Lily

she/her 20 enemies to lovers, angst, and found family enthusiast

[luckypunklemonade]

| It's Pretend...Really

“Do you like the way the water tastes? / You knew but you could never say.”

[Smut MDNI 18+; Nogitsune; angst/manipulation; cw dubcon; oral (fem receiving); 4k words] Void Stiles seeks you out, knowing how connected you are to Stiles--knowing how useful your guilt could be.

This work belongs to me, luckypunklemonade (Minte_Condition on AO3). I do not give anyone permission to distribute or share my work without consent.

“What, you wanted to keep me out?”

It was a minute after I heard a noise outside of my house. With my parents out of town and everyone in the pack gone home exhausted after another day of stress from the Nogitsune. A day of silence wasn’t a good thing. I lowered my phone from my ear, trying to hear better. I said goodbye, thrown out of range from the microphone, and hung up. A minute after I heard the front door open, I walked out into the hallway. The only people who had keys were me and my parents. And Stiles.

Void was inspecting my keys. I heard them clink on the kitchen counter as he looked up at me and tilted his head disapprovingly. His eyes, under Void’s influence, had become perpetually challenging. He watched me search for a way out, watched me realize that, even if I left, he’d still find me. Ideas jumped through my head, all futile to the body walking toward me. Void kept his eyes on me as he approached and as he walked down the hall past me, inches from touching me. He walked deeper into the hallway and I could hear the faint creak of the floorboards. I turned, needing to track him, but he kept going and stepped into my room, looking around silently. After losing sight of him, I found myself following. The front door, the openness outside my home, and the keys to my car—just in Void’s hands—missing from the counter, it all scared me more than my familiar room.

I knew how everyone would advise against every step I took, their warnings of how dangerous and underestimated the Nogitsune was getting brushed off easily when I saw him where I’d seen him a million times. The initial fear cleared faintly like smoke when I saw him paging through my notebook. Open-faced on my desk, displaying multi-colored scribbles and thoughts–notes Stiles and I had written back and forth for each other, drawings to keep us both entertained. While I should have been worried of what he was gaining from the information within the notebook and what our drafted friendship told him, I was relieved to see something–anything–routine.

As soon as I passed the threshold, I couldn’t pull back or regret the instinctual decision. Void pulled me in with his palm on the back of my neck. I winced as Void closed the door and pushed me back into it. I heard the latch click as he pressed himself closely to me. My breathing was the loudest sound in the room, slowly but surely leveling despite the discomfort of Void’s arm across my collarbone. He didn’t speak at first, just analyzed me and sighed with tight lips. He had a collected look on his face, almost bored when this relaxed. “Look how trusting you are. Like I’m supposed to be here, right?”

“Not you.” I took in air despite the panic, glaring blankly–not at Void, but at his pressure against me. I strained the words out, making sure every grain of hate appropriate reached his attention, “Stiles.” 

He nodded, reached his hand up to force eye contact once more, and tilted his head forward at me. Watching his eyes grow more and more resolute through his eyelashes, I felt the familiarity of Stiles. Despite the pressure he held my chin with and the aggression in the way he held me up against the door. It hurt more to notice Stiles in all of that. Void kept my eyes on him, but had no issue letting his own wander. His free hand started by firmly holding my shoulder against the door, but it slowly fell down my arm. I pinched my brows together, confused, bracing myself for the pain he would no doubt inflict to benefit himself. He was going to break my arm, and unlike Scott could, I wasn’t going to heal quite as quickly. I whimpered, closing my eyes, but blinked them back open when he laughed. He had looked up at my whimper, noticed the trepidation in my scrunched face, and laughed as if it were comical that I’d even expect him to hurt me. As if it were comical how quickly I had lost my spine.

“You’re gonna like this. You get to live out your little fantasy. You think it won’t feel good?”

My chest bloomed with distress. Fear, but also alertness at his words. His hand abandoned my arm, finding perfect space on my waist, pinching hard once. I tried to twist away, but he slammed my shoulder back into the door. I could feel my hands twitch, shaking between closed fists and open-palmed surrender. Defiance and defeat. I looked dazed and afflicted. That was something Void fed into. He leaned his head so he was speaking against my temple. 

“You don’t want this?” Void scoffed, Stiles’s voice rasped like he was still breaking it in. I could feel his lips move against my eyebrow and I shivered. “You think about fucking your best friend all the time, don’t you? I wanna give it to you. Tell me you don’t want this.”

Silence filled the space like water rushing into an air pocket. I had opened my mouth, but I couldn’t even form my lips around a word. I didn’t know which word I wanted to form. I pathetically closed my mouth. Tears welled in my eyes, wishing I had an out, wishing I had another option than lying or honesty. I felt his hand leave my chin, both hands now pushing my hips flush back against the door. Void’s lips broke out into a smile against my hair and I exhaled out of my nose as quietly as possible. Any attention I got now was not for the better, but I wanted it regardless. I fought with that thought. I was ashamed to be hanging on every word he said, and a small part of me perked up at his voice, but then he called me out, casting my vision down. 

“I don’t even have to work that hard, do I? You’re doing all the heavy lifting. You’re not trying too hard to push my hands away. No, all that energy goes into not asking questions that yield answers that would make you a bad person. Even in your fantasies, this doesn’t fit.” He pried my arms away from my sides, continuing to mock me with a rough voice at a low volume, directly in my ear. “‘Stiles wouldn’t be this rough. He wouldn’t hurt me. Stiles wouldn’t say that.’ But you don’t care. All you care about is the fact I’m touching you, promising to take it further. That’s what you really want.”

I pressed my lips together and squeezed my eyes shut as he pressed himself against me again, forcing me once more into the door. The air that I was stopping myself from releasing made me feel lightheaded. That, or the way he spoke to me while he felt me up and condemned me for liking it.

“You’re wondering why I’d do this. Why would I give in to your desire? Well, I feed off of pain, strife, chaos–all of which you feel and more when I remind you what you’re doing. Shame and guilt. Now, that—that’s a constant source. One I can exploit for as long as I want. Know why? Because you want me to. And that makes the feelings stronger. It’s a vicious cycle, sweetheart.”

He finally pulled my head to the side, using the waistband of my pants to pull my hips toward him now instead of pushing them away as he dipped his head into the curve of my neck he had exposed. Toying with the anticipation, he let out a breath against my skin. Meeting no resistance, he kissed it arrogantly. When I felt the pain round out as he pressed the back of my head painfully into the door, I gasped, “Stiles—“ and felt him bristle. He thought for a moment, easing the pressure off and pulling back to look at me. A soft, incredulous laugh preceded his words.

“You think Stiles would do this? You want me to ease your conscience? Want me to pretend?” His words were aggressive. They ushered me further back, and I almost physically cowered away from him. I felt him back away and my entire body went numb from anxiety. I froze. He slowly, firmly, and emphatically dropped to his knees, pulling my hands down to cradle his head, and looked up at me. Tears sparkled soon after in his eyes, and desperation laced his face. He was faking it, but the sight made me want to join him on my knees. Somehow, his position made me feel helpless.

“Need you,” he said in Stiles’s voice, leaning forward and lapping at the denim covering my thighs, his tears and saliva soaking through the fabric. He put up the best show, pressing his face into my thigh with the urgency in his breathing and in his actions to match. I felt my chest buzz and my cheeks burn. My hands lay paralyzed in his hair as he pushed further using Stiles’s voice, “Please.”

For a moment, the buzz radiated out of my chest and down my arms, making the hair on my arms stand up and my heart race. He looked… innocent. I thought surely I’d see the Nogitsune’s influence in his eyes now, this close, but they were as warm brown as before, now shiny with tears and ardor. He pushed his lips against the fabric, leaving them there as he continued staring up at me, multiplying the pressure. I was torn, but my hands acted for me before I’d made a decision, tightening in his hair and leaning him into me, softening as his lips turned up. He turned his face into me completely, hiding his expression, his triumph. I yelped softly as he nipped my thigh, “I knew you’d give me what I need. S’ what you do. That’s your role, isn’t it? The empath?”

I stood helplessly still, tears welling to replace his, though mine were real. I shook my head. Anger burned in my throat next to the hurt. For a moment, I asked myself why Stiles would do this, then I berated myself for blaming Stiles. I was torn between feeling and wondering if those feelings were playing right into Void’s hands. I stayed silent as he pulled at my weaknesses and kept talking, knowing it would keep my eyes on him.

“We have something in common,” He kneaded at me. “You like pressure. It keeps you pulled taught. Keeps you needy.” I felt like his second priority to the focus he gave to the texture of my clothes and my skin beneath them. Watching his hands chase at nothing over my body began to hypnotize me, soothing me out of the panicked nausea. Maybe even the guilt. I sniffled softly, catching his attention. His hands came to a nauseating stop on the backs of my thighs, running his thumbs back and forth and clouding my thoughts.

“You wanna control me? C’mon.” Putting on Stiles’s cadence again, he bent my fingers into his hair, pressuring me to pull. When I didn’t, taking a shaky breath to control myself instead, he bit my thigh. I cried out in pain, using my grip on his hair to pull him away. His mouth was open, half smiling, half baring his teeth in victory. He wanted my guilt and my need to clash and consume me. It was working. His laugh reverberated in my stomach, ricocheting off of the shameful want. 

“It’s too late to pretend you don’t want this. Take advantage of this. Take advantage of me.” Void dropped the aggression in his words, in his eyes, in his hands. Again manipulating me with the voice I needed to hear. I got confused. I ran my hand through his hair and saw the real Stiles in the opportunity–not even meaning to take it, just chasing him. He nodded, shuffling forward on his knees, hands inching up the backs of my legs again. He moved one, directing the hand of mine that was dropping from his hair to his own neck, tilting his chin up so I could comfortably feel his Adam’s apple against my palm. Void saw me hit a mental block, smiling at the torture he knew I was putting myself through.

I watched him slowly stand up, still reeling from the hot and cold of his attitude, and swallowed thickly. He pulled my shirt up, stopping when I refused to lift my arms. Fearing another hostile act, I winced when he looked up, but Void just pulled me away from the wall and herded me to my bed. He sat me down and tilted his head down at me. “Touch me.”

The guilt returned at the cold demand of his voice. This wasn’t Stiles, and I was doing exactly what he wanted. Just as quickly as I had realized, I felt his hand guide mine up his abdomen, then back down to hook my fingers on his jeans. I wanted to grab a fistful of his shirt, I wanted to punch him in the stomach, I wanted to lean my forehead against him, and I wanted to do what that comforting voice told me to. My mouth fell open. I turned my head and hid my guilty glare. Void gently tutted, more so making the noise as filler between his calculated obstruction of my thoughts. He shook his head, ducking down to speak into my ear, and murmured, “Don’t worry, angel. He wants this, too. See?”

The same plea that was more so a challenge. He wasn’t begging, he was persuading. He knew I wanted this, just not with Void. With my best friend. With Stiles. He guided my hand and cupped himself with it, twitching when he applied pressure himself. He choked out a curse, eyes fluttering as if this were Stiles. As if this was something he wanted more than needed. I was starting to believe him. And then my hand moved, palming him. I wanted this, my stomach dropped but I ignored it in favor of the heat generated in me simply by hearing his well-feigned arousal. He smiled through a moan, obviously getting the best of me. Tears were still drying in the corners of my eyes and I was feeling his dick. I shook the logic out of my brain, blinking focus into my actions. My legs bent at the knee and Void quickly found his spot between them. He kept looking at me with need in his eyes like he was capable of needing me, but I had completely stopped looking past it. He maintained his innocence until he had my pants tugged down and saw the dark spot on my underwear. 

“Jesus Christ.” It was humiliating, and I wanted him to see it. Void pressed his thumb into it and smiled sternly. I bit my lip as he patronized me, “You should’ve told me what you really wanted sooner. I would’ve been so much easier on you. But if this is what gets you wet, I never would’ve given you what you needed. I can do that now, see? Look.”

He demanded again that I look at the dark spot he’d rubbed into my underwear. My breathing deepened and I glanced up at Void–this time without being told. He nodded. “You want this..”

“Isn’t that a little slutty? You want him more now that all he wants from you is your shame and pain.”

Now that his thumb was slipping under the material of my underwear, it didn’t matter if he gave up the act for a little. I dully whined as he swiped his thumb over my clit. Void’s words had been hanging in the air for longer than I realized, but he let them. He wanted me to fully lose the mental fortitude to fight this. He wanted me to take what I wanted and watch myself realize how wrong it was–something I was getting the hang of before he pulled away and pushed my shoulders back. I let myself feel grateful that, now, it was into the bed instead of the door. 

I let him brush my hair out from under me, lowering my guard because his actions were so familiar. Like I had seen him be this intimate before, holding himself above me. Maybe in my dreams he had promised to touch me, but he had always been this gentle in real life. It was another thing Void had taken from Stiles that wasn’t his. His deftness and attention to detail. But I wasn’t thinking of that. I was letting him feel the goosebumps he’d created, unaware that his silence was lulling me into a false sense of security. That he was thinking of what he could do now to benefit himself in this vicious cycle. He was smiling at all the plans, conspiring against me as he brushed my hip bone. With hands I knew all too well. The hands that pulled me running through the forest, the hands that knew the other half of our handshake, the hands that kept me steady the many times I had been scared in our adventures, and the hands that wrote in the margins of the notebook sitting on my desk. Knowing those were the hands touching me, it magnetized me. Just as I let my eyes close and my face relax into something adjacent to ease, Void leaned down and kissed my cheek just before lilting his voice in my ear, “You’re thinking of him, aren’t you? See, that’s what I need.” 

I didn’t even have time to savor the deceiving warmth of the kiss on my cheek, the way he held his lips there before he spoke such cruel words. Void’s eyebrows were raised, taunting my visible confusion as he pulled back away from me, letting the cold air between us. “You’ve got a special place in his mind. You’re smart, right? I got that much from him. Wouldn’t be able to tell from seeing you right now–look at you.”

I willed his words into silence, shaking how I must look right now out of my head, wishing he’d find a reason to touch me again. I whined, the task seeming impossible with my eyes closed and empty space between us. I heard him question me, “You want me to touch you? Want me closer?”

I didn’t nod. But I didn’t not nod. Void must have shaken his head, must have grabbed my chin, because the pressure I felt made me open my eyes. “There you go,” He spoke clearly. “So brave earlier, always saying what you think. Now what? You want me closer? Tell me to get closer. This is your show.”

He was putting the blame on me. This was my fault. I opened my mouth, convincing myself it was just to breathe, but I really only wanted to tell him to get closer. I practiced a vowel hesitantly before he gave me a taste of the power he was giving me, the liability he was giving me, and he came closer. I breathed in brief relief, frustrated to the point of giving up and giving in. Void leaned his head closer, half scrutiny, half testing. His eyebrows furrowed pitifully, like he was giving me hope.

“You want me to kiss you?”

I nodded, suddenly losing the stiffness in my neck. To him, the answer was clear. I could see it in his face, the played-up blatancy. He made a mocking face, expressive as ever. He tilted his head to the side wickedly, “Then tell me to kiss you.”

“Kiss me.” 

His kiss was suffocating, more so because I had little time to process what I’d done in giving in and much less to prepare for him to do it. Void threaded his fingers up the nape of my neck and bit my lip, using the leverage he’d gained to continue the kiss when I flinched or when I wanted air. He left me gasping, abandoning my lips to messily kiss the underside of my jaw. When his mouth descended to my throat, I imagined the marks he’d leave. The marks he’d be free to leave regardless of if I wanted him to or not. I imagined the look on my face when he did it. Despite knowing his nature, knowing his control, I murmured half-heartedly, “Stop.”

Void’s head stilled in the crook of my neck, paused there in what I assumed to be shock at my audacity. He pulled away, though, with a complacent face. It quickly turned expectant as he watched me realize that he listened to me. He obeyed. He knew that what I said wasn’t the end, that I would undoubtedly want more. I did want more; I wanted Stiles back. But the way he had obliged so easily and the small twitch of his hooked, downward smile felt so much like him. His hands were dutifully lowered to my shoulders, waiting for their next order–his body felt almost programmed to listen at that point. Full of the actions and words I wanted. All I had to do was say the word. 

The moment had slowed, mulling over itself like classical piano reprising its prelude. I couldn’t explain the naturalness I felt in his expression or in such close proximity. I couldn’t trace it back to a certain moment we had or his scent, but it felt like something had just been shaken out of place. Not perfect at all, but he had created an empty space. One I needed desperately to fill. 

“Stiles.”

I said it plainly, but I was testing the waters. Void just stared at me. It shouldn’t have been as reassuring as it was. He should’ve laughed, should’ve shook his head with the sadistic smile I knew he was hiding, but he just maintained eye contact, kept me thinking about what I wanted instead of what I should do. “Touch me.”

His hands easily glided down my torso, his whole hand retained touch, bunching my t-shirt up and applying just enough inward pressure that made me want to hum. I felt deprived of any touch, just at the threshold of getting what I needed. Void was spoonfeeding me the solutions to my frustrations. The solutions I would usually never act on. I reached up, a heightened sense of touch flaring into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him to kiss me. He yielded cruelly. And his hands continued cruelly down, fluidly rounding the indentation of my hip. He returned the fervor I had initiated the kiss with. Slow, hedonistic, and indulgent–though I wasn’t sure for whose pleasure.

Void tapped the outside of my thigh, always making his next move my choice, my responsibility. I nodded into the kiss, and he rewarded my selfishness with more passion. His devotion to chaos translated well into this kind of corrupted gratification, and his connection to Stiles made it all the more eager. He didn’t hesitate applying pressure with the heel of his palm when I bucked into his hand, and he wordlessly asked once again for my approval as he started pulling himself down my body. Once again, I encouraged him; I nodded as my legs straightened to easier slide my underwear off. 

He hovered for a good minute, both waiting for that nod and observing my immoral self-gratification. Without reminding me, he fixed his gaze on me and, at my affirmation, pressed his tongue against my clit. He stared into me as he applied more and more pressure, eyes unwavering even as I tipped my head back and whimpered. I was overtaken by the warmth of his mouth, dizzy from the mental exertion, and finding myself seeking his stare. I stopped myself from gasping for a name I knew didn’t belong to Void. I held my breath, then moaned it out and scratched at his shoulder when he pushed his head between my legs with a little more force in direct opposition to how painfully slow he was eating me out. As slow as his blinking up at me, Void kissed my cunt before circling his thumb over the mess he had made of me. With how heavy my head was, I leaned it back against the sheets. Void stopped, one hand stroking his fingers up and down my inner thigh. He licked his lips and said my name inquisitively, vying for the moment I’d look back down at him.

“You’re gonna wanna remember this.” As much as he knew I wouldn’t, he lowered his grin back down between my legs.

[lovemesomeescapism]

THISSS

SKSKJSKSKS

IT’S SO GOOD

[fredschocolatestarfish-deactiva]

void stiles masterlist ☆

check out my teen wolf masterlist <3

drabbles ✨️

"you loved him first" </3

[lovemesomeescapism]

I loved this!! Can I be tagged for future fics and drabbles? <33

[fredschocolatestarfish-deactiva]

"you loved him first" </3

check out my void stiles masterlist ☆

pairing: void!stiles x fem!reader

he keeps you alive, but not out of mercy — it’s obsession. not with you, but with how deeply you once loved stiles. the real one. the soft-spoken, awkward boy who never said what he should’ve. now there’s only the thing wearing his face, and it knows exactly how to hurt you with it. he kisses you like stiles would have — tender, familiar, like a memory made real — just to laugh in your face and remind you how stupid you are for hoping. it’s not love. it’s not even hatred. it’s something colder. something that feeds off what’s left of you.

warnings: emotional manipulation, gaslighting, obsession, toxic dynamics, canon-typical violence (implied), grief, identity confusion, hurt no comfort, and dubious emotional consent. canon divergence – set post-nogitsune arc where void survives. this is a dark fic with no resolution, just slow emotional unraveling.

you wake to the sound of your name.

soft. familiar. his voice.

it’s cruel how easily your heart reacts — that flicker of hope, that instinct to believe. you roll onto your side, half-asleep, eyes adjusting in the dark.

he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

stiles.

except he’s not.

you know that now. you’ve known for a while. but your brain still does that thing — that achey, automatic want — like maybe if you just look at him hard enough, the real one will come back.

“i missed this,” he says, like it’s casual. like he belongs here. “you and me. alone.”

you don’t answer. you’ve learned it doesn’t matter what you say — he’ll twist it anyway.

he sighs, tilting his head as he looks at you. “you’re quiet tonight. did i hurt your feelings yesterday?” a smirk. “that bit with the knife was just for fun, sweetheart. don’t be so sensitive.”

he leans in closer. the mattress dips beneath his weight. you feel him watching you, studying every inch of your face like he’s memorizing it — or maybe picking it apart.

“you loved him,” he says quietly. “before all this.”

your throat tightens. you don’t respond. he already knows.

he laughs a little, dry and sharp. “god. it’s disgusting how much you loved him. i can feel it, you know. how badly you wanted him to kiss you. touch you. how you kept waiting for him to say something — but he never did. he was scared.”

he moves again — closer now — and you freeze when you feel his hand at your jaw. it’s too gentle. that’s what makes it worse. that’s what makes your stomach turn.

and then he kisses you.

soft. slow. like he’s done it a hundred times before. like it means something.

for a second — just one — you let yourself believe. the warmth, the shape of him, the smell of his skin. all of it feels like stiles.

but then he pulls away.

and he laughs.

not gently. not kindly. a bitter, joyless sound that guts you.

“you’re pathetic,” he spits, grinning. “still hoping he’s in here somewhere?”

you don’t say a word. you just sit there, breathing through the burn in your eyes. trying not to let it show — how deep it cut. how much of you still misses a ghost.

he leans back, satisfied, eyes cold and endless.

“go ahead,” he whispers, voice curling like smoke. “keep looking for him. maybe someday, you’ll finally admit you don’t really care who’s wearing his face — as long as they love you back.”

he disappears before dawn.

you don’t cry until he’s gone.

tags: @freds-hot-dog-flavoured-water @megmc161 @blondegoth @wickedhexedwitch @jelly-rei

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© freds-chocolate-starfish 2025. do not steal, reupload, remix, or reuse my work in any way without my permission. please tag me in whatever you have taken from me as inspiration. respect the writer and their work.

[melancholyfool-deactivated20250]

Romeo and Juliet

Pairing: Henry Winter x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Henry reenact a scene from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.

a/n: I absolutely adore Shakespeare and TSH, so I just had to!

The bottle of red wine sat on the coffee table, nearly empty, its deep crimson contents having done their work. Warmth pooled in your chest, radiating out to your limbs as you leaned against the arm of Henry’s sofa, your bare legs tucked beneath you. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, bathing the room in a golden glow, shadows dancing on the dark wood-paneled walls.

Henry sat opposite you, his tie loosened and the top buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the pale skin of his throat and a teasing glimpse of his collarbone. His long fingers lazily twirled the stem of his wine glass, but his sharp eyes hadn’t left you for the last few minutes, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as you rambled on about Shakespeare.

“You’re drunk,” he murmured, though his voice lacked any real disapproval.

“So are you,” you countered, leaning forward, a playful smile curving your lips. “But that hasn’t stopped you from quoting King Lear at me for the past hour.”

Henry chuckled, a low, velvety sound that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. “A fitting tribute to your love of tragedy,” he said, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“Oh, please.” You waved a hand, rolling your eyes dramatically. “You’re just upset because I suggested Romeo and Juliet earlier.”

“That’s because it’s trite,” he said, setting his glass down with deliberate care. “If we’re going to do this, we should at least choose something worthwhile.”

Your smile widened, and you felt a spark of mischief stir within you. “Do what, exactly?”

Henry raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if he were trying to read your thoughts. “Whatever it is you’re plotting,” he said, his tone both curious and cautious.

You shifted, uncurling your legs and leaning forward so that your face was closer to his, the distance between you charged with an almost electric tension. “I think we should reenact a scene.”

Henry’s lips parted slightly, his eyes darkening. “A scene?”

“From one of Shakespeare’s plays,” you clarified, your voice low, a teasing lilt colouring your words.

He leaned back against the sofa, his smirk deepening. “Which play?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you stood up, swaying slightly from the wine as you walked toward the fireplace. You felt his eyes follow you, the weight of his gaze lingering on the bare skin of your legs beneath your short dress. The heat of the fire warmed your front as you paused, clasping your hands together dramatically, your head tilted upward as if addressing the heavens.

“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?” you proclaimed, your voice rich with mock yearning.

Henry’s laugh was low and indulgent, though he stayed seated, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “Romeo and Juliet?” he asked, his tone dripping with skepticism. “Predictable.”

You turned to face him, your smile widening. “Predictable or not, it's classic.”

“And what makes you think I’ll agree to this nonsense?” he asked, though the way he leaned forward slightly betrayed his growing interest.

“Because you love the sound of your own voice,” you teased, sauntering back toward him.

Henry’s smirk softened into something more dangerous, his gaze flicking to your lips before returning to your eyes. “You’re insufferable,” he murmured, but he reached for your hand anyway, pulling you toward him until you stood between his knees.

“Deny thy father and refuse thy name,” you continued, undeterred, your voice dropping to a whisper as your free hand brushed against the open collar of his shirt.

Henry’s breath hitched ever so slightly, his hand tightening around yours. “Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”

You smiled, your lips inches from his. “You do know the lines.”

“I should hope so,” he replied, his voice low, almost a growl.

He stood abruptly, towering over you, his presence overwhelming in the small space between you. His free hand came to rest lightly on your waist, his touch firm but teasing, as if testing your reaction. “With love’s light wings did I o’er-perch these walls,” he recited, his voice like velvet. “For stony limits cannot hold love out.”

Your pulse quickened, the air between you thickening as his fingers trailed upward, grazing the curve of your hip. “If they do see thee, they will murder thee,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly.

“Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords,” he countered, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, his gaze dark and unrelenting. “Look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.”

You felt yourself leaning into him, the heady mix of wine and his proximity making your head spin. “Henry—”

But he silenced you with a kiss, his lips capturing yours with an urgency that sent sparks racing down your spine. His hand slid up your back, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, the faint taste of wine on his tongue making your head swim even more.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his forehead resting against yours. “Do you still want to play, Juliet?” he murmured, his voice rough with desire.

The kiss left you breathless, your hands trembling slightly as you clung to the front of his shirt, your fingers tangling in the fabric. Henry’s gaze was molten as he looked down at you, his lips slightly parted.

But you weren’t ready to let the moment break.

“Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” you whispered Romeo’s line, the words barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

Henry’s lips twitched, but his eyes never left yours. “What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?”

“The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine,” you countered, leaning into him, the line spoken with more heat than Shakespeare might have intended.

He exhaled sharply, as if the tension between you had struck him as deeply as it struck you. “You really are insufferable,” he murmured, but his tone held no bite.

You smirked, your fingers sliding up to toy with the open collar of his shirt. “And yet, you’re still standing here.”

His hand moved to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a tenderness that sent your heart racing. “Only because you’ve bewitched me,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in his chest.

For a moment, the room was silent save for your unsteady breaths. The intensity of his gaze pinned you in place, and you realized, with a dizzying certainty, that the wine wasn’t the only thing making you lightheaded.

“I suppose you expect me to declare my undying love next,” he said, breaking the silence, though there was a teasing lilt to his voice.

You tilted your head, a slow smile curving your lips. “If you don’t, I might lose interest.”

Henry’s smirk returned, but there was something darker behind it now, something that made your stomach tighten in anticipation. “We can’t have that, can we?”

Before you could respond, he bent slightly, his hands gripping your waist as he lifted you effortlessly. A surprised gasp escaped your lips as he carried you toward the sofa, sitting down with you straddling his lap. The sudden closeness sent a jolt through you, and you were acutely aware of every point of contact between your bodies.

“I take thee at thy word,” he murmured, his hands sliding up your sides, his touch firm but reverent. “Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Henry.”

You couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up, your fingers brushing against the hair at the nape of his neck. “That’s not how the line goes.”

“Artistic license,” he said, his voice low, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth as he spoke.

The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down your spine, and your laughter faded, replaced by a heady mix of desire and anticipation. “You’re not bad at this,” you murmured, tilting your head to capture his lips again.

This kiss was slower, deeper, the kind of kiss that unraveled you from the inside out. His hands roamed over your back, pressing you closer as if the distance between you was unbearable.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads rested together, your breaths mingling as the tension in the room grew impossibly thick. “What now?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Henry’s eyes flicked to the fireplace, the golden light casting shadows across his sharp features. “Now,” he said, his hands tightening on your hips, “we see how far you’re willing to take this little performance of yours.”

Your heart pounded as his words hung in the air, the challenge in his tone sending a thrill through you. “Are you daring me?”

His lips quirked into a smirk. “You’re the one who started this. Or have you lost your nerve?”

You leaned in, your lips grazing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “I never lose my nerve.”

The sound of his sharp inhale was immensely satisfying, and when you pulled back to look at him, his eyes were dark and hooded, his jaw tight as if he were restraining himself.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low, the edge of warning still threaded through his words. “You’re testing your limits.”

You met his gaze, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips as you leaned in just enough for him to feel the warmth of your breath. “I don’t mind a little danger,” you replied, your voice soft yet defiant, before pulling away just enough to gauge his reaction.

His hands moved to cup your face, his grip firm but not rough as he forced you to meet his gaze. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he said, though the warning in his voice was laced with something else—something unspoken but no less powerful.

“Then show me,” you whispered, the words daring him to take control.

And Henry, ever the scholar, didn’t need to be told twice.

His hands slid from your face down to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat from his body seemed to rival the fire, and your pulse quickened as his gaze locked on yours, unwavering and intense.

"Careful what you wish for," he said, his voice quiet but brimming with promise.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before the words could form, his lips were on yours again. This kiss was different—possessive, deliberate. He kissed you as if he were making a point, as if he wanted to erase any doubt about how deeply he felt for you.

His hands roamed your body, exploring with a confidence that left you breathless. You gripped his shoulders for balance, your fingers pressing into the firm muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt. The feel of him grounded you, even as your head spun from the wine and his closeness.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, a ghost of a touch that made you shiver.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours.

You shook your head, though it was a lie, and he knew it. “I’m not,” you whispered, the words catching in your throat.

He smirked, his hands tightening on your hips. “Liar.”

Before you could respond, he shifted, standing up from the sofa with you still in his arms. You let out a startled gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carried you across the room.

“Henry, what are you doing?” you asked, though the answer seemed obvious.

He didn’t reply, his expression unreadable as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The dim lighting from the fireplace followed you, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

When he reached the bedroom, he kicked the door shut behind him and set you down on the edge of the bed. You watched him, your heart pounding as he shrugged off his blazer and tossed it over the back of a chair. The way he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves sent a thrill through you, and you realized you were holding your breath.

He stepped closer, standing over you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “You wanted a performance,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

You tilted your chin up, meeting his gaze with as much bravado as you could muster. “I can handle you.”

Henry’s smirk deepened, but there was something darker in his expression now. “We’ll see about that.”

He leaned down, his hands bracketing your thighs as he pressed a knee onto the mattress, caging you in. The scent of his cologne—woodsy and sharp—mixed with the faint trace of tobacco and wine on his breath. It was intoxicating, and you found yourself leaning into him without thinking.

“Say your line,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “What?”

“From the play,” he clarified, his voice steady but filled with a dangerous edge. “Let’s not break character now.”

Your mind raced, and then it clicked. You lifted a hand, pressing it flat against his chest as you whispered, “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

Henry exhaled sharply, his eyes darkening as the words seemed to strike something deep within him. He leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“I am no pilot,” he said softly, his tone reverent. “Yet, wert thou as far as that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise.”

The air between you felt electric, every word a spark that brought you closer to the edge. His hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he kissed you again, this time slower, deeper.

Your hands found their way to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly as you tried to undo them. He pulled back just enough to watch you, his lips curving into a smirk as he saw your frustration.

“Having trouble?” he teased.

You shot him a glare, though it lacked any real heat. “You’re not exactly making it easy.”

He chuckled, low and rich, and his hands moved to cover yours. Guiding your fingers, he helped you undo the buttons, one by one, until his shirt hung open. The sight of him—his chest rising and falling, his skin warm under your touch—made your breath hitch.

Henry leaned down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then to the hollow of your throat. His hands slid under the hem of your shirt, his touch featherlight as he pushed the fabric up, exposing more of your skin to the cool air.

“Still think you can handle me?” he asked, his voice a murmur against your collarbone.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you nodded, your hands gripping his arms as he kissed a trail up to your jaw.

“Good,” he said simply, and then he was lifting you, guiding you further onto the bed.

[lovemesomeescapism]

@melancholyfool I’m actually astonished how good this is, I just love the way you write Henry❤️❤️🥲

[melancholyfool-deactivated20250]

Can You Hear It?

Pairing: Henry Winter x Fem!Reader

Summary: You, Henry, Francis, Charles, and Camilla preform a Bacchanal

a/n: This came to me in a dream...enjoy!

The air in Francis’ country home was thick and oppressive, the kind of summer heat that stuck to you, made you dizzy with its weight. The sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago, but it left the air still warm, the night alive with the hum of crickets and cicadas. Inside, the five of you sprawled languidly across the furniture, the scent of spilled wine and sweat mingling in the air. The old, opulent room glowed with the golden light of a few scattered candles, their wax pooling on the ornate holders Francis had carelessly lit earlier in the evening.

You shifted in your chair, the fabric of your white dress sticking to your skin. Across from you, Camilla leaned back, her own white dress riding up her thighs, her legs bare and glistening faintly with the sheen of sweat. Her laugh was airy, a sound that drifted and lingered, like the faint taste of honey on the tongue. Charles lounged beside her, his hand lazily tracing patterns on her knee. Francis was slumped in an armchair, his head tilted back as though lost in a drunken reverie, his curls sticking to his damp forehead. And Henry—Henry sat upright, his back rigid, his pale fingers curled loosely around the stem of his wine glass. His dark eyes watched you all, calculating even in the haze of the wine, which you now suspected had been laced with something more potent.

The room buzzed with a strange energy, electric and unspoken. You could feel it in the way Henry’s gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, in the way Camilla’s laughter became breathier, almost nervous. Words slurred together, conversations looping into nonsense. And then Henry stood, his movements sharp, slicing through the languid haze that had settled over the group.

“It’s time,” he said, his voice low and steady, commanding. The air seemed to shift, the weight of his words anchoring you all to the moment. He extended a hand toward you, and without thinking, you took it. His palm was cool and dry against yours, his grip firm as he pulled you to your feet. The others followed without a word, as if entranced, and soon you were all making your way outside, the warm night air pressing against your skin like a second layer.

The forest loomed ahead, its darkness inviting and ominous. You walked in silence, your heart pounding in rhythm with the cicadas, the wine making your limbs feel both weightless and heavy at once. The path was uneven, roots and stones catching at your bare feet, but Henry’s grip on your hand never faltered. Finally, you emerged into a clearing, the moonlight spilling down like silver, casting everything in an otherworldly glow.

You found yourselves forming a circle, drawn together as if by some unseen force. Henry stood at the center, his face illuminated, his features sharp and almost cruel in the moonlight. He began to speak, his voice steady and measured, though the words themselves seemed to blur together in your mind, their meaning just out of reach. You couldn’t focus, your head swimming, your eyelids heavy. You glanced to your left and saw Camilla, Charles gripping her hand so tightly his knuckles were white. To your right, Francis’ eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on Henry with an intensity that bordered on reverence.

And then Henry was in front of you. You hadn’t even noticed him move, but there he was, towering over you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost tender.

“Yes,” you whispered, though your voice barely carried, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. You turned your head to look at Camilla, and she was already moving toward you, her hand outstretched. Without a word, she grabbed your hand, her grip firm and urgent, and before you knew it, the two of you were running, breaking away from the circle and plunging deeper into the forest.

The sound of the boys shouting behind you spurred you on, your heart pounding in your chest. Camilla’s laughter rang out, wild and unrestrained, and she pulled you along, her bare feet barely making a sound on the forest floor. The trees blurred around you, the world narrowing to the sound of your breath and the pounding of your feet.

You stumbled into a stream, the cold water shocking against your skin. Camilla slipped, her laughter turning to a soft cry as she fell, the bottom of her dress soaking through. You bent down to help her, your own dress dragging in the water, clinging to your legs. “Are you all right?” you asked, your voice breathless. She nodded, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead, and pulled you further along.

When you reached the water’s edge, the moonlight reflecting off its surface, you both paused, panting and laughing, your fingers still intertwined. The spell was broken when the boys caught up, their figures emerging from the shadows like specters. Camilla let go of your hand and drifted toward Francis and Charles, leaving you standing alone.

Henry’s gaze found yours immediately. His chest heaved with the exertion of the run, and his eyes traveled over you, lingering on the way your wet dress clung to your body, translucent now in the moonlight. His breathing slowed, deep, and he stepped toward you.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his fingers ghosting over your arm. You shivered, though the night was warm, and nodded, unable to speak.

Henry tilted his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes, and you felt yourself moving backward, drawn toward the water. The coolness lapped at your ankles, then your knees, as you waded in, and Henry followed, his movements unhurried. When he reached you, his hands found your waist, his touch firm and grounding. You draped your arms over his shoulders, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he pressed his lips to your temple, then your cheek, each kiss slow, burning.

The world seemed to fade away, the sounds of the others splashing and laughing in the water dimming into the background. You threw your head back, staring up at the sky, the stars spinning above you. Henry’s lips found your neck, and you let out a soft whine, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Henry…” you whispered, your voice trailing off, your mind too hazy to form a coherent thought.

And then a scream shattered the stillness. You jerked your head toward the sound, your trance breaking, and saw Camilla running back into the forest, Charles and Francis close behind her. The sight was surreal, like a scene from a dream, and you could only watch as they disappeared into the shadows.

Henry’s hands tightened on your waist, grounding you. “Stay with me,” he murmured, his voice rough with something you couldn’t quite name. You turned back to him, your eyes meeting his, and let him pull you out of the water.

The night air kissed your wet skin, your dress clinging to you. You spun away from Henry, laughing softly, your movements light and unsteady. The grass was cool beneath your feet, and you stumbled, falling onto your back, the stars spinning above you.

Henry loomed over you, his expression unreadable, and you looked up at him, your legs parting slightly, the fabric of your dress slipping higher. His gaze darkened, and he knelt down, his hands sliding over your thighs. You lifted your leg, brushing your foot against his side, and he caught your ankle, his grip firm as he pulled you closer.

Your breath hitched, your body arching toward him, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

But you slip from beneath him, your skin a fleeting whisper against his, and dart into the forest as though it’s beckoning you, the cool, damp air kissing your flushed cheeks. Henry’s voice trails after you, low and sharp against the soft hum of the night.

“Wait!” he calls, but you only laugh, a lilting, distant sound, like the chime of bells lost on the wind.

Barefoot and wild, you run deeper into the trees, the hem of your soaked dress brushing against your thighs. The forest hums with a pulse that’s almost alive. The breeze feels heavy, pressing against your skin, and the moon glows too bright, casting the world in silvery shades that shimmer and shift. You stop, your chest heaving, and press yourself against the rough bark of a tree.

You glance over your shoulder just as Henry emerges from the shadows. He moves with a deliberate slowness, his face caught half in shadow, half in light, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes the air crackle.

“Running won’t save you,” he says, voice low, each word curling in the air like smoke.

“Who says I want to be saved?” you whisper, tilting your head with a teasing smile.

Henry takes a step closer, his lips quirking in a faint, wolfish grin. “Then why run?”

Your fingers trail along the tree’s bark as you circle it slowly, swaying on your feet as though pulled by an unseen rhythm. You look at him through half-lidded eyes, your voice soft, almost singsong. “Because the forest is calling me. Can’t you hear it?”

He stops, his head tilting slightly, as if to listen. The silence stretches, heavy and alive. And then, faintly, it comes—a low, muffled sound, like music played underwater. The cadence is slow, strange, and haunting, the kind that seeps into your skin and stirs something deep in your chest.

Henry’s gaze doesn’t leave you, his eyes hazy, reflecting the pale glow of the moon. “I hear it,” he murmurs, his voice almost reverent.

You smile, stepping out from behind the tree, your movements languid and unsteady, as though your body is no longer entirely your own. “My spirit,” you whisper, running your hands slowly down your arms, your waist, your hips. “It’s not here anymore, it's slipped away. It’s out there, dancing. Can’t you feel it, Henry?”

Henry’s breathing slows, his chest rising and falling in time with the faint pulse of the music. He steps closer, his voice low and distant. “Yes. I feel it. It’s everywhere.”

You close the space between you, lifting your hand to trail your fingertips down his jaw, his neck. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and when he opens them, they gleam, unfocused but intense. “Your spirit is dancing with mine,” you murmur, your lips curving into a soft, dreamy smile. “They’ve left us behind, Henry. They’ve merged.”

Henry sways slightly, as though caught in the same current pulling you under. “It’s strange,” he says, his voice thick with something you can’t name. “I can feel it—like I’m not here anymore, either. Like we’re somewhere else entirely.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and distant, carried by the breeze. “We are. Don’t you see? This isn’t real. None of this is real. We’ve slipped away.”

Henry’s lips part as if to speak, but no words come. He watches you with an almost feral intensity, his hands at his sides, trembling slightly. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, the words heavy and slow, as if dragged from somewhere deep inside him.

You step back, your bare feet pressing into the mossy ground, your body swaying to the strange, invisible melody. “Do you hear it, Henry? The music?”

Henry nods, his gaze locked on you. “Yes.”

You laugh again, throwing your head back, your arms lifting as though embracing the night itself. “It’s our spirits, Henry. They’re dancing together. They’re one now. Can’t you feel it?”

Henry steps closer. “I feel it,” he whispers, his voice rough and unsteady.

The world around you blurs, the forest spinning and shimmering like a mirage. The moon seems to grow brighter, the light spilling over you both like water. Henry reaches out, his hands brushing against your hips, your waist, pulling you closer. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the hum of his breath against your cheek.

“We’re not here anymore,” you murmur, your voice distant, your gaze hazy as you stare at him. “We’ve left.”

Henry nods, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “I know.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, the two of you are suspended in the glow of the unreal. Then, slowly, you pull away, just enough for the night to slip between you. Henry watches you, his eyes wide and dark, his breath coming in shallow waves.

Without a word, your fingers hook at the hem of your dress, and you tug it upward in one fluid motion. The fabric slides over your skin and you toss it to the ground, the moonlight tracing the curves of your bare body. Henry’s breath hitches, sharp and audible, his gaze fixed on you like a man mesmerized.

You smirk, tilting your head to the side, your voice soft but teasing. “What’s the matter, Henry?"

He doesn’t respond, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling as though he’s forgotten how to breathe.

You laugh again, low and throaty, and before he can move, you dart away, disappearing into the shadows of the forest. The sound of your laughter lingers, mingling with the strange music that seems to echo all around, pulling Henry deeper into the haze.

The air is thick with the pull of something beyond the earth, as Henry stands frozen, his eyes still lingering where you disappeared into the trees. Your voice, soft and alluring, reverberates through the forest, the words melting into the night air.

Come to me, Henry.

Your voice, sweet and haunting, is everywhere—wrapped around him like the warmest of embraces, a whisper in the breeze, in the rustling leaves, in the distant echo of his heartbeat. The sound draws him in, a tether he cannot break, and he feels his limbs move without his command, as though the very ground is guiding him toward you.

His body feels light, like he’s floating, suspended between earth and sky, carried on the sound of your voice. Every step he takes pulls him closer, the intensity of the pull growing stronger with each moment.

He catches sight of you then, dancing bare in the shadows. You move with an ethereal grace, as though you're not even bound by gravity, your skin glowing in the moonlight. A teasing laugh echoes in his ears, soft and melodic.

Henry’s breath catches in his chest, his pulse quickening, his heart pounding in his ears. His hands reach for you, his fingers brushing the cool air where you just were. But you slip further away, always just out of reach.

“Stop running,” he growls, low and strained, the ache in his voice making it clear how much he wants you.

You giggle, the sound like wind chimes in a storm, your voice rippling through him. "Catch me, Henry. Catch me if you can."

You laugh like a wild thing in the night. His muscles coil, and with one swift motion, he’s on you. He grabs your wrist, the firm grip locking you in place. His body presses against yours, chest to chest, heat radiating off both of you like a shared flame.

“You think you can escape this?” Henry murmurs, his voice thick with something primal, his breath warm against your ear. “I’ll never let you go.”

Before you can respond, his arms wrap around your frame, lifting you off the ground. Your body curves into his, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Your lips brush his, teasing, just barely a kiss, and you feel him shiver in response, his hands tightening around your waist.

You look up at the sky, eyes glazed over in a daze, and for the briefest moment, you see it—a flicker in the darkness above. Your spirit dances there, light and free, moving in ways your body cannot. You smile, a lazy, satisfied smile, letting your head fall back to rest against Henry’s shoulder, giggling softly.

Henry feels the pull too—he can see it. His spirit, intertwined with yours, dances in the night sky above him. He stops, breath caught in his throat, eyes wide in awe. The faint music, that ethereal melody, fills his ears, louder than before. His pulse quickens as his gaze follows the twirling shadows above.

“I see it,” he whispers, the awe in his voice unmistakable. “Our spirits, dancing together. They’re one now.”

Your fingers dig into his neck, your nails scraping lightly against his skin as you pull him closer. “It’s beautiful,” you murmur, your voice thick with desire, the dreamlike haze still enveloping both of you.

Henry's lips trail kisses along your jaw, your throat, just grazing the sensitive skin there. His movements are slow, his hands caressing your back, pulling you tighter to him, feeling the soft, damp fabric of his clothes stick to your skin, feeling your body respond to his touch. He knows you can feel it too—the energy between you both, the pull that neither of you can resist.

“I’ve always known this moment was meant to be,” Henry breathes, his lips brushing over your pulse, his chest rising and falling with every shaky breath.

You smile lazily, intoxicated by the moment, by the music, by him. “We’ve always been connected. Now, it’s just…clear.”

The night deepens around you both, a soft blanket of stillness, and Henry carries you back toward the house. The moonlight bathes you both in an otherworldly glow as you trace invisible patterns along his skin, your fingers brushing along his neck, his chest, leaving marks of heat in your wake.

The sound of your laughter, your sighs, echoes in the forest as Henry walks, his grip on you tightening with every step. The air feels charged, thick with the magic of the night, and you feel like you’re floating—half in this world, half in the one your spirits have created.

Your eyes meet Henry’s, the glint in them matching the brightness of the stars above. His lips curl into a smile, dark and dangerous, and he kisses you again, a slow, sweet kiss that tastes like wine, like promise, like everything you’ve ever wanted. You lose yourself in him, in the pull of the night, in the merging of souls.

And when you look up again, the house is no longer a distant dream—it’s real, and you’re almost there, but you don’t feel like you ever truly left.

[lovemesomeescapism]

oh @melancholyfool you are FEEDING us well

this is absolutely gorgeous!❤️🥲

[deviika]

—Fyodor Dostoevsky

[moviestarmartini]

alta suciedad. — franco colapinto x f!reader

summary: while interviewing franco, you misunderstood what he meant with 'talented with his tongue'. lucky for you, he's more than willing to actually show you his skills.

wc: 2.9k

warnings: interviewer!reader, hispanic!reader, porn with an ounce of plot, set during media day of the austin gp, casual sex, oral sex (fem recieving), p in v, unprotected sex, pull out and pray, mean dom!franco, dumbification, degradation, a teeny amount of praise, aftercare, spanglish/sentences in spanish.

A/N: based on this request and took some inspo from this other anon, i'm literally giggling typing this in order to publish it. no specific song for today even though there's a few references even in the title. hope y'all are hungry!!

“I’m talented with my tongue.” 

You didn’t have that much experience when it came to interviewing professionally— you’d been a kid reporter at the same sport you strived to get there, and in the course of getting there, you’ve seen a thousand and one million things that impressed you. 

But this? 

Your mouth hung open, giving him a few rapid blinks while your brain processed the information. 

“You wanna see?” Franco Colapinto insisted, not reading your expression well enough, or ignoring it at the very least. 

“¿Aquí?” You blinked, unable to process the event in the main language of the paddock. You were one of the youngest reporters there, but that didn’t mean you were inexperienced. That had just completely caught you off guard. 

Franco cocked a brow before showing you and the camera how he could manipulate said organ so the sides touched and a tiny hole formed in the middle. 

Yet again he surprised you, or more you surprised yourself with how further down the gutter your mind was at. 

“Oh, good!” You snapped out of it, but he had seemingly finally connected the dots, or so the smirk in his face made it seem like it. 

“Well, thank you for having us, Franco. Good luck during the weekend.” Your  composure was back not even two seconds later, the cameraman soon signaled the transmission was off. A relieved sigh left your lips while your shoulders relaxed, giving your coworker the mic and transmitter to take to the media tent just a few steps away. 

You were just turning back to head there as well, ready to get immersed in writing a report before your name was called. Your heels turned you around by force of habit, not realizing the tone in the driver’s voice might mean trouble. 

“Yes?” You asked politely, hands clasped in front of you to avoid any chance of fidgeting. Your little crush was idiotic, or so you considered it from the day you first interviewed him. 

“¿Qué vas a hacer hoy?” He took a step closer in order to ask the question, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans. 

“¿Perdón?” You realized that sounded rude, your voice repeating a better answer soon after. “Seguir trabajando, why?” A frown settled between your brows, head leaning slightly to the right. Where was this going exactly? The confusion only settled further when you noticed his eyes darting around before leaning in. 

“Si querés que de verdad te enseñe que puedo hacer con mi lengua, entra al motorhome después de las siete, te dejo la puerta de atrás abierta. Mi cuarto está a la izquierda.” And with that, he pulled away, turned around and left. 

You did the same, convinced the idea was just a figment of your imagination, the drought you’ve been suffering for more than a year to get there tricking every nerve in your brain to believe those words. It was settling into the late afternoon, and you worked at a pace Sonic would envy. His words bounced around your gray matter, and after much debating you stayed after the six pm mark, when everyone else left. You peered your head out of your station noticing how the place was almost empty. It was Thursday after all, the whole crews were not active until the following day. 

The curiosity got the best of you, and you packed your bag to head there, skittish at the sight of anyone who crossed your way— or at least the few that did. 

No one was used to walking behind the team buildings, never mind during what’s considered after hours. Your breath got stuck in your throat when you noticed the door ajar, and no one came in nor out to justify the fact. 

“Thought you wouldn’t come.” Franco’s voice snapped you out of the hesitation, arms crossed over his chest. 

“I thought I was supposed to come in by myself.” You got the bravery to counter with the way your heart sped up with adrenaline coursing through your veins. 

“You’re late.” Franco’s response was quick, witty. His tone made you raise your brow; it was… different. Commanding, you could pinpoint. 

“I shouldn’t come out and get you, vení.” Before you could even process it, he took your arm and dragged you inside, going straight down the hallway and taking a left before the door closed shut— no witnesses visible to what he had just done. 

“You can sit wherever you like.” He invited, his voice was back to its playful tone. You nodded, putting your bag down by the door and sitting on the small couch near a corner. 

“Sos muy bonita, ¿sabías?” He complimented while finishing to fix up his room, side eyeing you. 

“Why am I here? What do you want?” You asked bluntly, not accepting the compliment. 

“Look, if you wanted me to write positively about you on the piece, you already got it.” You carefully watched him take a seat next to you, and you both turned to face each other.

“Tonta también, ¿no?” It was as if you were ignoring each other’s words, and before you could get offended, his fingertips brushed your hair out of the way of your face. Any smart quip you could’ve thrown at him flew out the window, your lips parting. 

“That’s just how you looked at me earlier. When you thought I was referring to something dirty. Tontita.” He inched closer. You couldn’t help but do the same, a bit eagerly, eliciting a laugh out of his lips. 

“Do you like me?” It was his turn to be blunt. Without hesitation you nodded, squeezing your lips into a thin line after realizing that might’ve been a mistake. An embarrassing one at that. 

“No pasa nada. Vos también me gustás preciosa…” His voice trailed with his head leaning closer, lips brushing against the prickled skin of your neck. “…inteligente…” A kiss pressed to the area. “…y al parecer, puta.” 

The gasp disappeared between the blurred lines of your lips and his crashing, the term disappearing in your mind while you kissed him. Your hands gripped the material of his team shirt while his own lowered down your back, pulling you closer, almost on top of his lap. 

“¿Hacés esto mucho? Sneak into other drivers’ rooms?” He asked while leaning back down to kiss your neck with a twinge of more harshness, ragged breath leaving your lips while you shook your head ‘no’ 

“¿Sos muda? Habla.” There was that commanding tone again, his fingers delving into the skin of your thighs to squeeze what he wanted out of you. 

“No. Nunca.” You replied with a gulp, leaning your head back to recieve more kisses as a reward for your answer. 

“So I’m the lucky winner?” It sounded something between a compliment and a joke, and you decided to humor him a little with a smile. 

“One could say so.” You replied, thinking you’ve gotten the gist of it. 

“I’m surprised. With that skirt…” He shook his head after tutting, making you figure out the context of his words. You were into it enough to not get offended by the allegation, normally would have defended yourself with the fact it was terribly hot outside. You didn’t like dressing similar to the rest of the reporters in the paddock, and maybe this once it played both in your favor and against it… sort of. 

His lips captured yours again, his tongue swiping your bottom lip. You weren’t dumb— even if he liked to say so— parting your lips without complaint, feeling the way your tongues tangled together while he pushed you down until your back hit the fabric of the furniture. 

The open mouth kisses started redirecting their path down your jaw, following a trail down the length of your neck. He took the opportunity to breathe your scent. 

“Olés tan rico,” He groaned, the growing erection in his jeans pressing against your upper thigh. 

“I can already imagine how that pretty pussy tastes. Can’t wait to make you cum just using my tongue.”  The idea made you shudder, his hands raising your top to move it out of the way while he kept kissing back. You took the initiative to just pull it over your head and throw it somewhere else. 

“You’re so good, stripping for me without having to ask.” Franco cooed, his pace slowing down when his mouth reached down your belly button, making him look at him expectantly. 

What you didn’t expect was for him to just tug on your denim skirt up to completely move it out of the way without removing the piece, his knuckles brushing the spot marked with your aroused slickness, your hips involuntarily twitching to lean closer into his touch. 

“Si solo te he besado y ya estás re mojadita,” Another coo left his mouth, this one with a certain amount of jest in it. You felt deeply embarrassed in a way your face displayed it, only making his smile grow in size. 

Franco almost ripped off the underwear and chucked it somewhere in the room. No moment to adapt was left at your disposition, his tongue pressing flat against your wet core. The noise of a moan coming from you clashed with the hum of satisfaction he felt from the sheer taste of you. 

“So sweet,” Franco praised, and those were the last words to come out of his mouth before he started to back up his words from earlier. 

The whole situation felt like a dream. Not only the fact he made an advance upon noticing how far down the gutter your mind was, but the fact you even came there in the first place. Not that you regretted it, with how he flicked that sensitive nub with the tip of his tongue.  

You didn’t believe his promise earlier— thinking it was just silly dirty talking— but he was proving you wrong. Your moans were the perfect evidence, fingers tangling in his curls while his left hand rose up to grope your exposed breast. 

The shuffling noise outside the room made him perk up and away from your dripping cunt, chin glistening with your wetness. He pulled his index fingers to his lips to signal you to be quiet before continuing, but his attempt fell futile. You were reaching your release quick, his magic working a little too well. There was no warning; his other hand left the grip on your thigh to cover your mouth, holding it down a bit too roughly to send a message. 

Your muffled moans and cries only set him off, teasing your entrance before licking the trail up to your clitoris, suckling on it. He fluttered his eyes open, and the sight was nothing but completely arousing. Your eyes were rolled back, column arching up while his expert affections tipped you over the edge. Your thighs simultaneously shivered and lightly squeezed his head, and it was enough for Franco to decide he was in heaven. 

Once the overwhelming sensation started to wear off, your legs relaxed, allowing him to pull away. With a clearer mind you noticed how his chin and lips glistened before removing the substance with the back of his hand, as if it was just sauce from an actual meal. 

“¿Por qué me mirás así?” Franco wondered at your blissful expression. “¿Ya te enamoraste, putita?” There was no verbal answer; he was eager to link his lips with yours again in yet another sloppy makeout session. This once, however, you couldn’t pretend you didn’t feel his erection pressing against your inner thigh. 

Taking initiative, your hand lowered down his torso to fumble the button of his pants a little before being able to undo it. A groan followed by teeth tugging at your bottom lip was the reaction you gained from jerking him off slowly under his underwear. That gave you enough confidence to swipe your thumb across the leaking tip in order to tease him. 

The sound of a moan from him echoed inside your mouth, a hum from satisfaction leaving consequently. However, your moment of dominance soon faded with his hand slapping yours away before spreading your legs even further— to the point it pulled on the muscles of your inner thigh just a little, the burning sensation mushing with pleasure— the skirt hiking up to rest on your torso. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He leaned in to whisper, feeling him nudge your entrance in order to tease you. The sensation that followed was something similar to your brain shutting down, managing to only nod. The smell of his cologne, his body pressing down on you. 

Franco, Franco, Franco, Fran— 

“¿Qué pasa tontita? Say it.” He egged you on, threatening to push himself inside, but not making it far enough to bring you satisfaction. 

“Yes, por favor.” You begged, getting a chaste kiss for a reward followed by the intrusion spreading your warm walls. You saw the way Franco tried to keep it together, the façade crumbling under a groan. You felt too good. His mind could only pinpoint your body under his, the warmth hugging his stiff dick and electrifying every nerve of his being. 

His mind couldn’t stop chanting your name. 

“Move,” You asked nicely, though it came out in a huff. He found himself too enthralled to complain at your tone, instead complying. 

The lower tone of his moans harmonized with the high pitched of yours, the sound of skin frantically coming in contact filling up the room enough for both of you two to forget what could possibly be going on outside. At least it had been a while since you last heard people outside doing whatever. 

“Dios, que apretadita estás,” Franco groaned out loud, his lips brushing against yours. You took the leap, closing the distance between the two of you. But you couldn’t get much out of it due to your own fault, moans interrupting the session. 

“No, besáme.” You whined when he pulled away slightly, and a smirk rose at his lips before he locked them with yours, pace increasing. You struggled to engage further, the moans and groans interrupting. 

“No, besáme.” Franco replicated your plea from earlier before laughing between heavy breaths. 

You couldn’t do anything but pucker your bottom lip out, not finding the words to complain about how mean he was being. Besides, all coherent thoughts disappeared the moment you felt your second orgasm peeking from behind you at a rapid rate. Your nails dug into the uncovered skin of his forearms, just below where the team shirt started covering his biceps. 

“¿Por qué me apretás tanto?” He hissed before falling upon the realization, deciding to keep having his fun with you and slowing down. 

“Fuck— ¡¿qué te pasa?!” You groaned, feeling the release reeling down into a sensation of being completely stuck midway. 

“Dale, decime lo que quieres. De forma bonita, como vos.” He kept his thrusts slow and deep, trying to contain his own release from the pulsating walls squeezing the life out of his cock. 

“I wanna cum,” You felt the embarrassment of having to request that out loud settle in your stomach, soon washed over by the sensation the quickening of his hips gave your core. 

“Si, si. Franco, that’s it,” You cried out, hiding your face in the crook of his neck while your thighs shivered once more. 

Your cunt was so warm and tight he almost didn’t pull out. Almost. After a groan left the back of his throat, droplets of white painted your lower abdomen, thankfully not staining your skirt. 

He kept himself supported by his forearms, allowing him to lean in and kiss your forehead and cheeks. 

There wasn’t much to be said, you knew that, and so did he. Carefully, he fixed his underwear and pants before getting up, muttering something under his breath in his attempt to find the wet wipes he knew he had… somewhere in the organized clutter of his room. 

“Dejá que te limpio,” His voice was tender, the wet tissue dragging across your skin to remove the seminal liquid, before another carefully cleaned the sweat off your forehead and neck. 

You thanked him with a nod, unable to hold eye contact for long. Once you felt comfortable you sat up, fixing your clothes and hair before getting up on your legs, still a bit wobbly. You took it upon yourself to clean the damp spot on the couch where you laid, still embarrassed by the whole ordeal. 

Quickly, you slipped your underwear on, unaware of the pair of eyes following your every move with a cold calculation. 

“¿Qué vas a hacer hoy?” The question he asked to what seemed to be ages ago popped up again, making you turn, just as confused as you were earlier. 

“Dormir… cenar. Ya veremos, dijo el ciego.” At your cheeky response his laughter echoed through the room, arms folded over his torso. 

“¿Habrá un espacio para mí en esa cena o nos vemos mañana a la misma hora?” He took a step closer. Then another. And another. Until he stood in front of you, leaning down enough to whisper in your ear. 

“No importa si no me querés ver hoy en la noche todo caballeroso, mañana procura llegar a tiempo y controlar esa boquita.” Yet again, his voice electrified goosebumps all over your skin. 

What did you just get yourself into?

[brasiliangp]

between the media referring to george as ‘georgina’, horner saying he’s hysterical, max calling him a princess repeatedly, and people on george’s tag saying he’s acting like a hormonal woman, I think it’s time for us to have a conversation about people in this sport associating george with feminine traits in a way to portray him as bad, emotional and irrational when the real irrational behavior is coming from the driver whose aggressiveness and brashness is always praised

[nowayshutup]

It's Barbie Rosberg all over again, these misogynists need to be chained.

[decemberelegy]

I love watching people argue so ofc I can't look away from this Max/George thing. First of all, I think this shows that George has the fighting spirit required to be a world champion, which makes me happy. I'm surprised by how rattled Max is about it, to be honest. He's clearly responding in anger, which is still an emotional state rather than logical. He was quick to say on the radio today that Lando didn't slow down for the yellow flag and in his battle for the championship, he had no qualms about running Lando of the track multiple times just to ruin his race. George has said as far back as Baku 2023 that he doesn't make room for Max Verstappen in a RedBull, that he's fighting for every second, for every point. He's proven today that he'll do that by any means necessary. And honestly, if he's not prepared to do that, he has no business being in this sport. I'm glad to see him be so cutthroat. Wasn't Max the one that said that if you don't show up with the intention of winning, you might as well stay home? George has said last week that he's ready to bring the fight to Max. He has constantly said that he wants to beat Max and Lewis, because these are the best drivers on the grid right now. Well, he's been placing better than Lewis in these last few races, and he decided to fight Max on a technicality. Because you pull no punches when you're at this level. Maybe George keeps a more professional persona when he's in front of the cameras, while Max is quick to express his anger. Maybe this duality, of speaking calmly to the media and fierce with the stewards is what rattled Max. That's his problem to deal with.

People are nuanced. I'm not trying to psychoanalyze them or pretend to know what goes on in their heads. I just genuinely enjoy watching arguments, even though they're a little more fun in fiction, when no real people are getting hurt. In 2023 Max called George a dickhead. They moved past that, both understanding that things like these happen when your competing at this level. Maybe they'll process this better when they've both cooled off. I will be in my corner praying to the powers that be that Mercedes remember how to build an F1 car over the winter, so I can see George actually fighting for a championship on the track next year.

[dionysian-mystery]

"I have led a toothless life", he thought. "A toothless life. I have never bitten into anything. I was waiting. I was reserving myself for later on—and I have just noticed that my teeth have gone."

Jean-Paul Sartre

[marzst4rz]

Had Achilles doubted what he felt for Patroclus in the midst of war?

Kingsley loves him with all his heart, and Alastor wants to carve it out and watch it beat between his palms unbeknownst to the fact that it beats just for him.

A kind of love unlike his own that devours and destroys similar to a black hole, the kind of love that nourishes.

[ininininininstayoutstayout]

Mercedes' George Russell says the Formula 1 drivers are ‘a bit fed up’ with the leadership of the sport’s governing body, the FIA.

Russell, a director of the Grand Prix Drivers' Association (GPDA), said the drivers ‘weren’t aware’ of the decision to remove the race director Niels Wittich three races before the end of the season.

The Briton said: ‘There are a number of drivers who feel a bit fed up with the whole situation and it only seems to be going to a degree in the wrong direction.’

Russell made it clear he was referring specifically to the leadership of the FIA president Mohammed Ben Sulayem.

He said it was ‘not difficult’ to have a meeting with Ben Sulayem, but ‘having promises fulfilled is another matter.’

[ininininininstayoutstayout]

The face of a man who has just made it clear he is referring specifically to the leadership of the FIA president Mohammed Ben Sulayem.

[valyrfia]

predictions for the f1 2025 car launch in london:

someone forgets to send out the dress code. george russell turns up in an immaculately pressed suit, lando norris turns up in black sweatpants.

the british drivers are raised onto the stage like they’re in the eras tour

the non-british drivers have to come in through the crowd entrance and buy their own tickets

christian horner still hasn’t decided who’s filling that second red bull seat. as a result max is accompanied on stage by what seems to be three untrained rookies in a trenchcoat

speaking of max, he doesn’t speak a word the entire night preferring instead to communicate short answers in sign language.

the hosts keep trying to awkwardly fill time à la eurovision song contest

there are at least two fistfights

and one dogfight (leo and roscoe)

pierre and esteban stand next to each other at first before they have to awkwardly be reminded that they’re not teammates anymore

someone makes a thinly veiled reference to the mclaren 2024 rear wing

kimi antonelli gets booed (british crowd) and about half the grid has to be physically restrained from jumping on the audience

toto wolff tries to seduce max yet again.

max audibly laughs at him. this is the only time we hear his voice all night.

oscar piastri gets visibly teary at the sight of drs since it’s the last time it’ll be used in f1

fred vasseur makes an insane prediction on how many races ferrari will win. everyone laughs at him.

he ends up being absolutely right

fernando turns up in another team’s colours

it’s later revealed that one team paid the sound engineers to play thunderous applause when their car was revealed

one livery will merit audible laughter

it will be alpine’s.

[lovemesomeescapism]

I’m DEAD JSJSJSJ

[speciallivery]

No actually, I feel bad for Lando Norris. Because he's been having an amazing season, not only did he get his first win, more followed and he's been getting great results overall. But everyone around him, including his team it seems, is not celebrating that as the feat it is.

Everything Lando has done, has been put into the context of him taking something away from Max. Taking away a win, taking away the WDC. Lando's acomplishments are not celebrated as his own, instead the media is celebrating that Max is losing. It's weird, especially when you compare it with Charles who has had the same amount of wins this year as Lando, but is celebrated for all his accomplishments (and rightfully so)

He's immediately been built up as THE guy who in 2024 will knock Max down a peg and become the new world champion (which let's be honest here, the point gap has not been closing, this battle never really was one). Instead of celebrating the start of the part of his career where he became a serious championship contender, 2024 will now be remebered as the first time he lost out on the WDC, even though he was never in de race yet.

Lando Norris' accomplishments this year are super impresive. It is unfair that these wins are being framed as not enough and a lost title instead of the rise of a great driver.

[emchantearchive]

okay okayy from your prompt list would you consider using “ghosting their lips against yours before pulling back with a smug smirk, making you chase them desperately” and “pulling them closer by their belt” with franco?

crossing the line - f.c

masterlist | requesting rules

prompts: “ghosting their lips against yours before pulling back with a smirk” + “pulling them closer by the belt”

summary: after a long day together, you and franco relax in his apartment. there’s been an unspoken attraction between you both, and it finally bubbles over.

WARNINGS: nothing extreme or nsfw, gentle teasing and a make-out.

w.c. 1.2k+

a/n hii all! here’s a little franco blurb as a treat (esp for @yauchfilms !!) this is my first time writing for him, so i hope you all enjoy. more franco will definitely be on the way. let me know your thoughts via asks/anons, comments or reblogs. <3

it had been a long day. you were currently with franco, lounging in his apartment as what seemed to be indie music hummed softly from his speaker. the lights were dim, casting a warm glow throughout the room that helped bring the more relaxed vibe you were both going for.

it felt comfortable, natural— just the two of you winding down together like you usually did after a packed day. but today, it felt different.

in fact lately, there had been an undercurrent of something else.

it was in the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, or in the way he let his hands linger a little longer than considered friendly when he brushes past you. something unspoken, something that’s been quietly building between you both, as if waiting for a spark to set it off.

you weren’t certain about it all, though. it was no secret amongst your social group that you were infatuated with the boy. you feared your own feelings were deluding you, maybe making things up in your mind and justifying it because you had felt the same way.

“you’re staring at me,” franco murmured, interrupting your train of thought. you noticed how his lips quirked up into a smirk at your reaction, and you shook your head with a small smile.

he wasn’t wrong, you were staring at him while deep in thought. it was hard not to though, you felt the need to study his face and the way the light casted shadows upon it.

you wouldn’t admit it to him, though.

you scoffed and rolled your eyes at him, allowing the words to fall freely from your lips. “please, i’ve had to see it long enough today,” referring to the fact you’d been glued to each others sides the full day. “you wish.”

franco chuckled, leaning back against the sofa, as he stretched his arm in that casual, teasing way of his. “well, maybe i do.”

it was only a few seconds before you felt his hand on your shoulder, pulling you closer towards him. you didn’t object of course, allowing yourself to be moved farther into him.

his words hung between the both of you, heavier than you expected them to. it was very franco of him to drop small hints like these, leaving you second guessing yourself as usual. but this time, he didn’t pull back. instead, he continued to state into your eyes, an almost.. challenging glint within them. you felt the heat rising to your cheeks, a flutter of anticipation mixed with nerves.

you furrowed your brows at him, biting the inside of your cheek to steady yourself before you spoke up. “don’t start something you’re not going to finish, franco.”

“oh?” he raised his brows, tilting his head lightly to the side and you could see the playful spark light up in his expression. franco leaned in closer, beginning to close the distance between you, his face inches from yours. his voice dropped to a whisper as he murmured, “what if i do, corazona?”

your heart was pounding, each beat echoing in your chest as his breath mingled with your own. the closeness along with the term of endearment.. it was beginning to get a little too much. your eyes widened slightly as you watched his gaze flick to your lips before he licked his own, moving his eyes to peer back to yours.

you could barely breathe normally, so much so that the rhythm had become more labored subconsciously as you got caught up in your mind.

you began to lean in, eyes beginning to close as you got ready to settle into the kiss— but it never even happened.

franco had pulled back, smirk painted across his face as mischief lit up his gaze. the teasing lingered in the air, his retreat sparking more frustration within you. he looked so pleased with himself, and you knew he was, the chuckles and comments about the moment were enough to let you know. however, with your frustration came something else— adrenaline.

before you had time to think about it your hand was reaching forward, and you grabbed franco by the belt. your fingers curled into the fabric as you pulled him towards you, and it completely wiped the smirk off of his face. it was now franco with the widened eyes and shocked expression, which in turn made you smirk.

there was no time for teasing or dwelling on it though, as you moved your hands up to grab onto his shirt collar before pulling him down to meet your lips.

franco melted into the kiss instantly, moving his from from your shoulder as his hand moved to your face and cupped your cheek. the kiss was soft at first, tentative, like you were both savoring the taste of the moment, this leap of friendship into something more.

the restraint didn’t last long, though.

the months of tension, the quiet looks, the playful banter— it rushed forward all at once, sweeping you both up as the kiss deepened. it slow and intense, every touch adding to the moment. franco’s free hand slid around your waist to your back, pulling you right onto his lap.

you pulled away from the kiss momentarily, resting your forehead against his own. funnily enough, it was franco who was now chasing your lips. he cursed under this breath as he opened his eyes, a small smile on his face.

one of your hands made its way up into franco’s hair, combing your fingers through the back of it as you both sat in silence for a moment longer.

“it was about time,” franco muttered, swallowing thickly as a small chuckle escaped his lips. you rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you sighed at him.

you didn’t bother entertaining his teasing, simply muttering a “shut up” before your lips were back onto his. this kiss became heated much faster than anticipated. you tugged in franco’s hair, which caused a small moan to escape him before his tongue swiped along your bottom lip.

he moved his hand from your face to join his other at your waist for a few moments, before they trailed down to your ass. you pulled back the tiniest bit, muttering “watch yourself” before you leaned back in to continue.

your kisses were hungry, a rhythm of urgency and need, franco’s mouth hot and insistent against yours. you angled your face to continue deepening the kiss, as one of your hands moved to his jaw, holding it tightly.

after a few more moments of the heated makeout, you both pulled back— breathless with swollen lips. you licked your lips as you breathed heavily, trying to steady it back into its normal pace.

franco stared at you in slight awe at what had just happened, he had never expected you would be the one to finally initiate it. it was something he could get used to, though. and he didn’t have to dream about it for long.

within 30 minutes, you were both back in the frenzy of kissing each other like it was vital, like you’d lose each other if you stopped.

[spiderbeam]

okay, but learning spanish with franco is very self indulgent for me rn. i imagine he'd def get you to say flirty stuff without realizing it but he'd also be so so patient

ohh i can see this actually. cause you’d be taking spanish classes but franco is just like. no. they’re teaching you spain spanish and who wants to speak that when you’ve got me?

you’re still taking classes, though. but now, when you go out with franco, he sneaks a few phrases in spanish into conversation and patiently waits for you to respond—even if it takes a few hints to get there.

he’ll make suggestions on your pronunciation, eagerly watching as you start to improve. “i think you’re making the ‘d’ too prominent. try pronouncing it like you would ‘there’—with your tongue between your teeth. pedido. see?”

there will be times in which you’ll slip up and drop a word in european spanish, and franco will look at you like you slapped him.

“¿llegasteis bien?”

“che, ¿y qué mierda es esa de llegasteis? yo no voy a dejar que te colonicen a vos, ni en pedo.”

(you think you maybe got a third that)

still, you are making swift progress—franco likes to say it’s because of your lovely skill and his amazing classes. you’re not quite sure about that, though.

you still have a long way to go. you’re starting to get used to franco’s accent, but it’s easy for you to get lost. and yet, franco is determined to help you… though you think he might have a vested interest in getting you to say certain things in spanish.

“tenés lindos ojos,” he enunciates slowly.

“tenés lindos ojos,” you repeat, your vowels still a long way from sounding native. still, you watch franco grin, clearly pleased with you—or with himself.

“y lindos labios.”

you repeat, scrunching your brow. you’re sixty percent sure labios means lips. but franco doesn’t seem even slightly phased. the corner of his mouth quirks upward as he leans his head against his palm.

“y bueno, de figura para qué decir…”

you blink, his words a little too drawled out for you to get that. “what does that mean?” you ask

“hm?” franco hums, tilting his head. “what did i say? ah, forgot already.”

send me concepts/scenarios for me to ramble about ✉️

translations: (1) che, ¿y qué mierda es esa de llegasteis? yo no voy a dejar que te colonicen a vos, ni en pedo — what the hell is that about “llegasteis”? i’m not letting them colonize you, no way. / (2) tenés lindos ojos — you have pretty eyes / (3) y lindos ojos — and pretty lips / (4) y bueno, de figura para qué decir — and well, your body…

[moviestarmartini]

alta suciedad. — franco colapinto x f!reader

summary: while interviewing franco, you misunderstood what he meant with 'talented with his tongue'. lucky for you, he's more than willing to actually show you his skills.

wc: 2.9k

warnings: interviewer!reader, hispanic!reader, porn with an ounce of plot, set during media day of the austin gp, casual sex, oral sex (fem recieving), p in v, unprotected sex, pull out and pray, mean dom!franco, dumbification, degradation, a teeny amount of praise, aftercare, spanglish/sentences in spanish.

A/N: based on this request and took some inspo from this other anon, i'm literally giggling typing this in order to publish it. no specific song for today even though there's a few references even in the title. hope y'all are hungry!!

“I’m talented with my tongue.” 

You didn’t have that much experience when it came to interviewing professionally— you’d been a kid reporter at the same sport you strived to get there, and in the course of getting there, you’ve seen a thousand and one million things that impressed you. 

But this? 

Your mouth hung open, giving him a few rapid blinks while your brain processed the information. 

“You wanna see?” Franco Colapinto insisted, not reading your expression well enough, or ignoring it at the very least. 

“¿Aquí?” You blinked, unable to process the event in the main language of the paddock. You were one of the youngest reporters there, but that didn’t mean you were inexperienced. That had just completely caught you off guard. 

Franco cocked a brow before showing you and the camera how he could manipulate said organ so the sides touched and a tiny hole formed in the middle. 

Yet again he surprised you, or more you surprised yourself with how further down the gutter your mind was at. 

“Oh, good!” You snapped out of it, but he had seemingly finally connected the dots, or so the smirk in his face made it seem like it. 

“Well, thank you for having us, Franco. Good luck during the weekend.” Your  composure was back not even two seconds later, the cameraman soon signaled the transmission was off. A relieved sigh left your lips while your shoulders relaxed, giving your coworker the mic and transmitter to take to the media tent just a few steps away. 

You were just turning back to head there as well, ready to get immersed in writing a report before your name was called. Your heels turned you around by force of habit, not realizing the tone in the driver’s voice might mean trouble. 

“Yes?” You asked politely, hands clasped in front of you to avoid any chance of fidgeting. Your little crush was idiotic, or so you considered it from the day you first interviewed him. 

“¿Qué vas a hacer hoy?” He took a step closer in order to ask the question, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans. 

“¿Perdón?” You realized that sounded rude, your voice repeating a better answer soon after. “Seguir trabajando, why?” A frown settled between your brows, head leaning slightly to the right. Where was this going exactly? The confusion only settled further when you noticed his eyes darting around before leaning in. 

“Si querés que de verdad te enseñe que puedo hacer con mi lengua, entra al motorhome después de las siete, te dejo la puerta de atrás abierta. Mi cuarto está a la izquierda.” And with that, he pulled away, turned around and left. 

You did the same, convinced the idea was just a figment of your imagination, the drought you’ve been suffering for more than a year to get there tricking every nerve in your brain to believe those words. It was settling into the late afternoon, and you worked at a pace Sonic would envy. His words bounced around your gray matter, and after much debating you stayed after the six pm mark, when everyone else left. You peered your head out of your station noticing how the place was almost empty. It was Thursday after all, the whole crews were not active until the following day. 

The curiosity got the best of you, and you packed your bag to head there, skittish at the sight of anyone who crossed your way— or at least the few that did. 

No one was used to walking behind the team buildings, never mind during what’s considered after hours. Your breath got stuck in your throat when you noticed the door ajar, and no one came in nor out to justify the fact. 

“Thought you wouldn’t come.” Franco’s voice snapped you out of the hesitation, arms crossed over his chest. 

“I thought I was supposed to come in by myself.” You got the bravery to counter with the way your heart sped up with adrenaline coursing through your veins. 

“You’re late.” Franco’s response was quick, witty. His tone made you raise your brow; it was… different. Commanding, you could pinpoint. 

“I shouldn’t come out and get you, vení.” Before you could even process it, he took your arm and dragged you inside, going straight down the hallway and taking a left before the door closed shut— no witnesses visible to what he had just done. 

“You can sit wherever you like.” He invited, his voice was back to its playful tone. You nodded, putting your bag down by the door and sitting on the small couch near a corner. 

“Sos muy bonita, ¿sabías?” He complimented while finishing to fix up his room, side eyeing you. 

“Why am I here? What do you want?” You asked bluntly, not accepting the compliment. 

“Look, if you wanted me to write positively about you on the piece, you already got it.” You carefully watched him take a seat next to you, and you both turned to face each other.

“Tonta también, ¿no?” It was as if you were ignoring each other’s words, and before you could get offended, his fingertips brushed your hair out of the way of your face. Any smart quip you could’ve thrown at him flew out the window, your lips parting. 

“That’s just how you looked at me earlier. When you thought I was referring to something dirty. Tontita.” He inched closer. You couldn’t help but do the same, a bit eagerly, eliciting a laugh out of his lips. 

“Do you like me?” It was his turn to be blunt. Without hesitation you nodded, squeezing your lips into a thin line after realizing that might’ve been a mistake. An embarrassing one at that. 

“No pasa nada. Vos también me gustás preciosa…” His voice trailed with his head leaning closer, lips brushing against the prickled skin of your neck. “…inteligente…” A kiss pressed to the area. “…y al parecer, puta.” 

The gasp disappeared between the blurred lines of your lips and his crashing, the term disappearing in your mind while you kissed him. Your hands gripped the material of his team shirt while his own lowered down your back, pulling you closer, almost on top of his lap. 

“¿Hacés esto mucho? Sneak into other drivers’ rooms?” He asked while leaning back down to kiss your neck with a twinge of more harshness, ragged breath leaving your lips while you shook your head ‘no’ 

“¿Sos muda? Habla.” There was that commanding tone again, his fingers delving into the skin of your thighs to squeeze what he wanted out of you. 

“No. Nunca.” You replied with a gulp, leaning your head back to recieve more kisses as a reward for your answer. 

“So I’m the lucky winner?” It sounded something between a compliment and a joke, and you decided to humor him a little with a smile. 

“One could say so.” You replied, thinking you’ve gotten the gist of it. 

“I’m surprised. With that skirt…” He shook his head after tutting, making you figure out the context of his words. You were into it enough to not get offended by the allegation, normally would have defended yourself with the fact it was terribly hot outside. You didn’t like dressing similar to the rest of the reporters in the paddock, and maybe this once it played both in your favor and against it… sort of. 

His lips captured yours again, his tongue swiping your bottom lip. You weren’t dumb— even if he liked to say so— parting your lips without complaint, feeling the way your tongues tangled together while he pushed you down until your back hit the fabric of the furniture. 

The open mouth kisses started redirecting their path down your jaw, following a trail down the length of your neck. He took the opportunity to breathe your scent. 

“Olés tan rico,” He groaned, the growing erection in his jeans pressing against your upper thigh. 

“I can already imagine how that pretty pussy tastes. Can’t wait to make you cum just using my tongue.”  The idea made you shudder, his hands raising your top to move it out of the way while he kept kissing back. You took the initiative to just pull it over your head and throw it somewhere else. 

“You’re so good, stripping for me without having to ask.” Franco cooed, his pace slowing down when his mouth reached down your belly button, making him look at him expectantly. 

What you didn’t expect was for him to just tug on your denim skirt up to completely move it out of the way without removing the piece, his knuckles brushing the spot marked with your aroused slickness, your hips involuntarily twitching to lean closer into his touch. 

“Si solo te he besado y ya estás re mojadita,” Another coo left his mouth, this one with a certain amount of jest in it. You felt deeply embarrassed in a way your face displayed it, only making his smile grow in size. 

Franco almost ripped off the underwear and chucked it somewhere in the room. No moment to adapt was left at your disposition, his tongue pressing flat against your wet core. The noise of a moan coming from you clashed with the hum of satisfaction he felt from the sheer taste of you. 

“So sweet,” Franco praised, and those were the last words to come out of his mouth before he started to back up his words from earlier. 

The whole situation felt like a dream. Not only the fact he made an advance upon noticing how far down the gutter your mind was, but the fact you even came there in the first place. Not that you regretted it, with how he flicked that sensitive nub with the tip of his tongue.  

You didn’t believe his promise earlier— thinking it was just silly dirty talking— but he was proving you wrong. Your moans were the perfect evidence, fingers tangling in his curls while his left hand rose up to grope your exposed breast. 

The shuffling noise outside the room made him perk up and away from your dripping cunt, chin glistening with your wetness. He pulled his index fingers to his lips to signal you to be quiet before continuing, but his attempt fell futile. You were reaching your release quick, his magic working a little too well. There was no warning; his other hand left the grip on your thigh to cover your mouth, holding it down a bit too roughly to send a message. 

Your muffled moans and cries only set him off, teasing your entrance before licking the trail up to your clitoris, suckling on it. He fluttered his eyes open, and the sight was nothing but completely arousing. Your eyes were rolled back, column arching up while his expert affections tipped you over the edge. Your thighs simultaneously shivered and lightly squeezed his head, and it was enough for Franco to decide he was in heaven. 

Once the overwhelming sensation started to wear off, your legs relaxed, allowing him to pull away. With a clearer mind you noticed how his chin and lips glistened before removing the substance with the back of his hand, as if it was just sauce from an actual meal. 

“¿Por qué me mirás así?” Franco wondered at your blissful expression. “¿Ya te enamoraste, putita?” There was no verbal answer; he was eager to link his lips with yours again in yet another sloppy makeout session. This once, however, you couldn’t pretend you didn’t feel his erection pressing against your inner thigh. 

Taking initiative, your hand lowered down his torso to fumble the button of his pants a little before being able to undo it. A groan followed by teeth tugging at your bottom lip was the reaction you gained from jerking him off slowly under his underwear. That gave you enough confidence to swipe your thumb across the leaking tip in order to tease him. 

The sound of a moan from him echoed inside your mouth, a hum from satisfaction leaving consequently. However, your moment of dominance soon faded with his hand slapping yours away before spreading your legs even further— to the point it pulled on the muscles of your inner thigh just a little, the burning sensation mushing with pleasure— the skirt hiking up to rest on your torso. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He leaned in to whisper, feeling him nudge your entrance in order to tease you. The sensation that followed was something similar to your brain shutting down, managing to only nod. The smell of his cologne, his body pressing down on you. 

Franco, Franco, Franco, Fran— 

“¿Qué pasa tontita? Say it.” He egged you on, threatening to push himself inside, but not making it far enough to bring you satisfaction. 

“Yes, por favor.” You begged, getting a chaste kiss for a reward followed by the intrusion spreading your warm walls. You saw the way Franco tried to keep it together, the façade crumbling under a groan. You felt too good. His mind could only pinpoint your body under his, the warmth hugging his stiff dick and electrifying every nerve of his being. 

His mind couldn’t stop chanting your name. 

“Move,” You asked nicely, though it came out in a huff. He found himself too enthralled to complain at your tone, instead complying. 

The lower tone of his moans harmonized with the high pitched of yours, the sound of skin frantically coming in contact filling up the room enough for both of you two to forget what could possibly be going on outside. At least it had been a while since you last heard people outside doing whatever. 

“Dios, que apretadita estás,” Franco groaned out loud, his lips brushing against yours. You took the leap, closing the distance between the two of you. But you couldn’t get much out of it due to your own fault, moans interrupting the session. 

“No, besáme.” You whined when he pulled away slightly, and a smirk rose at his lips before he locked them with yours, pace increasing. You struggled to engage further, the moans and groans interrupting. 

“No, besáme.” Franco replicated your plea from earlier before laughing between heavy breaths. 

You couldn’t do anything but pucker your bottom lip out, not finding the words to complain about how mean he was being. Besides, all coherent thoughts disappeared the moment you felt your second orgasm peeking from behind you at a rapid rate. Your nails dug into the uncovered skin of his forearms, just below where the team shirt started covering his biceps. 

“¿Por qué me apretás tanto?” He hissed before falling upon the realization, deciding to keep having his fun with you and slowing down. 

“Fuck— ¡¿qué te pasa?!” You groaned, feeling the release reeling down into a sensation of being completely stuck midway. 

“Dale, decime lo que quieres. De forma bonita, como vos.” He kept his thrusts slow and deep, trying to contain his own release from the pulsating walls squeezing the life out of his cock. 

“I wanna cum,” You felt the embarrassment of having to request that out loud settle in your stomach, soon washed over by the sensation the quickening of his hips gave your core. 

“Si, si. Franco, that’s it,” You cried out, hiding your face in the crook of his neck while your thighs shivered once more. 

Your cunt was so warm and tight he almost didn’t pull out. Almost. After a groan left the back of his throat, droplets of white painted your lower abdomen, thankfully not staining your skirt. 

He kept himself supported by his forearms, allowing him to lean in and kiss your forehead and cheeks. 

There wasn’t much to be said, you knew that, and so did he. Carefully, he fixed his underwear and pants before getting up, muttering something under his breath in his attempt to find the wet wipes he knew he had… somewhere in the organized clutter of his room. 

“Dejá que te limpio,” His voice was tender, the wet tissue dragging across your skin to remove the seminal liquid, before another carefully cleaned the sweat off your forehead and neck. 

You thanked him with a nod, unable to hold eye contact for long. Once you felt comfortable you sat up, fixing your clothes and hair before getting up on your legs, still a bit wobbly. You took it upon yourself to clean the damp spot on the couch where you laid, still embarrassed by the whole ordeal. 

Quickly, you slipped your underwear on, unaware of the pair of eyes following your every move with a cold calculation. 

“¿Qué vas a hacer hoy?” The question he asked to what seemed to be ages ago popped up again, making you turn, just as confused as you were earlier. 

“Dormir… cenar. Ya veremos, dijo el ciego.” At your cheeky response his laughter echoed through the room, arms folded over his torso. 

“¿Habrá un espacio para mí en esa cena o nos vemos mañana a la misma hora?” He took a step closer. Then another. And another. Until he stood in front of you, leaning down enough to whisper in your ear. 

“No importa si no me querés ver hoy en la noche todo caballeroso, mañana procura llegar a tiempo y controlar esa boquita.” Yet again, his voice electrified goosebumps all over your skin. 

What did you just get yourself into?

[lovemesomeescapism]

AHHHH I need more of this!! it’s incredible❤️❤️