#and the birds can’t fly away

[voidoffline]

“Why I clip my birds/farm birds wings;”

*procedes to give the worst fucking reason I’ve ever heard*

[steamgoat]

Also adding that for these to be effective you need to space them very closely together and also they need to be on the OUTSIDE of the window!

There is also anti collision tape you can buy and place strips of on your windows!

up to one billion birds in the us alone die of window collisions annually. if you support bird conservation, campaigning against wind farms should not be your first action.

[writerpeach]

Extracurricular Activititties

aespa Karina x m!reader

16k words

Part Two of Fantastic Breasts and Where to Find Them

“Nothing like a little fresh air to start the day off, right, sweetie?” 

You can’t say you agree. 

But Karina has a certain way of convincing you to go for an early morning jog when she shows up in the kitchen—wearing a pair of tight leggings that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, along with a skimpy tank top, gray and low-cut, no bra underneath, that insane chest the center of attention. 

The exact word she uses is jog, but it’s a brisk walk at best, given you're far too out of shape for anything more. You're not even sure that exercise is the goal here—when every step she takes is a chance for her breasts to jiggle underneath this skimpy, poor excuse for athletic attire and claim your attention. 

Not to mention it's cold—not quite freezing, but not the ideal jogging weather, and you swear she's doing this just to rile you all up. Especially when her nipples are practically poking straight through the thin fabric which has you straining to keep your eyes from wandering too much.

There aren’t many bodies out this early when the weather gets like this, but that doesn't mean Karina isn't the center of attention even from a distance. Her face alone gets people staring, and you know firsthand how difficult it is to keep your eyes from drifting down to those ridiculous tits and that useless stretched-out piece of fabric that hardly conceals her bouncing chest. 

The entire walk feels borderline torturous when all you can think about is what's waiting underneath those clothes, so you look away at anything you can find—leaves falling from a tree, a bird flying, the license plate of a parked car you try to memorize. 

Nothing seems to help. 

"You're staring, sweetie."

"Me? No clue what you're talking about," you lie, avoiding her alluring eyes altogether when she glances back with a knowing little smirk. 

"Yeah, you are. My ass, maybe? Enjoying the view?” Karina asks, as if she isn't fully aware of all the attention she's gotten with her top hanging loose, nipples nearly exposed, looking like sin itself. 

"It's hard to not notice how pretty you are, Karina," you reply. She giggles and bumps her hip into you, nearly sending you flying. 

"Am I distracting you, sweetheart?" she asks with this faux innocent tone, because the smile she wears can't mask her intent—

"Something like that," you mumble in response.

"Well, someone’s not subtle. It's almost too cute, seeing how hard you try to not stare at my tits."

"Can you really blame me? They're practically spilling out."

"Oh, are they? Haven’t even noticed,” she says, cupping them through the loose top, as if wanting to push her nipples through the fabric to further tantalize. "Or maybe that's the point—to see how flustered you'd get, trying to keep your eyes away. Guess I didn't overestimate your weakness."

"You're insane. It's freezing out here."

"Me, insane? Maybe—for your dick."

You're more than a little embarrassed to hear such blunt words coming from Karina's sweet lips in the open, as if there’s no chance that others can't hear everything as they walk past.

But Karina just laughs, so carefree, not having any concerns as she turns around and jogs backwards, forcing you to look directly at those bouncing tits and the hypnotizing bounce they create with every step. "I'm just trying to get the blood flowing. You think I actually wanted to go out for a run? I don't even own a sports bra, sweetie. I get more than enough exercise from you railing me every day."

The embarrassment worsens to hear her talk like this, but the blush creeping on your face goes unnoticed as you both head back home. It takes a short time before you're pushing the front door wide open, walking inside from a brisk, chilly breeze to the comfortable warmth of the shared apartment.

And suddenly your back is flat up against the door before you have the chance to kick your shoes off. "What are you—"

"Hush." One word is all Karina has to tell you, silencing any incoming words from your lips as she pins you against the wooden surface, grabbing an unexpected handful of your cock right through your sweatpants. "Seems like it worked after all—seeing how hard you've gotten just by looking at my chest. Feels like you're fucking throbbing, sweetheart.” 

"Fucking hell—" The groan slips out when Karina squeezes your cock through the fabric, leaving you helpless to her will as she presses forward, pinning you further. You don’t say another word while her lips claim your neck, her tongue swiping across the sensitive skin. 

"What are you gonna do with this big cock, I wonder? Hard as a fucking rock, and we haven't even done a thing."

"What else do you think? You're gonna let me fuck those big tits of yours."

Karina beams with satisfaction and slips a hand inside your pants, getting a better grip to fully feel the arousal of your length that aches in her fingers. "Good choice."

Those pretty lips find a place against your own and press deep, holding you there to trap you, one hand stroking your length, giving soft, constant pumps to make sure you're every bit as hard as can be. Karina isn't planning on teasing, not when she can get you nice and ready while the taste of her lips lingers. "Getting so worked up, aren't you, sweetheart? You’re so sensitive—so fucking hard."

"All thanks to your help." You get a cute laugh out of her from that as she drags you towards the living room, eager to speed things along. Your head is spinning, cock aching for more while she stops in the middle of the room with a smile across her angelic face.

"Be a good boy and sit." 

Following her orders, you kick your shoes off and throw them aside, taking a seat on the couch. "I'm not a dog, Rina."

"Never said you were," she replies, peeling her tank top off over her head, until those huge, heavy tits bounce free that you know so well. Nothing could steal your gaze away from this perfection, the way her chest jiggles from the slightest movement, mesmerizing to look at. "You're more like a cute, needy little puppy."

You'd be annoyed at her little remark, if not for the stunning view as she takes a seat on your lap, topless, straddling you. And once you have those massive breasts right in front of your face, inches away, all the irritation is easily ignored. 

All else is forgotten, your hands moving automatically to reach up and cup them. They're soft, with a satisfying weight that makes her give a little chuckle when you fondle them. "You always act like it's the first time you're seeing them."

"Feels that way," you answer, squeezing a good, generous handful, enjoying the warmth, the heaviness pressing against your palm. It's fucking heaven, and then some, the sensation of your fingers sinking into that heavenly flesh, those stiffening nipples begging for attention. “Your tits are so amazing, Rina. So goddamn big—so perfect.” 

The praise does something to her. You can see it in her flushed cheeks and a hint of a shy grin forming. A rare sight, coming from Karina, who always acts so damn confident all the time. 

She watches you closely, enjoying the attention you lavish her bare breasts with, how you squeeze them together, massage them and just play with her chest as you like. 

"It's really that easy to shut you up, isn't it?" Karina can barely finish before those words dissolve into nothing but a small gasp once your fingers pinch and tug her sensitive nipples, watching in pleasure how stiff they get. And there's no denying the addiction you've picked up, this utter obsession to bury your cock deep between those beautiful milky tits until you can't handle anymore, shooting such massive streaks of thick cum that look so good all over her.

Her mouth falls wide open at your not-so-gentle touch, every sharp tug of stiff buds eliciting a moan. Just the sight of her drives you wild—her supple breasts look fucking delicious, nipples so sensitive and responsive, and you don’t think you’ll ever get enough of them as the weight rests in your palms. 

"Come on, don't stop there." Karina pleads in your ear, encouraging you to keep it going, these violent squeezes she's all too receptive to on the daily. "You look so hungry for these fucking tits. Go ahead, suck on them, sweetie. I know you're dying to." 

Leaning back, Karina lets you have what's rightfully yours, with a proud expression etched on her face while you have your way. The angle is perfect for a messy trail of kisses that move across her pale, creamy flesh, tracing a blue vein along the way, tasting the beads of sweat forming on her delicious chest. 

It's the start of something even better—a greedy path that travels all across until your mouth finally finds its proper place, sealing right onto one of those stiff nipples, giving a lewd slurp that makes Karina react with a pleasant gasp.

"Mm, fuck—such a good boy," she coos in your ear while you devour her chest, teasing the perfect buds that get so excited in response to all this attention. Her hand rests on the back of your head, stroking your hair gently as your mouth remains locked on a breast. Karina just watches you work, attentively studying the way your teeth nibble, how hungrily you suckle, how utterly depraved you must look. 

"God, Karina, your tits, these perfect fucking tits—" 

The words slip out almost against your own volition before you latch onto her other nipple and give the same treatment, equally desperate, suckling until saliva drips down the corner of your mouth, her encouraging whimpers everything that fuels your arousal. 

“There you go, suck on those tits, they’re all yours,” Karina says, voice a bit shaky while your ravenous mouth gives a gentle nibble around the hardened nub between your lips. "Make sure you take care of them both, sweetheart.”

And honestly, how could you not—

Letting them both slide between your lips, such lewd noises come out of your mouth when switching between them, an absolute feast that has no end. Nothing could stop you from doing this for hours, forever even, this delicious fucking pair the best meal you’ve ever had, with these pretty nipples doused in spit, all slippery. But there’s only one thing better than your mouth all over—and Karina knows exactly what. 

"You about ready to get that cock between them?" she asks while you suck and slurp so frantically, but you’re unable to answer with your mouth so full of her heavy tits, devouring them like you’re starved. And once you do finally let them drop, she uses the weight to smother you, a moment you're happy to lose yourself in, pinned there with your face buried in her cleavage.

This is as good as it gets, you think, when all you can see is pale flesh covering your vision, just silently pleading for Karina to suffocate you with those plentiful breasts. It’s a moment that lasts far less than you’d like, only to see that expression on her face as she regretfully lets you come up for air. 

"Do you even have to ask? Rina, please—I need to fuck these tits so bad. I’ve never been more ready.” 

The answer leaves her so smug when she slips herself out of your lap, the rest of your clothes tugged away in a flash. Karina is already down on her knees without a single thought, chest level at the perfect height when she sits back on her heels. That sultry look on her face is to die for, big tits jutting out, full and swollen, mouth-watering as can be.

"Do you want me to blow you first? Or do you want these tits instead?"

"Karina, baby—" you groan at how she toys with you, squeezing the sensitive head with a devious smirk written all over her sinful features. "Your tits. Your beautiful tits, that's all I fucking want."

She giggles at that and runs the swollen head of your cock all over her breasts, slapping it against the jiggly flesh, before ending with a light little graze over a hardened nipple while you get more and more restless. But Karina lets your desperation sink in, staying patient herself as those pretty eyes gaze at your reaction, drinking in the look on your face—

"Hand me the bottle in the side table. The one with strawberries on it," she requests. You’re a bit confused at first, but go ahead and reach out across the cushions to open the drawer, digging out what she asks for—something you didn’t even know existed. 

It's this small bottle of clear liquid with tiny red strawberry shapes all over the label, and it doesn't take a genius to understand what this is for.

Karina flips open the cap, leaning in, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Without a word, she tilts the bottle, pouring the oil all over her chest in agonizingly slow drizzles, filling the room up with the scent of strawberries. It's nothing but erotic; a daze falling over you while she shifts to get comfortable—on her knees, back straight, making sure those huge breasts look as enticing as possible while she watches in amusement. 

Once that abundant chest has gotten the attention and coverage needed, she pours out more into her palms, her delicate hands all slippery when she strokes your aching shaft. 

"Yizhuo bought this one for me, I think, for my last birthday. Told me it would smell nice. But she has no idea what I've been saving it for..."

"Lucky me.” 

“Lucky, lucky you,” Karina repeats, emphasizing it by shaking her chest, the delicious jiggle so hypnotic, and the sheen created by the strawberry-scented liquid sets your desires ablaze. It has your cock hardening impossibly so, and you can only imagine how this will feel, given how soft they are to begin with, now all slick and slippery.

One more drizzle for good measure, right down the valley between her heavy breasts, and the anticipation alone is killing you. “There we go. Now let's have some fun.” 

Before you have the chance to reply, Karina takes your cock, stiff as could be, trapping it between her slippery breasts, nestled right within her cleavage. A sharp groan is all it takes to register the amazing feeling—sinking right into the pillowy softness. 

And Karina indulges, sliding the weight of those oily tits along your shaft, giving all this delicious friction you've been yearning for. 

“Shit—feels so good,” you groan as those heavy tits work their way down your shaft. They swallow every last inch, disappearing entirely through that slippery cleavage, this relentless slide up and down that has you reeling.

“Good, because they look perfect around your huge cock."

Karina says little more, her large breasts doing the talking as she squeezes them tighter, the slickness making all the friction between them even easier for your cock to glide through. You're left fucking breathless at how her tits completely engulf, and how your shaft disappears, all covered in massage oil, glistening every time it reappears. 

The deepening pressure does wonders for your aching cock, and the stimulation is unreal—Karina’s full lips form into a pretty smile while she grinds her chest, finding the utmost satisfaction in seeing you lose it. 

"Sweetie," Karina purrs, looking so pleased. Your breaths are shallow, and she pays no mind, focused fully on squeezing your dick so firmly between those soft, bouncy breasts. "Tell me. Tell me how this feels."

"So fucking good, Rina—never felt anything like it. Your huge fucking tits are driving me crazy." You lean back, cock sandwiched between her full chest, and just let out these desperate groans as you drown in lust. 

All without having to do a thing but sit and enjoy the view of your favorite place to be. 

Karina revels in how crazy she drives you, and there's little point in hiding it—your face says it all. You can hardly get anything out that isn’t a loud grunt or groan.

"How long can you last, sweetie? You’re throbbing like crazy,” she teases, and it’s less a question, more of a challenge—either way, you have no chance here, fighting the pleasure rising, boiling inside. And Karina knows, she can see the weakness all over, a smugness present when she pushes those mounds tighter together, not daring to let your leaking shaft escape.

"Fuck," you curse, bucking your hips almost involuntarily, losing yourself in the warmth of her breasts, overwhelmed with how slick and fucking heavenly it all is. 

“Wanna help a girl out?” Karina offers, knowing your limits are growing shorter by the second. Your answer is simple, and you grab her shoulders without a second thought, thrusting upwards, fucking those gorgeous tits with everything you have. The sight is almost too much—seeing your shaft plunge into the slippery depths of her chest, disappearing again and again, enveloped in all this pale, creamy flesh. 

"Must feel so fucking good. You've been wanting to fuck these tits so badly that you can't even speak, poor thing," Karina tells you, her eyes watching intently while you thrust wildly with all this vigor. The urge grows as you chase your climax, cock begging to burst as you drive right between the huge mounds, a frantic rhythm only hastening while that lust dominates.

"Keep it up. Just like this, sweetie, keep that big cock right between these perfect tits," she purrs, and no longer is Karina doing most of the work—strawberry oil-covered breasts on either side and your throbbing cock in between.

You won't last another minute at this rate.

Karina loves how desperate you get, the utter control she has while you give into your carnal desires, unable to do a single thing other than bury your hard cock as deeply into that beautiful cleavage as possible, not a thought on your mind beyond emptying your balls.

"I hope this feels as good as it looks, sweetheart," her honeyed voice adds, just heightening the desperation. You can hardly even think straight, an aching urge like no other, and you can already picture how good Karina is going to look covered in your hot cum. 

Just a few more pumps are all you have left, and Karina moves her slick breasts along your cock to speed things up. Not that you need any additional help in reaching that goal, because the next stroke might be your last. 

"Shit, Rina—these fucking tits," you stutter out, breath strained, balls tight as you brace for release. 

"Too much to handle? Let it all out, baby, blow that load all over these big tits.” 

There's no stopping what's about to happen—the constant throbs of your cock pumping away in between these glistening breasts tells you there's no hope, and the grip you hold on Karina tightens, pulling her forward to trap your stiff shaft even further. 

“Gonna fucking cover you—"

All this pressure building, threatening to erupt at a moment's notice, and there's only a single word from her mouth, prompting that inevitable release.

“Sweetie.“ 

One last squeeze does the trick—with a single pump of your cock between her tits, you cum. Harder than ever before, the thickness shooting so forcefully, spilling all over and painting a canvas of creamy streaks from between Karina's slick, heavy mounds.

Her expression softens at the sticky mess spilling everywhere. It's one powerful burst after the next, but Karina milks as much as she can, applying a firmer grip, her fingers massaging gently, urging more of those messy spurts from your sensitive tip.

Every last drop is rightfully hers—that pale skin gets splattered and glazed, creamy white streaks filling up her cleavage. A streak hits her chin, while most of it lands on her chest, just as intended, leaving behind a huge mess you've been desperate to give.

And Karina looks so satisfied, admiring the scene she helped create—all that milky seed, thick streaks clinging to her breasts and the rest just dripping lazily while your sensitive shaft still twitches. She holds you there in her grip for as long as she can, just for those lingering spasms, never taking her eyes off even as you start to falter.

"Good boy," she finally coos while you give a couple more lazy pumps, smearing what remains onto her heaving breasts. 

Despite your exhaustion, Karina's enthusiasm to display herself with the results of your climax smeared all over her enormous chest doesn't fade. She’s far from shy, lifting those messy, covered breasts and showing every detail, every streak of hot white. 

"Guess we should thank Yizhuo for such a thoughtful gift, wouldn't you say, sweetie?"

You can hardly muster a nod, slumping back against the pillows of the couch and panting hard as you try to stay conscious—her huge, perfect tits drenched in your load the only thing keeping you upright. 

"Hey, don't pass out on me now," she warns, giving your sensitive dick a few strokes, letting the feeling snap you awake, the overstimulation too much to bear. "We're not done yet, are we?" 

Your answer doesn't come quick enough—she laughs a bit while giving another few lazy strokes to your spent cock. "Jesus, Rina. You make me cum that hard and expect me to go again?"

"Mhmm," she giggles, shimmying down her skintight leggings until they fall down around her ankles, leaving nothing else but thin, pink-lace panties that get tugged down and kicked off in record time. Your balls can’t be completely empty already. Since when has one round ever been enough?"

You can’t exactly argue that, not when there's nothing left to stand in the way as your eyes feast upon Karina's bare cunt, her legs parting, exposing everything and just spreading the slightest bit so you can have this delicious sight of her body in its full glory.

"I'll give you a few minutes. Or are you telling me you don't wanna get balls deep in me? If so, I'll just take care of myself, I guess."

That's an empty threat if you've ever heard one, but still, nothing brings out the hunger faster than a comment like that. "Don't you fucking dare. Give me five minutes—we'll see who can't go again."

"Sure thing, sweetheart. Just come and bend me over once you're ready," she says with this innocent tone that is anything but. "I’ll be waiting."

Karina gives a quick kiss to your cheek, leaving a pile of discarded clothes in a heap as she saunters out of the room, her ridiculous wide hips swaying, naked as can be.

"Five minutes!"

Your head still spins, but you take a deep breath and head towards the kitchen. Quickly opening the fridge to grab a bottle of water, you chug it all as fast as you can. Because in five minutes, you better be ready.

It’s nowhere near long enough to calm all that heat burning inside you, but it’ll have to do. 

Little by little, you start to regain your senses when those five minutes are nearly up, and you're not even sure if it's enough—no, you're certain it's not, but you head to the bedroom regardless, determined to prove her wrong.

When you step through the open doorway, all you can see is Karina and her nude perfection sprawled out on the sheets in the most provocative manner that she can manage, her flawless skin now devoid of your orgasm or any other messy fluids. She's not idle, that's for sure, a hand occupied between her legs, and you get a fantastic view right from the start. 

Two of her slender fingers plunge right inside her needy cunt while the other hand circles a pretty nipple, tugging on it to tease, this lewd scene an invitation for you to come join.

"Thought you might not show up," Karina says, voice all sultry when all you've done is stand there and stare, looking right back. "Got a little warmed up without you. Hope that's okay.” 

"And you call me the needy one.”

She hardly pays attention, more focused on the hurried movements her fingers make, curled to hit just the right spot as they slide effortlessly in. The bedsheets are rumpled by her head, where Karina lies as she thrusts in and out of her pussy, and her contorted features show no trace of shame—eyes heavy, gaze sharp, touching herself like there's no one else around. 

"That's because you are. Now be a good boy and get up here.” 

You aren't about to disobey. 

Her moans don't cease for a moment, getting louder, less controlled by the second. But this heavenly view, Karina's flawless naked figure—it's everything, every gorgeous detail. You can only do so much admiring from the foot of the bed, and eventually, the call to explore her body is undeniable.

No reason to stall the inevitable when you climb the bed, sinking knee deep into the mattress. A front seat to this show, how Karina gets her fingers so deep in her cunt, until the sight is just torturous to watch, not to bury yourself between her legs already. 

"Didn't hear a please. Don't tell me you've gotten so needy you've forgotten your manners?"

"Please? Pretty please, sweetheart,” Karina says in the most sarcastic tone imaginable, because she knows you're going to listen to her, regardless. While she looks like this, in such a depraved state, body entirely flushed and sticky with her arousal, you know your desire to tease her is absolutely meaningless. So you give an unapologetic glance, staring between her spread legs, and just savor the most erotic view, how two pretty fingers continue working away at her entrance.

But just when the show gets good, she pauses long enough to withdraw her own wet digits, making way for a much-needed, anticipated replacement.

Those digits pull out, absolutely drenched and shove right in your mouth, pushing in all the way until you slurp up her arousal. And while you suck her fingers clean, tongue wrapping all around them, it's not lost on you just how pathetic you must appear right now—chasing down that taste, long past the point of it lingering in your mouth, not embarrassed in the slightest. 

"See, I knew you were the needy one." Karina is trying her hardest not to laugh at the desperation you have while sucking her fingers, but it's a losing battle. But you really don't care, not when you can make a show out of it, so sloppy and eager to keep them in your mouth. 

But as much as you love the taste that is unmistakably Karina, it's not nearly enough to distract yourself—you're rock hard again. It doesn't matter that you came moments ago and that there's no way in hell you'll last any reasonable amount of time, not when her delicate hands reach right for your shaft, giving a few long strokes, which has your cock pulsating almost immediately. 

"Are you even gonna be able to hold it long enough to fuck me, sweetie?" she asks, knowing damn well that the answer is an obvious not at all, but her hands feel so fucking good working away that you're going to pretend it's a possibility. “Because I need your cock inside me already. Before I get it myself."

Karina isn't patient like you thought, not in this state. Her thighs are all spread and slick, pussy looking more appetizing than ever before while you take a second to admire the view—the lips of her dripping entrance, pretty and plump, where your entire cock wants to sink right in. And judging by the look given, Karina agrees with that sentiment. 

"Well?" she asks, the lack of patience shining through. Her wide, doe-eyed stare watches intently as you get situated. "Sweetheart, it's all mine—What are you waiting for? I’ve been waiting all day for this."

“All day? We haven’t even been up all day. Now, who’s the needy one?” You hardly get a response when her slender fingers wrap right around the base of your shaft. No more words, no more wasted motion—she strokes your hard, throbbing length slowly, guiding every inch right between her slippery folds. There's nothing to prevent what's next, no say in the matter when you feel the head of your cock disappear inside that wet heat. 

You finish what she starts, easing yourself deeper into her warmth as a long moan erupts from Karina's parted lips. The slow push has her falling flat onto the mattress, head hitting the pillows as she adjusts to being stretched wide—and there’s no chance you can resist sinking all the way in, balls fucking deep, so your stiff cock, still so sensitive, slides the rest of the way into her dripping, hot, greedy cunt.

It feels like heaven the instant you fill her up, the walls of her pussy clamping down tightly around you the moment you're in all the way. Like always, the first time you sink in feels the best, where your dick throbs the most, smothered by all this warmth you can’t escape. 

"God, Rina, you’re way too fucking tight—can’t believe how good you feel,” you groan as she gets such a harsh grip on your cock that you can barely move an inch. There's plenty of reason for hesitation. No need to deny the urge to stay right where you are, balls deep and surrounded by this heat.

“Go on, sweetheart—you don’t need me to tell you what to do, right?” Karina smiles, so blissed out and ready, her voice breathless as the last syllable trails off. And that look has you responding on instinct, the way you roll your hips back to the very edge where the head of your cock nearly exits, right before driving in balls deep once again, spreading her pink pussy lips further. "Let me feel every inch, baby.”

Another hard thrust. This time you bury yourself without hesitation while words turn into nothing but moans, every movement you make sinking in as much as you’re capable. 

It's hard to even find words to express what you're feeling right now; it's overwhelming, being inside Karina, all this heat and tightness, how goddamn wet she is for you. Nothing else feels nearly this amazing. And her reactions, how your cock makes those slippery wet lips part whenever you slide back in, this endless bliss on repeat—it’s perfect. 

"Fuck me, sweetie, get as deep as you can," is all Karina can get out, delicate fingers reaching out to sink into the sheets as you fall right into a deep rhythm. It’s gentle at first, but only for a fleeting moment, when you see this ravenous gaze that demands more, for you to fuck her without restraint. 

You eagerly oblige and get your greedy hands all over her, holding onto that slender waist to anchor yourself in, fingers digging deep into the smooth, pale skin. Every ounce of caution vanishes, and then you start to really fuck into her wet cunt, buried deeper than imaginable, groaning whenever that tightness strangles your cock, refuses to never, ever let go. 

Through these constant plunges that get your shaft so wet, her heavy breasts bounce so freely with every thrust that bottoms out with ease. It’s a constant struggle where to direct your attention, looking at her beautiful features, to her huge tits, and right back again—watching as Karina forms these lewd, drawn out moans while you fuck her like she demands, her heavenly cunt swallowing you right up, begging for more. 

"Rina, baby—you're fucking perfect, these huge tits, your tight fucking cunt,” and you can’t even finish the thought, not a single word left in your mouth when she clenches around your cock, so warm and slippery, desperate to keep you there. 

“My needy boy can’t even think straight when he’s fucking me so deep? Poor thing,” Karina says, and while all you can think of is making her moan without relent, she guides your hands up to her chest, the perfect opportunity to grope at her big bouncy tits. 

"There you go, play with them however you like—god, just like that, keep fucking me like a good boy," she orders, eyes watching so closely when you bury to the hilt, all that slickness guiding your movements in a warm, sticky mess. 

Not a thing could ruin your determination to give Karina everything she wants, when you keep those tits right underneath your palms, at a loss for words as they bounce unabated every time you plunge yourself back inside her, moaning every time. Her ridiculous breasts can't even fully fit inside your hands, even as you try, the heftiness unlike anything else when you squeeze as this beautiful woman writhes underneath your touch. You’re not sure what you’ve done to deserve her, but you’re not going to question a thing. 

“Karina—“ There’s no point in getting a coherent thought out, because your mind is blank, flooded by all these sensations that surround your cock, and the softness of her jiggling breasts while you play with them so roughly, nipples so sensitive as you tease and tug them to get these deeper moans out. 

"You’re so fucking wet,” you manage to finally get out, but the words sound slurred when you're drunk on lust, the vice grip of her cunt working you to a near delirious state. "Your tight fucking pussy makes my cock feel so good, I swear I can't fucking handle it—"

That’s when your hips move on their own, rutting without care, and you don’t even wait for Karina to respond, grabbing such a rough handful of her tits that gets her to moan so desperately while you slap them, hard enough to make a mark. 

“Mm—baby, you know I love that,” she says, and you watch in awe how her breasts bounce repeatedly after every slap, a rosy hue appearing beneath that perfect, milky white skin. Your grip on is anything but gentle, pinching a nipple in between raw smacks that resonate across the room while your thrusts help create a harsher ripple, the redness on her chest more encouragement than anything. 

Karina loves it. The harder you're fucking her, the more suffocating her pussy gets, moans starting to mix in with these cute, desperate whimpers that she just can't help. Her nipples underneath your fingers get so hard, even more sensitive whenever you aim your palm directly there. And god, you can't even think about anything else when your cock is buried deep in this delicious warmth, smacking her heavy tits as roughly as you please and staying exactly where her hot little cunt craves, leaving yourself nowhere to go but deeper and deeper between her legs.

"Fuck, sweetie, harder," she moans, words tumbling free when you play with her chest like it’s all you live for, showing absolutely no mercy whatsoever. "Pound me, fucking pound that pussy with everything you've got. I know you can.” 

Your hands keep grabbing greedily, giving her chest an impatient, possessive grope, with this satisfying feeling where they jiggle so deliciously in your palms. Nothing feels as good as that, seeing them in constant motion, so bountiful when you cup them and give these shameless slaps—loud and frantic, alternating to each, focusing on how this hypnotic sight drives you insane, and the sounds Karina makes are just the cherry on top.

"Gonna cum if you keep fucking my cunt that hard, mmph, fuck, don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—"

It's all the more motivation to go even harder, bucking your hips, pistoning into Karina's dripping pussy as roughly as possible, each thrust guided by the constant flow of her juices that keeps you so deep inside. She’s gotten so sensitive by the rough treatment of her swollen, tender breasts, that you just watch the redness on her creamy flesh that doesn’t fade, how they bounce around so obscenely while you fuck her. 

"Harder, keep fucking me as hard as you can, sweetheart—" is all she can choke out, words coming in ragged bursts whenever a powerful thrust sends her breath hitching. 

You fuck her tight cunt the roughest she's ever taken it, grabbing her tits as aggressively as before, hips moving at the same breakneck pace that leaves you both losing it, sweat glistening on her skin, her walls swallowing you right back in each time you withdraw.

When you speed up past your limits, you can't help yourself—Karina’s warm fucking cunt feels so good that your inhibitions get tossed to the side, unable to control the way your cock pounds into her like she demands, like she deserves. 

"So close, sweetie—god, gonna fucking cum, make me cum all over your cock,” she says so desperately, eyes half-lidded, the walls of her cunt clenching so impossibly tight you’re not even sure if you can last before she hits her peak. But when you get another slam in that’s so deep, Karina loses it—cumming hard right on the spot, her whole body going tense, back arching from how strong the euphoria feels. 

There's a rush of warm, sticky fluid coating your cock while you refuse to relent, those pretty features displaying how intense the pleasure hits when she shakes, thighs quivering, toes curling, mouth falling open. And you do your best to let this high linger, slamming your hips against her body so she can take it all, even though you're barely hanging on yourself.

"Fucking god," Karina groans when her eyes open again and her gaze lands directly on you, a sweet, satisfied grin on her lips as you struggle to maintain composure. "So good at fucking my tight pussy, aren’t you? Didn’t think you were going to last long enough for me to—"

“Please, I have some self-control,” you start to say, not even believing the words yourself. 

"Then get rid of whatever you have left," Karina breathes heavily, chest still heaving. And while you pump your cock all the way inside, she wraps her long, slender legs tight around your waist, heels digging into your back. "Need you to cum inside me. Think you can do that?"

You just thrust as fast and deep as possible to answer, the entirety of your wet shaft slamming into until everything becomes a blur. There’s nothing left to prevent the groans that escape your lips when you bury your face into the crook of her neck and ride that edge, fucking into Karina with reckless abandon. 

"Need you to fill me up, make me feel all that hot cum," Karina pleads in your ear, her wet, warm cunt getting an even tighter grip around your cock that makes you go completely insane from how close you are. “You can do it, sweetheart, cum deep inside me, you know that’s how I like it."

But she doesn't have to tell you that when this tightness wrapped around you won't let up as you go completely feral, groaning into the crook of her neck, picking a spot and licking, kissing, sucking her pale, beautiful skin. You lose all focus, and it's easy enough to follow Karina's urgent pleas when those dulcet tones slip into your ear, when the intensity grows and you're pulling every ounce of pleasure you can get.

“Almost there, aren’t you? Empty your balls in me, sweetie. I know you can’t take it any more.” 

Your hips do what Karina asks without any hesitation, surrendering completely, plunging yourself inside that hot, heavenly heat until there’s no turning back. She’s keeping you buried there with those powerful thighs, making sure there’s no escape for your aching cock while you get as deep as possible, nails digging into your back for extra measure, and with a final, powerful thrust—

That’s when you finally unload inside Karina—you can only groan helplessly while erupting thick, hot spurts, her nails dragging across your back as that perfect cunt milks out everything she can get and beyond that. Such an explosive release overwhelms you, especially as she holds you hostage with those sweaty thighs, and all you can do is pump her full of seed like there was never any other option. 

Nothing can ever, ever compare, endlessly filling Karina’s greedy little cunt, just helplessly throbbing when you’re buried so deep, flooding it all into her body with the release she’s earned. Even as you fuck your load deeper into those slippery depths, she keeps you locked in place, still trying to drain every drop from your balls that she can get, practically begging for more. 

But when it starts to calm down—that doesn’t mean you have any urge to pull out. 

“Feels so warm, that’s a good boy,” Karina praises, but you can hardly get a word out when you look up, eyes landing right on that body glistening with sweat, chest heaving to catch her breath after it all. It’s a view you can’t resist, seeing how her breasts rise and fall when she lets out exhausted gasps, and if you weren’t buried in this sticky mess you’d be more than willing to lick her all up. 

“Rina, fuck—“  you groan out when her limbs unlock from your waist one by one.  

"Didn't think you had that much left in you after you covered my tits the first time," she says, meeting your gaze and you can’t help but admire how her disheveled appearance makes her look even prettier. "I think your balls really do never empty."

"What am I supposed to do when your body looks like this?” you ask in this desperate attempt to catch your breath. ”When your tight cunt feels so fucking good, and those perfect fucking tits—"

Karina just laughs. 

"Always going on about my tits. I think you're a little obsessed with them. Not that I blame you. I'm sure you saw those stares earlier, too, on our little walk back?” Karina asks, a gentle reminder about the useless walk that started this all. “Must have felt good to show me off, knowing the guys couldn't believe their eyes. But only you get to suck on them, play with them like you just did. Only you get to put that cock between them and—"

"Jesus, Rina, please, I can't go again.” That's not entirely true, but the mere suggestion already has your spent, exhausted cock stirring with interest again. Through this entire conversation, you're still inside Karina, her cunt remaining impossibly warm, this sticky mess threatening to overflow and spill everywhere. 

"Poor thing, I've gotten you all tired out. You sure you don't want one more? Just a quick little ride while I bounce these tits in your cute face? I promise to go nice and easy…" Karina smiles, batting her eyelashes for added effect. As much as that sounds like everything you’ve dreamed of, your body betrays you in that very moment as the sensitivity starts to kick in. So, with an unimaginable amount of willpower, you pull yourself out with a groan.

When you both look right down to the mess you've created, a huge, sticky flood gushes right out of her—an absolute deluge of white leaking out, dripping all over her thighs and onto the brand new sheets. 

“Too tired to answer, sweetie? You don't want another load dripping out of me just like this? Like I said, I wouldn't go hard—just nice and slow, while you watch. A sweet treat for my sweet boy."

God knows you want nothing else, to just lay on your back and drink in the view of Karina riding you, watching those perfect breasts jiggle and bounce around wildly while you don't even have to move. And yet you can't deny this exhaustion in your bones that has other plans. "Karina, please, I'm so—"

"So spoiled? Is that what you were going to say?" she responds cheekily.

There's not a damn chance in hell you could handle this woman going full speed on your poor, overstimulated cock when she's capable of making you blow within seconds, riding you like only she can and no doubt knocking you unconscious when the job is done. 

"Do you even know what nice and slow is? When has that ever been your style?"

Karina's jaw drops in disbelief, a hand over her mouth as if she's truly surprised by the remark. "Are you saying I'm incapable of such a thing?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Fine, you big baby," she teases as she shakes her head with a smile. "I'll fuck your brains out some other time, I guess. Wouldn't want to break my favorite toy."

You're unable to form a comeback, succumbing to eventual collapse on top of her, face resting on her chest where you take a second to indulge and revel in the sensation of being pressed against her warm body. Karina's fingers run gently through your hair, stroking those sweaty locks.

"You can do anything you want to me next time. But after I'm good and ready again."

"Anything, huh?"

You nod, not even fully cognizant of what those words might mean until it's far too late, when a wave of fatigue takes its effect. Karina guides you away, bringing her head closer and placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

✦ ✦

Hours pass by before you stir once more, having fallen asleep right afterwards on Karina's supple chest, the softest pillows you could ask for. You're unsure what time of day it is, if it's evening or even the next morning already—all you know is you’ve never slept so well. 

"Look who finally decided to wake up. It's about time, sleepyhead,” a familiar teasing voice greets as you look up to find Karina's playful features looking at you.

"Sorry. Someone sucked all the energy right out of me."

"Oh, don’t be so dramatic. How are you feeling, sweetie?" Karina asks, running fingers through your hair so tenderly. 

"Good as new. Could use a shower, though."

"Well, how about you wait a minute? There’s just…” Her voice trails off, and it's clear she has something important on her mind, as her fingers slide through your disheveled hair that she's been stroking for quite some time now. “Something I’ve got planned for you.” 

You're not even completely lucid yet before her lips crash against yours, a heated, demanding kiss that can't be refused. No doubt she dominates the moment and slips her tongue inside your mouth, tasting you as thoroughly as possible. And that‘s all it takes for the lust to creep back in, forcing the blood to rush south and a familiar hardness to kick in. 

"Remember what you said before you passed out?"

You just stare at Karina dumbfounded—certain you had a clear recollection, but also well aware this sudden awakening makes recalling events quite difficult, so she leans in to remind you. "Told me you'd let me do anything. Are you still on board, sweetie?"

Now you remember. It's not like the words came from nowhere, and you aren't in the business of breaking promises. A simple nod is all the response needed, and Karina bites her lower lip with anticipation. And with that, she disappears into the bathroom, leaving you curious about whatever she has in mind. When she reemerges, the picture becomes crystal clear.

Karina returns back inside, now sporting black lingerie—stockings, garter belt, the works, all connected with an assortment of straps. There's no doubt your eyes are locked right on that sinful body and all those curves, because you’ve never seen her look so good. Quite the surprise that you can’t even process it all; the way her thick thighs look in that sheer fabric, and those heavy tits look fucking amazing in this particular bra, held together with hopes and dreams, the barely existent fabric exposing far more than it hides. As if her chest didn’t already need more showcasing, this amplifies the sheer size of her assets, drawing further attention right where it should be. 

"What do you think?" she asks, a small smirk appearing on her pretty face as your hungry eyes wander. 

You can't possibly be expected to form an intelligent response. Such a seductive outfit has you nearly speechless—Karina has never looked more breathtaking, straight out of your deepest desires. "Do you even need to ask?"

"Yes. Because I like hearing you say it," she replies almost sheepishly, posing to show herself off, bending over forward to show off that absurd amount of cleavage. 

"Like every fantasy I've ever had, Rina. You're absolutely fucking gorgeous.” 

"Thanks, sweetie." There's a slight pause while she beams from ear to ear, and then the mood shifts when she looks at you—you can see the gears turning inside her head. "Now, follow me. Lose the boxers."

You do so at once and discard that piece of clothing, not particularly caring where it lands. Following Karina comes second nature as you walk obediently behind to the living room, which looks exactly the same as earlier—except for one thing.

Waiting for you is a single chair sitting in the middle of the room, without arms or extra frills and a curved back, but mostly an ordinary black chair. "Alright, sweetie. I want you to take a seat right here."

So without hesitation, you sit, positioning yourself in the chair as comfortably as possible while Karina’s eyes linger, scanning your naked figure while you await further instructions. She gives no immediate explanation, instead circling behind you as that silky touch caresses your back, along your shoulders, making her way around to your neck, nails gently scraping across. 

And while she's got you distracted, Karina moves quickly, taking both of your arms, holding them behind your back as she ties your wrists together with what feels like soft rope, securing you in place. 

"Anything, sweetie?" she echoes right in your ear, the question seemingly rhetorical while she ties you up tight.

“Yeah—anything.” 

Once finished, Karina stands directly in front, towering over you, sizing up your helpless state as you get a closeup view of your desires manifested, full-blown sin, like it’s a reward for your cooperation. 

You can only stare, nearly stunned to silence as your vision is filled by the curves of Karina's body and her lacy undergarments—the shapely thickness of her stocking-covered thighs, the dangerous valley of her breasts desperate to spill out, all framed nicely and right in the center of your line of vision, everything displayed like a beautiful work of art, no ounce of modesty in sight. "Get a good look, sweetheart. Don't be shy."

How could you when she has your attention held captive so easily—the way those tits bounce from the slightest movement, and how goddamn delicious her body looks that makes you throb between your legs like never before. You don’t close your eyes or turn your gaze while you salivate over this gift just out of reach, cock aching like crazy, unable to think, and certainly unable to move.

Karina does her best to interrupt your thoughts as she grazes the side of your face, letting her manicured nails scratch down to your chin, the slightest hint of contact sending shivers through your body. "You seem pretty comfortable tied up. Enjoying this?"

"Not as much as you seem to be," you reply, earning you this devilish little look on her face that turns more sinister with every waking second. Karina tilts your chin up, diverting your gaze from that sinful chest so she forces eye contact. “Tell me, sweetie—what would you do right now if you weren't all tied up like this?"

What wouldn't you do? The options are endless, but at the very least you’d pin Karina right on the ground, rip off every piece of fabric hiding her beautiful body and well—

It’s hard to even put your fantasies into words. “Bend you over that fucking couch and shove my cock right inside you. Wouldn't even take those panties off—just shove them aside and make you cum so hard you forget your own name.”

The reaction to those words is instant. First, her eyes widen, like she’s visualizing just that, swiping her tongue across those sultry lips. Her weight shifts and those creamy thighs press together, with no missing the way her breathing deepens, chest even that more enticing, making your greed boil to the surface as you ache to grope and squeeze those full tits in your grasp. “Would you now? What would you do once you get my little cunt all stretched out for you, dripping wet? Tell me, sweetie. In detail."

A brief moment to gather your thoughts while Karina continues to pull out your deepest fantasies. “With an ass like that, there’s no way I’m not getting my hands all over it—slap those pretty cheeks until it stings, until it’s bright fucking red with my handprints marking you all over.” 

“Fuck, look at you trying to act all tough and dominant,” she says, and lets out a long, content sigh. "More. Come on, don't hold back."

"I'd finger your greedy little asshole while pounding into your cunt. Open you up real good and fuck you while you beg for more, beg me to ruin you.” 

Her smile only gets bigger at the suggestions—she's clearly enjoying this. "That's cute that you think I'd ever beg for anything—that's really more your style," she replies, licking those glossy lips like she's imagining every little detail, so tempted to put your words into reality. 

"But it has been a while since I had anything in my tight ass. But what comes next? What else would you do to my poor, helpless body?"

You imagine it all, Karina with her hands tied behind her back, bent over in this obscene angle, face pressed up against the cushions with nothing to help her escape while you just have your way with her— 

"I'd fucking destroy your cunt. Grab that long, beautiful hair and pull hard on it, so fucking hard. Hold those hips and smack that perfect fat ass until it's bruised while I pump that hungry cunt full of hot cum. Again and again, for as long as I want."

The mere thought alone makes you so impossibly hard it hurts, and you realize you’ve fallen into her trap, going along with her game far too easily, not thinking things through when all you’ve done is riled yourself up. But seeing the satisfaction spread over her face as you stumble over your words is worth the sacrifice.

"Who knew you had such a dirty little mind? Just hearing all that, fuck, do you know how wet you’ve gotten me?” Karina asks as she steps in a bit closer, locking lips again, tongue slipping in so easily. Her free hand strokes you slowly, gripping your cock hard enough to make you moan in her mouth—and while those luscious fingers glide all the way down, you feel something slide over your shaft, down to your base, something secure and snug around you, applying just the slightest pressure. 

"Rina, what—"

She smiles, so innocently, like she's proud, and it clicks into place what exactly it is before she explains. 

"A cock ring. It should make everything I do to you feel even better. And maybe help you last longer. You should start to feel the effects in a minute or two," Karina answers. "It doesn't hurt, does it?"

You shake your head immediately; the idea taking some time to register—wondering how a small rubber ring could amplify all these sensations, but you trust her words. With some thought, you conclude this might actually be a blessing when dealing with whatever you're about to be in store for. You're not exactly in a position to argue with it anyway. 

Despite the pressure, the tightness, you can't complain—the sensation feels strangely wonderful. All the blood rushes to your throbbing cock, making the pleasure feel far greater than usual, almost overwhelming, every stroke Karina gives infinitely more intense. 

"Starting to feel good, isn't it, sweetie? Getting nice and sensitive for me?"

Your cock twitches in response, almost involuntarily trying to thrust upward to feel even more, desperate for whatever Karina will give. So distracted by how good these fingers feel wrapped around your shaft you’ve almost forgotten your helpless state, only reminded when the rope digs into your wrist and limits your movement. With an almost painful grip, she jerks faster, all that sensitivity flaring up, making every sensation all more powerful. 

When she stops stroking, her thumb just presses down on that spot right below the swollen head, rubbing ever so gently. Jerking forward becomes something out of your control, and you grit your teeth at the intensity as she applies constant pressure to that area, a loud moan you had no intention of releasing escapes so easily. That same pattern continues, a ritual: a slow rhythm of strokes that ends in her rubbing that same sweet spot, then she picks up right where she left off, squeezing and pumping her hand back up. 

"I can just imagine it—I bet it feels ten times more sensitive than ever. And even harder than you've ever been. God, sweetie, you're leaking so much already, and we've only just started. I'm going to have so much fun with you."

She's not exaggerating, and when one finger circles over the tip, drawing back down a path down to your base, slow, painfully slow—you know this is going to be torturous to endure. With every little touch or stroke, your cock grows more desperate, throbbing heavily in her gasp, craving every bit of stimulation like oxygen. If not for this tight little ring preventing your release, you have a feeling you’d already be making a mess all over your stomach. 

But what really undoes you is the teasing smirk on her face. The way her thumb brushes across the sensitive tip, eliciting an audible gasp when she pulls away. 

"Does it feel good when I stroke your big, throbbing cock? When I squeeze it just like this? Karina asks, refusing to move faster than she needs to, a maddening pace, up and down, all the way to your swollen, dripping tip, collecting your precum on her fingers. “Are you trying not to lose it already?" 

When you only groan in response, desperate and unable to put any coherent thoughts into words, Karina presses her thumb against your leaking slit for a fleeting moment, before stroking quicker, sliding all the way down to the base of your shaft and repeating the motion again. 

With each little touch, each little graze over your cockhead, she grins at every noise you let slip—every single whine, every last whimper. Karina grabs your cock as rough as she pleases, the other hand coming to fondle your heavy balls, squeezing just the right amount to get you absolutely weak—rolling the weight between her fingertips. 

“Now, sweetie—tell me, wouldn’t you like me on the sofa, my legs all spread, dripping wet while you fill up my tight cunt? Your perfect cock plowing in and out of me, splitting me open, that would feel so good, wouldn’t it? How would you even take me if you were so sensitive, so on edge? You’d fucking burst as soon as my pussy swallowed you up, wouldn't you?" 

All you can think of is exactly that exact scenario—how fucking tight and wet that warm fucking cunt always gets, squeezing your sensitive shaft and bringing you to climax within the very first thrust. Imagining burying yourself deep into that sticky mess, folding her in half as you fuck her at your leisure, a raw, merciless pace. And then filling her with your sticky cum as those tits bounce from each vicious stroke, over and over, using her body exactly like you need.

You try to shove that image from your mind, knowing you're already falling apart from the tiniest bit of imagination. 

But it's nothing to how Karina makes you feel with her delicate fingers wrapped firmly around your cock, twisting a bit before stroking down to the base and then repeating all over again, spitting directly onto your cock to ease the glide. 

“Could you even manage not to burst when you get buried deep in this ass?” she asks, snapping your attention back, keeping her thumb circled around the base of that swollen cockhead. “Maybe we can test that out. See how quickly you blow your load when I'm sitting on top of your cock, spreading my cheeks open and stretching my asshole until you're buried as deep as I can take…” 

“Rina, please—“ 

And there's no reply—just the deliberate, focused teasing when Karina spins around, now with her back turned, offering a glimpse of that amazing ass you've been dying to get your hands on. Before you can even prepare, the supple flesh of her ass sits back against your shaft, grinding against what’s trapped right in between her soft, luscious ass cheeks.

That's when the true agony kicks in. That tight, round ass starts rubbing your poor, deprived cock, while your restrained hands tug against your binds, the urge to grasp her hips and slam the full length straight up her asshole becoming unbearable.

"It's a little selfish of me, isn't it?" Karina chuckles, leaning back on your body. "You can't even do anything right now. All I'd have to do is sit on this needy cock of yours, get it all inside this tight little asshole, and your balls would be drained within seconds. Just need a little of that strawberry oil that smells so good. It's been a while since you've fucked my ass—what, a week maybe?"

The grinding persists, using your thighs to help guide her, filling you with frustration as you struggle in this helpless position. It's impossible to take what you desire when you’re tied up, the teasing insufferable.

You can’t deny that every inch of Karina is sculpted by the gods, and that ass—indulgently round, voluptuous cheeks, always flaunted with those snug sweatpants or the tightest jeans imaginable. It's not even fair how relentless she’s gotten, and you can only stare as your shaft slides helplessly between her plump cheeks, the only thing between you and heaven is that flimsy piece of fabric covering her asshole.

"Rina, please, god. I swear I’ll—“

"What was that, baby? Please, what?”

Your response falls silent the second she pulls off, spinning back around to see your desperation up close, letting your cock twitch helplessly against your abdomen. The loss of warmth against you is almost a greater cruelty than the sight of that chest all covered up in nothing more than thin lace, hopelessly confined.

"Didn't hear an answer. Is it getting to be too much?" Karina asks, flashing this all-knowing smile when she begins squeezing your cock hard, jerking the entire length with both her expert hands, the friction too intense to handle. The pumps get so frantic you can hardly speak, your balls growing painfully tight at all this denial.

"Y-yes—need to be inside you. Please, any part of you, baby," you plead, your voice sounding so pathetic, borderline unrecognizable. 

Karina ponders for a moment, brows furrowed, as though in deep consideration. You have no choice but to wait for her verdict, in torment, clenching your fists, dying for the chance to touch her. She presses a finger to your lips and runs it down your chest, flicking against a nipple that sends another rush of delirious pleasure through you. "No, not yet, sweetie. You've been such a good boy so far—just hold on a little longer." 

Her smile is every bit wicked as she swings a leg over around your waist, a bit of her weight settling on your hips. The fabric of her stockings is silky and soft, teasing the area where it rests, even more excruciating that you can't lay a hand on those thighs. Right away she resumes her harsh grip on your cock, pumping so fast, edging right to that climax only to deny it at the last moment—slowly and painfully easing back off. 

You're nearly shaking, hips bucking on repeat, not sure if the frustration feels better or worse than not being touched in the first place. Not to mention how everything feels ten times worse with this damn ring wrapped around the base of your cock that taunts you. "God, you really are ready to explode at any moment. Poor baby, you need to cover me in cum more than anything, isn’t that right?” 

"Yes, fuck—please, Rina, I can't take it, need to cum so bad," you plead, looking up at her, throwing all pride away. 

That's when Karina pumps you ever faster, dragging you over to that finish line, watching your reaction with those devilish eyes when she eases off before your orgasm has a chance to arrive, right back off your shaft and denying it once again. It's a long, torturous game—a few fast strokes, squeezing the head of your cock just how you need. 

And then she stops completely. 

It goes like this, with no reprieve, leaving your poor cock to throb helplessly against your stomach, painful when Karina leaves it abandoned with nothing but cold, frigid air. Bliss and denial, an endless cycle.

"So needy, aren't you, sweetheart? Wanting so bad to blow your load and cover me with this massive load," Karina laughs, admiring the strain on your face. “Tell you what—“ 

There’s a necessary respite that lets you breathe for a moment, when Karina squeezes your balls nice and tight, keeping that desperation held there for far too long. And that's when she reaches behind to unfasten her bra, moving at an infuriatingly slow pace, peeling the straps one by one, dragging this on for as long as she possibly can. 

You watch intently, hanging on each and every motion as she removes and tosses the entire piece right over your head. The best reward you can get for enduring this torture, you think. Her bare breasts come into view again—and it feels like the first time all over, nothing as erotic as these massive tits on display in front of you, that you almost don’t care that you can’t even squeeze them yourself. 

Almost. 

With nothing to stand in the way of your shameless leering, you do so, and Karina welcomes it—brushing her thumbs over her stiff nipples while you commit it all to memory. 

You're more than ready to erupt all over her, to spill everything across those pale breasts, and in the middle of your haze you hardly notice a familiar bottle popping open in her hands. As if this scene weren’t impossible to deal with already. Pouring oil all over her supple chest in a circle, Karina douses herself in more than a generous amount—stealing all of your attention when she rubs and spreads it evenly across her creamy skin. 

She has no intention of stopping there, generously applying more down to her abs, along that tight little frame, down to her milky thighs, still all wrapped in those silky stockings that drive you crazy more than anything. Now she's really playing dirty now, coating and slicking up her entire body for the occasion. And the worst part is how you can't do a goddamn thing—left watching this entire show while your cock aches with neglect as she teases her stiff nipples between her fingertips.

"Liking the view, sweetie?" she asks, running her slippery hands across her curves, knowing what a pathetic state you must be in, an oiled-up Karina up there with one of your biggest weaknesses. 

There's nothing you can manage, not even a nod as you're left helplessly staring, craving all that gorgeous skin under your own hands and you don't even have it in you to beg at this point. Anything you'd say would be beyond incomprehensible. "Can't say a word anymore? No more dirty fantasies you wanna share?"

Silence is a rare occasion, even when Karina has you bound up tight like this. So you must really be in awful shape. You'd love to give a satisfying response, but at this point, all your attempts come out as nothing more than groans. That's about all that you have left. 

Still, Karina takes that as an answer and climbs back into your lap, looking every bit irresistible, all covered and doused in that scented oil that soaks through whatever leftover lace exists, giving it all a nice glisten—nearly making your dick burst from the sight alone. She grabs a heavy handful of her breasts between slippery, oiled fingers, and just seeing her knead and fondle herself gets you squirming hard in your restraints, wanting so badly to sink your lips into them, desperate to have a taste. 

"Since you've been such a good boy—putting up with everything I’ve thrown at you and held on," Karina ponders out loud, as she begins to grind her oily body against you, all the friction intensifying every inch that touches, your skin burning with her touch. "Then maybe my baby deserves a nice, thick load across my chest after handling so much of this, don’t you? Think you could blow a big, messy load right across these tits for me?"

A frantic nod is all you have to offer, overwhelmed from her hot body sliding against you, all coated in warm slickness, driving you beyond the edge. Every ounce of your sanity is being tested. All this slippery flesh against your own drives you towards a finish that’s so imminent, so close, but you still have to wait until the very end, until Karina allows you that permission.

"That won't do," Karina says, slowing her movements down to a mere crawl. "Need you to use your words, sweetie. Let me know how badly you need it. Don’t I deserve that for getting you this worked up in the first place?”

There’s a string of words that escape that hardly make up a proper sentence. “S-so bad. Need to cum, please.” 

But that doesn't satisfy Karina in the slightest as she pushes off your lap and shifts lower down to her knees. This sight feels even worse than having her in your lap—far too tempting, watching her breasts bounce as she lowers and wedges herself closer, hovering between your spread legs. "Baby, we both know that's not enough. Give me a good reason to make you cum."

If not for those oily hands stroking over your thighs, you'd probably be responding a lot differently—but it's so tough to remain concentrated in this state, that the slightest touch nearly unravels you, the neediness in your voice escalating so rapidly. 

"F-fuck, god, please, Rina—want my thick load spilled all over you, need it all over your pretty face, wanna cum so fucking hard and cover every part of you. P-please. Fuck, need it so bad."

Your voice cracks near the end of it—enough for Karina to get both hands around your cock, her fingers fully gripping around every sensitive, throbbing inch of it. And god, you're so close it hurts. You feel like you've gone a month without any relief, and you can't suppress the moan that follows, the full brunt of an orgasm churning through your heavy balls, every sensation twice, maybe three times more powerful than usual.

"That's a good boy. Wasn't so hard, was it?" Karina chuckles, beginning to work your shaft with long, exaggerated strokes and her thumb circling all over the sensitive tip of your cock, admiring how absolutely broken you are. The climax builds an even faster and uncontrollable pressure, balls swelling so painfully tight—everything feels unbearably tense, not even able to imagine holding yourself back now. 

She gives your cock a light slap with her palm, drawing the most pitiful groan from you as you stare on in disbelief, the sensitivity too harsh to bear—and it's not any kind of relief when she gives another, a firmer hit to your swollen cockhead, afraid of blowing your load any second now. You think this is your limit, when all Karina does is deliver repeated slaps to your throbbing shaft, then gripping it even tighter before jerking her hand along the full length. 

"Look at you, you're gonna cum so much, aren't you? Maybe the biggest load you'll blow this month—let's put you out of your misery. Empty those heavy fucking balls and cum for me, sweetheart."

Those final words are all the relief you could've asked for, spoken with an affectionate smile as Karina leans forward and strokes your aching cock furiously, bringing you long past the tipping point. Everything begins with the hardest twitch in her grasp—an unexpected intensity that only progresses when she spurs it all on, her slippery, slender fingers pumping as fast as they can go, making sure you let it all out. 

And there's not an ounce of strength in you left to do anything but that, the tension within your balls unable to hold back anything, leaving you with the one option—to embrace it, the relentless strokes that help achieve ecstasy that's so long overdue. 

Karina's smiling, pretty face in front of you just adds an extra bonus.

There's no going back, and when your balls tighten, nothing can prepare you for the hardest orgasm you've felt in ages—all directed at her face as she anticipates what you've worked so hard for, not letting up one bit. You let out the most unrestrained deep groan as warm, thick spurts burst from the tip, immediately splattering across that stunningly beautiful face, hitting across her forehead and down to the bridge of her nose without a single flinch.

No thoughts to how far the shots reach as you explode more, spraying right across her cheeks, into her hair as Karina pumps the entire time, coaxing out your thickest load, changing the angle to drain you over her soft, pillowy lips as you tremble so violently underneath, overcome with a mixture of exhaustion and relief. Everything keeps pulsing hard—covering even more of her porcelain complexion in white, your hot seed running thick across her face as she unloads every heavy burst over herself, seemingly endless, not easing her grip on your cock even once. 

The strength of your orgasm lingers once your load empties across her face, leaving a complete and total mess that you'll never forget, Karina completely covered in these thick strands that start to drip, her expression quite satisfied and content. The aftermath lingers—breathing so heavy even once your cock finishes the grand finale, throbbing wildly throughout it all and even Karina’s left unable to believe just how much has built up during your denial. 

"That's my good boy," Karina sighs, continuing to pump your oversensitive cock, even though there's no more left to spill—a series of weak twitches firing off after such a large release as you're reduced to a shuddering mess. "Look at all this cum you've painted my fucking face with, sweetie. Aren't I lucky? God, it's just all dripping down, so fucking thick and warm. That must have felt so fucking good, didn’t it?” 

You can hardly hear the giggles escaping, or process the image in front of you, Karina all covered in white and dripping with the results of that long-awaited climax, some of it reaching her sweaty, oily chest as well. When her hands let go, all that tension lifts and you finally breathe with the greatest ease, sinking back against the chair. 

And that's when you get to let it all sink in, this mess that Karina wears—it's rather artistic, in the lewdest way possible, clinging to her lips and chin, practically everywhere, thick and messy. 

Your breaths take longer to even themselves out, despite feeling the purest sense of relief you haven't felt in weeks, unable to take your eyes off from how your cum starts to slowly roll down the side of her chin, where Karina catches with her finger and slowly swipes upwards. She makes sure you're watching carefully and brings it to her lips, delicately taking that long, wet digit in her mouth, wrapping and sucking her lips around.

It's absolutely sinful to watch her suck the mess off like that, tasting your seed right off her fingertips as she hums and savors your load. 

"Tastes even better after what I put you through," Karina says with this wicked laugh, and you can hardly move a muscle from all this. "But you know—" And that pause she gives is filled with a whole other sort of danger, that same grin plastered across her face while she stays kneeling between your legs. "Still haven't gotten to ride you yet. After a load like this, I bet you don't have much left to give, hmm?"

You can't even begin to believe what you're hearing now. 

"Jesus, Rina, are you trying to kill me? I think you emptied me enough for the rest of this month."

Contrary to what you want, there's this devilish look that lingers as she glances down between your legs, noticing how you're definitely still plenty stiff—maybe because of that magical ring still wrapped on your cock, or that you can't look away from those cum-stained features. "R-Rina—please, give me like a day or two, at least."

"Poor thing. Can't handle this much?" Karina gets a few more strokes in, gripping and sliding along your sensitive length as if you hadn't released that large load over her, the pain of overstimulation stirring again in the worst possible ways. "But what if I just keep you here, all nice and hard for me. For the next hour, for two hours, three? Would you like that, sweetie?"

Even her delicate, loving caresses cause your body to shake and convulse. And god, you have never been this sensitive ever before. "Please no—fuck, you can't—g-god, too much, hurts—"

Karina can't help but feel a bit of mercy, so she stops, slowly sliding a finger down to your base and removing the rubber ring from your sore cock—within an instant, your entire length relaxes. "Fine, fine. I suppose that's enough."

Just this sudden reduction in sensations feels like heaven, and all you can manage is a deep, exhausted sigh. But the thing that scares you—is how part of you could easily say yes. "Th-thank you, god—"

"But we're not ending the night without me riding the fuck out of you. You're not off the hook yet." Fair enough, you think, even if you'd be entirely useless after this whole experience. “So, shower or..."

"A little hard to shower like this," you remind, still struggling to gather energy. 

She stifles a laugh. "Oh that? Guess I should let you out of those," Karina muses, undoing the ties around both of your hands. And finally, you have some freedom, taking the deepest, most rewarding breath as she rubs your wrists to help alleviate the discomfort. "Offer's still on the table, though. One more go with me on top riding you?"

"Rina, please, what part of you're going to kill me was unclear?"

"Alright, alright, just checking," Karina laughs, hoisting herself off her knees. "Then come join me in the shower. Still got a bit of you on me." 

Now that you can get behind—because you'll never deny the chance to see Karina's naked body under the hot running water, all soaped up and lathered. 

✦ ✦

Karina has never been one to sleep in. Especially not when she has class in the morning, so you're surprised to wake up first, lying next to her warm, dead-asleep figure. You don’t remember much of anything before passing out, given that a proper round two (three?) didn't exactly go as scheduled. But the soreness does slowly return when you shift your body, and she's the sole culprit for that.

You can’t help but notice how beautiful Karina looks with hardly anything covering her voluptuous body—a thin sheet not quite pulled all the way over, exposing most of her pale skin. 

Moving carefully, you try not to wake her—but it's a mistake to underestimate just how much Karina's eyes are really closed when her arms pull you in, holding you hostage against the warmth of her chest.

"Stay,” she murmurs, breaking the silence and wrapping a leg around your waist. “Were you watching me sleep again?" 

"Maybe," you reply, reciprocating the embrace and sighing happily when her arms coil around your back, pulling you closer against her body. "Am I not allowed to admire someone who looks so beautiful in the morning?"

"Oh my god, shut up,” Karina grumbles, but she’s easily silenced when you kiss her neck, lips running delicately across her skin, breathing her scent in.

"Already so riled up for me this early? Even after yesterday?" she asks, the question murmured between soft pants. "Didn't tire you completely out?"

"Impossible," you respond, delivering more tender kisses, intent on working your way down as you start to explore. 

"So insatiable—where do your hands plan on wandering to, hmm?" Karina laughs, shuddering at the teasing strokes along her hips. 

"Somewhere you'd like, I hope."

Your answer leaves Karina hesitating to respond—only giggling quietly and helping you move down the curves of her body. "Need me to give you the tour?"

"Well—if you're offering."

"Like an impatient puppy, aren't you?" Karina teases, planting a kiss on your cheek. "But it's so fucking cute how desperate you are this early. My needy good boy."

"Can't help it when there's so much for me to explore.” 

“Explore all you'd like then, sweetheart," Karina offers, the words leaving her so easy as she takes your wrists, leading your hands up to her delicious chest that you immediately have the urge to knead, sinking your fingers deep into those full, pillowy breasts. 

"I assume you wanna start with these?" 

And her smirk just encourages your touch, a low sigh coming from her lips when you follow her cue, cupping and squeezing the heavy weight of her gorgeous tits in both hands, the warmth of them so delicious while you grab a firm handful. 

"You know me too well."

The enthusiasm you show isn't shy when you roll the stiff peaks of her nipples under your thumb, relishing the sounds that follow from Karina—the soft moans and whimpers when you toy with them. And you can't help but bury your face in those massive, heaving breasts, running your lips across every supple, tempting inch, absolutely drowning in all this pale flesh. 

"So greedy, are we?" Karina mutters, almost smug as her fingers rake through your hair, gasps building while enjoying the attention lavished on her breasts. You give a hard squeeze, savoring the feel of her soft, supple flesh filling your palms, the shape that fills your hands so wonderfully, and you plant the most greedy kisses all along every inch of that delicious valley, unable to pull yourself away. 

There’s nothing else to be said, not when these ravenous slurps can answer for you. 

Nowhere else you would rather be than kissing your way all across her chest, flicking your tongue against a nipple that gets these loud moans flowing when you take it into your mouth, sucking hungrily before pulling back and doing it all over again, feasting on the other.

You don't leave either neglected, rolling the other bud between your fingertips while your mouth slurps around the opposite, devouring as much as you can. With every seal of your lips, Karina somehow grows more sensitive the longer she squirms beneath you.

"Fuck, you're really enjoying this, aren't you? They're so sensitive," she moans, arching her back as her chest beckons, offering up as much as you can ask for. But per usual, you're not content with just tasting, teeth grazing ever so slightly across her pretty nipples, nibbling at each swollen nub. And the instant you hear the sharp intake of Karina's breath, that's all you need to indulge further—playfully pulling into your teeth, tugging even rougher. 

"Good," you respond without missing a beat between laps of your tongue, swiping over and toying with both nipples, giving no end of this stimulation that your lips provide. 

Karina holds the back of your head as your lips suck so fervently, long past the point her breasts glisten, covered in spit. She doesn't let you wander elsewhere just yet, not that there's anywhere else you would want to go, enjoying this buffet she serves so willingly.

"Oh my god—you're too fucking much, love your mouth on my tits," Karina pants, tugging at your hair, encouraging your lust. Her beautiful breasts bounce when they leave your grasp, but your lips and fingers stay relentless, tweaking and playing with her tits as your mouth gets beyond sloppy, popping off and licking all over with even more vigor, a hunger that can't be satiated. 

Her hand around the back of your head guides you to whichever needs the most attention, your mouth gladly following, working the perfect combination between your lips and teeth to tease out a plethora of whimpers, desperate cries, saliva dripping everywhere. You suck and suck without mercy, completely gone, absorbed in her huge fucking tits like nothing else exists—

"Shit, wait, wait—sweetie, come back up," Karina suddenly demands, pulling you out of your lust-fueled haze. It's a tough separation to make, prying your lips involuntarily off her swollen, slippery buds. 

"What? What’s wrong?" 

"The time. Fuck, I can't be late today," Karina sighs, peering at the clock behind you. 

"Yes you can. I can't just—"

"Hey, I’m serious,” she groans. "Just because you're that desperate to stay latched onto my tits, doesn't mean I want to miss my exam.”

When you meet her eyes—there’s no real sense of truth or commitment, even after she gives this light tug that barely has any energy behind it. This isn’t fooling anyone. In the blink of an eye, she's under you once again, squirming underneath your lips. "My schedule—mm, no, hey, are you listening?”

"You can't leave me after this. All worked up, I haven't even gotten you off yet." 

"This is entirely on you."

"No, I'm not taking the blame. This is on you and these goddamn perfect tits of yours."

"Sweetie—" she whines, growing less and less inclined to leave the bed when she grabs your wrist. "Sweetie, I swear to fucking god, can't you just keep your dick to yourself until I get back?"

"No, not when you keep moaning so much," you tell her, refusing to relent. "You're more turned on than I am."

There’s this feigned surprise on her face when she hears that, like it’s somehow the worst thing you’ve told her. "Am not. We both know you're a worse liar than I am, and—it's not my fault you were sucking so hard I almost came." 

"What did you expect when you shoved your tits in my face first thing in the morning?"

Karina rolls her eyes, because it's all so ridiculous how she's acting like this is all your fault—when it's exactly what she should expect.

"That doesn't mean you had to spend like a fucking hour sucking them for—let me up, I have to get ready, you goddamn animal." 

"Animal? You could have stopped me anytime. Don’t put this on me."

"Not with that fucking mouth I couldn't. Look, I can take care of you the second I get back, I just need to—"

It's not like Karina doesn't notice your frustration, that adorable pout across your face, looking almost offended that she would try to deny you of anything. But she's having far more trouble resisting, especially when you look so needy and pathetic like this.

“How long do you have? You can't leave without me making you cum."

"Fuck, I don't know, not that long—maybe twenty minutes,” she says, not even sure of the estimate herself. 

"Perfect. That's plenty of time." 

"It's not. I need to shower, get dressed, eat something. Let me go, you crazy fucking perv."

"You don't need to shower, you smell amazing."

Karina scoffs. "You're just used to me like this. Which is why I need a goddamn shower." 

"Then I'll just fuck you in the shower. Save us time," you counter, but all Karina can do is groan, face-palming from how impatient and stubborn you are. 

She pushes herself up on her elbows, shaking her head so dramatically. "Jesus, you're not letting this go, are you? Am I gonna have to tie you up again?"

"Is that a promise?" 

And somehow, you've managed to break through her resolve. Karina can't stop laughing, face in the crook of your neck, giggling so cutely. "You're fucking unbelievable. When was the last time I wasn't late for something?"

"Dunno. Does it matter?"

"Fine. Okay. Fine—I suppose the shower isn't a bad idea. Maybe it'll cool you off a bit."

"Don't count on it."

The two of you hurry into the bathroom—and perhaps a better word would be fumbled, given how reluctant you are to take your hands off her for too long. But once the hot water starts raining down from above, there's no stopping what's about to take place.

You're drawn in by everything you love about Karina, embracing her from behind, and you find yourself staring shamelessly at her beautiful features, dripping wet. She looks utterly gorgeous without even trying, hair matted to her forehead, water running down her body to just accentuate each and every curve.

"Sweetheart—" she starts, interrupted quickly when you pull her close, pressing a kiss against the soft skin of her neck. "A quick fuck. That's it. You don't have permission for anything else." 

You don't answer with anything but your hands on her hips that she rolls against you, letting out a breathy sigh at how your cock nudges between her cheeks while she places her hands against the steamy glass of the shower door. 

Then Karina lets out the prettiest moan when you're back inside her warmth again. 

Your fingers dig into her curvy hips while you pump, and she spreads her legs as the perfect invitation to ease yourself deeper into her heat, walls fluttering against your shaft, tits pressed up against the cold glass.

"God, fuck,” Karina cries out. “That’s it, fucking split me open, fuck me like you were begging a few moments ago.” 

Before you can even meet her demands, she pushes her hips against you to get things moving. And it's always a pleasure being ordered around by her, especially when it means your cock gets to be so impossibly deep, burying every single inch in that smothering heat. 

There's no slow, easy thrusts, no warning before she's rewarded with a quick slam of your hips. Her entire body shudders at the sensation, nails dragging down the slippery glass of the shower wall as she braces herself.

"So—it's all my fault?" you growl between thrusts, hips picking up speed, getting a tighter grasp on her body for some needed leverage that has you wetly slamming right in, making the most of every single inch. 

"Absolutely. Mm, ah, fuck, this is your doing—don't you dare hold back. Keep going, keep fucking going, harder—fuck, do your duty and make me cum on that thick fucking cock." 

Every deep thrust forces her further against the glass while you oblige, tits so helplessly pressed up so deliciously as you thrust like your life depends on it, keeping her pinned underneath, ass rippling as you pump in and out with each harsh movement. The hot water beating down on you only adds to the frantic, lewd sounds of your bodies crashing against one another, wet skin on wet skin, every moan amplified. 

"There, just like that, sweetie. So good, love when you fuck me deep, fucking destroy me," Karina moans out, legs wobbling as they almost buckle from how roughly you plunge into her, limits already being tested. She sounds so beautiful, so blissed out when she claws at the glass, body unable to withstand your punishing thrusts, like there’s nothing left but succumbing to your cock.

"A-almost there, sweetie, oh my god don't fucking stop, fuck!" Karina lets out these careless moans, no regards for how loud she's being. Even the neighbors will hear—and she doesn't even fucking care, as long as you don't stop. She's far, far too lost in this, throwing her head back, screams escalating through the echoing walls of the shower. "Gonna cum, shit, I'm gonna fucking cum, sweetie, fucking make me—"

This sudden vice tightening around you is all you need to ensure Karina gets exactly what she demands as she trembles in your grip, falling apart. Another shriek echoes from her throat, clenching violently when her climax triggers, palms flat against the rattling glass, your hips so frantic as they slam against her, driving a few more quick, deep thrusts for good measure.

You can hear it all—and most importantly feel it, the erratic, uncontrolled way she shudders, the convulsing walls of her warm cunt proof you've done a job well done. So you keep pistoning into her, keep up the brutal pace of your hips, not slowing down or do anything but pound right through this blissful release, 

"God, baby—“ Karina gasps out, weak and breathless, clinging onto the glass to not slump forward, already spent by her release, and yet her body can't even help itself when she grinds back, craving even more. “How, how do you keep doing that, making me cum so hard? Such a good fucking boy, keeping me so satisfied.” 

There’s not much of an answer for that as Karina keeps her body flush against the glass, struggling to recover her breath while you thrust so deep. "But as much as I love your cock in me, I think we're running out of time…” 

"Are we?"

"Yeah, so you better wrap this up and fill me. Right now, grab my fucking tits and empty those balls.” 

You don't have it within you to hesitate, grabbing those heavy breasts, squeezing them tightly. Nothing beats this combination: all that supple flesh in your fingertips while your throbbing cock pummels the deepest depths of her, every inch inside her velvety cunt. Then all that’s left is to fuck her like your life depends on it, not a thought left but drilling with reckless abandon. 

There’s nothing but your hips moving, the harsh slap of flesh, this greedy grope you give her chest like you just can’t get enough—which you can’t. You’ve got her pinned so hard against the shower, holding on to her tits as you just fuck her senseless, completely pounding into her cunt, keeping her stretched, using this perfect body to milk your cock. 

“Rina, god—baby, your pussy, oh, fuck, I can't—I'm gonna cum," you groan, losing all control over yourself, barely able to give any warning. Not that Karina needs it when she can feel you throbbing, how much you’re going to erupt. 

It doesn't take a second longer for Karina to get what she wants.

You fall apart and erupt into her, slamming one more time to bury yourself to the hilt as you empty inside her in thick, heavy bursts, each spurt more dizzying than the last. Karina clenches so harshly when you fill her to the brim, this heavenly squeeze when she greedily takes everything, milking it all out, demanding not a drop gets wasted. Everything leaves your balls in an urgent rush, right into her sopping cunt, sending her right over the edge one last time as she joins you in this blissful release.    

“Filled me up so well, sweetie,” Karina murmurs through the bliss, every violent throb pushing her up against the glass window, pinned and helpless against the rough pounding of your thrusts until your hips decide to falter. “Now that you got everything out of your system, do you think you'll be able to survive the rest of the day?"

You only play with her tits in response, catching your breath as you lean against her body, kissing her shoulders from behind. "Probably not. But I'll manage, somehow. I guess."

She laughs softly at the admission, a quick tilt of her head to kiss you while you reluctantly withdraw your drenched cock , the mess leaking out from her freshly pounded, slick hole. As always, this is your favorite sight—all the white leaking from between her thighs and down to the shower tiles. But you know there's not enough time to appreciate this glorious view, because you'll never hear the end of it if you're responsible for making her late. 

"If you really can't manage, you have all those pictures I’ve sent to tide you over. Jerk off on my panties if you need to, I don’t mind. Whatever helps you get by."

"Have a little more faith in me, would you? I'm not so far gone yet that I can't control myself for a little while. I'll survive."

"Could have fooled me," Karina responds as she exits the steamy shower, stepping onto the cool bathroom tile and reaching for her towel. “But maybe if I’m feeling generous, you’ll get some spicy new photos before I come back. If you behave, that is."

"Don't I always?"

"Hardly, sweetie." Karina wraps her arms around your neck, leaning into you and smiling adoringly. "But that's what I like about you."

"Couldn't live without me, could you?"

"Absolutely not. Or your cock," she teases back at you, giving your hair this playful little tousle while she pulls you in for a deep, lasting kiss. And the way Karina looks in just a towel—well, you try not to think too much about it. 

"Okay, seriously. I need to get going now, or else I really will miss class. But maybe when I'm back—"

"Yeah?"

Karina cups your face and just stares for a moment, in deep thought, contemplating a thousand ideas. "I really am going to ride the fuck out of you. Maybe even tie you up again and make you beg like you never have before.” 

"Can't wait."

"Neither can I, sweetie. See you soon."

[pucksandpower]

Second Heart

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lewis Hamilton x Senna!Reader

Summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to be able to race just like your Papai … no matter the cost (or in which always going for a gap that exists runs in the Senna family)

You sit cross-legged in front of the TV, shoulders hunched, the remote clutched tight in your little hand. The screen crackles, and there he is — Ayrton. Papai. His yellow helmet blazes under the bright afternoon sun, the car flying down the straight, smooth as a bird on water.

Your eyes don’t blink. The sound of engines growls through the speakers, vibrating all the way to your heart. It’s like he’s right there. Alive.

And so fast. So, so fast. You almost feel like you’re in the car with him, that if you close your eyes, you could taste the gasoline and the rubber, the wind whipping across your face.

“Papai …” you whisper, pressing the volume button louder.

Adriane steps into the room, the clink of her bracelets soft but steady. She pauses when she sees you, arms crossed, one hip jutted out.

“I thought you were doing homework.”

You don’t answer, too lost in the footage. The video cuts to a slow-motion shot of Ayrton weaving through the rain, tires spinning in the spray like magic. They call it genius — what he did at Monaco, at Suzuka, at Donington Park. To you, it’s just your Papai being Papai.

“Turn it off.” Your mother’s voice sharpens now. She hates it when you watch these tapes. You’ve heard her say it before, more times than you can count — It’s not healthy. You shouldn’t keep living in the past. But you don’t feel like you’re living in the past. You feel like you’re meeting him for the first time, every time.

“Just five more minutes,” you plead without looking away.

“No.”

“But I-”

“I said no, agora!”

Her tone makes you flinch. The remote slips from your hand onto the floor with a dull thud. But you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen, where Ayrton’s car crosses the finish line, the Brazilian flag draped over his shoulders as the crowd roars. Your heart beats faster. There’s a strange energy in you, like the buzz before a storm. You push yourself up to your knees, your voice small but determined.

“I want to race.”

Adriane’s laugh is immediate and sharp, like glass shattering. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly!” You twist around to look at her now, the words spilling out. “I wanna race, Mãe! Like Papai!”

Her face changes. The air shifts, heavy and strange. You see it happen — the tightness in her jaw, the way her smile falls away like it was never there.

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” She snaps, louder this time, and it makes you shrink back. “Absolutely not. Never.”

You bite your lip, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. But you don’t stop. Not yet.

“Why not?” You whisper.

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose, as if the question alone is an insult. She crosses the room in two quick strides, crouching down until her face is level with yours. Her hands, delicate but strong, grip your shoulders tighter than usual.

“Because racing is dangerous,” she says, enunciating every word like she’s trying to hammer them into your skull. “Do you understand me? It’s not a game. It took your father from us.”

Her voice wavers on the last sentence, but you don’t care. There’s something stubborn growing in you, something you don’t quite recognize yet.

“Papai loved it.”

“And look where it got him,” she shoots back, her voice sharp as a knife.

You blink, stunned by the words. She’s never said it like that before. She sees your expression — hurt, confused — and her face softens, just for a second.

“Sweetheart …” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. Every single day. But I won’t let racing take you away from me.”

“But it won’t-”

“Enough.” Her voice is final, the way grown-ups’ voices get when there’s no more room for argument. “This conversation is over.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. She’s already standing up, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. The TV hums in the background, the commentators babbling about pole positions and podiums.

Adriane snatches the remote from the floor and jabs the power button. The screen goes black, as if Papai never existed at all.

You feel hollow.

Your mother stands there for a moment, the silence thick between you. Then she crouches again, her hands cupping your face this time, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “I lost your father. I can’t-” She stops, swallows hard. “I can’t lose you too. Okay?”

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just stare at her, your little heart breaking in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m serious,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “No racing. Not ever.”

And then she kisses the top of your head, soft and lingering, as if that alone could erase the conversation, the dream, everything. She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen, fists clenched in your lap. Your chest feels tight, like something inside you is being squeezed too hard.

You think about Papai. About how he smiled in the cockpit, how the car seemed to dance under his hands, how the crowd chanted his name like a song. He wasn’t afraid.

And neither are you.

You pick up the remote again. Your thumb hovers over the play button, hesitant for just a moment. Then you press it.

The screen flickers back to life, and Ayrton is there, flying through the rain like a miracle.

You smile.

One day, you think.

One day, you’ll race too.

***

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the house, dropping your school bag with a heavy thud. You bend down to untie your sneakers, already rehearsing what you’ll tell your mom — how your science project earned a gold star, how you managed to trade a snack with João without getting caught. You have it all planned, down to the way you’ll grin when she offers you that after-school snack.

But as soon as you straighten up, the voices hit you.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

You freeze, one hand still on your shoelace.

“You have no right ��� none — to tell me how to raise my daughter!” Your mother’s voice is sharp, like glass breaking. She’s in the living room. You can’t see her from the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can imagine her perfectly — the tight set of her mouth, the way her arms probably cross over her chest.

And then, another voice, familiar in a strange way. Low and hard. “I’m not telling you how to raise her, Adriane. I’m telling you what she told me — how she called me crying because you refuse to let her chase the only thing she’s ever wanted.”

Alain.

Your heart skips. You know him. Everyone knows him. Papai’s fiercest rival — and, in the end, his friend. The man from the stories, from old photographs your mother keeps locked away. Alain, who came to the funeral and cried even when the cameras weren’t on him.

Why is he here?

You step closer, drawn by their words like a thread pulling you tight. You press yourself against the wall and peek around the corner, just enough to see them.

Adriane stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed exactly like you pictured. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, but her face is tight, her jaw locked in anger. Alain stands across from her, looking just as frustrated. His hands move as he talks, fast and insistent, like he’s trying to grab hold of the air between them and shape it into something that makes sense.

“She’s seven!” Your mother snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. “She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“She understands better than you think,” Alain fires back. “She understands perfectly. She called me in tears — tears, Adriane — because you shut her down without even listening.”

“I listened.” Her voice drops, low and furious. “And I said no.”

Alain scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You said no because you’re scared.”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Of course I’m scared! She’s my daughter! You, of all people, should understand-”

“I do understand.” Alain’s voice softens, but only just. “I carried his casket. I watched you cry over him. But that’s exactly why you can’t do this to her.”

Adriane’s face crumples for a split second, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching so closely. “He’s not here, Alain,” she whispers, and it sounds like a confession and an accusation all at once. “He’s not here to see this, to say if it’s right or wrong. And he’s not here to save her if something goes wrong.”

Alain’s voice drops, steady and determined. “And you think Ayrton would want you to stop her? You think he would want her to live her whole life wrapped in fear because of what happened to him?”

“She’s my child.” Adriane’s voice cracks like a whip, but there’s something desperate underneath it now, like she’s fighting to keep her footing in a conversation she knows she’s already losing. “And I will not lose her.”

Alain’s eyes narrow. “You’re not protecting her. You’re imprisoning her.”

Your mother stares at him, her breath coming fast and uneven. For a moment, everything goes still — so quiet you can hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.

Then Alain steps forward, his hands on his hips. “If you won’t help her, I will. I’ll teach her to kart myself if I have to.”

Adriane barks out a bitter laugh, but it’s laced with pain. “You can try,” she says, her voice brittle. “But don’t expect me to come watch. I refuse to set foot at a race, and I won’t look at her as long as I know there’s a chance she won’t come back.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. You feel like you can’t breathe. You press yourself harder against the wall, your chest tight with emotions you can’t name.

And that’s when the floor creaks.

Both of them turn at the sound.

“Meu Deus …” your mother whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re home.”

Alain’s face softens instantly. He kneels down, arms open. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, just for a moment. Then, without thinking, you bolt from your hiding spot and run straight into Alain’s arms. He catches you easily, wrapping you in a hug that feels like safety. Like warmth.

Adriane stands frozen, her hands still over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mix of heartbreak and anger and something you don’t fully understand.

Alain pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding.

“How would you like to come to Switzerland with me?” His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You could learn to kart there. I’ll teach you myself. What do you think?”

Your heart races. Switzerland. Karting. Learning to drive. It feels like a dream, one you didn’t even know you could have.

But then you look at your mother.

Adriane’s face is pale, her hands still clutched tight over her mouth like they might stop her from saying something she’ll regret. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and there’s a kind of pain in them that makes your chest ache.

You know what this means to her. You know how much it hurts.

But you also know what it means to you.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember — for as long as you’ve been able to understand what racing is. And here it is, right in front of you. A chance.

You swallow hard and look back at Alain. His expression is kind but serious, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No one can make it for you.”

You take a deep breath. Your hands shake a little, but you ball them into fists to steady yourself.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

Your mother makes a soft, choked sound — like someone punched all the air out of her.

“Minha filha …” Her voice breaks.

You look at her, and it feels like your heart is splitting in two. “I have to, Mãe.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her hands tighter to her face. For a moment, she just stands there, trembling. Then she drops her hands and wipes her eyes with quick, angry swipes.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice raw and broken. “Okay. Go, then.”

The words sting, sharper than anything you’ve ever felt. But you nod. You have to.

Alain gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We’ll call every day,” he promises, glancing at Adriane, though she won’t look at him. “Whenever you want.”

Your mother doesn’t answer. She just turns away, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on her.

Your heart feels heavy, but there’s something else now too — something lighter. Hope.

You glance up at Alain, and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Switzerland, huh?” You say, trying to sound brave.

Alain chuckles. “Switzerland.”

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can finally breathe.

***

Life in Switzerland feels like a dream. Every morning, the mountains rise outside your window, peaks dusted in snow even as the spring sun warms the air. The international school Alain enrolled you in is small, the kids friendly. They speak a mix of languages — French, German, Italian — and though it’s strange at first, you like how every word feels like a little puzzle to solve.

But school is just the beginning of your day. The real magic happens afterward.

Every afternoon, Alain picks you up in his car — a sleek, silver Audi with leather seats that always smell faintly like coffee — and takes you straight to the karting track just outside town. There’s a rhythm to your days now: school, then the track, where the scent of gasoline and hot rubber fills the air.

“Come on, petite championne,” Alain says every day as you hop into the kart, the nickname slipping off his tongue with an easy smile. “Let’s see if you can make me proud today.”

The kart rumbles beneath you, a buzz that shoots from your hands to your heart. The moment your foot touches the pedal, the world falls away. The wind rushes against your face, the engine purring with every twist of the wheel.

Here, in the kart, you feel free — like nothing can catch you, not even the pieces of your life that feel too big or too broken to understand.

Alain watches from the sidelines, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face calm but focused. He takes notes every time you race, shouting tips when you pull up to the pit lane.

“Don’t wait so long to hit the brakes before that hairpin, you lose too much time,” he’ll say. Or, “You’re getting faster through the straights. Don’t get greedy on the corners, though — you’ve got to feel the grip.”

You listen to every word, hungry to learn. And when he grins after you complete a lap, clapping his hands like you just won a Grand Prix, your heart swells.

By the time you drive home, your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind — the kind that comes from chasing a dream.

And every night, after dinner, there’s dessert.

“Glace au chocolat tonight?” Alain asks one evening, pulling two tubs of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

You grin. “With whipped cream?”

“Obviously,” Alain replies with mock seriousness. “What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

He adds a mountain of whipped cream to both bowls, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch with his own.

As always, an old race plays on the TV. Tonight, it’s Monaco — 1988, the race your father dominated, right up until the moment he crashed into the barrier. The screen flickers as the cars glide through the tight streets, their engines howling between the stone walls.

Alain leans back against the couch cushions, spoon in hand. “See that?” He says, pointing at the screen with a mouthful of ice cream. “Your papa’s line through the Swimming Pool section — perfection. Like poetry in motion.”

You tilt your head, studying the way the yellow helmet zips through the narrow chicane. “How did he do it?”

Alain smiles, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. “He just knew. Ayrton could feel the track better than anyone else. It was like … like he was connected to the car in a way no one else could be.”

You lick your spoon thoughtfully. “Did you hate him?”

The question catches Alain off guard. He freezes, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate him? No.” He pauses. “Not really, anyway.”

“But you fought a lot.”

“Oh, we fought.” Alain smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He drove me absolutely mad sometimes.”

You giggle. “Why?”

“Because he never gave up. Not even for a second.” Alain gestures toward the TV, where your father’s car rockets through the tunnel. “Ayrton wasn’t just racing other drivers — he was racing himself. Always trying to be faster, better. It was exhausting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s warmth in his voice, too. You can hear it.

“And that drove you crazy?” You ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Alain laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Completely crazy.”

You curl deeper into the couch, your ice cream bowl balanced on your lap. “But you were friends, right? In the end?”

Alain’s smile fades a little, but it stays, softer now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In the end.”

There’s a silence between you, filled only by the hum of the TV and the occasional scrape of your spoons against the bowls.

You glance at Alain, his expression lost somewhere between memory and regret. “Do you miss him?”

Alain looks at you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll answer. Then he gives a small nod. “Every day.”

You nod, too, even though you didn’t really know your father — at least, not in the way Alain did. But somehow, you miss him all the same.

The race continues on the screen, the cars weaving through the streets of Monaco, chasing the perfect lap.

“You’ll be just like him one day,” Alain says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Alain replies, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve got the same fire in you. The same stubbornness, too, I think.”

You laugh, and Alain grins, pleased with himself.

“You just need to tweak your braking,” he adds with a playful smirk. “You brake like me, not like him.”

“Hey!” You protest, shoving his arm lightly.

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m just saying! Ayrton would fly into corners like a madman. Me? I was always a bit more … sensible.”

“Sensible is boring,” you tease, scooping up the last bit of ice cream.

Alain pretends to be offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Boring? Sensible is what win me four world championships, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

The credits for the race coverage roll, but neither of you makes a move to turn off the TV. These moments — curled up on the couch with Alain, the scent of whipped cream still in the air — feel like they could stretch forever.

And maybe, just maybe, they do.

***

Four years blur by like the laps on a familiar circuit. Days turn into months, and months into seasons. You grow taller, sharper, and faster. The kart becomes a second skin, every turn and apex something you know instinctively, like breathing. The track is your playground now — your sanctuary.

Alain teaches you everything: not just how to drive but how to think, how to be patient when you need to be and ruthless when the moment calls for it. He tells you about strategy and racecraft, how to listen for the slightest change in the engine’s pitch, how to make yourself invisible in the slipstream until the perfect moment to strike.

Some lessons come easy. Others, not so much. Like when he makes you practice for hours in the rain, your hands frozen, your kart slipping through puddles. Or when you spin out during a practice race and Alain doesn’t even flinch. He just waves his hand in the air.

“Again!” He shouts from the pit lane. “You have to get comfortable with making mistakes, petite. No champion gets there without a few bruises.”

And so you go again. And again. Because this — this dream — is the one thing you want more than anything.

Now, after all those years, the day has finally arrived. You’re old enough to compete in the FIA Karting Championship. This is what you’ve been working toward.

But Alain surprises you one quiet evening at home. No ice cream, no old races on TV — just you and him, sitting across the kitchen table with two mugs of hot tea. His face is serious, but kind.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug. “You have a choice to make.”

You lean forward. “What kind of choice?”

Alain tilts his head, his sharp hazel eyes studying you carefully. “Your name.”

You frown. “My name?”

“Yes. You’ve been racing locally for a while, but things are different now.” Alain takes a sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. “The FIA Karting Championship is international. There will be journalists, scouts, team representatives. If you race under your real name, everyone will know exactly who you are.”

You sit back, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

“You can use a pseudonym if you want,” Alain continues. “Plenty of drivers do it, especially when they want to build their career on their own terms.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’ve thought a lot about racing — how fast you want to be, how badly you want to win. But this? The idea of hiding your name? It’s a curveball you didn’t see coming.

Alain gives you time to think, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug. “There’s no shame in it, petite,” he says gently. “It’s not about denying who you are. It’s about deciding how you want the world to see you.”

The words hang between you. He’s not pressuring you — Alain never does that — but you can feel the weight of the decision anyway.

You toy with the edge of the mug in front of you, tracing the rim with your fingertip. “Do you think … if I use my real name, people will only see Papai?”

Alain shrugs, but his expression is thoughtful. “Some will. There are people who won’t be able to separate you from Ayrton. They’ll compare you to him before you’ve even taken a proper lap.”

You nod slowly. You’ve known this would happen — how could you not? But hearing it out loud makes it more real.

“At the same time,” Alain adds, “it’s not something to be ashamed of. Ayrton was … well, he was Ayrton. If anyone has the right to be proud of their name, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, the edges of uncertainty fraying inside you. “What would you do?”

Alain smiles softly. “It’s not my decision to make, ma chérie. This is about you. Your future.”

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tiny ghosts. A part of you aches at the thought of hiding your father’s name — like you’d be denying him, pretending he didn’t matter. But there’s another part, quieter but insistent, that wants to know what it’s like to stand on your own. To earn your place without the shadow of a legend following you everywhere you go.

You tap your fingers against the table, the rhythm matching the beat of an engine in your mind. And then, suddenly, the answer clicks into place.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I want to use a different name. Just for now.”

Alain raises his eyebrows, curious but approving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more certain now. “It’s not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I want people to know one day. Just … not yet.”

Alain leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

You grin, the excitement building in your chest. “I’ll race under my mother’s last name. And when the time’s right — maybe after I win a few championships — I’ll tell them.”

Alain chuckles, shaking his head. “You think they’ll like the surprise?”

You laugh, a full, bright sound that feels like relief. “Can you imagine their faces?”

Alain grins, clearly amused. “I can already hear the headlines.” He adopts an exaggerated announcer voice: “The karting prodigy who stunned the world by revealing she’s Ayrton Senna’s daughter!”

You burst out laughing, the tension from the conversation melting away. “They’ll lose their minds!”

“And you’ll love every second of it,” Alain adds with a knowing smirk.

You grin, unable to hide the spark of mischief in your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head fondly, ruffling your hair as he stands up from the table. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Comes with the territory,” you say, beaming.

Alain gathers the empty mugs and places them in the sink, still chuckling to himself. “Well, I think it’s a smart choice. Gives you time to find your own rhythm.”

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Alain leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you. There’s pride in his eyes — quiet, steady, and unmistakable. “Your papa would’ve been proud of you, too,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens, but you smile through it. “Thanks, Alain.”

He nods once, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward the living room. “Let’s celebrate with some dessert. I think we’ve got tarte au citron in the fridge.”

You follow him, your heart light and your steps easy. The road ahead is still long — there will be races, wins, and losses. But for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to drive.

And that? That’s the best feeling in the world.

***

The drive from Switzerland to Imola is quiet. You sit with your thoughts, the hum of the engine beneath you and the road stretching endlessly ahead. Alain offered to come with you, but you declined. This is something you need to do alone.

It’s not that you didn’t want his company, it’s just … how do you explain to someone — even someone who knew your father so well — that you need to meet this place on your own terms?

For eighteen years, you told yourself you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be. But here you are, taking deep breaths as you steer your way closer to the circuit where it all ended. Where everything about your life changed before it even really began.

When you finally arrive, the gates to the Imola track feel strangely peaceful, nestled under a canopy of autumn leaves. The air is crisp, and the sky is that soft, pale blue you only get in early fall. You park the car and head toward the Ayrton Senna memorial, your footsteps crunching through the leaves littering the path.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your pulse loud in your ears. You try to steel yourself — this is just a monument, just a place. You’ve been to a thousand race tracks in your life. But this one is different. This one holds pieces of someone you never got the chance to know.

As you approach the monument, you expect silence. You expect to be alone. But then you notice someone sitting there — another figure crouched near the bronze statue of your father.

The man shifts, startled by the sound of your footsteps on the gravel. His head turns, and you recognize him almost immediately.

It’s Lewis Hamilton.

He blinks up at you, clearly not expecting company either. There’s a moment of awkwardness, both of you standing there, caught off guard in a place meant for solitude.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Lewis waves off the apology, his face softening. “No, no. You’re not bothering me.” He pulls himself up a little straighter, brushing leaves from his jacket. “I always stop by here before Monza. Helps me … I don’t know. Reset.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. There’s something strange about seeing him here — Lewis Hamilton, one of the biggest names in motorsport, sitting quietly in front of your father’s monument like he’s just another fan.

“I came for the same reason,” you admit. “I’m Brazilian. Wanted to pay my respects.”

At that, something shifts in Lewis’ expression — understanding, maybe. “You’re Brazilian?” He repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That explains it. Every Brazilian racer I know carries Senna with them like … well, like a second heart.”

You laugh softly, kicking a stray leaf with your shoe. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lewis shifts, resting his forearms on his knees as he looks back at the monument. The wind stirs the leaves around your feet, scattering them across the ground.

“He’s always been my hero,” Lewis murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even before I really understood what racing was, I just … knew he was special.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze fixed on the familiar features of the bronze effigy — your father’s intense, focused expression captured in metal. It’s strange, standing here with someone who feels the same reverence you’ve always felt but never quite known how to express.

Lewis glances at you again. “What do you race?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “Formula Renault 3.5.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “That’s a serious series.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though there’s a flicker of pride in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been good so far.”

“Good enough to think about Formula 1 one day?” Lewis asks, a knowing smile on his face.

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in the cool air. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your name?”

For a split second, you hesitate. But you remind yourself — he doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just … Y/N,” you say casually. “For now.”

Lewis tilts his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t press. “Y/N. Got it.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence. But it’s not uncomfortable — just … quiet.

“You said you come here every year?” You ask after a moment.

“Before Monza, yeah,” Lewis confirms. “It’s become sort of a ritual. Helps me feel grounded, I guess. Reminds me why I do this.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. There’s something about this place — this simple, quiet memorial — that strips everything else away. The politics, the pressure, the noise. It leaves only the pure love of racing behind.

Lewis stands then, brushing dirt from his pants. “Well,” he says, “I should probably get going. Got a long weekend ahead.”

You nod, though part of you wishes you had a little more time to talk to him. There’s something easy about the way he carries himself — no arrogance, no pretense. Just a racer who loves what he does.

Lewis glances at the monument one last time, his gaze lingering on your father’s face. “He would’ve loved to see how many of us still race because of him,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

He gives you a nod, something warm and reassuring in his expression. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be watching.”

With that, he turns and walks down the path, his footsteps crunching through the leaves. You watch him go, the wind stirring around you again, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and autumn.

For a long moment, you stay there, standing in front of the monument, just you and the bronze figure of your father. You don’t say anything — there’s nothing that needs to be said. But in the quiet, you feel a strange sense of peace.

Maybe it’s the years of racing, the laps you’ve turned, the lessons you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just knowing that people like Lewis exist — people who carry your father’s spirit with them, even though they never knew him.

You brush a hand over the cool surface of the monument, tracing the edge of the plaque with your fingers. “I’m gonna make you proud,” you whisper.

And this time, you believe it.

The wind picks up again as you turn away from the monument, heading back toward the car. Monza is waiting. And so is the rest of your story.

***

The paddock feels like a world unto itself — buzzing with life, engines roaring in the distance, team personnel hurrying from garages to pit walls.

You’re barely a day into your first GP2 weekend with DAMS, and it’s already overwhelming. The DAMS crew is friendly but businesslike, and the constant stream of engineers, mechanics, and journalists passing by your garage is a reminder that you’ve officially stepped onto the big stage.

Your heart pounds as you adjust the collar of your race suit, nerves crawling under your skin. You spent the morning doing seat fittings, debriefs, and media duties, but now you’re finally free for a few minutes before the next round of meetings.

Alain walks beside you, calm and collected as ever, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He’s been like a steady lighthouse in the chaos of this new chapter, guiding you through the storm with quiet assurance.

“Remember,” Alain says as you both weave through the paddock, “it’s just another race. Keep your focus. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, scanning the sea of faces for anyone familiar — or anyone dangerous, like a journalist with too many questions.

Alain smirks knowingly. “That’s why you have me.”

You can’t help but grin, a flicker of relief easing the tension in your chest. Alain’s been by your side for so long now that the idea of navigating a race weekend without him feels unthinkable.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone you weren’t expecting: Lewis.

He’s walking toward the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by team personnel and a PR officer trailing closely behind, clipboard in hand. You see the moment recognition flickers in his eyes — he stops mid-step, gaze locking on you like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“Y/N?” He calls, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alain glances sideways at you, bemused, but you can’t help the small, slightly guilty smile tugging at your lips. You wave at Lewis, feeling a little awkward but genuinely happy to see him.

Lewis strides over, his PR officer groaning softly but trailing after him anyway. “I thought I’d see you around here eventually,” Lewis says with a grin. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”

You shrug, playing it casual. “Surprise.”

His eyes flick to Alain, standing quietly beside you. “And you … know Alain Prost?”

Alain raises a polite eyebrow, but there’s an amused glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how you’ll answer this one.

You shift on your feet, aware of Lewis’ confusion. “Yeah, he’s … been my mentor for years.” You keep your explanation vague, not ready to drop the full truth just yet.

Lewis frowns slightly, processing the unexpected connection. “You’ve been working with Alain Prost?”

You nod. “Since I was a kid.”

Lewis lets out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with new appreciation. “Wow. That explains a lot.”

Before you can respond, his PR officer steps in, clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “Lewis, we really need to-”

Lewis waves her off without breaking eye contact with you. “Five more minutes. It’s fine.”

The woman hesitates, then sighs in frustration and backs away to give him space. Lewis turns his full attention back to you, his easy grin returning.

“So, GP2, huh?” He asks, hands on his hips. “How’s it feel to finally be here?”

“Terrifying,” you admit with a laugh. “But also kind of amazing.”

“That’s how you know you’re in the right place,” Lewis says, his tone encouraging. “The nerves mean you care.”

Alain watches the exchange quietly, and you can tell he’s measuring Lewis, sizing him up — not in a competitive way, but in that protective way he’s always had with you. It’s subtle, but you know Alain well enough to see it.

“I’ll make sure to catch the feature race,” Lewis promises, his grin widening. “I’ll be cheering you on.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how much that means to you. “Oh yeah? You sure you have time to slum it with us junior drivers?”

Lewis laughs, genuinely amused. “Come on, now. I started in GP2, remember? I know exactly how tough it is.”

“Guess I’ll have to put on a good show, then.”

“You better,” Lewis says, mock-serious. “Otherwise I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

The two of you share a quick, easy laugh, and for a moment the chaos of the paddock fades into the background. It’s just two drivers, standing in the middle of it all, sharing a moment of understanding.

“You’re going to crush it,” Lewis adds, his voice low and certain.

Something in his tone makes you believe it — makes the nerves that have been simmering all day settle, if only for a moment.

Alain clears his throat softly, a reminder that time is ticking. “We need to get back to the team,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

Lewis nods, taking the hint but not before offering you one last smile. “Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you out there.”

You return the smile, feeling lighter than you have all day. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He gives Alain a respectful nod before turning to leave, his McLaren team falling into step around him as he disappears into the paddock.

As you watch him go, Alain leans in slightly, his voice quiet but laced with amusement. “Friend of yours?”

You smirk, still watching Lewis disappear into the crowd. “Something like that.”

Alain chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar — like the engine note of a car you’ve driven a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently. “We have work to do.”

You follow Alain back toward the DAMS garage, the nerves still there but tempered now with something else — excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little confidence.

Because this is your moment. Your chance to show the world what you can do. And with people like Alain and Lewis in your corner, you know you’re not facing it alone.

***

The Bahrain sun beats down relentlessly, the heat pressing against your skin even through your race suit. Sweat clings to your brow, mixing with the overwhelming, heady cocktail of fuel, rubber, and victory. You’re breathless, exhausted — but none of that matters.

You did it. You won.

The feature race trophy feels almost weightless in your hands as you stand on the podium, the sound of the Brazilian anthem thundering in your ears. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and for the first time since you entered GP2, you allow yourself to savor the moment. You close your eyes for a second, letting the anthem sink deep into your bones, and think of your father.

When the rose water sprays, it feels like you’ve broken through a barrier — proof to yourself and to the world that you belong here. That you’re not just someone chasing the shadow of a name, but a racer in your own right.

The post-race chaos is a blur — interviews, debriefs, more interviews. It’s not until you’re finally allowed to step away from the DAMS garage, damp with sweat and floral liquid, that the realization hits you again: you won your first GP2 race. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, but beneath it, there’s a quiet hum of contentment.

You round the corner of the paddock, searching for a quiet moment to collect yourself — when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N!”

You turn, and there he is: Lewis, dressed casually in his McLaren team kit, that signature grin stretched across his face. His eyes are bright under the paddock lights, and his presence feels like a cool breeze against the heat of Bahrain.

Before you can say anything, he’s already jogging up to you, wrapping you in a quick, spontaneous hug. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air between you — spicy and warm, like cedar and citrus.

“That was incredible!” Lewis says, pulling back to look at you. “Seriously, you drove like a pro out there.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You saw the whole race?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s obvious, as if there was no way he could have missed it. “I told you I’d be cheering you on, didn’t I?”

“Guess I didn’t disappoint, then,” you say, teasing.

“Not even a little.” His grin softens into something warmer, more personal.

The way he looks at you — like he’s genuinely proud — makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. It’s strange, but comforting, the way he’s here, grounding you in the whirlwind of it all.

“Come on,” Lewis says, gesturing toward the paddock hospitality area. “You deserve a proper celebration. We’ll grab something to drink, at least — water, preferably, because you look like you’re about to melt.”

You laugh. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m not passing out just yet.”

“Still,” he insists, walking beside you. “Gotta take care of the winner, right?”

You follow him, your steps lighter than they’ve felt all weekend. It’s easy with Lewis — talking, walking, just existing in the same space. You can’t tell if it’s the lingering buzz of the win or something else entirely, but there’s a sense of ease between you that you haven’t felt with anyone in a long time.

He leads you to one of the quieter corners of the paddock, where a small group of McLaren personnel are relaxing. Lewis grabs two water bottles from a nearby cooler and tosses one your way.

“Catch.”

You catch it easily, the cool plastic a relief against your palm. “Thanks.”

Lewis leans against the back of a chair, his posture relaxed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “So … how does it feel?”

“To win?” You twist the cap off your bottle and take a sip. “Like … I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe again.”

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “First win’s always special. But there’ll be more. I can feel it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You think you’re a psychic now?”

Lewis chuckles. “Nope. Just good at spotting talent.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no denying the warmth his words spark inside you. You glance away for a moment, trying to shake the strange flutter in your chest.

“So,” he says after a beat, “what’s next? A second win in Spain?”

“I mean, that’d be nice,” you say, grinning. “But I’ll settle for finishing with all my wheels intact.”

“Good plan,” Lewis agrees, laughing. “That track’s a nightmare.”

The conversation drifts easily from there, flowing from racing to random paddock gossip to stories from his early days in GP2. You’re both standing close — closer than two people probably need to stand. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it feels … nice.

He pauses for a second, watching you with that thoughtful expression he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on beneath the surface.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says softly, almost like it’s just for you to hear.

The words catch you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Just doing my best,” you say, trying to play it off, but your voice sounds quieter than you intended.

Lewis’ eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something between you — something unspoken, but not unwelcome.

Before either of you can say anything more, a loud cheer erupts from a nearby group of mechanics, jolting you both back to the present. You laugh, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Guess the celebration’s already started,” you say, motioning toward the rowdy crowd.

Lewis grins. “Looks like it. You coming?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to celebrate, but because part of you likes this quiet bubble you and Lewis have found.

“I think I might stay here for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of water.

Lewis doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stays where he is, like maybe he feels the same pull to stay in this moment, too.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and a little more serious, “I meant what I said earlier. About you being something special.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s no teasing in his expression now — just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the word not nearly enough to convey what you’re feeling.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll just have to keep watching and see what you do next.”

“Guess so.”

And just like that, the air shifts between you — charged with possibility, like the moment before a green flag drops.

You don’t know what’s coming next, but for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of it. Not when Lewis is standing here, smiling at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And somehow, you think, this might just be the start of something worth chasing.

***

It’s late in the evening, and the Monaco paddock has fallen into a rare lull. The energy of race day — mechanics scrambling, journalists hounding drivers, engines screaming — has settled into a quiet hum. Most people have retreated to their yachts or hotel rooms by now, leaving only the occasional team member wandering through the maze of garages and hospitality areas.

You sit with Lewis on the edge of the harbor, the two of you tucked away from prying eyes. The water laps gently against the docks, and the principality’s golden lights reflect across the surface like scattered coins. Neither of you say anything for a while, content to let the quiet fill the spaces between you.

It’s been like this more often lately — stolen moments between races, conversations that drift into the small hours of the morning, and the unspoken pull that keeps you near each other, even when there’s no real reason to be.

Lewis shifts beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “You ever just sit somewhere and wonder how the hell you got here?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face. “All the time.”

He gives a small laugh, running a hand over his braids. “Monaco’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Feels like the kind of place people dream about … like it’s not even real.”

He looks over at you then, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not sure what’s real sometimes.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. And for the first time tonight, the quiet between you doesn’t feel as comfortable. It feels loaded, like you’re both waiting for the other to say something neither of you know how to say.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You okay?”

Lewis exhales slowly, glancing out over the water. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how to begin. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately … about the future. About what I want, and where I want to be.”

You shift closer to him, sensing that this isn’t just idle talk. “What do you mean?”

He leans back on his hands, staring at the water like it might hold the answer. “I’ve been with McLaren my whole career. Since I was a kid. But … I don’t know. Lately, it feels like I’m stuck. Like I’ve hit a wall.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

He looks at you then, and there’s something raw in his expression — something vulnerable. “I’ve decided to leave McLaren at the end of the season. I’m signing with Mercedes.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Mercedes?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“But … McLaren’s your home.”

Lewis shrugs, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was. But things change. And if I don’t take this chance now … I think I’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning. “Do people know yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not many. Just a few people on the team. I wanted to tell you before it got out, though.”

You chew on your bottom lip, absorbing the weight of his words. “That’s a big decision, Lewis.”

“I know.” He looks at you, his gaze steady. “But it feels like the right one. Even if it’s scary as hell.”

You let out a breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions — pride, worry, something you can’t quite name. “Well … if it’s what you want, I guess it’s the right move.”

He smiles, but it’s a small, almost hesitant thing. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. Like something has shifted — not just because of what he said, but because of the way he’s looking at you now.

“You’ve been there for me a lot lately,” he says softly. “I don’t think I’ve said how much that means to me.”

Your heart beats a little faster. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.” His voice is low, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath catch.

He shifts slightly closer, and suddenly the space between you feels impossibly small. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle brush of his shoulder against yours.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up at him, and the world seems to narrow down to just this — just the two of you, sitting on the edge of the harbor, the night air thick with something electric.

And then, slowly — almost hesitantly — he leans in.

For a split second, you think about pulling away, about the million reasons why this might not be a good idea. But before you can overthink it, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

It’s not the kind of kiss that demands anything — it’s the kind that promises everything.

When you finally pull back, your heart is racing, and your mind feels like it’s spinning in a thousand different directions.

Lewis looks at you, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his breath warm against your skin.

You smile, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and disbelief. “Yeah?”

He nods, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. The world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you, floating in your own little bubble.

Finally, Lewis pulls back slightly, though his hand lingers on your face. “So … what now?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and easy. “I have no idea.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your chest feel warm. “Guess we’ll figure it out, then.”

You nod, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I guess we will.”

And somehow, even though nothing feels certain — his future, your career, whatever this thing is between you — there’s a strange sense of peace in the not knowing.

Because whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.

***

The air in the McLaren garage is thick with anticipation. Cameras are set up, media personnel are adjusting their equipment, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air as the press conference prepares to start. You stand just behind the curtain, your heart racing. You can hear the hum of voices in the room beyond, reporters murmuring to one another, waiting for the big reveal.

The past few months have felt like a whirlwind — a blur of contract negotiations, meetings with McLaren’s team principal, and the quiet, creeping excitement of finally getting the chance to do what you’ve always dreamed of. But now that the moment is here, the weight of it is settling in. You’re not just about to become the first woman in F1 in decades, you’re about to step into the spotlight as Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

You take a deep breath, glancing down at the McLaren-branded polo shirt you’re wearing, the crisp fabric somehow making everything feel more real. This is happening. After all the years of hard work, all the sacrifices, you’re about to make history.

Alain stands beside you, his face calm, but his hand on your shoulder is firm and reassuring. “You ready?” He asks, his voice low, but steady.

You nod, swallowing down the nerves. “I think so.”

“Just remember why you’re doing this,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. “This is about you. Not your father. Not anyone else. You.”

You offer him a small smile. Alain’s always been good at grounding you, at reminding you that you’ve earned this, regardless of who your father was. He’s been there through it all — your highs and lows, your victories and failures. And now, here he is, standing beside you as you take this monumental step.

The curtains part, and the team principal, Martin Whitmarsh, steps onto the stage. The room quiets as he approaches the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today,” he begins, his voice carrying through the room. “It’s not often we get to announce something of this magnitude. Today, McLaren is proud to welcome a new driver to our team for the 2013 season. Not only will she be the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in over 20 years, but she’s also someone with a legacy that speaks for itself.”

There’s a murmur of curiosity from the crowd, and you know the moment is coming. The reveal. The truth that you’ve kept hidden, even from the people closest to you.

“Please join me in welcoming, Y/N Senna.”

The sound of your name, followed by your father’s, echoes through the room like a ripple of shock. For a brief moment, there’s stunned silence. Then, the cameras start flashing, the murmurs turn into a roar, and all eyes are on you.

You step onto the stage, trying to steady your breath. The weight of the announcement, of who you are, feels heavier than you expected. But you push through, meeting the gaze of the journalists, the photographers, the team members standing off to the side. You can’t see him from here, but you know Alain is watching from the wings, his quiet support steadying you.

Whitmarsh continues speaking, but the words blur together as your mind races. It’s not until you hear the murmured whispers in the back of the room that your attention snaps back.

“Senna?”

“Ayrton’s daughter?”

“Why didn’t anyone know?”

As the press conference wraps up, and you’re led off stage, the questions start flooding in. Journalists swarm, desperate for a quote, for more insight into the mystery that you’ve kept hidden for so long.

But before you can respond to any of them, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. You know that voice. You turn slowly, and there he is — Lewis, standing just a few feet away, his face unreadable.

The PR team tries to shuffle you away, but you shake them off, making your way over to him. “Lewis …”

He cuts you off, his expression dark. “You’ve been racing for all these years, and you never thought to tell me? Not once?”

The sting of his words catches you off guard, and you open your mouth to respond, but he continues, his voice low but sharp. “I thought we were close. I thought we were-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “You let me fall for you, and you didn’t even tell me who you really are.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “Lewis, it wasn’t like that-”

“Wasn’t it?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours, hurt and confusion written all over his face. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want people to treat you differently because of your name. But me? I thought we were past that.”

“I didn’t want to use my father’s name to get ahead,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to make a name for myself, first. And I didn’t tell you because … because I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“Well, it’s changed everything now,” he snaps, his voice tight with anger. “I thought I knew you, but clearly, I didn’t.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Lewis, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t mean to hurt me? You’re Ayrton Senna’s daughter, and you never even mentioned it once. How could you keep something like that from me?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Well, it has,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still laced with pain. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. The distance between you feels insurmountable now, like a chasm that you don’t know how to cross.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lewis looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, but the hurt still lingers in his eyes. “I need some time,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I just … I need to figure this out.”

You nod, the tears finally spilling over. “Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy and your world spinning.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you.

***

The air at Imola is still. The late-summer heat clings to your skin, and the only sounds around you are the distant hum of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You stare at the stone memorial, the bronze relief of your father’s face, the flowers people have left here over the years. Some are wilted, some fresh. There’s even a small Brazilian flag tucked against the base.

You exhale slowly, your hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your jacket. It’s been exactly a year since you first stood here, heart in your throat, hoping to find some kind of connection, some kind of clarity. The weight of the past year presses down on you now — signing with McLaren, the media frenzy, the fallout with Lewis.

And Papai. Always Papai.

You kneel, brushing a hand over the smooth stone, fingers tracing the engraved letters. “I made it,” you whisper. “I’m almost there.” Your voice catches on the words, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish you were here to see it.”

You close your eyes, trying to imagine what he’d say if he were standing beside you. Maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d tell you to push harder, go faster, never settle. Or maybe he’d tell you to slow down, to find a way to reconnect with your mother before it’s too late. But he’s not here. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

A soft rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts. Footsteps, deliberate but hesitant, approach from behind, crunching through the dry leaves scattered on the ground. You turn, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Lewis.

He’s wearing a hoodie, hands tucked into the front pocket, his brows peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. He stops a few feet away, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. There’s something guarded in his expression, but there’s warmth there, too.

You straighten slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis shrugs, his gaze flickering to the memorial and back to you. “Monza’s coming up. Thought I’d stop by first … like I always do.”

The tension between you feels like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching out like a canyon.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.”

You bite your lip, looking away toward the memorial. “I needed to. Before the race. I … I haven’t been here since last year.”

Lewis shifts, the soft scrape of his shoes against the ground. “I remember.”

The air feels heavy between you, thick with all the things you haven’t said to each other. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, but they feel tangled, impossible to untangle without breaking.

Lewis is the first to speak again, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what happened. About everything.”

You swallow hard, your hands clenching into fists in your pockets. “Me too.”

“I was angry,” Lewis admits. “Hurt, too. But … I get it now. Why you didn’t tell me.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself, like the world’s already decided who you are before you even get a chance to show them. I just … I wish you’d trusted me with it.”

“I wanted to,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I did. But … it’s complicated.” You look down, kicking at a stray leaf with your shoe. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be his daughter without being defined by it. And now … now it’s all out there.”

Lewis steps closer, closing the gap between you. “You’re not just his daughter, Y/N. You’re you. And that’s who I fell for.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You blink quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. They spill over anyway, and you wipe at them angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“It’s not just about the name,” you whisper. “Racing … it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But it’s also what took me away from my mom.” You take a shaky breath, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She can’t even look at me without seeing him. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in years. The last time we talked was my birthday. And it was just a two-minute call.”

Lewis’ face softens, and he reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, sniffing quietly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just … hard, you know? I love racing, but it feels like it’s cost me everything else.”

He takes another step closer, his hand lingering on your cheek. “You’ve got me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat. “Do I?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. You do.”

The world feels like it tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to just the two of you standing here, beneath the shadow of your father’s memory. And before you can think too hard about it, before the doubts can creep in, you lean in, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first — tentative, like neither of you wants to break the fragile peace that’s settled between you. But then his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of everything unsaid dissolving in the warmth of his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.

“I missed you,” Lewis whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“I missed you, too,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Eventually, Lewis pulls back slightly, his hand still cradling the back of your neck. “So … what now?”

You smile, a small, genuine smile that feels like the first one in a long time. “Now … we go win at Monza.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right we will.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and free, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest lifts.

As you stand there, hand in hand with Lewis, you glance back at the memorial one last time. “I think he’d be happy,” you say quietly.

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know he would.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens. You’re still Ayrton Senna’s daughter. But you’re also yourself. And that? That feels like enough.

***

The crowd roars so loudly that it feels like the earth itself is shaking. São Paulo is electric, the grandstands packed with people draped in green and yellow, waving flags, and chanting. You’ve been in big races before, stood on podiums, and tasted victory. But this … this is different.

This is Interlagos. This is home. And for the first time in your career, you’re leading an F1 race in front of your people.

“Alright, Y/N,” your engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “Five laps to go. Everything looks good on the telemetry. Just bring her home.”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you navigate the tight curves of the circuit. Every bump, every rise, every dip feels familiar. You’ve studied this track since you were a child. This is where your father was a legend — and now, it’s where you can make your own history.

The tires hum beneath you, vibrations pulsing through your hands and feet. The sky is dark with heavy clouds threatening rain, but the track is still dry, for now. Behind you, Sebastian Vettel is chasing hard in second place, his Red Bull a glimmer in your mirrors, but you don’t think about him. Not now. This is about you. About crossing that finish line first.

Four laps. Then three. Every second feels like an eternity. You can hear the crowd over the sound of the engine, their voices rising every time you fly past the grandstands. “SENNA! SENNA!” they chant, over and over, as if your name — your real name — was always meant to be called alongside your father’s.

“Two laps, Y/N. Gap to Vettel is two seconds. Stay focused.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel. You shift gears, your mind and body moving in perfect sync with the machine around you. The wind whistles past your helmet as you race up the hill toward the final turn.

On the final lap, it starts to drizzle — just enough to slick the track and make things dangerous. Your car twitches as the tires search for grip.

“Be careful, Y/N,” your engineer warns. “You’ve got this. Just stay calm.”

You breathe in. Breathe out. And then the chequered flag waves ahead of you, and the world explodes into color and sound.

“P1, Y/N! P1! You’ve won the Brazilian Grand Prix!” Your engineer’s voice is hoarse with excitement. “That was incredible — you just won at home!”

Your heart leaps as tears spring to your eyes. You punch the air, screaming into the radio, not caring who hears. “YES! YES! WE DID IT!”

The car coasts into parc fermé, the engine humming its final notes as you switch it off. You rip off your gloves and helmet, letting the cool air hit your damp face. The grandstands are still shaking with the cheers of thousands. Your name — Senna — is on every banner, every poster, and every fan’s lips.

You climb out of the car, adrenaline still surging through your veins, and jump onto the chassis. The crowd roars even louder as you throw your fists into the air, pointing toward the sky. The thought flashes through your mind: This one’s for you, Papai.

You jump down and make your way to the barriers where your team waits, already celebrating with hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. You push through the throng of mechanics, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. And that’s when you see her.

Among the sea of McLaren team uniforms, standing stiffly with her arms wrapped around herself, is your mother.

Your steps falter for a moment, shock flooding through you. She’s here. She’s really here. You blink, wondering if the tears in your eyes are playing tricks on you, but no — there she is. Adriane.

She’s thinner than you remember, her hair streaked with more silver now. She looks out of place among the mechanics, but she’s here. Her eyes, so much like your own, are filled with something you haven’t seen in years — pride. And something more. Regret.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run the other way. Then her face crumples, and she takes a tentative step forward, her arms reaching for you like she used to when you were small.

That’s all it takes. You close the distance in an instant, throwing yourself into her arms.

“Mãe!” The word leaves your mouth in a sob, and before you know it, you’re both crying, clutching each other like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, minha filha. I was wrong. I should’ve-”

You shake your head against her shoulder, holding her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands like she used to when you were little. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she admits, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid I’d lose you too. But then … then I watched you out there today.” Her voice cracks, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “And I saw him. I saw Ayrton. But more than that, I saw you. My daughter.”

You can’t speak — your throat feels too tight, and the tears won’t stop. So you just nod, leaning into her touch as the noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Adriane pulls you back into a hug, and for the first time in years, you let yourself feel it — the warmth, the love, the mother you thought you’d lost. And somehow, standing here with her in your arms, it feels like you’ve come full circle.

After a long moment, she pulls back and wipes her tears, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Look at us. Crying like fools.”

You laugh too, sniffling as you wipe your own face. “It’s okay. It’s a good day to cry.”

A voice cuts through the noise — your team calling you for the podium ceremony. You glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. You turn back to your mother, hesitant. “Will you stay?”

She smiles, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, squeezing her hand one last time before you let go and jog toward the podium. The crowd’s roar is deafening as you step up to the top step, your name flashing on the giant screens around the circuit. The Brazilian flag rises slowly, and as the national anthem plays, you close your eyes and let the moment wash over you.

It feels like home. It feels like peace. It feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Later, after the champagne has been sprayed and the trophies have been handed out, you find Lewis waiting for you in the paddock, a grin stretching across his face.

“Not bad, Senna,” he teases, pulling you into a warm embrace.

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Not bad yourself, Hamilton.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, the chaos of the paddock swirling around you, but all you can feel is the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“Your dad would be proud,” Lewis murmurs, his voice soft in your ear.

You smile, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think he would be.”

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, casting the apartment in soft golds and pinks. You let yourself in quietly, the cool metal of the front door clicking shut behind you. Training was brutal today — your arms ache, and every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. All you want is to find Lewis, maybe curl up on the couch together and recover with some takeaway.

You kick off your sneakers, already untying the knot in your ponytail, when you hear voices from the living room. You pause mid-step.

Lewis is talking to someone — no, two people. You creep forward on silent feet, heart quickening as the voices grow clearer.

“-I love her more than anything,” Lewis says, his voice low but certain. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Your breath catches. You flatten yourself against the wall, just out of sight. It feels like you’ve stepped into some kind of dream, one where the pieces of your life are rearranging themselves into something both surreal and perfect.

Then you hear your mother’s voice — gentler than it used to be, softened by time and the walls you’ve slowly chipped away.

“You want my blessing?” Adriane says, her words slow, as if she’s tasting them, feeling their weight.

“I do,” Lewis replies. “I wanted to ask both of you. It felt right.”

Both of them? You inch closer, daring to peek around the corner. And there they are — Lewis, sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. Across from him sit your mother and Alain, side by side like a pair of mismatched bookends.

Alain leans back, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You realize what you’re getting into?” He asks dryly. “She’s more stubborn than Ayrton ever was.”

Lewis chuckles, but it’s a little nervous. “Yeah, I know.”

Adriane tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to see through to his soul. “And if she says no?”

Lewis’ face softens, a quiet kind of love settling into his expression. “Then I’ll still be with her. Because I don’t need her to marry me to know she’s it for me.”

Something cracks open inside you. It feels like standing on the podium in Brazil all over again — overwhelming and humbling and impossibly full. You press a hand to your mouth, as if that will steady the emotion threatening to spill over.

Your mother leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There’s a moment of silence so thick it hums.

“When Y/N was seven,” she begins slowly, “she told me she wanted to race. I told her no. I thought if I kept her away from the track, I could protect her from the same thing that took Ayrton from me.” She sighs, her gaze dropping to her hands. “But all I did was push her away.”

Alain clears his throat, glancing sideways at her. “It’s not easy,” he murmurs, more to Adriane than to Lewis. “Loving someone who belongs to the track.”

Your mother nods, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve made her happy. You’ve given her the space to be who she’s always wanted to be.” She pauses, blinking quickly. “And I see Ayrton in that. In you.”

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “That means more than you know.”

“And you promise me something,” Adriane says, her voice gaining strength, as if she’s gathering all her fears into this one request. “That you’ll never try to stop her. Not when things get hard. Not when it scares you.”

Lewis leans forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I swear. I’d never take that from her.”

Your mother exhales, like a weight she’s carried for years is finally lifting off her shoulders. “Then you have my blessing,” she says quietly.

Alain smirks, slapping Lewis on the back. “Looks like you’re in for the ride of your life.”

They laugh softly, the kind of laugh that comes with hard-won understanding.

And that’s when the floorboard under your foot creaks.

All three heads whip toward the sound, and you’re caught, frozen halfway between hiding and stepping forward.

Lewis’ eyes widen, and then a slow, guilty smile spreads across his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

You step fully into the room, arms crossed but fighting back a grin. “Long enough to hear that you’re plotting something.”

Alain chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” He winks at you, patting Lewis on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Alain,” Lewis mutters, rubbing his palms against his thighs, clearly nervous now.

Your mother rises as well, hesitating for a moment. She looks at you, her eyes soft. “I’ll call you later,” she murmurs, reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly before following Alain out the door.  

And then it’s just you and Lewis, standing in the golden light of your apartment, the door clicking shut behind your mother and Alain.  

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice light. “So … what was all that about?”  

Lewis steps closer, and suddenly the nervous energy from earlier melts away. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your palm.  

“Y/N …” he begins, and there’s something so tender in the way he says your name that it makes your heart skip a beat. “I wanted to do this the right way. To ask the people who mean the mos to you.”  

Your breath catches as he drops to one knee, right there in the middle of your living room.  

He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light like starlight on water. It’s simple, elegant, and perfect.  

Lewis looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with love, nerves, and hope. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at Imola. And I want to spend every day from now on making you as happy as you’ve made me.”  

You cover your mouth with your hand, tears already welling up in your eyes.  

“So,” he says with a smile that’s both warm and a little crooked. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”  

For a moment, all you can do is nod, words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat. Then you finally find your voice.  

“Yes,” you whisper, your smile breaking wide and free. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

Lewis’ grin lights up the room, and he stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. You kiss him, slow and deep, and in that moment, it feels like everything — the years of struggle, of loss, of love — has brought you to exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you finally pull away, breathless and giddy, Lewis leans his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face.

“Guess Alain was right,” he murmurs, grinning. “This really is the ride of my life.”

You laugh, pure and full, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Buckle up, Hamilton,” you tease. “It’s only just getting started.”

[deadsetobsessions]

“Tim. Timmy. Ancients, kid, what are you doing?!”

Danny Phantom smacked away the instinctual terror of seeing an eight year old dangling out of a third story window.

“I gotta go take pictures of Batman and Robin! They’re out tonight!”

Danny thought that his barely healed vivisection wound might bust open from the sheer stress.

“Setting aside how you even know the patrol schedule of honest to god vigilantes, why’d you choose the window? The house is literally empty, just walk out the front door, for Ancient’s sake.”

Tim paused, a motion Danny was overwhelmingly thankful for, and blinked sheepishly.

“Um… for the aesthetic?”

Danny allowed the silence to settle between them before dropping his head into his waiting hands. Tim panicked.

“You- you can’t stop me!”

And yeah, Danny really can’t. In the months he’s been mooching off of the Drakes (not that they’ll notice), Danny’s learned that Tim Drake is nothing but relentless in the pursuit of whatever he sets his mind on. Whether thet might be putting hot chocolate in his cereal (which Danny doesn’t actually mind) or, apparently, stalking a pair of vigilantes.

He wanted to hack into the library cameras? Danny had to hover just to make sure the kid didn’t get caught after arguing for an hour about it.

He walked out of that argument with a loss, yes, but he also let Tim know that Danny cared about him. Danny also walked out of that argument with a new hatred for Janet and Jack Drake and his mind (just as diabolical as Tim’s) whirring with plans to haunt them.

Tim is never ever introducing his new little brother to Tucker. Ever.

“Okay. I don’t want to see you take unnecessary risks, but I’m also aware that I can’t really stop you. So. I’ll go with you.”

Maybe this is like… Tim’s obsession? When he put it that way, Danny lost the fight to prevent this tiny kid from what clearly is the only joy in his poor life.

“But…!” Tim’s eyes darted to Danny’s chest, the vivisection scars still fresh in his mind.

“They’re healed.” Danny pulled his dumbass little brother off the window sill, core settling as Tim follows willingly. “I’ll make us invisible and fly with you behind Batman and Robin so you can get even better shots. You can’t make any noise, though. That camera got a shutter sound, right?”

“Yeah!” Tim’s face brightened and Danny melted. He shoved a bottle of the (incredibly stinky but helpful in a pinch) ecto contaminated tap water into a backpack, along with some snacks and a blanket for when Tim gets cold. Danny’ll be fine, he’s got a Space Core. The cold his kind of his thing.

“Cool. We’ll stay out of earshot. If things starts to get too dicey, we’re heading home, okay?”

“Okay!” The look Tim shot him is full of trust and adoration and it makes Danny’s human heart squeeze painfully. “C’mon! I don’t want to be late!”

“We need to talk about your stalking tendencies later,” Danny said fondly.

“I’m not stalking them! I’m observing them!”

“Uh-huh,” Danny drawled, picking Tim up and making them intangible and invisible. “They’re not a bird observatory and also, even the birds in the observatory knows they’re being watched. Batman and Robin clearly doesn’t.”

Danny felt more than saw Tim’s pout.

He laughs as they fly just below the Gotham-brand of toxic smog. He waves to the City’s Spirit as Tim cranes his head around to catch sight of Batman and Robin.

“There!”

Danny obliged. With Danny’s flight, Tim got much better- much closer- photos than he would have originally.

Danny hung back as the pair of vigilantes swooped down to take care of a mugging.

“Wanna mess with them?” He grinned down at his little brother, canines glinting.

Tim looked up at him, admiration and mischievousness in his gaze. “Yes.”

Gotham parted her clouds in response to their glee.

——

Dick Grayson, AKA Robin, finally understood why criminals are so creeped out by him.

Other than the whole flippy child kicking grown people’s asses and winning thing, obviously (that, and Batman loomed menacingly behind him everytime a criminal even looked at Robin wrong).

Batman had picked up on it first, but the for entirety of their patrol, they kept hearing eerie little giggles and laughter. Haunting them. Never distracting. But persistent. And so creepy. He got goosebumps.

“B, I wanna go home.”

“Hm.” That’s a resounding yes if Dick’s ever heard one.

Maybe Alfred can chase away the giggles and chuckles.

Robin shudders and follows the Bat home.

——

Danny lowered the temperature as he held Tim up near Batman’s cowl so his brother could giggle menacingly. He knew for a fact that any recording device would get completely cram led by the sheer output of ambient ectoplasm he’s emitting. Plus, it freaked Robin out and raised the hairs on the back of the vigilantes’ heads. He tones it down when he noticed Tim rubbing his hands together.

He let out a quiet laugh, enjoying the flight with his brother in his arm and the light of the stars (thanks, Gotham) at his back.

——

Danny: oh, this kid’s got an Obsession, gotta let him do it safely, he’s a liminal from all that tap water

Danny: *forgets Tim isn’t a ghost nor is he from Amity and is therefore extremely breakable*

——

Danny and Tim: doing crime is a good bonding activity

Batman and Robin, who wants to say no it isn’t but they’re literally a pair of illegal vigilantes:

——

Dick as Robin: *cackles*

Tim, learning habits from stalking them: *giggles*

Gotham Criminals: *fear*

[oncasette]

𝗣𝗟𝗨𝗦𝗛 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗞

rafayel qi x fem!reader

summary: 1.7k

“Oh, so now you remember me,” he huffs. You attempt to move the bird out of your arms entirely only for Rafayel to forcefully shove him back in place. “Uh-uh, honey. You wanted him there. Made me second choice to a bird that can’t even see you, so hold on tight to him, yeah?”

or the one where rafayel gets jealous of the stuffed toy you've chosen to hold while you sleep.

content: smut, fingering-ish, cumming with clothed (both), ooc!rafayel? i'm still learning how to write him a bit, jealous!raf, little bit of biting, mentions of humping a stuffed animal, dry humping

masterlist

Rafayel’s eyes ache a bit as he trudges his way out of his studio and towards his bedroom—his ass hurts a bit, too, from sitting so long. His brain seems to short circuit as both of his hands attempt to rub at the sore spots. They seem to glitch mid-air, successfully achieving in reaching neither of the areas. By the time he’s reached his room, his fingers have gone a little tingly.

His body lights up a bit when he spots you on the bed. It’s almost instinctual, the warmth that crawls up his spine, through his ribs. Your face is shoved into his pillow, your legs tangled up in the fluffy duvet he’d bought at your recommendation. The plushie in your arms seems like it's being held hostage. His lips quirk a bit as he watches you squeeze the yellow bird tighter to you at the sound of his entrance. You’d come over a while ago, for dinner, initially, and then to stay the night despite Rafayel’s insistence that he had to finish this painting by the morning. He’s happy to see that you’d listened to his telling you not to stay up for him. 

“Pretty girl,” he mumbles as one of his knees hits the edge of the mattress. One hand falls over your face and pushes a few stray hairs back away from your forehead. He warms again at the feel of you nuzzling into his palm. He pulls back hesitantly after a beat. The rustling seems to be enough to stir you from your slumber.

“Raf?” you mumble, tugging the plush tighter in your grip. 

“Hi, cutie,” he hums as starts to undo the buttons on his shirt. Your gaze, still a bit blurred with sleep, tracks the movement well enough.

“You’ve come back to me,” you purr, stretching your legs out beneath the covers. 

The scoff he lets out is softened by the pout on his lips. “You thought I’d stay away?”

His fingers fiddle with the buckle of his belt and he watches your eyes dilate just a bit. Your tongue slips out to wet your lips. It’s like lightning striking Rafayel, the exhaustion draining from his body in a blink. 

“C’mere, fishy,” you say. Your voice is nearly a whine as it drips down your tongue. 

He shakes his head softly as he yanks the leather through the loops. That gets your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. 

“I would, but…” he drags the last word out as he starts to work at the fly of his pants. “Artsy birb seems to be in my spot.”

“No, he’s not, come here,” you beg but you keep the bird held tight.

“Yes, he is, come on,” he huffs once he’s gotten his pants down his thighs. He reaches for the plush only for you to turn away from him at the last second, pressing your face into the fuzz. Rafayel scoffs. His hands land on his brief clad hips as he stares down at you in disbelief. 

“Cutie…”

“‘m comfy,” you pout. “Just come lay down. He’s not gonna get in the way.”

Rafayel’s eyes narrow. His cock jumps against his already tight boxers. One knee hits the duvet, then the other, then his hands until he’s leering over your prone form. The chain around his neck dangles dangerously close to your skin, bumping and grazing and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“Raf?”

Your grip around the plushie loosens, your legs separating instinctively to accommodate his intrusion.

“Oh, so now you remember me,” he huffs. You attempt to move the bird out of your arms entirely only for Rafayel to forcefully shove him back in place. “Uh-uh, honey. You wanted him there. Made me second choice to a bird that can’t even see you, so hold on tight to him, yeah?”

“Hey! He can-“ you’re cut off by your own gasp. Rafayel’s nose nudges along the edge of your shirt, pushing the loose fabric up enough to leave loud open-mouthed kisses along the newly uncovered flesh. 

“What’s that?” he asks against your navel. You respond with little more than a breathy whine, trying to shove the bird away from you once again only to have him hold the stuffed animal to your chest with a firm grip. “What’d I say, cutie?”

He nips you once with the flats of his teeth. As he continues to move, you feel his hips pressing harder against your shin, then your thigh, and finally your hip when his tongue brushes the edge of your nipple. Rafayel doesn’t fight you when you shift the bird down to your side seeing as you’ve still got a tight grip on it with one of your hands. The other curls into his mussed up hair. 

The sight of you stirs Rafayel deeper, despite the speckle of annoyance—jealousy, over a plushie he’d gotten you—still sitting in his stomach. His tongue laves over your skin, circling the bud while he keeps his gaze locked on yours. You let out what, first, he thinks is one of your pretty little gasps, only for it to morph into a yawn halfway. He bites down harder, then, as his eyebrows knit together in displeasure. 

“So, that’s what it is, huh?” he scoffs, moving up your body with much harsher bites and sucks than before. “You don’t love me anymore?”

“No, Raf-“ a real gasp then.

“So mean to me,” he grunts. Still, he can’t help the way his dick grinds down into your hip, or the short pants he lets out against your skin.

“Rafa,” you whine.

He slides up your frame until his face is directly over yours. 

“Shh, beloved, you’ve made your choice,” he whispers. His fingers skate up your side so delicately you barely feel them until they’re dipping into your sleep shorts. 

“Please,” you say just as the tips of them brush the hem of your panties. 

“Hm? Now you want me to give you attention?” he teases. 

Rafayel can see how glazed your eyes have become, now. The way your chest heaves with each new intake of breath. The way your hips jump to meet his touch. That’ll show the stupid bird. 

The pout on your bottom lips has his cock throbbing, a steady pulse he’s sure you can feel. He mimics the gesture down at you as his hand finally breaches the elastic of your underwear. His index finger quickly slides through your slick before it glides back up to press tight circles against your clit. He revels in the short squeak you let out, briefly wondering if he could get you to make the cute sound again into his phone’s microphone. 

“So soft here, cutie,” he huffs as his nose sinks down to run across the edge of your jaw. The chain around his neck pools against your collarbone, the chill of it running straight through to your spine. Almost petulantly, you rut yourself further into his palm, only for him to pull his hand back just enough to release most of the pressure. The layers currently clothing you prevent him from pulling back too far, but it's room enough for you to whimper. It’s only when you’ve settled back down against the mattress that Rafayel begins to move again. This time, with two fingers, he dips down to collect more of the sticky arousal seeping from your neglected hole. You clench at the faint intrusion just as he moves back up to circle your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Despite the–albeit, pitiful–front he’s putting up, Rafayel can’t help his hips from pressing and grinding into your thigh. He wonders, briefly, if you’ve ever used the plush toys he’s won you to get off like this. If you’ve rubbed your puffy clit over them the way he’s currently running his fingers over you. More, he wonders if you’re thinking of him as you do it. He’s the one who won them all for you, afterall. It’d only be fair. 

“You gonna cum for me, cutie?” he pants in your ear, his teeth grazing the shell as he moves. You are. He can tell. You’ve soaked his hand, your thighs are clamped tight around his wrist. The hand previously holding the bird has wound itself around his bicep. He needs it, wants it, craves it like the air he breathes. Every whimper and whine falling from your lips is fuel for his own impending orgasm. 

You nod against him, your eyes screwing shut. He can feel the way your abdomen tightens and his rutting proceeds to quicken against your side. 

“Wanna hear you say it,” he pleads.

“‘M gonna…”

“Come on, I know you can say it for me.” He nips your pulse point.

“Cum… gonna cum,” you pant as your nails dig into the skin of his arm. He’d be smug if he weren’t dangling off the precipice of an orgasm himself.

“Yeah? Then cum for me, honey,” he says. His voice is strained as he attempts to ward his off long enough for you to finish first. Thankfully, his words seem to be the tipping point for you, your head falling back further into the plush pillows as your pussy pulses and gushes against his fingers. Rafayel cums with a low groan, spilling into the silken fabric of his boxers. He continues to work you through it for a moment longer until he no longer feels the residual twitches of your cunt.

“All of that because you were jealous of a stuffed bird,” you hum sleepily. The two of you shift once he removes his hand from your bottoms, you falling over onto your side and Rafayel pushing up onto his haunches to observe the scene. Artsy birb had been pushed onto the floor, his boxers had darkened considerably in a large patch over the head of his cock, and his fingers were still glistening with the remnants of your orgasm. Mission accomplished, he thinks, before he’s slipping off the bed with a chaste kiss to your shoulder. 

He’s quick to clean himself up and change into a more suitable pair of boxers. The chill of the room leaves him shivering up until the moment he’s sliding underneath the covers to pull you into him.

Rafayel’s lips trail across your jaw once more as he mumbles, “I wasn’t jealous.”

“Sure,” you mumble, the allure of sleep calling you back down into its depths once more. 

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt: Friendly neighborhood forensic pathologist Danny Fenton is a new master of The Court of Owls? (Dead on main, of course) +Part 2: Talon Dick

Don’t underestimate what a ghost will do for a higher education. You see, it's the custom of the Fenton family not to run away from things they are afraid of but to face their fear. So Danny Fenton, who has learned to fear scalpels, steel clamps and surgical retractors, decides to do something about it and to dedicate his life to giving souls of those who died a violent death the final rest and justice they deserve.

Well, it didn’t really come to him at once. It started out as a simple joke:

Danny didn’t think he could continue his education after school. Frankly, his grades suck. However, Tucker for fun applied for a scholarship for gifted villains from Gotham University on his behalf.

And hell, they are willing to pay money for his education. Pay in full! Living in Park Row is also incredibly cheap. And with his flying ability, he’ll also save on transportation.

Danny is not a villain. And he’s not planning on becoming one. But he couldn’t lose that chance.

Why do you deserve this scholarship? “My parents are renowned ecto scientists, and I’ve seen their dissection work at its best. Medical school is expensive, and this scholarship will help me accomplish my goal of becoming a forensic pathologist and helping maintain the boundary between the world of the living and the world of the dead…or use it for my own ends. Of course.”

Well, Mr Two-Face was fully confident that despite his grades in the subjects, Danny was fully committed to achieving high academic achievement. Finally, work experience of Dan came in handy somewhere.

There were only few things about the death that Danny didn’t find on his own or from his ghost friends, so he managed to graduate in record time. Young Fenton thought he was lucky enough to get a job near Crime Alley. It was odd that the job was available. Even a new specialist like him was allowed to work full-time. And the salary was very decent.

~~~~~~

Danny: Yes, Jazz, everything is just fine. I found a great job and I’m trying to relax and find a hobby, you know. Started feeding the local birds. Apparently they were abused, the poor things are so shy and aggressive.

The local birds:

~~~~~~

Let’s say that a returned Jason as undead cannot be killed for forever. The stab wounds heal quickly, the bullet holes sometimes itch unpleasantly for a few days, but in general his regeneration is at a level with some metahumans. This is convenient. But when Red Hood wakes up in the morgue after a particularly severe injury, he’s not happy. Sometimes even looking in the mirror at his dissection scar is difficult for him. And this situation is a fucking nightmare. Danny: Oh. Are you awake now? I’m sorry I didn’t have time to put you on the couch, I didn’t have clean sheets and my assistant would have killed me because of the new stains. Red Hood: What the hell? I’m sorry?! It’s fucked up! I’d love to see you wake up on the dissection table. Danny: Been there Done that. But hey, I didn’t put you there. You didn’t get here on my shift, give me a break.

Jason: …So, what's now? Danny: Well, I can offer you tea or coffee. Of course, only after I sew up the hole in your stomach and give you a change of clothes. Or I could go after the documents and pretend I didn’t notice one of my bodies got away. But then don’t dream about novocaine blockade. Pretty liver by the way, you don’t see that much in crime lords. Jason: Um, thank you? But you’re weird. Usually people are praised for the beauty of the face or eyes rather than… Danny: Wow, now I feel attacked.You wake up in your helmet. I can’t compliment what I can’t see. Jason: Gee, I’m surprised your colleague hasn’t taken it off yet. Danny: And lose important evidence? It is not customary for us to put curiosity above professionalism.

~~~~~

Jason learns quickly that although Batman is willing to go anywhere to track him, there are always exceptions to the rule. The morgue was one of them. Not surprisingly, the emotional constipation and uncomfortable theme of Jason’s death worked like a perfect bat repeller. Over time, Jason becomes really interested in a guy who genuinely laughs at his death jokes and listens to his problems at work without judgment. Danny is too cute and nice.

Danny*works*: No visitors allowed here.

Jason: Unless you are a zombie, right?

Danny:...Still not one of your hideouts. The book is where you left it, make some tea if you want it.

~~~~~

Jason, once again delivered without a sign of life to Danny after the fight, woke up during pupillary reflex test.

Jason: Oh, beauty, you are just dazzling today.

Danny: As I thought, your regeneration didn’t cure your concussion before your resurrection. I’ll give you referrals for all the tests and examinations. And we really should stop seeing each other like this. Please take care of yourself.

Jason: I don’t think you have the right to prescribe them to me. Danny: Technically I do not. But we live in Gotham. And for some time the hospital where I work at night is very sensitive to my requests.

Red Hood: And why? Danny: It’s hard to explain… Red Hood: Doctor Handsome, I’ve been through some shit, so try to surprise me. Danny: Okay, okay. Look, you are a crime lord for not too long, right? But criminals and cops are afraid of you and kids and your henchmen really likes you. Jason: ..So what? Danny: Can you please recommend how to maintain a reputation but so your people aren’t afraid of you? Jason: Why do you need this information? Your assistant finally realized you’re friends with walking corpses? Danny: It’s not about that! Although, like.. you aren’t wrong? It’s complicated. I may, well, accidentally, honestly, have seized power over a local secret aristocratic criminal society.

Jason: Baby, please tell me everything. I have a restaurant as a front for a business nearby. It’s a date. Let's go. Danny: Let me finish a few stitches first, Jay.

~~~~~

Red Hood and Red Robin fight near Batman: Hood: Replacement was on patrol without permission! Red Robin: And Jason is dating the new owner of Court of Owls! Batman:.. he's doing WHAT? Jason, how could you take such a risk? it is completely unprofessional and Red Hood: At least he loves me for what’s inside me! Red Robin: Yeah, like a beautiful liver. It’s a great relationship base. Red Hood: I’m talking about my feelings and interests. Dumb lil stalker with a big mouth! I’ll teach you not to bother my boyfriend.

~~~~~

Henchman: Boss. We shouldn’t go into that area, the rumors are that there are Talons here. Red Hood: All under control, they won’t touch us. Henchman: How can you be sure? The poem says 'Beware The Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadow..' Red Hood: Yeah yeah "speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send The Talon for your head". I’m sleeping with their boss, of course I’m sure. Henchman: Boss, don’t kid like that. Red Hood: I don’t pay you for gossip. Let's go.

Dick, to whom the memories began to return, haunts Jason because he did not cut for Lil Wing apple slices like he likes for lunch: Talon came to finish the job. Henchmen: scream

~~~~~

Jason *shows Danny 'Red Flags' on youtube*: Hey, baby, want to be a little shit on our date? I know where Brucie Wayne’s having dinner tonight, so you can meet the family.

[solxamber]

Match Made in Madness - Floyd Leech x reader

Soulmates get updates of each other's lives through an overly enthusiastic dream narrator. What's worse is that your soulmate seems to be completely unhinged.

It all starts on another one of those nights—the weird dream where your soulmate’s day is narrated to you in the most ridiculous fashion imaginable. No names, no faces, just an over-the-top, enthusiastic narrator who acts like they’re introducing a daytime soap.

"Good evening, soulmate! Ready for another wild day? Well, buckle up, because your beloved got into a fight with a vending machine!"

You groan in your sleep, already bracing for what’s next. The narrator continues with gleeful energy:

"After losing said battle, your soulmate kicked the machine and declared, ‘I’ll have the last laugh, metal box!’ Later in the day, they spent 45 minutes trying to convince a bird to become their personal spy. Spoiler alert: the bird didn’t agree, but they’re not giving up anytime soon!"

When you wake up, you rub your eyes and mutter, "What the hell is my soulmate doing?" Clearly, the universe decided to match you with an absolute madman, and you’re starting to wonder if you’ll even survive meeting them.

The dreams continue for weeks, and the updates get progressively weirder. Whoever this person is, they have the chaotic energy of a tornado in a convenience store. One night, you get this gem:

"Exciting news! Today, your soulmate tried to see if they could juggle three eels at once. Spoiler: they couldn’t, but they did manage to send one flying into a professor’s lunch. Next on the agenda, they challenged the ocean to a race. The ocean won."

You’re so used to these bizarre updates by now that you don’t even flinch. Instead, you’re beginning to wonder why the universe thinks it’s funny to torture you with someone who clearly doesn’t have a firm grasp on reality.

And then one night, the narrator drops a bombshell:

"Your soulmate spent the entire afternoon wondering if there’s any way they could convince their twin brother to switch places with them on a date— Oh wait, forget I said that! That one’s classified!*"

What? Now, you’re officially on edge. Not only do they have a twin, but they’ve been thinking about dating? This is spiraling out of control.

You’re sitting at the Mostro Lounge, thinking about the increasingly unhinged dreams when you spot Floyd Leech across the room. Normally, you’d ignore him because, well, Floyd has a reputation, and it’s not exactly “outstanding member of society.”

But today, something feels off. You’ve heard a few things—people say he’s chaotic, unpredictable, and obsessed with “playing” with his victims. And suddenly, you can’t stop thinking about the dream where your soulmate tried to juggle eels.

Floyd catches your eye, and before you can look away, he’s making a beeline for your table. Oh no. Please no.

“Hey, Shrimpy,” he says with his usual, lazy grin, flopping down in the seat next to you like he owns the place. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Close enough.

You swallow hard. “Uh… just thinking.”

“Thinking, huh?” Floyd leans in, uncomfortably close. “What about?”

How are you supposed to say, I think you’re my soulmate, but I’m also convinced you’re a lunatic? Instead, you nervously laugh. “Oh, nothing. Just… dreams.”

“Dreams, huh?” Floyd’s eyes narrow, but he looks more interested than suspicious. “Like… those ones where some random guy is juggling eels?”

Your blood runs cold.

“Wait—how did you know about the eels?”

Floyd’s grin widens. “Oh? So it is you! I knew it!” He laughs, leaning back with a satisfied look, like he’s just solved the greatest mystery of his life. “Shrimpy, you’re hilarious! I’ve been having those dreams about you, too. You’re always doing weird stuff, like… rescuing ducks or tripping over your own feet.”

Your heart races. “Wait, so—you're my soulmate?”

“Duh,” Floyd says, rolling his eyes like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The universe has a sense of humor, doesn’t it?”

At first, you’re convinced this is a prank, a cruel joke. But the more you talk to Floyd, the more everything starts to click into place. He’s chaotic, sure. Completely unpredictable? Absolutely. But he’s also the same person who, according to your dreams, once wondered if seaweed could be used as a fashion statement. He’s also the guy who—oh right—challenged the ocean to a race.

And now that you’ve met him, you realize one important detail: he’s perfect.

Well, perfect in the most unhinged way possible.

A week later, you find yourself in an increasingly ridiculous situation—Floyd has somehow convinced you to help him “steal” a giant fish from the campus pond.

“Why are we doing this again?” you ask, holding the bucket as he dives headfirst into the water.

“Because,” Floyd says between splashes, “the fish looks like he’s having a bad day, so we’re gonna give him a makeover.”

You stare blankly at the pond. “You want to makeover a fish.”

Floyd pops back up, water dripping from his hair, with a grin that could melt glaciers. “Yeah! Why not?”

You don’t have a good answer for that, so you just shrug. This is my life now.

That night, you’re lying in bed, starting to doze off, when the dream narrator pops up again:

"Good evening, soulmate! Today, your other half tried to give a fish a new look. It didn’t work, but they still had fun! Also, they’ve been thinking about holding your hand."

You wake up with a groan, rubbing your face in disbelief. Of course, Floyd would think about something like that in the middle of a fish-stealing escapade. But there’s something undeniably sweet about it, too.

The next day, Floyd grabs your hand without warning as you’re walking through campus. “I had a dream about this,” he says casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You smile, squeezing his hand back. “So did I.”

Maybe the universe isn’t such a prankster after all.

Masterlist

[cumironi]

GOJO : NOWHERE TO BE FOUND! s. geto

☆ sum. is it acceptable to geto when you have him all to yourself but still moping around for gojo who’s away for a mission? absolutely not. but. . . is it acceptable for him to remind you who you are with? absolutely yes. so yeah, gojo is nowhere to be found, while geto? he is between your legs.

warning. established relationship au, poly relationships, pet names, praise, creampied, unprotected sēx, fluff, jealous geto, bear with me please :'), #longfic.

gojo’s version | request by anon.

the morning light seeps through the open door, casting a soft glow around gojo as he stands in front of you, his figure backlit by the gentle sunrise. it almost gives him an ethereal quality, as if he’s already slipping away, and your heart tightens at the thought. the birds are chirping melodiously in the distance, a sound that would normally bring you peace. but today, their song seems too cheerful, a painful contrast to the ache settling in your chest.

you tighten your hold on gojo’s hands, your fingers clinging to his as if you could keep him here just a little longer. the pout on your lips deepens as you gaze up at him, eyes tracing every detail of his face, as though memorizing it for the days you’ll be apart. “how long will you be gone?” you ask quietly, voice laced with the sadness you’re trying to hold back, though it slips through in each word.

gojo’s eyes soften as he looks down at you, a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though his usual playful spark is subdued. “just a week,” he murmurs, giving your hands a reassuring squeeze, his thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles. “it’ll fly by, you’ll see.”

“just a week?” you echo, your voice tinged with disbelief. “that’s easy for you to say. for me, it’ll feel like forever.” you give his hands another squeeze, refusing to let go, as if your grip alone could keep him from stepping through that door.

from your side, you hear an exasperated sigh, and you don’t even need to look to know that geto’s standing there, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and mild irritation. “you act like he’s going away for a year,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “it’s just a week, you’ll survive.”

you shoot him a quick glare, though it’s half-hearted, more a habit than anything, before turning back to gojo, who’s watching the exchange with a hint of amusement in his gaze. “ignore him,” you mumble, a slight whine in your tone. “i just... i don’t like when you’re gone, ’toru. it’s too quiet without you around.”

gojo can’t help but chuckle at your words, his heart warming at the way you look up at him with those pleading eyes and puffed up pout, as if trying to convince him not to leave for the mission— you almost did. “i’m sorry, my sweet,” he murmurs, voice soft and loving, “i wish i didn’t have to go, but you know how it is. duty calls.”

he gives your hands a light squeeze, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in a soothing gesture, trying to comfort you. “but hey, it’s just a week. i’ll be back before you know it.”

geto rolls his eyes at the tenderness in gojo’s voice, his arms remaining crossed as he leans against the doorframe. his expression is a mixture of irritation and mild jealousy. “you’re coddling her too much,” he mutters, a hint of disapproval in his tone. “you know how dramatic she gets every time you leave. and you’re just making it worse by babying her,” he continues.

gojo looks over at geto with a hint of annoyance in his eyes, his grip on your hands tightening ever so slightly. “i’m not coddling her,” he retorts, a slight bite in his tone. “i’m just trying to comfort her. she’s allowed to be upset, you know.” geto just snorts, shaking his head. “yeah, but she acts like you’re leaving for a year every time,” he says, still with that slightly jealous edge, sharp eyes but narrowing without a bite. “it’s ridiculous.”

you ignore geto’s grumbling, his words rolling right off your shoulders as you focus solely on gojo, gaze softening as you look up at him. his eyes, as blue as the sky just starting to lighten behind him, meet yours with that familiar warmth, and you feel your heart squeeze at the thought of him being away, even if just for a week. without another word, you slip your arms around his waist, pressing yourself against him, your cheek resting on the sturdy fabric of his jujutsu uniform.

“can i come with you?” you mumble softly, your voice carrying a hint of hope, though both of you know it’s impossible. there’s a gentle desperation in your words, like if you asked just right, maybe—just maybe—he’d take you along, and you wouldn’t have to spend the next seven days missing him.

gojo’s heart softens at the way you cling to him, and he gut-wrenchingly instinctive lifts his arms to wrap around you, holding you close against him. he looks down at you, a mix of love and guilt in his gaze. his hands run gently through your hair, touch gentle and soothing. “you know i’d love to have you by my side, sweet girl,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a hint of apology, “but it’s too dangerous for you. i can’t take that risk. and i don’t think the higher-ups would like that very much.”

you huff against his chest, your pout only deepening as you snuggle closer, pressing your forehead into his shoulder, now. “well, maybe they need to lighten up,” you grumble, your voice muffled but clear enough to make him laugh again. his laughter vibrates through his chest, and you feel it resonate within you, easing some of the ache of separation you’re already feeling.

gojo can’t help but chuckle at your defiance, finding it endearing, even as he knows you’re just grumbling to get a reaction. he continues to thread his fingers through your hair, the other hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. “they can be a bunch of hardasses, that’s for sure,” he agrees, a hint of amusement in his voice. “but still, i won’t risk your safety, love. i’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you. you know that.”

geto, still leaning against the doorframe, lets out an exaggerated sigh. “love,” he mimics, his voice tinged with mild disgust jealousy as he rolls his eyes, his irritation at the show of affection evident. “you’re nauseating,” he mutters, crossing his arms again, “can you both stop being so damn adorable? god, it’s too early for this.”

before you even get the chance to respond, geto’s hand is on your head, guiding you gently but firmly away from gojo. “alright, that’s enough of the mushy stuff,” he says, his tone carrying a hint of amusement despite his exaggerated annoyance. he pulls you to his side, keeping his hand on top of your head as if to hold you in place, and you can feel the warmth of his touch radiating through your hair.

“ijichi’s waiting,” he adds, his jaw cocks in the direction of the vehicle, and his expression is a blend of impatience and mild exasperation— the car parked a little way down the drive. “you want him to die of old age out there? you two can’t take all day saying goodbye.”

you pout, glancing back at gojo, but geto’s hand keeps you steady, grounding you by his side as he rolls his eyes. he doesn’t let go, his fingers giving a small, almost affectionate pat atop your head. “he’ll be fine,” he assures you, his voice softening ever so slightly, almost as if he’s trying to reassure himself as well.

as the car idles in the driveway, a mischievous glint in your eye despite the lingering sadness. “at least give me a kiss before you go,” you say, tilting your head up at the white-haired man, lips curving into a small pout. your tone is both a plea and a playful demand, as if challenging him to say no.

gojo looks at you with an expression that can only be described as smitten, and he steps closer to you, a fond smirk on his lips. “since you’re being soooo demanding,” he teases, his voice low and honey-sweet. he leans down, one hand coming up to cup your face, and he gently presses his lips against yours, his kiss both gentle and dawdling, as if he’s trying to capture the sweetness of your goodbye.

his other hand finds its way to your waist, gently pulling you closer, and for a brief second, it feels like time has stopped. his touch is soft and gentle but a silent reassurance, filled with a promise to come back to you. “happy now?” he whispers against your lips as he pulls away, his thumb brushing across your cheek. there’s a twinkle in his eye, as if he’s savoring the look on your face.

before you can respond, geto lets out an exaggerated groan from behind. “ugh, enough with the romance already,” he grumbles, though there’s a hint of amusement in his tone as he rolls his eyes. “we get it—you’re both madly in love.”

with a final glance at you, gojo laughs, shooting geto a smirk. “take care of her for me, alright?” he says, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “yeah, yeah,” geto sighs, grabbing you by the shoulders and gently steering you away from gojo. “now, get out of here before i have to witness another heartwarming moment.”

you can’t help but roll your eyes, even as geto holds you firmly by his side. “don’t act like you’re not gonna miss him too,” you tease, glancing up at him. geto scoffs, but there’s a soft smile playing at his lips. “just get inside,” he mutters, guiding you back into the house once gojo is gone, but his hold on you is gentle, as if he’s quietly reassuring you that he’s here, ready to keep you company until gojo returns.

as you make your way back into the house, geto keeps his hands on your shoulders, steering you away from the door and into the living room. a part of you wants to turn back, to catch one last glimpse of gojo before he leaves, but you resist the urge, knowing it would only make the parting more difficult.

he guides you to the sofa, gently pushing you down to sit, before taking a seat beside you. geto is characteristically quiet, his expression a mix of annoyance and... something else you can comfortably decipher— jealousy. the air in the room is heavy with an unspoken tension. geto is silently gazing into space, his thoughts seemingly far away. you glance at him, your gaze lingering on his profile.

the sunlight streaming through the windows casts a warm glow on his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the slight furrow of his brow. he’s always been handsome, you’ve known that from the day you met him, but in this light, he’s almost unfairly beautiful. after a brief pause, he finally speaks, his voice low and strangely serious. “you’re too clingy, y’know,” he mutters, not looking at you.

you pout, sink into the couch, letting out a sigh. “i just miss him,” you murmur, your voice a bit quieter, softer. “he’s been going on missions non-stop lately. it’s like the moment he’s back, they send him off again.”

your gaze drops to your hands resting in your lap, fingers fidgeting with the fabric of your sleeve as you try to make sense of the mix of emotions welling up inside. the frustration, the loneliness, the worry—each time he leaves, it feels like a piece of you goes with him. you want him safe and sound here, not off somewhere you can’t reach him.

geto sighs, his annoyance melting into a softer, more understanding expression. he glances at you for a moment, his eyes scanning your face, and he can almost feel your worry and frustration mirrored in his own heart.

“i know,” he murmurs, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “it sucks, huh? they treat him like he’s invincible, sending him on one mission after another. it’s like the higher-ups forget that he has someone waiting for him at home.”

the words hang in the air, lingering with an unwelcome sense of truth. you can hear the undercurrent of frustration and worry in geto’s voice, something he rarely allows himself to show. he looks at you, his gaze, drowning in nothing bot love for you. “he’ll come back,” he says firmly, as if trying to convince himself as much as you. “he’s gojo. you know he can take care of himself.”

the warmth of geto’s voice, with its steady reassurance, settles into your heart. but then he whispers, “come here,” his tone softer than before, and before you can process it, he pulls you into his arms, his embrace gentle but firm. he shifts, bringing you both down to lie on the couch, his arms circling you securely, as if protecting you from your own worry.

you let out a sigh, the tension slowly melting away as you rest your head against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. it’s calming, grounding, and in this quiet moment, it feels like everything might actually be okay. you wrap your arm around his waist, clinging to him as if he’s the anchor keeping you steady— like how he is.

the silence is filled only by the sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear, strong and reassuring. he gently strokes your hair, his hand moving in slow, soothing motions, and you find yourself relaxing more with each breath. it’s not rare for him to show this side of himself, the part that isn’t just strength or sharp words, but softness and quiet care when it comes to you.

“he’ll come back, love,” geto murmurs again, his voice almost a whisper, a shape of promising for you and himself at the same time. “and until then… i’m here. so don’t worry so much.”

a faint smile tugs at your lips, and you nuzzle into his chest, letting his warmth surround you. “thank you, sugu’,” you say softly, your words muffled against him but carrying all the gratitude you feel. he doesn’t respond right away, but his arm tightens around you slightly, as if that’s answer enough.

geto holds you close, his fingers continuing to run through your hair, the motion soothing for both of you. he can feel your body relax in his arms, the tension slowly dissipating as you melt into him.

he takes a deep breath, still trying to control the swirl of emotions inside him. the words he wants to say linger on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them back, keeping them locked away for now. “try to get back to sleep, love, it still morning,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you don’t say a word, letting the warmth of his quiet presence surround you. instead, you shift slightly, reaching for his hand, your fingers finding his. without a second thought, you intertwine them, feeling the familiar strength and roughness of his hand against yours. it’s a simple gesture, but it carries all the things you’re too tired to put into words — the trust, the comfort, the gratitude.

geto’s fingers close around yours, and for a brief moment, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, as if to tell you he understands. his thumb brushes over your knuckles, a soft, grounding touch, and you feel a small part of the heaviness lift from your heart. you close your eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his embrace calm the lingering worry.

he leans his head down, pressing a feather-light kiss to the top of your head, lips remain there as if to say, i’m here. “you are such a baby,” he teased, despite the jealousy burning inside his heart. geto tries to keep his voice light, the tease gently masking the more complicated feelings swirling beneath the surface. he feels the weight of your body against his, the way you cling to him, seeking comfort and reassurance. and as much as he tries to hide it, he revels in it, the feeling of having you close, needing him.

but there’s also a pang of jealousy gnawing at him still, a bitter taste in his mouth he tries to swallow back. he doesn’t want to think about gojo, about how he’s getting more of your affection than usual.

“always so needy,” he murmurs, his tone a mixture of fondness and annoyance, “and so clingy. can’t even handle a week alone.” he let out a soft huff at your clinginess, his eyes studying your face, the expression on your face so open, so at peace, that he can’t help feeling just the smallest twinge of possessiveness.

you’re his right now.

you tilt your head up to look at him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “oh, please, babe,” you whisper, the playful lilt in your voice matching his tease, “if it were you going on missions all the time, i’d be just as clingy. maybe even worse.” your words are light, but there’s a flicker of honesty in your gaze, and geto can see it, feel it in the way you hold him a little tighter.

for a moment, he doesn’t respond. his eyes search yours, and the soft teasing mask he usually wears slips, just a little. the warmth in his expression, mixed with something deeper, tells you he understands, even if he’d never admit to feeling the same. he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering there.

“oh, so you’re saying you’d actually miss me?” he murmurs, a hint of challenge in his tone, but there’s a gentleness there, too— an unspoken desire for that closeness, for you to need him the way you need gojo.

you roll your eyes, pretending to scoff as you press closer against him. “obviously,” you reply, your voice dropping to a whisper, “maybe i’d even be... clingy.” the word is playful, but it carries a certain weight, a confession you both understand without having to say it.

geto’s eyes darkened slightly as he feels your body pressing closer to his, your words sending a shiver down his spine. he can’t help the way his heart clenches, the pang of jealousy mixed with a desperate need for you to want him instead, to cling to him instead.

he lets out a scoff, his voice low and filled with a mixture of annoyance and desire. “clingy?” he repeats, “you are clingy. all the time. you just can’t seem to keep your hands off me.” he moves his hand, untangling it from yours to gently grab your chin, desperate for you to look up at him, for those eye-contact. his eyes are a hue of violet, almost intense, as they meet yours, a small smirk on his lips. “always all over me, like a little leech,” he continues, his words a mixture of teasing and honesty.

he studies your face, a mixture of irritation and affection in his dark eyes. “you’re always glued to me, sticking like a damn limpet. seems like you can’t even handle a few moments apart without clinging to someone.”

his tone is as sharp as ever, but there’s an edge of protectiveness that betrays his concern, his possessiveness, and geto, is for sure diving for validation from you. he keeps his hold on your chin, not willing to let you look away, not right now. “it’s annoying,” he mutters, the words not carrying the irritation they should, giving your chin a little squeeze.

you don’t bother with a reply, letting your actions speak louder than words. shifting even closer, you nuzzle against his chest, letting your nose brush against the soft fabric of his shirt. a quiet hum escapes you as you tangle your legs with his, wrapping yourself around him like he’s the only thing anchoring you. if he wanted to tease you for being clingy, you’d prove just how right he was.

your response, the way you cling to him with every fiber of your being, it’s both satisfying and frustrating. a deep, possessive part of him relishes in the way you’ve wrapped yourself around him; it’s exactly what he wants. but another part of him, the part that’s still struggling with jealousy, it’s a stark reminder of how he isn’t your first choice. gojo gets all your sweet words and loving gazes, while he’s left with the scraps of your affection.

a frustrated sigh escapes his lips.

geto’s hand is still on your chin, but his grip loosens slightly, as though taken off guard by how naturally you mold yourself to him. his gaze softens, the teasing sharpness in his eyes dimming just a bit as he takes in the sight of you — nestled against him, as if you truly can’t bear even the smallest distance between you. his fingers trace along your jaw, down to your shoulder, finally settling at the small of your back, holding you just as close.

a soft sigh slips from him, his hand firm and warm on your back, as if he’s accepted his role as your personal anchor, whether he likes it or not. he doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way he settles into the embrace, his other hand resting against your tangled legs, as though to keep you even closer— as if it’s even possible.

in the quiet of the moment, with your legs intertwined and your face nestled against him, you feel his heart beating steadily beneath your cheek. there’s no need for words; the tension fades, replaced by a silent understanding that neither of you wants to break this closeness. his hand resumes its gentle, absent-minded strokes along your back, a gesture both protective and tender.

“so much for needing space,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper, but there’s a hint of warmth behind it— a warmth that feels almost like an unspoken confession.

he continues to hold you, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly, as if he’s holding onto you tighter than before, desperate to became one. he can feel the warmth of your breath on his chest, the way your body presses against him, the way you’ve wrapped yourself around him like a clinging vine.

he can’t deny the way it makes him feel— the possessive need to keep you close, the satisfaction in knowing that you’re choosing him now, in this moment. he pushes the intrusive thoughts of gojo away, focusing only on the feeling of you against him.

geto’s grip tightens as he holds you close, feeling that satisfying warmth seep into his chest as you cling to him with every bit of yourself. there’s a certain possessive satisfaction in knowing you’re nestled against him so naturally, as if it’s where you belong. it’s exactly what he wants, and for a moment, he lets himself believe it’s all his.

but it wasn’t last long, few second of faith and the familiar ache starts creeping back in, that unshakable jealousy lurking beneath the surface. the reminder that, despite this closeness, he still isn’t the one who occupies your thoughts most of the time. gojo gets your smiles, your sweet glances, and sometimes it feels like he’s just here to fill the spaces left behind.

his hand on your back stills for a second as he tries to quell the frustration bubbling up within him. he lets out a soft sigh, his gaze softening as he takes in your peaceful expression against his chest. he’s just about to release that jealousy, to accept that maybe, just maybe, this moment could belong to him.

then, you speak.

“how long is ’toru’s flight?” your voice is soft, almost hesitant but still leak with the same longing, “do you think i can call him soon?”

your words cut through him sharper than he expects, and for a moment, he can’t mask the flash of hurt that crosses his face. he pulls back just enough to look at you, searching your expression for any sign that this is some sort of joke— but there’s only genuine curiosity in your eyes. it’s as though the thought of gojo is always there, lingering on the edge of your mind, even when you’re wrapped up in his arms.

“thinking about him again, huh?” he murmurs, a bitter edge sneaking into his voice. his hand loosens slightly on your back, his thumb tracing a faint, absent-minded pattern along your shoulder as he tries to keep himself composed when he nearly going spiral from the unbound jealousy. it’s a small gesture, but it betrays the tension he’s trying so hard to hide. “can’t go a moment without wondering about him?”

the words are quiet, almost more to himself than to you, as if he’s not sure he even wants an answer. he knows it’s unfair, knows he’s being unreasonable— but he can’t deny the sting, the way your question pulls him back to that reality where he’s still second in your heart even though it was all his insecurity.

he takes a steadying breath, closing his eyes for a moment before he speaks again, his tone softer this time, though there’s a faint trace of melancholy lingering beneath it. “gojo’s flight… should be landing in two hour or so,” he answers, finally looking down at you with a resigned smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “you’ll be able to talk to him soon enough.”

but even as he says it, his arms still slide back around you, holding you close with a renewed sense of determination. because if this is all he can have, if these fleeting moments are all that belong to him, then he’ll take them. his hand resumes its gentle strokes along your back, his touch firm and always tender, grounding himself in this closeness that he knows he’ll have to let go of eventually.

geto shifts on the couch, his movements slow and deliberate as he gently lays you down against the cushions. he hovers over you, one hand braced beside you, the other coming to rest softly against your cheek. his gaze is intense, filled with something raw and unspoken, and for a moment, he just looks at you, his thumb brushing tenderly over your skin.

“stop thinking about him,” he murmurs, his voice a low whisper, almost a plea. “i’m here. not satoru. right here, with you.”

the words are quiet, but there’s a weight to them, a vulnerability that he rarely lets show unless it’s needed— which is, often. his fingers trace along your jaw, grounding you in the moment, anchoring you to him alone. his eyes search yours, looking for any hint that you understand— that maybe, just this once, you’ll let go of gojo’s hold on your thoughts and give yourself completely to him.

“i need you to see me, too,” he continues, his tone softening, almost breaking. “just me.”

his hand slips to the small of your back for hundred times, pulling you closer, his face inches from yours as he holds your gaze. there’s something possessive in the way he looks at you, a quiet desperation mingling with the need in his eyes. he leans in, his lips ghosting over yours, barely touching as if he’s giving you the chance to close the distance— to show him that you want this, that you want him.

but instead, you hum softly, your fingers finding their way to his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw as you meet his gaze with a knowing smile. there’s a glimmer of playfulness in your eyes, and you can feel his breath hitch as you lean just a little closer.

“you’re always so jealous of satoru,” you tease, voice laced with gentle amusement, a slight tilt to your smile that says you know exactly what kind of effect you have on him.

a flicker of irritation flashes in his eyes, but it’s tempered by the warmth lingering there, an exasperation softened by how much he cares. his hand tightens on your waist, a gentle but firm reminder of his presence. he’s almost pouting now, his brow furrowing slightly as if trying to find the words to deny it— but he doesn’t.

“you know,” he murmurs, voice low and almost a little sulky, “you make it really hard not to be.” his thumb brushes over your hip, his other hand cupping the side of your face, his touch, like a glue, stick around like he’s savoring every moment. “i just... i just want you to look at me that way too.”

there’s a softness now, a vulnerability barely hidden beneath the usual confidence. his fingers trail along your jaw, and his eyes search yours, almost pleading, even as his lips curl into a slight smirk. “but if you keep teasing me like that,” he whispers, leaning in until his lips are a breath away from yours, “i might just have to make sure you only think about me.”

“oh? promise, promise,” you teased.

geto lets out a scoff at your teasing tone, the sound caught between mockery and affection. he leans closer, his eyes darkening slightly as he meets your taunting expression, the hint of playfulness in your gaze only fuelling the possessive fire inside him.

“oh, you want me to promise?” he murmurs, his voice low and edged with a quiet challenge. “you want me to prove it?” his hand slides down to your waist, his grip firm as he pulls you closer, closing the distance between you. his lips graze yours, a tantalisingly whisper of a touch.

“you really think i won’t?” he murmurs against your lips, his hot breath sending a jolt of shudder in your being. “that i can’t make you forget about that idiot satoru?”

he gently pushes you deepened, back against the couch, leaning over you with a possessiveness that’s verging on territorial. his hand slides up your side, coming to rest just beneath your chin, tilting your face up towards him. his eyes burn with a quiet intensity, a mixture of irritation and desire.

“i can make you forget your own name, if i wanted,” he whispers, his thumb gently tracing your bottom lip, gently tracing the contour, his gaze locked on yours as if he’s memorizing every detail. his voice is low and rough, and there’s a possessive edge to it that makes your heart skip a beat.

“i could make you obsessed with me, if i tried hard enough,” he continues, his lips hovering a breath away from yours, like he is playing game who’s going to kiss first before move down to your neck, his body pressing against you in a way that feels almost predatory. “just you and me, all alone, no one else. i’m not like satoru, y’know,” he murmurs, “and i don’t want to be.” he leans in deeper, lips just barely grazing the skin of your neck. “i don’t want to share you, i don’t want to have to compete with him for your attention. i want you to be mine, and mine alone.”

he leans down deeper, his lips tracing a path along the length of your neck, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses as he slowly descends. he finds that spot right behind your ear, the one that makes you shiver, and he lingers there for a moment, his tongue gently teasing the sensitive skin.

he nibbles softly, just enough to drive you wild before pulling back, a smug smirk on his lips as he returns his attention to your face. “you’ll have no choice but to think of me.”

a breathless sigh escapes you, fingers curling around his shoulder as he holds you beneath him, his lips still searing a path down your neck. every soft kiss, every teasing graze of his teeth against your skin, it all makes your chest feel tight, your heart pounding with the intensity of his touch.

“a little too late for that, don’t you think?” you whisper, voice barely above a murmur, eyes simmering with a playful, daring gleam. your words carry a note of surrender, as if admitting that he’s already woven himself too deeply into your thoughts, filling every corner of your mind in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying. he is already woven into something complicated, tangled up with you and gojo for years, making it impossible for him to truly claim you as his alone now.

a sharp pang of possessiveness jolts through geto as you whisper those words. he pauses in his trail of kisses, his breath warm against your skin as he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are dark, almost possessive as he holds your gaze, a flicker of irritation and arousal swirling in his expression.

“too late, huh?” he murmurs back, his voice edged with a soft growl. “i don’t like that answer. doesn’t sound like you’re all mine, yet.” he leans in again, his lips meeting yours in a fierce kiss that’s all possession. he kisses you like he’s trying to prove something, teeth nipping at your bottom lip as his hands slide down to your hips, holding you still against the couch.

when he finally pulls back, his breath is coming in ragged gasps, his gaze still intense as he looks down at you. “i’ll make you mine,” he whispers against your mouth, his voice firm, almost a promise. “i’ll make you forget everything else. satoru, anyone else. just me.”

in split second, geto have you gasp as you’re suddenly straddling his lap, his lips capturing yours in a possessive kiss, his teeth tugging at your bottom lip for the second time. the intensity of his hold makes your breath hitch, but you quickly regain your composure. as he pulls back, you push his face away with a teasing smirk, eyes gleaming mischievously.

“again with your sadistic strike,” you murmur, voice light and playful despite the heat between you both. you tilt your head, amused by how easily he falls into this possessive role, your fingers lightly tracing along his jaw as you continue to tease him. “you’re really not giving up, are you?”

geto lets out a scoff as you push him away, a mix of irritation and desire flashing in his eyes as he looks up at you, straddling his lap. he can feel the heat between you, the way your body responds to his touch, and it only fuels the possessive fire within him.

“not giving up?” he repeats, his voice edged with a rough edge. “you’re damn right i’m not. you think i’m gonna just let you keep thinking about him when i’m right here?” he grips your hips a little harder, pulling you closer and grinding against you in a way that makes your breath hitch. he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he continues, his voice low and dangerous.

“i’ll do whatever it takes to make you forget about him. you’ll be screaming my name before the night is through, i promise you that.”

second thought is far away in the back of his head, and geto pulled his cock out from the sweatpants he wore— already hard and throbbing— pre-cum leaking from the swollen tip, red and angry, like how he is. his other neat-handed hand is lifting the only oversized t-shirt you’ve had wearing and your little lace panties filling his violet hue pupils. his index finger poking the fabric aside, and, in one push, his cock was already deep inside you.

a deep, rumble groans tears from his chest, having the raven-haired man throws his head back against the cushion while you gasp from the sudden feeling of fullness inside your cunt— both feeling like a cloud nine just drape its hands on you both, making cocoon of pleasure. your nails dig into his broad shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt.

geto’s hands grip your hips ever tightly, holding you still as he savors the feeling of being buried deep inside you. he can feel your walls clenching around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you adjust to his size— every single fucking time. a low groan rumbles in his chest, his breathing heavy with barely restrained lust and flame of jealousy.

he tilts his head, looking up at you with those intense purple eyes, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. “that’s it, take every inch of me,” he purrs, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “this is where you belong, wrapped around my cock like you were made for it.” one hand slides up your side, under the oversized shirt, caressing the smooth skin of your stomach and ribcage. his other hand remains firmly gripping your hip, keeping you impaled on his thick length.

you moan softly, your body relaxing the way geto’s hand glides over your skin, sending shivers down your spine like twinkling stars dancing around your skin. the sensation of being so deeply filled, stretched to your limits, is almost overwhelming. you bite your lip, trying to stifle the sounds of pleasure that threaten to spill free.

you look down at geto, seeing the raw hunger in his gaze, and it sends a shiver down your spine. his words, laced with possessiveness and dominance, make your cunt throb around him. your hands slide up to tangle in his hair, tugging gently as you lean down to capture his lips in a searing kiss. tongue tied, a heady mix of arousal and something uniquely geto. breaking the kiss, you nip at his bottom lip before whispering hotly in his ear, “don’t move yet, baby. let me feel you for a moment.”

a guttural growl escapes geto’s throat at your whispered command, his hips twitching involuntarily as he struggles to obey. unlike gojo, geto is a man of patience and a single words coming from you, he will bent down and fighting his will to do as you say— even when his cock buried deep inside your perfect, beautiful cunt he is nearly explode. he wants nothing more than to start thrusting into you, to claim you with every fiber of his being. but the need to please you, to surrender control to your whim, overrides his own desires.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his forehead pressing against yours as he tries to calm his racing heart. “you’re killing me, you know that?”

his hand tightens on your hip while the other grasps a fistful of your breast, the only part of him not trembling with restraint. he can feel the pulse of your heartbeat, the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you breathe, and it’s intoxicating, really. being still, being patient, feels foreign to him—but for you, he’d endure anything.

after what feels like an eternity, he manages a strained nod.

a sight of his struggle nod bring a satisfied smile curves your lips as you watch geto struggle to maintain his self-control, even if it’s clearly costing him. you press a gentle kiss to his temple, savoring the warmth of his skin beneath your lips. the tension in his body palpable. you can practically feel the heat radiating off him, the primal urge to claim you, to dominate and possess. it’s intoxicating, addicting knowing you have such power over him.

“good boy,” you praise softly, your voice dripping with affection. you lean in, nuzzling your nose against his, inhaling the scent of his skin, musky and masculine. “i love watching you try to rein it in,” you murmur, your voice husky with desire, “it’s so sexy, seeing you fight for control.”

geto’s chest rises and falls rapidly as he fights to maintain his composure, his body thrumming with pent-up energy. the praise from your lips sends a jolt straight to his cock, making it twitch within you. he grits his teeth, trying to focus on the sensations you’re evoking rather than giving in to the overwhelming impulse to move.

your hand trails down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, until you reach the hem of his shirt, tugging the material upward, a silent command to banish the material, exposing his toned torso to your appreciative gaze, and geto lets out a low hiss. his abs flex beneath your fingertips, the defined muscles a testament to his strength and dedication. he knows every dip and curve of your body, has worshipped them with his mouth and hands, and the knowledge fills him with pride.

“you’ve got no idea,” he rasps, his voice strained with effort, “how much i want to fuck you senseless right now.”

a pleased hum vibrates in your throat at geto’s admission, your fingers dancing across his exposed skin, tracing the lines of his muscles. you lean in, placing open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone, tasting the salt of his sweat. the confession ignites a fire within you, your inner walls clenching around his thickness. “what’s with the rush?” you murmur, your voice a sultry purr, “we have all week for ourselves, no need to take things too fast.”

your fingers trace the lines of his chiseled abdomen, marveling at the sheer power coiled beneath his skin. you can feel the heat emanating from him, the raw energy simmering just below the surface. it’s exhilarating, knowing you have the power to unravel him completely. “let’s just enjoy this together,” you continue, hands roam lower, squeezing his muscular thighs as you grind against him, your clit kissing his pelvis. you nip at his neck, leaving a trail of love bites as you mark him as yours, tearing a low, animalistic groan rumbles in his chest, follow you. the air is thick with tension, the promise of unbridled passion hanging precariously balanced.

the possessive act sends a surge of heat straight to his groin, his balls drawing up tight. he can feel the coil of tension building within him, the warning signs of an impending release.

with that, you begin to slowly rock your hips, rolling them in a slow, sensual rhythm. each movement sends waves of pleasure coursing through your veins, your inner walls fluttering around geto’s thick length. you keep your pace deliberate and controlled, not wanting to overwhelm him, but instead coaxing him deeper into the blissful haze of lust and possession.

geto’s entire body shudders at the first deliberate roll of your hips, his cock throbbing in response. the sensation of your slick heat enveloping him, combined with the erotic dance of your grinding, is nearly unbearable. he clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to buck wildly into you, to lose himself in the primal need to claim you utterly. “fuuuck, baby,” he gasps, his voice strained, “you’re going to be the death of me.”

----

your hips continue their languid undulations, each movement designed to tease and tantalize, to draw out the exquisite pleasure for both of you. you can feel geto’s resolve crumbling, his body tensing, straining for release. the thought sends a thrill through you, knowing you hold such power over him.

you lean back slightly, changing the angle of your connection, allowing geto's thick length to brush against your sensitive spots with each roll of your hips. a soft moan escapes your lips as the new position sends sparks of pleasure shooting through you. your fingers dig into the firm shoulder, urging him to meet your movements, to sink deeper into your welcoming heat. “fuuuck,” you whimper, your voice a husky whisper, “hold me, baby.”

geto’s arms wrap around you instinctively, pulling you flush against his heaving chest. he cradles you close, his large hands splayed across your back, fingers digging into the supple flesh. the intimate contact only fuels the growing urgency between you, his hardness pressing insistently against your softer curves.

geto meets each roll with a slow, deliberate thrust of his own, driving into you with measured strokes. his breath hitches in his throat, a low growl building in his chest as he loses himself in the rhythmic dance of pleasure.

“god, you feel incredible,” he pants against your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “so fucking perfect, so fucking beautiful.” his words are a heated promise, a vow to cherish and worship every inch of your body as he makes love to you.

a contented sigh escapes your lips as geto’s strong arms enfold you, holding you securely against his solid form. the feeling of being cherished, adored, and desired washes over you, filling you with a profound sense of belonging. you melt into his embrace, your body molding to his as if you were made to fit together perfectly.

geto’s deep, rumbling words send tingles down your spine, his praise and devotion igniting a fierce passion within you. you tilt your head back, offering your mouth to his, and he claims it in a searing kiss— it was intimate, warm and gentle. the taste of him, the feel of his tongue exploring your depths, sets your very soul ablaze.

breaking the kiss, you gaze up at him, your eyes shimmering with adoration and lust. “i love you, suguru,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper, forehead bound against his.

geto’s eyes darken with emotion as he looks down at you, his face etched with tender adoration. a soft, choked sound escapes him, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, as he pulls you impossibly closer.

“i love you too, my beautiful girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sentiment. geto’s heart swells, his love for you burning brighter than ever before. he captures your lips once more, pouring all his devotion and longing into the passionate kiss. the kiss tender and loving, a sweet expression of the depth of his feelings for you. his tongue delves deeply, savoring the sweetness of your mouth as he loses himself in the tender intimacy of the moment.

as you break apart, geto gazes down at you with an expression of pure adoration, his purple eyes shimmering undeniable love and happiness. slowly, deliberately, geto begins to move within you again, his thrusts slower now, more measured, as if savoring every moment of your intimate connection. he rocks into you with a soothing rhythm, the subtle undulation of his hips sending waves of pleasure rippling through your core.

“we’re home, aren’t we?” he whispers against your lips, his breath mingling with yours. his hands slide down to cup your ass, kneading the supple flesh as he deepens the embrace.

tears prick at the corners of your eyes as geto professes his love, the sincerity and depth of his emotions overwhelming you. you cling to him, your fingers threading through his hair as you press your lips to his, relishing in the tender affection he pours into the kiss.

when you finally part, you rest your forehead against his, basking in the warmth of his presence, the comforting beat of his heart against your own. “yes, we’re home, we are always home,” you agree softly, a contented smile playing on your lips. “right here, with you.”

geto’s renewed lovemaking is a symphony of slow, sensual movements, each deliberate stroke stoking the flames of your desire. his heartbeat syncs with yours, a powerful drumbeat that resonates deep within your soul. he gazes at you with unabashed adoration, his purple eyes drinking in every detail of your radiant beauty— from the sparkling tears clinging to your lashes to the blissful curve of your lips. in this moment, he knows he would move heaven and earth to keep you safe, to make you happy.

you arch into him, meeting his thrusts with eager rolls of your hips, the friction sending sparks of pleasure dancing along your nerve endings, having geto’s breath catches in his throat. the way you welcome him, the eagerness with which you meet his thrusts, ignites a wildfire of passion within him. his grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging into your skin as he loses himself in the erotic dance of your bodies.

“fucking perfection,” he groans, his voice raw with desire. his grip on your ass tightens as you meet his movements with equal fervor, his control wavering under the onslaught of your passion. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by your mutual gasps and moans of pleasure.

he breaks the intimate seal of your foreheads, instead burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply as he nips and kisses a trail down to your collarbone. geto’s hot breath fans over your sensitive skin, sending shivers coursing through you.

“mine,” he growls, the word a possessive declaration as he marks you with small, open-mouthed kisses. “all mine, forever and always.” geto’s hands roam your body, mapping the curves he knows so well, his touch reverent and hungry all at once.

your body trembles beneath geto's intense ministrations, every nip and kiss sending electric jolts straight to your core. the possessive growl vibrating against your skin, coupled with his fervent declarations, only serves to heighten your arousal. you feel owned, treasured, and utterly consumed by this man who holds your heart in the palm of his hand.

reaching up, you tangle your fingers in geto’s silky locks, guiding his head back to capture your lips in a searing kiss— his lips, oh, you could never have enough of his lips on yours. the clash of tongues, the battle for dominance, is a thrilling prelude to the explosive climax you both crave. breaking away, you pant heavily, your chest heaving against his. “i’m close,” you mumble, your voice husky with need.

geto’s eyes blaze with unbridled hunger as he watches you writhe on top of him, your desperate pleas music to his ears. he can feel your walls fluttering around him, tightening with each thrust, signaling your impending release. with a feral snarl, he redoubles his efforts, pounding into you with relentless ferocity.

his hands find purchase on your thighs, spreading them wider to accommodate his punishing pace. the lewd slap of flesh echoes through the room, a primal soundtrack to your frenzied coupling. geto’s breathing grows ragged, his vision tunneling until all he sees is you— your flushed cheeks, your pleading eyes, the exquisite contours of your body as it yields to his possession.

“you’re mine,” he rasps, his voice a guttural animalistic growl. “never forget it.” overwhelmed by the intensity of geto’s lovemaking, you can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words. your mind goes blank, replaced by a haze of white-hot pleasure that consumes every fiber of your being. each brutal thrust sends shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your veins, threatening to shatter you into a million pieces.

geto’s dominant claim, spoken with such raw, primal authority, snaps the last threads of your self-control. a scream rips from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your inner muscles clamping down on geto’s pulsing length in rhythmic spasms. stars burst and your head spinning, and you’re certain the room spins, but all you can focus on is the overwhelming sensation of release.

as the aftershocks ebb, you collapse against geto, your body limp and spent. your legs trembling on his lap. “fuuuck, i’m cumming,” and geto follows shortly after, letting out a guttural roar as your velvet walls milk him dry. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath puffing against your sweat-dampened skin as he fights to regain his composure.

panting heavily, geto refuse to extricates himself from your cunt, so instead he collapses onto his back on the couch pulling you into his arms. his touch gentle and tender, having you nestle into the comfort of his embrace, your body still humming with the afterglow of your shared passion. he nuzzles into your hair, savoring the intoxicating mix of your scent and the lingering traces of their shared passion.

“i love you so much,” he murmurs, his voice rough with satisfaction. the sound of his voice, hoarse and satisfied, rings like a soothing melody in your ears as he whispers those three words. geto peppers feather-light kisses across your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each one a silent vow of eternal devotion.

gently, he strokes your hair, his fingers tangling in the silken strands as he holds you close. you bask in the soothing sensation of his fingers raking through your hair, each stroke a soft, intimate caress that ignites a wave of warmth and contentment within you. your chest heaves against his, breaths coming in short, laboured gasps as you both try to recover from the raw intensity of their passion.

you can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your hands, the way his body trembles slightly from the residue. “i love you, too,” you murmur back, your voice soft and reverent, barely above a whisper.

still joined together, geto’s arms wrap firmly around your waist, pulling you close as he shifts, finding more comfortable position against the couch and settling you on top of him. his embrace is steady, his touch lingering, as if he never wants to let go. you rest against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you, its warmth radiating through every inch of you.

he runs his hands slowly up and down your back, still covered with your shirt, tracing gentle, soothing patterns as he holds you close. the room is silent, save for the soft sounds of breath and the steady rhythm of geto’s heart beating beneath you. his fingers continue their tender journey across your back, tracing invisible patterns and sending warm shivers down your spine.

he presses a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arms holding you closer, a silent declaration of his unwavering love. you snuggle into his chest, your body perfectly molding into him as you bask in the comfort of his embrace.

geto’s hand pauses for a moment on your back, and a playful smirk tugs at his lips. he tilts his head down to look at you, his eyes gleaming with that familiar, mischievous spark. “think you’ve finally forgotten about satoru now?” he murmurs, his voice a soft tease as he leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. his fingers resume their gentle path, tracing soothing patterns along your spine, as if grounding you in this moment with him.

before you can respond, he presses another kiss to your forehead, holding you even tighter. “good,” he whispers against your skin, “because i plan on making sure you don’t have a single thought left for anyone but me.”

you roll your eyes, a smirk tugging at your lips as you lift your head to meet his gaze. “not yet,” you tease, voice laced with a playful challenge, sitting up abruptly before taking your shirt off— your breast on full display to your boyfriend’s eyes. a soft thud could be heard once the material landed somewhere.

geto lets out a low, appreciative whistle as you take off your shirt, his gaze darkening impossibly as he takes in the sight of your bare skin. he can’t help the way his eyes roam over your curves, a mixture of hunger and raw desire flashing across his face.

his hands slide to your hips, his touch firm and possessive as he pulls you closer, forcing you to straddle his waist. he leans back against the couch— prop his elbows, his expression intense, his eyes burning with a mixture of desire and determination.

his lips part, breathing a wee bit heavy as he looks up at you through hooded eyes, “not yet, huh?” he echoed back to you, voice a little rougher than before, his gaze heated and intensely focused on your perky nipples, “oh, you’re not making this easy on me, you know, baby?” he growls, his voice a low, husky promise. the sound low and deep in his throat, as if he’s struggling to control himself.

a mischievous glint sparks in your eyes as you hum softly, trailing your hands down his bare chest, fingers tracing over the lines of his muscles with teasing slowness. “i thought you were going to make sure i forgot about ‘toru,” you murmur, voice laced with playful defiance. you tilt your head, meeting his darkened gaze with a smirk.

“because, honestly, right now…” you pause, leaning in closer, your lips a mere breath away from his. “my mind’s still pretty full of my beloved ‘toru, and he’s all i can think about,” you tease, each word a deliberate challenge.

geto’s grip on your hips tightens, his eyes narrowing as he lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound full of dark amusement. “is that so?” he mutters, his voice now a dangerously low whisper. “guess i’m not trying hard enough, then.” his hands slide up, fingers grazing your skin in a way that sends shivers down your spine, as his gaze turns sharp and possessive.

without warning, he pulls you even closer, his lips brushing over yours in a tantalizing, barely-there kiss. “let’s see if i can change that, hm?” he challenges, his eyes locked on yours with unwavering intensity, daring you to hold on to the thought of anyone else but him.

lifting you effortlessly off the couch and carrying you to the nearby window seat. they way he hold you, you can feel the possessive strength in his grip. the cool glass presses against your front as geto settles you onto the hard surface, his hard length still nestled inside you. the change in position allows him to delve even deeper, his pelvis grinding against yours as he starts to move once more.

geto buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as he nips and licks at the delicate skin. “one way or another, you will forget satoru even exists for a whole fucking week, i’ll make sure of that,” he grumbles on your skin, hips one after another start to thrust into your cunt. big hand grip a fistful of your hair, face push to the hard surface while his other hand kissing your ass, harder each kiss. no gentleness, no tenderness like earlier, only a maddening, desperate thrust to drive his point dick to your brain.

and when geto says something, he means it.

[clockwayswrites]

City Pigeons Bleed Green - Part 16

masterpost

“Jason!”

“What the fuck, dickhead,” Jason snapped as he stomped Dick’s way. “What if Danny—”

“Danny’s gone.”

“…what?”

“Danny… Danny’s gone,” Dick repeated. He shoved the tablet against Jason’s chest.

Danny was gone.

Another little brother that had left with nothing but a note. Another little brother heading alone into danger. Another little brother—

No.

No no no.

It wouldn’t go that way. It couldn’t go that way. Dick had failed Jason, but he wouldn’t fail Danny. Dick wouldn’t let Danny die.

Dick slapped a hand over his mouth to try and smother the hysterical laughter.

He wouldn’t let Danny die? Who did he think he was. Danny had died. Danny had died again and again and again. Danny had died until his hair was bleached white and his body was covered in scars. Danny had already died so many times. Dick couldn’t save him.

They could already have Danny.

How long had he been gone?

They would kill Danny. They would kill him again.

A rough hand grabbed at Dick’s arm. Dick swept it off. Punch, blocked. Raised a knee to the side. It’s soft there. Weak. Follow with a punch. Duck. Block. Move—

A gasp was knocked out of Dick as his back hit a wall, hard.

“Take another breath.”

What?

“Come on Dick, take another breath.”

The heavy weight of someone else leaned against Dick, pinning him in place. A rough hand on his cheek tapped out a rhythm.

“Breathe for me, big bird.”

“Jay?” Dick gasped.

“Yeah, it’s me. Come on, Dick, come back to me. I need… I need you here, big bird. I need you here to help. I can’t find him without you.”

“Danny.”

“Yeah.”

Dick forced himself to take a deep, shuddering breath. “Sorry.”

“I get it.” Jason sounded a little wrecked himself. “I get it. But I need you with me, so open your eyes for me, okay?”

Dick took another breath and then did as he was told. He did his best to smile a little, though he knew that it was weak. “Don’t worry, not at the hallucinating stage or anything.”

Jason’s brow furrowed further. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dick said quickly. “Okay. Right. I’ll call Bruce, you get Babs and then have Babs get everyone else.”

“On it. You going to suit up or stay civies?” Jason asked as he pulled away and pulled his phone out.

Dick instantly missed the weight of his brother. For a moment it felt like everything would fly apart again and he forced himself to suck in a harsh breath. It was only thanks to his training that his fingers didn’t tremble as he pulled up Bruce’s number. “Suit, I think. Get a bird’s eye view. You?”

“Civies,” Jason answered and headed for his shoes. “Less chance of panic. Hey, Babs? I know, you’re at work, but this is an all hands-on deck. Danny’s gone.”

Dick listened to the ringing and then the answering click.

“Chum?”

“Dad?” Dick’s voice almost broke all over again. They were supposed to keep Bruce’s kid safe. They hadn’t even let him meet Danny yet. And now… “Danny’s gone.”

-

“Mr. Wayne—” started one of the people in the meeting.

Bruce didn’t care right then to spend the energy identifying which one. He just snapped out ‘family emergency’ as he quickly exited the room. “Dick, talk to me.”

Whatever had been going on, whatever needed to go on in that meeting, wasn’t as important as his son on the line. His son who sounded breathless with panic.

“Danny ran. He left a note on his tablet and ran. He left his phone too.”

A chill ran down Bruce’s spine. Danny. “What did he take with him?”

“I don’t know,” Dick said. Bruce could hear Dick swallowing back his panic. The line was filled with soft clicks as others joined the call. It seemed to help center Dick. “Nothing much. He left his tablet, it’s what he had note on and left his phone too. He has the clothes he was wearing— hoodie, t-shirt, jeans. Shoes are gone.”

“Bear?” Cass asked, her voice strained.

Bruce jogged for the elevators. Once in, he pressed the right combination of buttons to take him down to the secret level, leaving his thumb on the last one for it to scan his fingerprint.

“What? Um, no, I don’t see it. Jason! Is Danny’s blue bear out there?” Dick called.

“I’m on the comms, don’t fucking scream,” Jason chimed in. He sounded better than the others at the moment, but he always did alright while he had something to do. It was afterwards they had to watch out for. “I don’t see it.”

“Cass,” Bruce asked slowly, “did you put a tracker in Danny’s bear?”

“Tim,” Cass replied.

Tim made an affronted noise. “You told me to!”

Cass hummed.

“Okay, fine, you implied for me to. But you put it on the table while I was checking the tracker in Danny’s tablet. Which, by the way, he totally saw and left!”

“Tim.” Bruce interrupted. All of this could wait until later. Really it was something Danny wasn’t full of trackers with this family. Right then Bruce was happy for Cass and Tim’s overstep.

“I’m pulling it up,” Tim snapped back. “I had to leave class— Bruce! He’s still in the area. He’s… I think he’s headed towards WE!”

Bruce slammed the combo of buttons that would cancel out the rapid descent to the secret bunker and jabbed the ground floor button instead. “What street is he taking?”

“Novik street name and coming your way.”

“Going now,” Bruce said as he slipped in an ear bud and put his phone back in his pocket.

It was raining. Bruce didn’t even register it was raining until he reached up to wipe the water out of his face.

“This rain won’t be good for his injuries.”

“We can take care of them when he’s back,” Jason rumbled across the line. For all of Jason’s self claimed issues with anger, he was so calm under panic.

“You should have warm drinks ready.”

“Sure, we can make sure of that.” Jason was placating him, Bruce knew that, but he didn’t mind it. Mindless planning was just a way for Bruce to steal his nerves against all of the horrible possibilities.

Danny could go in another direction.

Danny could run when he saw Bruce.

Danny could just run away again. He could get sick. He could be re-injured. He could be hurt.

They could get him.

Whoever they were. If Danny ran, they could get to Danny first.

“Take the next right. You should have eyes on him instantly,” Tim directed. His own worry threaded through his voice, but Bruce had no doubt the information was accurate.

Still, Bruce slowed his steps.

His son was right around the corner.

Bruce pushed the rain-soaked hair off his forehead once again, took a deep breath, and turned the corner.

Someone slammed into Bruce.

Someone too small and too slim and trembling in the cold rain.

“Sorry! Wasn’t watching…” Danny trailed off as he stared up at Bruce, blue eyes wide. “I… um… I just…”

Bruce crouched down, not caring about the water seeping into his suit where he had taken a knee on the dirty sidewalk. Gently he reached out and placed his hand on Danny’s cold cheek.

“It’s okay, Danny.”

“You know. You know but… but how…?”

“They called me when you left.” It wasn’t a lie. It was hardly the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie. There were a lot of truths that would have to come out now.

Danny shivered. “They…”

“They’re worried about you,” Bruce explained, “and I’m very glad that they called.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Danny whispered. His eyes were wide, weary, afraid. It was an expression Bruce used to know too well. It used to stare back at him from the mirror before he had found his path as Batman. Bruce hated that Danny felt like that.

“I am,” Bruce said, voice low and serious. “I am and I am so very glad to meet you, Danny.”

Danny wiped at his eyes, almost angrily brushing away the tears even as they mixed with the rain. “I didn’t— I didn’t want to be a mess when I met you.”

“It’s okay that you are, life is messy,” Bruce said sincerely. “If you ask my kids… if you ask my other kids, they’ll tell you I’m often a mess.”

A choked back laugh interrupted the quiet sobs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Danny started suddenly, leaning to look behind Bruce.

A beat later, before Bruce could ask, Jason’s voice came through the earpiece. “We’re pulling up.”

Sure enough, an unassuming black car pulled around the corner and up to the curb. To Bruce’s surprise, Danny didn’t try to run, not even as an unmasked Dick rushed out of the passenger side.

Danny’s eyes did widened as he scanned Dick’s bare face. “N—”

“Dick,” Dick interrupted quickly.

“What?”

“It’s short for Richard,” Dick explained with a tense smile. He came the rest of the way around the car and crouched down a little. “Please come back, Danny. Come back and get warm and have hot chocolate and talk to us.”

Danny shook his head. “They’ll find me. They’ll find me and that means they’ll find you all and they’ll try to—” Danny paused, mouth working around some words till he found what he needed. “They’ll hurt your little brothers.”

Bruce brushed his hand through Danny’s hair. He couldn’t help it. Danny was Dick’s little brother too; Danny just didn’t know it yet. Danny was as worth protecting as anyone Dick loved. The touch brought Danny’s attention back to Bruce.

“We can keep you safe,” Bruce said. “Between my wealth and the manpower, we can keep you safe.”

“You can’t promise that,” Danny pleaded, his voice cracking. “You don’t know what you’re up against.”

“Then come back with us, Dandelion, and explain what we’re up against,” Dick pleaded. “If we really can’t keep you safe, we can talk about contingencies, but I’m with Bruce, we can find a way. I know you don’t think so, but at least give us the information so that we can try. Don’t just leave us.”

Danny looked between Bruce and Dick, looking for the word like he wanted to angle towards them and wasn’t letting himself. “But…”

The window rolled down and Jason leaned across the seat. His face was still red from where he had ripped the domino off. “Kid, Danny… don’t run for me. Not for me or Damian or anyone else. None of us would be okay losing you just to stay safe.”

Danny rubbed his arm over his face again. “They’ll hurt you.”

“I’ve already died once.”

“There’s worse things than death.”

“I know, Danny,” Jason said, his voice softer than Bruce had heard it in a long time, “and losing you would be one of them. So come back with us.”

Danny was muffling body wracking sobs now, but he let Dick guide them into the back seat and close the door.

Bruce basically collapsed into the passenger seat. He reached out and clasped the back of Jason’s neck and pressed their foreheads together for a moment. Then he let go so that Jason could turn off the emergency lights and pull back out into traffic.

“Let’s get you back.”

Danny was silent the ride, letting Dick dry his hair with towels they had brought. Bruce used one himself to try and get off the worst of the water even as he kept an eye on the back seat. This isn’t how he would have wanted it to go, but he had finally met Danny. He’d finally met his son.

A son who couldn’t believe he cared.

Bruce closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.

Jason squeezed Bruce’s shoulder, just a momentary touch, before they got out of the car the short ride later. Dick filled the elevator ride and walk to the door with chatter about them all drying off and changing and having some warm coco. Bruce just watched as Dick led Danny away to the one bedroom.

“Come on, old man,” Jason said. “You can change into some of my stuff.”

Bruce nodded. He started to shuck off his wet suit even as Jason laid out a change of clothing. Alfred would fuss. Bruce didn’t care. Jason was already busy in the kitchen by the time Bruce came back out, but it was still a bit longer until Dick and Danny joined them.

“Danny,” Bruce said, crouching down again like he had on the wet cement. “I know we have a lot to talk about. Some of it won’t be easy. But I need you to know that no matter what, I want you here because you’re my son.”

Danny laughed, an awful broken sound, and looked up at Bruce with those scared blue eyes that Bruce knew too well. “That’s the thing. I’m not. I’m not your son. I’m your clone.”

[that-weird-thing-in-the-woods]

~{ Heyyy you gremlins, I’m adding one of my other one of my favs into my growing collection of shit, Harpy’s!! I like them and think they’re neat so enjoy this }~

•Harpy•

Damien was being punished for being “Too rough” with criminals than what Father and the rest of the family thought was “Appropriate” so he was to be benched until further notice.

Damien was just doing what was needed and he was being punished for it so here he is walking around on the Wayne estate until he sees a bird a crow to be specific on the ground with one of its wings sticking up and obviously broken by the way it was bent.

So Damien walks over and assesses the damage as well as he can from next to the bird and it seems he has caught the bird’s attention as it looks to him as if it’s judging his soul and Damien can’t help but feel impressed.

After a minute or two the bird moves closer to Damien and Damien makes the move to pick it up and the crow allows him the honor of doing so.

As Damien picks up the crow he starts the walk back to the manner where he can set the wing straight and bandage it up, But Father most likely won’t let him take of the crow as he is “Grounded” as Father said but what Father doesn’t know won’t hurt him…

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

After 3 to 4 weeks of taking care of the crow [And hiding the crow from the others in the manner] their wing has fully recovered [and Damian is still benched].

So well the others are out Damien picks up the crow and makes the walk back to where he first found the crow and sits on the ground with them still in his arms before he sets them down on the ground and unbandaging their wing.

After a minute or two of the crow flapping their wings to just move it, they take off flying and start to fly around Damien before flying into some woods on the edge of the Wayne estate and Damien follows them into the woods.

About 5 or so minutes later Damien follows the crow to a tall tree [How has this not been noticed before now?] with hundreds of other crows around it and the crow that he has been taking care of lands on the outstretched hand of a person with black crow feathers mixed in with the rest of their short mess black hair but what caught Damien’s attention the most were their large black wings on their back.

And when Damien makes a step closer to the tree he steps on a branch, and gaining the beings light surprised blue eyes at his presences.

Oh so this is what mother felt when she met father…

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

So Danny has to leave his world because the GIW + his parents somehow [VLAD] got blood blossoms and started to use them in their weapons.

And it was BAD for Danny, he now has scars on his arms and legs from it and Jazz, Tucker, and Sam all told them to GTFO because they would rather have a far away brother/best friend than a fully dead one to Danny books it to the DC Universe where he ends up in Gotham and somehow gets taken in by the local crow population.

And this starts to change how Danny looks and acts due to spending so much time with the crows of Gotham.

So that’s how we ended up here.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Danny’s appearance•

Couldn’t find a drees I liked or that would actually work with his wings to I went “F*** this I’ll make the bitch” and now we have this

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

~{ And that’s it! I hope you gremlins like it until next time byeeeeee }~

[reidrum]

the prophecy part 2:

poison blood from the wound of the pricked hand | s.r.

A/N: she's arrived! i hope we like this one,,,,.....,,,.,maybe a part 3 what who said that

cw: angst, hurt/comfort no comfort, penelope is a really good friend, fem!reader, spencer's kind of a dick bro

summary: you and spencer deal with the aftermath of cat's words

wc: 3.01k

part 1 part 2 part 3

_______________________________________________

“I wish I fathered the child,” Spencer starts, JJ can feel her heart tighten, “Because you and I deserve each other, don’t we?”

Cat smirks, “You’re much better at lying now than you were last time at the restaurant, bravo. Better keep the performance up when you have to go explain yourself to your girlfriend later.”

Spencer’s face steels up and he’s trying his damndest to keep his composure, knowing the only way to get the location of his mother is to let Cat think she won the game. But with every mention of you that falls from her poisoned lips, he feels the burn sinking further into his skin when he thinks about what could be going through your head right now.

“Even if you think I’m lying,” Spencer stares at her, trying to push down any emotion on his face, “That’s the secret right?”

Cat is taken aback by his words, almost looking offended and triumphant all together.

JJ watches her eyes well up and dial Lindsey to give her the go signal, when Lindsey learns at the hands of the rest of the team her one sided lover was pregnant with another man’s child, she devastatingly surrenders the bomb controls and Diana Reid.

Spencer slackens knowing his mother was safe with his team, but he’s unable to stop thinking about Cat’s accusation.

“How did you know?” He asks as the guard stands her up to put the handcuffs back on.

“About Maeve?” 

He nods.

“At the restaurant, you were talking about a fake wife,” The guard walks her over to the door where she passes Spencer, only inches apart, “The ring may have been fake, but the way you spoke about her told me that she was real. And I’ve got eyes everywhere, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re different now than when you were with her.”

She pauses then chuckles, “But clearly this genius couldn’t figure it out.”

He feels the temperature rising again but JJ preemptively grabs his forearm before he has a chance to react, “The team has your mom, we’ll go meet them at the BAU.”

Spencer nods curtly and storms out of the room without a second glance at Cat.

————

The elevator doors open and he’s met with the relieving sight of his mother, safe and sound. He embraces her in a big hug while the team dissipates around them giving them a moment. Spencer holds onto his mother for some time, letting his emotions come to surface. The last 24 hours have been the most tumultuous he’s ever experienced—almost dying in prison, getting released, the kidnapping of his mother, and the most wrenching of all, you.

He can’t help but grip onto her like a baby bird refusing to fly. He’s been someone who’s had to grow up way faster than anyone expected, academically and mentally, in order to care for the people in his life when they weren’t able to themselves. It’s led him to questionable decisions with detrimental repercussions, but he’d do it again in a heartbeat if it meant they’d be okay.

Diana pulls away first and wipes the tears from Spencer’s eyes, “Can we go home?” He nods tearfully and pulls his keys out, walking to the elevator to go down to the parking lot. As they’re going down he feels the adrenaline dying down and the reality sink in. He has no idea how he’s gonna fix this—if he can even fix this.

In a taunt from the universe, he hears a text come through on his phone, from you, of course.

You should spend time with your mom and make sure she’s okay. I’m staying at Penelope’s for some time. We can talk later.

He sighs and shuts his phone off, slipping it back into his pocket. You were right, it had been a textbook definition insane 24 hours in his life, and he knew he needed to spend time with his mother in getting her resituated.

——

You and Spencer spent five days apart. Neither of you went into work, for obvious reasons, and all you could do was rot on Penny’s couch, barely eating or drinking enough water, hyper analyzing every intimate moment of your relationship with Spencer to find any clue that he wasn’t fully present with you.

Penelope would come home after her day at the office, bringing you food from your favorite takeout place just the way you like, the way only Spencer knew, and sit with you while you cried.

It nearly killed her seeing you so down, her dear friend who she cared for so much and wished desperately to take away all your suffering. But the empath in her knows that if she’s feeling this bad, she can’t even imagine how Spencer must feel.

She sits with you for twenty minutes in silence, your head in her lap as she strokes your hair before speaking up, “So um, he was able to put his mom back into a sanitarium. With a vetted full time nurse who said he’d get hourly updates from.”

“That’s great, Penny.” you mumble apathetically. A small part of you felt bad, despite what was going on between you and Spencer, Diana was also collateral in a whole different way. You were grateful that she could find some sense of normalcy after all that’s happened. You wondered if that could be you, receiving solace and safety from someone you were supposed to trust.

“He won’t stop asking, sweetie.”

You sigh, “I know, I’m sorry he keeps bugging you.”

She waves you off, “It’s not that. I—I don’t know how to fix this. You guys are my bestest friends, a—and to see Spencer go through wh—what he went through, and then seeing you after what he d—did.” she sniffled.

“Penelope—“

“I’m not trying to be selfish, I swear! I have big emotions you know this. I won’t tell you what to do or what I think you should, because honestly sweetheart I don’t know either,” she tears up more, “But I will tell you the facts, because like that dummy boy, fact dumping reassures me of what’s real. And I need you to remember that when your brain is trying to trick you otherwise.”

You start crying again seeing her all emotional and she puts a hand up, “Let me finish first, or you don’t get the donut I got you.” She laughs tearfully.

You match her laugh and let her continue.

“I only have one fact for you, and you might not like it but it’s the truth, no matter what you think.” she starts, “That boy loves you. Like he would petition the Oxford dictionary to put you under the definition of love, loves you.”

“But—“

“But two things can exist. He loves you dearly, but what he did was fucked up. How you feel is extremely valid. God, my love, I can’t even imagine how you feel. But if and when you go talk to him I just need you to remember that. Okay?”

You sit silently next to her, contemplating everything your brain has been computing the last five days. The spirals, the what ifs, the self doubt—you know logically you won’t get any clarity unless you face your fear, and accept that whatever happens is your predetermined fate.

“Okay.”

“I love you so much. I am always in your corner, and if it comes to it, I know his social.”

“Penny!”

“I’m just saying!” she laughs, “You’re more than welcome to stay as long as you need to, okay?”

You lean forward to hug her, “Thanks.” you mumble. She squeezes you and rubs your back affectionately.

You end up finishing out the week in Penelope’s apartment, using Sunday to deliberate your plan of attack for when you finally see him again. All the questions, insults, and doubt are written down in your notes app to help you organize your thoughts. But there’s no real organization, because what category does this even fall into?

You text Spencer a couple hours before that you’d be willing to talk to him now if he was free, and not even a second later he replies telling you to come over whenever.

The walk to his apartment feels like edging closer to the end of a plank that you willingly got on. The dread presses on you heavier and heavier with every step, and soon enough you’re standing at his door with a boulder on your shoulders.

The soft knocks echo through Spencer’s barren living room, and his head snaps to the door. He’s not sure if he’s mentally prepared for this, but he wipes his eyes and ruffles his hair stressfully and goes to open the door.

It’s like a truck hit him seeing you right in front of him, puffy red eyed and looking so defeated, nothing like the girl he knew.

“Hey,” Spencer breathes out.

“Hi, can I come in?” you reply.

Spencer stands aside to let you in, “Of course, yeah.”

You walk into his apartment, feeling a strange sensation wash over you. The familiarity of his bookshelves and antique chess boards provides you with a comfort you wish you had over the last week. But right now it feels like someone placed barbed wire over it all, enticing you to get closer lest you get hurt.

Spencer stands awkwardly in the door, watching you trek about his apartment before finding a seat on his leather couch. He shuts the door and sits in the adjacent arm chair, not knowing if you’d be okay with him even sitting on the same couch as you.

You clear your throat, “How’s your mom?”

“She’s good, she’s settled in the sanitarium.” he says with a slight tone of relief you knew he hadn’t had in weeks.

“Good, good,” you trail off and avoid his eyes, “Um, so obviously, I came because we need to…talk.” Spencer nods and waits for you to continue.

“I don’t even know how to start. But, I am hurt. I don’t know how to process this, or even get to the root of this.”

“Cat was lying.”

“No, she wasn’t.”

He furrows his brows, “Yes, she was. She lies about everything, that’s her game.”

You avoid his eyes, “No Spencer, that’s just what you want to tell yourself.”

“Baby—“

“You don’t get to call me that right now.”

That hits him bad. He takes a moment to take in your appearance, how you’re picking at your skin, repeatedly brushing your fingers through your hair and picking the strands that fall out. You’re trying so hard to be brave, he can tell. It breaks his heart.

“How am I supposed to convince you I’m telling the truth when you won’t even look at me?” he says with a slight edge of annoyance.

“You don’t get to be upset, Spencer! Don’t give me that crap—“

“I’m not upset, I just want to fix this! Maeve is gone, as far as it goes she might as well be an ex-girlfriend. The same way that I don’t get worked up over your ex boyfriends.”

“That is not nearly the same thing. You didn’t get to see her, Spencer. She didn’t even get a chance to be your girlfriend,” you huff, Spencer’s eyes start welling up as your voice lowers, “How am I supposed to believe that you still love me, when you’re thinking of another woman when you’re with me?”

Whatever color was left in his face has drained out of his feet, the swirl of emotions bombarding him senselessly. 

He’s upset, he’s mad, embarrassed, tired, shameful. He’s feeling hopeless, he wants to just drag you to his sock drawer where that little box sits and show you exactly how serious he is about his love for you. But he knows that would be a cop out, and you wouldn’t believe him. He wouldn’t believe himself either.

“Do you think we’re the same?” you ask, pulling him out of his thoughts. You’ve stood up and started pacing the living room, unable to sit still.

“No! God no, you are so much more than she ever was.”

“Are you just saying that because I’m sitting in front of you, alive?”

He’s taken aback by your bluntness. You’re nearing the end of your resolve, and truth be told, you’re just mad at this point.

“Every time we’ve kissed, we’ve been in bed together, anytime you’ve shown any affection towards me, you were thinking of that…that bitch.” you spit out with venom.

Spencer snaps his head at you without missing a beat, “Don’t call her that.”

Your face drops, “Or what?”

He doesn’t say a word.

Calling a dead woman a bitch is beyond any morals you’d set for yourself, but this situation is one you could have never predicted. Doubling down you step closer, “I called Maeve a bitch, Spencer. And I meant it. Now what are you going to do?”

Spencer swallows grimly, “You can be pissed at me all you want but there’s no need to act…irrational over past things.”

“My boyfriend is thinking of his dead ex girlfriend when he’s fucking me! I don’t know what part of this you expect me to act rational about!” you scream.

He flinches at your raised voice, knowing you were completely valid. Spencer hates that he feels he deserves pity right now, that he can’t help how the grief manifested in him and confused itself with the love he has for you. He loved Maeve, past tense, or maybe he loved the idea of her considering he never got the chance to actually prove it. 

He loves you. Loves—present term. And he has the chance to prove it every single day.

Yet, he still fucked up.

He stands up, “I don’t…think about her when you and I are doing anything. I swear.” he pleads blankly.

“Bullshit.”

He breathes out, “Sweetheart…I don’t know how to prove this to you. I love you, always you.”

You hardened your face despite your heart clenching, “Cat wouldn’t use that against you if she knew it wouldn’t work.”

Spencer’s face drops. He knows you’re right, Cat even told him the evidence that proves it.

A full three minutes of silence pass by before Spencer decides to speak up.

“It happened one time.”

Your glass heart shatters, “…When?”

“When we went to New York for that weekend between cases.” he recounts reluctantly, “It just slipped into my mind a—and I didn’t realize it at first. But once I did I asked you to stop immediately.”

Tears are free falling down your face, “Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you asked me to stop?”

“No—no it’s just me telling you what happened…It was…around the time of the anniversary of that day. So it was in my brain, and I guess it just…” he trails off.

“It just made you want to fuck Maeve?”

Spencer rubs his face with stress, “No, it didn’t. It made me realize that what I couldn’t have with her, I have with you and it’s a billion times better than I could have imagined.”

Your heavy breathes fill the room, and Spencer takes a daring step closer to you.

“I’m sorry, angel. I really am truly sorry. But I love you. I love you more than anything. I fucked up and I should have been honest with you. I’m sorry.”

For Maeve, for Mexico, for not being able to prove that you are the most important person in the world to me.

A soft whine escapes your throat, Spencer feels his heart shatter now, joining the scattered pieces of yours on the floor.

“I—I want to believe you Spencer, I really do,” you sniffle.

He feels the smallest glimmer of hope as you continue, “I don’t know how to move forward from this, I don’t know if I can.”

“I’ll prove it to you, I swear. I’ll spend every day proving that I love you, and showing you that you deserve the world and that I’ll try my hardest to give it to you,” he swallows and takes a deep breath before continuing, “Things like this don’t happen to me, people like you don’t happen to me. You are once in a lifetime. I don’t deserve any chances from you, but I promise to spend the rest of my life showing you how much you mean to me.” Spencer finishes with a tear rolling down his cheek.

A hiccuped sob escapes you and Spencer really wants to come closer and comfort you, but knows that that is quite literally the last thing you need right now. You angrily wipe at your face, battling your conflicting feelings on what the fuck is the right thing to do for you.

You realize that the truly sad part of all of this, is that you still love him. No betrayal could ever sway how you feel about him you think, and this seems to be the biggest one you can think of.

“I feel used, Spencer. Like I was a placeholder for something you didn’t even know you wanted.”

He pleads your name, “Never ever in my life have you been a placeholder for anything.”

“Well, at that moment in New York, I was.”

He shuts his mouth and bows his head like a cornered dog.

“I just want to feel like it’s me that you want,” you whisper to no one, “I just want to be enough. Why can’t it be me, Spencer?”

“It is you, it’s always you angel.”

You take a deep breath and let out, “I’ll believe it when I see it.” and you turn to walk out the door.

Spencer is left on the other side of the closing door, the shut of it echoing throughout his empty apartment. He pulls his phone out to text Penelope to expect you, and then drops on his couch.

Spencer knows many things, and while he has had his stupider moments, with all the certainty and truth in the world you are the love of his life. He won’t go down without a fight for you, because he’d always fight for you. Especially when you’re the one fighting him, he will always fight for you.

[ilovekittycats2]

High Maintenance

Jake Seresin x reader

(use of y/n)

In which,

Hangman keeps breaking his jet, and you’re not sure if fixing it or dealing with him is more exhausting

or,

one act of recklessness makes you realise that there may be more to Jake Seresin than meets the eye.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jake “Hangman” Seresin was good at a lot of things—flying jets, making cocky comebacks, and driving people absolutely insane. Unfortunately for you, as the Navy’s top mechanic, his messes always landed squarely on your plate. “You fly like you’re trying to piss me off, Seresin,” you snapped, tossing a grease-streaked rag onto the workbench. 

Hangman leaned against the side of his F/A-18 with his signature smirk. “I fly like I’m the best, sweetheart. It’s not my fault if your tools can’t keep up.” Sweetheart. That nickname alone was enough to make your blood boil. “If you’re the best, why do you spend so much time breaking your jet?” His grin widened. “Because I know you’ll fix it.”

This was your dynamic—a constant battle of wits with an undercurrent of tension neither of you acknowledged. Hangman was insufferable, arrogant, and way too charming for his own good. Worse, you hated how your pulse raced when he leaned a little too close or shot you that lopsided grin. 

Keep it together, Y/n.

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The call came through like a punch to the gut: Jake Seresin’s bird was in trouble. You’d been elbow-deep in another jet’s maintenance when the commotion started, and the urgency in the tower’s tone made your stomach knot. Hangman might have been the cockiest pilot in the squadron, but he was still one of yours—and whether you admitted it or not, that mattered.

You ran to the runway just as his F/A-18 skidded to a stop in a haze of smoke and screeching metal. The landing gear barely held, and the right engine let out a sickening hiss as flames licked at the exhaust. When the canopy opened, Jake climbed out slower than usual, his movements careful, deliberate. For the first time, he looked... human.

“You okay?” you barked as you closed the distance between you.

He nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Engine failure. It cut out at altitude, but I managed to bring her in.” His voice was steady, but his hands betrayed him, trembling ever so slightly.

You studied him for a beat longer than necessary, searching for any cracks in the façade. His usual bravado was gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded. “Let me worry about your jet,” you said, pulling your gaze away. “Just... don’t touch anything.”

The hours that followed were grueling. You stayed on your feet, wrench in hand, sweat dripping down your temple as you fought to diagnose the failure. Jake didn’t leave, hovering just outside your workspace like a restless ghost. He wasn’t offering quips or trying to charm his way into a response this time; he was just there, quiet and watchful.

“Why are you still here?” you asked finally, not looking up from the engine bay.

He hesitated, and when he spoke, his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “Didn’t feel right leaving her—and you—like this.” The confession made you pause. For a moment, you just stared at the mess of wires and metal in front of you, trying to ignore the strange warmth curling in your chest. “Well,” you said, trying to keep your tone even, “if you’re staying, make yourself useful. Hand me the wrench.”

To your surprise, he did.

When the jet finally roared back to life in the early hours of the morning, you stepped back, exhaustion tugging at every muscle. Jake, who had barely moved from his spot all night, let out a breath of relief that mirrored your own. “Thanks for saving my ass,” he said, and this time, there wasn’t an ounce of sarcasm in his tone.

You turned to him, wiping grease off your hands onto a rag. “Don’t get used to it,” you said, but the sharp edge in your voice was missing.

Jake smiled—small, tentative, and not at all like the cocky grins he usually threw your way. As he walked off into the dawn light, you found yourself watching him longer than you should have, wondering what it meant that Jake Seresin, for once, wasn’t acting like Jake Seresin.

And why it made your chest feel so strange.

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hey guysssss once again sorry this is bad but i really wanted to write so idk....... lmk if you want a part 2 and send reqs!!!! pls!!!

[yamumsyadadd]

ten years

Your first love is the love you’ll never forget. The type where you’d sit down and tell your kids. the type to look back and picture all the memories of you two. 

You and alexia grew up together in Mollet del Vallès. The Putellas family lived next door so naturally, you, Alba and Alexia all became inseparable. It wasn’t until just before your sixteenth birthday that things had shifted between the pair of you. 

You were close, but the lingering stares, the touches, the deep connection you shared changed. It was the month before your birthday that alexia sat on your bedroom floor crying. Refusing to tell you what was wrong, or to say anything really. Her words were a mixture of sobs and unintelligible mumbles. 

After a while the tears stopped, but then she stood up and started pacing the room, “I’m gay. I’m gay and I am in love with my best friend. How stupid is that!” 

“Alexia, you can be gay. I don’t care. You’re still alexia. You’re still my best-“ it dawned on you. She was in love with her best friend, you were her best friend. She was in love with you. Alexia Putellas, the dorky, adorable, sweet girl that you were in love with was in love with you too. “Oh.” 

“Oh! OH! Is that all you have to say? oH” her hands are flapping around like a bird trying to learn how to fly, if it was any other moment you’d laugh. 

“Do you have another best friend?” 

“What?” 

“I said-“

“No I heard you. That’s your first question? I come out to you, confess my love to you, and you ask if I have another best friend?” 

“Relax. I was just making sure otherwise it would be real awkward.” She’s confused for a moment, watching you get up and walk towards her. You cup her face and kiss her. It’s messy, hard, there’s teeth and some unintentional tongue. “I’m in love with you too.” You say after pulling away. 

The next four years go by in a blur. Alexia’s career kicks off, forcing her to move to Levante but you make it work. Weekends are spent judging her games, your university degree and adult life in general but slowly, it becomes to much. 

maybe your first love is the one that sticks with you because it’s the only person who will have you completely, receive all of you, after that you learn better, but, most of all, no matter what a piece of you forever remains left behind in the heart of the one you loved. A piece no future lover could ever get, no matter what. That piece holds in once, the belief that love really can last forever, it holds friendship and pain, trial and error, that one kiss you’ll never forget, and the night under the stars you can never get back. It holds youth, and everything you thought love would be, everything that was proven wrong. 

Alexia was spending more time with her teammates, you were studying hard. There wasn’t much left in common between you two and slowly that caused fights. She wanted to stay in, rewatch a game, you wanted to go out, get drunk and dance in a dive bar with your friends and Alexia. 

At first, that’s what the fights were about then it became fighting over everything. You left your shoes at the door: fight. Alexia dumped her kit bag in the hallway: fight. The dishwasher wasn’t turned on: fight. 

After yet another, exhausting, stupid fight, you called it quits. 

“I can’t do this anymore.” 

“Do want? Us?”

“Yes Alexia. All we do is fight. We are on different paths, doing different things in life. You don’t want what I want, I don’t want what you want. And that’s okay, you’ll find someone who will be more suited and I’ll find someone too.” 

“No. No amor, we can work it out. Couples fight all the time. What about counselling?” 

You can’t help the laugh that comes out, “we are twenty Ale. We don’t need counselling, we need to find who we are. Maybe we will come back to each other, maybe we won’t.” 

“I don’t know how to love anyone else.” 

There are many tears that night, as she watches you pack your stuff and say goodbye. Alba tells you how hard she’s taking the break up, how she returned her mother’s ring that her father proposed with. It’s hard and depressing so you do the one thing you thought was best, you leave. 

A year after the breakup you move to England, freshly graduated from your International Affairs degree. It was easy to get a job, the Spanish Embassy in London needed Immigration Support workers so that’s what you. 

For the next four years you worked hard, it was exhausting, mentally but you got through. Earning enough to buy a two bedroom flat in London, making new friends, most importantly, finding who you were without relying on someone else. 

Most of the visits back home were brief, purposely so. You wanted to avoid Alexia. She was starting to become a high profile person, doing incredibly well within her sport. You were proud, of course, but you didn’t want anything to compromise that for her. So instead, you stayed away, hide your feelings that never left and carried on with your life. 

Then you met Abigail. She loved you in ways that were different from Alexia. Things naturally progressed within the relationship, meeting the parents, moving in together, getting engaged, starting a family. 

During Covid lockdown you had your baby girl. Ínes was the light of your life. Everything seemed to fall into place. Until it came crashing down. 

Ínes’ second birthday party goes off accordingly. Your family fly from Spain to London, Abigail’s family are there too, friends you’ve made over the last eight years and ínes’ friends from daycare are there. It’s meant to be a joyful occasion, a little girl who is surrounded by family and friends but Abigail couldn’t keep it in her pants. 

It’s your brother who finds them, he tells your friends, who finally, hours after, tell you. The woman you had your life with, that you were set to marry in six short months, was fucking her coworker in the bedroom you shared together. 

For your daughter and those around, you put on a brave face. Instructions your brother and friends not to say anything but asking them to slyly pack a bag for you and Ínes. The plan at this point was to get out, stay at a hotel for the night and then figure it out from there. 

It was embarrassing really. Abigail didn’t fight for you, your relationship or your daughter. She flaked on the days she was supposed to have Ínes, missed daycare pick ups and dance recitals. The only excuse you could come up with was simply that mummy was busy. But after a while, Ínes stopped asking, stopped begging for her other mother’s love and it was just the two of you. 

The move back to Spain, to Mollet, wasn’t one you needed a lot of time to think over. Ínes wa young enough to make friends again, her Spanish and Catalan was perfect, her other mother had completely ghosted the both of you six months ago, so you were free to go. And you did. 

For the first few months it as hard. You had to move back in with your parents, Ínes loved it and you were grateful for the free childcare but you were itching for your own house. A place with a backyard, close to her grandparents, to her school and ballet, and most importantly (if you asked Ínes) to her little kickers soccer. 

Unfortunately for you, she’d fallen in love with the game. The game that caused your first heartbreak, the one you never really got over. And of course, like many other little girls, Alexia Putellas was her hero. 

It wasn’t your Alexia anymore, fundamentally she was still the same. Thrilling in her game, content with her life, but now she was a household name, arguably the best female footballer ever. Your parents had taken her to a few games, your brother buying her the jersey she picked out and that proudly held the name and number of ALEXIA 11. 

Sometimes you’d lay in bed, holding a sleeping Ínes, who was sporting her Barcelona Femeni jersey, thinking about how you wanted this to be your reality with Alexia. Secretly scrolling through her instagram, or the many photos from your youth. When Ínes was older, you’d explain why you wouldn’t go to the games, but for now she was too young. 

The first of December marked the start of the Christmas season. Mollet held their annual Christmas tree lighting, Ínes was so incredibly excited for it. That’s when you saw her for the first time, it was from afar but it was her. Alexia was with Alba and a few of their friends. She looked happy, free, older but still as beautiful as ever. 

It sparked something inside of you. Maybe it was anxiety or maybe it was jealousy. Your Mami had kept you updated on both Alexia and Alba, still seeing them semi regularly for the Sunday dinners. She never told you Alexia asked about you, or that she never told her about Ínes. 

It was the night before Ínes’ fourth birthday that you saw her. Up close and in person. 

ALEXIA:

10 years have passed and I still haven’t seen you since we broke each others hearts that one summer night. 

I’m walking down the busy city street when I first see you. You had a gift bag in your hand with pink tissue paper. I come to a halt on the sidewalk, unable to move, people were cursing under their breaths, because of my sudden stop. 

You keep walking towards me, still not noticing, until you did. For a second you seem not to recognise me, but I see it hit you the same way it did me. 

You plaster a smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes, and come up to me and say hello. We exchange the normalcies and ask how to past ten years have been. 

All I want to do is ask about the gift bag with the pink tissue paper. So I do. 

“Who’s the gift for? Someone special?” I laugh even though I’m holding my breath waiting for the dreaded answer. 

“Yeah someone very special.” You smile, a real smile, “my daughter. She turns four tomorrow.” 

The words catch in my throat. I don’t know what to say. But I smile and tell you to wish her a happy birthday for me. I tell you I’ve got to get going, but I have all the time in the world really. You say goodbye, and for a second it seems that you have more to say. 

As I continue down the street, away from you, all I can think about is your daughter. She probably has your eyes, your wild morning hair, your soft and loving heart. I wonder if she knows about me, about us. 

I think about how I used to imagine it being our daughter you were buying gifts for. 

———————————————————————————

I was shopping for Ínes’ daughter’s birthday present when I first see you. Standing there, frozen on the sidewalk, looking at me like you’ve seen a ghost. 

It’s been 10 years but your face looks exactly that same way I remembered it. I could never forget. The freckles, the creases around your eyes and mouth from smiling and laughing. Those big, beautiful hazel eyes. 

I smile and walk up to you. We talk like we haven’t spent the last 10 years missing each other, at least, that’s how I spent it. 

You ask me “who’s the gift for? Someone special?” You laugh though, I can tell it’s not a genuine laugh, you’re scared for the answer. 

“Yeah someone very special.” I respond, “my daughter. She turned 4 today.” 

I can tell it catches you off guard, some emotion flashing across her face, one I can’t recognise. It takes a second for you to respond but then you do and say “wish her a happy birthday for me.” 

I smile and you say you’ve got to get going. I try and hide the disappointment and I almost tell you something that’s probably too heavy for the distance that ten years has put between us. 

So instead I just say goodbye. And I don’t tell you how much I still love you, or that I might have a daughter but I’m not married. And I certainly don’t tell you that my daughter’s name is a name we picked out together. 

Instead, I watch you walk away down the street and I know I’ll be spending the rest of my life trying to find my way back to you. 

ALEXIA———————————————————————-

It’s been two weeks since I saw you in the street, I still love you but you have a daughter and probably a wife, or at least a girlfriend. 

Seeing you hurt more than I thought it would. I knew it would happen eventually, you grew up here, you loved it here. But nothing prepared me for it. 

I was about to pour myself a large glass of wine, needing it after the conversation that was had with alba. But then my doorbell rings. 

I answer, expecting a package but when I open it, my breath catches in my throat. You’re standing there, holding another gift bag with pink tissue paper. 

“Um. Hi?” You say, looking more nervous than I am. 

“Hey, is everything okay?” I ask. 

“Yeah, yeah everything is fine. Can I come in?” You ask. 

“Of course.” I don’t move. Watching you. “Yeah, sorry.” I curse myself for standing there like an idiot. 

You hand me the mystery bag with pink tissue paper, “I wanted to give you this.” 

My heart is beating out of my chest, I have no idea what is going on. Carefully, I take out the tissue paper, feeling your eyes on me. When my eyes land on it, they start to sting straight away. It’s the scrap book I made you for your birthday, twelve years ago. 

“You still have this? How?” I ask. 

“I could never bring myself to get rid of it.” You smile. 

“But wouldn’t your wife be upset?” I ask

“My wife?” You were confused, I’m confused. “Oh no. My daughter’s mum and I never worked out.” You responded. 

I had assumed that your heart was taken by another as soon as you told me you had a daughter. I never gave myself the chance to imagine otherwise. That would bring longing that would turn to hurt. 

You continue, my heart beating through my chest, “that’s why I’m here.” The pause before you spoke again seemed to last for years. “Listen, I still love you. And even if you don’t feel the same, I had to tell you. I couldn’t go on without telling you or knowing if you felt the same.” 

Every memory of us from the last twenty years came rushing back to my mind, at that very moment. There are so many things I want to say, but I can’t find the words. 

“Everyday that I spent apart from you was like watching a piece of myself live without me, of course I still love you.” 

The smile that appears on her face is the same smile that made me fall in love with her all those years ago. “I’m going to spend the rest of our lives making up for the past 10 years I didn’t get to love you.” She says. 

I fall into her arms, overcome with the feeling of everything starting to come back together. “Oh I forgot to ask, what’s your daughter’s name?” 

She just laughs lightly and smiles, pulling me back in. 

It takes a while before you introduce Ínes to Alexia. At first it’s just as friends. As happy as Ínes is, she’s also annoyed that you kept that secret for ages. 

Slowly but surely, your lives become intertwined again. It may have taken ten years but you found your way back to each other. 

[multi-fandom-imagine]

➤𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐅𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 || Fiyero ||

A/n: Of course I'm writing something for this nan.

The first snow of the season blanketed the forests of Oz, muffling the world in soft white. You wrapped yourself tightly in a woolen cloak, your breath clouding the air as you made your way through the trees. A smile on your lips as you took in your surrounding of the snow covered trees.

You had ventured out to gather herbs for Nessarose, but the biting chill was slowing your pace but despite how cold you were you couldn't help but smile as you tilted your head back to catch snowflakes on your lashes. There was always something magical about winter, the stillness, the glow of snow in the sunlight, the way the world felt like it was holding its breath.

“Y/n!”

The familiar voice called out from behind you, you had turned to see Fiyero striding through the snow, his teal scarf trailing in the wind, his usually messy hair dusted with flakes but still he looked every bit the charming prince, his grin wide and infectious.

“Fiyero? What are you doing out here?” You asked, brushing a strand of your hair from your face.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, stopping a few steps away. “Though I’m guessing you have a good reason. Herbs? Helping someone? Being your usual selfless self?”

You laughed softly, a grin forming at your lips. “Guilty. But what about you? Shouldn’t you be somewhere warmer?” You teased him as you stepped close.

He shrugged, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “I saw you leaving and thought you might need some company. Snowy forests aren’t exactly friendly to wanderers.”

Your heart couldn't help but flutter at his words, though you tried to hide it. “Well, I can’t say no to company.”

The two of you walked side by side, your boots crunching in the snow with each step. The soft chirping of the birds echoing throughout the forest.

“Do you ever take a moment to just stop?” Fiyero asked after a while, his voice quieter. A frown was on his lips, brow furrowed in confusion.

Pausing, you tilted your head at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’re always doing things for others,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Helping, healing, fixing. Do you ever just let yourself enjoy the moment? Do you ever just let yourself just breathe?"

You hesitated for a moment, glancing at the snowy trees around them. “I enjoy helping people. It’s who I am.” You shrugged the smiled.

“I know,” he said, stopping in his tracks as he stood beside you. You turned to face him, your breath catching at the intensity in his gaze. “But you deserve moments for yourself too."

A gentle silence fell between them, the only sound the faint rustle of the wind through the branches. Fiyero reached out, brushing a snowflake from your cheek his fingers lingered for just a moment, sending a warmth through you that chased away the winter chill.

“Let’s make this a moment for you,” he said, stepping back with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Do you trust me?”

You raised an eyebrow. “That depends. What are you planning?” Still missing his touch but you quickly chased that feeling away.

Without answering, Fiyero crouched and scooped up a handful of snow, quickly shaping it into a ball. Before you could react, he tossed it gently at you, hitting your shoulder.

Your mouth fell open in mock outrage. “Oh, you’re asking for it now!”

You bent down and grabbed your own handful of snow, launching it at him. He dodged, laughing, and soon the quiet forest was filled with the playful shouts of you both as you chased each other, snowballs flying.

After a while, both of you collapsed into the snow, breathless and grinning. You laid on your back, staring up at the pale winter sky. Fiyero propped himself up on one elbow, watching you.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he said softly, his voice uncharacteristically serious.

Your cheeks warm, though you weren't sure if it was from the cold or his words. You then turned your head to meet his gaze.

“Fiyero"

“I mean it,” he said, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His hand lingered, his touch warm despite the chill. “You’re always thinking about everyone else but yourself, you’re incredible.You make everything brighter. Even winter.”

For once, you were at a loss for words. Instead of speaking, you reached up and placed your hand over his, your fingers curling against his palm.

The moment stretched between them, the world around them fading into the background. Snowflakes continued to fall, but neither of you seemed to noticed.

“Thank you,” you finally whispered.

“For what?”

“For being here. For seeing me.”

Fiyero smiled, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “Always.”

As the snow fell softly around them, you and Fiyero stayed like that, wrapped in a moment that was entirely your own a moment of warmth, light.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 24

Azriel x third-oldest-Archeron-sibling!reader

a/n: As an extra warning: by my own standards this got very dark in the second part, and was very draining to write. You may find this a walk in the park, but if you feel like anything in this chapter is getting to you please obviously feel free to take a break, or put on some happy instrumental music :)

Also, this was written as one part—Tumblr forced me to split it into two, hence the posting of two chapters in one night

warnings (mostly for part two): angst, death, some blood/gore unfortunately, slight hurt/comfort but it’s complicated, prison-related plot, general misery for reader

word count for part one: 9,448

total word count: 19,262

-Part 23-

The plan, as far as you understand it, is to winnow up northeast to the coastal town, Bornemere, then to fly the rest of the way to locate the few traders willing to barter for Illyrian steel, among other things only accessibly through specific trade routes. Like the oxen hide Azriel had mentioned. 

You can’t lie, the idea of having a dagger strapped to your body or tied to an inner pocket has your insides twisting. It seems overkill, to give you a blade when you’d imagine Azriel to have an abundance of his own hidden away. He needs you to navigate the jungle and differentiate between lethal and harmless invertebrate, while you need him to handle any creatures with antagonistic or aggressive tendencies. In other words, you can’t imagine one of you leaving the other’s side. 

It could easily be your imagination that convinces you of the salt in the air, that tangles itself into the roots of your tied-back hair and makes it stiff and sticky, but when the sea comes into view and the screech of marine birds cleave along through the winds, you’re reassured. The town seems large, expanding lengthwise along the coastline rather than seeping back inland that’s filled with dry fields and brown crops where small spots of white graze atop the hills, a few taking shelter in the steep cover of the valleys that seem to zigzag. Although your eyes aren’t quite strong enough to pick it out from such a height, you know streams will be running through their centres, fresh-water springs babbling up from holes in the ground before eventually making their way outwards toward the sea, joining forces until they accumulate into creek, gathering into streams before feeding into rivers. Casting your eyes further along the land you can spot an estuary splitting Bornemere in two, where the river opens into the sea, rock scattering the opening. 

Your ears pop as Azriel begins to descend through the air, keeping his wings spread wide to smooth the long glide down. Air rushes past your cheeks, a single strand of hair stinging your eye as the wind whips it about and you yield half your grip on Azriel’s shoulders to tuck it beneath the scarf wrapped around your head. It had been Elain’s idea, and now, with the wintery coastal air trying to slip its way up your sleeves and beneath the neckline of your dress, or even wrap its way up your legs beneath your skirts, you’re glad you bundled up a little more to combat the harsh winds. 

The plan, that you’d been trying to revise in your head before you’d become distracted by your senses, is to fly by Bornemere, pick up a couple of supplies for yourself—and maybe Azriel, but he hasn’t mentioned anything so you can only suppose—then return to Velaris to gather up the cotton canvas backpacks that will see you through the Summer Court jungles. At the though alone a ray of excitement splits through the grey cold of your mood. You wonder how many of the creatures you’ve read about, vertebrate and invertebrate alike, that you’ll get to see with your own eyes while traveling. The birds and insects are what you’re most looking forward to, having spent considerable time admiring the clean watercoloured illustrations of vibrant feathers, the iridescent shine of beetle shells with the flared sensors on tiny feet. The trip itself should take between two to four days to reach the centre, depending on variables like weather, the safety of the old paths, and whether the map that dates back two centuries is still accurate. 

Likely the two of you will also be making a subtle stop at one or two of the villages on the outskirts of the jungle, finding appropriate clothing as well as canisters for water and more long-lasting food. A small part of you worries over the attire for the journey. It’s no secret that Summer’s climate mostly consists of hot, open-skied days, and you imagine the jungle will be testing the line between  natural humidity and the inside of a birchin. With the insects around it wouldn’t be a good idea to venture in bare-skinned, but the muggy air might quickly change your mind on the compromise. The idea alone has unease settling in the pit of your stomach. You hope the long-sleeved clothing they’ll have will prove breathable enough for suffocation to not be a problem you’ll have to struggle with. 

Azriel drops a few inches down through the air, the circles now not as wide as they once were as his hazel eyes seek out the perfect landing spot to accommodate him. Your stomach lurches with the abrupt decrease in height and your hand that had been tucking hair beneath your scarf quickly shoots back to its original placement around his neck. You do try not let your nails dig into his shoulders, but you’re still so uncomfortable with flying, and the occasional far drop doesn’t help with your nerves. 

His hair ruffles in the wind, like she’s running her fingers through it though he seems unbothered by the cold, features cool and set as always. Dark brows dip together in the middle of his forehead though you can only see his profile, swirling hazel eyes hidden in the private hollow beneath, cast in partial shadow. Lowering incrementally further, you follow the line of his nose, tipping over the curve and falling to his lips. They’re sealed shut against the billowing wind but he looks the same as he always does. Calm, collected, and completely unbothered by the harsh elements. Until you reach his eyes, that is. They’re far too still to be anything other than focused. 

Azriel’s eyes don’t move like you suspect your own do—flitting about the place as you spy more and more colours and things to name. Where your eyes skitter, his hazel set cut. Slicing to wherever he needs them to be with the directive and aim of what you suppose must be a warrior. 

If his eyes are weapons, then his mouth…

Pupils cut into your own and you momentarily fumble, enough of a start that Azriel readjusts the grip of his fingers around your ribs, flexing over the slope of your thigh. Beneath your back and legs his arms recalibrate their tension and he inclines the angle to which you’re falling toward him by a fraction—to make up for the angle of the descent. 

“Once we land I want you to stay close,” Azriel instructs, not minding to acknowledge that he’d probably caught you staring. “Bornemere is a coastal town; the sailor’s here are known to have wandering hands so make sure to keep aware of your surroundings.” You dip your head, breaking the eye contact as you nod once. Even if he hadn’t offered the words of caution you’d have stuck tight to his side anyway, unless a special something had caught your eye, but you’ll certainly feel more at ease now he’s laid the offer down himself. You won’t have to feel like an intruder when walking beneath his shadow. 

“Have you encountered this trader before?” You ask once Azriel’s attention has returned to his mental checkpoint, curiosity perking in your chest. Azriel had mentioned before leaving that you would both be visiting someone in particular he knew dealt with Illyrian goods. In your periphery, he nods. “A few times. When I haven’t wanted to deal with the Illyrians,” he glances down to you and again you quickly look elsewhere. “In that regard, he’s been incredibly valuable.” 

“You don’t like Illyria?” You ask, though it’s quiet enough you worry the words will be swept away by the wind before they get a chance to reach his achingly familiarly curved ears. 

Azriel’s expression hardly shifts, but the features that do contort tell you a story of cruel barbarity, and a hate that runs deeper than the pure icy waters that carve stone in two, far below the earth’s surface. 

“No,” he tells you, “I do not.” 

You swallow, sensing you’ve approached a conversation he isn’t welcoming you to. So instead you nod your head vaguely, trying to create a noise of mild understanding in your chest, “It is quite cold up there. The wind blows right through you.” Your eyes flitter about, eventually settling on a warm part of his chest that you’re held against. “I bet the snow is pretty, though,” you murmur, not fully committing to speaking the words aloud, leaving it up to chance to bring your voice to him or whip it away. 

Hazel eyes cut toward you again but it takes a few moments for his mouth to make the reply, pausing in a way that makes you believe it wasn’t his first choice of comment. “Hold tighter. We’re going to drop.” 

You blink. “Drop…?” 

Your insides clench as his wings fold in, arms strangling themselves around his broad shoulders as his body lowers. Azriel’s wings flap twice more—firm, powerful strokes that send the surrounding grass whipping outward in a circle before his boots touch down. Your legs nearly buckle when he sets you down, adrenaline from having been so high in the sky making them weak and custard-like. It takes a few minutes before you’re confident enough in your strength to tuck your arms inward and nestle them deep in the warm pockets of your dress, concealed beneath a heavy cloak now you’re more certain you won’t need to catch yourself in case you trip over your own feet. 

The walk to the centre of the town isn’t too long, affording you the pleasant chance to take in the streets as their own beauty. Granted, some of the paint is peeling, but more than a couple of houses have been painted happy, uplifting colours, surprisingly fitting for the coast: a pale coral pink; starfish yellow with window sills the colour of crab legs; a house with a roof as dark as the sea beneath a new moon, its door painted an aquamarine blue with a knocker in the shape of a Gold-Gilled Lobster. A few homes have pointed, swirling shells scattered about their front steps and you imagine they must be the homes with children inside. 

For a town Azriel has warned you contains sailors with greedy fingers, you’re surprised by how many homes seem to leave such pretty treasures out. A particularly beautiful shell catches your eye, its spines covered in mother of pearl, the edges turning an oxidised blue-green before giving way to the prawn-pink of the rest of the carapace.

“Up here.” Azriel nods to a narrow alley that cuts between two houses—suspiciously out of the way—but before you can make the turn, Azriel pauses. You peer up at him, curious. 

“He might seem intimidating to you, at first,” Azriel begins. “He isn’t one for small talk, or talk at all, for that matter.” You shift on your feet, nerves beginning to squirm in your thighs and arms, making your body restless and anxious. You nod your head. Azriel nods, but pauses again. Then seems to think better, and turns, letting you quietly follow him down between the houses to a new street and through the darkened door of a low-ceilinged shop. 

The inside smells of leather and a kind of polish or preservative that makes your nostrils sting for the first moments after entering. Tunics and boots and hats and gloves are categorised on separate displays within the wide room, a table in the centre containing the leather pre-craft, and discomfort slithers through your gut as you wrap the skinned leather back up around the animal it once was. 

Azriel turns to you, “Wait here.” Then he’s silently moving behind the desk and through the doorway behind it. Disappearing from view.

With little to do until he returns, you take your time to peer more closely around the shop. More specifically following Azriel’s footsteps to the desk but pausing before passing the invisible threshold where you’re allowed to tread. Mounted on the wall are rows and rows of blades. Most possess only one honed edge of steel but a few are duel pronged and you have to wonder what they could be used for. The blades vary in size, some as long as your little finger, others the length of your leg. One in particular catches your eye, leaned up against one corner of the wall behind the desk, though at first you hadn’t realised it was a blade due to its size. The steel edge has to be at least the height of your body, if not more, and the handle seems like it might be as thick as both your forearms bound together. You allow your gaze to curiously wander over the clean edge, the small notches made along the hilt before returning the selection on the wall. 

It’s strange, when you think about it. Maybe it’s because creatures in Prythian are inherently intertwined with magic, but weight and mass seem to have no affect on them, unlike humans. You’d be able to hear someone walking up behind you, even if they were trying to be quiet. Fae, or rather faeries, seem to be able to silence even their heartbeat if they wish to as you don’t even hear the door go or the creak of floorboards until a gruff voice asks from behind you, “Can I help?” 

You jump, spinning around as your heart pounds, only to be forced to yield enough steps to have the ledge of the desk digging into your shoulder blades so you can crane your neck high enough to find the top of the creature before you. The Ogre’s skin is a dark, forest green mixed with traces of grey over the powerful circles of his shoulders, the soft curls of hair that crawl across the two halves of his upper chest cut off by the linen shirt. His brows are thick and heavy above yellow eyes that are sliced through with horizontal-laying pupils—not unlike the eyes of a goat, or sheep. Long, thick tusks jut out from his lower jaw, pressing into the soft flesh of his upper lip, revealing the slightest hint of pink beneath. Forearms thicker than your thighs are folded over a wide chest, his brows carved downwards in unmistakeable displeasure that borders on aggression. 

Your lips part, his large silhouette entirely eclipsing the limited light, his shadows swallowing your body completely as he looms before you, removing the possibility of escape. You thought the Illyrian’s were built like nature’s supreme beasts, but the Ogre before you would make even Cassian appear the size of an average human man. Frighteningly large for a shop so small. 

“I-…” You stammer, trying quickly to get your bearings. “Are you- You’re the trader?” The Ogre’s brows narrow further and his response comes in the form of a single, rough-edged grunt. You swallow—Azriel should have given you more warnings. Intimidating doesn’t do the mountain of a male before you even an ounce of justice. “My- friend,” you manage, “he brought me here…” You swallow again, finding your lips sticky from the sea air and crisp. “I believe we’re looking for leather coverings? For myself.” Yellow eyes don’t so much as shift before he answers, “You’ll find nothing here.” 

“Nothing…?” You repeat, trying now to lean less of your weight on the desk, its ledge uncomfortably digging into your shoulders—the height makes sense now. “Then, a blade?” 

“Do you know how to hold one?” 

You blink at his harsh reply, then frown. “I require one, and wish to purchase one.” Then you push a little away from the counter, straightening your spine. “Do you have one?” 

The Ogre’s eyes narrow and you try to fight the urge to cower and crawl behind the desk. He tilts his head, “Where’s your friend?” It takes you a few seconds to remember you’d given Azriel that title, but by the time you remember the Ogre’s speaking again. “Are you making the purchase yourself?” 

“I-…I don’t think so…” That was something you hadn’t discussed with him. It’s a logical assumption to guess Azriel will be paying for whatever you need, since he’s the one insisting on a weapon for your person, but it feels wrong to jump to that conclusion. 

The Ogre’s eyes don’t stray from yours, and the need to crawl away beneath the table increases, his gaze piercing into you, “I don’t see your friend anywhere.” An embarrassed flush creeps up your neck—he thinks you’re lying. “He went upstairs. I think to look for you.” 

“Customers aren’t allowed upstairs.” The Ogre’s tone has shifted away from displeasure, having dived deep now into blatant aggression, violence simmering in his eyes. Gleaming too eagerly, despite the glacial fury twisting his mouth. He walks past you, gripping the hilt of the blade that had been leant up against the wall. It looks almost small in his hands. 

“He wouldn’t-” You fumble when the Ogre effortlessly lifts the blade from its standing, palms wrapping comfortably around the thick hilt. You swallow, heart jumping. “I’m sure he wouldn’t go up without reason. He said he’d met you before? Illyrian.” 

The Ogre pauses, ire doused though not entirely—not enough for the pulse of your heart to calm. “His name?” 

You wring your hands. “Azriel…? He said he’d visited you before, so…” The Ogre blows out a sharp huff of breath, the blade returning to its place in the corner—unused. “You should have said so to begin with,” he growls, his glare piercing straight through your flesh right down to the marrow of your bones. 

Your brows narrow uncharacteristically, lip curling faintly. “Quite a temper,” you mutter under your breath, scowl forming above your eyes as you pick out the faint footfalls descending the staircase, a beat quicker than their usual pace. Azriel really should have made it clear just how foul this male’s mood could be.

A heavy growl rumbles through the Ogre’s chest, hairs at the nape of your neck prickling as those yellow eyes glare ire into your skull. Your features twist in the slightest twitch of a snarl, before swiftly mellowing out once Azriel returns from the upper floor, hazel eyes sweeping once across the room, leaving only a second of pause to adjust his surprise before continuing forward to keep at your side. 

“Malachite. It’s good to see you again,” Azriel greets, each male grasping the others’ hand firmly. Azriel’s palm looks the size of your own in the Ogre’s grip who grunts his reply, moving to stand behind the counter while you equally move opposite, circling Azriel who’s left between the two of you. “What can I get for you?” Asks Malachite, attention abandoning you completely, shifting instead to the Shadowsinger who will be putting in the request. 

But Azriel’s attention cuts sidewards to you, and you falter. Shifting beneath his gaze. 

“Do you have anything in her size?” Azriel asks, eyes scanning over your body in a way that makes warmth flow to your cheeks, toes tensing in your shoes, head dipping a dozen degrees. You want him to like what he sees, but that’s probably not even the last thing on his mind. 

Malachite turns his attention back to you, yellow eyes glaring into your own set and you stiffen, bristling beneath the look. Heavy brows narrow over his gaze, casting his irises partially in shadow. “Nothing that wouldn’t hang off her. She has no muscle.” Azriel nods, apparently having thought the same. “Then how long will it take for you to make something?” 

The Ogre grunts, folding thick arms over his full chest. “That depends.”

Hazel eyes narrow by a fraction of an increment. “Twenty. Gold. Thirty if it fits perfectly.” 

“Done.” 

You blink, having expected it to go on for longer. Yellow eyes pin you to the floor, and Malachite nods his head to the back room he’d gotten so aggressive about earlier. “Back there.” 

Azriel goes first, and you hurry yourself to keep close behind him, sharing a glare as you pass by the Ogre, who grunts. 

Passing through another low-ceilinged corridor, Azriel leads you to a room on the right that opens up to reveal a scene you would not have expected an Ogre to enjoy. Threads are displayed neatly on one portion of the far wall, a large pin cushion with bauble-ended needles prickling out. Fabrics and leathers are rolled carefully on the far right side of the room, beneath a window, and on the left is a large mirror. A spinning wheel sits in a darkened corner, made larger specially to handle Malachite’s size. You can’t keep the surprise from your mouth. 

“Over here,” Azriel murmurs to you, pausing in front of the large mirror. You come to a stop just shy of his side, a little more at ease now the room is less cramped. And because Malachite seems to have gone elsewhere for a while. 

You shift on your feet, arms folding around your waist, one hand holding your side while the other sets itself just above your elbow. “The…bartering went quickly,” you say, peering around the floor—it’s surprisingly clean. Save for a few threads scattered between the floorboards. A single sequin glittering up at you. A nail not too far off from that. 

“Illyrian leather is high quality,” Azriel tells you, watching the door patiently, “We both know that.” Teeth squeeze the curve of your lower lip, eyes darting about the room as you once more shift on your feet. “So…you come here when you don’t want to go to Illyria?” You ask, wondering if you’re pushing too far. You can’t help wanting to know, though. You crave education about the world around you instinctively, searching avidly for every drop of information available, sinking into the wonders of an unfamiliar world with insatiable ferocity. It’s undoubtedly what’s helped keep you sane and relatively grounded.

But the way you want to know about the world is different from the way you want to know about Azriel. 

You read everything you can about Prythian because it’s there, and available. Flora, fauna, fashion, and history—there are plenty of tomes to read detailing the recent eras, the fluctuations in Court distinctions. You can’t recall ever desiring knowledge on something so unavailable and you try not to think about it too much. 

How intensely you crave him. 

It’s not good to dwell on. 

“It’s closer,” Azriel reasons, “and time is dwindling.” You shift, glancing sidewards at him, though not lifting you gaze high enough to meet his eyes. “Have you decided on a route for Summer?” You ask, pulling the map into mind. Despite not looking at him directly, you know his eyes are studying you now, turned away from the empty hallway. “I’ve been considering,” he relents, with a slowness that has you guessing at his internal indecision. Until his choice is made. “What do you think?” 

You blink, unable to help from staring at him questioningly. 

“Me?” You blurt out, confused. But Azriel nods as if it makes complete sense. Waiting expectantly. You swallow; lick your lips; swallow again. “I…well, I suppose in the interest of saving time it might better to enter the rainforest via the Winter Court…” You look up at him for approval. 

As if he’s ever given you any for yourself. 

Azriel’s expression is unreadable, and you look away, peering at the floor again. “From the looks of it though, the climb would be much steeper, and I’m not sure…” You trail off, wringing your hands together. You’re not sure you would even be able to cope with a hike like that at full health. Even with the safety of someone competent accompanying you. You clear your throat, “it might honestly take longer… I suppose unless we flew down to the peek of a mountain, then walked the distance to the Temple from above…but with the altitude, and thunderstorms, it probably wouldn’t be safe…” You look at him, “—Can siphons protect from lightening strikes?” 

Azriel nods. 

“Then…would the temperature be a problem? I imagine even packing lightly will still overall be heavy, and you’ll be carrying me, too, plus potentially a few flasks of water, which will swiftly increase the weight…” You pause, thinking. “That plus how thin the air might get, storms, lightening, heat, creatures….” You sigh to yourself. “I don’t think descending from above is a good plan…” 

Your shoulders slope, disgruntled. It had seemed a promising plan at first—a way to halve the time and avoid significant risk.

“Keep going,” Azriel tells you, making you peer at him. “Flying would be impossible, so what next?” 

“Well, we could either pass through Winter, which would be steeper and therefore have a heightened risk, but would probably be faster…” 

“Or?” 

“Or we could start at the foot of the mountains, right on the outskirts of the rainforest, and enter that way? But it would take much longer.” 

“How much longer, do you think?” 

You contemplate, recalling the geography, what the terrain had looked like according to that centuries out-of-date map. “If everything goes smoothly…maybe a day and a half through Winter?” 

“And through Summer?” You nip at your lower lip. Pulling the uppermost layer of skin from your tongue. “Closer to three days. Maybe four. But that would be if everything goes smoothly, which it undoubtedly won’t.” 

Azriel’s brow furrows. “What makes you think that.” 

You peer up at him, surprised. A little caught off guard by the question. 

“Well…” you begin, soft and hesitant. “That’s just how things go, don’t they?” 

Heavy foot thuds draw you from conversation, and your lips dip down at the edges as Malachite pushes into the room, carrying a small crate that proportionally would be the size of three stacked square pillows in your arms. 

He walks to the centre of the room, pausing in front of the mirror, and sets the box down with a rumbling thud, a gust of wind teasing your ankles, the crate hitting the floor with enough weight your foot would have surely been crushed had it been caught underneath. Though the Ogre doesn’t appear the least bit bothered by the heavy weight. He isn’t even breathless. 

“Up on here.” Malachite orders, nodding to the crate he’s placed in the centre of the room. Examining it now, in the context of the room and not his arms, it’s about half your height—not something you can easily step onto. You blink, sizing up the crate. You could crawl onto it, if you got your knee up first, but… You flush, glancing down at the length of your dress. You’ll have to hike it up, to make sure you don’t trip on the fabric. You clear your throat, a touch awkwardly. “Will you look away, while I climb up?”

Malachite’s piercing yellow eyes narrow, ire igniting once more and you can almost see the aggravated huff of breath he exhales from those round nostrils, thick brows furrowing. Azriel steps forward from your right, palms open as he reaches for you. “I can lift you up,” he tells you gently. But your own brows furrow, stepping out of his reach. “What? No. All I’m asking is for you to look elsewhere for a bit.” You say, turning back to Malachite.

His lips curl, teeth flashing. “Get up there or I’ll put you there myself,” he growls. 

It’s been a long time since ire has taken a hold of you so thoroughly. 

“Try.” You hiss, features twisting in a snarl. “See what happens.” 

The room is completely silent. Golden eyes locked with your own, the third presence holding his breath, likely preparing to cool whatever outburst next ignites. 

You know your hands are glowing. Can feel that tingle glistening at your fingertips. 

Malachite grinds his jaw, then sighs roughly. “Quickly.” He growls, boots thumping as he turns his back. 

You swallow, tension releasing from your spine and shoulders, muscles softening as you hesitantly turn back to Azriel, glancing up to him quietly. His brows are raised by a fraction, a pause of something passing through the air, but then he’s turning away too. 

You don’t waste any time in lifting your skirts and climbing onto the crate, Malachite already having turned back by the time the hem brushes your ankles again. 

“Hold still,” the Ogre orders, unrolling a measuring tape from one of his leather pockets. He takes down the length of your spine, the distance of your nape to your ankles; wrist to your shoulder; one hip to the other; the circumference of your upper- and fore-arm. You tense instinctively when he reaches round your middle, his large forearms brushing your ribcage, forcing you to raise your arms just so he has enough space. The measuring tape constricts sharply around your waist, making you jolt, already prepared to snap something else at him. 

“Careful.” Azriel mutters from the side, so quiet you nearly miss it. “She’s a fraction of your size, Malachite.”

“She can handle it,” the Ogre returns, tone disagreeable and stern, but the bite around your waist loosens, allowing you space to breathe properly as he takes down that last measurement. 

————

Malachite had said your custom clothing would be finished by the end of the day—much to your surprise. You suppose Azriel is paying him well. And the two did seem relatively friendly. Or as friendly as either could get with another like them. And Malachite had seemed a competent craftsmale. 

But now you have a day to spend in this coastal town, and little idea what to do. 

Little more than wanting to make the most of it, if it’s to be spent conveniently close to Azriel’s side.

“Do you…have anything else to do?” You ask, once you’re back out into the salty air, walking leisurely down a main street with the grey-blue sea occasionally visible between coloured houses. You’ve never had a chance to see the sea before. It’s slightly frightening, even from a distance. Azriel shakes his head, and you glance somewhere away, teeth pulling at your lower lip while in thought. 

“Can we see the sea, then?” You ask, looking at him hesitantly. 

Azriel nods, and steers you down an alley, leading between a wooden-made shack with netting strung along its exterior, and a cream-painted house with weathered window panes and a small back garden. You gaze across the flat horizon line, greyish skies meeting blue-grey water, thick and heavy. Bluer than the rivers you’d grown up by, and certainly cleaner looking than the brown-black lakes and ponds of your childhood. 

Stepping foot on the pebbled beach, a gust of wind blows briny air up your nostrils, smelling of something damp and stagnant, and distinctly salty. With the uneven ground beneath your feet, you’re forced to remove your arms from their warm huddle at your sides, stepping further into the beach as you make your way cautiously over to a cluster of black rocks, rich green algae sleeked across the seastone. 

The rock is jagged beneath your fingers, piercing even through your gloves and numbed flesh, but the mild discomfort is worth the treasure of the small pools gathered in smoothed-out hollows. Your lips part, an exited huff of breath puffing from your lungs and you clamber a little higher, careful of your footing. At the beds of the miniature pools is a thick layer of sand and softened shell fragments, spots of brown-pink and orange smudging the pale crusts. In the corner of your chosen pool sits an intact shell, and your lips curve into an exhilarated smile, fingers dipping into the icy water to trace the scalloped edge, grazing the ridges with your nail. 

A startled gasp escapes your mouth as little, armoured legs shoot out from the openings, tiny red pincers cautiously extended as legs scuttle sidewards into the sand, swiftly burying itself deeper and safer. A young crab. You’ve never seen one alive before. Or one so small. 

Gazing further about you recognise all kinds of shapes and globs—a dark maroon jelly clinging to the rock face, a smattering of barnacles with flecks of pearly white glazing their rough exteriors, slimy looking folds that appear like a long-forgotten cousin of landmoss. Even the algae finds ways to be intriguing, coming apart like cotton-based yarn on your fingers, sinewy and stringy. Pale yellow and lush green. It looks soft and cloud-like underwater, but limp and clutching once taken into the open air. 

You decide to leave the remaining creatures unbothered, and tentatively lift yourself from the chosen perch, not too bothered by the darkened hem of fabric that’s become damp and sodden in places. Azriel waits patiently at the foot of the seastone formation, hazel eyes tracking your footing as you descend the jagged rocks, leaving once you’ve reached the small pebbles again. 

Instead of asking, as soon as your eyes land on a flat outcropping of rock, where the pebbles doze away, your feet are moving. Dazedly walking over to peer down into the gatherings of water in the dips and crevices, spotting pops of coloured shells, small creatures skittering about from hollow to hollow. A wave froths over the lower portion of the vast rock surface, and even so far away the water ripples upward. Your curiosity flows with the departing wave, pulled nearer to the sea itself, until you’re forced to pause in order to keep dry. 

Although the sheer mass of water in incomprehensible to your mind, what’s obvious to your eyes alone is enough to have your breath deepening. Mind quietening as the waves spill onto the beach, hushing and shushing as foam clushes over pebbles and stones. You wonder what it might be like to be a creature of the sea. Whether the tides in the deep ocean are at all similar to roads across the country, or currents in the air. Whether the sea-life knows what pull to follow in accordance with the space around them. 

Time must be so different below the surface. 

Pebbles shuffle somewhere in the background of your mind, thousands of tiny stones rinsed with water rubbing against one another as a pressure steps onto them, yielding space to slot together better to accommodate the added weight. A wind roars across the beach, trying to whip the scarf free from your hair, luring strands free to sting and slice when they cut against your cheeks. 

“We should go inland to the market,” Azriel says, pausing at your side. You stand upright, but he’s still taller despite being on a lower plane of the beach. His dark head tips toward the open sea, where the horizon line has come blurred, the sky and water mixing as swollen clouds lethargically glide forward, peppering the smooth water surface with miniature raindrops, hitting the sea like stones. “There’ll be shelter further in, and it will be warmer.” 

You look out to the sea again, lips parting at how swiftly the storm is approaching. How thick the rainfall seems, even from such a far distance. Dense and near-opaque. Your pulse spikes. 

To feel all those raindrops hitting your skin…soaking your clothes and hair…trickling down your spine, behind the curve of your ears, crying down your cheeks and hanging from your lashes like teardrops… 

“Can we stay…?” 

The question comes out of its own accord, but you’re too busy feeling to retract it.

Azriel pauses, hesitance being an interesting texture on him.

“Sure.” 

————

He had been wary when she asked to remain on the beach, not sure she grasped how uncomfortable she would become with rain-drenched clothes paired with ice-cold winds, but the expression that had been on her face had been…compelling. A refusal had been on the tip of his tongue, but when he had looked at her she had been looking back, with her full attention. 

Azriel hasn’t ever seen her look at him completely—likely because a part of her mind has always been straying over him to fully gather her focus in one place. To look at him without another thought in her head. 

When the rain had come he had been able to hear her heart racing. Could pick out the rise and fall of her throat, chin tilted upright to watch the clouds fill the skies. Could see the gradient of her clothes darken, and the pattern of her hair where the thin, pale scarf was suctioned to it. 

He had waited at the beach’s top while she meandered down to the shoreline again, moving over the pebbles like the floor was made of springy moss. Once more scaling the jagged rocks and dipping her then-bare fingers into the filling pools, stirring up sand and life, having left her gloves behind. And this time, keeping dry hadn’t been a worry on her mind. 

Azriel’s stomach had tensed when she’d waded into the water until it was lapping at her calves, had been prepared to help her upright when she inevitably was tipped over by a wave she hadn’t anticipated, or had her footing undermined when stepping on a rock she hadn’t realised was there. And when she reaches down into the water, he’s certain the wind will carry across a yelp when the glacial water touches her stomach, startled enough by the cold that she will tip, or fall, or splash, or become submerged entirely. 

Instead her eyes become wide enough his attention on her narrows, both her arms elbow-deep in the waters, cupping something beneath the waves. Even through the thick curtains of rain she finds him, brows risen as she tips her head toward the sea. Come over here!

With a sigh, Azriel lifts himself from the cobbled wall he’d been stood before, separating the beach from the street, and walks down to the edge of the shore, the bottoms of his leather-bound boots inching into the shallows. Her back is hunched, sea up to her thighs, and when she sees he’s near enough, she lifts her cupped palms from the water. 

Laying flat across her hands is a grey seastone, but gripping to the stone is a dark purple starfish. 

Her eyes sparkle, already having left him to return to the sea creature. 

That’s right—she’s never seen these things before. 

And then he spots the darkness shooting just below the water’s surface. Concealed by the storm. 

————

A series of steadily increasing sizes of bumps run up the starfish’s five limbs, its skin littered in tiny speckles of mauve, blue, and maroon. They’re like the scales on a snake, with threads of soft, grey-pink flesh visible between them. Beautiful, and magical, in their own way. You have to wonder if the fish and animals in the upper parts of Prythian are especially designed, or whether some life is just more beautiful than others, magic having little to do with it. 

Just the luck of the draw. 

Azriel moves suddenly in your periphery, but his shout is muffled by the thundering rain. You startle as the clouds rumble overhead, starfish falling from your palms and splashing into the icy sea, hitting the bed and stirring up sediment.

You know it splashes, because something snatches at your ankle, and water sprays as you’re tipped over. 

You know it’s icy, because the breath is shocked from your lungs the second it snares around your throat. 

You know once it’s in the sea, it hits the ground, because your skull pounds with pain as you hit the rocky bed. 

Searing scratches bleed their way up your calf, claws crawling up your body. Salt water stings at your eyes and nostrils, burning your nose and the back of your throat as it’s swallowed down in a panicked gulp for air. The sea fizzes with tight air bubbles, sound muffled and thick, arms encased in freezing syrup as you try to find something to take hold of, feet thrashing as the bones around your ankle tighten, rocks grazing at your back as you’re dragged along the sea bed, hauled further out to sea, further from the shore. Pressure squeezing your already pounding skull as you go deeper, deeper, deeper. 

You lash out, nails catching on something and more water fills your lungs as you scream, something coming away cold and soft beneath your nails. Clumpy and flesh-like. 

Whatever’s grabbing you recoils briefly, before surging forward with threefold its original strength, claws digging into the flesh of your thighs, scratching at your hips as it climbs higher, a single nail running down the centre of your throat before strong arms are hooking beneath your own, a sudden searing heat blazing just in front of you, and you swear a flash like lightening hits the water. Cold, and blue, despite the brief burn of the water as it came to a boil. 

Water shoots from your nostrils, gurgling in your throat as you try to gasp for air, wind roaring and whipping, rain lashing down into your eyes as you’re hauled back to the surface, Azriel’s arms keeping you clutched tight to his body, wading through the sea to return to the safety of the shore. Your arms spasm, lungs coughing as your stomach clenches and roils, retching as water spills from your lips, spat out upon the slick pebbles of the beach. 

Your eyes are burning, panting and gasping and crying as stinging pain bleeds across your body, able to smell the copper even in the rain-soaked air. 

Through the blinking blur of your vision, you can see Azriel crouched beside you but the wind is too loud to hear what he’s saying. Thunder rumbles through the skies and you try to dig your knuckles into the spongey hollows of your eye sockets, desperate to see, to dry away the salt. 

A hot palm burns your cheek, warm fingers guiding away your pestering hands, pressing dry fabric gently to the inner parts of your eyes. You sniffle, lungs heaving, chest trembling, but slowly the blur subsides, enough for you to pick out the dry finger of a glove trailing carefully beneath your lash-line. 

Your arms tighten themselves on your ribcage, squeezing your sides as you keep your knees close to your chest, shaking violently. 

The raging storm is blotted away as a dark panel slides across the smudged horizon, a hand curving on your shoulder to bring you closer, and terror has paralysed your capacity for shame. 

Eyes burning anew; stinging as tears roll away, your forehead falls to Azriel’s shoulder, huddling into his warmth. Legs crossed at the ankle, hands tucked into your armpits, you can feel the pulse of his jugular against your temple, the line of his jaw grazing the crown of your head. His palm squeezes, your stomach spasming as hot blood recoils from your surface, steadily sinking inwards and slowly draining down your legs where that creature raked its claws. 

Lighting flashes overhead, thunder rumbling only a second later, and you curl yourself tighter, uncaring for the heat it’s wringing from your body. Dripping onto the cobbles below. 

“You have magic,” Azriel whispers, exasperated and strained. “Why didn’t you use it?” 

Your lips tremble, tears mixing with the rain, head hanging as you try to press closer to his warmth to keep away the whipping winds. Hot breath puffs along the length of your throat, and his palm settles over your skull, thumb trailing the perimeter of the wound you know is there. You’re grateful he’s holding you tight enough there’s nearly no room to shake and shudder. 

————

Azriel is convinced it’s one of the escaped immortals. 

His features had been strained when he’d carried you back inland to the town, finding a temporary spot for you to rest, indoors and warm, hot food and drink brought out, and given a quiet backroom to huddle in. The temperature is warm, but your left shoulder and hip and cold without Azriel around. Tingling palm-sized pressures on your ribs and thigh. 

Azriel’s jaw is tight, wings laced with tension, and you wrap yourself tighter, shifting closer to the crackling fireplace. It’s common sense you’ll warm up quicker with the removal of your clothes, but you both know that isn’t an option for you. So you settle for one-sided heat of the fire instead, alternating every now and then to give the opposite side of you a chance to dry. The only item of clothing discarded being your head scarf, hair hanging in clumpy strands from the sea salt. A tangling mess, sticky and sodden. 

Azriel glances to the clock on the wall again, and you reach for your tea, sipping tentatively, wary but not really caring about the scalding burn as it streams down your throat, heating your stomach. Your legs sting if the fire faces them for too long, but other than that, the pain is more than bearable. 

“Can you speak with Rhysand from here?” You ask softly, wrapping your fingers around the mug, peering into the sweetened, stirring liquid. Azriel shakes his head. “Too great a distance,” he replies in your same volume. “It will have to wait until we’re back in Velaris.” 

“Would it be good to leave now, then?” You ask, gaze shifting to the fireplace, already mourning its heat. But Azriel shakes his head again. “There’s still your armour to collect from Malachite. We will fly back once it’s collected.”

“You don’t know when it will be done…” You think aloud, shifting your hold on the mug. “Wouldn’t it be better to return now, than to waste more time waiting for something we aren’t sure will be finished?” 

“I know him. He’ll have it done.” 

Azriel sighs, for the first time since you’ve been given this quiet room in the back of a busy store leaning back in the too-small chair. Flames dance in his glowing eyes, and you wonder if he’s even seeing the fire at all, or if he’s learned to block it out. If such things even affect him anymore. 

The warmth leaves them as they cut to you, no longer reflecting the heat, and it takes a second for you to look away, cradling the mug. “Can you walk?” 

You blink, pausing. Mentally feeling down your body. Thinking how your flesh tingles and stings in different areas. The dull throb at the back of your head. “I think so,” you reply, looking to him, “if I’m fine to?” A phantom sting thrums through your thighs as his eyes cut over you, shins flickering with the grazing itch of a needle, threads of starlight glowing where his eyes trace. 

Azriel contemplates for a pause, eyes glazing as you imagine him once more attempting to reach out to Rhysand. “You’ll live,” he settles on, hazel clear again, “but say if you hurt. We’ll find a place to pause, and we can wait in one of Malachite’s rooms if you need space to rest.” 

You swallow but nod, not mentioning your aversion for the male. You’d prefer to walk on openly bleeding legs than willingly rest under the Ogre’s roof. Disagreeable and unpleasant as he was. 

Azriel gets to his feet, nodding to the mug in your lap. “Finish your tea then, and we’ll head out.” Upon noticing the questioning look in your eyes before you can hide it, he elaborates. “You haven’t seen the market yet, and it might take your mind off the events of the day. And it will allow me time to think on what to do next.” He adds at the end. 

Teeth chew your lip. You suppose if it will also help him…you don’t have to feel bad about dragging him around a town he’s probably seen anywhere from a few dozen to a few hundred times. Maybe more. 

So you finish your tea, wrap the now-dry scarf around your neck, and follow behind him as you trail back into the damp streets, thanking the owner sincerely on the way out. Grateful for the cozy shelter. 

————

The storm has passed by the time you return to open air, but has left its mark on the town. 

Cobbles are black and gleaming, puddles accumulated in between; crystal clear drops of water falling from iron lanterns, dripping from rooftops or the oxidised copper of gate rungs. The smell of the sea is temporarily overpowered by the damp scent of rain and wet brick, earthy with a twinge of brine. 

Still, the market itself is lively, tarpaulin strung atop heavily laden tables to protect from lashing rainfall, the slats that could hang down from the tops like curtains now once more rolled and tied, allowing passersby a better chance to browse the wares on sale. 

There are a few stalls that catch your eye, a surprising amount of variety for what you’d thought was just a coastal town, but that appears to be a centre for trading. The keepers of the stalls each gathering their wares then moving further throughout Prythian, carting special items between courts to sell elsewhere, exchanging where they can’t afford stock in gold. 

It’s strange to think about this world, almost similar to your father’s. 

Some tables are laden with thickly padded blankets, sheets with embroidered corners and tasseled edges, pillow coverings with matching floral motifs, outlined in golden thread. Others hold crockery and cutlery, and a smile tingles just beneath the surface of you lips when you spot a set you imagine came from the Winter Court—Bas’ home court. You swallow thickly, pausing to take in the distantly familiar details, blue ink glazed to the white ceramic, small figures that can’t be any larger than a single knuckle from your fifth finger pickaxing at frozen land. It’s both warming and aching to look upon, the faint taste of regret in your mouth. 

When your vision blurs at the edges, you force yourself to swiftly move on, shifting your attention to the next stall while Azriel keeps to himself, just remaining close enough to keep an eye on you without being invasive. It’s just what you need at the moment, space enough to walk on your own while having the comfort of strength within reach. Having the space to subtly dry your prickling eyes without having to feel the discomfort of shame. 

You pass by a few stalls before another takes your interest, smaller tables displaying knitted quilts and jumpers, thick scarves and three sizes of mittens—all too large for yourself. One table displays silverware: from rings, to locks, to hinges and tools. A box the size of your forearm filled with a variety of iron nails, some sharp as stingers while others twist and swirl, as small as a tooth or as long as one of your fingers. 

The male who watches over the stool has a sibling to this display, a table two thirds the size of the first entirely dedicated to jewellery—the silver and iron pieces made by hand while the ones forged in gold are the result of trade. You’re reminded of the blacksmith you’d spoken with in the Autumn market, who’d had the gruff exterior. For a moment your fingers itch to graze the lobes of your ears, but worry Azriel will somehow put all the pieces together, as impossible as that would be. Unfortunately the skill levels drastically differ here, most of the rings merely plain bands of silver, lacking the flourish you’d found so beautiful in Autumn. Much more practical looking, verging on banality, the exception being the pieces the blacksmith had traded for. 

Gazing over the twinkling gold you have to admit you’re clueless to how he managed to get his hands on jewellery like this. Compared to the iron and silver pieces, they’re stunning. More than a few engraved with small patterns, tiny coloured jewels encrusted in the centres of floral designs. You’re fortunate most of them seem made for male hands—there’s no way you could afford or trade your way into having possession of one of them, and you imagine they might now feel strange around your mostly numb digits. 

Azriel had mentioned some of the sailors having wondering hands… 

You cautiously depart form the stool, as beautiful as it had been, content to continue perusing. 

While the sting in your legs is very much present, you find more enjoyment in the exploration of the market, getting to see such a range of craftsmanship displayed all in one place. 

The next table you pause at is one that’s showing off more variety than any of the others, seemingly a collection of bits and bobs spat out in a disorganised pattern across the stretching table. Other fae bustle around in the space between rows, and you manage to slide into a space that will allow you to better look at the intriguing variety. 

After a while observing on your own, Azriel fills the empty slot beside you, receiving a wary glance from the stall-owner who migrates a little further down the table from where he’d been previously conversing with a customer. 

“See anything you like?” Azriel asks. 

Thankfully his proximity is enough to battle the shifting and shuffling of feet; the general bustle of the market. Your gaze roams across the long table, drawn to the splashes of colour gleaming before you. “Those are pretty,” you reply, nodding to the squares of coloured glass displayed upon pillow-stuffing in a tilted wooden crate. They look like they might be tea coasters, or lovely things to hang from the ceiling near a window, so the light refracts and spills beauty across a previously plain room. Your eyes stray to the other glass pieces, that smile again tingling at your lips when you see a few monocles filled with tinted glass, a pair of spectacles with circular, coloured lenses. 

They’re so ridiculously excessive they make your heart hurt. 

Azriel nods to the pair you were looking at, tinted indigo. “Why not try them on?” 

You look to him, lips parted. Brow furrowing, “Is that allowed?” 

Azriel shrugs, glancing to where the stall-owner is obviously eavesdropping. He blushes at having been caught, folding his arms over a puffed up chest, but gives a curt nod. You look back at the glasses, now in reach. With tentative fingers you pluck them from the display, sliding them over the point of your ears, letting them settle delicately on the bridge of your nose. 

They’re a bit large, but they fit. 

Unthinking, you look up at Azriel, curious for an expression to establish your own thoughts upon, and a beat passes. You swallow. “How do they look?” You ask, feeling heat creeping up your neck. Azriel watches you quietly for a few seconds. “Blue.” 

You nod your head, “they’re a bit too large, I think…” Carefully removing them, you fold back the legs, putting the lovely set back where they came from. “Those are pretty, though,” you say, gesturing to the arrangement of wooden goblets and other small carvings further down the table. Everything’s reminding you of him though. 

With a tightened throat, you lift one of the goblets, examining it in closer detail. The lovely colour of burnt wood, smelling smokey and familiar. Miniature circles ring the top, with eight arches etched into the sides topping two rings holding a series of squares inside. Skilled carvings. “Isn’t it nice?” You ask distantly, not sure whether you’re offering the question to Azriel or just thinking aloud. He nods anyway. “Do you like it?” 

You blink, lowering the goblet and looking to him, having not expected a question in return. You blink again, realising you shouldn’t be so surprised, clearing your throat and returning the carving to its place. “I- guess?” You stammer, not wanting to bring up Bas. It’s too ugly a bruise. “My father did things like this, though not-…practical…things…” 

Azriel hums, and you feel your throat closing up. 

Maybe you should have asked to help visit in the Winter Court, even if it would have meant travelling with Mor. You could have tried to patch things up with her, and maybe while you were there you could visit the statue Bas had once told you about. 

Maybe you should have insisted on seeing him once more, before he left. 

Just in case you didn’t live to say goodbye.