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hoshifighting · 10 months ago

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Arranged Marriage

— Synopsis: Where you and Minghao parents had this grand scheme to merge their companies by marrying you off, thinking it'd be a brilliant business move. Determined to stake your claim and keep your marriage intact, your make a bold move during a business party—planting a lipstick-stained kiss on Minghao's lips and yanking him by his tie, leaving no doubt that he's yours and yours alone. — WC: 5.5k — WARNINGS: Smut, throat fucking, blowjob, fingering, penetrative sex, public make out, jealous kiss, angst, forced marriage, mentions of diets.

You're standing there in this fancy white dress, all sparkly and shiny, making your way down the aisle to where Minghao's waiting. He's looking all sharp in his suit, with his hair on point and a little smirk on his face. But as you're walking towards him, you can't help but remember the last time you two really talked was at some boring company event.

Now here you are, about to say your vows like you actually mean them. But deep down, you know it's all just a bunch of lies. You and Minghao both know it. It's all for show, to make your parents' company look good. And the worst part is, everyone at this big fancy wedding knows it too.

The party's huge, like a wedding and a business conference all mashed together. People you've never seen before are milling around, probably part of some shady business deal your parents cooked up. It's like this whole thing isn't even about love or unity anymore. It's just one big networking event disguised as a wedding.

But you go through the motions anyway, smiling and nodding like everything's perfect. You exchange vows that are as fake as the smiles plastered on both of your faces. And as the night goes on, you can't shake the feeling that this whole thing is just a sham. A pretty, expensive sham, but a sham nonetheless.

You watch as people schmooze and mingle, making deals and connections left and right. And you can't help but wonder if this is what your future holds too. A life of pretending, of smiling for the cameras while behind closed doors, it's all just business as usual.

But for now, you paste on your best fake smile and dance the night away, pretending that everything's okay. Because that's what you do when you're part of a family like yours. You put on a show, no matter what's really going on behind the scenes.

You're feeling suffocated by the crowd inside, like the tightness around your waist is almost causing claustrophobia. So you slip away to the backyard, sneaking a slice of cake from the waiters. Your mom had you on some ridiculous diet for a whole week leading up to this wedding, all so you could look "good" in your dress.

You plop down on a wooden bench, the dress spreading out in a big poof around you. Just as you're about to take a much-needed bite of cake, you're interrupted by a voice.

"Why isn't the bride inside enjoying her own party?" The voice belongs to Minghao, hands in his pockets as he stands there, looking at you.

You scoff, shooting him a look. "I'm sure no one's noticed. They're all too busy discussing the stock market or whatever." Your tone is sharp, the underlying tension between you and Minghao palpable.

Minghao snorts, clearly not impressed by your response. "Yeah, well, maybe if you spent less time worrying about your parents' company and more time actually enjoying life, you wouldn't be stuck in this mess."

You bristle at his comment, feeling a surge of anger rising within you. "Oh please, like you have any room to talk. Last time I checked, you were just as tangled up in all of this as I am."

Minghao's expression darkens, and for a moment, you worry you've gone too far.

With that, he turns and walks away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and a half-eaten slice of wedding cake. You watch him go, feeling a mix of frustration and something else you can't quite name. Maybe it's just the champagne talking, but for a brief moment, you can't help but wonder what life would be like if you weren't tied down by expectations and obligations.

You stare at Minghao, disbelief written all over your face as you take in the sight of the one hotel room your parents booked for the both of you. A single queen-sized bed sits in the center of the room, effectively splitting the space into two halves. You shoot a glance at Minghao, and from the look in his eyes, you can tell he's just as shocked as you are.

The tension between you is palpable as you both stand there, sharing silent but deadly gazes. Finally, you break the silence, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, isn't this just perfect? Our parents booking us one room to 'get used' to each other. As if this whole shit wasn't enough already."

Minghao lets out a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. "Yeah, because nothing says 'happily ever after' like forcing two strangers to share a bed on their wedding night."

You bite back a retort, opting instead for a more diplomatic approach. "Look, I think it's only fair that I take the bed and you can sleep on the couch."

Minghao raises an eyebrow, his expression incredulous. "And why is that?" he asks, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

You roll your eyes, feeling irritation bubbling up inside you. "Because I'm the bride, for one," you retort, "and two, I've been on my feet all night, walking around in a dress that weighs a ton and heels that could rival skyscrapers. I think I deserve a decent night's sleep."

Minghao lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Oh, please. Do you even know how exhausting it is to be the groom? I've been dealing with people all night, pretending to be someone I'm not, just like you."

You narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms defiantly. "Fine," you say, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips, "then let's settle this once and for all. Who's more tired: the bride who's been carrying around twelve kilograms of dress and heels all night, or the groom who's been putting on a show for hours on end?"

Minghao looks at you for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he's trying not to smile. But then he shakes his head, a look of resignation crossing his face. "You win," he says, finally relenting, "you can have the bed."

You smirk triumphantly, feeling a small sense of victory despite the absurdity of the situation. And as you crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin.

The next day rolls around, and before you even have a chance to properly wake up, you're thrown into a meeting. Brunch with both families sounds nice in theory, but when Minghao's dad starts putting papers on the table and declaring, "Let's get to what matters," you realize this isn't going to be a typical family gathering.

You try to maintain a facade of composure, but the discomfort gnaws at you like a persistent itch. So you do what you've gotten used to doing – you look down, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room.

Minghao notices immediately, and you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face. His cheeks flush with embarrassment from his father's directness, but you can't bring yourself to look up and meet his eyes. The weight of expectation hangs heavy in the air, and you can practically taste the tension swirling around the table.

As Minghao's dad starts talking about business deals and partnerships, you try to focus on the sound of his voice rather than the sinking feeling in your stomach. But no matter how hard you try to block it out, you can't shake the feeling that you're just a pawn in someone else's game – a game you never asked to play.

You steal a glance at Minghao, but his expression is unreadable, his mask firmly in place. And in that moment, you realize just how alone you really are in this world of high-stakes deals and empty promises.

You're lounging on the couch, the TV blaring in the background, but your mind is miles away. The penthouse feels emptier than ever, despite being filled with all the trappings of luxury. You and Minghao live under the same roof, yet it feels like you might as well be living on opposite ends of the earth. Separate rooms, separate lives, with only a perfunctory "good morning" or "good night" exchanged between you.

The loneliness weighs heavy on your chest, suffocating you with its presence. You long for something more, something real, but it feels like an impossible dream in this gilded cage you've found yourself trapped in.

You're lost in the numbing glow of the television when your phone buzzes with a notification. It's Minghao, informing you of a press conference he's scheduled for later that night. You furrow your brow, puzzled by the sudden announcement.

But it's his last message from the previous night that catches your attention. "Can you at least put on your best smile tonight?" he'd asked, a request that feels more like a demand. And you can't help but feel a pang of frustration at his presumption.

You make your way to his room, finding him hunched over his computer, the glow of the screen casting harsh shadows across his face. You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms as you watch him for a moment before speaking up.

"What do you mean by that?" you ask, your voice tinged with a hint of annoyance. "Put on my best smile? What's that supposed to mean?"

Minghao looks up from his computer, his expression unreadable. "It means exactly what it sounds like," he replies coolly, his tone clipped. "We both know how important appearances are in our world. So why not make an effort for once?"

You roll your eyes, feeling the anger bubbling up inside you. "I think you mean that you want me to play the dutiful wife once again, to plaster on a fake smile and pretend like everything's fine," you snap, the bitterness seeping into your words.

Minghao's jaw tightens, and for a moment, it looks like he's about to argue back. But then he sighs and runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly tired and defeated. "Look, I know this isn't what either of us wanted," he says, his voice softer now, tinged with regret. "But it's what we have to do. For our families, for the company."

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. "Is that really all that matters to you? The company? "But fine," you say through clenched teeth, pushing yourself away from the doorframe. "I'll put on my best smile tonight. But don't expect me to enjoy it."

You sit in the backseat of the chauffeur-driven car, your gaze fixed on the passing landscape outside the window. The skyscrapers blur into a haze of steel and glass, a stark contrast to the turmoil swirling inside your mind.

Minghao breaks the silence with a casual remark, his tone tinged with amusement. "You don't look like someone who agreed to the terms of our agreement," he observes, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

You let out a frustrated huff, tearing your eyes away from the window to glare at him. "Yeah, well, maybe I need some time before I can fully commit to this whole acting profession," you retort, your words dripping with bitterness.

Minghao presses his lips together, trying to suppress a laugh at your expense. The corners of his mouth twitch with amusement, but he manages to keep his expression neutral as he looks away, pretending to be absorbed in the passing scenery.

You bristle at his reaction, feeling a surge of indignation coursing through you. "What's so funny?" you demand, your voice sharp with irritation.

Minghao shakes his head, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Nothing," he replies casually, his tone disarmingly nonchalant. "I mean, take all the time you need… Just try not to look too pitiful when we walk through those doors."

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

As the chauffeur stops and opens the door for you, signaling your arrival at the event, Minghao's voice cuts through the silence.

"Hand," he says simply, holding out his hand towards you.

You raise an eyebrow, shooting him a skeptical look. "Excuse me?" you reply, not quite sure you heard him correctly.

Minghao's lips twitch into a smirk as he repeats himself, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "I said, hand," he repeats, his tone playful yet insistent.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at his audacity, but begrudgingly, you reach out and grab his hand, almost aggressively. His grin widens as he intertwines his fingers with yours, the touch surprisingly delicate despite the underlying tension between you.

As you and Minghao step into the event, hand in hand, you can feel the weight of your parents' surprised stares on you. Their eyebrows shoot up in disbelief at the sight of you two holding hands, a rare display of unity between the two families.

Minghao squeezes your hand gently, a small smirk playing on his lips as he catches your parents' reaction. "See?" he murmurs softly, leaning in close to you. "It's easy. A little thing like this makes them happy."

You can't help but feel a surge of resentment bubbling up inside you at his words. Easy for him to say, you think bitterly. He's always been the one who effortlessly falls into line, who knows exactly how to play the game to get what he wants.

But despite your inner turmoil, you force a tight smile and nod in agreement, not wanting to cause a scene in front of your parents. "Yeah, easy," you echo, your voice strained as you try to keep up the facade.

As the long-winded speeches from the ambassadors drone on, you find yourself sinking deeper into your chair, exhaustion weighing heavily on your shoulders. Minghao leans in close, his voice a soft whisper against your ear as he asks if you want something from the bar. You shake your head, declining his offer with a tired sigh.

He nods in understanding and excuses himself, disappearing into the crowd for a moment. But as the minutes drag on and the speech finally reaches its conclusion, Minghao still hasn't returned. Your eyes scan the room, searching for any sign of him, and that's when you spot her – a woman leaning in close to him, her body language oozing with flirtation.

Your stomach churns with a mix of anger and disbelief. What does she think she's doing? That's your husband she's flirting with, for crying out loud. You glance down at your wedding ring, then back at Minghao, then down at your ring again, the weight of it heavy on your finger.

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you stand up from the table, your movements cautious as you make your way over to them. Fuck, you hate that you're doing this right now, but you can't just sit idly by while some random woman tries to make a move on your husband.

Minghao's eyes widen in surprise as he catches sight of your determined gaze, and for a brief moment, you almost feel guilty for interrupting. But then you remember who you are – his wife – and the guilt fades away, replaced by a steely resolve.

"I have a wife," Minghao's voice cuts through the air, firm and unwavering, as you approach him and the woman who's been flirting with him. His words send a jolt of surprise through you, momentarily halting your steps.

But before you can even react, Minghao continues, his tone tinged with irritation, "And she's storming over here, so please, just leave me alone."

"Hi, Hao," you greet Minghao as you finally reach him, unable to hide the hint of irritation in your voice. "You took a long time. What happened?"

Minghao's eyes widen slightly at your abrupt approach, and he stammers for a moment before the woman beside him interjects, "Oh, she's your friend?"

Minghao's response is immediate and almost defensive. "No, I don't know her," he says quickly, his tone betraying his discomfort.

You can't help but suppress a smirk at his awkwardness, feeling a small surge of satisfaction at seeing him squirm. "Nice to meet you," you say smoothly, extending your hand to the woman. "I'm Mrs. Xu."

The woman's eyes widen in surprise as she takes your hand, clearly caught off guard by your assertive introduction. "Oh, um, nice to meet you too," she replies, her voice slightly shaky.

You turn your attention back to Minghao, noting the relief in his eyes as you come to his "rescue." Poor Minghao, you think to yourself, feeling a twinge of sympathy for him despite your earlier annoyance. He clearly didn't know how to handle the situation, and the sight of you coming to his aid seems to help him breathe a little easier.

The woman walks away, leaving you and Minghao standing there in the aftermath of the awkward encounter. You turn to him, your expression a mix of frustration and concern.

"Come on, Minghao," you begin, your voice low but firm. "You need to know how to handle situations like that. What if people who know our family saw that? It could cause all sorts of rumors and complications."

Minghao's jaw tightens as he meets your gaze, a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes. "I didn't ask for her to approach me," he retorts, his tone defensive. "I told her I have a wife. What more do you want from me?"

You let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through your hair as you try to keep your temper in check. "I just want you to be more aware of how your actions reflect on both of us," you reply, your voice tinged with exasperation. "We're married, Minghao. That means we have to think about each other's reputations and how our behavior affects them."

Minghao's expression softens slightly at your words, but there's still a stubborn set to his jaw as he crosses his arms over his chest. "I know that," he says, his voice quieter now, more subdued. "But sometimes things happen, and I can't control them."

You shake your head, feeling a surge of frustration rising within you. "That's not an excuse, Minghao," you say firmly. "We both have to do better if we want this marriage to work. We have to be a team."

Minghao's lips twitch into a smirk of his own, a challenge flashing in his eyes as he steps closer to you. "Oh, is that so, Mrs. Xu?" he replies, his voice dripping with mock innocence. "And what exactly would it take for me to earn back the privilege of being called by my first name?"

You roll your eyes, unable to suppress a laugh at his cheekiness. "Maybe if you stopped getting yourself into awkward situations with random women at parties," you shoot back, unable to resist the opportunity for a playful jab.

Minghao feigns offense, placing a hand over his heart in mock hurt. "Hey now, that wasn't entirely my fault," he protests, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Besides, you were the one who came to my rescue, remember?"

Minghao's playful grin falters as you shoot him a pointed look, hands firmly planted on your hips. "Am I wrong now? What should I do then?" you challenge, your tone laced with frustration.

He shrugs, his expression sheepish as he searches for an answer. "You need to make them know I'm your husband," he suggests vaguely, a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes.

You narrow your gaze, a surge of determination coursing through you as you follow his line of sight to the woman who had been eyeing him earlier. She's still watching him, her gaze lingering a little too long for your liking.

"Fine then," you declare, your jaw set in determination. Without another word, you reach out and grab Minghao by the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer to you. Before he can protest, you press your lips to his in a firm, possessive kiss.

For a moment, Minghao freezes, his hands hovering uncertainly in the air. But then, as if realizing what's happening, he responds eagerly, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair as the kiss deepens.

You trail kisses along his neck, feeling a low hum of satisfaction reverberate through him. His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you closer as you continue to explore the sensitive skin of his neck with your lips.

When you pull back slightly, his eyes meet yours, a hint of mischief dancing in their depths. You reach up and gently tug on his bottom lip, a silent invitation for him to surrender completely to the passion between you.

Minghao's lips part in response, his eyes darkening with desire as he leans in to capture your mouth in another searing kiss. You can feel the heat of his body against yours, the intensity of the moment threatening to consume you both.

As you finally break the kiss, your lips swollen and tingling with the taste of him, you look at his face, satisfied with your handiwork. His lips, jaw, and neck are adorned with smudges of your red lipstick, a visible testament that being arranged or not, he is your husband.

With a mischievous glint in your eyes, you reach out and grab Minghao by the tie, tugging him gently but firmly in the direction of the exit. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise at your sudden assertiveness, but he follows your lead without hesitation.

As you walk through the party, you make no effort to hide the fact that you're leading Minghao out by his tie. You want everyone to see, especially that woman who dared to flirt with him earlier. With each step, you feel a surge of satisfaction knowing that you're marking your territory, making it abundantly clear to anyone watching that Minghao belongs to you.

People turn to look as you pass by, their curious glances met with a confident smile from you and a sheepish grin from Minghao. You hold your head high, your grip on his tie unwavering as you guide him through the crowd.

Finally, you reach the exit, and with one last glance around the room, you pull Minghao outside, the cool night air washing over you both. Alone at last, you turn to him with a victorious smirk.

"Well, that was fun," you say, a hint of laughter in your voice as you release his tie. "But I think we've made our point. Shall we get out of here?"

Minghao chuckles, shaking his head in amusement as he takes your hand in his. "Absolutely," he replies, a warmth in his eyes as he looks at you. "Anywhere you want to go, Mrs. Xu."

As soon as you step through the door of your home, you're wrapped up in a frenzy of passionate kisses with Minghao. Clothes, shoes, and his tie fly off haphazardly as you stumble towards the nearest surface, unable to keep your hands off each other.

Between kisses, Minghao pulls back slightly, his lips brushing against your neck as he speaks. "I didn't know you were that jealous," he murmurs, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You hiss in response, your breath catching in your throat as his lips trail along your skin. "I wasn't jealous," you protest, your voice tinged with frustration. "I was just...rescuing you, you bastard!"

Minghao laughs at your outburst, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Hmm, just like a predator," he teases, his hands roaming over your body with a newfound confidence.

You scoff at his comment, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips. "You've seen nothing yet," you reply, meeting his gaze with a challenge in your eyes.

Minghao's eyes light up with excitement as he looks at you, a playful glint in his eyes. "Yeah?" he asks, his voice low and husky.

"Yeah," you confirm with a smirk, pulling him in for another kiss.

But then, his hand moves to the top of your head, gently guiding you downwards until your knees find the ground. You look up at him with a mixture of desire and anticipation, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you eagerly await his next move.

With a shaky breath, Minghao pulls himself free from his pants, his cock standing proudly before you. You wrap your hand around it, feeling the heat and hardness of him beneath your touch. A wicked grin plays at your lips as you tap the tip of his cock against your face, biting your lip in anticipation.

Minghao lets out a shaky moan at the provocative sight before him, his eyes dark with desire as he watches you. "Fuck, you're so damn sexy," he groans, his voice rough with need. "You know exactly what you're doing to me, don't you?"

You smirk up at him, your hand still wrapped around his cock as you tease him with your lips. "Mmm, maybe," you purr, your voice dripping with seduction. "But I want to hear you say it. Tell me how much you want me, Minghao."

His breath hitches as he meets your gaze, his fingers tangling in your hair as he guides you closer to him. "I want you more than anything," he confesses, his voice thick with desire. "I need you, baby. Please, show me how much you want me too."

You eagerly lower your mouth onto Minghao's throbbing cock, sucking greedily as you take him deeper and deeper into your mouth. You can feel him thrusting his hips, the need for more driving him to move against you.

Your hands slide down to his thighs, giving him the freedom to move as he pleases. His fingers tangle in your hair, guiding your movements as he sets the pace, his hips rocking against you in a rhythm of his own making.

As you take him deeper, you close your eyes, relaxing your jaw to accommodate his length. Minghao's voice breaks through the haze of pleasure, his words a gentle reminder of his concern for your well-being.

"Tap if you need to breathe," he murmurs, his hand tightening in your ponytail as he continues to move his hips.

You press your hand against his thigh in affirmation, letting him know that you're okay as you continue to take him deeper, your throat working to accommodate his length. Minghao lets out a low groan of pleasure, his hips moving in tandem with your movements as you both chase the pinnacle of ecstasy.

Between thrusts, Minghao's voice fills the air with a husky whisper. "God, you feel so fucking good," he moans, his words driving you to take him even deeper. "You're amazing, baby. Just keep going, just like that."

As Minghao's cock throbs in your mouth, you feel a surge of pleasure coursing through you, your senses overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. Drool drips from your chin, a testament to your eagerness and arousal, as you continue to take him deeper, your mouth working tirelessly to please him.

With each throb of his cock, you can feel the tension building, the heat of his arousal radiating through you. Your eyes roll back in your head, lost in a haze of pleasure as you surrender yourself completely to the ecstasy of the moment.

And as Minghao's cock pulses in your mouth, you know that you've pushed him to the edge, his release imminent. With one final throb, he cries out your name, his body tensing as he spills his cum into your waiting mouth.

You swallow eagerly, savoring the taste of him. You moan softly as Minghao's lips meet yours again, the taste of him still lingering on your tongue, and he slowly guides you towards his room.

As you fall onto the bed, Minghao's fingers trace lazy patterns along your inner thighs, making you squirm beneath his touch, unable to hide your arousal as he gazes down at you with dark, hungry eyes.

"You're so wet…" he murmurs, his voice thick with desire as he continues to tease you with his fingers.

Minghao's lips curl into a smug grin as his fingers trailing lower until they reach the damp fabric of your panties. With agonizing slowness, he begins to peel them away, revealing your glistening folds to his hungry gaze.

"Tell me what you want, baby" he whispers, his voice a low growl in your ear as he leans in close. "Tell me how you want me to make you feel."

You arch your back, aching for his touch as you meet his gaze with a sultry smirk. "I want your fingers inside me, Minghao" you breathe, your voice dripping with desire. "I want you to make me come so fucking hard"

Minghao's eyes darken with lust as he hears your words, his fingers finding their way to your slick entrance. With a wicked grin, he plunges his slender fingers deep inside you, his touch sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

And then, just when you think you can't take any more, he finds it – that deep spot that sends electric jolts shooting through you. Your pussy clenches around his fingers in response, a desperate attempt to hold your orgasm.

But Minghao isn't finished yet. With a wicked grin, he leans in close, his hot breath ghosting over your ear as he whispers his intentions. "You're not going to cum yet," he murmurs. "Let me hit that spot with my cock, then you can cream around it as much as you want."

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, with the promise of what's going to come. With a nod of agreement, you bite your lip in anticipation, eager for the moment when Minghao will fuck you with his cock.

As Minghao positions himself above you, his gaze locked with yours in a silent promise of pleasure to come, you sneak a peek at his cock. It's long, with bulging veins and dripping with pre-cum, making it clear he's rock hard and ready to go. The contrast with his slender body just makes it look even bigger.

Before you can even think of a response, Minghao speaks up, his voice low and husky. "You ready for me, baby?" he asks, his eyes smoldering with desire.

You open your mouth to reply, but before you can get a word out, his cock is stretching you out, leaving you breathless and speechless as he fills you completely.

As soon as Minghao finds your g'spot, your pussy immediately tightens around him, milking him with such intensity that he has to hold himself back from coming right then and there. His pretty moans only serve to heighten your own arousal, making it even harder for you to hold back your impending orgasm.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, his voice strained with pleasure as he tries to control himself. He hopes that you'll stop clenching, but as soon as he hits that spot again, he hisses in response, the sensation driving him wild.

Realizing that he's in danger of cumming too early, Minghao decides to focus on fucking you in just the right way, hitting that spot with precision and intensity. He squirms, desperate for you to climax first, knowing that your pleasure will only fuel his own.

With each thrust, each movement, the pleasure builds between you, reaching a fever pitch that threatens to consume you both. Minghao's hips move in a steady rhythm, his cock driving deeper and deeper into you with each thrust, his own pleasure mounting with each passing second.

And then, finally, it happens. You reach the peak of ecstasy, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm as pleasure washes over you in relentless waves. Your pussy clenches around Minghao's cock, milking him for all he's worth as he loses control, his own release crashing over him in a tidal wave of pleasure.

With a tired groan, Minghao collapses beside you, his body spent from the intensity of your shared passion. He turns to you with a lazy smile, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction.

"If I'd known all it took to get you to kiss me was making you jealous, I would've done it ages ago," he teases, his voice laced with amusement.

You roll your eyes, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. "I wasn't jealous," you protest, crossing your arms over your chest.

Minghao raises an eyebrow, his expression incredulous. "Imagine if you were then" he scoffs, his tone teasing. "I don't think we'd be here right now if you weren't just a little bit jealous."

You huff in mock indignation, but deep down, you know he's right.

ou nudge Minghao playfully, a smile dancing on your lips. "Well, lucky for you, a little jealousy was all it took," you quip, teasing him.

He chuckles softly, his eyes sparkling as he gazes at you. "I guess I'll have to remember that for next time," he replies, his voice tinged with amusement.

You laugh, shaking your head in mock exasperation. "Oh, so there's going to be a next time now?" you tease, raising an eyebrow.

Minghao grins, leaning in closer to you. "Count on it," he murmurs, his voice low and husky as he brushes his lips against yours.

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wisteriagoesvroom · 9 months ago

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happy "breaching the top 10 f1 rpf pairings on ao3" day to landoscar nation 🎂 because it's all about.... two people that are so much the same yet so different. australia vs the uk. oscar's cool collected calm versus lando's ricocheting personality. twitch streams and side hustles and multiple endeavors vs singlemindedness of racing. purity of craft vs embracing everything life throws at you and trusting that it'll all work out. the rivalry that isn't (well it is, but not really). pushing each other to be better. making heart eyes in a taylor swift video, reaching out to your teammate in silverstone after surviving a media maelstrom and him being pleased and stepping closer because he's been given permission to. making fun of your resident weeb for reading the words "kit kat" but just in a japanese accent.

it's being so ridiculously competitive that you'll hide in a burning bin in the name of fun for a game with made up points and then squinting at your teammate ringed with the bright light of the sun and laughing at how stupid this all is. it's making fun of your teammate's music taste that you can hear through the thin walls of the drivers' rooms. trusting the journey. mimicking each other's body language. knowing it's for the marketing but winking at the camera together anyway, like we're all invited to be in on the joke. two parallel lives woven in two different garages with almost identical specs. being so comfortable you have this weird rapport that is kind of a cipher and unknowable to anyone outside of the immediate network or team, but it's so assured and quiet that for the first time the person who's been the person who was once the younger teammate steps up, acts older now, and becomes comfortable with the silence.

it's knowing your best friend was on their renault team and not saying anything about it in public but the motorsport world is so small and specific and the experience so surreal that surely some laylines are just strangely predestined. it's about growing up together. it's watching the brit upstart in a generation of two other brit upstarts chase his dream and give up everything to win and get velcroed to the seat because he's kind of small, just like you, but you dream bigger than anyone dares to dream and you identify with the other's self belief that says you, too, could stand on that top step one day. it's you following the little blue-suited guy racer on social media and liking sooo many of his posts over the years, and not even bothering to hide that fact when you've probably become that goalpost for someone else one day, too.

it's chapter 2, with 3 more to go. it's watching your teammate win his first sprint race and finding it in yourself to be happy for him even when you're sad that it wasn't you. it's publicly saying that the rookie is not a threat, he's a threat who makes you race better. it's making fun of newbie's first day at mclaren and finding him unknowable. and he arrives with all this hype and pressure so what can you do but focus on you and step up your game, but he's always in the background and the periphery, chasing and chasing with this hunger that is unbelievable and unfamiliar because it's always humming in a way that made you mistake stillness for idleness in the past. but now, you know: still waters run deep, so you swim harder, too. drop the dj-ing. become more disciplined. train more. do things that don't matter, less.

because the future is vast. the future is happening constantly if you're ready to meet it. and maybe destiny will be kind, and your names will be remembered. your name, inked on a trophy in the precious metal of kings, and dreamers. your name, inked in gold.

but today, you're 22. you're 24.

you're driving a car as fast as you can, and everything that's possible, feels like it could be possible, right now.

#landoscar #oscar piastri #lando norris #f1 rpf #814 #the landoscar thesis #mctwinks #twinklaren #wiz.yaps #i started putting this as a tag on mechchrome's post announcing the top 10 pairings development on ao3 #and then i was like lol wait i have can't shut the f up ism #so i might as well make this a post #<- in fact the last two points might as well explain my entire existence on f1blr atp #overthink it? yes i will! thanks!#pls release me from the orange mind-tessaract

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whereserpentswalk · 8 months ago

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You're a content creator. Or perhaps video maker is a better word. Filmaker doesn't sound right, you mostly just film yourself. But either way because you read stuff to a camera for a living everyone is telling you to get a digital voice box. You never thought of yourself as the type to become a cyborg, but it's not something you can see, and it really does get down that narration voice down more than any fleshy voice box does.

You finally cave in and get it. Your new voice is way more steady, a bit more feminine and high, strangely calmly enthusiastic. It's really weird hearing yourself talk with so little imperfections, it's not how you sound in your head at all, and all your freinds are kind of weirded out. But on the bright side your channel grows a lot, you've gained more subscribers in the month since you replaced your voice than you have in all the years when you had your biological voice. Everyone is so very proud of you, for the first time your parents actually support your job, and you have so much more to spend now.

After a few months a big network wants to sign a contract with you, it'll let you get the good sponsors, the ones that people trust, and let you crossover with content creators you only ever thought of yourself as a fan of. It seems so nice, though they do say that they can request any body part they want be replaced, or else you'll break contract, and become nothing once more.

After things go well for awhile, but your growth steadied a bit, your network request you take another mechanical body part. They say your expressions aren't very "on brand" and your face shape is a bit too 2050s for their liking, so they're going to replace some of your facial muscles with much more plyable machines. After the surgery your expressions are entirely manual, or set by an app, it skyrockets your channel, but none of your freinds or family even recognize your face, and it doesn't emote when you aren't actively telling it too, so most of your offline social interactions leave you stuck with an expressionless wide eyed stare. You realize they also added some online upgrades to your mechanical voice box, it sounds even less like you now, and you're not able to say words like 'fuck' or 'sex' or 'unionize'. You didn't realize before how horrifying it would be to try to say a specific words and not be able to, nomatter how hard you try.

Your career keeps going well, you get some upgrades that stop you from sleeping or eating that much but you don't really mind those. You also start having fewer and fewer freinds outside the industry and more and more freinds from within it. But after a minor scandal with an ex, your manager tells you you're going to get a new type of surgery: they say that it's not good for someone as famous as you to have body parts that aren't advertiser freindly, they tell you you need to have your genitals and nipples removed, with such a young audience it would be irresponsible not to. A marketing expert feigns comfort as you try to cry, telling you you'll be just like a cute little doll.

You know you can't resist. The company technically owns your face and your voice, if you tried to resist they could have them ripped out of your skull, leaving you a bloody mess. You enjoy your sex organs for the last few days you have them, trying to make the most out of what you'll probably never have again. When the operation is done you wish your eyes could still cry, your body feels so alien, your anatomy so weird and empty and like your body isn't your own. There's an awful voice in the back of your head (and in every comment section now) telling you're not a real woman anymore. You start to understand what people mean by dysphoria, your body is less and less your own every day.

Eventually they take almost all of your body, it's theirs to control. As the years go by you don't have bones you have metal and plastic, you don't have skin you have rubber that looks a lot like skin. Even your eyes are gone, you have new color changing eyes, with the same restrictive settings that Christian parents put on their children's artificial eyes, that block out things like nudity and gore, they censor away a lot of books and news articles too. You don't feel like yourself at all, you're someone else's now, someone's pretty little doll. Your body doesn't even look human now, more like a hyper feminine anime figurine, with no hair on its legs, and a face that never cries or gets angry.

You can barely look at human bodies now, they don't even read as real to you. You admire other cyborgs if anything, cyborgs who replaced their body parts because they wanted to, and look how they want, people with jailbroken limbs and organs that run on Linux, many limbed insectoids who don't try to look humanoid, and furries whose artificial skin makes them look like wolves or cats, or asymmetrical punks who have art sprawling across their metal chassises. You admire them more because at least you could in theory some day become that, become someone who owns their own body, even if most people consider them the lowest of the low, the most cringe the most unmarketable. You want so badly to become unmarketable.

Mabye you want everything to be torn away. You fantasize about your expensive body being destroyed, and ending up with boxy uncomfortable hospital model parts. Mabye if you're broken nobody will want to play with you. You don't know if anything can save you, anything short of a r*volution, and that's not even a word your eyes can see or your mouth should say, so it's so scary to think of it.

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youcouldmakealife · 5 months ago

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David, Kiro; ready for your close up, Mr. Ambassador?

For this year's bracket challenge winner, who requested something like Crosby and Mackinnon's Tim Hortons commercials, but with David and Kiro instead.

But of course, because this is David, instead you get a lot of setup as to how exactly we got into this particular scenario. (Kiro to meddle later)

David has never done many endorsement deals. It isn’t that they weren’t offered to him, especially at the beginning of his career — the Islanders may not be the most popular team in New York, but they were still, in Dave’s words, ‘in New fucking York. Yeah, okay, they’re on Long Island. Semantics, David, the market’s the market.’

It wasn’t semantics, not really — the Rangers were New York’s team, then and now, the Islanders relegated to some distant second, New York’s team the way that the Ottawa Senators were Ontario’s, that San Jose was California's.

Still, he had offers. A lot of them. But when he was younger David wanted to focus on hockey and only hockey, worried any distractions would halt his development. His job was to play hockey, not to pretend to be excited about some product he’d never heard of before they called him.

And, frankly, the media David deals with, and the filming he already has to endure for contractual reasons — YouTube videos for his team, soundbites for the TV networks, media day for the league — means that David has no illusions about his acting ability.

So, for the most part, David’s ignored the offers. The money offered is sometimes good, occasionally very good, but he already makes more money than he can spend.

Well, he could easily spend it, but it’s certainly more money than he could responsibly spend, particularly knowing that, sooner rather than later, his career will have to end.

It’s that particular thought, and the accompanying awareness that his endorsement value is only going to decline from this point forward, that has David playing closer attention than usual when Dave mentions that one of the team’s sponsors is interested in filming a TV spot with him.

That isn’t unusual — Dave mentions them often, but they’re more an aside that David’s welcome to ignore. Dave is well aware that David has little interest, but he still conveys the message, mostly, he says, because he gets paid for them too — not as much, obviously, but he does receive a portion of David’s earnings.

To date, David’s only taken him up on one offer. Leapt on it, even though the compensation was negligible compared to other offers, let alone compared to what he made on the ice, but that was because it was Bauer, offering him the chance to, in effect, advertise a stick designed to his specifications. The filming wasn’t too bad either, since it mostly involved him stickhandling for take after take, which wasn’t all that different from practice. Even those have cameras sometimes.

He still uses the stick to this day. It isn’t the only one uses, or even the one he uses most often — it’s a little too fragile, and David grew tired of having to race back to the bench when it snapped yet again, though he did draw more penalties with it — but it’s excellent for the power play.

“It’s a very generous offer,” Dave says. “They have a ‘vision’, they said, and they’re willing to pay a little more to get you specifically.”

“What do you mean?” David asks.

“Let them tell you,” Dave says. “It’s actually a pretty decent idea.”

Dave wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it, and between the money, and David’s curiosity, it’s enough reason to agree to meet with someone from the sponsor. ‘Just a coffee’, they said, but David prepares for — and receives — a pitch instead.

Apparently it’s all Kiro’s fault. The representative doesn’t put it like that, of course, but he does mention that the idea came after someone on their marketing team watched the red carpet interview from the Awards the year David won the Art Ross.

David isn’t sure why that interview’s still online, let alone why anyone would watch it, but it is, and they have, and their marketing team thinks, being that David is from the Canadian capital, plays in Washington, and Kiro joked about him being the Canadian Ambassador to Russia, it would be funny for David to play an ambassador.

“A hockey ambassador,” he says. “You know?”

“I have no experience with diplomacy,” David says. “Or acting, really.”

He’s sure he’d be terrible at it. He’s terrible even at playing himself, according almost every bit of feedback he’s received on NHL media day, and he can't see playing a role going any better.

“You don’t even really need to act,” the sponsor says. “We’re going for diplomatic, you know? Stern but polite. That’s kind of your vibe anyway, isn’t it? We figured that was why Volkov said it.”

“Is that why?” David asks. He genuinely thought Kiro had been joking that David earned honourary Russian status after spending the entire summer with him, Oleg, and Slava, but sometimes Kiro’s jokes can go over his head.

That gets a laugh, and he’s not sure why, but he’s stopped trying to understand at this point, unless it’s someone whose opinion that matters to him, someone he cares about.

“Well,” David says, when time’s up. He still has half his tea, but it’s in a to-go cup, and he thinks he’s heard enough. “I’ll think about it.”

He doesn’t anticipate needing to spend a lot of time on that. The money really is good, but he really does have no shortage of it, and he doesn’t think he’d like to earn money by humiliating himself.

His mistake was mentioning it to Kiro. He should have known Kiro would never let him turn it down.

#fic snippet #david chapman #kiro volkov #dave summers

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mullermilkshake · 18 days ago

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Twelve days of fluffmas

On the twelfth day of fluffmas, my true love gave to me...

Yakuza!Kento getting his Christmas wish.

Tags: Yakuza AU, Fem!reader, first meeting, unexpected and fate driven, spilt coffee,

"Coffee please. Thank you."

Kento's favourite part of the Christmas market stalls that lined the street were any that involved coffee. That and the type that served toasted sandwiches with his favourite bread.

Hot steaming coffee on his morning walk through the snow, icy breeze nipping at his cheeks, warmed coffee cup stopping his fingers from freezing and-

"Oh, I'm so sorry!"

Spilt coffee. All over his suit and coat.

Kento turned around slowly, padding his pockets for anything to wipe it up with before it stained and seeped through enough to burn him.

"That guy barged past me- but I should have seen where I was going..." it was you.

You who did not know he existed. You who had no clue how much Kento had watched you off in the background never getting the courage to speak with you. And here you were, right in front of him all glassy eyed because of a cup of coffee on his coat.

"I'm such a klutz..." your voice trailed off when you made eye contact and your head dipped down before you looked around for napkins. "I know someone who's really good at cleaning expensive suits, which I'm sure yours is- shit, I can have this cleaned."

Kento stood there speechless that you were stood there fussing over him and pulling napkins out to dab his coat. Instinctively, Kento drew his hand up to stop you and ended up cupping your napkin filled hand in his.

"Please, don't worry. It's only coffee," it was then he realised what he'd done, because your eyes widened and looked right up at his. "Sorry."

"No, it's alright," tucking a strand of hair away from your face, Kento noticed the blush in your cheeks. "I wasn't looking where I was going, it's totally my fault. Here-"

He watched you pull out a little note book and scribbled down on it. "Here's my home phone, call me and let me know what the bill is... and here's the address of the laundromat. She's a good friend of mine and she'll take care of you."

Not five minutes and you'd already given him your number and- Kento's eyes widened a fraction before he reined it in. Mei Mei was a prolific money launderer and everyone in the Yakuza world knew who she was.

So how did you know her? Were you aware of what she did behind closed doors? This coincidence begged the question as to how Kento never saw any link to Mei Mei whenever he saw you on the network cameras.

Perhaps he was slipping, it was true that he'd become burned out this close to the new year.

Kento never mentioned it, there was no need to. "Thank you, but I won't burden you with any bill for this. It's just coffee."

"I just feel so terrible, I'd be pissed if I got coffee all down me."

He realised just how cool he was being. No way in hell did he ever think he would react to you meeting by accident like this. Though now he was thinking about it, Kento felt himself shift uncomfortably and noticed he'd just been staring at you.

"Uh, it's really no bother."

By the relief splashed across your face, you were intent on leaving shortly and took one step backwards.

Yet you didn't lead the conversation that way. "I insist, really. But I'd like to buy you another coffee," your eyes paid him attention closely. "Or maybe lunch if you're not in any rush? I feel awful, it's such a beautiful suit."

A lunch invitation and compliment? Did you not know what sort of life he was leading, or what people he affiliated himself with- who you were being affiliated with? You should have known the moment you laid eyes on him. Most people suspected.

Yet you showed no signs of distress.

"Please?"

And now you were practically begging him to go with you. Kento contemplated all the times he'd talk down to himself for not pursuing you and how much of a bumbling idiot he would have been. There was nothing bumbling in the slightest.

Just long drawn breaths and pauses he used to figure out what to say though it flowed off of his tongue naturally like a waterfall into a lagoon.

"Alright, but I'll buy lunch."

You smiled sweetly and nodded. "Then I'll buy the coffee."

"It's a deal."

Kento let you lead through the stalls though it was really a chance to soak you in and let the realisation in that he'd just had his first conversation with you. A conversation he had agonised for months over.

"I know a really nice stall. It's off the beaten track a little, but I promise that it's great. It's only ever here at Christmas," once the stalls had dispersed along the street, you pulled back and matched his pace.

"If you recommend it, I'm sure I'll enjoy it," Kento was never a fan of group meals of crowded places to sit down and eat in.

A stall where he could sit off to the side was perfect. Especially uninterrupted time with you. Kento could not believe his luck.

"It has some of the best fried chicken I've ever tasted but if you prefer something different, the stall next door serves raw fish which just melts in your mouth..."

You stopped right in your tracks and watched Kento as he turned. "I'm talking too much. I apologise... I'm talking to a stranger with so much familiarity. I hope that didn't make you uncomfortable," you bowed like Kento did not enjoy it.

"Not at all," he was quick to reassure you. "I admire enthusiasm. I never would have known where the best fried chicken was if you hadn't told me."

Kento took the information on board. Ino was partial to fried chicken every now and then.

He listened to that sweet little chuckle leave your lips. "That's good, otherwise I would have been a weirdo that talks too much and spills coffee on people."

"You're no weirdo..." You never heard him say that and carried on walking. For a moment, Kento watched you leave with a quickness in his breath.

Some would say he made a Christmas wish. But in reality, it was fate. A thing he never believed in until now.

And all it took was a little coffee spilled on his coat.

I was going to wait much longer for Kento and reader to meet, but it's Christmas and I'm feeling all fuzzy inside. THEY MET AT LAST.

Me rn writing this stuff.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #yakuza au #x reader #fem reader #reader insert #kento fluff #nanami kento #jjk kento #kento x reader #jujutsu nanami #nanamin #jujutsu kaisen nanami #advent calendar #festive #holiday season #twelve days of fluffmas #Kento get your happy ending

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magics-neptunes-things · 1 year ago

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Winter cold

Hi guys!

I got two request for something with Laia Codina after the one with Laia Aleixandri, so there you go :) I hope you'll like it!

Resume : Your girlfriend is trying to survive the coldness of your hometown.

TW : None ♥

______________________________________________________________

"How is it so cold? How are people still having their ten fingers?"

Your laugh when you hear your girlfriend wines. Despite her multiple layers of clothes, she doesn't seem to be able to cope with the cold winter of your native Scotland. You took advantage of the winter break to take her to the village where you grew up, in Kirkwall. After a trip with a stopover, you went to your village, where your parents still live.

Unlike you who joined the south of the country for a few years, when you signed a contract for Arsenal. This is also where you met Laia, when she arrived in the best London club. The love at first sight was immediate and so strong that neither of you could hide it from your teammates. Nor the fans, always on the lookout for everything on social networks.

"Come here, you grumpy little gremlins"

Laia makes a horrible grimace but sticks to you despite everything, letting you pass your arms around her waist. You let her melt to you, looking for a form of warm. You have been walking in the village for an hour. Christmas is finished so there are no more the small wooden huts of the Christmas market, but the place remains in your opinion very beautiful.

"How about a hot chocolate?"

You end up offering this to your girlfriend, to relieve the cold that seems to have taken hold of Laia’s entire body. She looks at you with stars in her eyes, making you laugh softly again.

"Madre mia, yes please."

Without hesitation, you grab her hand to train her with you towards the nearest establishment to you. You know very well the people who take care of it and it's a pleasure to see them again. When you arrive at the establishment, you are warmly greeted. After officially introducing Laia and exchanging a few phrases, you find yourself sitting at one of the tables. Laia smiled as she saw a picture of you and the tenants, a signed jersey in your hands. The shirt is also framed and displayed on the wall.

Two hot chocolates with Chantilly and marshmallow supplements were quickly dropped in front of you, and you thank the waitress with a big smile. Taking your spoon in your hand, you put your attention back on Laia.

"You should take off your jacket, you’ll be even colder when you go out"

Groaning, Laia nevertheless obeyed and installed her coat on the back of her chair before wrapping her hands around the welcome heat of the cup.

********

"She's trying to kill me."

After your drinks, you left the café to resume your little journey. But as the night begins to fall, the cold becomes increasingly intense.

Her phone on and facing the camera for the instagram video she is filming, Laia complains once again of cold. She turned the camera in your direction while pronouncing her sentence and you joyfully greet the camera with a wave of hand and a smile. Wrapped between a beanie and a big woolen scarf, you can only see your girlfriend’s nose and eyes.

"Don’t listen to her, she’s a real drama queen. It’s only -3°"

"I'm Spanish, I'm not programmed to survive such temperatures" objected Laia.

You laugh and catch up to her, passing your arms around her waist and then put your lips on her cheek. Her wide smile is perfectly visible despite her scarf and Laia stops the video at this precise moment to turn around and kiss you properly.

Realizing that even her lips are cold, you look thoughtfully.

"I think we’ll be back before you can apply for the role of the Iceberg in Titanic."

"What a sense of humor. You should have done stand-up, not becoming a football player."

Laia snort and you grab her by the arm to bring her back to the apartment that you continue to rent for your return here, dragging her in the right direction. Maybe the brunette would have been able to go home on her own, but you turned so much in all the streets that it's also possible that her sense of direction is disturbed.

"I’ll need a lot of hugs to warm up, get ready"

You laugh softly and shake your head.

"That’s not gonna bother me."

"And a good hot bath. And a good hot meal."

You laugh again, sticking yourself against her to put several kisses on her cheek, ending with a last one on her lips. Seeing her smile still makes you happy. You know perfectly well that despite her complaints, she is happy to be here. Her meeting with your family went well and you made sure she felt comfortable among them.

"Whatever you want, my love"

#woso x reader #woso imagine #laia codina #laia codina x reader #laia codina imagine

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daryascurse · 19 days ago

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𝙲𝙰𝚅𝙴𝙰𝚃 𝙴𝙼𝙿𝚃𝙾𝚁

── Part IV: Cui Bono Fuerit

“So you knew I would come?” you panted as he stood firm between your bowed knees. “So you thought I would be – what – stupid?” “Services stopped.” Coriolanus’s breath was ragged as he snapped back to you. His thumb brushed your jawline, tilting your head up to meet his searing gaze. “No, I shouldn’t have said stupid. I knew you’d be reckless.”

chapter pov : 2nd person reader, AFAB reader, feminine pronouns ❀ tags: hate sεx, elevator sεx, biting ❀ word count: ~4.4k ❀ ao3 ❀playlist

I have a very strict adult-only interaction policy. Ageless, blank, and clearly minor-run blogs that interact will be blocked. If you have questions about what that means, please read the byf in my pinned post.

See header "Caveat Emptor" link for table of contents/ chapter 1.

“The Hunger Games?”

You squinted at the painter’s tape plastered firmly over the screen, right below your name and beaming holographic portrait, covering the previous assignment. Hollisee Tympan shot a glance at you over the shoulder of his stiff plaid suit as he pressed the corner of the tape down and stepped back.

“Lucky,” hissed the mouth-breathing Elysia Byron. Her salivating was practically audible.

“I thought I would be starting off in the markets,” you said to no one in particular. “Down at the banks. In the financial district.”

Harrier Bulla was over your other shoulder. “You say you’d rather have the financial markets than the Hunger Games?”

You were still staring at the black ink saying the same three words that blubbered out of his mouth.

“It’s gotten huge the last few years,” Elysia Byron said. “Mr. Tympan, would the Games benefit from perhaps one more page from the station?”

“Or two?”

Mr. Tympan blinked wide, watery eyes at their slimy wheedling. “Mr. Bulla, CapiTV is lucky to have the presence of one page to represent the station. The administration is still wary of the security threats and this is the first year they’re even doing a trial run with outside network involvement. And we don’t get a stipend for it, either. If you had been listening during orientation, you might have heard that.”

“Aren’t you in fashion and style, anyway?” asked Harrier. “What could a style page do at the Games?”

Elysia made a huffing sound. “Actually, style would be very important to cover at the Games.”

“What exactly shall I be covering, anyway?” you asked Mr. Tympan cautiously.

Mr. Tympan shot another look at Harrier and Elysia behind you, all but sticking their tongues out childishly at each other. “Well, you’ll receive a formal memorandum shortly. But we’d like you to focus on backstage operations. We don’t have the equipment – or the manpower – ” which was said loudly to cut off Harrier’s mouth as it opened again “ – to even negotiate a CapiTV presence up front with the Flickerman production. And of course they’ll be doing the main interviews, telling the tribute story. But they’re outsourcing to CapiTV to create something for the slower moments when Lucky needs a break. You won’t be behind the camera, but you’ll be supplying our broadcasters with the inspiration and information to fill that time. And the audience will need some breaks from Lucky, too, while still remaining engaged in the Games.”

“Capitol Television. The Capitol’s vision, to you,” Harrier recited the station’s motto with a toadyish excitement. Elysia rolled her eyes and you prided yourself on the ability to resist the same.

“So it’s just glamorized B-roll,” Elysia said snottily.

Mr. Tympan only blinked at her before turning to walk away.

The other pages began to come up to the screens, and when Harrier and Elysia turned to whisper the new development to them, you began your hasty steps after.

“Mr. Tympan – sorry. One more question.”

“You’ll get the memorandum,” he said, looking down at the papers he thumbed through a binder.

“Well – I mean, I’m flattered,” you said, and caught yourself twisting your hands. “But I wanted to ask why I was the one transferred over. I don’t think I indicated any interest in working for the Games in my page application.”

“You didn’t, and that’s why,” Mr. Tympan said. “I trusted even with your lack of interest you paid more attention than Ms. Byron did to the security briefings in orientation. Even with the last bomb threat being two years ago, the Capitol’s priority is safety and discretion. Each year has to bring improvement in all areas. And you’ve proven yourself… capable of such discretion.”

Given his pause, you weren’t sure if it was something you’ve done in the last two weeks of orientation, or something further back that’d earned you such esteem. You narrowed your eyes and looked quickly away. Mr. Tympan wasn’t familiar from the days of moonlighting that had put you through school. You had secure faith in your memory. But the network had many officers…

“I can keep my mouth shut,” you said, but Mr. Tympan was already walking away again.

The Hunger Games.

It was an anxious thrill that sprang through you, and you raised a soothing hand to circle your belly automatically. But the Peacekeeper at the door turned his helmet towards you at the movement, so you slipped the identification badge between your fingers and raised the card instead.

“I’m from CapiTV,” you said.

He snapped it from your hand with a force that rubbed the lanyard cord hot and painful at the back of your neck. You forced yourself to remain stoic as he investigated the photograph, the same beaming face on the hologram taken as your thoughts were full of financial news dreams.

“How exciting for you,” he grunted.

“Very. Yes, exciting,” you breathed.

Elysia Byron, Harrier Bulla, and then a third page, Kit Crocum, all left calls attempting in some way to convince you to swap posts. “You wanted finance,” Kit had wailed, convinced somehow that being assigned the banks and markets meant that you had stolen the Games from him as the rightful owner.

“I just don’t think it’s up to me to trade,” was how you deflected them all.

When the Peacekeeper held the heavy steel door open with an instruction to go to the sixth floor, you walked past a portrait of Coriolanus Snow. You looked down at your badge again. Yes, you had wanted to work on financial news. You had also wanted to live on the moon as a child.

Moreover, a lot had happened in the time between filling out the interests sheet in the spring and this early summer morning.

You turned your head at the elevator, and it was like his stern blue eyes could follow you all the way down the corridor. You felt the stare prickle on your skin as the elevator rose. The doors opened and you were rubbing the back of your arm subconsciously.

An Avox led you down sea-green steps. They must have been made of some newly engineered glass that didn’t shatter under your sensible heels, but the material dazzled and shone across the floor like an old-fashioned soda bottle you remembered from history classes. Each step made the sound of a diamond falling, and as you approached the small crowd at the buffet table, hundreds of shuffling shoes made the sound echo again and again like an opulent hailstorm. A space opened as two women in high-buttoned suits swept away from the table, where rich brown drapery flowed under platters of canape and thick slices of meat.

Your mouth watered and you thought of the stale crackers in the CapiTV break room.

“Good afternoon. Good afternoon.”

The woman’s voice was icy and clear, cleaving through the dim chatter of colleagues. You snuck a glance towards the front of the room. Backs and elbows blocked your view, and so you discreetly slid a few biscuit cups filled with whipped egg and topped with some green and orange somethings onto a napkin.

“Welcome, media representatives, to the first stages of the Fourteenth Hunger Games,” the woman’s voice continued.

You could see her now, a woman whose golden hair spiraled silver at her temples and shone in two shades of metallic. Her nose was strong, and her gaze somehow pinched. She leaned into the tall iron microphone, her full lips caged behind the netting.

“I am sorry that Dr. Gaul couldn’t come for one last farewell,” she said without further introduction. And from looking at the knowing glances between the crowd, they recognized her without requiring one. You looked down at the eggs nestled in the napkin cupped in your palm.

Well, they each had to have worked their first Games at some point.

You popped one in your mouth and tasted onion and paprika sinking between your teeth.

“Unfortunately, she’s taken ill in the days following retirement, but we wish her the best and a speedy recovery. Fortunately, she completed transitioning our new Head Gamemaker fully into the position, and he’s been hard at work preparing our new Games to start come July. Everything is on schedule, and we’ll have a briefing sheet to bring back to your –” and she sniffed, before smiling tightly “ – little television studios. And he’s taken time out of his busy day to greet you himself.”

The thin crowd swelled around you a moment with a flurry of questions, and you saw the tips of ten perfectly manicured claws rise in the air.

“No, there will be no chances for an exclusive interview. Not today,” she said firmly. Not ever. “Everyone, Mr. Coriolanus Snow.”

You clenched your hand into a fist. The egg burst, creamy white and crumbled biscuit crumbs surging between your fingers, leaking through the thin veil of napkin.

“Thank you, Ms. Trinket.”

He melted out of the crowd, and you snapped your neck back wildly, as if you could recreate where he had come from. You blinked. Blinked again. The egg was tacky against the sweat beading in your palm. There was no reason to be surprised. His portrait had just been in the hall, after all. You should have known; you did know, from the moment you saw that strip of painter’s tape. But you’d never let yourself actually think it so plainly.

“Anastasia Trinket,” Coriolanus said into the microphone. His smile was dazzling, an errant curl artfully falling over his forehead as he turned that smile to her. He had his hands raised in applause. His fingernails were square and clean.

Everyone was applauding now, and you used the excuse of the mess in your hands to turn behind the crimson-suited man in front of you to drop it to the table. You grabbed a napkin and wiped between your fingers, nervously glancing between Coriolanus and the other members of the press.

He looked right at you and the corners of his lips curled.

“Thank you for coming.”

You found it in you at last to clap along, and you gave a few measured, off-beat smacks.

“Let me repeat Ms. Trinket and welcome you again. The Hunger Games this year promise to be our best yet, and we hope that the press will help bring this event to the eyes of all of Panem. Now, you’ll have to see most of it live as the rest of us, but we have prepared a confidential media briefing for your stations, so that you may begin necessary preparations and preview for the citizens of the Capitol what they may expect.”

Coriolanus reached inside his black silk jacket, and the press around you began to pull tablets or recording devices from their pockets and bags. You cleared your throat and unclipped the microphone card attached to your blouse.

“We are very excited to announce that this year, we have at last achieved the goal of hosting the Games in a new arena,” he said, beginning to glance up from a sheet of paper and innocently flitting his gaze to you, to someone on one side, back to you. Your hand was frozen on the blinking recording light. “While the Second Arena has served us will these past few years, the Fourteenth Hunger Games shall move to a new and improved location.”

“Excuse me, will they still be held in the Capitol?”

Ms. Trinket yanked the mic stand to her mouth. “There will be a short time for questions after the briefing,” she snapped.

“For security reasons,” Coriolanus said, in a manner smooth and cold, “we will not be revealing where the new arena is located. However, rest assured that for this same reason, this arena was not built in the Capitol. Nor will any other. For now that we know it is possible to design, engineer, build, and fully synchronize an arena with Capitol control within a year, each Hunger Game will be held in an entirely new and different arena.”

There was a snap of grumbling behind you. Coriolanus’ lips turned in a sneer once more, and you ground your heel into the glass floor.

“So, we have no direct media access to the Games? No cameras and reporters at the arena?” you called out before being able to stop yourself.

Ms. Trinket’s vein threatened to burst out of her forehead, and you almost believed Coriolanus’ face went a shade paler. You raised your eyebrows, waiting for a response, and licked your lip.

“The arena cameras have been enhanced and received a software update,” Coriolanus said almost too quickly. It made your heartbeat a little more even. “Every studio will receive the same feed as always. And the tributes will still train here, and speak to Mr. Flickerman here. That access is the same, which has always been the only real opportunity for first-hand reporting.”

You tapped your foot and said nothing more. And you heard nothing more, too, thankful for the recording card pinned to your shirt. The strength you had pulled out of yourself to move your tongue burned through to your brain, and you were slowly beginning to feel it turn to belligerent epiphany.

He did this. He did this because you had done it, two weeks ago. The longer you stayed silent, the more that steely shine returned to his eye with each haughty glance at you. Once more he was on stage and you captive in the audience; but this time, he was the tiger prowling beyond the bars and locked the human in.

You crossed your arms at the waist and pressed into yourself.

Could it be that he had pulled the strings, all the way to the news studio?

Of course he could.

Coriolanus rolled up the paper at last, and Ms. Trinket moved forward to announce that questions were now welcome. You fidgeted.

There was a flash of memory, of fidgeting and tightening your thigh muscles at the ministrations that silver tongue of his worked between your legs. You tensed again. It did not alleviate.

“Actually,” Coriolanus interjected, “I apologize, but Ms. Trinket will answer your questions. I unfortunately have last minute business to attend to, with the reaping at the week's end. We of course will send invitations to your stations to Lucky Flickerman’s commentary conference. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time.”

He turned to give her another few claps of applause, and the crowd fell in line. Coriolanus smiled politely and moved into the crowd. A few offered their hands to receive a brief shake; a gentleman attempted to give him a hearty clap on the back, which earned a stiff half-smile in response. His eyes slid over you, triumphantly caged in by the swaying bars of applauding hands all around.

“Excuse me,” you said, nearly turning into the woman on your right as you turned to push to the back of the crowd yourself.

But Coriolanus had taken a different stream, and when you made it to where only Avoxes stood silent at the wall, he was at the foot of those shallow sea-glass stairs. You cast a glance back at the rest of the press and took hurried steps.

“Coryo – ”

It felt wrong to call for him, as soft as it was.

He barely craned his neck back as he pushed the elevator button.

“I’m sorry, perhaps you didn’t hear Anastasia earlier. There won’t be any exclusives through this media program.”

“And did you get me assigned to this program?”

The doors opened and warm orange light spilled out.

“We had to approve the names each studio submitted,” Coriolanus said measuredly. “For security. You understand.”

“I don’t.”

You stepped inside the elevator after him, and held a hand against the frame. Coriolanus looked over your shoulder to the gathering below.

“Though we didn’t review for competence,” he murmured. “You’re missing the questions and answers. It would be a shame for your station to be behind the curve so early in the Games.”

You tilted your head at him and tightened your eyes. “As if she’s going to give away any trade secrets.”

“Trade secrets,” Coriolanus sighed with exaggeration, “are certainly not on the table. Glad to see CapiTV sends their brightest. Well, good day. I really do have things to attend to.”

He moved to reach for the button to urge the doors closed, almost physically puffed up and preening with his own ego. Your fingers curled at the elevator doors and then stepped inside.

“Coriolanus, I don’t know – ”

The doors slid closed, and Coriolanus lunged forward.

“No, you don’t,” he said, seething, and one hand slammed past your head to the wall behind you. The other reached up to your blouse, and before your eyes, ripped the microphone cord clean off the card.

“You certainly don’t,” Coriolanus continued, and now, without any other eyes or ears he could not keep the curl of his lip off his shining teeth. His blue stare was wild. “Clearly you don’t if you’re so stupid to approach me like this today. Again.”

“You invited me here,” you spat.

“Please select a floor,” the elevator’s automatic voice sang.

Coriolanus punched something in the panel, flinging your microphone to the floor. The elevator began to rise.

“Going up.”

“Anyone could have looked up. Any one of those journalists or reporters could have looked back at the elevator just now.”

“I’ll leave,” you said. “Just bring it back down to the lobby.”

Coriolanus huffed. “You know I was trying to do something nice? I saw your plans in the graduation program, and I felt sorry for you. Clearly you aren’t making much of what your degree is worth, taking a job at CapiTV, of all places. Their reporter has been drunk on camera the last two Games, but I thought maybe I’d give you a shot to turn things around, for you, and your career. I thought I’d do you a favor. Maybe the Games would give you a chance to hone some of your, shall we say, more academic talents.”

Bullshit. “Bullshit,” you said, turning your chin up in his face. “It’s because you wanted me to feel how you felt at graduation. That’s why you organized this little briefing for everyone, isn’t it?”

“How I felt?”

“I’m sorry, Coriolanus, if I had the luxury of knowing that I’d be hearing your valedictorian speech. I’m sorry that you hadn’t bothered to recognize your own classmate outside of school. But I thought I apologized for anything I might have done that day.”

And I shouldn’t have.

“How could you know what I felt?” Coriolanus snarled. “You have no idea what I had planned for that day. I had everything planned, this whole summer, and one day – very important day – was enough to throw it all off track.”

“And that’s my fault?” You were almost shrieking with laughter at the absurdity. “I didn’t make you come to the club, and I didn’t make you lick my pussy.”

The words were delicious coming out of your mouth. You grinned, wild, practically spitting in the face of this ringmaster even as you remembered seeing that face so beautifully framed between your thighs.

“You wanted to.”

Coriolanus’s mouth crashed on yours at that, with the familiar taste of anger on his tongue. You could have bitten him. But you kissed him back and chased that taste; clawed at him instead, tugging his neat shirt from his pants to allow your fingernails up his bare back where your touch could rake at his skin. He hissed.

The elevator began to slow.

“Doors,” you gasped, and his arm muscle flexed out to hit another button.

“Services stopped.”

Coriolanus almost slammed you into the wall. He had his fists on your skirt, your neat, smart little black pencil skirt, and he was scrunching it high on your hips. His body was hot against yours, and his wiry strength was a bruising grip on your thigh. Your hands were just as busy, frantically unbuckling his belt, trying to find the space to tug down his zipper.

“Coriolanus,” you gasped.

He was half-mad with rage, with something hungrier and full of desire. Your knee fell open as you were propped on the railing, and you lurched back and clutched wildly at the brass for balance. The careful slick of his hair was breaking free from the gel casing, and Coriolanus breathed heavily, a string of saliva snapping between his parted lips.

“There’s – the – cam-”

“No cameras,” he said in one breath. He leaned forward, and his lips ghosted on the shell of your ear, sending spikes across your skin and down your back. “I turned them off this morning.”

You moaned and felt the threatening rush tremble between your legs again. The pressure in your blood beat faster, harder, with excitement turned anew once more at the stimulus.

“So you knew I would come?” you panted as he stood firm between your bowed knees. “So you thought I would be – what – stupid?”

“Services stopped.”

Coriolanus’s breath was ragged as he snapped back to you. His thumb brushed your jawline, tilting your head up to meet his searing gaze. “No, I shouldn’t have said stupid. I knew you’d be reckless.”

The words hit you sharply, as sharply as the edge of his teeth grazing your throat. You would have laughed if it was still the time for incredulity. And then he was in you, your breath hitching as the weight of his body into your stomach pushed you against the elevator wall with each thrust. You saw the cameras in the corner at last, little black caps carefully snapped over the lens.

The world could be watching, if it had the eyes to look.

“How did you do it?”

Any of it.

His thumb smeared down your cheek, pulling your mouth into the space for a lopsided breath as you gasped out the words.

“Does it matter? I’m Head Gamemaster, aren’t I?”

Coriolanus kissed you again. You let your teeth tug at his lips this time, and the groan from his lungs was intoxicating.

He was tense and throbbing in you, and you had to lean into him, had to use him as a plinth of support in this precarious balance. Your blouse was stuck to your back in an awkward rumple of sweat, and your nipples ached untouched under your bra. His hands had come both to your thighs to pin you there on the railing, keep your hips stilled as he moved in you harder, harder still.

Your ankles have locked together against his against his back. You realized it only when the elevator jolted suddenly, and you gasped sharply, a heel sliding off and slapping to the floor.

“Services stopped.”

It was just the shaking of your bodies, but for a moment, you feared that someone had called for the elevator.

“Oh,” you whispered. You were angry at the thought of someone interrupting, and your teeth chattered at the realization. Chattered more at the stillness of Coriolanus in you that was leaving you full, full, stretched so you could barely manage it. Your hips were just heavy lead under his touch.

Coriolanus sucked his breath in, and you had to meet his eyes that for once matched his in wild fervor. You whimpered a surrender.

“Don’t stop…”

He pushed again and he was fucking you as far as he could go at this curled angle. By now, his hands were all of what kept you to the railing. The desire to squirm away at the weight had left you squirming as best you could. Any last strength you had in your body, nor your brain, had melted away.

It was rough and quick. Your cunt was greedy and you choked on the wail as you felt the desperate convulsing of your inner walls. That was it. Coriolanus was coming too, with each spurt hot and somehow making your legs shake even harder at the delicate sense of it. The elevator creaked faintly.

He was in you still when he lifted his face, those loose blonde curls now plastered to his forehead. With a moan from him and a full shudder from you, he pulled his cock away. Cream spattered onto the carpet. He was still holding you to the railing. Your ankles were still hooked at his thighs. You stayed a few seconds more in this silence with your back pressed to the metal wall.

“Services stopped.”

Coriolanus looked down, and stepped back. His mouth was torn up with your lipstick. He wiped the back of his hand against his face as if he could feel it and looked at the remnants. You slid down and shimmied your skirt back in place.

He swiped at his face a few moments more before sighing loudly and tugging his shirt back into his pants. As you reached down for your abandoned heel, he pushed another button on the elevator panel.

“Going down.”

You saw your microphone, the net of the speaker dented under someone’s errant foot. Coriolanus’s foot, most likely. You clenched it in your palm as you straightened again.

“You didn’t do this to help me,” you said slowly. “You wanted me to come to you. To show me what you can control.”

Coriolanus turned away from you, combing his blonde hair back with his fingers. “I don’t need to control you,” he said.

“But you do, don’t you? You want what you paid for. But the transactions are done.”

He scoffed. A lesser-mannered man would have spit on the ground after that sound. “So you want more money.”

“No. No, I mean it. I don’t want your money, I don’t need it. I never had.”

“That’s a lie,” Coriolanus said haughtily. You ground your teeth.

He was, unfortunately right. You had been too wild in your speech to catch it.

“So tell me,” Coriolanus continued, turning back to you, “what’s going to happen now? Will you quit, now that you see which pockets your salary truly comes from?”

His hands came around your head and locked you where you stood. He pressed his forehead to yours. You could taste his breath on the air as his pupils narrowed.

“What’s more important to you, little CapiTV page? Your career, or keeping your hands clean of me?”

Your thighs shook. You stared at his lips. You remembered every touch of them vividly. As if Coriolanus could feel where your eyes burned, he slipped into a low grin. The canines showed.

Part V: TBC

#divider by saradika #mdni banner by cafekitsune #tbosas #coryo x reader #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coryo x you #daryafics #caveatcoryo

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