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e1dritchjackal0pe · 3 months

Text

𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔮𝔲𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰

Summary: Your relationship with Farleigh Start has always precariously walked the line between friends and enemies for years.

But maybe there's something else there, too.

Warnings: 18+ content; MDI. AFAB, Oral (f and m receiving), unprotected sex (this is fiction, please use protection in rl), hints at s and d dynamics; brief, barely there choking, outdoor/technically public sex. Sex while under the influence ( takes place during Oliver's party, so drugs for Farleigh and alcohol for the reader). Farleigh being an a*s, but what's new. Reader is American. Heavy denial of feelings in the beginning.

Notes: 14.6 k words. There is an abhorrent lack of Farleigh content on this site, so I thought I'd contribute. Not proofread, divider by @saradika-graphics

𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖎𝖎 - 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦𝔦

Honestly, it's a wonder how you always manage to forget the sheer opulence of the Saltburn Estate - even when it wasn't in the throes of a celebration that costs more than your yearly salary. It's like some sort of dream almost. While you're in it the details are all startingly intense. Overbearingly so. Flaunting in front of you with all of its details and sights; like a kaleidoscope. The memories never do the estate any true justice. The soft, rolling lush fields; the crystal blue skies that loom over the tall gray spires. It's all painted behind your eyelids with a haunting clarity. But as soon as you leave - as soon as you wake up - the entire experience never truly feels real. Bits and pieces slip through your fingers. It loses its tangibility somehow and you can't help but wonder if you had imaged the whole thing, even with Felix's number programed into your phone; a physical reminder that Saltburn is indeed a real, tactile place.

But even here tonight, while walking the halls and strolling through the courtyard, it doesn't feel like reality. It seems as though you've stepped into a fever dream, crossed some imaginary threshold and entered some mirroring realm. The air is charged. Electrifying. And you swear you could feel the magnetic net of adrenaline and excitement prickling at your fingertips. A cocktail of emotions amplified by alcohol and drugs and endorphins.

Everywhere you looked there were jovial, writhing bodies. People dancing and laughing. Some full on making out - and others dangerously close to toeing the line of having public sex - and others were having a less enjoyable time by collapsing in exhaustion or blacking out in an inebriated haze. One unfortunate soul had thrown up all over the floor boards of the foyer, and you had just narrowly missed being sprayed by the projectile vomit as you had passed. It was like the Exorcist.

Thank God it hadn't been on one of the Persian rugs.

It was someone's birthday, it seemed. A little impromptu. Not initially planned. Oliver's - at least that's what you believed it was. The same Oliver that Felix had mentioned during one of your phone calls. He had spoken of him fondly, but when Felix had rushed outside this evening to greet you from your taxi and help you gather up your bags, he had seemed less interested and even a little irritated in the mention of his newest companion - or as harsh as it sounds, charity case (he seems to have a new one each summer). And he had been quick to divert your line of questioning, stopping you with a somewhat curt, "he's just a friend from Oxford. That's all." And that was that. You knew not to press him over it.

But your time with Felix was cut short when he was pulled aside by an excited Elspeth, who had spared you a quick glance and a "hello, darling," before eagerly trying to get his advice on the party preparations. Which he didn't seem particularly enthused about being dragged into. And it left you to stand awkwardly on your on in the middle of the foyer, trying to force your bleary eyes open. Jet lagged with your will to live paper thin from only having a rough five hours of sleep to back it up. And for a moment you had feared that you might actually pass out on your feet but luckily Venetia had sought you out and saved you from feeling too awkward amongst the others. Occupying the time by gossiping and interrogating you about your time back in the States. All of which, you had confessed have been rather boring. Filled with exams and dead-end dates and careless flings. And even though the initial arrival always leaves you feeling like a fish out of water, you were thankful to have been invited back over to Saltburn. The sprawling, golden fields and fresh crisp air always a welcome reprieve from the loud, chaotic clamoring and the smog blanketed horizon of Los Angeles.

Even though the wild, scattered throng of sweating bodies that were bumping into you honestly weren't all that different from the clubs you frequent back home. Of course, the sheer show of wealth and splendor that had been rolled out for Oliver was nothing that you had ever seen before with the only thing to rival it (and surpass it, probably) being Felix's very own birthday party that you had been able to take part of a few years back. One that had been themed after a strange but no less entertaining amalgamation of cowboys, space and disco, and the costumes and decorations then had left you in a state of awe, much like tonight.

Everywhere you looked there was something else to gawk at. Glittering lights, a hired contortionist and at one point you had even seen a swan rush past you out on the courtyard - which you had only felt sad and a little angry for.

It was pure, unbridled pandemonium. Noisy and cloying with the scent of perfumes and marijuana and alcohol; and you couldn't escape it. Not even when you had gone outside to take advantage of the dark, balmy summer breeze to cleanse your lungs. And everything had been going well until a drunk man had lunged out of the crowd towards you. Wobbling on his feet with a loud wail akin to a war cry as he aimed a narrow tube directly at you. And you only had a fleeting second to wish that it was one of those party canisters full of tensile when he had set it off with a loud pop! And a large, shimmering cloud of glitter had burst over you like a mist, layering across your hair, and costume and skin like a sheen of sweat. You didn't even have time to yell at him before he was scurrying off into the crowd with a demented cackle, probably on his way to find some other unfortunate person to glitter bomb.

And even worse a quick glance downward had revealed that the drink in your champagne glass had been tainted by a thin coat of sparkling silver. Even if you wanted to be lazy and drink around the floaters, the amount drifting around in the champagne was too much. You probably would have ended up choking on all of it. It was with a defeated sigh that you tossed out the remainder of your drink onto the trampled lawn.

For the first time tonight you're actually thankful that Venetia had chosen to leave you for some tall, dark, and handsome stranger that she had met near the beginning of the party. You hadn't seen her since, but maybe it's a blessing in disguise. You would hate for her to see the state of her dress. It is just glitter, easy to wash off in the grand scheme of things, and too be fair she had said that she didn't even like the garment. It was just some random piece from another one of the Catton's wild parties - themed after Renaissance art and fables, you think. And she had sifted it out from the depths of her closet with little fanfare. "It's just some old thing, " she had told you plainly, even though the dress probably cost more than your monthly rent. Clearly, she wouldn't be distressed over some glitter, but you were still having a hard time fighting the sinking feeling in your gut. It was borrowed. She was letting you wear it. And now it was covered in a dust of silver because some guy decided to be a dick.

It could be worse though. It could have been a glass full of wine that he had dunked on you instead. You suppose you should take your wins where you could get them.

A part of you thinks about returning inside the manor and calling it a night. Taking a much-needed bath to clean off the layer of glitter from your skin and just going to bed. But really, you aren't sure if you'll even be able to manage falling asleep with the sheer volume of the music playing throughout various sections of the house, and the sound of the raucous cheering and laughter. And you could imagine what Venetia or Felix would tell you, to quit being so reclusive and to get out and socialize.

You did fly all the way over here. Planned this trip for a few weeks and made preparations with your job and roommate when Felix had called to invite you over for the summer. It would be a complete waste to turn in for the night and huddle yourself up in your quarters.

And with the fog of alcohol draping over your body you know you should probably put a pause on it for a bit but fuck it, it's a party and you need another drink.

You glance around the courtyard, hoping to spy one of that servants that have been forced to parade platers of alcohol around for the many guests but all you see are the scattered throngs of people dressed in fairy wings, strange animal masks, and plastic swords. Honestly, it never amazes you how many people get invited to these events. Even with all of the family members combined, there's no way they all know every individual here directly. There's probably enough to fill a damn stadium.

In your search your gaze sweeps over the steady bonfires, the temporary lovers grinding against each other and a pair talking amongst themselves - wait. That catches your attention. You feel heat prickling at your chest; irritation rising in some subconscious sort of reaction and as if they have a mind of their own your eyes skitter back over to them to confirm if what you thought you saw was true. And lo and behold, there he is. The bane of your existence. Farleigh Start.

Your eyes flicker across him from his head to his old-fashioned boots. He's holding some sort of mask in one of his hands. A big bulky thing with long protruding ears and an equine shaped face and you have to squint to come to the concussion that it appears to be a donkey.

He seems to be talking to someone. A person that you don't recognize but they both seemed to be engaged in some sort of heated stare off from near a rotating pig on a stick. It looks like he's found another unfortunate victim to prod at and humiliate. Not that it was difficult for Farleigh. He was always eager to find someone to harass and belittle. And the more that someone fought back, the more interested he seems to become. He's been a personal thorn in your side for longer than you'd like to admit.

Of course, you knew he would be here, but that didn't necessarily mean that actually seeing him made it any easier. It had to have close to a year since you've last interacted with him, which had to have been during that awful Christmas party back in the States. Why Graham had invited both of you when he knew that neither of you get along is a mystery. It could have been some lame attempt to get two of his closest friends to finally clear up whatever animosity was between them, but in all actuality it had just made worse. All of the passive aggressive barbs and thinly veiled sneers had nearly reached a boiling point that night when Farleigh wouldn't just leave you alone. Seeming to make it his mission to antagonize you at every turn with childish insults. But as childish as they might have been, they added up over time until you were giving him what he wanted, lashing out in response to his nasty little comments.

And to think at one point you had actually been excited to meet him. As Graham's close friend and roommate, you were interested in getting to know the guy that he couldn't stop gushing about. The one who he had praised nearly nonstop. Farleigh had been nice enough in the beginning. And you even enjoyed his company for a time. His humor had always been a bit snarky, and the jokes he told were usually at another's expense. But he had been - as much as you hate to admit it, fun. And at one point, you had even considered him a friend of sorts. Or at the very least an acquaintance whose company you enjoyed while you both rambled on about nothing and everything, often gossiping about others.

It had all been fine between you. That was until Felix had come down to L.A. to visit. He had gone out with Farleigh and Graham to go and sightseeing, which eventually steered into hopping from club to club as the day wanned into night. And when the invitation had extended to you, your relationship with Farleigh had taken a turn. For whatever reason talking to Felix was easy. But that was just Felix you suppose; always able to make friends with just about anyone in the room. And the closer that the two of you had become, the more strained your association with Farleigh had grown until it was filled with nothing but sardonic remarks and passive hostility. And instead of being a sort of surface level confidant, he gradually became a presence that you detested. And your relationship had gone from a mutual respect and cordial conversations to some sort of strange cat and mouse game. The both of you exchanging snarky jabs in an attempt to see if the other would crack.

You would be lying if you didn't admit that some part of you enjoyed your little spats. And maybe you had hoped that he would be here tonight. Not that you'd ever tell him that. You'd rather trip onto the sharp end of a knife.

Suddenly Farleigh is stepping towards the stranger, shoulders rigid and body pulled taught, seeping with irritation. And he takes ahold of their face, forcing the shorter man to look into his eyes in some sort of intimidation tactic. Farleigh's nearly seething. And his expression is firm with an apparent frustration. You don't think you've seen him so visibly aggravated before. You can't help but wonder what the mystery guy may have done to warrant such a response from him.

And then Farleigh is pulling away, releasing the stranger from his grip with a smug smile. But on him it looks more like a sneer with the way his lips are stretched and showing off his teeth. He's moving towards your direction now, probably intending to head back to the house, and he's yet to notice you. You contemplate leaving. Of slipping back under the cover of the scattered crowd and disappearing before he sees you, but your body doesn't move. Instead, you're stock still. There's some awful feeling in your gut that seems horrendously akin to anticipation; fluttering and soft and nauseating.

You should just leave. You could leave if you'd just move. But it's too late. You swear there's some awful full body reaction that occurs when Farleigh's gaze meets yours and he stops in place to assess you. For a moment it's like you've been sucked into a black hole. It's like time has dilated and shrunk down around you until it's frozen solid and suddenly the lively chaos around you falls quiet, muffling down into an insignificant hum in the background. Recognition flickers in his eyes and something else crosses his face too. Something that you don't quite recognize but regardless, it feels as though the both of you are engaged in some sort of wordless exchange. There's another smile growing on his face. It's mischievous but still much more relaxed and familiar than the previous one that he had worn, and you can't help but return one of your own.

It's then that you're finally able to gain control of your own body, walking backward a few steps before you twist around to slip amongst a gaggle of passing girls with something that is suspiciously close to excitement bubbling in your gut. You briefly use them as cover to get you closer to the house entrance, and they're all too occupied with giggling and gossiping to notice your presence. But you're able to remove yourself from the cluster when one of them drunkenly trips on her skirt, and she saves herself by latching onto the shoulder of one of her friends with a wild laugh. The others all gather around her to jokingly reprimand her as they assist her in righting herself but you're already stepping through the back threshold of the manor, and you're thrown headfirst into the alcohol infused, neon casted mayhem. Party streamers, glow sticks and blaring upbeat music. It's complete madness. You can hardly hear yourself think and trying to work yourself through the tight gaps between people's swaying bodies proves to be a challenge of its own and it's a heavy reminder as to why you had even gone outside in the first place.

The atmosphere is cloying and thick; you feel as though you might actually be able to choke on it like it's a physical thing. As otherworldly and exciting as this party is, it's another experience entirely when you're being elbowed in the ribs by an oblivious drunk girl who isn't aware of her windmilling arms and all the intoxicated men who think that you're trying to feel them up and flirt with them when in reality you're just trying to get by. And for a split second you feel as though you may never make it out of the tumultuous sea of bodies. That you'll be cursed to wander around aimlessly in the wild, dancing masses for eternity. Subjected to the ear shattering music and scent of spilt wine and bourbon and sweat.

But then you hear something that sounds suspiciously like your name. It's distant and damp as though your ears are plugged and for a second you had thought that you imagined it before you hear it again. This time louder and there's no mistake that someone is calling you. It has you pausing for a moment to analyze your surroundings and then you catch sight of someone familiar at the far end of the room and for a moment you think that your eyes might be lying to you with the aid of the dim lighting. The deep, saturated, shifting hues of purple and blue and red tinting the chaotic space doing very little to aid you. But someone is waving their arm up the air for you to spot them better and a long glance confirms that you were right in your assumption. The relief that sweeps across your bones is insurmountable and the glimpse of a hand raised up in the air to beckon over you is even more incentive to press forward. And you have to shoulder past people until you enter a small break in the crowd.

"There you are!" Venetia shouts triumphantly, swaying to the rhythm of the song playing at full blast. "I've been looking all over for you!"

You don't bother refuting her. Of countering that she was the one who had wondered off without any plans to meet up afterwards. Instead, you just move up closer to her, doing your best to match her movements and energy but you're entirely too self-conscious to actually meet her. And you feel the fleeting sense of relief that she has yet to notice all of the glitter covering her dress or doesn't care.

"I had to go outside and get some fresh air, " you confess and even underneath the low lighting you can see the way that she nearly rolls her eyes at you, but even then, there's a well-meaning smile on her face.

"You're at a once in a lifetime party, and you were spending it outside?"

"Just for a minute." But she looks completely unamused by your apparently flimsy defense and suddenly she's grabbing you by the shoulders and leaning towards you like it might seal in her words better.

"Well, you're supposed to be inside. Dancing and partying and getting drunk." She squeezes her hands against your skin. "Seriously, it's like you're allergic to fun."

Okay, a little bit rude. And you try to remind yourself that she's just saying it because she's probably drunk. For the most part, all of the younger Catton's (Farleigh included) have a tendency to be social butterflies and party animals. It was something that you had struggled to keep up with when you had officially become friends with Felix. Luckily, he was typically the most understanding out of all of them, and he was aware enough to take notice when you were burning out. It was something that you had thought that Venetia had come to terms with as well, but every now and again she always makes sure to voice her objections.

And you open your mouth to protest but you hardly get anything out. "That's not tru-"

"And as your friend it's my duty to ensure that you do exactly all of the above!" She pulls away with a smirk that is entirely all too satisfied, and it immediately has the alarm bells inside your head blaring. "And maybe even a bit more."

You don't like that last bit.

"There's someone who I think you'd love to meet!" And you swear you can feel your stomach drop at those words but exasperation bleeds through the discomfort until you're holding back an irritated sigh as she practically gushes some stranger's name. "Reuben!"

And at the call of his name, the guy seems to appear from the darkness and shifting bodies like some sort of spirit. It takes you completely off guard how closely and quickly he moves, and you have to physically keep yourself from flinching back. The entire situation is jarring, and you feel like an insect pinned to a corkboard with how both Venetia and this stranger - Reuben are watching you expectantly. And it takes everything to muster up a smile that you know must look strained and unnatural. "Hi," you greet lamely, but he doesn't seem to be the least bit deterred or put off.

And he is cute, you'll admit. Kind, joyful eyes that you think are hazel but it's honestly impossible to tell in this lighting and there's a dusting of freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. He seems inviting enough if first impressions are anything to go by, but for whatever reason you don't find yourself gravitating towards him or longing for any sort of conversation with him.

"It's nice to meet you!" He returns, loudly projecting to be heard over the stereo system. "Venetia's told me a bit about you."

"Uh-huh, " you nod for him to continue or maybe divulge, but he doesn't. He just stands there silently without removing his gaze and you can't tell if it's because he's just oblivious or if maybe he's just socially awkward, but it has you shuffling on your feet all the same, desperate to move or do anything to make this less weird. And you glance over at Venetia who still has that hopeful expression on her face, doing your best to telegraph your discomfort without tipping Reuben off. And she does seem to notice but she doesn't tell him to leave or direct him somewhere else like you had wanted.

"Reuben said that he's been to America before," she reveals. Apparently trying to salvage this little interaction and cultivate it into something more.

"Oh, really?" You perk up a bit, or at least try to. "Where did you visit?"

"Uh, New York. City, " he clarifies at the end before his demeanor shifts into something a bit sheepish and playful and the gold plastic crown perched atop his head glints in the lights. "It was a bit of a bore, I won't lie. But that was probably because I was there on a business trip and not on holiday, so feel free to put the blame on me."

His attempt at joking does thaw at some of the unpleasant tension that had burdened the air, but even with the initial ice broken there's still just a simple, straightforward uninterest underneath it all. You aren't stupid. It's obvious why Venetia had pressed to introduce him to you, it's obvious why he had agreed. And you don't fault him for trying to get lucky at what might just be the party of the decade (for you at least) but keeping him here and stringing him along is a complete waste of everyone's time. You aren't going to sleep with him. Not tonight or any other night. And then you go to tell him as much, parting your lips to just get to the point and lay all of your cards out on the table but then Venetia is tapping on your shoulder, making you pause to look over at her.

She has this strange, delighted smile on her lips that's even worse than the one she was wearing when she had invited Reuben over. She nods her chin over to your right, watching eyes trained on something or someone. "Your shadow's here."

You nearly break your neck to follow her line of sight and your heart skips a beat when you see Farleigh standing several feet away from a gap in the crowd and you have to wonder just how long he's been standing there for. And you don't know why you suddenly feel as though you've been caught doing something wrong. Why your body flushes and prickles with shame and you feel like cringing. Maybe it's because of the way that he's looking at you. How his eyes dart from you to Reuben like he's assessing something. Most of the emotions flickering across his face are unreadable. But for second you think that you catch glimpses or what might be anger or irritation and worst of all betrayal before it leans into something neutral and flat. And then just as you had, he's turning on his heels and vanishing. But unlike you, he doesn't smile as he leaves. He doesn't walk away with a silent invitation to follow.

And then Venetia is turning to Reuben with a sweet smile and tilting her head. "Alright, you can go now."

He looks just as confused as you do, and he turns to look at you like he's expecting you to jump in to defend him or at the very least offer an explanation, but you don't have one to give. You're just as lost as he is and when you don't speak and tell him to stay, he backs away, spreading his arms out in a sort of silent 'what the fuck?' gesture and vanishes back into the throng of bodies.

"What . . . was that?" You ask, tense with a mutated type of bewilderment and anger.

"I just wanted to see it." She says cryptically and irritatingly, begins to dance in place before finally disclosing on that little comment. "The look on his face."

"What?" You snap.

"Please, the way you two dance around each other is getting dreadfully old. It's boring and tired. I just did something to get the ball rolling."

This in particular isn't new by any means. You had heard it all before from the two Catton siblings. Their vehement insistence that you and Farleigh had some unspoken attraction for the other that you both refused to act or speak on. It had nearly become a joke for the both of them. To prod and poke at you and Farleigh with to their hearts content. It was something that the both of you had learned to accept over time - somewhat - and ignore. But this. This new and entirely strange.

"So, what? You were trying to make him jealous?" Your forehead crinkles as you watch her; incredulous and perplexed.

"Trying?" She echoes amusedly." I succeeded. Did you see the way that he was looking at you? He was practically seething."

You almost scoff. He wouldn't be jealous; he had no reason to be. And you don't know why Venetia's little ruse has pissed you off, or why that strange look on Farleigh's face had made your heart drop, but it did.

"The two of you are so dense that it's honestly as frustrating as it is entertaining," she says with pure exasperation. "I mean, whenever you're here, you're practically fused at the hip. Bickering like cats and dogs like we can't all see the truth." She laughs but it's more of a scoff really. "He speaks about you. All the time. Always whining and complaining about something you've done. But it's different. He practically has hearts in his eyes while does it. And it's exhausting." And then she's backing away from you, leaving you to settle and drown in the disarray of your own thoughts and come to terms with that. Does he really speak about you like that? Surely, there's no way.

"So can the two of you, for all of our sake's, sort whatever mess you've got going on between you and just fuck already? "

And then she's spinning away her heels, sending you a wink over her shoulder and the silver chains wrapping around her body in a delicate draped halter glint and twinkle underneath the lights; showcasing that elaborate weblike shape that they've been constructed in. And she just leaves you. Abandoning you in the middle of the temporary dancefloor while you fight with an upstream of odd emotions. You just standing there while you tussle with the urge to find Farleigh and apologize (apologize for what?) and tell him that it was just some weird joke from Venetia (why does that matter?). You don't know why you feel the need to go and try to repair whatever damage Venetia may have just done. What that said 'damage' may even be, you don't know. And you also don't know why you're suddenly heading off in the direction that Farleigh had disappeared in, scanning the crowd for him with some ugly sense of desperation that you don't want to unpack and analyze. Not even as you yield to it.

You aren't even sure how long you search for; your gaze jumping over every face and person that you see in the hopes that you find him. But the room is packed to say the least, and the odds of you actually stumbling across him must be low. He might not even be in this specific room anymore. And if that's case then you might as well as give up now. The estate is sprawling; if he doesn't want to be found, then he won't be. And you think about giving up. Of turning in for the night and trying to talk to him in the morning when you inevitably see him at the breakfast table.

But then you see him. Only this time there's no double take or reason to reconfirm that it is him, this time you spot him immediately.

He seemed to have shed his doublet at some point, leaving him in his pale undershirt. His mask is gone as well. And it takes your mind a second to realize that he's not alone. That he's pressed against some girl like he might kiss her. There's a smile on his face; inviting and flirtatious and the tips of their noses brush together as they lean in close.

You're an unintended observer. You shouldn't be here watching them in a moment that clearly isn't meant for you but it's as though your feet are glued to the floor. It's like watching a car crash. You don't want to look; you don't want to be here but some awful part of you is making you stay. Your muscles have gone still from something prickling and cold and disarming. You can feel it in your chest too. It's making your lungs seize and for one long, paralyzing moment it's almost like you can't breathe. But you don't have a right to be bothered by this. Farleigh's entitled to have one-night stands or flings or to go on dates with people if he wants to. There's no reason why he can't. And there's no reason why you should be feeling shame and betrayal and hurt right now. Absolutely no reason. You wonder if this is what he had felt just a few moments before while you were standing with Reuben and that odd little side of you hopes that he had.

God, what if Venetia had been right? What if -

Their lips brush together.

They're going to kiss, some hideous part of your brain whispers and even worse your body tenses and coils like it's bracing for some sort of dreadfully anticipated impact. This is it. The moment the car crashes and erupts into burning flames.

But then Farleigh goes still. Pausing as though someone had called his name or he's remembered something. The girl that he's pressed up against leans back with a confused furrow pinched between her eyebrows when he turns his head and his eyes land on you.

Your mouth goes dry, and your tongue seems thick and useless, and you try to swallow around it. Now that you're here you don't even know what to do with yourself. You aren't even sure what you had gone after Farleigh for. You didn't have a plan to begin with; you didn't know what to say. You have to internally curse yourself for following after him and putting yourself in this situation. It's strange and awkward and it takes everything for you to even manage a smile. To try and look casual and pretend that maybe you had just stumbled across them and hadn't intentionally tracked him down. And you lift a hand up in a lax wave while your mind ceaselessly chants for you to leave. To just go.

You can feel Farleigh's gaze searing into you, drilling holes into your head even as the girl that he's with leans towards him and you can't hear over the distance or the music, but she appears to be saying something if the way that her mouth is moving is any indication.

You're quick to turn on your heels and all but nearly speed walk away from the both of them, eager to create as much distance between you and them as possible. You don't feel like you're apart from your body. It's like you're disconnected from it, uncomfortably aware of your limbs and movements as you rush away. And it's like your emotions are stuffing your body full and threatening to tear it at the seams. Emotions that you don't recognize; that you don't want to recognize.

A warmth and pressure suddenly encircles around your wrist, much like a hand would and for a moment you think that you've imaged it. But then you're being pulled back gently by the strength of someone's grip, and it forces you to stop. You know who it is before you turn to look at them. You can smell the burn of tobacco from his cigarette habit on his clothes, and it blended with the delicate musk of his cologne. The woody notes of amber joining along with vanilla and bergamot and cardamom made your mouth water in some horrid Pavlovian response. It was humiliating.

Then your eyes are meeting his; dark and glimmering underneath the flashing, sweeping lights dancing about the room. And for one agonizing moment neither of you say anything. It's like you're both simultaneously drifting away and stuck in place. The energy looming over the both of you is foreign and strange, and Farleigh can feel it too if the blank, unsure expression on his face gives away as much.

And then he's releasing your wrist and you let your arm drop down at your side. He shifts on his feet and the weird tension in his shoulders drop as easily as if it were a piece of clothing and a smirk takes shape on his face. This is the Farleigh that you're more familiar with, with the condescending look in his eyes and a prideful tilt to his head. It puts you at ease. Dulling the nervous butterflies in your gut and allowing you to settle underneath his presence.

"Well, if it isn't Felix's favorite little pet." It's meant to be an insult. Most would read it as such, but for you it brings nothing but relief. It feels like a consolation almost. That whatever these strange little interactions have been they haven't damaged your relationship with Farleigh (what relationship?) and made things odd. He glances around the room and all of the festivities, the swaying crowd and streamers and flowing alcohol. He wrinkles his nose in a way that comes off as falsely apologetic. "Or I guess I should say second favorite now."

"Then it's a good thing that I didn't come here for him," you respond easily enough. Internally thankful that the last remaining remnants of tension in your throat hasn't prohibited your ability to speak. "I just know how thrilled you always are to see me, and so I couldn't possibly bring myself to skip out on the trip."

"Thrilled," he echoes with a scoff. "Is that what you think? Because personally I feel like drowning myself in the pond right about now."

"No one's stopping you, " you quip back easily, finally slipping back into your old dynamic.

His forehead scrunches as he pins you with an incredulous look, tilting his head as he moves in closer towards you. "And leave you here all alone? What would you do without me?"

"Thrive. Live. Experience peace."

"Sounds boring."

But you don't have time to respond. He's leaning back on his feet and stepping away from you while he digs one of his hands into the pocket of his costume's pants. And when he removes his hand, it comes out clutching a packet of cigarettes, which he's quick to ruffle around in. "Come on, I wanna smoke."

You don't ask any questions as he moves, leading you out from the dancefloor and throughout the house. Every so often he glances back over his shoulder like he's reconfirming that you haven't wandered off and left. He guides you up a set of staircases, past the couple planted by the first step who are openly making out and grinding on each other and up into the twisting, changing hallways.

"Where are we going?" You ask, nearly getting shoulder checked by a pair of girls who rush down the corridor in a fit of giggles.

"I told you, " he replies and hardly looks back. " I want to smoke."

You want to press him about. About how suddenly he's unable to smoke inside when you've seen him do at least a thousand times. Even at the breakfast table. He probably does it on the toilet too. It wouldn't be a surprise. You aren't sure how long the two of you walk for, higher up into the highest floors of the house until he's finally stopping and opening a door at the end of the hall. He pauses in the threshold, dipping his head in and looking in like he's checking to see if it's occupied. He could have just knocked. It would have been an unpleasant surprise for the people inside if it actually had been unavailable. But the coast must be clear because he's slipping inside and nodding his head for you to follow after. He shuts the door behind you, closing it with a click and gives you a passing smirk when you shoot him a curious glance.

You follow him into the room, vacant apart from some paintings and a few pieces of furniture - an old office maybe, and he leads you across the floors towards a pair of large glass double doors.

He tugs on one of the handles, swinging it open, revealing what appears to be one of the balconies. He's outside before you. And by the time you slide up beside him he's already leaning against the chiseled stone railing on his elbows and the cigarette perched between his lips is lit and smoldering.

The air outside is still warm, sweet and earthy with the scent of moister in the air, like some distant, unseeable storm is brewing. And you can see so much of the estate from this high up. The frolicking people down below in their costumes and those massive, glowing lotus lamps drifting in the pond. But even with all of the guests down on the courtyard engaging in various kinds of trouble; drinking and shouting and singing amongst themselves, up here their voices can harldy reach you. It sounds like a faint murmur on the soft summer wind. And for maybe the first time tonight you actually feel a sense of calm.

"He's a selfish lover, " Farleigh says randomly, flicking the butt of his cigarette to sprinkle the dead ash onto the far grounds beneath. "And a notoriously fast one too. Eliana Merrick said he busted as soon as he put it in."

He notices the lost look on your face and sighs, twisting around on his feet to lean his back against the railing instead. "Your little boytoy from earlier. Reuben Amory." He spits his name out with something that sounds suspiciously like contempt. Venomous and irritated and he lifts the cigarette up to take another drag. "His father's a friend of the family. To James specifically. That's how he always manages to weasel his way into our parties."

"I guess I dodged a bullet then." You joke, absentmindedly fiddling with one of the elaborate pearl earrings dangling from your ear.

"What? He didn't scratch your itch?"

"No," you shake your head with a light shrug. "He was fine. It's just . . . I don't know, I wasn't interested."

Farleigh snorts, making you glare at him, eyebrows furrowing. "What?"

"Nothing." But his tone is a little sarcastic, and unconvincing and the nasty smile on his lips reveals as much. "He just seemed to fit the bill of your type pretty well. Well-meaning, polite and a little pathetic."

You nearly laugh but it comes out as more of a scoff. "That is not my type."

"Oh, really?" He challenges, moving closer towards you and you can smell his cologne again. The vanilla sticks out the most this time. Delicate and sweet. "What about that guy you used to flirt with at IHop? "

"He was a server. It's literally his job to be nice-"

"And then there was your neighbor back at the apartment. The one across the hall with the abysmal amout of plants. And then who could possibly forget, what was his name? Adrian? Who you dated for all of four weeks."

It has you falling silent, unable to counter his argument even though you have a remark waiting on the tip of your tongue. You've never realized that Farleigh had ever paid that much attention to you and your affairs. It has that syrupy, fuzzy feeling pooling in the center of your chest despite that fact that you're actively telling yourself that it doesn't actually mean anything. It's normal for people to notice things about people that they're forced into proximity with.

"Wow, I never knew you were so interested in my love life, " you say, gripping onto the rough texture of the railing. Stroking your fingers over the soft groves and bumps. "Maybe you should get one of your own."

"But yours is always so entertaining," he snuffs out the cigarette and carelessly drops the butt onto the ground near his feet. "You know, with the way that it always seems to crash and burn."

It probably would have stung to hear if you weren't able to say that you were the one to end all of the relationships that you had been in. That you were always the one to take the first step in severing ties. Even with Adrian you had been the one to sit him down and explain that you just hadn't been able to see it progressing anywhere. The both of you were too different. Your goals and wants in life were polarizing and the only things that had brought you together were superficial at best. You just weren't built to last.

"Please, like yours has ever been any better." But he doesn't look the least bit offended. Instead, there's a satisfied quality to his expression. Your lips purse and something akin to defeat weighs down your shoulders. "Besides, they were all too sweet anyway. A little too nice. They could never keep up. I'd always end up saying something to hurt their feelings on accident and they would think that I meant it and then I'd get the silent treatment."

"Not like us, huh?" Farleigh responds a little softly. And he was right. There was always something about your dynamic with Farleigh that you had never been able to achieve in your relationships. The constant push and pull. The competition of your endless banter and insults. The way that you could be completely bare and unrestrained with your words without putting your standing with him at risk. There was . . . an intimacy in it that couldn't compare with anyone else. You had seen the worst of Farleigh. The sneers and jabs and heated sarcasm. And in turn he had gotten the brunt of your own ire and jokes, but it still didn't change a thing. Neither of you ran from it. Instead, you both seemed to revel in it. To seek it out even. It was a type of security that you had never found with any other friend or lover.

And you don't know what it is, but some invisible element shifts and rises between the both of you. Something that's always been there. Simmering and quiet, building up underneath your every interaction like water boiling on a hot stove.

"No. Not like us," you admit in a near whisper like if you spoke to loudly that it might disrupt whatever magnetic thrum has fallen over you both. So low that he might not have heard you. But then you see something flash in his eyes. Something hungry and eager and he's moving closer until you can feel his body heat pouring over your skin, seeping underneath the delicate fabric of your dress and into your bones.

"I hated all of them," he says it like a confession. Hushed and passionate. And you suppose that it is one. Told in total confidence, with a certain fervor like a sinner tucked away in a confessional booth. "I hated them because they should have been me."

It makes you gasp lowly. And your fingers squeeze around the banister like it might ground you and keep you from floating away. And suddenly Venetia's previous statements are echoing around in your skull; mocking and satisfied. You feel slightly stupid now. Blind. But never in a million years would you have guessed that Farleigh had actually ever been jealous of the men that you had dated. It seems like such a silly concept. Or else it would have in the past, but now here he is confirming the very thing that the two Catton sibling's have been vehemently trying to drill into your head for years. And you like it. God, you actually like it. Some nasty little side of you is completely satisfied and even elated that he's been seething over all of your old flings and exes. It feels good because you've been doing the same thing you suddenly realize. Every time that stinging burn had caught up in your chest at the sight of him curled up with some other person - it hadn't been irritation for Farleigh. It was jealousy. You had actually been jealous.

"Can I tell you something?" You ask.

He just hums, low and soft. You can't even glance away from him. Not even if you wanted to. Not with the way that he's looking at you. His stare is heavy and intense, and it feels like you're being held by the throat, forced to maintain eye contact with your breath steadily being stolen from your lungs. "I wished they were you, too."

It's like something breaks free from you when you say it. It was heavy, oppressive and suffocating and in its absence, it's replaced by a sense of ease and a freedom that makes you want to laugh and maybe even cry. And maybe if you weren't preoccupied with the entirety of your attention zoned in on Farleigh you might would have.

Now he's stepping even closer than before, and now you can actually feel the press of his body against yours. The pressure of it has your lips parting, and you have to angle your head to maintain your shared gaze without breaking it. Then his hand is tucking underneath your chin; the pad of his thumb lifts to brush over you, tracing the shape of your bottom lip with something that feels close to reverence.

"Can I kiss you?"

Something inside of you breaks apart at the question, crumbling and washing away like sand underneath the crashing power of a wave. You nod before you even fully register it, and your body is buzzing with a honeyed heat. And you understand that if you do this then whatever relationship you have with Farleigh is going to fundamentally altered. It will be the point of no return and the consequences, positive or negative, will be unavoidable. Maybe tomorrow things will go sour. Maybe by then you'll be back to hating each other, even worse than before. But you want this. Consequences and all.

"God, yes. Please."

His lips are soft and warm, and they taste sugary and faintly floral with what might have been the flavors of some beverage that he had drank earlier. There's the bite of tobacco on his skin too, sharp and smoky. It's usually something that you had never enjoyed when kissing people in the past, but right now it hardly even registers. You're too busy getting lost in the feel of him. The warmth of his hands framing your face, the way that he shifts you on your feet and nudges you back against the railing of the balcony. Your hands are everywhere that they can reach, stroking down his chest and dipping down to grip his hips, pulling them flush against you like any amount of space left between you might kill you.

He groans into your mouth at the gesture, nipping at you lip before soothing the sting with his tongue. It has heat, liquid and thick building between the cradle of your thighs. And you know that it's just kissing, but you can't help but internally berate yourself, because if the both of you hadn't been so horribly bullheaded you could have been doing this the entire time.

And he pulls away from you all too soon, making an embarrassing whimper bubble up from your throat, but he's hushing you with a soft coo, snickering lightly under his breath when he ducks his head beneath your chin to suck at the skin there. Taking it between his teeth and lips and you can't help to soft, breathless pants that start to leave your chest in response. It's purely possessive and you're sure that he's trying to leave marks there, and you can't find it in yourself to tell him not to. It's like your muscles are melting, going boneless at the sensation of his tongue tasting your skin, licking up the salt from it. You can feel the shape of his smug smile against your throat, and it makes you want to slap him. But instead, you're reaching a hand up to cradle the back of his neck, keeping him close to you.

You're wet already, soaking through your underwear. It's something that you would have been awfully conscious of in the past with another partner, but here and now you can hardly think around the red fog that's beginning to cloud your brain. And then he's shifting, sweeping a hand underneath the silk skirt of your dress to clasp around your thigh so that he could pull it to the side, allowing him to nudge his leg between the both of yours.

"Farleigh," you gasp, and he cruelly grinds his thigh against the heat of you, steadily feeding the pressure thrumming there but not letting it build towards anything more. It's frustrating. Mean. And it has you clawing at his shoulders impatiently.

"Yeah? What is it?" He asks, nipping at the sensitive skin on your ear, making sure to be mindful of your earring. You don't respond at first, unable to with the way that he's still steadily moving his thigh against you. It's simple, but with the way that you're already so pathetically worked up, it feels like agony. "Come on, you can tell me."

And to make it worse, that hand that had been gripped around your leg is now moving further underneath your dress, slipping between the press of your bodies to settle above where you want him. His fingers play with the elastic band of your panties, teasing, implying more. But then he hooks it in the crook of his fingers and pulls, letting it snap back against your skin. The sting is dull, but it has you gasping regardless. You mindlessly reach for his hand that's still underneath your skirt, taking it into your own. And you briefly fear that he'll pull it from your grip. But he allows you to guide him. He removes his head from your neck to look into your eyes, watching your expression when you finally slip his hand underneath your underwear, and you can feel the shocking chill of his signet ring trailing across your heated skin. He takes over from there and you can't help the way that you arch into him when his fingers finally move down to where you need him the most. His face pinches when he spreads you open, and he nearly groans at the feel of you. "Jesus, baby, you're fucking soaking already."

Your eyes flutter from the drag of one of his knuckles brushing over your clit and it's like it's directly connected to every individual nerve in your body, making you squirm and moan raggedly.

"Is this all for me?" He asks, dipping one of his fingers lower, teasingly circling the entrance of your cunt but he doesn't go any further.

"Yes." Your lungs feel tight and your nipples brush against his chest with each breath that you take, doing little to help ease the tension and desire threatening to tear you apart. "Yes, it's 'cause of you. Please, Farleigh. C'mon."

"What's the rush?" He taunts, angling his head to take your bottom lip between his teeth and biting. "The night's still young. "

He rocks his thumb against your clit, smirking at you with pure arrogant satisfaction from the way that you shudder underneath his touch. You know that he's absolutely delighting in the way that you've been practically turned into mush by what is essentially some heavy petting. Especially after all of the years of trying one up each other, you're sure that this is doing wonders for his ego. Like it needs to get any bigger. That little prickle of irritation peeks out from underneath the saccharine haze shrouded over you, and you can't keep it down. "I fucking swear, Farleigh, " you nearly hiss, nudging your hips in the hopes that it'll drag the pressure of his fingers closer. "If you don't do something, I swear I'll-"

"You'll what?" Comes his immediate reply, the low rasp of his voice sounds completely unbothered.

"I'll leave, " you say firmly. Or as firmly as you possibly can with the way that the knuckle of his thumb has begun to rotate around your clit in tight, but soft sweeping brushes. But he doesn't appear to be worried in the slightest. He just grins at you. And shakes his head as he lowers it to nudge his nose against yours.

"No, you won't." He says it so certainly. Like he's omnipresent and has already seen the decided future. Like your fate is already sealed. And he's right as much as it pisses you off to admit it. You won't leave. But you don't want to tell him that and give him the satisfaction. " 'Cause you need me don't you, baby? Need me to make you cum."

You're nodding in agreement before you even realize it, throwing whatever semblance of control that you had right out of the window.

"Yeah? Gonna let me taste you?" Just the words alone nearly makes you keen aloud like some desperate slut, and you just barely swallow the sound down. But he must see it in your eyes. The sheer want and desperation that you feel coursing through your body like a drug. The need possessing you might actually be debilitating and you're back to clawing at his shoulders and arms in an attempt to just do something. To pin your focus on something other than the heavy ache between your legs. And you can just distantly hear yourself chanting a string of 'yes' like a broken record.

He tugs his hand from your underwear, and you can't help but mourn the loss, even when he's lowering himself down on his knees and planting kisses down across the expanse of your body as he goes. But then he's rucking the skirt of your dress up over your hips and tucking his fingers back into your underwear like he's getting ready to pull them down. Instead, he's just staring, and his eyebrows are pinched together almost like he's pained.

"You really are soaked," he says with a sort of awe. A thrum of embarrassment rings through you when you realize that he's probably admiring the noticeable wet spot that has dampened the crotch of your underwear from your arousal. You try to close your legs, mostly out of reflex but the sharp, reprimanding smack on the outside of your thigh that you get in response makes you freeze in place. He glares up at you and you have to reach behind you to grip the railing to keep from collapsing from underneath the intensity smoldering in his gaze.

"Keep them open," is his only warning before he all but rips your panties down your hips. Guiding one of your legs up with a hand for you to step out of them, but he leaves your lace underwear to hang from the high heel on your opposite foot; apparently too impatient to fully remove them. And he barely gives you time to think or breathe before he's taking ahold of you by your waist and swinging both of your thighs over his shoulders.

The feel of his tongue laving over the heat of your pussy in a long, greedy swipe makes you scream, completely uncaring for all of the guests down below. And all some distant, buried part of you can do is hope that you're up too high for anyone to hear you. That no one happens to glance up and see you clutching onto the railing for dear life. There's no build up to it. He's completely unrestrained, apparently having the goal to make you cum as quickly as possible with the way that he's working his mouth on you. Swirling his tongue over the swollen, sensitive nerves of your clit and lapping at the dripping entrance of your cunt like a man possessed.

You mouth drops open with heavy pants, and your hands scramble across the cool chiseled stone for something to ground you and keep you pinned to reality. You can see the glint of your arousal smearing across his lips and cheeks and the look in his eyes is a blend of determination and a dazed kind of contentment, and you can feel him groaning against your pussy, amplifying your pleasure. And if it wasn't for the way that you could barely stop whimpering and crying out, you'd nearly think that he was enjoying this more than you with his pleased hums thrumming throughout your body.

He takes your clit into the cradle of his mouth and sucks, and you think that you actually sob but you feel miles away from your body and also helplessly, deliciously trapped inside of it. "Farleigh, " you keen, humping against his face in a debauched display of hedonism. One of your hands reaches down, gripping onto his hair when your eyes roll back from the hot suction of his mouth.

"You taste so good, baby, " he huffs, lapping at the entrance of your cunt with firm, maddening strokes. "So fucking good."

It's too much. You feel like you're on fire. Like he's pulling you apart with each swipe of his tongue and putting you back together again one agonizing piece at a time. It feels cruel but it's also utter bliss. Your thighs are shaking from how tightly they're seized, clamped around his head in a tight squeeze. But he doesn't seem to be bothered about it, because when you try to be mindful and spread them open, he just takes them into his hold and presses them back up against his ears again like he wants to be suffocated. And the thought of that alone has something sharp and electric zipping through you. You file that little theory away for later.

And that familiar ache is rising up like a high, simmering tide. Building and rushing towards you with a quickness that takes you by surprise and you can feel your entire body winding up and coiling tight in anticipation. He drags you closer to his mouth, scooting you down lower against the railing. You're pretty sure that your back is going to be covered in scratches from the rough texture digging across your skin, but as of right now you couldn't give less of a shit. You let your head loll back on the stone, unable to find the concentration or strength to keep it up yourself. You stare up at the sky sightlessly, just barely taking in the winking glow of the scattered stars above while pure, liquid heaven seeps across your limbs.

That overwhelming looming pleasure is right over you now, just a few good strokes off. And with the way that he's licking and sucking at you with his mouth it won't be long before you're breaking apart for him.

"Farleigh," you whimper, choking around a wanton moan, trying to warn him.

He doesn't give you any verbal indication that he hears you. But the grip on your thigh's tense in response, and he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue before dipping it down inside of you; fucking you with it. You can't help the way you're grinding against him, crying out breathlessly when the point of his nose nudges against that swollen bundle of nerves, urging your orgasm to rush towards you at a breakneck speed that you can't brace for.

"Farleigh!" You nearly shriek this time while that wild, rush of pleasure crashes down on you with the intensity of torrential downpour. It tears through your body in a way that's almost violent, making you twist under the heat of his mouth and the iron grip that he still has secured around your legs like you've been jabbed with an electrical current. You sob through the brunt of it, probably alarming the entirety of the Saltburn Estate of your current position. And even after the most of it has made its way across your body, he doesn't stop lapping at you, determined to make sure that he wrings every ounce of your pleasure out of you. It isn't until you're weakly nudging his head away from your sensitive cunt that he pulls his mouth away, but he occupies it by kissing at the inner stretch of your thighs. He massages your hips gently and the sensation works to help guide you back into your own body and return a sense of coherence to you.

All you can do is just sit there and catch your breath, panting raggedly into the night air. You stare up at the stars with complete disbelief while your brain tries to catch up with the fact that Farleigh had just casually sucked your soul out of your body. Sure, you had heard stories of his sexual prowess from some of his past flings before. Heard all of the people gushing and praising his technique in the bedroom, and you had never not believed them per se, you had just never imagined that he was actually this good.

"You doing alright up there?" He asks and his voice is ragged and a little raspy like he was the one screaming and not you.

"Yeah," you confirm after a brief pause. "Just give me a minute and I'm gonna suck your dick."

You can feel him chuckle against you, playful and more than a little cocky but he's more than earned the right to be. "Take your time."

Thankfully, the strength has begun to come back to your body. And even though your limbs are still a little bit shaky you're more than determined and able to ignore it and push through. You raise your head up look at him, using your arms to shift and lift yourself up. He looks up at you expectedly, eyebrows raising with amusement while he aids you in removing your wobbling legs from his shoulders.

He must notice something in your gaze; desperation, want, determination, because he just moves to lean back on his elbows with a relaxed smirk.

"Right here?" He asks. You just nod wordlessly as you lower yourself down on your knees. You could go inside. You probably should. There wasn't a bed in the room that you had entered the balcony from, but there was a couch. Hell, even the floor in there would probably be more comfortable for the both of you than the harsh rock underneath you right now, but you don't want to wait. Not even with the room being so close. Your knees are going to absolutely hate you tomorrow but as of right now, you can't find it in yourself to care.

He parts his legs for you to settle between them and you're fast to crawl over him while he lifts himself up to kiss you. Your lips connect with teeth and tongue, and you moan into each other's mouths when you reach down to cup the length of him from over his pants. He's hot and heavy, even with the layer of fabric covering him. You're still sensitive from your recent orgasm but when you feel the weight of him against your palm, your pussy flutters and tinge of heat settles in the base of your abdomen.

"Baby please, just take it out, " he whines. His voice is petulant and quivering. On any other night you would have used it as an excuse to tease him, but as of right now, you don't have the heart (or patience) to. The urgency in his tone has you thumbing at the buttons closing his pants, but it doesn't help that they're so small and that its dark. You have to squint underneath the dim moonlight to find them and your fingers slip more than once. But luckily you manage to pop all of them through their opening in the fabric; even with the way that Farleigh impatiently grinds into the air, trying to use your hand and forearm as something to grind his cock against.

It's so desperate and dirty but it's also so fucking hot. Seeing him all laid out and begging has a heavy anticipation fizzling underneath your skin, prompting you to grip at the edge of his pants. He's eagerly lifting his hips up, aiding you as you tug the fabric down, working it around the swell of his ass and his hips. And he audibly groans in relief when his cock springs free from the restraint of his clothes. It's so hard that it looks like must be uncomfortable, and there's a steady stream of precum pouring from the tip and trailing down along a thick, throbbing vein in a pearlescent sheen.

Your mouth waters at the sight, and you have to swallow it in the fear that you might actually drool if you don't. He catches the way you're admiring him, and something smug bleeds into his dazed expression. A reversal from the way that he had outright begged for you earlier. You really want to wipe that look off of his face.

Then you're giving into your basest desires and leaning forward to lick at the head of his cock with long, steady sweeps, scooping up the salt of him into your mouth. He's rewarding you as soon as you touch him, breathing out a strained, "fuck," while his fingers come up to grip your hair, already knocking a few of the fake flowers clipped along your updo free; honeysuckles and pink camellias. He doesn't force your head down, but he doesn't remove his hold either, gently urging you to keep going and you can't help but concede. Stretching your jaw open further to slip him inside your mouth before slowly pulling off of him with a firm suck, lapping at the slit of his cock when you do.

He isn't the biggest you've taken, but he's still thick enough for you to feel a slight strain at the hinges of your jaw, but it doesn't deter you in the slightest. You nod your head down to take him in your throat, making sure to be mindful of your teeth as you go and luckily, you're aided by the lubrication of your saliva. You don't stop until you feel the faintest hint of your gag reflex and even then, you have to push off the thought to just keep going, to let yourself gag on him. You'll save that for some other time. As of right now, you want to be able to savor every little movement and twitch and whimper.

You've just started and it's already so sloppy, wet with the way that your drool smears around your lips and chin, and Farleigh seems to be struggling to keep his hips still, resisting the urge to fuck your mouth. His thighs are tense underneath the palms of your hands, muscles flexing and twitching with frayed restraint and each jerky hitch of his hips is punctuated by airy sighs and moans.

A glance up from your place between his legs has you appreciating the way that his back is already arching. He looks gorgeous like this, all splayed out with the thick of his eyelashes fluttering against the jut of his cheek bones. You've always had the sneaking suspicion that Farleigh would lean a bit on the submissive side in bed. Always overcompensating with his arrogant attitude and sarcasm, but you didn't think that he'd be this sensitive. You aren't sure if it's just because he might have already been so worked up from eating you out, or if he's naturally just responsive, but either way the way that he's acting is doing wonders for your ego. The power that you're getting from seeing him already so pleased and dazed is filling your head full of a syrupy sort of satisfaction.

You pull off of his cock with a pop, delighting in the way that he whimpers in protest. You just hum in response, smirking at him while you nuzzle your nose down the line of his shaft and all of his complaints die out once you take one of his balls into the warm cradle of your tongue, reaching up to grip him in your hand while your mouth is occupied.

He moans raggedly, a string of whispered, "so good, don't stop - please, don't stop." Like you'd ever do that now that you've got him underneath you. And not to sound dramatic, but the sky could split open with brimstone and hellfire and the apocalypse could reign down on Saltburn and you still wouldn't pull away from him. Not when he sounds so sweet. Not while he tastes so good. Salty and earthy across your pallet. And the way that he pants into the balmy night air, already breathless has the heat between the apex of your thighs back with a vengence; burning and wet, and you have to rub them together in an attempt to ease the tension there.

You can't help the way that you moan around him, lightly sucking at the sensitive point between his balls and the base of his cock while you smear your thumb over his slit. You the use the fluid to aid in few more pumps from your hand before you're licking back up his shaft again, swallowing him back down while your hand switches places to fondle his sack and the cry that he lets out in response is heavenly. Urging you to bob you head down on him in a steady rhythm. You try to remember to breathe through your nose but in your fervor, you often find yourself neglecting to take in lungfulls of air and as a result an oxygen deprived haze has begun to fizzle over your head. But you can't bring yourself to be worried over it. It feels good. The fuzzy, drunken buzz stuffing your skull full while you work his cock is stupidly addictive.

He must notice the glazed over look in your eyes because he's smiling at you from around the way that his lips have dropped open to release a bout of heavy pants. He drops the hand that had been clutching your hair to sweep his fingers across your face in a gesture that's way too sweet for a guy who's getting head. And it has something soft and sweet blossoming in your chest when he strokes your cheek with his thumb; it makes you feel delicate and adored even while your chin is smeared with spit and cum and your jaw is starting to ache.

"You're already a little fucked out aren't you?" It's rhetorical, you know, but you find yourself moaning in response regardless. "You look so georgous like this."

Liar. There's absolutely you look even remotely attractive right now. You can feel the prickle of tears threatening to slip past your water line and down your face, and you're sure that your lashes have begun to clamp together from the damp. Your lips are swollen and there's a sheen of sweat glittering on your forehead. You probably look like a wreck but it still has you melting, and you begin to lick and suck at him with even more passion than before.

And it must have felt good for him because his head is rolling back on his shoulders and his elbows nearly collapse, leaving him to drop onto his back with a gutted groan. His eyes roll back, and his thighs seize. His white undershirt has ridden up around his ribs, showing off the stretch of his abdomen and you can see the way that his muscles flex and tense with the same pulse of his hips. He's close and it only has you doubling your efforts with even more vigor, desperate to taste him on your tongue, to feel the heat of him in your mouth and throat. The sound of his gasping has changed in pitch, rising into something that sounds close to a sob.

But then you're being torn off of him without warning and you can't contain your mournful whimper when the weight of him leaves your mouth. Irritation and betrayal flares and you can't keep yourself from glaring at him even while he looks close to wrecked, rambling underneath his breath something that sounds like, "I'm sorry baby, I need to feel you, " as he hauls you onto his lap.

And your scattered brain is still able to grab onto what he wants. You gather up your skirt to settle your knees on either side of his hips and you're quick to grab ahold of his cock to line it up with your entrance. Neither of you have the mental capacity to tease or draw the process out longer than it needs to be, and you're thankful that he had already ate you out earlier, giving you some semblance of prep. And without any fanfare you're sinking down onto his cock, and your pussy flutters around his girth, stretching until he's buried in at the hilt.

The shared groans that you let out are ones of relief and pure bliss. Your body shudders at the fullness nestled within the apex of your thighs and Farleigh impatiently grinds his hips up into yours, rocking his pelvis into your clit with a petulant huff. "Come on baby, ride me, " he urges. "Fucking take it."

You can't find it in yourself to deny him. Or yourself. And he lets you plant your hands onto his chest for support when you lift yourself up with your thighs to begin wildly bouncing on his cock, grinding and swiveling your hips with each downstroke. That thick, heated pleasure is already building up near the base of your spine, and you already know that you aren't going to last long. Not with how worked up you are. And you don't think that he's going to be able to hold off either.

He's watching you with something akin to wonder in his eyes and his lips are snagged between his teeth like he might be trying to quiet himself. Like he's trying to selfishly hide those punched out little moans. And you don't know why he tried to be hushed now after he's been groaning and whimpering this entire time but that petulant expression on his face tells you all you need to know. He's doing it on purpose, the brat. It has you leaning over him to pepper soft kisses over his cheeks, nipping at his chin and jaw sweetly, before you squeeze your pussy around his cock like a vice and you place your hand around the base of his throat. You don't tighten your fingers around it, but let him feel the pressure of your grip, testing the waters to see if your earlier theory had been right.

And his body goes taut underneath you while his hips thrust into you with a harsh twitch. A gutted moan follows closely behind, and he grips onto your thighs like he needs it to ground himself and keep himself present.

"Feel good?" It's admittedly a little condescending but even then, you can't help the softness that bleeds through your tone. He nods his head drunkenly, tilting his head back to bare his throat to you. The way that he's melting underneath the ceaseless roll of your hips and mindlessly fucking into you with deep, heavy thrusts is already driving you towards that tide of heat and ecstasy, and they way that you openly keen reveals as much.

Your knees are already stinging from the harsh stone floor digging into them and your thighs are already burning with exertion from the ruthless pace that you had set. But you have no desire to stop yet. To switch positions or ask him to take over, not with how beautiful and fucked out he looks beneath you.

You're both already messy and incoherent, chasing after your pleasure desperately. The noises coming from the place where your bodies are joined is filthy with the repetitive smack of skin on skin and the crude squelching of your cum echoing off of the rock walls around you. And maybe if your brain wasn't practically mush you might would have had the capacity to care, but you just can't find it within yourself while you watch every minute, rapturous expression flit across Farleigh's face. Not while his plush lips are parted for him to gasp, and his eyes have nearly gone cross.

"Baby, " he whines brokenly. A warning for the way that he's quickly hurdling towards his release from the constant rock of your hips. Yours isn't far off either, simmering and curling within the pit of your abdomen and you can already tell that your orgasm is going to destroy you. It's so close. So, so, so close and you find yourself nodding shakily in response to him.

"I know, I know, " your jaw goes lax at a partially hard thrust from his hips, muscles spasming around the drag of his cock.

"Where - where can I- "

"Inside," you answer, choking on your breath." I'm on the pill - it's safe, you can- "

He cuts you off with a gutted, shredded groan of your name and his entire body seizes up from the power of his orgasm. The warmth of his release spreads throughout your lower stomach and another choppy, wild thrust from Farleigh grinds his pelvis into the tender nerves of your clit. It just sneaks up on you. Sweeping you up and dragging you down before you can even register that it's ravaging your body and making you scream. For a second you completely forget what it means to have a physical body. You don't have hands, or feet, or a mind. You don't have a favorite song and there aren't any bills to pay, or an apartment back home in America, and the chaotic party downstairs doesn't exist. The cold stone floor beneath your knees isn't there. You're just floating. Suspended in a state of bliss and pleasure.

For a moment you just are.

And then your lungs are gasping, filling up with oxygen. Clarity comes back to you in pulses and the feeling in your limbs follows behind. Sensation returns to your toes and fingertips and then your eyes are fluttering open. The first thing you hear is the rapid pulse of a heartbeat and when you breathe the scent of something like vanilla and cigarette smoke nestles within your lungs. It has you rubbing your cheek against the heat of their chest - Farleigh's chest, your brain supplies sluggishly. You don't remember collapsing on top of him but apparently you had.

"God damn," he slurs, prompting an amused, tired laugh from you. For a moment the two of you just lay there, taking the time to return to yourselves and grasp your senses. And with it, reality rises up too. That you're laying here with Farleigh on an open balcony with his cum dripping from between your thighs. And apart from his confession earlier there's some small insecure part of you that's worried that he hadn't fully meant it. That this was just a simple fling. Something to ease the tension that's been brewing between the both of you for the past few years. But you don't get to wallow in your fears for long before he's tapping on your thigh and shuffling up onto his elbows.

You just hum at him questioningly, not yet trusting your voice.

"Need a cigarette," he answers.

That has you moving, lifting yourself from his hips and you both hiss, sensitive and raw when he slips from you. Your knees are tender too, aching and you inelegantly plop yourself on your rump beside Farleigh to give them some relief. And you briefly occupy yourself with your underwear, slipping it back underneath your dress and smoothing out your skirt as best as you can.

He works on slipping his pants and tights back over his hips, digging into his pocket as soon they've been righted for a cigarette and his lighter. You watch him with something nervous in your gut. And you tell yourself that you're being stupid and overdramatic. So, what if this was just a one-time thing? It was an amazing time. And if this turned out to be some random fling then that would just make it even more special, right? And he said that he was jealous of your past exes but that didn't necessarily mean that he had feelings for you. You had been the one to jump to conclusions and assume.

And even if by tomorrow he pretends that this never happened then that would be fine. You'd make do. You'd survive. It won't be the end of the world.

"Do you want to spend the night with me?"

The question tears you from your thoughts. Saves you from them really and pulls your attention onto Farleigh. His eyes are glimmering from the burning embers at the end of his cigarette, laying some strange quality in his gaze bare. But whatever it is looks uncertain and hesitant. And it serves as reminder that this is new territory for him as well. That he's just as unsure as you are. It gives you a little boost of confidence that you aren't alone in your self-induced doubts. It makes you smile; soft and relaxed and you hope that it helps whatever thoughts he may have running around in his own head.

"Sure," you say. "But I want to rewatch House of Wax. "

His face scrunches up in response, but he's already rising up to his feet and holding a hand out for you to take, helping to pull you up on your wobbling feet. "That movie is shit."

"Well, I wouldn't be able to tell with the way that you wouldn't stop talking the last time that we all watched it." You grip onto his forearms while you find your balance, lowly cursing your heels and unsteady ankles. The energy has shifted into place, as easily as breathing; thawing all of the worries and insecurities that had initially clattered around in your brain as though they hadn't been there at all.

"That's because the characters were nothing but cliches and one note, " he scoffs and promptly drops his cigarette on the balcony, snuffing it out by grinding it with his shoe.

"I also need a bath."

A smile curls on his lips, a little teasing. " Want to share?"

You stare at him, a little disbelieving. There's absolutely no way that you could do that again tonight. At least not so soon. You're exhausted, barley holding yourself up as it is and you're still clinging to one of Farleigh's arms for support.

"Really? After that?" You question, eyebrows raising, but you can't keep yourself from trying to joke despite your surprise. "You're terrible."

Farleigh chuckles, guiding you towards the double doors gently, "Oh, don't look at me like that," he says, purely amused. "I wasn't suggesting another round, you're the one with your head in the gutter."

You don't reply. Too caught up in the fuzzy way that it makes you feel; his request to share a bath with you. A small gesture maybe, but it also feels wonderfully domestic and intimate. It has you leaning into his side as you step into the adjacent room, breathing in the scent of his cologne, soaking up the body heat that radiates from his skin. Whatever new chapter between the both of you has opened has still left you two with a lot of unsaid questions and answers. You still don't know what you two are. If there's a label to apply to you both of it was just a one-night stand, but you don't have to get those answers right this second. For now, you can just bask in his company and come morning, once you've both had time to think and adjust you can sit him down and have a conversation. And maybe (hopefully) your relationship will finally become something more.

But as for now, you don't mind spending the night in his room. Of cuddling up underneath the covers of his bed after a nice bath and watching a movie together, even though you know that the duration of it is going to be spent with him criticizing every line of bad dialogue and griping over plot holes, no matter how insignificant they may be.

It sounds like the perfect night, honestly.

But still there is still one burning question that's searing at your brain like a hot coal, and you can't keep yourself from voicing it.

"Do you think anybody heard us?"

And his answer is blunt and honest.

"Oh, yeah, there's no way they didn't."

#farleigh x reader #farleigh start x reader #farleigh saltburn #farleigh start #farleigh start x you #farleigh start smut #farleigh catton #saltburn #saltburn movie #saltburn fanfiction #saltburn x reader #saltburn x you #oliver quick x reader

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luverboychris · 2 months

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𝑯𝑨𝑻𝑬 𝑴𝑬 | 𝑴𝑨𝑻𝑻 𝑺𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑶𝑳𝑶

IN WHICH.. things become complicated when two friends in the same group like you. one being your secret fuck buddy.

dom!matt x fem reader, secret fuckbuddy — 1.4k words

why were you feeling like this? this god damn feeling arising inside you for the fourth time this week. you weren’t used to it. and you never have felt it before this much, especially towards him. so why was this happening so much recently?

the feeling of jealousy. just seeing a girl by his side made your face go a shade of red you didn’t want to come to terms with.

“y/n baby! come here.” cole shouts. you couldn’t really begin to explain your relationship with this boy. almost dating.. but not quite yet. what was stopping you from dating him?

well you knew the answer. you just didn’t want to say it out loud because the answer was his friend, matt.

you snap your gaze towards cole, seeing him flick his hand out to you with a drink in front of all his friends. and of course a random girl sitting next to matt. who was she? you never felt so vulnerable, as a bunch of male eyes are on you, looking you up and down. you gulp before walking over to him.

cole sitting down on one of the chairs, you standing above him as he wraps his free arm around your waist. “tell the boys the story on how we met, you tell it better than i do.” he laughs.

matt almost burns holes with his eyes as he looks at his friend’s hold on your body. you attempt to swallow your guilt, the guilt of how oblivious the boy was to your attraction to his friend matt. oblivious to how you and matt will fuck whenever you get the chance. in his head, he thinks he’s the reason you know matt but he has it all wrong.. you’ve known him for way longer. you would never tell him though, it would break him.

all of his friends flip their eyes onto you then to their good old friend cole that they care for so much, yet you know damn well matt is only looking at you.

“yeah, please.” matt blurts, “tell us how you two lovebirds met.” he adds. you wanted to completely ignore him but you didn’t want to come off as weird and suspicious. his cocky smirk forming against his drink as his lips grip onto the top of the glass cup.

you hated him. you hated this.

he loved you. and he loved this.

“well.. uh.” you stutter. cole’s grip on your waist tightens. “he was in my english class and he accidentally bumped into me. it was cute, i was a hot mess.. nervous for my exam and he was kind enough to calm me down.”

matt melts into his chair a little, arms crossed with his lips still lingering over his cup as he man spreads his legs. he was starting to act as if he owns the bar. “continue..” matt says.

“after that.. we sat down and he helped me with studying. we talked and talked for hours—”

“then he asked you out?” matt asks.

cole looks up at you to see your response, such innocence absorbing his face. “he asked me out on a date yeah..” you mumble out.

“ah i see.. he took you out on a date. but you’re not dating?” matt questions. you wanted to crawl across the table and punch him with how dumb he was playing in front of everyone. he knew the situation more than anyone, he just loved to tease.

“y/n isn’t ready to date.. but i’ll wait for her i don’t care.” cole jumped in and responded for you. all the friends smile but you catch matt sneakily roll his eyes.

“you’re simping so bad for her man.” matt scoffs, “i hate love, makes me sick to my stomach.” the boys laugh in unison as matt pretends to projectile vomit.

“i mean do you see her? how could i not matt?” cole laughs out.

you watch matt as he begins to look you up and down with his blue sensual eyes, “mhm, i see her.” he whispers out. is everyone blind?!— you thought to yourself. can they not see the sexual tension just roaming through the air coming off of matt right towards you? because you can, and matt definitely knows as well.

he loves how much sexual tension you two have. just the eyes alone that he gives you makes you weak to your knees but you’re good at hiding it, for the most part.

the random girl’s hand sneaks up around matt’s chair and you blink profusely at her flirty positioning. you begin to fidget, taking cole’s hand off your waist causing it to fall to his side.

“um, i’m going to the bathroom.” you blurt out. the table nods at your words and you don’t look back to look at him. you don’t want to give him even a taste of satisfaction from doing that. you knew he would feed off of it, and get excited.

the bathroom still having the music from the bar playing on the speakers in every corner. the bar’s bathroom had no privacy whatsoever.. meaning anyone could come in at any time.

you turn on the faucet and scrub your hands, hoping you can at least wash off just a smidge of jealousy that was steaming off of you. but it was no use.. you still wash your hands with agression as you cuss at yourself. you look at your reflection in the mirror, feeling ever so guilty.

“well hi cole’s girl.” he says, sarcasm laced in his voice. there was matt leaning against the door frame with his hands in the pocket of his black jeans. his car keys dangling from the front right one.

“matt, why’d you follow me?” you say, flipping your gaze off of him and back to yourself in the mirror.

he walks up from behind you, leaning down towards the back of your neck as he goes to remove your hair. he pushes it all to one side, letting your exposed skin be all out on display for him.

“you know why.” he whispers, reaching down to leave a trail of kisses softly down your neck. you feel chills run throughout your body with the gentleness of his lips pressed against your sensitive skin.

“i-i don’t.” you sigh out. you couldn’t help but close your eyes because of every kiss he leaves on your neck. he then starts to let his cold fingertips wander up your unclothed arms.

“baby don’t lie to me.” he says, “you’re thinking about me.” he grabs all your hair, softly pulling it to the other side now as he kisses the skin he hasn’t given attention to, “just like how i’m only thinking about you..” he adds.

“and you want me to fuck the shit out of you like i did last week. i can tell, don’t deny it.” he whispers against your skin.

you feel your face heat up as you open your eyes. you push him off of you, “shut the fuck up matt!” you say. and there he was again with that snarky smile, so confident and dark looking.

a small laugh escapes his lips, “relax.” he says. god, he was such a dick. not only could anyone come in at anytime, he was trying to make you horny and it was working.

“ugh i..” is all you say, sucking on the inside of your mouth with your fists clenching.

“hmm? you what? you hate me?” he teases, coming closer to you. you don’t respond to him, “tell me that you hate me.”

“i hate you.” you say, the words flowing out like a stream. you say it again, over and over. three words that you didn’t actually mean, “i hate you, i hate you, i hate you.”

he reaches down to kiss your babbling lips, kissing you harder as ever. “i hate you.” you breath into his mouth.

“baby.. you love me.” he breaths out.

he reaches his left arm down to your inner thigh and grips onto it tightly, making a moan come out of you. he always does things with his left arm, he knows it gets a rise out of you. the arm filled with all his tattoos.

“let another man touch you like that again..” matt’s lips brush onto yours with each word, “and i will fucking kill them.”

he rubs his ring and middle finger against your underwear. “matt, h-he’s your friend.” you moan out. that sentence makes him rub you with more aggression.

“i don’t give a fuck.” he groans against your lips when he finally can feel how wet you are. “friend or not.. you’re not letting a man wrap his hands around your waist like that in front of me.”

“but you can have a girl have her hands around you?” you snap, the image of the girl’s arm around matts back while he was sitting down started to replay.

“oh shut up. you fucking know i only want you.” he says.

“you have me.” you moan out, as he rubs your clit through your underwear, the thin fabric blocking his touch made the sensation feel so much more intense, “im yours.” you add.

“for someone who hates me, you sure obey me well baby.”

UPDATE: PART 2 IS UP NOW PRESS HERE

─── aid speaks ᝰ.ᐟ ───

╰┈ ⌞₊˚ est. march 9th 2024🗒 ˎˊ˗ ⌝

so im trying a new style lmk if u guys like it. someone requested to do a cheating type fic and i dont write that so i did my own twist wee! i hope i exceeded your expectations, anonymous cutie! i would love to do a part 2 on this so lmk if u want that maybe. i love u guys sm.

tags - @recklessmatt @plasticferal @imwetforyourmom @chr1sgirl4life @mayhem-72 @valeriestromboli @blahbel668 @whicked-hazlatwhore @penelopevonsweets23 @roostersforevergirl @pepsiluvr0209 @breeloveschris @strtuniolo @hearts4chris @matthewsfilmsss @obsessivekniss @st7rnioioss @mattybearnard @ireadstoriss @strawberrysturniolo @gamermattsgf @mattslutt @creamoncreamoncream2 @mattslolita @sturnioloss @alexosllurr @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @robins-scoop @lustfulslxt @sturniololol @eroticsturn @mattybsbitch @septumchris @m4ttslvr @jjmaybankswifes-blog @8blonded @inlovewithmattstur @carolinalikesthings @angelic-sturniolos111 @b2cute @cindylcuwho @st7rnioioss @rootbeerworshiper @ellie-luvsfics @mattsturniolowifey @nicksmainbitch @sstvrnioloo

#sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #christopher sturniolo #smut #nick sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #toxic love #Spotify

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bluejeanstrash · 2 months

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tags: boyfriend! seungcheol x reader, domestic scenes, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of marriage | wc: 744

‘is he okay?’

‘mmm’ seungcheol nods, carefully closing the door behind him. ‘he’ll be fine. he fell asleep but i’ve kept the puke bucket next to the bed incase he needs it’

‘cheollie, we really need to throw that thing’ you make a face, thinking about how many times it had been used.

‘yeah, but people keep throwing up in our house!’

‘that’s because you keep making them drink way too much!’ seungcheol’s “home bar” was 3 bottles short of a liquor store. he was extremely proud of his collection and very generous with it, offering offensively expensive drinks to any and every guest that entered your home.

tonight, passed out in the guest room was hoshi, who had been taken out midway through his fourth drink. he hadn’t even made it to the dinner part of the dinner party you both were hosting.

seungcheol pouts in response, picking up a dirty glass left on the bar ‘do you want me to do the dishes, my love?’

‘nope, i’ve got it. can you clean up and take out the trash instead?’ he gets on it right away, pausing for a second to rub your shoulders when bringing the glass over. a second turns into a minute, and the rub into a mini massage as his fingers move deftly, kneading all those little knots away.

‘thank you baby, i needed that’ you sigh, and the next thing you know his arms are wrapped around you, his chin resting on the slope of your shoulder ‘you know what was really nice today?’

‘hmmn?’

‘you know when joshua’s friend…mark? yeah, mark. when he thought we were married’

it was first time it had ever happened. ‘so, how did you and your husband meet?’ mark had asked.

‘oh, he’s my boyfriend’ you had corrected him and moved on, but seungcheol was stuck right there. boyfriend? no, that just wasn’t going to cut it for him anymore. why would he ever want to be called your boyfriend when he could be your husband instead? a demotion, really.

‘i liked it. a lot. husband-’ he presses a kiss to the warm skin of your neck ‘-and wife’, and another, before pulling you into him. he brings his arm forward to turn off the tap before turning you around to face him.

‘what do you say? should we do it? get married?’ each question asked in between little pecks.

‘if this is your idea of a proposal-’

he chuckles, circling back ‘get married. make you my wife. get you…pregnant’ seungcheol feels a little giddy honestly, giddy at his own words. he’s already made up his mind — he wants this future, and only with you.

‘you want to put a baby in me?’ you tease, starting to feel a little hot under your clothes.

‘oh, i want to put many, many babies in you’ he mutters, his lips parting yours, impatient hands coming around to untie the knot of your apron.

‘want to put one in you right now...’ he grabs your ass to lift you up, your legs wrapping around him instantly. you pull off your rubber gloves, tossing them aside and lock your arms around his neck. you kiss him, a little needily, tugging at his hair to let him know you need him right here, right now. he turns around to take you to the kitchen island, opening his eyes for a second to see hoshi — hoshi who’s discreetly trying to make his way out of the kitchen.

‘shit!’ seungcheol’s grip on you loosens abruptly before he catches you, carefully putting you down.

‘sorry! i’m so sorry!’ hoshi covers his eyes, stumbling back ‘i didn’t see anything. i just..i threw up..in that bucket thing and didn’t know what to do with it’

‘it’s fine, it’s fine. go to the room. i’m coming’ seungcheol takes a second to calm himself down, taking deep breaths to redirect his blood flow.

‘this is what it’s going to be like with a kid, you know’ you joke, bending to grab the fallen gloves which doesn’t help his raging boner at all ‘at least hoshi can clean up after himself up. who’s going to clean up our child’s projectile vomit?’

there’s a moment of silence.

‘not it’

‘not it!’

you both giggle — you turning back to do the dishes, and seungcheol going to check up on hoshi, both of you back in the moment, dreaming of the future to come.

#random drabble to get back into writing #scoups fluff #seungcheol fluff #seungcheol smut #scoups smut #seungcheol x reader #scoups x reader #scoups #choi seungcheol

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thebearchives · 2 months

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miss you so | DR3

PAIR. daniel ricciardo x model!reader

SUMM. all good things must come to an end, and unfortunately, you and daniel weren’t an exception.

TYPE. smau (fc: anne hathaway)

daniel3.jpg

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yourusername blackcurrant baby

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yourusername honoured to be on the cover of portermagazine! thank you all for the opportunity. truly the most fun i've had in a while 🤍

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daniel3.jpg i was always taking pictures...

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user chat is this real (pls say no) ⤷ user sorry, buddy 🙃

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theemporium · 8 months

Note

can i request a pt2 of being luke's bff and dating quinn?

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

part one

“This is gross.”

“Mhm.”

“I might actually puke, you know.”

“Mhm.”

“Just fully projectile vomit like the start of Pitch Perfect—”

“Are you done yet?”

“No,” Luke deadpanned as he sat across on the other side of the firepit, his nose scrunched in disgust as he took in the sight of you sitting on his oldest brother’s lap. “This is inhumane to put me through and I won’t stand for it.”

“Big word there, Moose,” Quinn teased, the hint of a smirk on his lips that only infuriated the boy further.

Luke took the news of your and Quinn’s relationship about as good as you expected him to. It was a whole theatrical ordeal when you returned to Jersey after your week away at Quinn’s. It took you a week after you came back to finally get the guts to tell Luke, and the following week was spent listening to Luke whine about how out of every guy you had to date, it just had to be his brother.

He got over it eventually when he realised how happy you two made each other, and ended the week by saying he was just glad it was Quinn and not Jack.

But that didn’t mean he wanted to spend the whole summer watching you paw at each other right in front of him.

“This is torture,” Luke concluded after a few moments, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She’s my best friend.”

“She’s my girlfriend,” Quinn retorted.

“She is sitting right here,” you spoke up as you glanced between the two boys. “If you don’t behave, I’m spending all summer with Jack and Trevor.”

“You say that like it’s a bad alternative,” Trevor commented.

“Because it is,” Quinn grumbled, only to receive a soft slap on his chest from you.

“Be nice,” you told him with a stern look.

“Yeah, Quinn, be nice!” Jack repeated, a shit-eating grin spread across his face that he knew would only piss his brother off more.

“You too,” you said with a mocking glare, but the smile on your face ruined the impact. You opened your mouth to say something more, only for a shiver to run down your spine.

“Cold?” Quinn frowned but he was already moving before you could stop him. In seconds, his hoodie was placed in your hands as he gave you a soft smile. “I’m fine with the fire anyways, promise.”

“Thanks, babe,” you murmured with a smile as you leaned down to press a quick kiss to his lips before pulling the hoodie over your head, letting the smell of his cologne and the warm fabric overwhelm you.

“UGH THEY ARE KISSING NOW!”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not above doing more to shut you up.”

Luke’s face instantly scrunched up. “Ew no, my room is right next to his. Don’t even think about it.”

Quinn snorted. “Well—”

“MOM!”

#quinn hughes #nhl #vancouver canucks #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes one shot #nhl x reader #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #nhl fic #nhl one shot

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cdragons · 2 months

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Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You - Part 4

Previous Chapter, Masterlist

Summary: You have never, EVER, in a million years hated anyone the way you hated Felix fucking Catton. ...Well, maybe you also hated Annabel Williams as much - but you'd be damned before you let a drunk girl out in the hallway without helping her.

Warnings- MDNI 18+, Sex, Felix doesn't make an appearance (but still mentioned), Reader is a girl's girl, Annabel has an epiphany, Michael hates everyone BUT Reader, Farleigh is Farleigh, alternating POVs between characters, and author has spent too much time researching Oxford crap for this mess for a crack fic to be a crack fic. Also Oliver is barely in this chapter, but who cares about that asshat?

Author's Note: I am so sorry for the prolonged hiatus! It was not intentional! My classes have upped the ante in how much HW they gave me, and I got distracted by reading my old GOT fanfics and got ideas for it. BUT - thank you all who've been reading this fic and sharing wonderful comments! They really help push me to become a better writer!

You were caught in a bit of a pickle – granted, it was a voluntary pickle, but a pickle nonetheless.

…Okay, so quick recap of the events that transpired this week:

Regularly-scheduled Annabel tormenting you

Got sexually-harassed by Catton

Had a self-pity session at Bowin

Got found by Mikey Gravy

Olly, the psychotic backstabber/bootlicker, tried to pimp you out to Felix Catton.

You almost committed aggravated homicide of said pimp before Michael dragged you away.

You went to the movies to drool over Johnny Depp.

You and Michael decided you would crash in his dorm room for the night…leading to your current predicament.

Right now, you were dragging an unconscious Annabel, who was drunk off her ass, with one arm flung over your shoulder as you tried to make get any information of where her dorm was out of her. It was a sad picture – mascara running down her cheeks, vomit from her mouth, and lipstick messily smeared across her face. The smell of vomit mixed with cheap booze was almost enough to make you want to drop her on the ground and leave her there if you hadn’t pitied her so much.

When you realized that you weren’t going to get anything out of her that didn’t involve projectile vomiting, you just decided to bring her to rest up in your dorm.

“I still don’t understand why you’re helping her,” Michael grunted.

Oh, yeah…and Michael was helping you, too.

“Because girl code, Gavey–” you grunted, lifting Annabel’s arm higher when you felt her slipping “–no man left behind – or well, no woman left behind in this case.”

“That’s the Geneva Code.”

“Same difference,” you groaned out. Fuck, how was this girl so heavy?

Michael’s face was getting flushed from the sweat running down his forehead. “So, girl code dictates that you have to help the bitch who’s been making your term hell?”

“Girl Code,” you huffed, “wait, hang on - she’s slipping - okay, there we go. ‘Girl Code’ is more of an honor code expected to be followed by all sisters on their journey to womanhood. And one of the most sacred rules in that honor system is that – fuck, she’s heavy – that if you see a sister drunk and unconscious, you make sure she gets home safe.”

“Or your matchbox dorm room, in this circumstance,” your friend grumbled.

You tiredly nodded. “Exactly! Besides, regardless of how heinous she is, it’s the right thing to do.”

“(Y/N), you realize she won’t be getting hypothermia, right?” Michael frustratingly groaned. “It’s late spring.”

“But that doesn’t mean there aren’t people out there who won’t take advantage of her in her current state. They’d say, ‘Oh, she was asking for it,’ or ‘she’s just imagining things, do you remember how hammered she was?’ And then it’ll be their word against hers.”

You went silent for a bit. “I don’t want that to happen to her. No one should have that happen to them – girl or guy, bully or friend.”

“Well, in any case,” Michael started as the two of you finally arrived at the beginning of your dormitory. “It’s lucky that your dorm is so close to mine. Are you sure you want her in there? There’s still the chance she’ll vomit all over your carpet if she misses the bucket or even your covers.”

You opened the door with your ID card. “I’ll just have to take that chance, I guess. Look, I’ll try to wake her up long enough to see if she remembers any of her friend’s numbers. If any of them pick up, I’ll tell them to pick her up.”

Michael looked at you with heavy doubt in his eyes. “And if they don’t? Pick up, I mean?”

“Then I guess we’ll be having a sleepover,” you sighed as you reached your room at the end of the hallway. “And then we’ll never have to see each other ever again when morning comes.”

Michael loudly snorted while you clumsily reached into your back pocket for your keys. “Don’t jinx yourself. With your bleeding heart, you’ll probably end up donating your liver to her if she doesn’t die of alcohol poisoning first.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, come one. Have a bit more faith in me – SHIT!” you exclaimed after you dropped your keys.

You quickly scrambled to the floor while Michael guffawed at your misfortune. You shot a quick glare at him to get him to shut up. The bespectacled bastard didn’t stop laughing until…like, three minutes passed. In response, you dropped Annabel’s arm from your shoulder to focus on finding your room key. You chuckled to yourself when you heard Michael curse to himself as he tried to balance the drunk girl’s weight without getting her too close to him. When you finally found it, you inserted it into the lock. You sighed in relief when the door opened. You were even more relieved that your roommate had decided to spend the night at her girlfriend’s dorm. You really didn’t want to have to explain to her why you were voluntarily helping the vile witch bitch who was actively trying to make your college years hell. Meanwhile, Michael grimaced and groaned as he held Annabel away from his body at arm’s length.

“Is sluttiness contagious through touch?” he asked.

“Unless pre-Sith Anakin suddenly pops into this hallway, I don’t think you’ll need to worry about that,” you snorted as you opened the door to let Michael drag the unconscious girl into the room.

Michael scoffed at your choice of Star Wars beefcake. “Bitch, please. Young Obi-Wan Kenobi was far superior.”

He went to the center of the room and released Annabel from his grip to let her unceremoniously fall on the floor, and her body made a soft ‘thump.’ You wrinkled your nose and grimaced at the pathetic nature of tonight. She looked less like the glamorous Oxford party ‘IT’ girl and more like one of those sad groupies who OD’d in their favorite rockstar’s pool from a house party. You didn’t know what the hell her story of tonight was – but it still didn’t mean she deserved to be left alone, slumped against a wall in a dirty hallway with vomit all over her.

You turned to Michael. “Okay! Off you trot!”

Your favorite bespectacled blonde nerd gave you a look of complete bewilderment.

“Seriously?” he asked. “Not even a thank you? I literally dragged her body here from my dormitory and risked being the first victim of a new STD contracted through skin contact.”

You rolled your eyes at his dramatics – if he weren’t such a numbers genius, he would have been the perfect theater kid.

“Don’t be such an incel,” you admonished. “It’s not a good look on you. And I carried more of her body weight than you, dumbass. If I left it up to you, we’d never get anywhere with your twiggy arms.”

You poked his arms in emphasis and snickered when he pouted. He crossed his arms and was about to leave when you pounced on him. A bit of Annabel’s “Britney Spears Fantasy” spray perfume soaked into his shirt, but other than that, he still smelled like himself. The scent of fresh laundry, freshly mowed grass, and spearmint toothpaste made you feel safe. His scent, combined with his body heat, enveloped you in comfort.

“Thanks, Mikey,” you whispered. “I know you didn’t have to help me, but you did anyway.”

Gavey wrapped his arms around you as he rested his chin on your head. He usually hated contact with anybody save his family, but you were always the exception. Michael should probably have warned you that the rotten and acidic odor from Annabel’s puke would ruin your shirt, but he just let himself replace her cheap perfume with your fragrance. The scent of your favorite honey and jasmine conditioner in your hair mostly covered the faint traces of turpentine and linseed oil on your skin.

“Of course I did,” he softly replied. “With your shit sense of direction, you would have ended up in the bottom of the ditch.”

You gasped and lightly pushed him away. “Uhhh, way to ruin the moment!”

Michael snickered at the way your jaw had dropped in shock and betrayal. You then resorted to mockingly punching him in the stomach as he did nothing to stop you. He couldn’t help but look at you in total and utter fondness as he continued to ‘beat him up.’

But in all honesty, Michael didn’t mind helping you. He loved it. He’d rather get Crucio-ed than say it, but you were his favorite person in the whole world. In a desert of fakes and masks of insincerity, you were like gentle rain with your genuine vibrance and rare honesty. He loved how endlessly kind and empathetic you were to others. He just hated it when you granted acts of kindness to the plebes unworthy of you. You’d give the benefit of the doubt to the worst of the worst on campus – Annabel being a case in point.

Remembering the drunk elephant in the room, Michael grabbed your fists and stared at you thoughtfully.

“Seriously, though,” he began, “why are you helping her? I know you told me about ‘girl code’ and all that. But is that seriously it?”

You thumped your head against his chest. “Look, I get it. Annabel is a horrible person, and with how awful she treated me – she doesn’t deserve my kindness, my help, or my pity. But that doesn’t change that it was the right thing to do. And if not us, who knows who would have picked her up? If another guy other than you ‘helped’ her…you do the math.”

A groggy voice broke the two of you apart. “Are you two going to shag? Because I can leave.”

You and Michael jumped apart as you watched Annabel lift herself from the floor and stagger to her feet. Her legs wobbled briefly before giving out, and then she fell to the floor. You turned to Michael and gave him one final hug before seeing him out. He looked disgusted at the girl sitting on the cheap carpet before turning to you, concerned. Mikey asked if you were confident you didn’t need him here to help you.

“I’ll take it from here,” you reassured him. You flexed your arm – 80s jock bully style. “I’m a tough girl. I carry my canvases and textbooks and everything, after all.”

“Okay,” he dragged out the last syllable. “But if you end up putting her down, give me a call, and I’ll help you bury the body.”

“Um,” interjected Annabel, “you know I’m right here, you arse.”

“Hey,” you admonished, “he did help carry you here. He could have left you in that hallway alone.”

“Whatever,” she scoffed. “Probably did it so he could cop a feel, the slimy wanker.”

“Please,” Michael sneered, “as if I’d ever willingly touch someone with a higher body count than Dahmer and Bundy combined. I’m only here because I wanted to help (Y/N) – she’s the one who was worried about your sad self.”

Ugh, this was going to be a long night. You turned to Michael with apologetic eyes and reassured him that he wasn’t a wanker. You promised you’d make it up to him by buying all the Crunchie bars he wanted. Mikey’s eyes softened at your sincerity as he began to walk down the corridor to make the trek to his dorm.

You softly closed your door so as not to cause any further disturbance. When you turned around, you were startled by the dead stare Annabel was giving you. You looked down at your feet as you shifted uncomfortably in your spot. You cleared your throat to try and break the tension.

“Um, soooo…I’m glad you’re awake. You were sitting so still in that hall, I was worried you OD’d,” you nervously joked. But all she did was continue to stare at you. “So, do you have your phone with you? I figured it would be best if you called one of your friends. I’m sure they’re really worried about you. I know I’d be going out of my mind if one of my friends–”

“What kind of fucking game are you playing here?” she snarled. Her large, doe-brown eyes narrowed in anger as you stopped talking.

“Uhhh,” your mind was coming out blank. “Wait, I don’t – I don’t know what you mean?”

Annabel rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t play stupid. Why’d you help me? Did you want to take pictures of me drunk and unconscious?”

Your jaw fucking dropped. “What?! NO! I just–”

“I’m sure that would’ve made some fucking good blackmail material,” ignoring you and continuing, “I can see it: ‘Annabel Williams drunk in the hall after trying to shag fucking sad Ollie.’ You’re so obvious.”

You tried to explain yourself. “Okay, look- I think there’s a big misunderstanding here–”

“Or maybe you want to show the pictures to Felix, not that he’d care or anything. You got him all wrapped up in your little Yankee finger, you know that? It’s so pathetic and sick – it makes me want to–”

“HEY!” you yelled – finally making her just shut UP. You closed your eyes and took deep breaths to calm down. “Look, Michael and I were walking to his dorm when we saw you were sitting in the hallway. I tried to ask you if you had your phone on you and if you wanted me to call anyone, but you were out cold. And I couldn’t just leave you there, okay? That’s dangerous! And I didn’t know where you lived – you know, considering that you hate me–” you cut off your rambling with a deep breath “–so he and I dragged you to my dorm.”

The silence that followed was so stifling you wanted to open a window. Maybe if you let some fresh air in, it might calm the girl down. It would also help diffuse some of the puke odor stinking up your room.

“…Anyway, if you don’t have your phone on you right now, I can always call them myself. Do you remember their numbers? I know you and India are close. Do you think she’s available right now?”

More silence.

You began fidgeting. “I mean, you can stay over if no one is available? I don’t mind since my roommate is sleeping over–”

Annabel interrupted you again. “You’re so full of it. You just wanted to help me? For what? For the sake of being the goody-two-shoes kiss-ass, you’ve always been? Did you want me to bow and worship you?”

“Annabel,” you groaned, “it’s been a really long night, okay? And I don’t feel like arguing when you aren’t sober and in your right mind.”

“Oh yeah,” she bitterly laughed. “Be a pushover, and get everyone to love you. Tell everyone how much of a ‘heinous’ bitch I am. Play the victim – that’s all you’ll ever be. Just go back with your pathetic little nerd friend and be invisible and boring like the goody-goody who thinks she’s better than the rest of us.”

The quiet in the room was surprisingly loud. Shock and disbelief morphed into fury as your fists clenched so hard that your nails left red welts on your skin. Your body trembled in anger as your tongue felt too heavy to express everything you wanted to say.

‘Pushover’ she called you? ‘Play the victim,’ she said?

Who the hell was she to have any right to judge you? Did she have any idea what you’ve sacrificed? How much have you suffered and left behind? Could she even have the slightest decency to understand what you’ve been through? Of what she put you through?

…You know what? …Fuck her. Fuck Annabel Williams and all of Oxford’s elite. They were proof that Michael was right – that doing the right thing meant nothing to them.

Your voice was cold, and your eyes were numb. “…I’m going to take a shower,” you grab a towel and your shower buddy. “I want you to get the hell out of my dorm by the time I get back. Call your friend or don’t? Do whatever the hell you want. I don’t care.”

You slammed the door on your way out.

“Finally,” Annabel thought with some relief, “she’s gone.”

When you left, the room felt ten degrees colder the way the door slammed, and Annabel felt goosebumps form on her arm. This was the worst night of her life. She had never felt so humiliated.

Her mummy told her she was just born blessed because God knew she was exceptional, and she always believed that to be true. For her entire life, she was the girl every boy wanted to bed and the girl every girl wanted to be. She never had to fight for anyone’s attention. Her parents gladly bought her the latest versions of top-of-the-line technology. Her closet here and at her parent’s townhouse in Kensington was filled with designer-brand exclusives and limited-editions. She had everything.

For people like her, life was supposed to be easy. She was born at the top, so she would be there till the day she died.

So why was she losing to you?

When she came to Oxford, she figured it would be as easy as most of her life. She’d spend her time partying and networking with the right people. If she had to blackmail a nerd to take her classes or blow a teacher to give her an “A”? Who would say otherwise?

But then she met Felix Catton and finally felt she had met her match. Finally, there was someone who checked all the boxes: rich, tall, handsome, and fun. That part made Felix the golden sheep who stood above the rest of the flock – he was fun. Not only did he know how to have a good time, he knew how to properly fuck a girl, too.

She was so drunk off the taste of his lips and the feel of him around her – so much so that she broke her golden rule.

“Never fall first.”

Annabel felt herself falling hard for Felix Catton. She thought they were exclusive. He was her boyfriend, and she was his girlfriend. But then…he became distant. He stopped calling he and ignored her when they returned to campus after the break. But then he and she left the bar at Kings’ Crossing, and she was so happy! She wanted to cry when he kissed her hard and ripped her 100 quid top in half.

It didn’t matter if she wasn’t wet when he entered her. It didn’t matter that he didn’t wait for her to adjust when he started to thrust. It didn’t matter when she tried to moan his name; he would cover her mouth with his giant hand to shut her up. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t close to finishing when he came inside her. It didn’t matter when her windpipes were almost crushed when he fell on top of her after finishing.

They were together. He chose her! Annabel and Felix – Mrs. Felix Catton, she could see it now. They’d have a wedding in his house at Saltburn. She would have to meet his parents, but she wasn’t worried – all her flings’ parents loved her! They would be together forever, and nothing would ever–

“(Y/N),” Felix whispered above her – and Annabel’s world completely fell apart.

She immediately shoved his body off hers and hurriedly dressed before getting the hell out of his room. Annabel didn’t bother putting on her shoes before running with tears down her face to her dorm. And when she returned to her single, she flung herself to her bed and cried to sleep. She didn’t bother attending class that week – not when her heart broke.

Felix had been thinking about you – you. He called out your name after finishing. Was he imagining your naked body when hers was under him? Had he been imagining you every time he fucked her?

Annabel smelled Felix’s aftershave and wanted to rip the skin off her body. God, she never felt more like a whore in her entire life.

“God,” she thought, “I was so pathetic! How could I be so stupid to fall for Felix Catton? Why did I trick myself into hoping that we would be together?”

Felix wanted a good girl—like you—the American scholarship student who wanted to paint pretty pictures and was at the top of her classes. The lovely New Yorker who hung around losers and still held your head up high despite every professor thinking you were in over your head to come here. Some pushover bitch who was so pathetic and actually–

The door slammed open again, and Annabel’s pretty sure she’d scream if she weren’t so fucking tired. You came storming in with your towel and shower caddy in your hands, and your eyes were a raging storm while your lips were pursed like you had sucked a lemon. Your nostrils are flaring as you angrily breathe through your nose. Annabel was about to open her mouth, but you menacingly pointed at her with your pointer finger. It felt like forever until you finally opened your mouth.

“Look! We don’t have to be friends and I don’t expect us to be friends – but you know what? YES, I WOULD LIKE A THANK YOU! I dragged your unconscious ass across campus, and you REEKED of vomit and bad perfume! And not to body shame, but you are WAY TOO SKINNY to be healthy to be as heavy as you were when I carried you!”

“Excuse me?!” Annabel sputtered. “Who the fuck–”

“Oh! I’m not done!” you shouted. “I don’t know if you being horrible and a bitch is supposed to be some power trip or some shit, but it’s so cliché! Are we in Mean Girls? Are you Regina George? No, am I Janice from Lebanon? NO! And on that – I have a few bones to pick with you…MISSY!

I–” You pointed to yourself “–am NOT a pushover, okay? I fucking beat your stupid manwhore boy toy like it was goddamn ‘Whack o’ Mole’ for ruining my painting! Pushovers don’t do that! FURTHERMORE – me calling you a ‘horrible person’ or ‘heinous bitch’ isn’t me ‘playing the victim’! You HAVE been a HORRIBLE person to me, alright? And what’s worse – I don’t have the slightest idea why! Was it something I said to you last term? Or were you born a spoilt princess who never had to work for anything in her life because mommy and daddy will always give you everything you want so you could forget that they would probably instead work than deal with their brat? Seriously – what is it? Because you’re driving me CRAZY!”

When you were done, Annabel sat on the floor, completely silent, and stared at you unblinkingly. She hadn’t expected you to come back so quickly – let alone to scream at her. She stared at your huffing and shallow breathing in awe and slight amazement. Your hair looked frazzled from your outburst, and your (e/c) eyes were bright with wild impulse.

Annabel felt her bottom lip quiver and stared at an ugly stain on the carpet. She didn’t want to show any more of herself than she had already. But what the hell? You already saw more of her than most of her so-called ‘friends.’ What was a little more? If she had to show more of the ugliest parts of herself, why not show it to someone she already hated?

Before she could stop herself, Annabel felt her shoulders sag and shake as sobs tore through her petite frame. Tears and snot were running down her face as she furiously tried to wipe them away – if nothing but to try and save some shred of dignity. Annabel was crying so much that she didn’t see the surprised look on your face morph to slight guilt since you thought you may gone too far with your rant. You reached out to tap her shoulder when you heard her speak.

“Why doesn’t he want me?” she sobbed. “What do I have to do to get him to love me?”

If you were taken aback by her crying, you were completely caught off-guard by her questions. You walked over to your desk and grabbed a box of tissues before crouching on the ground. You handed her a few tissues from the box and waved to her face to present them. Annabel noticed how you tried hard not to see how much her hand trembled when she reached forward to grab the tissues from you.

“Who?” you softly asked her. “Are you talking about Felix?”

Annabel blew her nose into the tissue hard. “Who else?! I mean…look at me! Everyone wants me! Everyone – boys, girls, teachers! Do you know how many of my past flings gladly emptied their pockets so I might wank them? But he wants you! What do you have that I don’t?”

Concern and pity shifted to confusion before realization kicked in, and you were so done with this conversation already. Maybe you were a slightly horrible person for this, but you felt so disappointed when Annabel told you that her entire drama with you had been over Felix Catton.

“…That’s why you’ve been tormenting me this entire term so far?” you flatly asked. “Because of Felix Catton?”

“He called out your name–” she gasped a heavy sob “– while he was fucking me! Do you have any idea how that feels?”

“Okay, wow,” you thought, “that’s actually really shitty – fuck.”

“Do you know how humiliating that was for me? He was still inside me, for fucks’ sake! I felt him shrink!”

Okay – that was so much more information about Annabel’s and Felix’s sex life than you ever wanted to know.

You coughed into your hand as your face flushed red. “Oh, um–I’ve never really…done it before. So…I wouldn’t really don’t know how that feels.”

“Ugh, of course, you’re a virgin,” she groaned. “Don’t tell me you don’t drink either.”

When you remained silent, Annabel let out a bitter laugh. “Damn, you think you’re hot shit and everything. But you really are a goody-goody. What – you saving yourself for God or some shit?”

“HEY! Just because I like to keep my head down and not a party and get plastered every five minutes doesn’t make me a goody-two-shoes. I just don’t like the taste of alcohol, and increased chances of lung cancer doesn’t exactly spell out ‘fun’ for me.”

But Annabel ignores your outburst and continues to dismiss you. “Yeah, right. I bet you call your mommy and daddy every night. Do you tell them that you miss them and want to go home? Or do you wish to bake cookies with your mummy as daddy watches the telly?”

Annabel’s taunting is only responded to with silence as she grows confused by your melancholic expression.

“…I can’t call them at all,” you respond. “International calls are too expensive. The best I can do is email or Skype. And planned calls can hardly be reliable since my parents’ schedules are always all over the place with their jobs.”

“When–” Annabel’s voice cracked “– when’s the last time you saw them? In real life?”

“I was supposed to see them during Christmas Break,” you bitterly explained, “but then Felix crashed into me when I was on my way to deliver it. He ruined my painting, and I had to redo it completely, not to fail and completely flush my parents’ money down the drain.”

“I thought you were here on scholarship? Doesn’t that mean you don’t have to pay to come here?”

“I’m here on a partial scholarship,” you explained. “It covers a good part of my tuition, but not all of it – and definitely not for housing and meal plans. Travel expenses alone were so expensive, so I had to leave alone. Mom cried so much at the security checkpoint, and Dad almost didn’t want me to go. I didn’t even want to go. But they wanted me to experience more of the world while I still could.”

“…Do you miss them?” Annabel asked. She felt silly asking a question with such an obvious answer. But, hearing how you talked about your parents crying their goodbyes to you compared to the simple wave she got hers after they dropped her off campus made her feel a deep longing.

You let out a shaky sob. “More than anything. You never realize how much you miss your home and family until an entire ocean separates you.”

Annabel uncomfortably shifted in her spot as she noticed your eyes getting misty. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried over missing her parents and felt that you were being overdramatic. Annabel spent her entire break with her parents at their house, but she couldn’t remember the last time they ate at the same table unless it was for one of her dad’s dinner parties. What did it feel like – to miss and love someone so much after not seeing them for a year?

What did it feel like – to have an entire lifetime of that kind of love?

Does having that kind of love make you?

“…Why did you help me?” Annabel finally asked. She couldn’t bear the tension anymore. “You could have just left me there. Why help me and bring me here of all places?”

“…Because it was the right thing to do,” you explained and shrugged. “You were drunk and vulnerable. Maybe it was fear of being a potential bystander if someone tried to take advantage of you – but I was scared something was going to happen to you. Regardless of my feelings toward you and yours toward me, no one should ever find themselves in a position where if they’re telling the truth, it’s someone else’s word against theirs. I’ve seen it too happen many times already.”

“What do you say in response to that?” Annabel thought to herself – shocked by how genuinely you answered her question. Since you were honest with her, she figured she could at least be honest with you.

“If it were you,” she began, “I wouldn’t have done for you what you did for me.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, “you probably wouldn’t – but that’s neither here nor there. Because I’m me, and you’re you.”

“…Are you really not interested in Felix?” Annabel asked. She was surprised by your disgusted groan.

“Oh my god–” you put your face into your hands and loudly groaned “–I don’t understand why everyone has an obsession with this guy.”

Annabel raised her brow. “Seriously?”

“Yes! He’s so gross – I studied in an empty classroom last week. He sat next to me, basically propositioned me, and then put his hand on my thigh! Does that sound like someone I would want to date?”

“You know he’s just doing it to get your attention because he likes you, right?”

You scoffed at her input. “Pffft– and that makes it alright of him to invade my personal space via sexual harassment? I hate how everyone makes excuses for him – and why? Because he’s richer than God and has an ‘alright-looking’ face? So what?”

“Oh, believe me,” snickered Annabel, “he’s more than just ‘alright-looking’ and he fucks as good as he looks.”

You sagely shook your head. “A person like that has nothing to offer himself. He desperately clings to his family’s wealth and the benefits of his status so tightly – and he pretends not to enjoy it, but he’s the type of person to love leeching on someone’s misfortune to feel better about himself.”

You shuddered as you remembered Felix’s constant leering at you since the term began.

“He’s like a vampire – I’ve seen enough of them in high school to recognize them from miles away.”

Annabel was utterly silent at your analysis of Oxford’s Golden Boy. She never considered the possibility of someone out there who didn’t absolutely covet and revere him. She assumed that you were purposely playing ‘hard-to-get’ to get his attention, but maybe you were sincere in his disgust by him.

“Plus, he looks like the type to be absolutely shit at foreplay and only knows how to stick it in.”

Annabel was so caught off-guard by your statement that she immediately burst out laughing. You were surprised by her reaction and started to laugh, too. She was laughing so hard that tears started rolling down her cheeks, and her stomach started to hurt.

“HE IS!” she agreed while nodding. “He does the bare minimum! I’ve been giving him constant blowjobs, and I can count the number of times he’s eaten me out with one hand! The only type of prep he knows how to do is finger me!”

“Oh my god! EW!” you guffawed. “Why did you put up with him for so long?!”

Annabel shrugged. “He’s the most popular guy on campus – even the upperclassmen adore him. I was always the popular girl throughout primary and secondary prep. It just made sense.”

“My parents told me college was all about discovering new things about yourself,” you said. “Maybe…you could do that for yourself.”

Annabel looked wistful before nodding. “Yeah…you know this doesn’t mean we’re friends, right?”

You rolled your eyes. “Please, tonight’s the last night I’m willingly dealing with a demon like you. I’ll stick to forcing Michael to watch my favorite Johnny Depp movies—thank you very much.”

Annabel watched your eyes soften at the mention of your friend…Michael Gravy? Was he the guy who left the two of you together after snarking at her?

…Oh god, it all made sense now.

“Are you and Gravy fucking?” she bluntly asked. She huffed in amusement at how red your face became as you began to sputter.

“WHAT?! No-NO! We’re friends!” you exclaimed before getting all shy.

“You were awfully protective of him a bit ago to be ‘just friends,’” Annabel countered. “Spill it – what’s going on between you two?”

“He’s my best friend,” you explained to Annabel. “He let me stay with his family after I finished repainting my assignment – which was really amazing of him.”

She watched how you smiled when continuing to talk about him.

“I know he can seem a bit odd and rude at first,” you continued. “But Michael is one of the best people on campus. He can be really sweet when you get close to him – especially when he talks about his family. His little sister, Lily, is so adorable! He’s a total nerd but a complete sweetheart when you get to know him.”

Annabel bemusedly watched as you gushed about your ‘best friend.’ It was almost sweet how gone you were for the nerd. You didn’t even realize how gone you were for him. For a bit, Annabel could see why Felix was so enamored with you.

“Well,” she interrupted as she stood up, “I guess your obliviousness to your feelings isn’t any of my business or whatever. Thanks for…helping me – it was really nice of you.”

You warmly smiled at her. “Sure! Do you have to meet anyone tomorrow morning?”

“Uh, no?”

You walked to your closet and grabbed a towel, a worn T-shirt, and old sweats. You handed them to her as Annabel looked at you in confusion.

“Since you’re here,” you began, “and it’s already like…3 a.m. – you might as well shower and stay over since tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“…Why?”

“You still have puke all over you,” you explained, “and it’s getting really hard pretending it’s not extremely gross. Plus, I can’t imagine you’re comfortable right now.”

“What’s with the clothes?”

You shrugged. “Well, I can’t exactly have you sleep in your dress and ruin my sheets! You can shower and sleep on my bed while I sleep on my roommate’s. Now, are you going to take them?”

Annabel hesitated before she took the bundle from your hands. You then opened the door. While holding it, you looked at her as if expecting her to follow you. What confused her most was the way she did exactly that.

While in the shower, she didn’t even mind that you didn’t have any of her usual hair products. Your conditioner looked like it was bought at a cheap dollar store – you didn’t even have a loofah. But when she exited the shower stall before drying herself with your towel and changing into your baggy clothes, she felt calmer than she had these past few weeks. As she crawled under your sheets and comforter, you turned off the night and wished her good night.

Annabel stared at the ceiling for about an hour before she grabbed her phone. She managed to find it while digging through her dress pockets. She was going to wash it when she got back to her dorm. Opening it, she rolled down at the dozens of messages from India and their girlfriends. Her eyes slightly widened at the soft *ping* her phone let out when she got a new message to show it was from Felix.

To her surprise, she didn’t feel anything. She didn’t care he messaged her that he had forgotten their plans. Staring at her screen, she just felt…nothing. So she did the very thing she should have done weeks ago.

She deleted Felix Catton’s number from her contact list.

Annabel slept better that night than she had all term.

After that night with Annabel, life simply went on. She and you weren’t ‘friends’ per se, but she no longer went out of her way to torment you like she had done before. She even told off some of her friends when they talked about you behind your back.

You two weren’t friends, but you hoped that there was at least some fraction of mutual respect. If you couldn’t be friends, then at least you two didn’t have to be enemies – you were happy to settle for being a ‘frenemy.’

You found yourself sitting by yourself at one of the tables in the library. Michael had to meet with one of his teachers about an essay but promised to meet with you as soon as he finished. You were repeatedly listening to Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” when you heard the chair next to you being pulled out.

Fully expecting it to be Felix, you were ready to tell him to fuck off and bother some other poor soul that needed saving, but you were surprised to find that the person sitting next to you was his cousin, Farleigh Start. He introduced himself by stating his name and giving you a firm handshake. There wasn’t much you could do but reciprocate.

“Quite the save you gave our Annabel,” Farleigh grinned. “Very magnanimous of you, especially considering how she treated you.”

“What do you want from me?” you blurted out. “I’m busy, and I would appreciate it if you just left so I can continue studying.”

You weren’t normally so rude, but this was Felix Catton’s cousin – and if this was a ploy to get you in his pants, you wanted no part of it. But your skepticism only seemed to please the boy sitting beside you more. His wry grin curled into a wide Cheshire Cat smile as he continued to stare at you with eager fascination.

Farleigh started to lean toward you, and you instinctively leaned away from him. You eyed him with extreme caution as if he were a mad scientist and you were a paralyzed specimen. And his eyes looked like he couldn’t wait to cut you open.

“I like you,” he stated. “Let’s be friends.”

Tagging: @ethereal-athalia, @arcielee, @valeskafics, @asa-do-your-thing, @aphroditesmoon, @axelsagewrites, @the1999kid, @poolnoodlerescuer, @aemondsbabe, @winterblu2, @abaker74, @whereismymindno, @agustdeeyaa, @iamavailablesstuff, @bonnieblue0606, @st-eve-barnes, @nyxthoughtss, @immyowndefender, @ilovemydinoboi, @ahristata, @cxp1d, @jinsoulorbitzen12, @temptation-waits, @bollzinurmouth, @jcngw0ns, @seababehh, @destinydestnation, @lankyboi4, @mindless-rock, @cassavacakes, @paradisepoisons, @pansexualpamandabear, @erikasurfer, @lissamans, @cookielovesbook-akie, @thesmutconnoisseur, @izzyisstuff, @lariisouz

Reblog if you liked reading this chapter and want me to continue! Also please comment if you want to be added to the taglist!

#saltburn x reader #saltburn #saltburn crack #saltburn au #michael gavey x reader #felix catton x reader #farleigh catton #farleigh start #venetia catton #oliver quick #michael gavey #saltburn 2023 #saltburn movie

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purriteen · 3 months

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Ad victor spolia, chapter two

content warnings: incest, manipulation, eventual Stockholm Syndrome, toxic & dark!Coriolanus Snow (as if that isn't his default), named!reader, ANGST, eventual smut, non-con, age gap (5-6 years)

author's note: I feel like this chapter is kinda shitty since I’ve mostly written pure smut before, not to mention I haven’t written in English in a while so I’m still warming back up to the language & structure

but alright, since I've just been projectile vomiting words all day anyways y'all get two chapters at once this time mostly cause I myself couldn't wait to flesh out what happens next

word count: 3,345

Previous chapter

Next chapter

You struggled to fall asleep that night. You’d already come to the conclusion that slipping past the guards positioned along the tall metal fence or the main gate wouldn’t be possible, but at least, before you used to have the privilege of leaving the house and spending time in the garden whenever you wanted. Now you were truly trapped. Now that you needed to get out of here the most.

At first you’d enjoyed going for walks in the garden or having tea in one of the quaint greenhouses, until you discovered the one with those god awful rose bushes. The ones that reeked of your brother. You figured he didn’t tend to them himself, but that didn’t ease the disgust you felt whenever that familiar, overwhelming scent reached you. It was nauseating.

Even in his absence, everything reminded you of him, in the worst way possible. In every nook and cranny of the house there’d be a reminder that this was his home. For a moment you wondered if his signature scent had worn off on you; your shower was equipped with various settings and products, but it was always stacked with that familiar rose shampoo you could smell on him whenever he got close to you - too close for your liking -, without exceptions.

When you finally fell asleep, your face was raw and puffy from all the crying. You hadn’t even bathed or brushed your hair, or changed into one of the many pyjama sets in your wardrobe.

Then, at around seven in the morning according to your alarm clock, you awoke to the sound of keys rustling outside your door. You were relieved when you realised it wasn’t Coriolanus - he’d never make such an awkward entrance. Instead, your nanny maid stepped through the door. Eugenie. She looked even more anxious than usual. Perhaps she took pity on you - if only she knew.

The two of you hardly spoke that early Friday morning. She’d brought something for you to eat, stacked on a silver tray. As if you needed another reminder of your complete lack of autonomy here, your own brother now wouldn’t even let you have breakfast in the kitchen anymore. At least he’d been generous enough to let you have something you could actually stand to eat, you supposed. A bowl of blueberries and grapes and a fresh loaf of bread with butter and marmalade, neatly plated next to it.

You sat on the small couch in the corner of the room as you ate your breakfast, only managing to get small bites down. Watching Eugenie change your bedsheets and clean up after last night, you simply couldn’t think about anything else. That was enough to make your appetite vanish.

Once you were both done she gestured towards the bathroom, and you took the hint. She went in first and ran a warm bath for you, before leaving the room to give you some privacy. Finally you took a proper look at yourself for the first time since yesterday.

Your hair was a mess, but what worried you most was the prevailing handprint on the left side of your face. Three, four stripes of a faint purplish colour that was already fading to yellow in some places. You shakily inhaled, forcing yourself to keep it together. The last thing you needed was for Coriolanus to think he was getting to you, even if he was right.

Yet you still didn’t realise the extent of your injuries until you’d already sunk down into the bathtub, relatively comfortably so. You’d felt the swelling on the back of your head last night, of course, but it was almost worse now. All you wanted to do at the moment was fall back asleep, but the aching bump on the back of your skull made it impossible to rest your head anywhere without being in pain.

A couple minutes later, Eugenie returned. This time with an ice pack in hand, which she carefully placed in your hand and guided it towards the back of your head. She flashed you an almost sorrowful, empathetic smile, before she stepped back and closed the door behind her.

You weren’t particularly fond of her, but you didn’t want to make the poor woman’s job any harder than it already was. So you made sure to thoroughly wash yourself before she got back. The sight of the dried blood from your scalp liquifying and mixing with the bathwater as you rinsed your hair made you feel nauseous.

You wondered what dinner would be like. If he would pretend nothing happened yesterday, or perhaps dish out another beating. You still hadn’t entirely grasped everything that went down last night. Everything he had kept from you, above anything, the hatred he’d felt for you. The thought of your warm, outwardly unassuming cousin having to make such a sacrifice for you made you feel sick. Poor Tigris.

Not to mention being reminded of your mother’s passing. You knew she’d died in childbirth, your birth, but you never thought of it as your fault until he brought it up. Grandma’am never once blamed you for the loss of her only daughter-in-law. And until that moment, neither had Coryo. Not openly, at least. You were left staring at yourself in the mirror for a while, wondering if it was truly worth it. If you were worth it.

You knew you couldn’t afford to think like that, to let him get to you. But this was all so unlike the Coryo you were used to, you’d seen this side of him before, to some extent, but never directed towards you. You wished he had just stayed away, that he would’ve left you alone after the initial shock of Grandma’am’s passing.

As you patted yourself dry with the soft white towel always hung on the gilded heating rack, you couldn’t help but wonder if this is what you deserved. You’d dragged everyone down. You hadn’t even been able to take proper care of grandma’am the last couple days of her life, or at least, Coriolanus wouldn’t let you.

You sat down on the edge of the bathtub. Waited a couple more minutes. Got impatient again. You decided you might as well get dressed again before Eugenie came back, but the pile of clothes you’d left on the floor was already gone. In its place a peachy slip dress and a robe, with a pair of slippers to match. You sighed and slid on the matching set.

A few minutes later, she returned just on time. This time she just had a glass of water and a small yellow-ish pill in hand. You furrowed your brows a little, looking up at her. “What’s this for?” You inquired, silently scolding yourself as you heard the annoyance in your own voice. This wasn’t her fault, it’s Coriolanus you were upset with. “It’ll help the healing, Miss.” You simply nodded in return, washing down the small capsule with a sip of water before returning the glass to her.

Concern was written all over her face as she studied you for a couple seconds, discomfort forming in your gut. “I’ll be back in four hours with lunch. Master Coriolanus asked me to inform you that his personal stylist will pay you a visit tonight at six.” Her words came out tense and rushed, and you were left with no time to react before she stepped back and locked the door again. You weren’t sure why she was so out of it, or if you even wanted to know.

You were familiar with Coriolanus’ personal stylist. She’d been the one to prepare you for any of those important public appearances where your attendance was actually needed. Rumina, you believe her name was. She was not the type of person you’d expected to find working such a job - she was always well dressed, but always in a timeless, classic fashion rather than the bold, colourful looks that were all the rage this year.

You supposed that might’ve been why your brother hired her in the first place. Beyond just that, she appeared to be in her fifties or sixties, whereas most stylists were much younger. The reason for that on the other hand, you couldn’t quite grasp. But despite her elegant exterior, you couldn’t stand her personality. She wouldn’t shut up about how delighted she was that somebody was finally ‘stepping up’ to truly restore Panem to its ‘former glory’.

Truthfully you’d given up on politics long ago - you’d never been among the pick of the litter back at the Academy, largely thanks to being so caught up with caring for Grandma’am. Not to mention the way your last name seemed to precede you every time you entered a classroom - it was clear you had big shoes to fill, after your big brother’s academic achievements - which only drove you further away. So it was clear that wasn’t the right path for you. But at least, before Coriolanus’ presidency, you’d actually thought you might one day have a career of your own, something worth dedicating your life to. You just needed to heal and learn how to stand on your own two feet.

Until he’d robbed you of that opportunity entirely. You didn’t even truly understand why, how it in any way actually served him. He had every reason to lock up Tigris, if he was simply worried about his own family turning on him. You’d never stood up to him in that sense before, or tried to distance yourself. He’d done a great job at that himself. If he genuinely believed you were so frail, he could’ve just left you in that penthouse to let you wither away in peace. He didn’t need to keep you so close to him.

Despite feeling about as rejuvenated as you could get under these circumstances after that bath, you felt a wave of drowsiness hit you. You laid back on the newly made bed, hoping to just fall back asleep. Instead you laid awake for nearly half an hour, staring at the canopy ceiling. Eventually you’d had enough.

You got up and walked over to your dresser, quickly pulling open your underwear drawer. You doubted that it was actually hidden, but you’d kept some old memorabilia from your childhood stashed in the shoe box at the very back of the drawer. Pictures of you and Grandma’am. Of all four of you who survived. Even a couple pictures of Coryo and your mom and dad together before you were born.

There was a particular picture of them you just couldn’t stand. As far as you knew Coryo didn’t even remember the photograph’s existence. Mrs. Snow was sat next to your father, who stood up straight right by her side, with their newborn son in her arms. His gloved hand was steadily placed on her shoulder, but his face was about as devoid of any emotion as hers was of happiness. He had Coriolanus’ eyes - a pale shade of blue, cold and unforgiving.

Your mother on the other hand, looked afraid, exhausted and tense. No amount of makeup was enough to hide the dark circles under her wide eyes. You’d always admired her beauty, and although you never had the chance to know her, you felt a sense of pride in the resemblance the two of you bore. You had her eyes, her smile, her lips. Even her hair, although hers was wavier than yours. Coriolanus always recalled her as a warm, loving mother, and you didn’t doubt that, but this picture always gave you the impression she had to have been wildly unprepared for the task of becoming a mom, and consequently disillusioned. Or worse.

Everyone always spoke fondly of her, of her charm and youthfulness, and you couldn’t help but wonder if they were simply tiptoeing around the word naive. You didn’t have any memories of your father either, but just from the few photographs you had of him he’d always instilled a sense of fear in you. You hated how much Coriolanus was starting to resemble him.

Finally you got to the picture of Grandma’am holding you in her arms shortly after your mother passed. She was visibly shaken up, and both you and her worn hands were bloody. You’d been told many times of how close a call it was, how the family cook was convinced you wouldn’t make it. You could only imagine how she must’ve felt in that moment, holding her two weeks premature, frail granddaughter in her arms after watching her daughter-in-law lose her life.

It didn’t take long for you to start crying, something which only got worse as you scrambled through the rest of your small collection of family photos. The family fortune had run out awfully fast during the Dark Days, so there were hardly any taken during your childhood. The few you had left were mostly school photos and ones taken at various social events. Even though you couldn’t afford your own photographer, you’d always kept the unprocessed copies and had them processed and printed whenever you had some extra money to spare. Much to Coriolanus’ dismay you’d always been sentimental, just like your cousin.

You stayed like that for almost an hour. All those photos of you smiling in your brother's arms, the ones where he posed so proudly with his baby sister, made you feel nostalgic for something you’d hardly even experienced. You couldn’t grasp that this boy, your Coryo, could’ve gone from that prideful older brother you saw in those pictures to the man he was today. You wondered if Grandma’am had felt the same way bringing up Crassus.

When you finally got up from your seat on the floor, you carefully put the stack of photographs away again, along with the pearl necklace and perfume bottle you’d kept after Grandma’am’s passing, to remind you of her. You didn’t have anything tangible left of your parents, but you had fond memories of Coriolanus letting you sleep with your mother’s powder compact when you were younger. He’d always been possessive, though - only if you were really upset would he share it with you.

You checked the time. Almost ten o’clock. You went off to your bathroom to splash your face with some cold water, shivering as you looked up and were met with the sight of the yellowing bruise on your cheek. You’d almost forgotten. At least it was healing quickly, like Eugenie promised. After nearly exhausting yourself with tears, your throat hoarse and eyes puffy and red, you finally felt tired enough to take a nap. So you did. You nearly threw yourself back onto the soft, queen size bed and let your eyes flutter shut.

When you woke again it was noon. This time Eugenie had gone unnoticed when she entered, as you only awoke when you heard the wheels of the food cart she wheeled in after herself awkwardly bumping into the threshold, making the porcelain inside clatter against itself. You were startled at first, but immediately calmed down when you realised it was just her.

Soon enough lunch too had passed, and this time Eugenie stuck around to keep you company for a little while. She taught you how to knit, and you lent her your favourite book. For a moment you’d almost forgotten the gravity of the situation you were in. Until she scurried to get up, proclaiming she was late to laundry service. You glanced at the longcase clock across the room, a bit surprised to find it was already quarter past four in the evening. You had forty-five minutes until your brother’s stylist would turn up.

You spent that time trying to perfect your knitting technique, ignoring the stiffness in your hands as best as you could. You’d never excelled at crafts like Tigris did, or patience, for that matter.

Finally Rumina arrived, and you were almost relieved. She immediately started to babble on about the latest gossip, and as always, sang your brother’s praises. Though, today it was particularly unbearable, and you thought to yourself that someone working so closely with him and his image should know that it’s just that, an image. That your brother didn’t give a flying fuck about the districts, even if he had improved the living conditions of the tributes in the annual Hunger Games, and that he didn’t even really care about the Capitol either. You’d come to terms with the fact that Coriolanus was only loyal to one thing: power.

You had stayed silent as she blow dried, brushed and twisted and folded your hair up behind your head. When she was done she offered you a handheld mirror to have a look for yourself, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes when you were met with a tidy french twist. Of course your brother had chosen something conservative that’d thoroughly conceal the bloody lump he’d given you.

Then she had done your makeup. This time she laid the base on thicker than usual, but you weren’t surprised Coriolanus intended to hide your bruise, too. You wondered if it was for his own conscience’s sake or for his image. But it could hardly be the latter, you doubted he would let anyone see you so soon after last night’s events. Then again, you weren’t sure he even had a conscience, either.

When you were done, you looked perfectly rejuvenated. Though to you it felt like an empty shell. Rumina eagerly guided you out into your bedroom and helped you get dressed. It seemed your brother had picked out yet another tasteless, phoney dress that you’d feel nothing like yourself in. Much like the makeup it was more glamorous than you’d expected.

The material was flowy, probably something like chiffon, but it was perfectly cinched at your waist, the sweetheart neckline and the puffy fabric at your hips flattering your figure just right. There was some sort of built in corset that stopped just below your chest. The sleeves were long and puffy much like the skirt, which stopped just above your ankles. You knew Coriolanus was always up to whatever dress code applied, and something this elegant was hardly necessary for a simple dinner.

But what really stood out to you was the colour. It was a deep shade of burgundy; one you’d seen on Coriolanus oh so many times. You felt your jaw clench. It was bad enough that he insisted on dressing you up, like a mere doll, but this was yet another jab at your independence and individuality. Like you were just an extension of him.

Still, complaining to his own stylist would be of no use, so you decided to suck it up and let her finish dressing you. She clasped a silver necklace around your neck, a garnet pendant in the shape of an octagon hanging from it, framed by more silver. It almost seemed compulsive how your brother just had to show off his wealth every chance he got. Finally you slid on some black velvet kitten heels and had a look in the mirror.

You looked like something out of a gothic painting. (A tragedy, if you had to guess.) That wouldn’t be too unlike your current situation. Only there wouldn’t be a handsome, brooding young mythological hero to save you. No, your ‘prince charming’ had few positive attributes beyond just that - his superficial charm -, and no intention of saving you.

You felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter as you walked down the stairs to the main floor, confusion spreading on your face as you saw one of Coriolanus’ many servants waiting for you at the bottom. He stiffly informed you that there’d been a change of plans, that he’d be escorting you to the larger dining room over in the east wing. You hadn’t even explored the house enough to know there were multiple.

When you arrived you quickly understood what the sudden change of plans was for.

taglist: @caffeine-addict-slug, @phoward89, @catesbaroquecasahouse

#banner credit: @benkeibear #minors dni #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x female!reader #coriolanus snow x you #named reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas fanfiction #thg fanfiction #eventual smut

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residenthughes · 1 year

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once bitten, twice shy

pairing: leon kennedy x gender neutral reader

word count: 3.8k (yippee!)

tags/warnings: college/university au, fluff, mentions of vomit/sick and alcohol

summary: house parties can be a strange place. they can be even stranger when you're about to throw up and have to argue to use the bathroom with a certain blue eyed, blonde haired boy too.

notes: my baby! so glad to have finished this! <3 i started writing this pretty much after my last fic (which received so much love, thank you so so much 💗) and finally came together after i went out myself, hehe. have deadlines/exams coming up soon so i'm not particularly sure how much i'll be posting on here until mid june, so mayhaps consider this a gift for not posting then? 🥹 haha, love u all and hope u enjoy!

You enjoyed a good night out once in a while. Your friends and yourself dressed to the nines as you dance the night away with liquor tainted lips and all the freedom in the palm of your hand. It was a great escape from the pressures of endless coursework and constant group meetings. You enjoyed a good house party, too. However, you hadn’t had much luck with those ones. Despite the smaller crowd it drew, the handful of new faces had you anxiously gulping away at your alcohol, ultimately leading to cringe-worthy videos your friends would show you the next day. Based on this, you should have known better - should have politely declined when your friends suggested attending her classmates’ house party and spent the night maybe regretting it. In spite of the myriad of reasons, the past week had been dreadful beyond words and it was an opportunity to wear your latest going out outfit. It was near impossible to say no.

So, here you are. Having the time of your life with friends, dancing under blue flickering lights and letting the night take you away. Well - that’s what you were doing. What you are doing now is desperately trying to find the toilet - your stomach was already uneasy due to the nerves of meeting new people at the party, so you’re sure the sugary drinks added to the alcohol in your system didn’t help either. You felt queasy and an urgent need to relieve yourself, still to no avail. The downstairs bathroom was occupied, so with the sickly feeling travelling up your system, you barge through the mob of people littering the hallways, hand over your mouth in a futile attempt to keep whatever was coming up down.

At the end of the upstairs hallway, your friend’s classmate explained there was an additional bathroom. You’ve never been more relieved to see anything more in your life. Without knowing it, you’re making a mad dash for it, bumping shoulders and mumbling a thousand sorrys. You’re a sight for sore eyes, you know you are, but with the pressing urge to not have witnesses to your untimely projectile vomiting, you really couldn’t give a damn.

You’re so happy to have found the bathroom, even if it may have also been occupied that your eyes miss another figure aiming for the room too. It’s only when your hand reaches for the doorknob that it’s shielded by another hand. Large and comforting. Your eyes search for the source.

Amidst the darkness that permeates the hallways, the blue mood lights provide glimpses into the mystery of the shadowy figure with gentle hands. His face, ivory in colour, is all slopes, features sharp and striking. His cerulean blue eyes framed by the length of his long eyelashes and dirty blond hair makes your heart stutter messily in your chest. For a split second, there is nothing you can do but stare in awe, the tall tales of infatuation spinning your head dizzy.

“Shit, did you wanna go first?” His voice sounds like a siren, sweet and melodic all at once.

With the countless thoughts zooming through your brain, you’re certain any words that would filter through your lips would be nothing except incoherent mumbles. You settle for a nod.

“Uh, hate to break it to you sweetheart, but I needa go too.” His hand is still over yours and if not for the terrible rumble in your stomach, it would have been swept off your feet, along with the sickeningly sweet pet name he gives you.

“Maybe try downstairs? I’m sure it’ll be free soon.” This is the first time you’ve spoken during your brief conversation. The quick raise of the handsome stranger’s eyebrows encourages sheepishness to gnaw at your skin, the pink hues of your cheeks deepening.

“Ocupado, ‘m afraid.” he grins with a sliver of teeth, facial expression moulding into the awkwardness that starts to circle itself around the two of you.

Your hand turns the doorknob faintly and you catch the desperation that flashes in his eyes at your actions. If you weren’t about to soil your new top with stomach acid, you would’ve let him go first, bashful as ever as you hoped you would find him later on in the night whilst hoping he’d spare you another glance. Nevertheless, that was not the case.

“I’m sorry but,” you gulp, trying to keep whatever was coming up back down. “I really, really, really need to go, so…”

He’s stubborn. Stubborn as an ass apparently, because his hand still remains on yours. “Of course, but equally, I need to go as well. Surely, there’s like a sink or something I can go in. I’m really desperate.”

You can’t help as you wrinkle your nose, your patience wearing thin. You literally have to be sick. Why is this not being addressed? “Can’t you just pee outside? Guys do that all the time, don’t they?”

“I’m not an animal, you know.” the handsome stranger argues, and your eye twitches.

How did you end up arguing with a good-looking guy outside a bathroom at a house party?

“I’m not being funny, but if you don’t move, I will throw up all over you.”

“I’ve been meaning to go for an hour now. Can’t we make some sort of compromise?”

You were at your wits end. “As if, you fucking masochist! I’m going first!”

And you do, barging into the blindingly white room with all your might and making a beeline for the toilet. A heavy sigh sounds behind you as you heave into the toilet, bracing yourself for the ugly sight that’ll swim before you.

You hear a zip being undone and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “Surely, you’re not…?”

“I told you I needed to go.” the voice comes from the shower beside you. The world spins. House parties fucking suck.

You opt to fully exit your bitter discussion, focusing on ugly turns in your stomach. Your hair circles your face and you curse yourself for not having tied it up beforehand because obviously, it was going to–

It flows out of you. Swiftly and without much difficulty. You lunge forwards into the toilet bowl as the vomit empties out of you whilst the shower runs briefly, followed by the sink.

You just wanna go home.

“Hey,” the call for your attention is docile, the boy’s voice more sympathetic now. “You got a hair tie on ya?”

At this point, you’re on your knees, throwing up your early dinner in front of a boy you bad mouthed because you both wanted to use the bathroom at the same time. There’s no point in being shy now. You want all the help you can get.

You manage to shimmy the hair tie off your wrist and hand it towards his vague direction. For how unacquainted you two are, you move in great harmony as the boy grabs the hair tie and captures all your hair with ease whilst you busy yourself with other pressing issues.

When he’s finished, hair away from your face and in a low ponytail, the warmth of his hand settles against your back. The tears brimming in your eyes fall into the toilet bowl, body still before slow caresses have you melting into the palm of his hand.

“I…I know one of the guys that lives here,” he volunteers, tone unsure. “I’m sure he won’t mind you using one of his spare toothbrushes underneath the sink.”

You only manage back a groan, the icky feeling of humiliation creeping up on you as you continue to exhale into the toilet bowl.

“I’ll be back.”

And the man who peed in the shower leaves. Ok, that was rude of you, he did just help you when you were vomiting in spite of not knowing you. You should have more compassion for him, instead of lashing out at him out of embarrassment. When he gets back, you should thank him for all his help and hope to never see him again. You didn’t think you could live comfortably with yourself if you ever saw him again.

The faint thumps of typical party hits hammer beyond the bathroom, pouring in briefly when the man comes back into the room. By this point, your stomach has settled and you’ve flushed the toilet, yet your head still remains somewhat in the toilet because you couldn’t bear to come face-to-face with the guilt wrapped up in the form of a handsome, kind stranger.

“He said it’s cool, just open the new pack in the grey caddy.” You hear joints crack besides you before there’s a pat on your back. The comfort it brings is enough for you to swallow your pride. “Also, there’s some water next to you. Figured you wouldn’t want to go looking for it.”

Regardless of the ever growing shame that wants to drown you into a sad shell of yourself, your heart swells. The unprompted kindness offered from the stranger is refreshing, you wish you could tell him how grateful you are for him without your shame keeping your head in the toilet bowl.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, wincing at the cringing sensations that course through your body. “Sorry for calling you a masochist earlier.”

He huffs out a bout of laughter and your heart feels lighter. “In all fairness, I was pretty crazy for holding it for that long, so I don’t blame you.”

You hated how you’d have to avoid this man after you two left this room. He was sweet, polite and made you laugh. Why did you have to meet under such ugly conditions?

“Thank you,” you exhale, feeling your heart bloom with the warmth he radiates. “Really.”

“No prob,” he lifts his hand off your back and suddenly, you’re cold again. “I’ll leave you to it. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen. If not, probably fucking it up on the dancefloor.”

You mumble another thank you after the laughter that leaves your lips, the blue-eyed stranger exiting and leaving you to clean yourself up as ponder on his kindness for a little longer than necessary.

You manage to sneak past the kitchen without bumping into the kind stranger. If you weren’t embarrassed before, the embarrassment catches up with you now. Outside, where the cool October wind blows, you’re perched on a step of the back porch, curled into yourself as you breathe in and breathe out. Things could have been a lot worse. You could have thrown up all yourself, delirious and none the wiser as nasty spirited individuals videoed the spectacle, not intervening even once. You could have been in a worse state in front of the stranger, vomit embedded in your hair as you wailed to call your friends or to go home. It could have been so much worse, yet here you are, rocking away as you will yourself not to cry.

You blame it on the emotional turmoil that’s plagued your week. Your academic and interpersonal affairs bore a burden like never before, pushing you beyond your means countless times this week and eventually, as you self soothe in solitude, you succumb to their will. Your friends are worried sick, searching every inch of the unfathomably large house to find you. You shoot them a text, notifying them of your safety and the privacy you seek. With dozens of texts that express reassurance, you let out a sigh before the music playing inside is too good for you to ignore.

Call it foolish, but it’s the nostalgic sounds of 00s’ dance that help you pick up the pieces. Assist in the carefree attitude you adopt that leads you right back inside, finding your friends and changing the course of the night.

If only you knew your carefree attitude would have you right where you once were. Face to face with the handsome stranger, the ends of an empty beer bottle pointed towards you two as bystanders ooh and ahh.

“Get in there, Leon!” a friend - you assume - hollers, slurring his words as he lazily drapes against Leon’s rigid frame.

You two exchange a look, eyes seeking any kind of communication that would hint at what the future held.

Your hand is given a squeeze and suddenly one of your friend’s whispers into your ear. “He’s cute, go for it.”

You crimson. At her words and at the fact that your next encounter with Leon has come so soon. Relentless is the sensation of dread and cringe as it sinks into your bones and buries you into the ground. All eyes are on you and you want nothing more but cringe? Disappear? Run away? There’s so much going on in your head right now.

A hand is outreached. It’s as if a lifeforce beyond yours comes down to save you, extending their hand to sail you away to safety. Alias, it is nothing but a figment of your imagination as you peer up, eyes sparkling as Leon’s tall figure towers over yours. For a second, you can’t read his facial expression, can’t comprehend the logistics of your predicament. However, when the edge of his lips curl upwards, pleasant and mellow in nature, there’s a sense of relief that starts to wash over you.

“Ready if you are.”

He has a way with words. He must have. Otherwise you wouldn’t have felt so comforted on that bathroom floor, otherwise you wouldn’t be in some confined closet, little to no light with the same person you threw up in front of.

“Well,” he starts off after a minute or two of silence. “This is…”

“Awkward.”

A cough is followed by silence. Then laughter.

Out of all the people at this party, the universe had to fabricate yet another meeting with Leon. The guy who you basically cussed out in order to use the bathroom. The same man that after washing his hands, held your hair up for you and soothed your sickness with a gentle back rub. There is nothing more you want to do right now than crawl out of your skin.

“You feeling a bit better now?” Leon’s voice is hushed when he talks to you, gentle and filled with unexpected care.

Despite the awkwardness of your situation, you can’t help disregarding such lame state of feeling as you lean into his kindness. “Yeah, I had a bit more water and was outside for a bit, so I’m pretty much sober now.”

Your fingernails dig into the flesh of your palm. A nervous tic. “Thank you. And, sorry.”

Leon appears to relax into the flow of conversation, moving his body to lean against the wall of the compact closet you find yourselves in. As he shuffles, notes of smoky vanilla waft in the air, Leon’s cologne finding its way to you. The smile you hide behind a closed fist is all kinds of bashful, body drawn to the intoxicating nature of the fragrance.

“I wasn’t terribly nice to you either, so think of it as making amends,” his hand extends forwards, bridging the gap between the two of you. “Truce?”

Amusement tugs at the ends of your lips, humoured by the hints of unseriousness that seems to be a recurring theme in your story. Going from badmouthing one another to being shoved into a tiny closet for Seven Minutes in Heaven and forced to call truce. It’s the kind of bizarre story that hangs in the air after a night out, disgustingly hungover in bed as your friends jam into someone’s room and recall the night’s events.

“Truce.”

You shake on it, pulling away when the flutter of your heart tickles your chest.

Through the dim sliver of marmalade orange light that peeks through the bottom gap of the door, you catch glimpses of Leon. The sharp slants of his jaw, the heavy flutter of his eyelashes, the sheepishness of his smile - all lopsided and accompanied the hues of strawberry jam red. He’s trying his best and it’s endearing. As is he. Charming and caring, a little silly yet undeniably sweet. Perhaps your perspective on him is a bit skewed due to the remnants of alcohol that float in your system, but if you happened across the same dirty blond, blue eyed boy on campus, you know your heart would still beat the same.

“Three minutes!” Someone yells beyond the door, prompting an uptake in your breath.

Never too forward, Leon draws closer to you, hands to himself as he suggests, “We could just head back out, if you’d like. I’m sure they’re not gonna be too up their asses about it.”

You don’t miss a beat. “I don’t want to.”

You’re both caught off guard. Your eyes widened and Leon’s eyebrow raised. It’s as if you’ve been exposed, barenaked for all the world to see your secrets. In itself, your response isn’t the strangest. Anyone would assume after calling truce, your allocated time meant to be spent together could foster the beginnings of a friendship, a friendly conversation. Even so, Leon and yourself were getting ahead of yourselves - reading in between the lines, sifting for something that was there.

“I mean,” the wardrobe is suddenly indescribably small, the surface of your cheeks warming as your eyes dart all over the place. What is going on here? “We could always just talk or…”

“Or what?”

Leon’s being mean. He knows he is. But, he can’t help himself. Jumping the gun, clawing at any and every opportunity to be close to you. Leon spotted your figure earlier during the course of the night, eyes capturing the shimmer in your eyes and bounce of your hair as you happily twirled your friends around on the dancefloor. You were simply magnetic, doused in dazzle and delight as your glittery makeup highlighted your timeless beauty. Leon would’ve approached you, winning you over with his charm and foolish dance moves - but he needed a drink. A drink which became two, two which became three and ultimately he broke the seal, landing him on a collision course with you outside the bathroom.

This isn’t how he imagined meeting you.

Nevertheless, you were together and despite the not-so-great circumstances presented, Leon made the best of it. Helping you and being the gentleman he is. And even if you never saw each other again, he would still remember you for all the shimmer in your eyes and just how infectious your smile was.

Now, under more favourable conditions, he doesn’t want his time with you to end. You’re just as captivating up close, if not more. Timid yet so sweet. Leon gets lost in you - lost in the details of your hair, your voice, your eyes. He wonders if the longer he prolongs your conversation, the sooner you’ll see his attraction towards you. Hopes you’ll reciprocate, hopes you’ll see it too.

“I don’t know.” You settle for, casting your eyes away from Leon as you twiddle your thumbs.

You want to be close with Leon, maybe kiss him if you could. But, you just don’t know. He’s seen you at your worst, sick in the toilet without a thought behind your eyes. You’re still embarrassed - even if Leon makes good work of fending that off. And perhaps because of that, along with other complexities, you want to be close with him.

If only he’d let you.

There’s a huff of frustration before something knocks your shoe. You look, examining Leon’s tired Converse shoe that nestles against your own pair of shoes. Your heart stills.

“I saw you earlier,” he starts, standing tall as he inches closer towards you. His pools of blue know only the sight of your lips, pink in hue and supple with lipgloss. He briefly looks away for his own good. “You looked really good on the dance floor.”

The gravity of your current reality settles in quick. Leon’s with you. Initiating everything and bringing this whole charade to a close. Your instinct is to wrestle with the reasons why, question his intentions and ultimately, take a step back. But, you’re exhausted. You’ve done enough mental gymnastics to last you a lifetime. You know you want this, so why can’t you have it? The answer is clear now. You take the plunge, hands grasping onto his backarm as you test the waters. “You think so?”

You’re gazing into each other’s eyes now, nowhere to run or hide. Leon hums in response yet still searches for something in your eyes - a glimmer of hope, confirmation to proceed and gets it in the form of you leaning into him with the bat of your eyelashes. His arms circle your waist, hesitant at first but solid in their place on the small of your back. You’re already seeing stars.

“Leon?” your voice is barely above a whisper, forehead pressed against Leon’s as you grow impatient.

He hums in reply. “Can we? Can we-”

“Can we kiss?” he says this, lips brushing up against yours. You grip his broad shoulder extra hard incase you buckle at the knees.

“Please,” you only manage to get out before your lips connect.

Leon shows you just how much he wants this, how much he wants you in his kisses. Gentle yet firm in his desire, his lips envelope yours in a way that sets your heart ablaze. Your brain short circuits, the sparks soaring between the two of you insatiable as you melt into each other. Your hand falls to brace yourself against Leon’s chest, the accelerated patter of his heart vibrating against your palm. You can’t help the smile that blends into your kiss, opening an invitation for Leon’s tongue that glides against the flesh of your bottom lip.

“Time’s up!”

His teeth plunge into your bottom lip lightly. You separate with a whine.

There’s a moment before the door opens, time where your eyes scan over Leon to gather all your thoughts and take him in. His pupils are full blown, his arctic blue irises submerged in the dilation of his pupils, lips plump with need and breath laboured. He looks far away, as if he is immersed in a dream that’s too good to be true and judging by the smile that graces his face, you’re sure you look the same.

“Need a mint?” Leon’s all jokes, smile giddy and besotted.

You roll your eyes in response, playfully jabbing his hard bicep with a closed fist. “Says the one who stuck his tongue down my throat.”

“Guilty as charged,” he holds his hands up in surrender, eyes giving you their undivided attention. “Wouldn’t mind doing that again though.”

He punctuates his point with circling his arm around your waist, drawing you in close before placing a delicate kiss against the flushed skin of your cheeks. It’s shameful how much you like this guy already.

“You’re disgusting.”

The door opens and you leave the closet happier than you ever were before.

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