Instead you just mutter the swear in your native language under your breath, then look up at him. Your hands smooth the cotton of your dress, streaks of dirt against the pale red of the stola. You wear something Roman, fitting for someone who is to become a citizen of the empire. Fitting for a girl who is meant to be Roman, yet is so obviously, terribly, no. 

“There are better ways.” You retort back, gods help you, you actually snap back. You are a weed, unwilling to be pulled out – especially unwilling to be pulled out by someone like him. 

“Better ways?” He has this interest in his eyes, the same one you have seen when he lounges in his throne, the same upward tilt of his lips when he toys around with council like he toys with his concubines. 

The same open interest he now shows in you. 

“Consiliarius, are you not afraid?” and the word is foreign to your ears. Not only is it Latin, something you despise hearing, but it has never been said referring to you. You are your fathers daughter, a woman in a world that is so clearly made for men. And even your father can’t stand the word himself, can’t stand that he will be an advisor to the Emperor now, not a diplomat for his own coastal state, there is no coastal state left, Rome has devoured the coastline and the capital. 

The Emperor speaks with measured words, yet there is a sharp edge to his tone. A razor close to the veins in your neck, one wrong cut, and you could bleed out freely.

He knows what he is saying, and your eyes flash at him. You are surprised when he sits down, still above you, like all men sit above women in Rome, above you like he is the emperor and you are his subject. He is sitting on a bench, but he’s still, is sitting by you, still towering over you, just from a little closer. 

“I’m not afraid, not of Rome, or you for that matter, my lord.” The my Lord is truly just a formality, because nothing in your sentence asks for respect anyway. He hears the insult hidden beneath the velvet of your voice, he isn’t stupid.

You should be lucky that he doesn’t scowl, or call for his guards. 

Lucky, lucky, lucky. Lucky that he lets you speak, when you have no standing, a member of a court that is nothing but a puppet now. You are sharp tongued, and he lets you speak out your insolence. Perhaps it is because you seem to be the same age, younger than the senate and yet sharpened by it. 

And here he lets you almost spit at his feet with your defiant words. He should dismiss you, at least, instead he just gives you a smirk, holding the confidence of a man who has never been told no. 

“I like how foolish you are, it’s very refreshing.” His smirk is crooked, eyes calculating, as if he is actually assessing how much of a threat you are, and he has come to the conclusion that you are not a threat at all. 

Your mouth twitches, and this time you pull out a bunch of flowers from the grass, daisies, putting them on your smooth lap with the grass that was pulled out with them and the dirt. There is a barren patch where you have been tugging at, ruining his garden a little. 

“Glad I could be of interest, Emperor.” Is what you say in the end, you are foolish, going up against him, you know that. Neither of you are soft, you know you were once soft on the coast, with the warm turquoise sea against your ankles as you played in it for hours. You cannot imagine him ever being soft.  

You cannot imagine him ever knowing something that was real, growing up in a palace like this? Full of lies and gold. At least you had a childhood, you can see he is perpetually stuck between being manipulated, and being manipulating. 

His eyes gleam as they look at you, as if you are a shiny object he has found, a special brooch with rubies inlaid into the gold. “Just interest?” One thing sticks out to you as he speaks, his voice sounds wistful, eyes distant yet so focused on you. “That is too humble of a word for someone like you.”

You should run. 

You stay still, rooted to the spot where you sit, daisies in your lap, dirt under your fingernails. You can smell the scented oil in his hair, it smells like something both spicy and cool, cinnamon and sandalwood. 

“Is this how you speak to all the diplomats that visit your palace?” You look up at him, this time holding his gaze, you aren’t a diplomat in Rome’s eyes, but gods be damned if you don’t consider yourself one. You have the dark circles that prove you have stayed up nights, trying to wrangle some treaty, some hope for the independence of your state. You have the papercuts on your fingertips, the ache in your back from being hunched over tables, studying. You have given your days to this, giving up experiences, even damn marriage for this. 

His thin lips stretch into a smile, pale with the white makeup he wears on his face. He has rings on each of his fingers, colourful stones that glitter in the dusk. He looks like he is Midas, everything he touches is gold. A gift and a curse, a gift and a curse that he carries on his back, and it is so heavy, it may break. 

“Not all of them.” 

You narrow your eyes, you can’t imagine a frazzled old diplomat pulling at grass and throwing it at the emperor’s feet. You are a novelty to him, like a lion in the gruesome arena where the Romans find entertainment in death. 

“I must be special then.” 

His eyes still gleam at you, and you know he sees you as a novelty, a shiny new ring. 

“You are a fascinating creature.” 

“I am not a creature.” You scowl at him, mouth a frown, his words leave a bad taste in your mouth, a sweet with too much sugar. He is every warning your mother has said about Rome, he is the master of the land and the sea and he plunders and pillages to whatever extent he wishes. And he stares at you like his brother stares at his damn monkey. 

“Everyone is a creature.” He purses his lips together, and suddenly he looks so innocent, you feel ill. His eyes are so, so  wide, and so brown, like those of a deer, “for the right price.”

His words give a chill down your spine, and your hands tighten around the cotton of your stola, “Emperor, do you not have a court to address?”

“Depends, diplomat,” the corner of his mouth turns up, and he stands, his shadow falling over you, “do you not have a state to save?” 

Oh how he mocks you, how he mocks the failure of your state. 

You wish to hit him with your bare hands, and instead you stand up too. A steadying breath, another one, fighting the rage that often consumed you, often had you throwing sharp insults and proclivities. Your mother often said you swore like a man, which was strange, because they were words, anyone could say them

You’re shorter than him. And you don’t want to look up at him, the empire looks up at him, there is no reason for you to look up any longer. 

“I do, actually.” Your tongue will be the end of you, but until that point, you will continue to use it like a dagger, jabbing at whomever it is directed at, be it a merchant or the Emperor. 

“I hope the gods are in your favour.” 

“I do not need your false gods.”

"They will be yours soon." His voice is gentle in the way hunters are to deer before they kill them. You don't know why he says it, but you walk off, without him dismissing you, back to your father, in the senate.

endnotes: WOW! so i don't know anything about politics actually, or repertoire. i fence with like, fencing foils not words. its so hard writing something u have no idea about. anyway please enjoy this tomfoolery, emperor geta is very down bad for a pretty, angry girl. and reader is also, somewhat into it. but she hates him BAD. and he hates her too. of course they are going to get married. obviously! if you read down to this point at this point u should send me ideas for the next chapter, where reader interacts with caracalla. does he like her?? is he nice?? thank you for letting me unleash this into the world. comment below if u want to be added to the taglist, it's currently on a huge number of one person. we lovee emperor geta and joseph quinn. he is a cutie. my readers are like imagine if rage was a GIRL and she wanted to HIT people and CHASE a man with a HAMMER except whilst CHASING the man they both fell in LOVE. thanks for coming 2 my tedtalk.

taglist: @minamoomoo

[motherismotheringggg]

scripted desire

part one

part two out now!!!

summary: based on this request linked here, essentially cooper gets to work his celebrity crush and has to navigate doing a sex scene together

type: cooper koch x fem! reader (i know cooper is gay, this is fiction pooks)

tags/warnings: masturbation (m!), strip tease, mentions is missionary, mentions of f! riding, back and forth between reader POV and Cooper so the reader’s POV is orange other than that i feel like it’s mainly world building

author’s note: im quite literally so sorry this took SO fucking long 😭 i’ve been so busy with work and other stuff!!! you know you’re too busy when you don’t even have time to shitpost like ???? anyway idk why i felt like this should be a two parter, maybe it’s bc im so into writing about the show and the story. anyway, i hope yall like it <3

word count: 5318

tag list: @purple-1995 , @blackynsupremacy , @hoffmansgirl , @sharonusworld , @violetidk

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

“The script is incredible honestly, like it just feels electric,” Cooper held his cell phone between his shoulder and ear while slicing the avocado for his toast.

He gushed on and on to his brother Payton about his upcoming role in the new HBO series, set to air late next year - Hard Bodies.

Hard Bodies is a 1980s series set in Miami where small-town gym owner Lionel Vega joins forces with fiery nightclub owner Jade Monroe to dominate the city’s nightlife and fitness scene. As shady back-alley deals and drug-fueled ambitions drive their rise; passion and betrayal threaten to consume them in a whirlwind of love and crime.

“This is gonna be sick,” Payton met his brother’s energy and enthusiasm, “I’m so fucking proud of you Coop! First Monsters and now this - you’re on a fucking roll!”

Cooper’s face flushed with a light pink hue, and he couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face. “Thanks, man. I mean, it’s HBO! This could be huge for me.”

“And you’re finally working with your dream girl,” Payton added, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Cooper froze for a beat, the knife pausing mid-slice through the avocado. “What do you mean?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.

“What do I mean?” Payton scoffed. “Don’t act like you don’t know who your co-star is, Y/N! Honestly, this is how some of the most romantic couples met so this could be a love story for the ages -”

“Okay, relax,” Cooper cut his brother off, his tone dismissive but the pink on his cheeks deepening to a noticeable red. He resumed his food prep, focusing intently on his task. “It’s not like that. She’s a professional, I’m a professional—”

“Oh, please,” Payton interrupted with a laugh. “You’ve been obsessed with her since that indie movie where she played the violinist. What was it called again?”

“Strings Attached,” Cooper answered automatically, then winced when Payton barked out a laugh.

“Exactly! You’re so not over this.”

“Whatever,” Cooper muttered, spreading the avocado on his toast and avoiding the fact that he’d practically memorized her entire filmography. “The script is electric, and she’s perfect for Jade. It’s literally not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal,” Payton echoed mockingly. “Right. So you’re gonna be completely normal huh? You’re definitely not gonna do that nervous big smile thing when you guys meet at the Ryan’s tomorrow?”

Cooper rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the flutter of nerves in his stomach. The truth was, he had already spent an embarrassing amount of time imagining their first interaction. Would she even remember his name after introductions, or would he just be the guy playing Lionel?

“I’ll be fine,” he said finally, though his voice wavered slightly.

“You’re gonna melt,” Payton teased. “Mark my words. And if you embarrass yourself, I fully expect you to call me immediately.”

Cooper sighed, pressing his palm to his forehead. “I thought I called you for support?”

“And I do support you - I’m proud of you, I love you and I know you’re gonna bomb meeting her -- bye Coop Coop!!”

As Cooper hung up the call, he stared at his toast, appetite momentarily forgotten. Payton wasn’t wrong. This role was a dream come true—but working with her? That was something else entirely.

He shook his head, trying to shove the thought away. He had a job to do, and he’d be damned if he let a schoolboy crush mess it up. Still, a small, secret smile crept onto his face. Maybe this would be the best year of his life.

----

Pulling into Ryan Murphy’s driveway felt like stepping into a cinematic dream. The sleekly paved path was framed by pristine banks of white pebbles and perfectly manicured shrubbery, each plant standing at attention like they’d been given stage directions. The house itself was a modern masterpiece—clean, sharp lines, vast panes of glass that reflected the sun just right, and an energy that screamed money, power, and taste.

But none of it threw you. If anything, it fueled you. This was exactly the kind of space you were meant to be in.

This wasn’t your first brush with industry bigwigs. You’d navigated enough industry parties and after-hours premieres to recognize the set dressing of wealth. And you’d met Ryan Murphy a handful of times already—enough to know he had a presence that filled a room, even when he wasn’t trying. This time, though, it was different. You weren’t just mingling at a party. You were here because *you belonged here.*

Your chest buzzed with excitement, but your walk to the front door was smooth, each step deliberate. Before you could even knock, the door swung open.

“You must be Y/N,” said a sharply dressed assistant with a smile that looked well-practiced but still warm. “Welcome! Ryan and Cooper are out back. Follow me.”

“Lead the way,” you said, flashing a quick grin. You weren’t about to play small—not here, not now.

The inside of the house was even more stunning than the outside. High ceilings that made every space feel twice as big, sleek furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum, and pops of color so perfectly placed it had to be planned. It was the kind of house people spend their whole lives dreaming of living in, but today it was just another set piece to you.

You followed the assistant, walking with an easy confidence, even letting out a quiet, impressed hum as you glanced up at a massive abstract painting hanging in the hallway.

“Nice art,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, but the assistant chuckled.

“Custom piece,” she said, glancing back. “Ryan commissioned it.”

“Of course he did,” you replied, lips quirking into a grin.

The assistant led you through the house, out to the backyard where the sun hit just right, Ryan Murphy stood by the edge of a sleek infinity pool, mid-conversation with another figure, but his eyes flicked over to you as soon as you stepped out. A grin spread across his face like he’d been expecting you all day.

“Y/N!” Ryan beamed, arms outstretched. His energy was just as big and commanding as you remembered, but it still felt personal. “I’m so glad you’re here. Welcome, welcome!”

You stepped in without hesitation, letting him pull you into a light hug. “Thank you for having me,” you said, your voice steady and full of gratitude. “I’m so excited to be here. I’ve been looking forward to this since I got the call.”

“Believe me, we have too,” Ryan said, holding your shoulders for a moment like he was sizing you up, but in a way that felt more approval than judgment. “You’re exactly what we need for Jade. You’ve got the fire.”

You grinned, letting that bit of praise soak in.

Ryan’s eyes shifted to the person standing next to him.

“Have you met Cooper Koch yet?” he asked, motioning to the man just to his right.

Cooper stood tall, his hands in his pockets, gaze flicking between you and Ryan. If the word leading man had a picture next to it, it would be him. Sharp jaw, tousled hair that looked just the right amount of undone, and a frame that made him look like he’d just stepped off the set of a 90s Calvin Klein campaign. But there was something else—a softness to him, a hesitancy that you immediately clocked.

“Hey,” he said, stepping forward to offer his hand, his eyes darting briefly to Ryan like he was double-checking he was doing this right. “Nice to meet you.”

You took his hand, but instead of a simple shake, you tugged him into a quick hug. Not too tight, not too long—just enough to make him feel welcome. He froze for half a second, clearly not expecting it, but he relaxed the moment you patted his back.

“Nice to meet you too, Cooper,” you said, pulling back just in time to catch the faint blush creeping up his neck. Cute.

“Uh—” He cleared his throat, his eyes briefly meeting yours before darting down to his sneakers. “Yeah, I’m—uh, I’m really excited to work with you. I’ve seen some of your films and, uh, they’re amazing.”

“I really appreciate that,” you said, tilting your head slightly, watching the way he shifted on his feet like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. Charming in a puppyish way. “I’ve seen some of yours too. You’ve got some serious range. I’m so excited to see what we cook up together.”

Cooper’s lips quirked up into a smile, but he still rubbed the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure how to hold a compliment. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it too.”

Ryan clapped his hands once, pulling both of your attention back to him. “Alright, alright. Enough love-fest. Let’s sit, get into it, and talk about the show.”

He led you both to a sleek, shaded seating area under a pergola. A pitcher of lemon water and crystal glasses were already waiting, because of course they were. Ryan sat with the air of a king at court, gesturing for you and Cooper to take seats across from him.

“Okay, let’s get into it,” Ryan said, resting his arms on his knees as he leaned forward. “I’m going to walk you through what I’m envisioning for Jade and Lionel. These two are the heart of Hard Bodies, and you’re going to love them. Trust me.”

You leaned forward, eager, every part of you locked in on Ryan’s words.

“Jade is power,” Ryan said, tapping his fingers against his knee. “She’s tough, she’s smart, and she’s relentless. Lionel—” Ryan glanced at Cooper, who sat a little straighter under his gaze. “—Lionel is her foil. He’s calm, thoughtful, but he’s got a lot going on beneath the surface. He’s a slow burn, but when he cracks, he cracks. And that dynamic between the two of them?” Ryan’s eyes flicked between you and Cooper, his gaze as sharp as a spotlight. “That’s where the magic happens.”

You nodded, the fire in your chest burning hotter with every word. You glanced at Cooper, catching the way he was looking down at his hands, nodding to himself like he was already running scenes in his head. He’s got that quiet focus, you thought. This’ll be fun.

“Got it,” you said, locking eyes with Ryan. “I’m ready.”

Ryan grinned. “I like that. You’re gonna be delicious as Jade.”

You smirked, eyes cutting to Cooper as you leaned back in your seat. He smiled, small but steady. His shoulders had relaxed a little, and this time, when your eyes met, he didn’t look away.

Yeah, you thought, this’ll be fun.

----

Since the meeting at Ryan’s house, you and Cooper really found your rhythm. By week three of filming the nerves that had hummed beneath your skin on day one had quieted, replaced with something steadier — confidence, excitement, and maybe a little something extra you hadn’t anticipated.

That extra was Cooper.

You hadn’t expected to click with him as easily as you did. He’d been quiet at first, reserved in a way that read more thoughtful than standoffish. But it didn’t take long for him to open up. It was in the small moments — how he’d quietly offer you his jacket between takes if it got too cold on set, how he’d wait for you at the catering line even if you were behind, or how he'd listen — really listen — whenever you shared an idea about your characters.

It made you feel seen. Really seen.

What you appreciated most, though, was his presence. On days when your nerves got the best of you — when you fumbled a line or felt the pressure of carrying a scene — Cooper was a grounding force. He had this way of calming you with just a look, like he could see right through your facade and was silently telling you, “You’re fine. You’re more than fine.”

On-screen, the two of you were electric. Every scene between Lionel and Jade crackled with energy — love, conflict, tenderness — all of it felt so real that sometimes you’d walk off set still feeling the aftershocks. Off-screen, it was a different kind of magic. The two of you joked constantly, falling into an easy back-and-forth that felt like you’d been friends for years. It wasn’t forced, and it wasn’t something you’d experienced with every co-star. With Cooper, it was effortless.

You loved that.

For you, it felt like a friendship blooming in real time — a friendship that made long days on set feel lighter, and easier. But for Cooper, it was something else entirely.

Where you saw camaraderie, he saw *everything.*

Every time you looked him in the eyes to deliver a line, his chest would tighten just a little more. He swore you looked at him differently when you were in character, like Jade saw all of Lionel, even the parts he didn’t show anyone else. It was devastating in a good way.

Then there was the physical contact. A simple touch, nothing out of the ordinary for actors playing love interests, but every time it happened, it was like the world narrowed to just the two of you. During one scene, you’d cupped his face with both hands, a quiet moment of reconciliation for your characters. The scene called for intimacy, but the way your thumbs had softly brushed against his cheekbones — that wasn’t in the script. And it wrecked him.

His heart swelled, chest tight with an ache he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just that you were stunning — though, God, you were stunning.

You were sharp and quick-witted, always ready with a comeback. You were thoughtful, checking in on the crew like you’d known them for years. You carried yourself with an effortless kind of grace — not in a “perfect” way, but in a real way, like you knew who you were and didn’t feel the need to prove it.

And Cooper? Cooper was in trouble.

Every scene, every shared glance, every brush of your hands had him falling further. He’d never admit it out loud — not yet, at least. But when you laughed at something he said during a break, your head tilting back, eyes crinkled in a way that made him forget every single one of his lines, he knew he was already gone.

----

It was Saturday night, and filming was running late. You were down to the final seconds of a solo scene where Jade, in full command of her space, moved with precision, power, and grace. The dim glow of neon lights splashed blues and purples across the glossy floor, shadows playing tricks on every surface. Music thumped low in the background — a sultry, hypnotic beat that seemed to sync perfectly with every roll of your hips and grip of your hands on the pole.

This scene had loomed over you since the table read. The words “Jade performs a solo pole routine” stared back at you from the page like a challenge. You’d never done anything like it before, and you knew how easily a scene like this could be reduced to spectacle rather than storytelling. But you were determined to get it right.

Weeks of training had led to this moment. The production hired pole-dancing experts to work with you one-on-one. At first, you’d struggled to even lift yourself off the ground, your muscles burning in protest. But after enough bruises, missteps, and “let’s try that again” moments, you finally felt it — that shift from trying to doing.

And now, you were doing it.

Take one was rough. A missed beat here, a loss of balance there. Ryan called "cut" before you'd made it halfway through. But take two? Take two, you were untouchable.

Your breathing was steady, eyes locked with the camera lens as if it were Jade’s greatest rival. Every movement was deliberate — slow drags of your hand down the pole, a spin that left your hair floating behind you, and a perfectly timed back arch that made you look weightless. You didn’t just look like you knew what you were doing. You looked like you’d done it a thousand times before.

Own the room. That’s what the pole instructors had told you. And you did. God, you did.

On the sidelines, Cooper sat in his labeled actor’s chair by the monitors completely consumed by you and your scene. At first, he was watching for the sake of it — just a castmate supporting you like you always supported him. But somewhere between your first spin and the moment you gripped the pole, leaned back, and flipped your hair over your shoulder, his chest tightened.

His eyes tracked your every step, every subtle shift of your weight, completely captivated. His lips parted unconsciously, breath caught in his chest as you delivered the moment you’d been directed to — a sultry, deliberate gaze straight into the camera. But it was when you reached the edge of the stage, your back to the lens, flipping your hair over your shoulder with a slow, precise motion, and hinging at the hips to elongate your legs, that he felt his restraint slipping. Heat pooled low in his stomach, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't will away the growing tension in his sweatpants.

He tried to convince himself it was just admiration for your craft — appreciation for the sheer dedication you poured into the role. And it was. You were brilliant, commanding every inch of the stage like it had always belonged to you. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the thought creeping in the back of his mind.

He wished it was his character in that chair. The one lucky enough to be the focus of your gaze, the slow drag of your fingertips down his expansive chest, the weight of you settling on his lap like a claim had been staked. His hands gliding down your sides, firmly settling on your hips before gripping your ass with a possessive squeeze. He pulled back just long enough to deliver a sharp slap, only to seize another handful with equal intensity. The thought struck him hard and fast, leaving a dull ache in his chest that spread lower. Every roll of your hips had him gripping the edge of his chair, trying to keep his breathing steady. It wasn't just the choreography — it was you. Your presence filled the room, magnetic and impossible to look away from.

His jaw tensed as you leaned forward on the stage, your eyes flickering to the camera like it was a lover you had under your thumb. But Cooper didn’t see the camera. He saw himself, head tipped back, breath caught in his throat as you loomed over him. The image hit him so vividly he had to shift in his seat, hoping no one noticed the heat crawling up the back of his neck.

He knew it was unprofessional, he knew he should be focused on the craft, the art, the performance. But it wasn’t just the role anymore. It was you — the way you embodied every inch of Jade like a second skin, a perfect blend of power and seduction. He wanted to know what it felt like to be on the receiving end of it. To be the one under your spell, just for a moment.

His fingers twitched on his thigh, pressing down hard as if to ground himself. It didn’t work. His mind was already gone, caught in the spiral of what-ifs and could-bes. What if you touched him like that — not as Jade, not as an act, but as yourself? What if you leaned in just a little closer, lips at his ear, fingers curled into his collar to pull him forward?

He shifted again, glancing around like the guilt might be written all over his face. No one was looking his way. But even if they had been, it wouldn’t have mattered. His gaze was locked on you, completely and utterly trapped.

Every slow turn of your body, every flash of your eyes, every deliberate move of your hips — it was torture, plain and simple. The kind of torture he’d willingly endure if it meant you’d look at him just once the way you did the camera.

God, he needed to get a grip.

“Cut! Beautiful, that’s a wrap on Y/N!” Ryan called, his voice jolting Cooper like a splash of cold water.

He blinked hard, shaking himself out of it. Around him, crew members applauded, grips already moving to adjust the set for the next shoot. But Cooper’s eyes didn’t leave you. You stepped away from the pole, beaming from ear to ear from the adoration of everyone. A production assistant met you as you were walking off-set with a parka coat and a bottle of water as you headed toward the monitors to look over the scene with Ryan.

You were approaching Cooper, still ecstatic, he wanted to stand to give you a hug but all the blood, currently still rushing to his throbbing self was preventing him from doing so.

“Holy shit,” you said, walking toward him with an excited grin still lingering on your face. “That was incredible.”

Cooper fumbled with his words, his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth. He could feel a sheen of sweat forming on his forehead, and it wasn’t from the studio lights. For the love of God, Cooper, get it together, he scolded himself, swallowing hard. After a beat, he found his voice again.

“You were incredible, Y/N,” he said with more conviction, leaning forward a bit. “Like, truly amazing. I mean it.”

His sincerity made your heart swell with appreciation. Without a second thought, you leaned in to hug him. You knew he was still sitting down, but it didn’t matter. His praise hit differently—partly because it came from a castmate, but also because it came from Cooper. Someone whose work you genuinely admired.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you pressed in close.

Cooper did that thing he always hated—where a hug catches him off guard, and he freezes like a deer in headlights. But this time, he was quick to recover. His arms circled your waist with more certainty, holding you close. Warmth spread through his chest, and for a moment, everything around him fell away. No cameras. No set. Just you.

He let himself sink into it, arms tightening a little more like he could hold on forever if he had the chance. His fingers brushed against the small of your back, and he felt you breathe, steadily and calmly. He took a slow inhale, and you smelled like cherries—sweet and fresh, as you'd just bitten into the fruit. Cherries. How was he supposed to forget that now?

His mind drifted. For one dangerous second, he wondered what it would feel like to press his face into the curve of your neck. To stay here a little longer. He was so caught up in you that he almost missed it—the sharp realization of just how close you were. His breath hitched. His entire body went taut like a wire pulled too tight.

His heart dropped as he realized the problem. Oh, no. No, no, no.

If you shifted even an inch— just an inch —you’d feel it. His body’s very inconvenient, very undeniable reaction to you.

Panic started to set in. He thought about pulling back, but how? Hug too long, and it’s weird. Pull away too fast, and it’s suspicious. His heart was beating so hard now he was sure you could hear it. His arms stiffened around your waist, a dead giveaway. She’s gonna notice. She’s definitely gonna notice.

His brain went into overdrive, mapping out a hundred ways to escape, none of them good. He couldn’t move without making it worse. His fingers twitched against your back as he tried to think of a solution. Don’t freak out. If you freak out, she’s definitely gonna know. Just breathe.

But before his spiral could hit rock bottom, a voice rang out from across the set.

“Alright, guys, let’s bring it in!” Ryan called, clapping his hands for attention. “We’re wrapping for the night but I wanna chat with everyone.”

You pulled away, completely unaware of the war going on in Cooper’s head. You smiled at him, bright and grateful. “Come on, partner,” you said, giving him a playful tug on his arm.

He blinked at you, still half-stuck in his haze of panic, but he followed your lead. His body was still tense, still buzzing from the aftershock of it all, but he managed to give you a lopsided grin.

“Yeah, partner,” he echoed, dragging himself out of his head. Get it together, man. Seriously.

Ryan gathered everyone around, his voice cutting through the low hum of crew chatter. “Alright, great work today, everyone. Things are moving along smoothly, and I appreciate all of you for that,” he said, his eyes scanning the group with a satisfied grin. “Tomorrow, we’re shooting the shop scenes in the morning, so check your call times. Also…” He glanced at his clipboard, tapping it with his pen. “Our intimacy coordinator, Anna Hansen, will be on set to work with Y/N and Cooper for the bedroom scene.”

You nodded enthusiastically, unbothered, already mentally preparing yourself. This was part of the job—no big deal. But Cooper’s nod was slower, stiffer. He was mirroring you, or at least trying to, but his heart had dropped straight into his stomach. Oh, right. The sex scene.

He hadn't forgotten about it—he couldn't forget—but hearing it announced like that made it feel more real. No longer a far-off, abstract idea on the call sheet. No, this was happening. Tomorrow. With you. Close to you. Closer than he’d ever been. Closer than he’d ever allowed himself to imagine. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had imagined it—but not like this. Not with cameras, choreography, and a whole crew watching.

And now, that quiet yearning he’d always managed to keep on a leash had slipped free, leaving him raw and unsteady. He could fake it. He had to. It’s just acting. But no amount of rehearsal could have prepared him for the storm brewing in his chest.

----

Later that night, Cooper was sprawled on his bed, the script spread out in front of him like it was the key to his survival. His gaze was glued to the page, his fingers absently running over the edges as he read and reread every line. He was meticulous, trying to memorize every movement, every word, because he had to get it right. He couldn’t afford to mess this up. He had done nudity and sex scenes before, but this time felt different. This time, it was you.

He couldn't quite put his finger on why, but everything about you had him tangled in knots. The way you moved so effortlessly, the quiet confidence you exuded without even trying—it was magnetic. He had seen you on screen, but being in the same room as you, sharing the same space had only made his admiration for you grow deeper. And now, the thought of being so close to you in such an intimate scene… it had his pulse racing and his stomach churning.

His body felt conflicted—he wanted to be professional, to focus on the art, but the thought of the scene tomorrow, of the moment when his body would be so close to yours, was making it impossible to think straight. He needed to know what to expect, to have every detail mapped out, so he could control his reactions, avoid any embarrassment. If the script said "Jade straddles Lionel in a kiss," he'd know how to prepare for it, anticipate the movement, and adjust himself. If it said "Jade nibbles at Lionel’s ear," he'd be ready—not to react with a breathy moan, or worse, to let his body betray him in front of you.

He kept reading, his heart hammering in his chest as he came across a line he hadn't fully processed before: "In missionary, Jade’s breasts pressed against Lionel’s face." His breath caught in his throat. HOLY SHIT. He’d forgotten that detail, or maybe he had blocked it out. Now that it was right there on the page, staring him in the face, the weight of it hit him hard. His cheeks burned, his body suddenly stiff, as the reality of what was about to happen sank in. He leaned back against the headboard, a sigh of frustration escaping him. His mind raced. How could he focus on professionalism when all he could think about was being in that moment, in that scene, with you?

Cooper took a shaky breath, trying to will his thoughts back into control, but his mind wandered. He couldn't stop thinking about how you looked in today’s last scene —how stunning you were in that glittery lingerie, the way the heels elongated your legs, the way your hair cascaded around your shoulders in sexy curls.

The image of you in that moment haunted him, the desire for you building in his chest until it felt suffocating. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the thoughts aside, but it was no use. The more he tried to focus on the script, the more he imagined how it would feel to be that close to you.

His mind started to wander into dangerous territory—what if he could imagine it? If he pictured it, maybe he could control his body’s reaction during the actual shoot. His thoughts spiraled, his breathing shallow.

Before he realized what was happening, his hand had slipped below the covers, instinctively rubbing over the fabric of his boxers. His breath hitched as he thought of you—your voice, your scent, the way you looked in that scene earlier today, your glittery lingerie, the heels that elongated your legs, your big, sexy curls. It drove him wild.

His body reacted before his mind could catch up, and he felt his breath quicken. His hand, almost of its own accord, sliding into his boxers. As he imagined what it would be like to plant hot wet kisses on your neck while he’s on top of you, thrusting into you as you moaned his name.

His mind became consumed with the desire to feel you, feel your hips rock on top of him when you rode him, your breast with perky nipples bouncing up and down. His hand moved over himself, slowly at first, his breaths growing shallow as the image of you continued to play in his head. The thought of being with you overwhelmed him.

Cooper squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to pull himself together, but his body wasn’t listening. The pressure was building, and with a quiet, desperate moan mixed with the faint utterance of your name, he let go. His warm cum spilling from his tip and cascading down his hand.

He lingered in the aftermath, trying to catch his breath, but all he could think about was tomorrow. How the hell was he going to make it through that scene without his body betraying him? He sat up, wiping the sweat from his brow, his heart still racing. His mind was a whirlwind, full of you—how you moved, how you smelled, how you made him feel. It was going to be a long day tomorrow. A very long day.

Cooper sighed, getting up to wash his hands, brush his teeth, and try to settle himself for the night. Tomorrow was going to be difficult, to say the least.

[lizard-on-a-window-pane]

When the Levee Breaks pt.1

pairing: Remus Lupin x reader

tags / warnings: friends to lovers fluff then smut, mutual pining, smoking weed (be responsible irl), high sex, explicit descriptions of oral (f receiving), fem!reader

NSFW notes: A LARGE PORTION OF THIS FIC IS NOT SUITABLE FOR MINORS; DO NOT READ IT IF IT ISN'T APPROPRIATE FOR YOU! HOWEVER, because such a long portion (like 2/3) has no sexual material (except for the implication at the very beginning), i have clearly marked where it becomes NSFW in case any age-appropriate readers want to read only up to that point (i know some people just want fluff not smut even if they're of age, and that's so chill); i will say there is drug use before then, so still adult material, but fluffy around that; please please be responsible for your content consumption

random notes: set in the late 70's / early 80's, following canon of when the marauders would've met but the rest of the world building (e.g. au) left ambiguous title inspired by a song on one of the albums mentioned idk why this turned out similar to The Prettiest Star with Sirius Black, but i guess my fantasy is just to listen to music intensely with someone then fuck lovingly lol

word count: 6.4k

hope you enjoy! thank you if you read it! 🫶

You watch as his long fingers, practiced and adept, roll the spliff. You liked this part. You could stare at his hands under the guise of watching the rolling. Remus didn’t have to know how far from pot your mind wandered when you did. He didn’t have to know it made you wonder every time what else he could do with this fingers. Imagine how they would feel on you. In you. 

At the thought, you squirm where you’re seated on his settee next to him. He chuckles in a low tone. 

“Antsy?” 

“No.” 

He can tell you’re lying. You can tell he can tell. But you don’t care. As long as he can’t tell why you’re lying, it doesn’t matter, and you can keep wriggling.

“Whatever you say, jitterbug.” 

Your wringing hands catch his attention, and his eyes fix on them even as his hands continue their work. 

“Next time, you’re rolling it,” he says through a smile. “There’d be nothing left to smoke by the time you finished shaking it everywhere,” he laughs, too amused with himself, giggling as if he were already high. 

“Remus?” you start, and he shakes his head and chuckles, loving how you get when he teases you. 

“What?” he smiles, eyebrows shooting up at you, both a welcome and a challenge for you to say whatever you’re about to. 

“Can you remind me who provided this wonderful gift on this wonderful afternoon?” You shake the baggy you brought to his flat not 15 minutes ago. 

He laughs, now nodding, and concedes, “You’re right, sunshine. I should be so grateful.”

Remus brings the spliff to his mouth to lick the edge of the paper, and your retort gets caught in your throat as you fixate on his tongue. 

A bit too late, a bit too quiet for your usual banter, you say, “You should be, Moons. I can still take it home and smoke by myself.”

“Oh now I’ve rolled it for you, yeah? Didn’t realize you were just here for my services. Should’ve known you were just pretending to love me till you got what you wanted.” He holds up his finished work — a beauty really — in front of you as he finishes his joke. You hum affirmatively, taking it from him and looking it over. 

You inspect it exaggeratedly and with a theatrical sense of casual satisfaction tell him, “Hm, not bad. I was starting to regret the long con, but I think this was worth it.” 

He’s giggling as he gets up, bumping his body against yours before he does, going toward his record collection. He walks over lazily, unhurriedly, his bare feet quiet on the floor, his hand coming up to mess with his hair. His loose, comfy clothes do a lot to hide the muscles you know are lean but strong underneath.

“Come help me choose,” he says over his shoulder as he falls to one knee to scan a lower shelf. Almost a whole wall of his small apartment is covered in shelves, boxes, stacks of records. It looks a mess, but it’s actually meticulously organized by release date.

You follow him, come up just behind him. You crouch, too, not all the way down like him. You lean on him, resting your head atop his, bringing your arms around his shoulders and neck. 

He moans casually, seeming happy, and grabs your arms where they fall across his chest. 

“Oh, Rem. You should know…”

“Hm?” he asks, looking up at you. You look down at him, seeing his warm smile upside down. 

“This is the real reason I’ve pretended to be your friend all these years,” you fake seriousness as you nod toward the records. Remus rolls his eyes, but his smile stretches further across his lovely face. It pulls on a long scar that runs down his cheek. 

“And may I ask how you knew when we were eleven that one day I would own such an epic collection?” 

“Easy. You wore a Led Zeppelin t-shirt one of the first days we knew each other.”

He’s taken aback by your giving an actual answer. 

“Did I really?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, smiling down at him. The warmth of reminiscing about those childhood years softening you. 

“I think I remember that shirt,” he smiles nostalgically. “How do you remember that?” He twists in your embrace, coming to sit on the floor and pulling you with him. You’re sitting close to each other, and he’s watching you, rapt. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I remember being so nervous and lonely at the beginning. Wanting to make friends. And you seemed nice, so I noticed you.” You shrug again, look down for a moment, not wanting to express embarrassment at a more honest recollection: you had a crush on him immediately, even back then, even before you were really sure what it was you were feeling — that came with the years that followed. “The day you wore that shirt, it was like something familiar I could latch onto. Someone who liked something I liked.” Remus is smiling adoringly at you. Listening as intently as he is, looking as giddy, he looks like a child at the greatest story time ever from his seat on the floor. 

“I even tried to talk to you about it,” you confess, cringing teasingly at yourself.

“Yeah?” He sits up straighter like a puppy hearing someone at the door. 

“Yeah,” you exhale. 

“I don’t remember that happening.”

“That’s because it didn’t,” you laugh. “I said tried to talk to you. I got too nervous and ran to hide before I could get the words out.” 

He’s shaking his head in disbelief, his smile still plastered on his face.

“I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed you yet.” Remus looks especially contemplative for a moment then hums, biting his lower lip. “It’s crazy. Trying to think of my life before you is like remembering a blank canvas.” 

Your cheeks warm and so does your heart. 

You’re smiling a beaming smile at him but say, “There wasn’t much to notice. I was pretty quiet. And besides, your attention probably couldn’t handle a single thing more given you were getting to know Sirius and James.” He laughs lightly at the good memories but shakes his head at you a little more pronouncedly. 

“I’m sure there was a lot to notice. I was just an idiot. And quiet, too. By comparison to that lot anyway. They spoke enough for the three of us. I probably would’ve wimped out if I’d tried to talk to a pretty girl like you back then.” The edges of his entrancing brown eyes crinkled from his smile. “I mean… to be honest… I’d get nervous for a while, talking to you at first.”

“You didn’t,” you tease but secretly really want to hear more.  

“I did, yeah. Of course I did,” he laughs at himself. “I had a big crush on you. James and Sirius wouldn’t let me live it down for ages.” 

You’re shocked at this news. And maybe your face shows it. What it doesn’t show is how desperately your mind is racing, questioning: “Wait, could things have been otherwise? Did he actually like me as more than a friend at some point? Did I ruin it somehow?”

Remus tenses slightly, his smile no longer reaching his eyes, which are attentive at your reaction. 

“That was a long time ago,” he jokes to fill the silence that is beginning to stretch too long, his tone awkward.

“What happened?” you whisper, unable to help it. 

He takes a second to answer, like he doesn’t know what to say. He’s searching your face, and you’re not sure how much he can read there. 

He shrugs. His face gives an “I don’t know” scowl. He’s trying to escape answering, but you don’t let him.

“Remus,” you laugh and shove him playfully. 

“I don’t know,” he giggles. “I don’t know. Then I got to know you I guess. And we became friends.” 

You give a scoffy laugh. You know he probably didn’t mean it that way, but your stomach sinks at the idea that getting to know you would remedy him of his crush. You’re staring at the floor when his voice breaks you out of your thoughts. 

“Hey, you okay?” He’s trying to keep the playful atmosphere, but you hear true concern in his tone. “Did I say something I shouldn’t’ve?”

You want to say “yes,” but you wouldn’t be able to tell him which part. So, you don’t say anything.

“I didn’t think you’d mind, after all these years,” he says more softly.

“No, Rem. Of course I don’t mind.” You shake your head as if dismissing the idea, attempting a laugh that still comes out strained. “I was just surprised is all.” 

He’s watching you, nodding subtlety, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. 

“Let’s choose something, yeah?” you nod next to you toward the wall, desperate to redirect attention.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course.” Remus turns toward the records, skimming across his stacks. A thought catches him, and he moves purposefully toward a different shelf.

“What are you thinking?” you notice, your interest piqued. 

“1971,” he says as if it’s an answer. It is to you. 

1971: the year you met. 

He pulls out a well-worn record, and the strain on your smile finally dissipates to easy delight. You come stand next to him, and he hands it to you. 

“Do you remember how much we listened to that then?” he asks. 

“How could I forget,” you smile, your fingers tracing the cover of Led Zeppelin IV. 

It came out November 1971, but neither of you could get it till at least a month later, during Christmas break from school. When you finally did, the two of you listened to it nonstop. You absolutely loved the album, but you knew you listened to it that much because it was an easy excuse to hang out with Remus. You’d been listening to music together, often just the two of you, ever since.

“Fuck, I remember we’d listen to it in my room,” Remus reminisces. “And even Sirius, the biggest Zeppelin fan of us all, couldn’t take it anymore,” he laughs. “He’d turn it off when he found us listening to it, scolding us for ‘abusing a sacred thing.’”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Oh, look at this,” Remus startles you, excited. He pulls another record off the same shelf.

“This is too perfect,” he giggles. “I didn’t remember this came out then,” he muses, looking it over. “Probably didn’t get my hands on it till much later, I guess. But it’s like it was made for us. For you.” He hands you Just As I Am by Bill Withers, but you still don’t get what he’s saying. He sees your confused look and chuckles. “Second track,” he hints. Your eyes land on “Ain’t No Sunshine.” 

“Sunshine”: Remus’s nickname for you for years. You had Sirius to thank for it actually. He’d said you and Remus were like yin and yang. And since you all already called him “Moony,” you had to be “Sunny.” The other three of you cringed at the sound of that, so he tried “sunshine” instead, conceding it was close enough, and it stuck. Over the years, Sirius and James used it less and less, Remus more and more.

“It’s your song,” Remus urges, knocking his shoulder against yours. “There literally can’t be sunshine when you’re gone because you are sunshine.” He sounds too excited, and it’s adorable. 

“You sound like Sirius saying he’s serious,” you tease. He just laughs and takes the record back.

“Whatever, grumpy. It’s an epic song, and you know it, and now it’s yours, and I don’t care if that’s cheesy.”

“I love it,” escapes you, teasing tone gone. His eyes snap to yours, and he looks at you warmly.

“Alright, sunshine,” he whispers. A beat. “Wanna listen to it?” he asks, voice almost normal again. You nod gladly then go back to the sofa as he sets it up.

Remus soon comes back and joins you. He grabs the spliff from between stacks of snacks you’d prepared for the afternoon then looks over at you.

“Ready, sunshine?”

“Mhhm.”

“You do the honours.” He hands it to you and grabs the lighter. Rather than handing that to you too, he lights it for you as it dangles from your parted lips. 

You take a long drag, feeling it enter you and welcoming it. You cough lightly as you exhale slowly. You are no novice but are still always a cougher. Remus still always giggles when you do, but it’s never mocking. He has a glass of water ready for you, knowing you well, always looking after you. You trade him the water for the spliff, which he proceeds to hit with equal enthusiasm and less wheezing.  

You pass it back and forth for a little while. It’s strong stuff and just three hits in, you feel it engulfing you. The settee feels softer; the music sounds better. 

“Ain’t No Sunshine” is playing, and in your dazed state, you’re sure this is going to be the peak of the album even if it doesn’t coincide with the peak of your high. You close your eyes, and you can feel the music on your skin. 

Remus chuckles next to you, and your face turns to him.

“You look so stoned right now,” he explains, giddy. 

“That’s because I am,” you laugh. Once you start laughing it’s hard to stop; once Remus joins, it’s almost impossible. 

You chat easily, observations and jokes from both of you greatly benefitting from the induced assistance. Remus has a revelation about your listening to HI-fi while high. Your mind is blown multiple times at how deep the lyrics are. 

“They’re all talkin’ at him, but he doesn’t hear a word they’re sayin’, Moons! Not a word! I should do that,” you tell him as if it’s the most urgent thing in the world. He cracks up. “He’s so right, you know? Gotta keep the sun shining through the pouring rain, you know?”

“Uh-huh, I know, sunshine, I know,” he just laughs at you.

“You have such a nice smile, Moony,” you observe, dazed just as much from the feelings perambulating through your system than the pot doing the same.

“Yeah?” he asks, exaggerating it till he’s all teeth and squinty eyes. 

“Yeah,” you laugh. “It looked funny upside down over there,” you remember. “Watch!” 

You flip over on the sofa till your feet are up where your neck should rest and your head is dangling off the edge where your knees would normally be. You smile up at him. Remus doubles over laughing with you, bringing his face much closer to yours as he leans into it. 

“You’re right. Looks funny,” he tells you much more softly than you expected after his cackling. He watches you intently then brings a hand to your upside down face. He traces your features lightly, and it’s warm and tingly. His long finger travels down your nose, across your eyebrows. 

“C’mere,” you whisper to him.

“Where?” he whispers back, his voice a gruff chuckle again. 

“Down here!” you whisper-yell. 

You pull his shoulder down and start kicking his legs up as he contorts until you get him in the same position as you. You end up side by side, upside-down on the sofa. 

Each of you giggles at the other as you steal side glances. Your faces, pulled the wrong way by gravity, softened more than normal by the smoking, look even goofier through your incessant giggles and pointless efforts at holding those back.

You listen, and laugh, to at least a whole song like this. You kick each other’s feet throughout. As one of your kicks brings you closer to Remus, he rolls over to tickle you. You laugh so loud you can’t even hear the record over it. 

“Stop, Rem! Stop!” you plead. “I’m already too dizzy.” 

He keeps it up a moment but soon takes pity on you and helps move your body the right way around, his strong hands manipulating you easily. 

“Alright, dizzy. Enough upside-down,” he says as he fixes your now crazy hair. 

You just nod and shift closer to him. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he shuffles to a comfortable height for you, laying his own head on yours. 

A primary reason you enjoy getting high with Remus: you both get snuggly. You’re touchy normally, even more than most best friends you’ve seen, but not overly so. When you’re high, it’s overly so. But it somehow doesn’t feel weird. In fact, it feels wonderful. 

So, it feels wonderful, not weird, when you absentmindedly reach over for his hand. He gives it to you easily, and you begin caressing it. 

“Your skin is so soft, Rem.” You pull his hand closer to you, bringing it close to your face, looking it at like you’ve never seen a hand before. Remus takes the opportunity and quickly grabs at your nose playfully. You giggle at this as he responds to your initial comment.

“In between all the scars maybe.” He sounds matter of fact. There’s a lot less pain in his voice now when he talks about them than when he did in your younger years. You look forward to the day when you hear no pain there at all. 

“No, the scars too,” you correct him gently, and you bring your thumb to a scar that runs from the top of his hand up to his forearm. You trace it with reverence, and he shivers at your touch. You know for a fact you’re the only person in the world he allows to touch them. You’re so grateful for his trust, and in this moment, your emotions heightened, your inhibitions lowered, the vibrations of the music moving through you, you feel the need to tell him so. 

“Thank you for letting me touch you, Moony.” 

Remus has been watching where your hands are connected until now, but at your words, he looks into your eyes. He just looks at you for a long moment. You can’t tell how long, time elongated and indeterminable in your current state, but you’re completely comfortable to sit in it through its entirety, looking straight back at him. 

Eventually, the softest grin blossoms on his face. You mirror it. 

“Thank you for not being afraid to,” he whispers. You genuinely don’t understand. 

“Why would I be?”

“You know what I mean,” he tries to explain. He looks down in shyness but back at you before continuing, “Maybe ‘afraid’ isn’t the right word. Maybe it’s ‘disgusted’ or something…” 

His voice is fading to a low whisper by the end, like the louder the words are the truer they’ll be. 

Without hesitating, you tell him the truth: “Remus, you’re the least disgusting person in the world. You’re beautiful.” He grimaces like he can’t believe you, so you go on. “You are.” 

You turn your body even more toward him, bringing your connected hands to your almost shared lap and bringing your other hand to caress his cheek. 

“Silly Moony. You’re so sickeningly beautiful,” you chuckle. Your hand runs up through his hair. “This hair is ridiculous,” you inform him, tousling it. He leans into your touch like a content puppy. “These eyes.” You trace circles around each of them, first skimming his eyebrows then looping around. “They’re the easiest thing in the world to melt into, no pot needed.” You feel them crinkle as they smile into your compliments. “This nose.” You trace it slowly. “These lips,” you say more softly. You feel his gasp when you touch them then feel nothing, his breath held as you trace them. “And your scars,” you say with some finality. You trace a prominent one across his face. He closes his eyes while you do, opens them again when you reach its end. “You beauty isn’t one to be ruined by scars, Remus Lupin. Your beauty is the kind that incorporates the scar and makes that beautiful too.” 

Remus squeezes your interlaced hands. Your faces are so close to each other that you could see his eyes moisten as you tell him all this. He closes them before full tears form and moves his face that tiny bit closer till his forehead rests on yours. You nuzzle his nose, and he nuzzles yours back. 

“It’s so quiet,” you whisper, breaking the silence — noticing the silence. You didn’t notice when the album ended.  Remus just hums in response. 

The silence is loaded but peaceful. You don’t want to pressure him into having to say something back after you let yourself get so intense with him. It wasn’t about what he said back; it was about his understanding how you saw him, how you hoped he would see himself. 

So, with his eyes still closed, you give the scar that runs across his nose a light kiss, do the same to another larger one across his jaw. Then you bring your head back to his shoulder, snuggling into him to mark the end of the moment, no further pressure necessary. 

Remus shifts his body closer, as close to you as possible. He brings his arm around your shoulders without letting go of your hand. He’s holding you close, and your arm crosses your chest to keep your hands intertwined. He kisses the top of your head — new, sweet — then rests his own there again — familiar, warm. Your thumb absentmindedly strokes the back of his hand. 

You sit together in the quiet a long while. You close your eyes, breathe Remus in, let his body, his presence envelop you then just bask in it. Everything feels pleasantly heavy — the air, his body where it touches yours.

You settle into him, and without your noticing you’re doing it, your hand on his stills. 

“Don’t stop,” he whispers. 

“Hm?” you need to ask, unsure what he means. You look up, and he looks down, and your faces are a breadth away from each other. 

“I liked how you were touching me,” he whispers. “I always like how you touch me,” he adds like a secret. 

He brings his hand that’s not holding yours up to your face. First, the backs of his fingers brush lightly over your cheekbone then he rests his hand there. His fingers hold your jaw; his thumb caresses your cheek. Like you tend to do, you lean into his touch. 

His gentle, soothing touch flutters your eyes closed. Your inability to see his face makes it less scary to respond, “I always like how you touch me too.”

“Yeah?” he sighs, his hand holding you a bit more tightly, his thumb coming down to graze your bottom lip. You nod slowly, his hand moving with your head.

“Do you ever think about other ways we could touch each other?” he whispers. Your eyes fly open at this and land on his: lidded, dilated, gazing into your own. 

“Do you?” 

“I asked you first,” he giggles. “And I’ve already told you a secret today. It’s your turn.”

“What secret?” Your voices are still soft, whispering even though there’s no need for quiet other than your intimacy demanding it. 

“About my crush.” 

“I had a crush on you too,” you tell him. “So now we’re even.”

“That’s not fair, sunshine,” he smiles. You smile back. 

Then, after a moment, like he can’t help it, “You did?” 

“Of course I did.” 

“What happened?” he echoes. 

“Nothing,” you confess. 

His eyebrows furrow, unsure how to interpret this. His eyes hold hope and trepidation at once. 

“I got to know you… And we became friends…” you continue. His expression falls, and you’re pretty sure you recognize this look as disappointment. But you go on, “And it made me love you all the more.” 

You’re ready to read his expression closely this time, but you don’t get the chance before he’s kissing you, before you’re kissing back. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ NSFW beyond this point ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s slow. Deliberate. His lips push on yours; his arms bring you closer. His tongue teases your lips, and though they part in response, his tongue traces them rather than push in. You whimper at the feeling of it, and he moans at your reaction. He breathes you in, covers your whole mouth with his, devouring the sound, devouring you. 

Now his tongue enters your mouth, exploring, playing with yours. You’re not sure whether his movements are slow or whether they just feel slow because you’re still high. You are sure you have no desire to speed any of it up. 

You bring your hands to either side of his face, holding him gently but pulling him to you. He follows easily, and when your chests are almost flush, you trace your hands down to his shirt and pull him on top of you as you lean back, lying down on the sofa.

You keep kissing a deliciously long while then Remus goes beyond your lips, kissing along your jaw leisurely. He mouths at your skin, licking, nipping his way unhurriedly down to your neck. Here he languidly runs his tongue along the length of your neck, kissing your pulse point, nipping behind your ear. 

Everywhere he touches is buzzing, and you shiver at the sensation. When his breath blows cold air on your now wet skin, you shiver even harder, your body shuddering against his above you. He chuckles into the crook of your neck and continues. 

After another while of his working his way down, he has to pull the neck of your shirt down to reach further. You bare your neck to him, loving his exploratory path. 

When his mouth leaves your skin for the first time in several minutes, your impulse is to immediately pull him back to you.

“Let’s take this off,” he whispers sedately, gruffly, tugging at your top. 

You pull it off and don’t waste time unclasping and sliding your bra off as well. Remus looks at you, dopey and delighted, but without further ado, pushes your chest so that you lie back again. His hand stays on you and begins lazily kneading your breast as he brings his mouth back to you.

He kisses the base of your neck and continues his previous ministrations across your collarbones. He seems to be on a mission to trace the entire surface area of your skin with his wandering mouth, and you have every intention of letting him and enjoying every long second of it. 

As he makes his languorous way down your sternum, you arch your back, pushing up into him, and bring your hands to his messy hair, holding him close. You scratch and tug, needing somewhere to release some energy, every part of you he’s touched left humming warm and electric. He groans into your chest, and you’re certain you feel the vibrations move through your skin, across your chest cavity, and into your heart, where they ricochet within it, making it beat faster. 

“Remus,” you whine adoringly. He hums into your skin again in response and speeds up his southward trajectory just the slightest bit. 

His face comes between your breasts, and he runs his teeth down the valley, then licks his tongue up the same path. You shake a little, and his hand squeezes your breast tighter. The other one he mouths across until his tongue traces a slow, wet circle around your nipple. This shoots a hot, jolting current straight from where his mouth is connected to you down to between your legs.

He’s gentle for a while, moving back and forth between your tits, often agonizingly slowly, his hands kneading at your chest all the while. Without your expecting it, though, he bites one of your hard, sensitive nipples and tugs lightly. You squeal and push your chest into his mouth. He keeps going, switching as he fancies between rough and tender. 

At a bite of the side of your breast, you rut up into him, and the movement has you feeling how wet you are. You’ve never been this wet before before direct stimulation. 

Remus holds your hips down to the sofa but moves from your chest to your stomach. His roaming mouth proceeds at its perfect, maddening pace. It meanders to your ribs, down your sides, not following a straight path down. 

Once he eventually reaches the threshold of your pants, he looks up at you. 

Remus looks higher than you’ve ever seen him before. He looks elated, in awe. 

“I want to spend hours and hours on your body like this,” he tells you, nuzzling his face into your lower stomach, kissing it as he detaches from you.

“Remus,” you whimper, running your hand into his hair and inadvertently thrusting your hips up. He chuckles, still sounding high, but his voice is as low as you’ve ever heard it.

He takes your trousers and underwear off in one efficient but slow tug. He pulls his shirt off much faster, and you touch all his skin you can reach before he’s repositioning himself.

Your thighs feel cold now uncovered, but it’s nothing compared to the sensation of fresh air on your soaking cunt. As you adjust your body, you feel a thick wetness drip from your entrance down to where your arse meets the sofa. You feel the coldness of that wetness even more as Remus pushes your legs further apart to position himself between them. 

You’re completely sure you’re wetter than you’ve ever been before, but you’re not sure if you could possibly be as wet as you feel, thinking the high could be heightening your sensation of it. You’re worried it’s too much, worried you’ll put Remus off. 

“I can clean up a little if —“ you start, but you’re cut off by Remus diving in, running his flat tongue slowly, firmly up from the base of your puddle up to your pubic bone. A strangled, prolonged gasp functions as the end of your sentence.

When Remus licks you again, your thighs shake on either side of his head. You feel him laugh into your cunt, and this time you imagine the vibrations shooting all the way up your body, following the chaotic roadmap his mouth left lingering across it.

Remus pulls back from you and rests his chin on your pubic bone, looking up at you. 

He informs you simply, “You taste delicious, darling.” He looks drunk on it. 

“Everything tastes better when you’re high,” you tease.

“Then I’m really going to enjoy this,” he smiles. “But I’m pretty sure you’ll get me high just by letting me do this other times.” 

“Other times?” 

“Well, yeah…” he giggles. His eyes bore into yours even though he’s the length of your torso away. “I though this was a first, not an only…”

“Good.” You sound giddy. “Just checking.”

“Silly,” he shakes his head at you. You thrust your hips up and laugh at the expression he makes when you bump his face, like he’s dazed. He squeezes your thigh harshly where he’s holding you. 

“Behave, sunshine. It’s feeling dangerous down here.” 

“I thought you were enjoying it.” 

“I am.” A bite at your hip. “And I’m seriously getting the munchies, so just…” You don’t understand the end of his sentence, the words muffled against your skin as he starts eating you out.

It’s heavenly. High as you are, in love as you are, you think you’re on cloud nine. This gets you wondering where such an odd expression even comes from. It seems so random. 

“Moony?”

“Hmm?” is grunted into your cunt.

“Why do you think it’s called being on cloud nine?”

He pulls back. The whole lower half of his face shines in your slick. 

“Why are you thinking about that right now? Am I that bad at this?”

“Bad? It’s amazing.” You ruffle his hair in your groping hands. “Which is why I’m on cloud nine, which is why I’m thinking about that right now. Your hair is as soft as clouds, Moons.” 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Am not,” you giggle.

“Are,” he teases.

“Can you keep going now? It felt so good. Your mouth is ridiculous.” You thrust your hips up at him again.

“Ridiculous and bossy,” he complains, but he’s smiling hard, and before you can even think of a retort, he does as you bid. 

His mouth takes its time between your legs. He spends eternities teasing you: mouthing at the tops of your thighs, licking up your bikini line, nipping at your clit without giving it the attention he knows you want from how loud you whine every time he gives it the slightest graze. He loves all over your vulva, not leaving any part untouched, unworshipped. His tongue fucks into your entrance languidly; it swirls there. He licks your labia, sucks on it, gives the same attention to your clit when you moan loud enough. He travels back and forth, seemingly enjoying all of it too much to stick to any one attention too long. The next time he lands on your clit, he prolongs it.

Your legs shake; your back arches; your whines grow loud before turning strangled, and Remus takes his cue to reserve the relaxed approach for later. He picks up his pace, gripping your thighs tightly and shakes his whole face into you, alternating between licking and sucking rhythmically at your clit. You cum hard, and it feels like it goes on for minutes. 

With your eyes closed, you truly feel like you’re floating, your only anchor to the world Remus Lupin where you feel his body attached to yours. 

You’re laughing in pleasure, and the laughs turn to pants as you slowly, slowly come down. You love coming down to an already high baseline, and you giggle at the sensation of relaxing into a still heightened state. 

It suddenly strikes you it feels like it’s been years since you talked to Remus, heard his mellifluous voice, and you startle your eyes open searching for him. 

You see him immediately. He’s gazing at you with equal parts ardor and adoration, but when he sees your expression, his shifts to concern. 

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong, my love?” He rushes to hover just above you. His face is close to yours again, though it’s scanning all over your body. His hand holds your face gently, his other arm holding him up. “Did something feel bad? Does something hurt?” 

“No, no, I’m fine, Moons, I’m fine,” you rush to reassure. “I just missed you,” you explain.

“Missed me?” His eyes shoot to yours. “I’m right here, love; what do you mean you missed me?” He can’t help a subtle giggle, and his adoring expression takes back its rightful place on his beautiful face. 

“I just thought I hadn’t seen you in too long.” Your hands caress his face, thread through his hair. “Or heard your voice…” 

“Hmm,” he hums, leaning into your touch. “I’m right here. What do you want me to say?”

“Anything,” you smile. 

“I love you.” 

You’ve heard them before, but never like this, and they’re the best words in the world, in the universe. 

“Remus,” you sigh, leaning up to kiss him. He tastes intensely of you, and you laugh into the kiss. “I’m sorry I got you so… so slicky.”

“I don’t mind,” he chuckles. “Means it was good, right?”

“Beyond. ‘Good’ is like… like one colour out of a whole rainbow for how that just felt.” 

He’s beaming down at you and kisses you again, lingering there. 

When he finally separates from you, his caressing thumb comes to wipe some slick at the corner of your lip. You grab his hand and kiss each of his fingers lightly. Then you lick down his long index finger, your tongue finding and following a scar up his hand to his wrist.

You look into his eyes, and he’s staring at you, transfixed. 

“I was thinking about your fingers when you were rolling the spliff.” 

“Yeah?” His voice is a desperate sigh. 

“Yeah.”

“What were you thinking about?” 

“How beautiful your hands are. How they’d feel touching me… How your fingers would feel inside me…”

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You wanna find out?”

“Yes,” you moan. 

“Get them nice and wet for me, and I’ll show you.” They’re already lingering at your lips, but he slowly pushes them in. You welcome them enthusiastically and lazily suck on them, swirl your tongue around them.

“Fuck.” His voice is low. “Fuck, I want to feel everything there is to feel with you.”

“Mmm,” you nod, your mouth still full. 

Remus takes his fingers out, kisses you, and lets his mouth stay on yours as his fingers trace down your chin, your chest, your stomach steadily, leaving a wet path. When they reach between your legs, you squirm in anticipation. 

He rubs a couple of tight, slow circles on your clit. You’re so sensitive, and it feels amazing. You mewl into his mouth where it still hovers just above yours. 

“Ready, my sunshine?” 

“Mmhhmm.”

Remus pushes two fingers into you ever so slowly. You release a low, slow whine the whole time he takes to press in. He gives you gentle kisses, eating it up. When his fingers are in to the hilt, you wonder how you didn’t feel devastatingly empty every moment of your life before this one. When he adds a third, you’re sure you will every moment after.

You clench purposefully around him, and he moans into your mouth. Closing your eyes again, it’s the easiest thing to let yourself be consumed by the sensations, by Remus. 

When he curls his fingers inside you, you clench again, this time automatically. You grip his hair and clutch his back, your arms pulling his body close to yours. 

The spot he starts massaging feels like it’s a blazing fire, but everywhere else you’re connected, your chests, your mouths, is scattered scalding embers.

You’re savouring every second, every sensation, already feeling another high building but relishing in the time it’ll take to get there. 

You run your hands down Remus’s back, feeling the bumps of his scars, the grooves of his defined muscles. For the first time all afternoon, you feel a desire to hurry… 

You start moving your hips to meet his rhythm, eager, even more than for your own climax, for your turn to take your time on him. 

pt. 2!

[desertsweetheart]

BORN TO DIE (I)

Summary : You’re not supposed to be at Figure Eight parties anymore, but you go anyway—wrapped in your mother’s red silk, chasing something sharp enough to feel. Then there’s Rafe Cameron: bruised knuckles, silver flask, and a kiss that tastes like bourbon and bad decisions.

Word Count : 4,438

Content : Lowk bad writing (so sorry for that), implied parental neglect/dysfunctional family dynamics, alcohol use, drug references, smoking (cigarettes), mentions of blood/violence, classism (technically??), underage drinking, tiny tiny age gap (18/20), may be more idk how to tag

Series Masterlist !

The house was far too quiet for a Friday night. It was the kind of silence that didn't really mean peace, but absence, as if something was missing.

You sat on the edge of your bed in your black, lacey slip you had put on after a bath. Your hair was still damp at the ends and clinging to your shoulders, and outside, the sea breeze rattled the shutters, salt air drifting in through the cracks of your window frame.

The summer heat never quite left this room, even with the fan on full blast. You could hear the ocean if you listened hard enough—waves clashing together far off, mixing with the faint sounds of cicadas.

Your room was the only part of the house that still felt like yours. You'd made it your own little sanctuary—twinkle lights strung along every curve of the ceiling, stacks of old fashion magazines, perfume bottles, dried roses, and scented candles on every surface. When you light enough of them at once, you can almost pretend you live somewhere else. Almost.

Somewhere where rent was paid on time. Somewhere where the roof didn't leak in every room when it stormed. Somewhere where you weren't constantly playing maid for a mother stuck in a past that no longer existed.

The house was too big for just the two of you. Every room felt like it belonged to someone richer, happier. Someone from before all the termoil, the debts and foreclosure threats, before the gentle yet polite whispers from your private school teachers that you should apply for financial aid—at least you're away from them, now. Thank the Lord for graduating.

Downstairs, the TV played an old black-and-white movie on loop. You knew it by heart at this point—you could tell which film it was just from the sound. The clipped, dream-like voices of dead movie stars, the rise and swell of violins, the static buzz that came whenever the cable flickered.

She used to be the most beautiful woman in town. Everyone would say it—whether it be out of jealous or awe.

It was back when your family was invited to every gala, way before the money dried up and your father just up and left. Before people started whispering about their assumptions on 'what happened to that family'.

Nowadays, however, she looked like a faded version of the magazine covers you sometimes found hidden in the back of the closet. All cheekbones and smudged eyeliner with the smell of Chanel No. 5 overshadowing cheap vodka.

Delilah : party at kelces, im picking u up rn

Delilah : pls wear red

You just stared at the text for a moment, thumbs hovering over the screen.

Viv : and don't be boring

Viv : you NEED to get laid

With a sigh, you dropped your phone on the bed and stood up, walking over to your full-length mirror. The slip clung to your skin like glue made of silk. Your lips are bare, and your eyes are ringed faintly with the mascara you hadn't properly wiped off from yesterday.

You looked just like your mother. People told you that all the time—yet you're still unsure if it's meant as a compliment.

You turned towards your wardrobe and scanned it as if you were looking for armour. Red, Delilah told you—it's a bold colour, so a bold dress wouldn't hurt, right?

While rummaging around the drawers, you found a short, vintage silk dress your mother used to wear in her prime. It had a slit up the thigh with off-the-shoulder sleeves, and it still smelled faintly of perfume and old dust.

It zipped up like a second skin—as if it was made for you.

You threw on a pair of heels, twisted your hair up with the odd loose strand left out, and painted your lips the same dark scarlet as the dress. You smeared a bit of glitter under your eyes like tears rounding up, just ready to drop.

It's too much—which means it's perfect.

You didn't look like a girl with an overdrafted checking account or a now barely-there college fund. You looked expensive. Hair curled, makeup sultry, and a dress tight enough to show off every curve. Again—perfect.

You switched off your bedroom light and walked across the hallway quietly, pausing at the top of the stairs.

Your mum shifted on the sofa but didn't wake up—just mumbled a few incoherent words under her breath and rolled onto her side.

She was still in yesterday's dress, a silk robe tangled around her legs and a wine glass balancing on the coffee table in matching colours. Only one of her heels were on, and as you slowly walk down the steps so as not to make a sound, you notice the missing one in a flower pot.

A pang of melancholy shot through you—it always did when you gazed at her for a moment too long.

She used to throw the best parties in the Outer Banks. Champagne towers, live jazz, people dancing on tabletops. Now, she's either passed out with a bottle in her lap or talking to the pool boy (is he even getting paid anymore?) about tips on manifesting abundance. You weren't sure she even remembered what year it was most days.

You didn't say goodbye, didn't even properly step foot into the living room, just stepped out into the night and let the screen door shut quietly behind you.

The air smelled like magnolias and the low tide. Your heels clicked against the unstable concrete as you made your way towards the streetlight, where headlights were already cutting through the sunset.

Delilah's convertible idled at the curb, the sound of music thumping softly from the speakers filling your ears. Viv leaned out the passenger window, waving a cherry-red cigarette.

"Get in, slut," She grinned at you—just like she always did. She was always so sweet with her pet names.

You just smiled with a huff and climbed into the backseat, slamming the door behind you.

The car already smelled like too-expensive perfume and weed, still covered in glitter and rhinestones from the night before—oops.

Viv tossed you a plastic flask, and with zero hesitation, you took a sip—tequila. Initially, it burned in your throat, but as it made its way down, it warmed something inside of you.

"Gosh, you look like you came out of a noir film," Delilah said, looking at you through the rearveiw mirror as she adjusted her sunglasses, "Very tragic starlet. Lovin' it."

You smirked at her, plucking Viv's cigarette from between her lips and placing it between your own, taking in a long drag, and shrugged, "Felt like dressing up."

The car pulled away from the curb and sped off towards the sound of music, ocean, and ruin. You watched as the island blurred past—the old shops, the docks, the marsh, and then Tannyhill glittering in the distance like a palace as you drove past it.

Viv giggled when Kelce's house came into view, already bursting with excitement—which was nothing new.

"I heard Cameron punched someone last week," She uttered casually, reapplying lipgloss with the precision of a surgeon, "Like—full on hospitalised."

"Gosh," Delilah laughed, not even bothering to feign shock, "He's so hot."

You huffed under your breath at her words, idly blowing smoke as you stared out the window, taking in the scenery.

The closer you got to Kelce's house, the louder the bass pounded. It rattled the pavement beneath the tires and pulsed through your chest like a second heartbeat. You can only imagine how loud it is when you're there.

You could already smell the booze from the street, even with all the car windows closed shut. Someone had set off fireworks in Kelce's back garden, faint bursts of colour blooming in the distance like a warning sign.

How dramatic.

The Smith house was chaos—like most parties on Figure Eight were. The sprawling mansion loomed at the end of the cul-de-sac, half lit like a cathedral to bad behaviour, strobe lights blinked erratically from each floor, and a neon sign sign that read heaven or hell—choose wisely hung crooked above the garage, glowing red, white, and blue. As patriotic as ever were those silly frat boys.

Shadows drifted through the windows like ghosts behind sheer curtains. Cars lined both sides of the road—BMWs, Jeeps, old motorbikes, even a stolen golf cart was ditched in the front garden. A pogues getting fired from the country club in the morning.

Delilah hadn't even stopped the engine before tapping the breaks, pulling up to one of the few free spaces at the front.

"Here we are ladies," She sang, finally cutting the engine and reapplying her perfume with a few aggressive spritzes, "The gates of hell."

"You mean heaven," Viv corrected, eyes already scanning the crowd as she fixed a rhinestone hairclip into place with one hand while pointing at the neon sign with the other, "Choose wisely, remember?"

You giggled at her words and swung the car door open, practically hopping out as your stomach started twisting. The salt air was heavier here—thick with cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, sweat, and shitty perfume.

There was a never-ending plethora of bodies and heat in front of you. You could practically feel the hormones rising off the crowd like steam—girls were in glittering dresses, dancing barefoot in the front garden, and one guy was already passed out on the hood of a Camaro with a bottle loosely gripped in his hands. Laughter echoed from the back garden, and you could hear the occasional pop of a champagne bottle, quickly followed by a crowd of cheers.

It was the exact genre of party you weren't meant to be at anymore—the kind of party you used to be invited to without question, back when your last name meant nothing and your wardrobe hadn't started to feel like a costume.

"Shit," Viv breathed as you all approached the door, her smile sharpening as she spotted someone across the garden, "There's Barry. That cokehead still owes me eighty bucks, c'mon, De."

And just like that, she and Delilah veered off, disappearing into the crush of bodies with a kind of practiced grace. You paused for a beat before walking to the threshold.

The Smith house was a vision of chaos, like most houses with the adults missing for a business trip. The lights were too dim, the music was headache-inducing, and the wooden floors stuck to the soles of your heels.

It was always warm in here, like the house itself had a fever. People danced like they were trying to forget their own names, pressed together so close you could hardly breathe without inhaling someone else's breath.

You guided yourself through the entryway, making sure to avoid the couple making out against the wall as if they were some biohazard. The small dodge caused some guy to to stumble into you, sloshing beer onto the paneled flooring.

"Watch it," He mumbled, though not entirely unkind as he stumbled his way outside.

You didn't reply, didnt utter a small 'sorry', just continued walking as if on autopilot.

You made your way to the kitchen—if you could even call it that in it's current state. It looked as though a hurricane had passed through it—three separate people were climbing onto the marble island with drinks spilled across every surface, and a pile of discarded shoes were crowded in the corner. Why is everyone losing their shoes today?

You poured yourself something from a half-finished bottle of champagne, not even bothering to check the brand or flavour before you took a long sip, letting the golden bubbles fiz over your lips.

You're unsure what you want to happen tonight. Just that you want something to pierce through the constant, quiet ache that had been building in your chest like smoke the past few months.

You wandered deeper into the house, each room like a new level of delirium. In the den, someone was DJing on a vintage turntable. Girls danced on top of pool tables with matching bodycon dresses—each a desaturated colour of the rainbow. In the same room, a sofa was being used as a wrestling ring by two shirtless guys who looked as though they'd lost track of the rules.

Still no sign of anyone to liven up your night. Shame.

And it wasn't until you stepped out onto the back patio that everything stopped.

Rafe Cameron.

He was leaning against a stone wall, drink in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. He was talking to someone, staring them down with eyes lit like fuses. His shirt was open down the middle of his chest, collarbone slicked with sweat, and there was something smeared on his temple.

Blood, maybe? You couldn't tell from over here.

What you could gather—was that he looked wild. His irises were practically nonexistent at this point, overtaken by the black hole that were his pupils.

He looked beautiful—but unwell. Like something that could never be tamed. And, it was weirdly tempting to attempt to try.

His gaze flicked towards you before you could look away. And, it stayed.

Something electric passed through your body, sharp and fast like a spark plug. He didn't smile, didn't move, just looked at you as if you were a riddle he wanted to solve, as if you confused him beyond belief. Odd.

He didn't stop looking at you, not once. Even when the guy beside him—some Kook with a fresh tan and a crooked jaw—leaned in to say something in his hear, Rafe didn't blink. Just nodded vaguely, handed off his half-smoked cigarette and finished bottle without a word, stepping away.

Towards you. He's stepping away towards you. You didn't think this far ahead.

He didn't walk in a straight line—not with the state he's currently in. But he still managed to keep that slow, lazy swagger of someone who never needed to rush. Someone who already knew you wouldn't move until he got to you.

Your grip on the champagne glass tightened, the cold stem slick against your palm. For a second, you thought about turning and pretending you hadn't noticed him and finding Delilah and Viv—helping them with whatever problem they've caused now.

But, something kept you in place. Call it boredom, call it recklessness. Who knows?

When he stopped in front of you, it was like the rest of the party dimmed around the edges. The music was still pounding through the walls, voices still echoing from every crevice of the house—inside and out. But none of it seemed to matter.

He was taller up close, way broader too. His chest gleamed faintly with sweat beneath the half-buttoned linen shirt, collar popped lazily like he hadn't given a single thought to how good he looked—like it all came effortlessly. Which, it most definitely did for him.

His dirty blonde hair was ruffled, the edges curling from the heat mixing with salt. And above his brow, smeared dark and drying—a thin streak of blood, just like you had thought.

You didn't flinch, didn't smile. Didn't react in the slightest—still attempting to figure out how to handle Rafe Cameron approaching you.

"You always dress like this to parties?" He spoke first, voice low and rough. The kind of rasp that only comes from too many late nights decisions.

Your eyes flickered down to the way his shirt clung to his abs, then back up.

"Only when I want attention."

Wow, way to make yourself seem like a cheap whore.

Your response made him pause of a moment, before a slow grin tugged at one side of his mouth, almost like he was impressed, but not entirely surprised.

"Guess it worked."

You took a long sip of your champagne, attempting to calm your nerves before you dared to speak again.

"Don't flatter yourself," You began, "You're just the first person here who doesn't look like they're trying too hard."

That caught him off guard this time. But just for a moment. You could see it in the subtle twitch of his brow, like he almost hadn't expected you to talk back. As if he wasn't used to being challenged.

He stepped in a little closer, and the air between your bodies seemed to shift. Warmer, tighter—like the space was collapsing without either of you moving much at all.

"You've got a mouth on you," He stated, tone edged with amusement.

"And you've got blood on your face."

He blinked and slowly lifted two fingers to his temple, touched the dark smear, then glanced at the red now smudged on the pads.

"Right," He murmured, "Forgot about that."

"Whose is it?"

He just looked at you, that same small side-grin threatening to break free again, "Does it matter?"

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly, "Haven't decided yet."

The tension seemed to pull tighter. Not hostile—but something else, something thicker and headier. Like the moment before lightning cracks across the sky.

You could hear your heartbeat now, thumping loud against your ears. He was still watching you like he didn't know what to make of you—like you were something unfamiliar, dangerous in your own right.

"I'm not scared of you, you know," You said after a beat, almost lazily, as if it was a plain, overused fact.

His smile was sharp this time, no hesitation to be found, "Maybe you should be."

"Maybe," You murmured, brushing a glitter-smeared knuckle beneath your eye, "I should've stayed home."

"But you didn't."

A silence settled between you. Deep, strange, and kind of tranquil in it's own way. The sort of silence where choices are made without the use of words.

You don't look away—and neither does he.

Rafe reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a silver flask, thumbs open the top, holding it out toward you.

You didn't hesitate for a second. You grabbed it, let your fingers graze his, and took a sip–bourbon. It was harsh and burning, but warm all at the same time, the sort of comfort that had nothing to do with taste.

"Wanna get outta here?" He asked, nodding towards the path beyond the deck that sloped down to Kelce's own private beach, "'S too loud. Can't hear myself think."

You considered it. Thought about you mother passed out in the living room—how when she wakes up she wouldn't even realise you'd gone as she goes to find another rich man to attempt to pursue (it never works, she's not as young as she thinks she is anymore).

Then think about your friends—did they even remember they'd taken you here? Despite going on about how 'you need it'?

You handed the flask back and let out a simple, "Sure."

His eyes flickered with something unspoken. No smile—but something close, something secret.

He led you past the patio and down a narrow path lit only by scattered tiki torches and the glow of the house behind you. The sound of the party grew fainter with each step—like leaving one world behind for another.

The music dissolved into a background hum of ocean breeze and far-off laughter. Sand crunched softly beneath your heels before you finally slipped them off and carried them in your hand.

Rafe didn't speak for the first few minutes, just walked with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, gaze fixed straight ahead, occasinaly glancing sideways to make sure you were still following.

He wasn't what you expected. Whatever that meant. The so-called 'golden boy' from a cursed family, always whispered about. Too rich, and too reckless to live long.

But, before you now, in the dark—he looked like just a man.

The beach stretched out like a painting, silver and blue beneath the flickering moonlight. The ocean was dark—inky black. The moonlight only catching the edges of the waves as they broke against the shore, and the sky was littered with stars. Everything felt suspended in time—quiet, soft, intimate.

"So, what's your deal?" He finally spoke. He looked over at you, his features shadowed by moonlight but still cutting.

You glanced over, "What do you mean?"

He looked at you, really looked, with his head tilted slightly like you were some puzzle he couldn't figure out.

"You just-" He huffed, "You just don't act like the other girls at these parties," He said, motioning vaguely towards the house, "You're not tryna fuck me. Or- I dunno. Maybe you are—but you're not obvious about it.

You couldn't help yourself and laughed at his words, "That's your baseline? If someone isn't throwing themselves at you, they're interesting?

He grinned, a quick flash of white teeth, "Nah. I just—fuck. I dunno. You've got that..." He waved his arms around while pointing at you, as if he doesn't know how to put it into words, "I dunno. I feel like you'll bite my head off if I say the wrong thing.

"I might," You indulged in his weird ramble, shrugging your shoulders.

His grin widened, "That. You're like...yeah..."

Wow. He's so good with words.

You stopped walking at the edge of the water and let the surf wash over your feet. Your heels were dangling from your fingers. Rafe stood beside you, glancing at the waves in the moment of silence.

Then, out of nowhere, he blurted out, "Do you ever wanna just, like...leave?"

You turned your head, frowning slightly, "Leave what?"

He shrugged, "This. Outer Banks. The parties. All of it."

You studied his profile—his jaws clenched tight, lips parted slightly, breath rising and falling like the tide. He got sensitive with you weirdly quick. Though, that's probably the drugs.

"I used to," You admitted quietly, "But it doesn't matter anymore—I can't leave so I shouldn't dream about it. I'll just get my hopes up."

He doesn't answer right away, just took another swig from his flask and handed it over to you. Again, no hesitation.

The quiet stretched again—but like last time, it wasn't awkward. It was thick and heavy. Like a string had been pulled taut between you, just waiting to snap.

When you gave it back, his eyes met yours. They were heavy with something unreadable swimming in them.

"You ever think about death?"

You blinked, your lips parting as you let out a small laugh on instinct.

"Jesus. You're a bit morbid."

"I'm serious."

"No. You're high."

That familiar grin returned—but slower this time. And something in it made your stomach twist.

And then he laughed—sharp and sudden, "Little bit. Still a serious question, though."

You rolled your eyes, wrapping your arms around yourself as you thought about his question, "I guess. I dunno. I mean—it's gonna happen one day, I guess. Gotta prepare or somethin'."

He turned his body towards you fully, staring into your eyes—it was quite scary, in all honesty.

A beat passed, and his smile faded just a little, "Shit. That's morbid."

"You brought it up-"

He just shushed you, stepping closer. Close enough that you could smell the salt on his skin, the sweat, the bourbon on his breath. His gaze dropped to your lips, only briefly, and then flicked back up.

Something shifted in his face. His usual cocky veneer cracked—not gone, just shifted, like he didn't know what to say next.

You weren't sure who moved first. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you—maybe it was the both of you at the same time.

But suddenly, the space between you was entirely gone. His mouth brushed against yours—not quite a kiss, but not innocent, either. It was like a warning, or maybe a question.

You didnt answer with words, you just leaned in the remaining distance, and kissed him.

It was slow, yeah—but sharp edged. A tangle of breath and want. His hand slid to the back of your neck, the other settling on your waist. It wasn't sweet nor gentle, it was like lighting a match. Fast, hot, and borderline reckless.

His lips were warm, and tasted faintly of bourbon and cigarettes. You fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt on instinct, feeling the heat of his skin beneath it.

He kissed like someone who desperately needed it. Like he hadn't felt anything good in too long and he wasn't sure if this counted—but he'd take in anyway. And you let him.

The kiss deepened quickly—almost too quickly, maybe. Teeth grazing lips, tongues meeting in a rush of heat. You felt your back arch slightly as he pressed closer, his fingers digging in like he wasn't ready to let go. Like you might dissappear if he loosened his grip on you even a smidge.

His fingers slid into your hair as your bodies pressed closer—chest to chest.

When you finally pulled back, your breath was caught somewhere between your chest and throat, his forehead rested against yours—both of you silent except for the sound of waves and your own uneven breaths.

"That what you came here for?" He murmured.

You licked your lips, tasting only him on them.

"No," You answered honestly, "But I'm not complaining."

His mouth brushed the corner of yours again, lazy and lingering. Then, out of nowhere—

"You wanna come back to mine?"

His voice was casual, too casual. Like he wasn't even asking for real, just offering some silly thing offhand. But his jaw had flexed right after he said it. That tiny flicker that betrayed the truth of it.

You arched a brow, looking down at him through your bottom lashes, "Wow. Straight to the point."

He huffed, low under his breath, straightening up to look down at you.

"Ain't like that. I'm not—" He stopped himself, jaw ticking again, "I'm not tryna pull some shit, alright? Just...talk. Chill. Whatever."

You stared at him for a beat, caught off guard again. Rafe Cameron, of all the possibilities, asking you to just talk. He didn't even look at you when he said it—just starred off into the distance. Odd.

But it was the way he said it, so low and strangely careful, that made you pause.

"Okay."

"Cool," He muttered after a beat, softer now, "Cool."

Yeah, your night definitely ended with him pulling some shit. But you didn't complain at the time, and you definitely aren't now.

[rationaliity]

mine now | gallagher x f! reader ( 18 + )

ill be so real with you my dearest freaky anon i'm not the biggest fan of cheating so plspls understand that if this kinda sucks,,, im sorry, especially since you were waiting for so long for this and then i drop the most lukewarm fic of all time. i also had to change the story around so that it was something that i was comfortable writing, sorry about that ! still the basic premise, i just am not good with ntr for some reason ?? weird. who knows man. tags : drug abuse ! dubcon, dirty talking, weed & alcohol mention, female anatomy reader but its sort of nonspecific idk, pw/op, voyeurism sorta, exhibitionism sorta, coercion almost, mentions of infidelity, comfort turns into sex, possessiveness, unprotected sex, gallagher uses petnames a lot, reader being drunk & high at the same time, reader gets on call with her ex boyfriend while gallagher fucks them words: 1.8k

gallagher's hand was in your hair, your head pulled back as he pounded you so hard into the mattress it made your hip hurt a little bit from the pressure, not that it was really what you were focused on. he'd promised to make you forget your shitty ex boyfriend who'd cheated on you, and you had agreed on that without a second thought. it was originally just a drink that the two of you shared together, with you ranting about this loser to gallagher, who was all too patient with you.

one drink turned into three, and drinks turned into smoking together. being crossfaded and half focused, those little rants went on about everything that had pissed you off about that loser since the moment the relationship started to decay. everything from how he refused to flush the toilet no matter how many times you reminded him, to how tiny his dick was. gallagher had laughed at your jokes about him, and it spurred you on to keep going, laughing about that loser's tiny shrimp dick. gallagher asked if you'd ever had a dick bigger than two inches, and you shook your head. you had no idea what sex was really supposed to feel like aside from what you knew.

then he asked if you were willing to see what it was like, and you swore you'd never felt more sober than that moment right then as you hesitantly nodded. was it still going to hurt if you weren't a virgin anymore ? the answer, surprisingly, was a resounding yes ! you learned that pretty quickly as gallagher's hips pistoned into yours, his free hand grabbing the fat of your ass, his body pressed against yours so he could whisper into your ear.

" don't be shy, baby, you can let your makeup ruin my sheets. it's been ruining my shirt all night now, " he purred in your ear, his sharp canines daring to bite into the sensitive skin of your neck completely without warning. when he finally did, you made a pathetic little mewl that you weren't even aware that you could make. " a little reminder of who can fuck you better than that fuckin' pathetic loser, yeah ? gonna go to work tomorrow n show off your mark for everyone to see, yeah ? "

possessiveness was driving him, only amplified tenfold by the weed in his system. it made you both feel everything so much deeper, so both in tune with your bodies and completely disorientated at the exact same time. you couldn't feel your toes anymore, and you weren't even sure you had a tongue in your mouth you were so far gone, but you could feel every deep stroke inside of you as he thrust, and the feeling of his nails digging into the flesh of your ass.

you were a disaster. you knew you should be somewhere else. it was in three the morning, you were three drinks and several shots deep, and with enough weed in your system to kill a victorian child before they could even understand what was happening to them. but you had no idea that you needed this so much, needed to feel him so deep inside of you that it brought you to tears, stretching you so well that you thought there was no way it was going to fit. and yet his cock buried itself completely inside you each time, his tip hitting against your walls in that special spot that made you cry out.

you wanted to scream, you wanted to cry, and by god you wanted to moan so loud that your neighbors could hear you. and maybe you were doing all of those things, at this point you weren't entirely sure what you were doing, other than taking his cock. gallagher was like an animal, desperate to claim every inch of you, and you were so willing to give him everything that he desired without any amount of a fight.

you heard a noise in the background, but you honestly didn't think much of it at that point. it was so unimportant, you didn't really care what it was, although you recognized the sound. " baby, your phone is ringin', you wanna answer it, or should i ? "

you made a pitiful little noise, and he took that as a perfectly valid answer, grabbing your phone and sliding it up for you. " hey, yeah ? oh, man. " you couldn't hear what was going on on the other side of the phone, but you could hear gallagher chuckle, and you swore he started to fuck you even harder now, the lewd noises of your skin slapping together undoubtedly able to be heard through the phone. " yeah, sorry you're a fuckin' loser, but they've got some new dick. thank you for keepin' them so fuckin' tight f'me. "

you don't know why your ex hadn't hung up the phone yet, but also on the other hand it made complete sense. if he had a way to argue, he was going to argue, even when all of the odds were against him, and the answer was blaring at him straight in his face. you buried your face in the pillow, trying not to make so much noise, but finding it impossible with the way gallagher was thrusting inside of you like he owned your body. and maybe he did, who knows at this point ? you just knew that you'd never felt this good, not with yourself, or any other partner.

" you wanna talk to them ? oh, man, be my fuckin' guest. i just hope you know you ain't gonna like what you hear. "

without a warning, the phone was pushed against your ear, letting you speak and say whatever you wanted to, but you couldn't find the words to say anything to him in between the moans spilling from your lips. " i-i- hh- fuck- " you whimpered, trying to think of something to say, but your mind was completely blank and filled with so many thoughts at the exact same time. there was only a brief moment of time where there wasn't anything coming from the other line, your ex so stunned that he couldn't find anything to say, but then came the barrage of insults, ones that would make you cry if you weren't being fucked so well by a man like gallagher, who was able to take your mind off of a pathetic man like your ex.

" put him on speaker, doll. let him hear you cummin' your brains out on my cock if he's so inclined. shit, i'll send him a video if he wants. whatever gets him to understand that you aren't his anymore, " gallagher growled behind you, one of his hands coming to snake around your waist, rubbing the sensitive nub between your legs with his thick, calloused thumb. you could only nod in response, sitting your phone down and turning it on speaker. you wanted him to feel horrible about everything he did to you, and you were hoping this was exactly the revenge you needed to finally get over him.

with the phone out of your hands, it was like it was entirely forgotten, especially with his finger rubbing your clit in tiny little circles. everything was building up to feel so strong inside of you, you had no idea what was happening. was it the drugs in your system making your body act up like this ? you had no idea, completely unsure what was going on. you felt this feeling in your tummy tightening as gallagher fucked you senseless, exactly like how he had promised to.

" ga-gallagher- " you whimpered out, your breath hitching in your throat. even in your fucked out state, you still managed to say something coherent, and of course it was his name. that thought only brought a satisfied grin to his face, and the older man couldn't stop himself from responding, clearly putting on a show for the person on the other end of the phone.

" what is it, my sweet ? gonna cum ? ya gonna cum on my cock like this 'nd forget all about him ? you take me so well, it's like you were made for a big, fat cock to stretch you out 'nd rearrange ya. " he was going so hard he needed to grab the headboard, his nails digging into the wood so hard that he wasn't sure if it would splinter or not, not that it even mattered. a little blood wasn't going to hurt him, and it certainly wasn't going to make him stop fucking your divine body into the perfect little cocksleeve for him. " is this your first orgasm on a cock ? you don't even know what's happenin' to ya, that's fuckin' adorable. you aint got no idea why you feel all tight down there, huh ? "

all you could do was nod helplessly against him, drooling onto the fabric of the bedsheets that was so soaked from your slick just dripping down your legs and pooling underneath you. " gonna- gonna cum, gonna cum, gallagher- pl-please- " you didn't know why you were saying please, you knew he wasn't going to stop now, not when he had a point to make of giving you the best orgasm you've ever had in your life.

" cum then, sweetie. i'll ride you through it. i'm gonna cum in this little hole of yours, okay ? you okay with that ? " you didn't give him a verbal response, just a nod of your head, but he couldn't stop himself from gently slapping your clit, making you cry out in pain, the sharpness of the sensation leaving you breathless. " say it, doll. say you want me to cum inside. you can do it, baby. "

" please- cuh-cum inside of me, gallagher- " you begged, earning you a tentative kiss on the side of your neck where he had bitten you earlier, and his finger started to rub circles around your sore clit again, perfectly timed just to make you cum.

" we're gonna cum together, okay ? let go, baby. i'm right here wi-with ya, " he couldn't stop himself from letting out a low groan, letting go of the headboard to grab your hip, dragging you on his cock as he fucked himself on you, chasing your orgasms together. with a low, animalistic growl, gallagher let go inside of you, shooting hot ropes inside of your walls as you clenched helplessly around him, the duo orgasm making you feel like you were able to blank out at any second, but you were entirely aware of your situation. he rode out the sensations with you, slowing down into gentle thrusts as he milked both of your orgasms at the same time.

when he pulled, gallagher laughed to himself, kissing the side of your neck and your nape several times as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing his body against yours. " he hung up. guess we gotta call him back when we have a round two, yeah ? "

— ♡ rationaliity 2024

[satyricplotter]

kori x reader x dick 🤨🤨???!!!!!!!!? 🤲🤲🤲🤲 pls give it to me

here u go boss 🫡🫡

pairing: dick grayson x koriand'r x reader word count: 3k wtf rating: explicit warnings and tags: mentioned human trafficking ring + sleazy men involved appear briefly, misogyny from said men, drugs mentioned, reader is kept gender neutral but they have a pussy and i mention a chest spilling over, kori tops reader 👍, implied established polyamorous relationship notes: this got out of my hands like five times and if i didn't cut it there idk where it would've ended up. i also wrote a whole backstory for kori and reader that didnt make the cut jfshafdjs

Dick comes home late that night from work.

A hard day at work, if he does say so himself, though pushing around papers is hardly what anyone at the tower would call difficult. No, what's hard is all the posturing, the pretending Dick has to do in order not to blow his cover. He and his team have spent the last month infiltrating a company seemingly involved in a human trafficking ring, trying to dig up evidence on the men financing it. Dick's background means he's gotten stuck playing the part of young master trying his hand at accruing his own wealth through fast, if unsavory, methods, which means he's the one dealing most closely with the possible culprits. They seem to like him so far (eugh), and they're not shy about their exploits, which means the team's on the right track. But it also means that every night he clocks out, when the smoke of the cigars burns his throat and their booming laughter grates in his ears so badly he can feel it in his teeth, he can't help but wish someone had invented decontamination showers for after wading through moral filth.

They hoot and laugh when he gives his excuses, holler about him being pussy-whipped and won't he let them take that little foreign model of his for a ride, and Dick has to throw his head back and laugh instead of crushing their windpipe in his hand. He imagines it vividly, however, and that makes his fake glee a little sharper. Perhaps this is what does it.

"As if I'd ever let you lay a hand on my woman, Stevie," he snorts, and for once he means something he says within these walls. "I can tell you've got a heavy one."

"Damn right he does!" Someone laughs.

"I wouldn't do that with yours," Stevie insists, a little too brightly. Whatever they'd been snorting in the bathroom earlier is running his course through him. "I can tell she's good quality—a real T10. Not like the others."

Dick tilts his head, seemingly confused. T10—that's code. Tier 10s are the people they sell at the closed auctions for the elite. The man next to Stevie shoves him at the shoulder, displeased, and Stevie half sobers. Dick raises an eyebrow at the man—Fred is his name, he thinks.

"You know Stevie," Fred says, winding an arm around Stevie's neck and pressing his face to his shoulder. Stevie coughs, but if the mild asphyxiation bothers him, he doesn't make any other sound. The atmosphere's a little gelid now. "Can't trust what he says."

"Mm. That's still my wife he's going off about," Dick says coldly. That seems like the move. Fred's sizing him up.

"Of course." Fred smiles widely. His teeth are perfect. He grabs the back of Stevie's head and pulls it up so he's looking up at Dick, pupils blown wide. Dick can only hope he doesn't pee his pants. The day's been long enough. "You wanna say sorry, Steve?"

"S'rry," Stevie slurs.

Dick rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Keep him in check."

He turns to leave, not hiding this time how miffed he is as he gathers his jacket from the valet, and has almost given up on this interaction when Fred calls his name. Dick looks over his shoulder, impatient.

"You should stick around after work tomorrow," Fred says pleasantly. Eyes carefully bland. "Stevie and I will show you a little something to make up for today, yeah?"

Gotcha.

Dick shrugs, appeased. "Sure thing," he says, and books it back home.

Doing undercover work has a few upsides. The first of which is he doesn't run into anybody as he makes his way to the high rise apartment he's been leasing for him and Kori. The penthouse takes the whole floor, and nobody stays there past six on Dick's orders, so he doesn't have to worry about dropping his suit jacket on the floor, hanging his tie from a sconce as he goes. His dress shoes end up somewhere behind him, each in different places, and he's rolling up his sleeves, unbuttoning his shirt as he rounds the corner to the kitchen. Hanging out with these dudes always makes him feel filthy, and he can't wait to make use of the massive bathtub in the master bathroom. Second upside.

Here's the third:

Kori looks up at him, a beautiful, broad smile breaking on her face. "Hi, baby!"

She's dressed very prettily today. Her thick mane of fiery hair is gathered high in a pony, the visor she'd been wearing earlier in the morning nowhere to be seen. She'd switched the polo for a tank top that Dick eyes appreciatively for how low it sits on her chest, but she'd kept her tennis skirt and high socks on. The skirt, a beautiful baby pink, is pulled up enough by the movement of her hips that Dick can see the the straps of her harness peeking under the fabric. Pink to match.

You, in contrast, are wearing nothing. Bent over the kitchen island, hands clawing at the other edge, your face contorts in a dry sob as Kori drives her hips into yours, relentless. Dick can tell you've been at this for a while. Kori smooths a hand over your lower back, happily loving, and you make the weak effort to pull yourself to your elbows. This regales Dick with a glimpse of your chest, spilling over the marble and covered in little bruises. Experience means he can picture Kori pressing her glossy mouth to your skin, your brows knotting as she sucks, how you cradle her head in your arms like she's something precious. He imagines you held her there against you, trying to keep her entertained until Kori's patience ran out and she abandoned diner for a bite of you.

Dick admires the vision the two of you make, watching Kori bend over your body to press a kiss to your shoulder and then bite down over the same spot. The jostling must make the strap go deeper because you keen and kick your legs a little. Kori laughs, pets your hair, turns her face to Dick with a mischievous grin in her face. Dick's heart flutters a storm.

"Pretty, right?" She says proudly.

"Kori," you gasp, bending your arm back to grab at her. Kori grips your hand in hers, presses a kiss against it. "Ko—ah! Kori!"

Kori nuzzles against your neck. "More?"

Dick thinks it's quite the opposite—you look so spent—but then, like always, you go against his expectations. You nod, once, twice, in quick succession, altogether too desperately for someone who Dick is sure has to have come at least three times so far tonight. His mouth feels dry. Kori smiles again, and straightens up. She grips your hips, lithe fingers digging into the fat at your sides, and pulls out almost entirely. The strap is big, Starfire purple glossy with your slick. Kori smirks down at your lower back and slams back in. You cry out, head lolling down. Dick wants—wants to be there, to bite the flesh that spills over between them, wants to kiss Kori's knuckles, wants to join the both of you.

So he does. That's the easy thing about this. After all the hardship, he gets to join you.

He finishes unbuttoning his shirt but doesn't remove it. You like to take it off yourself, he remembers, though he doubts you'll have the strength. He walks over to Kori's side, heat simmering low in his belly. She perks up when she sees him approach, already leaning over you when he gets to her. Dick grins into the welcome kiss, taking Kori's face in his and licking into her mouth. Kori's response is immediate and enthusiastic, almost forceful—happy to see him. Happy to be with him. Dick's heart hammers in his chest. She makes him feel like a boy.

He tilts Kori's head back, fingers slotting under her jaw. Kori opens up with little resistance, going easy and pliant. Long gone is the taste of her lipstick, and instead all that remains is the familiar taste of Kori, a drink he would walk a desert for, and underneath, just a little bit of you. Dick chases the fading hint of your presence, the salt of your skin, the sweetness of your mouth, not to replace it with his own but to greet it. He is, perhaps, a little too forceful, but Kori moans when a hint of teeth makes its presence, and Dick likes the sound so much he feels his control slipping, trying desperately to be close, closer—

You whine beneath them. Kori hasn't exactly stopped, but the pace's all over the place and you clearly resent it. Dick breaks the kiss, forehead against Kori's, and they both chuckle. Glancing down, he sees you try to fuck yourself back onto the strap.

"That's hot," he says, voice thick.

Kori laughs, slaps him on the shoulder. "You're being a distraction."

"Sorry," he says, charming smile dancing in his face. "Let me watch?"

This close, the view is certainly engaging. Kori puts in a bit of flair for his benefit, drawing back a little so he can see the way her strap splits you apart. Dick holds up her skirt, peers down as she rocks into you in shallow, quick bursts. You're obscenely wet, folds glistening and fluttering around her. You hang your head down, a litany of Kori, Kori spilling out your mouth. The sticky film of your release webs over the strap as she pulls out and Dick knows Kori hasn't pulled out entirely since she first slid into you. If she didn't start fucking you here, then she must've carried you over here, the one place in the whole apartment where she could bend you over and have you teetering on your tiptoes. The strain on your legs means he'll have to massage them later and he feels himself throb with the thought of his hands on you.

Watching is a treat. Listening is almost better. You're never loud, at the beginning. All this began in shadowed corners and far off alcoves, hiding first from each other and then from everyone else. You're accustomed to reeling it in, not showing a reaction—the first few months of your relationship consisted of heated glances, passing brushes, and wandering hands under tables. Perhaps Dick and Kori did you a disservice, pulling you against shelves and pressing a hand over your mouth, enjoying far too much the way your eyes rolled back when your moans melted against their skin.

But if they work you enough, you stop caring. You let out your voice like you're doing now, a litany of delirious thought broken by choked moaning. He likes this about you, the way you always want to respond, to show that you're present. You fight so hard to be here with them. Kori shuffles on her feet, thinks better of it, and reaches down to grab one of your calves and fold your leg over the counter. You're halfway to falling, knuckles tight gripping onto the edge, and this new angle opens you up marvelously. Dick is hard as a rock and has to palm himself over his slacks not to lose it. He wants to taste. He wants to be inside you. He can barely form a thought.

You sob. It's real tears now. He feels lightheaded.

Kori presses deep and then goes almost all the way out, teasing. The flesh of your ass bounces when she thrusts back in, chasing you off the counter. Dick watches it jiggle, throbs in his pants. He reaches out, big hand splayed over a cheek, careful that his watch doesn't nick at your skin. Hm. Spreads you open a little more. His thumb rubs a little at your entrance, but Kori growls at him for butting in, and Dick moves his finger upward, to the little pucker there. You don't do this often, preferring to take them by turns, but he thinks…

He circles the rim, and then presses in. Just a little.

"Ah—!" You gasp, head thrown back. "Wait—ah!"

Mm. Dick thinks, throat thick with hunger. Maybe later.

"You said you were only going to watch," Kori chides. Might as well have told him to wait his turn.

Dick rolls his eyes, but acquiesces. Removes his thumb from your ass, not without a little squeeze, kisses Kori in the cheek and rounds the corner to the other side of the island.

You're holding on for dear life. Someone had the sense to take the spoon jar out of the way, but with the kitchen island empty, you have very little in which to find purchase. Dick approaches you slowly, carefully, so as not to spook you. He knows you're probably not all there right now. He settles in front of you, a move he imagines only seems to you as a shadow falling over you. You lift your head up, blinking out tears. This close he can see how wrecked you are. He moves into your space, cradling your face in his hands.

"Dick?" You croak. Your eyelashes stick together. Your cheeks are hot under his hands.

"Hello, sweetheart," he says.

"You're home," you say, moving as if to reach for him, but afraid to fall.

"I am," he hums. A wave of overwhelming affection passes over him. "Do you want a kiss?"

You nod obediently. Dick moves to kiss you, sweet and languid. You open up to him just as easily as Kori did, and Dick wonders at his luck, but he doesn't push you. He pulls back, strokes his thumbs over your cheeks. You close your eyes, and he presses a kiss to your eyelids, to your forehead, tilts your face and another to your cheek. You take his sweetness with a little gasp, and then return to search for his mouth.

The kiss lasts only a little, as you slip and have to grab onto his shoulders not to crash against the marble. Dick settles you against his chest, angles you so Kori can ram into you the way she likes it. Kori's really into it now, eyes closed, brows knotted. You grasp onto the front of his shirt, hide your face in the juncture of his neck. My sweet angel, he thinks, and kisses the top of your hair.

"You like it when Kori fucks you?" He asks, a whisper at your ear. Kori can probably hear, but he keeps his voice low anyway. You whine into his neck. Dick smooths a hand over the back of your hair. "You like it?"

"I— nhg—do," you struggle.

"It's good?" He strokes your temple. "Kori's cock is good, huh?"

You nod. "S'good." Your brow furrows, but there's a worrisome quality to it.

"Yeah?" Dick prompts.

"You—fuck, nh—you wanna…?" You trail off, but it's clear you're offering him to go next with Kori. Dick smiles, almost giggles. It's so like you to offer.

"I wanna see you cum," he says. The way you shiver against him tells him not only how you feel about that, but also that you're close. He rests his hand at your nape, holds you in place. "Want you in my arms, wanna feel you spasm against me. You look so good like this, do you know? I bet you feel amazing. Can't wait to be inside you."

"Want you too," you pant, legs spreading open just a little more. Like you'd take him too if he wanted to slip it in. Dick manages not to hump the island, but it's a very near thing. He has to kiss you, though. It's a sloppy kiss, a wet slide of mouths that turns into Dick swallowing the pretty sounds you make.

"You're gonna cum for me, right?" He says, petting your hair. He feels you tense in his arms, sees Kori piston into you in response. "You're gonna cum for me so I can taste it?"

"Dick, Dick—," you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders. "I'm gonna—Kori, I'm—"

You come with a little whimper, a garbled mix of both their names in your mouth. Kori fucks you through it, while Dick smooths a hand down your back and presses kisses against your forehead. Enviable teamwork. Slowly, he feels your breath even out, and you pull yourself up and off him just a little. Coming back to yourself. Dick still hovers. You almost slump back against him when Kori finally, finally slips out of you.

"Good?" He says, stroking your shoulder. You nod. He smirks as he helps you cross your legs over to this side of the island. "Started early today, huh?"

"You were late," you say peevishly, taking care not to fall. "Are you gonna take a bath now?"

"What a polite way to say I smell."

"You do," Kori says, bouncing over to your side. You open your arms automatically, and she nuzzles against you like a happy kitten.

She hasn't taken the harness off, so it's a little funny. The hem of her skirt is wet with your release, which is a little less funny. In fact, seeing the two of you kiss, so sweet and pretty, the less funny it all feels. He's still so fucking hard in his pants he's a little surprised there isn't a wet spot through his boxers. He sticks to your other side, trades a few kisses with you and Kori and you again.

When his hand sneaks towards your clit, you part with Kori and smack his hand in irritation. "Let me catch my breath, won't you?"

"You said you'd let me taste you," he complains.

"You can have a taste," Kori says, pointing down at the strap hanging from her harness, still covered in your cum. The three of you share a look.

You cross your legs expectantly. Dick swallows.

"Guess the bath will take a little longer."

He sinks to his knees.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Hi! For the writing prompts may I offer Sky (or any other character too that would also be really interesting) with the phrase "tired of being tired" from your tag on the prompt request post?

As for my thing I'm grateful for I'll mention my "mosquito drugs" (hydrocortisone my beloved) because universal healthcare where I live makes it possible for me to actually get them :)

I wish you the very best for getting your work done o7

idk if this counts as self harm?? It doesn’t cause damage. But yeah. Potential self harm warning?

Sky gasped a little as he pressed some ice to his arm. It shot electricity from his arm to his heart, and to his entire system, and he sighed.

It was better than cutting himself, at least. No scars, no source of infection, and just the jolt he needed to get out of his funk.

He’d been exhausted lately, and despite his hopes, a day of rest didn’t fix it. He’d spent all morning just laying in bed until he’d finally gritted his teeth and forced himself to get up.

He was so tired of being tired. Adrenaline from pain helped him get motivated. He’d drag himself to the fridge and hunt down an energy drink shortly.

Oh, the energy drink will be cold, that’ll jolt my system too, he noted hopefully.

Sky stared at his empty fridge, wondering when he’d last gone grocery shopping. He was going to do that this week, but he was too tired to muster up any concern on the matter. He had some snacks somewhere. It would do. Once he went back to work in a few days, that would kick him into gear again.

Sometimes he wondered if work was the problem, if doing seven consecutive shifts and then having a week off just wasn’t good for him. But he used to work nearly nonstop in the military, so this should be easy!

What is wrong with me?

Sky sighed again. At this rate he just wanted to have the energy to take a shower. He just needed that. He felt disgusting.

Seeing his energy drink, he snatched it from the fridge, sitting on the floor and pressing the cool can against his skin. The startle to his system wasn’t as pronounced as it was with the ice, but it still had the desired effect, and he popped the can open to take a swig.

I can do this, he told himself. Just have to get some stuff done today and then it won’t be a wash.

He wondered, though, if this was what life would look like from now on, though, and the exhaustion hit him anew.

[cripplecharacters]

TW for drug usage + medical ableism

While I was looking through the disability tags I saw a couple of posts talking about people being denied their medications over assumptions that they’ll use it for recreational purposes. Idk how common this is because I’m not currently on any meds but there were multiple posts with a lot of notes so I presume it’s not rare.

So here’s my problem: one of my characters has a history of substance abuse during their backstory (the addiction is at their lowest point), and a bit before the actual beginning of the story they start the path to recovery. Part of this recovery is of course getting sober, but part of it is also getting support for dealing with their disabilities (idk if it matters but they’re a mix of physical and psychological) and some of that help comes in the form of getting medicated. Because these are both pretty big things for the character so get mentioned a lot, and because they happen in like the same segment of the story, I’m worried that it may give the impression that the character is taking the medication to use recreationally to readers, which isn’t a stereotype I want to employ at all. Do you guys think this could be a problem?

Hello,

Keep in mind that if he has a history of substance abuse disorder, his doctors are going to know that and probably will not put him on a Schedule 2 medications. Depending on where he is in his recovery, they might play it safe and avoid Schedule 3, too, or at least Schedule 3 medications that are related to what he was previously addicted to. Schedule 4 and Schedule 5 should be safe. So I would recommend finding lower-schedule medications for the conditions he has and learning about those. They won't be as powerful as things with a higher chance for addiction and there will be a huge difference in what his day will be like if he takes ibuprofen for pain versus morphine.

But really, if you show him taking his medication responsibly and describe how it helps because of how bad his symptoms are without it, it likely won't give the wrong impression. It's not like he would be randomly pulling a random Vicodin out of his pocket and taking a pill whenever he feels like it, he would take his medications at certain times, with certain amounts of time between doses, or in extreme circumstances like taking something for a panic attack. If you write him using his medications as he should and being careful (in my experience, usually a bit overly careful because he really wouldn't want to go through substance abuse all over again,) you won't have a problem. Writing about him using medication responsibly won't look like him recreationally abusing substances. I think you should be fine.

If you have any questions about using medication with a history of substance abuse, feel free to send an ask!

Mod Aaron

[rapz-rites]

Type

Damian Wayne x Reader Established Relationship

For being so smart, you can’t type to save your life

A/N: A little something as I’m working on the sequel to Demon Spawns

Word Count: idk

Warning(s): Gossip; mention of drug dealers

Hope you liked this for now. Should I do more?? Like little snacks before a meal. I just don’t want to spoil y’all too much

If you want to be part of my tag list just comment

Tag list:

@devotedlyshadowytheorist

[runningfrom2am]

the finer things in life // LTPF

summary: coryo merely tolerates you at the beginning of the series. this, is why.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 4.6k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: capitol brat!reader, maybe slightly ooc coryo, idk i tried my best. underage drinking/drug use (its just weed dw), some suggestive content that's not explicit (that's a first for me woah).

a/n: THIS DROPS SOME MAJOR LORE FOR THIS SERIES LIKE PLS- this is so fun and i hope you guys really like it bc i stepped out of my comfort zone a bit here. anyway, happy new year!! as a treat, have r and coryo getting way too messed up for their own good :)

this is mentioned in one of the parts of s2 (oh god i have no clue which one but trust me.) anyway, here's the night they were talking about.

series masterlist // playlist

"Hey, Coryo." You smile, sitting yourself down across from him at the lunch table.

"Y/N/N." He nods, hardly looking up from his food.

"So," You him, leaning forward with your elbows on either side of your plate. "Are you coming to Livia's big party this weekend?"

He shrugs, swallowing before looking up at you. "I don't know. Maybe. Feels a little... trivial."

"Ugh," You scoff, playfully rolling your eyes. "Of course it's trivial, Coriolanus. It's a birthday party for a seventeen year old that's probably going to have fireworks and a four tier wedding cake." You laugh. "But I have to go, so you should too."

He smiles at you a little, tilting his head with a raised eyebrow. "A wedding cake?"

"Probably. You saw the invitations." You chuckle. "We can walk together, and I'll see if I can sneak in some posca from our cellar. Please?" You plead.

"Won't your parents be driving you? I wouldn't want to impose." Coryo insists politely.

"Oh, god, no." You laugh. "They're allegedly busy. My father will be working, and my mother will be waiting for him to finish work. Can't tear her away from that. My theory is that they just don't want to go."

"Oh, I see." He replies. Your parents not attending social events wasn't uncommon. Their attention was notoriously hard to attract, and his parents had long since passed, so it was pretty standard for the two of you to either walk together or get your driver to take the two of you places alone.

"Yeah! I think we'll end up walking because my brother has tutoring and god forbid he walk anywhere, but that way there's no dreadful small talk with my family anyway."

"Fine." Coryo agrees. "Only because it's you. Also, I don't think talking to your parents is dreadful, Y/N/N."

"It is. Don't lie." You laugh, taking a bite out of your cookie and waving him off.

You hear the doorbell and run to answer it before anyone else can. "Mom! Coryo's here, I'm leaving now! Bye!"

"You're not going to invite him in?" Your mom asks, cutting you off in the foyer.

"We're already running late, sorry!" You insist, adjusting your hold on the two gift bags in your hands very carefully.

"Alright, well, have fun, dear. Extend our apologies to Livia's parents for us."

"Will do!" You nod, giving her a quick thumbs up before opening the door.

"What do you need a bag for?" She asks and you roll your eyes at your friend standing in front of you before turning to face her again.

"They have a pool, I might need to change." You groan.

"Oh, right." She seems satisfied with that answer. "Hello, Coriolanus, how are you doing tonight?" She asks, turning her attention to him.

"I'm well, Ma'am. Thank you. And you?" He smiles politely.

"We gotta go, Mom, bye!" You shut the door before she can answer.

As soon as you're out of sight from your house, you stop and dig through the tissue paper in one of the gift bags.

"Isn't that for Liv-" Coryo's question is cut off by you holding a bottle of a nondescript liquor out to him.

"This one is for us." You smile, taking another bottle out before shoving the folded-up gift bag into your backpack. "Cheers." You twist the cap off of yours, knocking it against the one he's awkwardly holding before taking a swig.

"Posca? Should we..." He clears his throat. "Should we really be drinking? I feel like we'll get in trouble."

"It's not Posca, it's better. Besides, no trouble if no one knows." You reassure him. "Also, I would bet money that we show up and Festus and Pup are already stumbling."

"You're the most terrible influence, Y/L/N." Coryo shakes his head with a smile on his face, opening the bottle anyway to try it.

"No!" You laugh. "This is good for us. It makes me more... digestible to these stuck-ups."

"Are you not included in that group?"

"Oh, Coriolanus Snow, we are at the top of the list."

The air in the expansive house is as hot and stuffy as it could possibly be. It reminded you so much of your own, but warmer, in a way. Maybe it was just the sheer volume of people inside and the buzz of alcohol in your system.

Livia's parents had been kind enough to leave the whole back garden and pool for you kids to enjoy, and to have your own space free from all of the adults who were also invited.

It was warm out for a May evening when you finally made it outside after saying your 'hello's to all your classmates' parents. Your own parents insisted that you spend a decent amount of time doing so, despite them not being able to make it. Coryo was known to do this as well, so you made your rounds together before thanking the Cardew's for the invitations and they showed you where all the other kids were outside.

Coryo already wanted to leave, and if you did as well, you were good at hiding it. He couldn't tell, blindly following you through the crowded house before making it outside.

"Party's here!" You call out as you step out onto the patio, allowing Coryo to close the door behind you.

"Y/N, you gorgeous girl, finally!" You're quickly greeted by Hilarius Heavensbee, and god, Coryo has never hated him more as the boy is wrapping his arms around you. His attempts at flirting with you are humiliating- Coriolanus doesn't know how he couldn't see that he was embarrassing himself.

"Hilary, you flatter me." You chuckle, gently patting his back with your free hand as you pull away.

"You know I try." He laughs, shrugging as he slides in between the two of you, draping an arm over your shoulder.

"Where's the birthday girl?" You ask, holding up the gift bag. "I need to ditch this."

"That's a good question..." Your classmate says, scanning the groups scattered across the lawn in search of Livia.

"I can carry that, if you'd like." Coryo offers, desperate to remind you of his presence. He wasn't going to let you ditch him- you were the only reason he even attended.

"Oh, no. I've got it. Thank you, though." You wave him off, looking up at the boy whose arm is sitting over your shoulder uncomfortably. "Hilary, could you grab Coryo and I some glasses, please?"

"Uh, yeah, sure." He says, stepping away. "What do you want?"

"Oh, just the glasses please. We brought our own drinks." You wink.

"Alright, but only if you share." He chuckles.

"I'm nothing if not generous." You joke, pushing him in the direction of where you see the beverage table is set up.

"His share is coming out of your bottle." Coryo says once the boy is out of earshot.

"Who do you think I am?" You ask, placing the giftbag on the ground and grabbing your bag off your shoulder, digging through the fabric you used to muffle the sounds of glass bottles rattling against one another. "I brought enough for the class."

"Of course you did." He chuckles, shaking his head slightly as you carefully pull another bottle out of the bag. "Be a doll, go dump this in the punch?" You smile up at him, holding it out to him expectantly.

"No! I'm not spiking anything." He laughs.

"Suit yourself, Boryo Coryo." You sigh with a teasing smile, placing your bags on the ground and walking over to the table at the side of the house, unscrewing the cap as you go.

"Where'd Y/N/N go?" Hilarius asks, returning to Coryo's side. He just nods over to you in response, not tearing his gaze away from your form as you dump the contents of the bottle into the bowl.

"Ah, gotcha." Your classmate laughs, holding an empty glass out for Coryo to take.

Coryo mutters a quiet 'thanks', refocusing himself on inspecting the glass in his hand for any dirt or fingerprints. It was spotless- of course it was.

"So, are you guys like... together? Or what's the deal?"

"Pardon?" Coryo is taken aback by the question, finally looking up at the boy.

"You and Y/N." He gestures toward you as you stir the bowl, simultaneously holding the mostly empty bottle up to your lips to let the last few drops fall onto your tongue. "You're always hovering around each other. Anything more to it? Everyone is wondering, but no one dares ask her."

"Oh. No." Coryo shakes his head, wishing his glass was full of whatever bitter alcohol you'd gifted him so he could down it all in one go.

"Sweet." Hilarius grins to himself, watching you intently.

Coryo raises an eyebrow at Hilarius, perplexed by his reaction. "What's so sweet about it?" he asks, trying to understand the amused grin on Hilarius' face.

Hilarius chuckles, leaning in slightly as if about to share a secret. "If you're not gonna go for her, I will."

Coryo's cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. "Be my guest." He spits through gritted teeth. He should have drank more- perhaps it would have made Hilarius's juvenile pursuits more tolerable.

Hilarius nudges him playfully, "Life's too short for missed opportunities, if you ask me." He looks back at you again, not so subtly raking his eyes over your figure and how it fits in your favourite party dress. "And that would be a damn shame of a missed opportunity."

Coryo glances over at you, catching your eye for a brief moment before quickly looking away. He clears his throat awkwardly. "If you say so. I find she's quite... overwhelming, at times."

"That's the best thing about her." Hilarius muses. "Just imagine it... You know what I mean? I bet she's just crazy. In a really good way."

Coryo's brow furrows at the implication, both from offense and intrigue. He knew you were stunning- even a fool could have told him that, but it was to make a mockery of your name to only look at you and see merely the potential of what you could do with your body. To him, you were like morning rain in the springtime; a breath of fresh air when you didn't have to defend yourself at every turn, but Hilarius Heavensbee didn't know the first thing about walking in the rain.

"Don't be vile." Coryo scoffs, giving a slight shake of his head.

As you finish up with the concoction in the bowl, Coryo watches you with a newfound awareness, a subtle curiosity lingering behind his stare.What would it be like? It's not something he has ever considered, or even had the time or desire to look at anyone that way. Especially not you, you were so personal to him it was off limits even in his own head. He didn't understand the seemingly overnight shift a couple years ago now where all the boys in your class started looking at you and the other girls like pieces of meat, but suddenly watching you lick clean the spoon you used to stir the punch, he could see that maybe they had a point. What it would be like to hear you panting into his ear. Tired, loving, even, like he was the only man in the world who could make you feel so, so good. To have your deep red lipstick staining his skin, his shoulders, his neck, possibly lower. The idea of having to explain the stains on the inside of his shirt to Tigris when he pleads with her to somehow get them out has his heartbeat racing... Likely, though, it was just the liquor starting to settle in his veins, is what he decided as he adjusted the front of his dress pants.

Hilarius chuckles at Coryo's reaction, seemingly unfazed by his disapproval. "Relax, man. I'm just saying, life's too short not to appreciate the whole package. Y/N's got the brains, the looks, and that fiery spirit. It's like having your cake and eating it too."

Coryo arches an eyebrow, unconvinced. "I appreciate her for more than just appearances, you know."

Hilarius smirks knowingly. "Of course, of course. I'm just speaking from a purely hypothetical standpoint. No harm in imagining what could be."

Coryo shoots him a skeptical glance, but before he can respond, you join them, empty bottle in hand. "What's the topic?" you ask, catching the tail end of their conversation.

Hilarius grins, shrugging. "Oh, just discussing the finer things in life. You know, like cake."

You raise an eyebrow, sharing a confused glance with Coryo. "Cake? Really? Are we eight?"

Coryo rolls his eyes. "Apparently, it's a metaphor for appreciating the whole package."

You raise an eyebrow, but neither of them care to elaborate. "Well, I hope you both appreciate this 'whole package' of a potion I just whipped up. It should be interesting." You nod back toward the table, taking one of the glasses from your classmate to pour the remainder of your bottle out for the three of you.

By the time your unknowing classmates started to loosen up, you were sitting in a circle in a corner of the yard with a few others.

"I have a present for everyone." You state in a pause of conversation, and Coryo watches as you reach into the front of your dress, into your bra, and pull out a small paper bag.

"Uhm- what is that?" Clemensia asks, leaning back as if the bag would explode.

"Weed!" You laugh, looking around at the suddenly silent group of kids you're sitting with as you peel the bag open, the smell wafting through the air making some of your friends scrunch up their noses in disgust. "Oh my god- have none of you ever seen weed before?" You knew they hadn't, you hadn't really, either, but it was fun to tease them.

They all share confused and embarrassed glances. "Guys, come on..." You chuckle.

"I don't think we should..." Festus mumbles, clearing his throat. Of course he was going to be a baby about it.

"It's harmless! It's a plant, how much could something that grows out of the ground really hurt you?"

"Have you ever heard of poison ivy? Or that stuff poor people in the Districts burn to clean their houses or whatever?" Arachne spits, side-eying the bag on the ground.

"Sage isn't poisonous." Sejanus grumbles, hardly audible next to you.

"Okay, yes, but this is just weed. It's fun. Trust me." You plead, looking around at your friends, eyes locking on Coryo to your left.

"Okay, big shot, have you done it?" Clemensia asks, clearly already knowing the answer.

"Well... No, but there's a first time for everything, isn't there?" You smile. "Coryo, come on." You point him out in particular and he curses himself because he knows he can't say no to you.

"Okay... what do we do with it?" He questions quietly.

You squeal, the alcohol really showing as you lean into him, hugging him excitedly. "That's my boy! We smoke it."

"Alright, how?" Hilarius cuts in, forcing you to look at him instead of Coryo as you furrow your brow.

"Uh... that's a good question. I brought matches, though."

Sejanus sighs. "Anyone have an apple?" he speaks drawing everyone's attention, confused looks now focused on him.

"An apple?" Someone inquires about specifics, but you're busy making yourself comfortable closer to Coryo, leaning your head on his shoulder. When he realizes you're there to stay, he quickly reaches for the bottle at his side to take another swig. He's far too sober to have you all over him like this, he wonders if you could feel his heartbeat the way he could.

"To make a pipe." Sejanus explains, like it's obvious.

You smile, nodding at him. "You heard the boy- someone find him an apple!"

"And a pen." He adds.

"And a pen!"

It doesn't take long for the supplies to be acquired and passed over to him as you sit in a circle on the grass, watching Sejanus carefully as he uses the pen to dig into the core of the apple. You wanted to remember how, but the alcohol in your system was making it difficult to focus. You had to completely block out anything else happening around you.

"Y/N." You blink at your friend as he drops the pen into his lap, holding his free hand out to you.

"Huh?"

"The weed." He shakes his hand for you to pass him the bag.

"Oh! Right!" You giggle, reaching out for the bag and handing it to him as he pries it open.

"What are you doing?" Livia's voice comes from above you and you swivel your head, quickly getting dizzy from the movement.

"Y/N brought weed." Hilarius answers for him, smiling wide. "Isn't she just the coolest?"

Coryo stares at him, moving his arm tighter around your oblivious form so your classmates could better see his hold on you.

"I- um..." The birthday girl is caught off guard, and quickly looks over her shoulder up at the house. "Can you not do that here? Take it to the park across the street."

"Oh- Oh! Of course, yes." You nod, scrambling to get up, immediately pulling her into a hug. "I should have asked, I'm sorry." You slur, not noticing how tense she is under your hold.

"Are you... drunk?"

"Maybe." You giggle, holding a finger to your lips as you pull away. "Happy birthday, by the way! I brought a gift for you, 'is over there." You point over to the table you placed the bag under, swaying slightly.

"Yeah... I already opened it, remember?"

"Oh, shit. Right! Well, I hope you like it, Liv. You're just the best..." You hum, hugging her again as she gives a panicked look to your classmates behind you, who just laugh.

"Alright, let's get you out of here. We're gonna go to the park, okay Y/N/N?" Coryo says, prying you off of Livia and giving her an apologetic look.

"Right!" You giggle, turning so fast you almost lose your balance. "Who's coming?"

"I'll come." Hilarius nods, quickly getting up alongside Sejanus, but no one else moves or says a word.

"You guys are babies!" You laugh.

"And Y/N is a drunk at sixteen. We all have flaws." Persephone speaks up, smug smile on her face as she walks up behind Livia.

Immediately, Coryo is bracing you from swinging at her as your smile drops within an instant and you try and throw yourself at her, manicured hands open and grasping for her hair which you just miss as he holds you back.

"Yeah, that's enough." Coryo grunts, trying to hold you back without hurting you. "We should probably go."

"Coryo, let me go, she-" You hiss, trying to pry him off of you. You didn't know when he got so much bigger or stronger than you.

"Like I said, a drunk." Persephone chuckles, chewing every syllable as it comes out of her mouth.

"That's precious coming from a damn cannibal!" You spit, still trying to get through him as your classmate stares at you in shock. "Yeah- did you even know what your parents were feeding you? 'Cause I do! You probably liked it, you vulture!"

Hilarius holds back a laugh, coming up behind you and pulling you back, taking you from Coryo's grip and hoisting you up over his shoulder to carry you away as you hit at his back, screaming to be let down.

"That's our cue." Sejanus mutters, patting Coryo's shoulder and brushing past him to follow after you and your friend. "Thanks for having us, Livia!"

Coryo is fuming as he watches your classmate carry you away, but he still really can't pinpoint why. It must be the amount of alcohol- he's never drank this much before, but he has heard anger is a symptom. He's seen it in your father. Now, he's seen it in you; but it's not like that kind of outburst was abnormal coming from you. He's probably mad at Persephone for bringing that out of you. It's her fault, honestly.

He silently grabs your backpack and your bottles, half-hazardly throwing them in before swinging it over his shoulder and following after Sejanus without another word.

"So," Arachne states once he's out of earshot, taking a sip out of her glass as she remains on the ground. "Are we betting on Heavensbee or Snow to lose their virginity to her tonight?"

The group very quickly became a hung jury.

"Listen, I know the truth, okay, guys, hear me out." Clemensia speaks up over her arguing classmates. "Tonight, specifically, it'll be Hilarius." She holds her hand up to stop anyone who started arguing. "Coriolanus will probably wait until they're married or something, but trust me when I tell you that he will marry her."

"Marry her? We're sixteen, aren't you getting ahead of yourself, Clemmie?" Festus laughs, shaking his head.

"Obviously he doesn't know it yet, he's denser than over stirred cake batter, but he just follows her around like a lost puppy. That will never change, also, he's the only one that she's never had a problem with! And she'll fight with anyone!" Clemensia states, nodding with the finality of her statement. "That's all I have to say."

"Wait, you're telling me Coriolanus and Y/N aren't together?" Pup asks, just joining the conversation after sitting there confused for the last few minutes.

"My point exactly."

"Sejanus, you wizard, show us the ways." You giggle, plopping down on the ground where Hilarius carefully let you back onto your feet once you reached the park, previous argument completely forgotten.

"Okay." He laughs, sitting down next to you. "There's three holes in the apple. You hold it on the side like this, then you put the weed on the very top hole..." He explains as he's doing it, and you watch intently. "Then you hold the match up until it's burning, and you'll put your thumb over this hole here once you inhale it through the last one..." His voice trails off as he holds the apple up to your lips, doing all the work but letting you just breathe in the smoke.

You try, eyes closed as the three boys watch you until you pull away quickly to cough it all out as the smoke burned into your throat. "Oh my god..." You laugh, eyes watering as you continue to cough. "Your turn."

"You okay?" Hilarius asks with a slight chuckle, rubbing gentle circles into your back.

"Fine." You nod, quickly wiping your eyes.

"Here." Sejanus holds the apple out to the boy next to you. He takes it, and Coryo feels like he can finally breathe now that Hilarius doesn't have his hands on you.

"Where'd you learn this?" He asks Sejanus, ignoring your classmate following the same routine you did.

"Guess." Sejanus answers, looking over at him. "I don't smoke, but lots of my friends parents did. Back in Two."

"Right." The fact that they smoked around children didn't shock Coryo. Not one bit.

"Coryo, loosen up, man, you look like you're sitting with a stick up your ass." Hilarius offers it to him now, and he looks over at you. As if somehow you would tell him what to say.

"Try it!" You urge him on, shifting over so you're kneeling in front of him, taking the apple from Hilarius for him. "I'll light for you."

"Uh, okay, yeah." He swallows thickly, subconsciously leaning back a little bit at your closer proximity.

He takes the fruit from your hand, watching as your strike up a new match. "Tell me when you're ready..." You hum, moving even closer as he lifts the apple to his lips.

"Ready." He says quietly, and before you put the flames to the flowers, you're reaching up with your other hand to push his hair out of his face and hold it back for him so it doesn't somehow light.

He doesn't last long, looking into your eyes and trying to inhale the thick, abrasive smoke; it's only a second before he's pulling back quickly, coughing his lungs out as the other two boys laugh at him.

"It takes some getting used to, that's okay..." You smile, taking another hit while the flower was still burning.

You exhale, and it's smoother this time. "I did it!" You grin, choking only slightly over your words.

"Good job, Y/N/N." Sejanus laughs.

"You okay?" You ask Coryo and he nods, recovering from the coughing fit now as the weed really starts to take affect in your system.

You feel like your world is swaying as you kneel in front of him. "Did it work? Can you feel it?" You ask, and he shakes his head.

"It's the second hit." You determine, feeling bold as you straddle yourself over his lap. "I've got an idea. Do you trust me?" You whisper and he nods quickly, leaning back on his palms. Once again, not nearly drunk enough for this.

"Yeah, you know what, I've gotta get back. My parents are heading out pretty quick, here..." Hilarius makes an excuse, but you can hardly even hear him now. "Sejanus, you coming?"

Clearly getting the message he nods, standing up and dusting off his pants. "Have fun, you two. Get home safe."

"Bye!" You giggle, waving to them with your free hand.

The silence that surrounds you is deafening, particularly for poor Coryo, who is fighting for his life to not move. Not that he doesn't want you this close, apparently he does; if his body and his mind racing with thoughts are any indicator, the biggest problem is that he wants to touch you. He knows he shouldn't.

"I've got an idea." You say again, attention returned to him. "But you have to trust me."

"I trust you." He mumbles with a slight nod.

"Good." You smile, taking yet another pull from the apple, holding it carefully the way Sejanus told you to.

You painfully hold your breath, feeling the drug cloud your mind as you put it down gently on the ground next to you. Coryo starts to panic as you lean in closer, closer than you've ever been to him before, and god, did he hate and love where this was going.

You stop, lips brushing against his as you let the smoke out of your lungs, and all he has to do is breathe. Why is that suddenly so hard? He manages, somehow, feeling the smoke from your lungs flood into his own.

Once you move back, settling yourself on his lap and tilting your head at him, he turns to breathe it all out away from you. He doesn't know if he can look back.

You smile, settling your arms around his neck and subconsciously playing with the ends of his hair. "How does it feel?"

"Good." He says quietly, finally gaining the courage to look up at you.

"Good?" You hum with a slight nod, letting yourself get closer to him again as he rests a hand on your waist.

"Really good." He confirms, looking into your eyes; glazed over from the substances you so carelessly consume. "Y/N/N?"

"Yes, my dear Coryo?" You answer, already getting giggly.

He doesn't say anything more.

Fuck it.

With his free hand he's grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you closer, crashing his lips against yours.

"Y/N, hey." Coryo greets you, catching up to you just as you get to the front doors of the academy. He hasn't seen you since Saturday night- since he walked you home after you spent nearly an hour kissing him absolutely senseless at the park across from Livia's home. He couldn't stop thinking about it.

"Coryo, hi." You smile, textbooks tucked into your arms as you join him walking into the front doors of the academy on Monday morning. "How are you feeling?"

"Me? Fine." He shrugs, failing to mention the crippling hangover he was nursing for all of the day prior.

"What?" You laugh, sighing with fake disappointment. "That's not fair. I was dying yesterday. Literally, when I woke up I thought I had died and gone to hell. I don't even remember how I got home."

"You don't?" He chuckles nervously.

"No. I don't remember a thing." You laugh. "That's how you know it was a good night, so I've heard."

"Really? Nothing at all?" He asks, nervousness and disappointment flashing behind his eyes.

"Well, I remember spiking the punch." You laugh. "Why, did I do something bad?" Your laugh is replaced with anxiety as your voice lowers so only he can hear, catching the look in his eye.

Coryo clears his throat, avoiding your gaze as he shakes his head. "No, well... You did call Persephone a cannibal. Tried to fight her."

"Oh, well, that's standard." You shrug. "No big deal, then."

"Yeah. No big deal."

taglist:@totallynotkaibiased , @stelleduarte , @klplynn , @secretsicanthideanymore , @bejeweledreverie , @gloryekaterina , @andrewgarfieldsbitch , @queenofspades6 , @pepperonipastas , @ladybug0095 , @lunamothwrites , @sbrewer21 , @mus-tbe-a-weasley , @splxtscreen , @unclecrunkle , @karmaswitch , @coconut-dreamz , @nekee-lilac02 , @ooooglymoooogly , @riddlerloveb0t , @lovedbalances , @notyourwildestdream , @snowlandson-top , @too-lit-for-fanfic , @utopiakys , @deafeningballoonnacho , @roosterschanelslut , @chmpgneprblem , @cosmoetik , , @urvampgfsworld , @carolanns-world@nan-nie , @shakespearseclipse , @iovemoonyy , @notyoursweetheart-honey ,  @xyzstar , @eatpizzasass, @slytherinholland , @queenofshinigamis , @elodiebeau , @soulessjourney

[peaxhxhair]

Hi! I was wondering if you could write smut about Do Gang-jae? (X reader ofc) And the prompt could be like they had a really bad argument where the reader was really mad and yk where it goes, that or one where reader is on their period cuz yk him🌚 It's completely fine if not! I did read your rules and all that, anyways thank you!

(I really like your writing btw)

Pairing: Do Gangjae x GN! Reader Warnings: Mentions of periods, blood, Cocaine, G*ngjae. 18+ CONTENT, *No use of y/n in this fic*, smut, AFAB reader (No gendered pronouns used for the reader), cunnilingus, p in v sex, (idk what to tag smut as icl) ~ A/n: Ahhhh Thank you for the request! <3 ( I haven't written for Gangjae in so long that it was a STRUGGLE finding the banner LMAO) Anyway hope you enjoy! ~ *Slight headcanon that Gangjae just drinks blood for the fun of it. He'd probably be a vampire in a past life*

My name - MASTERLIST

You were fuming. Not for any particular reason, but there was a feeling in your gut that told you to be angry at everything. What didn't help was the overbearing clients and lines of coke getting in your way at every opportunity. The amount of time you cleaned the bar, only for a new line of the white substance to show up was infuriating. Okay, maybe you did have a reason to be annoyed.

"What the fuck is up with you today?" Gangjae grunts at you, clearly fed up with you slamming shit around his bar. This was your second glass in an hour that you had cracked due to your need to slam things onto the marble counter, and Gangjae wasn't having any of it.

The music was too loud, and there were too many drunk bastards for you to care about how good your customer service was. It didn't help that you were on your period - those times making you feel a lot worse than you should. The cramps that shot up your back and sides made it almost impossible for you to focus on anything important, and maybe that was obvious to everyone around you.

Gangjae had obviously been the first to figure out that you were going to be a massive bitch the entire day. Although he had never seen you with such a big stick up your ass. That was something he had yet to really figure out - sneaking glances at you as he pretended to work, something he rarely did even in his own organisation.

Eventually, he grew tired of your shit, and just decided to ask.

The questions had caught you off guard - but you knew what he was getting at. Still, you had no idea what to say to him. What? You were on your period and very annoyed that people kept doing drugs on your freshly polished counters? Or that when he looked at you like that - with that anger in his eyes that made you feel like you had done something wrong - in fact made you extremely horny? Why would you tell him that? When you couldn't even think about fucking him when you were leaking a third of your bodies blood - a cycle which you would rather not have at all? Yeah, that sounded like itwould go down well.

"Nothing" You utter after a second, shifting your eyes back to the stacks bottles you were attempting to organise - which you had already reorganised three times before. It's when you feel his hand on the small of your back that you finally tense up - an inevitable when you can feel his breath on your neck.

"Don't give me that. What's wrong?" His words this time were softer - a tactical choice. You couldn't stay mad when he talked to you like that - like he actually cared about your wellbeing - and he knew that. Gangjae knew he had you in the palm of his hand from the way you relaxed into his touch, a soft grumble leaving your lips.

Still, your eyes focused on the glass bottle in your hands, struggling to even look at him - not when you knew you'd just start telling him things in the very crowded bar. You let out a noise as his cold hands reached under your shirt to grab your waist.

The way you twitch under his touch tells him all he really needs to know, and you could practically feel his smile in your neck as he kisses your skin. "It's time for your break, don't you think?" Gangjae's tone is barely above a whisper, but he made sure that it was the only thing you could hear.

Well, you couldn't exactly deny his offer now, could you? Not when you had been thinking about him all day.

~

"Are you sure about this?" The question was hesitant, mixed with your low gasps and pants as Gangjae kisses down your stomach. He grunts against your skin, pinching your skin between his teeth as a warning. A warning to shut the fuck up. His bite only made you body arch towards him.

"Shut up an' take 'em off" He pulls at the belt loops of your trousers, before he unbuttoned them for you. He didn't exactly want to waste any time, even after you had told him what your problem really was. If anything he was more eager this way - ready to devour you. He had never mentioned this alleged kink to you - but you couldn't complain when he was doing it with you.

It's awkward and needy the way you pull them off, along with your underwear - though he does help a little, chucking them across the room so that they land somewhere across the floor. His hands caress your thighs as he looks up at you - a grin splattered across his face. His eyes return to your glistening heat - staring long enough for you to begin to question him.

"You don't have to if you don't- oh~" Your original sentence being cut off in your throat as Gangjae's lips attach to your clit - then moving to lap at your folds. Your hands shoot into his hair - hips bucking as he attacks you with his tongue.

"You like that?" Your eyes roll at his question - pulling at his hair at some weak attempt at revenge, not enjoying the fact that his tongue had returned to his mouth. Of course he would pull some shit like this - you knew he got a rise out of teasing you.

"I'd like it if you shut up" A grumble leaves your lips, attempting to push his head back down, only for him to grab your wrist. Gangjae frustrated you at the best of times, and now that he was denying you the pleasure that he had promised just made you whine at him. The noise of complaint left your lips as you squirms against his touch.

Gangjae's hands gripped your thighs, your uncomfortable shifting making him grin. He licks the blood from his lips - just watching you squirm and twitch against him turning him on even more. "Gangjae~ I need you.." You hand moves to grip his chin - thumb grazing against his bottom lip.

As much as he liked watching you squirm, the way you were begging for him made it hard for him to keep his dick in his pants. At first, when he pulls away, you actually think he'd going to leave you there - aching for him.

Instead, he unbuckles his belt. The way he pulls his cock out of his pants has your legs trembling, and how he looks at you let's you know that you couldn't touch it, no matter how much you wanted to rub your thumb against his glistening tip.

"Gangejae~ I fuckin' hate you so much. Such a tease~" Your knees hugged his hips in an attempt to pull him closer - only for him to grip your knees and push them up to your chest he positions his tip against your hole.

He presses his lips against yours, and you could taste your blood as you kissed him. Your hands shoots to his shoulders as he begins pushing into you - whimpering against his lips. The stretch practically made your lungs hurt - a shallow pant falling from you as your nails dig in to his skin.

He's nice enough to let you catch your breath, though only for a second before he's thrusting into you. hands pressed firmly on the back of your knees.

"Ah~ 's too much" You fumble, head falling back into the mattress - the slapping of his hips against your ass made it hard for your eyes to not roll into the back of your head. Still, as noises fall from your lips, he slows down.

"You want me to stop?" The feeling of him against your walls was hard to let go of, and you bucked your hips into his - not exactly pleased with the idea of him pulling out.

"Please don't stop~" How could he deny you that? When you were falling apart beneath him. He can't even take his eyes off of you for more than a minute - the dopey tears in your eyes and your flushed face making it hard for him to tease you for too long.

So, he picks up his pace again, his eyes entirely focused on your face. He only looks down when his thumb moves to your clit - the skin of his thumb turning red from your blood.

It's when he knows that you're about to cum that he shoves his thumb into your mouth, making you taste your own blood. It's harsh on your tongue, and if you weren't so close you would have scolded him for it. Still, the way he man-handled your jaw just got you closer - finally coming undone under him as your body twitched. Gangjae keeps his pace - but they become harsher, until his hips jerk and he's spilling his seed into you hole - a low grunt leaving his lips. Gangjae's head falls onto your shoulder as he finally lets go of your legs - bucking his cum into you.

Your whimpering at his slow thrusts, your voice muffled by his hand. When he finally pulls out, he finally gets a look at his cum spilling out of your hole - mixed with your blood. Well, he couldn't just leave it like that, could he?

Gangjae chuckles as you complain about him pulling away, but your complaining stopped quickly when his tongue was on your hole again - lapping up your blood. He doesn't even realise you're cumming again until your legs are around his head - having been to focused on tasting you.

He pats your thighs gently as he chuckles - pulling away so that he can get a look at you. "Still angry?" He asks, and you suddenly begin to wonder why you took a break in the first place. You roll your eyes at his words, attempting to sit up, only to fall back into the matress at how weak he had made you.

"I am now that you're talking" You grumble, your lack of breath making it seem unconvincing. Gangjae grins - clearly not too bothered by annoying you, since your legs were still over his shoulders after all.

[neurthewanderer]

Red Hair, Red Heart 

This is random but HP and HOTD cross over. For the girlies who love dragons and being a bit of a girlboss. Charlie Weasley x Female Reader You're a magizoologist with dragon blood in your veins. Educated at Durmstrang, far from the halls of Hogwarts, you've made a name for yourself studying magical beastsespecially dra gons. When your path crosses with Charlie's at a dragon reserve, things begin to spark. Tags: Charlie Weasley x Reader, Slow Burn, Soft Angst/Comfort, Post-Hogwarts Warnings: Possible mentions of past war trauma (if included) Note: idk if I should extend this, it comes up very random when I tried to continue my HOTD fic. Masterlist and ao3 [next chapter]

“We have to sedate her,” one of the men finally said, his voice cutting through the thick silence that had settled over the group. The words hung heavy in the air, and the grim look on every face around the campfire confirmed it, they all knew it might come to this.

“What? No. You can't do that!” Charlie barked back, his voice rough with disbelief. The red-haired dragon handler took a step forward, fists clenched at his sides. His rugged face was flushed with anger, the freckles across his nose standing out against the color rising in his skin.

The other man, Bram, one of the senior handlers met Charlie’s glare with a heavy sigh, trying to keep his tone calm, reasonable. “Charlie. I know you don't want that. None of us do. But she's hurt. She’s old. She’s dangerous now. If we keep hesitating, she’s going to torch this whole sanctuary before we can stop her. You know we can't keep her here forever if we can't move her.”

Around them, the others stayed silent, but the way they averted their eyes said enough. They were silently agreeing with Bram. Or maybe they were just too exhausted to fight anymore.

“She’s afraid, not a threat.” Charlie growled, his voice breaking slightly at the end. His heart hammered in his chest as he looked around at his team or what was left of it. “She’s in pain. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. And you want to drug her, chain her up?”

“And we clearly don’t know what else to do, Char.” Bram’s voice hardened. “We’ve tried everything. She refuses to go. She won’t let us near her without lashing out. There’s only so much we can do. We’re out of time.”

The words stung, sharp as dragon claws. Charlie turned away for a second, running a hand through his tangled red hair as he tried to steady his breathing.

It was supposed to be just another normal day at the sanctuary in Romania, the place he’d devoted his life to. But Vetraxira… she’d changed everything. An ancient Ukrainian Ironbelly, her silver scales now dulled with age, she had once been majestic, fierce but noble. Lately, though, the pain of her aging body and the stress of her shrinking territory had driven her into a state of aggression. She had started attacking other dragons, even magical livestock near the outer borders.

The reports had reached HQ fast. The Director, all the way up in the Eastern Europe office, had passed the issue down the chain, and the Chief Dragon Conservator had made the call: euthanasia. It was too risky to relocate her, they claimed. Too dangerous to keep her. Time was running out.

Charlie’s jaw tightened as he glanced back at the small group, his team, divided right down the middle. Some still stood with him, believing that Vetraxira could be calmed, that she deserved a chance to live out her days in peace. But the others… they were crumbling under HQ's pressure, ready to sedate her, to end her life before things spiraled further out of control.

The weight of it pressed down on Charlie’s chest, but still, he stood his ground.

“She’s not done yet,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Then louder, turning back to Bram, his voice steady now despite the storm inside him: “I can calm her. I will calm her. But you have to give me time.”

Bram’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Time’s the one thing we don’t have, mate. The Chief Conservator’s already signed the order. We’re on borrowed hours”

----

It was supposed to be another ordinary day at the International Dragon Research and Conservation Division, IDRCD for short, the branch of the Ministry that had become Charlie’s life ever since he walked out of Hogwarts with more dirt under his nails than gold in his pockets. His team was based here at the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary, one of the few places in the world where dragon conservation actually meant something.

Charlie felt like he was nineteen again, back when he first passed his Apprentices exam and joined the UK’s Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau. Back then, he’d been the kid everyone looked down on, the poor Weasley boy, easy to shove aside, easy to dump all the grunt work on. The Bureau was toxic through and through, steeped in politics and old blood bias. Apprentices like him were treated as expendable, fetch-and-carry types rather than future experts.

He’d worked twice as hard as anyone, kept his head down, ate dirt for years. When they laughed at him, when they sneered at his name, he’d let it slide off his back but every late night, every dirty task, every time he was pushed aside, he’d made a promise to himself: he’d outlast them.

And he had. Passed every exam they threw at him. Earned his Dragon Handling Certificate, then his Research License. Quietly, stubbornly, he’d proved himself.

Transferring to Romania had felt like breathing fresh air for the first time. Here, at the sanctuary, the hierarchy was still strict, Lead Handlers, Senior Keepers, Tamers, Researchers, Apprentices but it was built on respect. His new team treated each other like equals. Here, his instincts and field skills actually counted for something. They’d trusted him, valued what he brought to the table.

-----

In that desperate moment. He remembers something. 

He knew the stories.

Everyone did, whispered in pubs and dragon camps like old ghost tales. The L/N bloodline.

The descendants of dragons, they claimed. A family so high and mighty they barely associated with the rest of the magical world. Pure-blood proud, secretive, wrapped in centuries of rumor and myth.

Most people laughed at it.

Called it fantasy.

“Dragon riders? Please. Forbidden by the Ministry for a reason.”

But Charlie wasn’t laughing now.

"You’re thinking of something," Gregor Ionescu grunted from his corner, leaning back in his chair with a cigarette dangling from his lips. The old man’s scarred face squinted at him. "I can hear the gears grinding, Weasley.”

-

Gregor Ionescu - A Lead Senior Keeper, Veteran Field Operative

Gruff, scarred, and always smelling faintly of cigarette smoke, Gregor is a fixture at the Romanian Sanctuary, an old warhorse of a man with a permanent limp and arms mapped with burn scars. In his younger days, Gregor led raids against illegal dragon smugglers, often facing chained and maddened beasts in underground pits. Nearly killed in one such mission, he emerged with a deep, almost superstitious respect for dragons. He doesn’t romanticize them, he knows exactly how dangerous they are but he regards them with the wary reverence of someone who’s looked death in the eye and lived.

His first impression of Charlie was blunt:

"Too soft. Pretty boy from Britain. Won’t last a year."

But Charlie’s sheer stubbornness, the way he showed up early, stayed late, and refused to quit even when dragons knocked him flat, wore Gregor down. Over time, the older man’s gruff insults turned into backhanded compliments. He started calling Charlie “stubborn little bastard” with a grin instead of a scowl.

Their relationship evolved into something close to an uncle-nephew dynamic. Gregor became Charlie’s go-to field partner and drinking buddy, the one who’d sneak him a cigarette when the politics of the job got too heavy.

----

"Give me more time. I’ll figure out how to handle her."

Charlie’s voice was steady, but his jaw clenched as he met the Chief's stare head-on.

The old man let out a long breath, rubbing the deep lines between his brows.

"It’s not that I don’t want to help you, kid. But time’s the risk now. The Ministry’s breathing down my neck, and they’re not feeling charitable about this mess.”

Across the room, one of the handlers, Elena crossed her arms and shot Charlie a skeptical look.

"And what exactly do you plan to do? We’ve tried everything short of putting her down."

Charlie’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. He swallowed and forced the words out.

"Maybe someone can help us."

That made the room go still. Every pair of eyes turned on him, curiosity flickering like sparks in dry tinder.

"L/N," Charlie said. "You all know the stories."

Someone snorted, Mihai, one of the tamers, always the loudest skeptic.

"You can’t be serious, Weasley. L/N? That old bedtime tale? Half the world says they’re myth, the other half says they’re pompous purebloods hiding in the mountains." He huffed, shaking his head. "This isn’t funny.”

"Maybe," Charlie shot back, voice sharp. "But maybe not. I heard their daughter, she graduated Durmstrang. Teaches dark creature handling, ancient magics, Animagus forms. She works as a Magizoologist now. Specializes in dragons."

His voice dropped lower. "Even if half of it’s wrong, if even one thing is true… she might be able to reach Vetraxira where we can’t.”

"You want to bring an outsider here? Into this mess?" Bram barked. "HQ will skin us alive."

"Better than letting them kill her," Charlie growled. His knuckles turned white against the edge of the table. "I’d rather be fired than be part of this slaughter.”

Gregor exhaled a long stream of smoke, eyeing Charlie sideways. "You're a stubborn little bastard, Weasley."

His lips twitched, almost a smile. "I like that."

He crushed the cigarette out against his boot. "Fine. You want to dance with death, I’ll watch your back. But you owe me a bottle after.”

Bram frowned.

"We can’t put the whole sanctuary at risk for a shot in the dark.”

"Enough."

Daciana Petrescu didn’t have to shout. Her voice was cool, firm but the weight behind it made the room fall into instant silence. She shifted in her chair, arms crossed, black eyes gleaming like polished stone.

"Maybe it’s not such a useless method," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "If we reach out to L/N, we confirm whether the bloodline’s claims are real. And if they are, it could be worth forming an alliance.”

-

Daciana Petrescu - A Lead Dragon Handler, Romanian Dragon Sanctuary

Known among staff (half-jokingly, half-reverently) as the Mother of Ironbellies, Daciana is a sharp-eyed, no-nonsense woman in her late 50s. Her authority doesn’t come from volume, she rarely raises her voice but from the way even the most volatile dragons seem to settle when she’s near. Her calm is a force of nature, and her knowledge of dragon behavior is unrivaled in Eastern Europe.

When Charlie Weasley first transferred to the Romanian Sanctuary, fresh-faced and raw from the toxic environment in the UK, Daciana recognized the flicker of real talent in him, the kind you can’t teach in classrooms. But she made him earn every inch of progress. No special treatment. No easy wins. She pushed him harder than anyone else, throwing him into fieldwork that tested not just his skills, but his instincts.

And when he succeeded, she was the first to praise him, always publicly, always just enough to remind everyone that Charlie wasn’t just another redhead kid from Britain.

Over the years, their bond deepened into something familial, though neither would ever admit it out loud. Daciana, childless herself, treats Charlie like an adopted son in her own brusque, understated way. She corrects him, spars with him, but will fight tooth and nail for him when outsiders challenge his judgment.

------

Murmurs rippled through the handlers, whispers threading through the tense air. No one dared speak against her directly.

Daciana’s gaze swept the room and then landed back on the Chief.

"I vote for Charlie’s option. And if it goes south, I’ll take responsibility, as division lead. Charlie, as my second, will answer with me."

The Chief’s jaw worked as he weighed the storm brewing behind his eyes. The room was watching, holding its collective breath.

Finally, he exhaled hard, his face carved from stone.

"Three days, Weasley," he growled. "After that, no more debates. No more miracles. We put her down. Understood?"

"Understood."

Charlie’s voice was rough but firm.

As the room dissolved into muttering, he stood stiffly, fists clenched tight by his sides. Doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve but Daciana’s steady presence behind him, solid and unflinching, gave him the spine to stand taller.

Three days.

That’s all he had.

And with his mentor backing him, Charlie dared to believe that might just be enough.

----

Charlie barely heard the mutters and sideways glances from his team as he strode out of the meeting room, heart pounding like a drum in his chest.

He didn’t stop until he slammed the door of his office shut behind him.

Books and scrolls cluttered his desk, but he shoved them aside with a rough sweep of his arm. He grabbed a blank parchment, uncapped his ink bottle, and snatched up his quill with fingers that trembled just slightly.

The first drop of ink splattered onto the page. He froze, staring at it.

His mind raced.

What if they don’t answer?

What if they’re too proud, too high and mighty to help some foreign sanctuary?

What if they see me as nothing but a blood traitor meddling in things I shouldn’t?

The L/N family.

A bloodline shrouded in rumors, dragon-blooded, they claimed. Sorcerers with dragonfire in their veins.

Too secretive.

Most people doubted they even existed outside bedtime stories.

And yet… Charlie was betting everything on them now.

Because he'd rather gamble on a myth than sign off on putting down an old, tortured soul.

He set his jaw, dipped the quill again, and began to write.

-----

Romanian Dragon Sanctuary

Senior Keeper’s Office

Transylvania, Romania

To Miss Y/N L/N,

L/N Estate, [Your Chosen Country]

Dear Miss L/N, I hope this letter finds you well. I realize this correspondence may come unexpectedly, given that we’ve never met. I also understand that your family has chosen privacy over the years, and I mean no disrespect by reaching out directly. I am writing because we are facing a dire situation here at the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary, one I believe you might be uniquely qualified to help with. We have an Ironbelly. Old. Ill. And growing dangerously aggressive. She’s refusing food, lashing out, and has injured two of our handlers. The board is considering euthanasia, having deemed her beyond saving and a threat to the reserve. But I believe there’s another way. I’ve heard the stories, the ones most call superstition about your family’s connection to dragons. I don’t put stock in gossip, but I trust my instincts. Everything I’ve learned about your lineage suggests you may have knowledge or gifts that go beyond standard Magizoology methods. I am asking, respectfully, if you would consider traveling here to assess her yourself. I understand this is no small request, especially on such short notice. But we are nearly out of time, they intend to move forward with sedation and termination within the week. If there’s even a chance you can help us calm and move her safely, I believe it is worth trying. Please send word at your earliest convenience. I can arrange secure transport if necessary. Thank you for considering this. Whatever your answer, I will respect it. Sincerely, Charlie Weasley Senior Dragon Keeper Romanian Dragon Sanctuary

-----

Charlie sealed the letter with a heavy sigh, the wax barely cooling before he whistled sharply. His owl, a sturdy barn owl named Ashwing, landed on the desk with a soft thud.

"Take this. Fast as you can."

Ashwing hooted once and took off into the night sky.

Charlie stood there in the silence of his office, fists clenched tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

He hated politics. He hated asking favors. And he hated gambling on shadows and whispered legends.

But this was life or death. His team, his mentors had put their faith in him.

He couldn’t afford to fail them. Not now.

And yet…

As the days crept by and no reply came, a cold weight began to settle in his chest.

The deadline loomed closer and closer.

And with every sunrise, his hope dimmed just a little more.

-maybe continue-