#and the question of what more should i give comes up

[demilypyro]

My father chases ghosts.

In a moment of uncharacteristic boldness, I once questioned my father on why he treated me with such cold detachment. Why his advice only ever seemed to come in the form of lecturing, and why he never hugged me, or even said he was proud of me. His words in that moment caused the small amount of respect I had for him to shake. He told me that he saw it as the mother's role to love a child, and that it was the father's role to keep the child on the straight and narrow. After some contemplation, I decided in that moment that I disliked him, not just as a parent, but as a person.

My father doesn't have a father. He was the product of an out-of-wedlock pregnancy between an interracial couple in the 60s... My grandmother was never willing to speak about what happened to my grandfather. I can only imagine he didn't stick around long, since my father never knew him, and grew up with only his mother. And it's always been clear to me that this bothered him. The man idolizes masculinity. Maybe desperate for a father figure, he found role models in his grandfather, whose portrait still hangs in his house and which he treats with great care, and his stepfather, whose surname he took (discarding his mother's last name) and passed on to me. Supposedly, his stepfather left his mother in a matter of years, so why my father idolizes him so, I don't understand. I've never met the man.

Perhaps similarly, my father left his mother's care the second he turned 18. Having lived with my grandmother for some years when I was in college, I can honestly understand why. She is prone to smothering the people she loves. In light of that experience, it maybe becomes easier to understand why my father would prefer a more distant form of parenting. Still, I don't agree with his philosophy on gender roles.

Some years after I transitioned, I had a conversation with my father that stuck with me. He said that he actually saw himself as rather unmasculine, a possibility that had never once occurred to me. With that in mind, I suppose he is somewhat short, and not especially muscular. He told me he had always felt insecure about it. But, unlike me, he had never once considered abandoning the pursuit of masculinity entirely. Rather, in his own words, he felt he needed to chase it even harder. To live up to the image he'd set for himself. The ghost of masculinity.

A lot became clear to me in that moment. My father is obsessed with chasing ghosts of how he thinks things Should Be. My mother once told me how he had this "plan" for where he wanted to be in life at each age. He wanted to live on his own by 20. He wanted to be married by 30. He wanted children by 40. When he found out my mother was pregnant, he married her as fast as he could. My mother didn't really care, but he said they HAD to be married before the baby was born. Things had to go in the right order. According to him, that was just how things Should Be.

He was chasing the ghost of the perfect nuclear family that was denied him.

They divorced when I was eight.

In light of all this, it becomes very clear why he acted the way he did when I was younger. I wasn't how his child Should Be. No matter how many things I was diagnosed with, he never bothered looking into what neurodivergency was, or how to deal with it, and simply held me to the standards of a neurotypical child. My mother tells me that when I was six, he yelled at me in a store for wanting to try on a dress. His child being autistic was something to be ignored until it went away. His child being transgender? Forget it.

In recent years, I think my father has started giving up on me. In a good way. Seeing me become happier as my transition progresses seems to have finally convinced him that he doesn't understand what's best for me, at least somewhat. I speak to him maybe once a month. But I often mourn the idea of a father I could've been closer to. A father with whom I could have had a relationship of love, and support. A father I never had.

Maybe I'm chasing a ghost too.

[yieldtotemptation]

ANACHRONISM ft. Mina

mina x male reader smut

part one of strange currencies

14k words

Go ahead, try and pretend like any of this happened by accident.

Like you totally didn’t mean to charm some poor, pretty little thing; dazzle her with the wealth, the fame, the you of it all.

Have her spreading her legs for you, bunching her dress up over her thighs, serving herself up like she’s one of those ludicrously expensive banquets you frequent, pleading—

"God, I need you inside me, like, right this fucking second."

Because here’s the truth of it all, what you’ve come to realise about this woman who has never once in her entire life been reduced to something as pithy as poor or pretty or little; let alone anything short of extraordinary. This wildly successful, elegant to the point of being untouchable, and just really, really fucking gorgeous idol:

Nothing about Myoui Mina is accidental.

Even all this—her idea: showing up at your suite uninvited, leaning against the doorframe, panties hanging off her fingertips. Showing off how ridiculously drenched she is for you and how badly she wants you to do something about it.

If only these walls could talk.

“Hurry up,” she’s gritting out. Deadlocking the door behind her. Still not used to waiting for anything, apparently. “Come on, I need your cum. Anywhere you like. Just inside me. Now.”

You should be more surprised. Instead, you’re laughing. “Patience, darling.”

A step forward, pants hitting the floor, cock in hand. Running the tip of it across her folds, making it shiny with her slick, forcing this sigh from her lips.

You pause, just to make her whine. To make her give you what you really want to hear.

Mina bites her lip.

Squeezes her eyes shut.

She knows the deal.

"Please."

That word, that crack in the composure, the control that Mina is so used to maintaining everywhere else but here. It’s the thrill of it all—the challenge in the attempt. Taking someone like Mina, all perfect posture, sparkling teeth, effortless grace; and bringing her to her knees.

Figuratively speaking, mostly.

Only, her phone lights up.

You look down and see it, left abandoned on the floor somewhere in Mina’s rush to get to you. But now its glow is stark against the dark parquet, beaming with messages by the dozen. All different variations on the same question: where the fuck is she?

Her eyes flicker to the screen, then back up to yours. There's a silent conversation happening there—desire fighting with duty, lust with loyalty.

You make it easy for her.

A push is all it takes, really. Cunt yielding to your will, cock sliding into that ridiculous tightness.

She freezes.

Braces herself.

Whimpers.

“Priorities, Mina,” you grunt through it, breaching in deeper; assaulted by the heat of her cunt around you, choking each inch. “Remember, you asked for this.”

The phone keeps buzzing, panicked vibrations at your feet. Urgent messages becoming calls, flashing faces across the screen. You can see them one-by-one, see Mina’s reaction as they pop up—sighing when she sees her managers name, eyes widening when a rather flirty photo of Chaeyoung comes next, and then her entire body tensing, tightening around you at the next picture:

Her and her boyfriend, arms thrown around each other, both looking all beautiful and famous and so very much in love. The perfect couple; so picturesque it might as well have come right off a billboard.

“God, fuck,” Mina groans out, panting, breathless. “You’d think they’d—ah—just leave me alone for one—single—night—”

“Should we snap some photos? Add them all to a group chat, send them through? Let them see the look on your face and figure it out from there.” 

Mischief flashes across her eyes, mouth open to answer back with something that is no doubt clever and suggestive and designed to get you both into far more trouble than you’re already in—but she doesn’t get a word of it out.

You’re slamming into her.

Mina nearly comes apart then and there; eyes snapping shut, neck arching, back banging against the hard, unforgiving wood of the door behind her. Her lips round into this perfect ‘O’ of surprise, and this sweet, sweet needy whine comes slipping out from her throat.

And just like that, she’s all yours again. 

It’s not like the phone goes silent—it just stops mattering.

“Asshole,” she’s saying—grinning now, doing that Mina thing where she says one thing but means another, expecting you to read the underneath. Which this time is—touch me, pull me close, pin me and keep me fucking trapped while you fuck the air right out of my lungs.

“Now there’s an idea.” You’re kissing her, tongue past her lips, tasting the rush of the forbidden, the lines she’s crossing just so she can have you filling up her cunt.

And there’s all this noise—the sound of your cock thrusting into her, skin against skin, shaft into wetness; the buzzing of the phone, her cries of your name dying in your mouth.

Oh, you know it’s going to be brutal if anyone was to overhear, if you’re caught and all this gets out. The narratives that will be crafted, the cliché of it all, the sizzling hot headlines that will undoubtedly paint her, as they are wont to do, in a million different unfair ways.

Seductress. Gold-digger. Slut.

But even as you’re fucking her deep, lips marking up her skin, digging your fingers into the meat of her ass and making Mina cum so hard that all she can say is— “please, please, please,”

—you know the facts, no matter who’s begging who under the shine of the outrageously garish chandelier hanging overhead:

You're the one that chased her first.

—

(It’s incredibly fitting that this whole thing started with a celebration.)

—

Taking a step back, to months earlier, at a gala:

Where it’s becoming apparent to you, and seemingly, just you, that Mina’s the only one here that doesn’t look entirely out of place.

Or at least, she’s the only one that seems to fit amongst the grandeur; the imposing pillars and archways, the ornate cornices, the glint of gold and jade beneath the soft glow of paper lanterns, and the shadow of the palace itself, cast over the sprawling garden like a looming guardian.

The anachronism of it all is the concept, or so you’ve been told. The new, the future—your company—against the backdrop of the old, the traditional. A fusion event, meant to celebrate and honour the past right before yanking it to the future; and yet it all somehow feels so…

Boring.

The same faces, the same games; sharks in a sea of corporate sabotage and political machinations. They’ll smile for you, sing your praises to the highest heavens, do everything they can to make you remember their name—right up until the moment you show your back.

All this to say, it’s going to be very hard to last four hours without wanting to punch someone in the face just to make things slightly more interesting.

(Oh come, one and all. Throw yourselves at the feet of Korea’s youngest self-made billionaire, and hope that by some stroke of luck or misplaced charm, you might just catch a crumb from his table.

That’s what this whole exhausting circus feels like to you.)

So, when you’re about done with what seems like the hundredth round of fake laughs and vacuous pleasantries with yet another politician who’s trying to sell you on the importance of family, and coincidentally, his very marriageable daughter, you make your escape.

Something about needing a drink.

Ease out of the circle, let the noise of the gala swallow you up like you were never there, and navigate across the garden to the bar.

Where you find her.

Mina, something of an anachronism herself; looking more at home amongst the pagodas and the cherry blossoms than in the company of suits and ties and plastic smiles. Like she’s been painted onto the scene; rendered in living colour—stark white, midnight black, blue silk. Or cobalt. Maybe azure.

You’ll have to reserve some time later to ask her about the colour of her dress.  

What’s important is that she’s alone, which seems like a crime in and of itself, on account of, well, how fucking breathtaking she is. Add that she’s here at all, and it all amounts to some kind of serendipitous miracle.

(An idol, a celebrity, willingly spending her free time in the company of the elitist dregs of society? The world's gone mad.)

You don’t really need an excuse to join her; you know her, technically. Not intimately, but in that same way that everyone in this high society tapestry is threaded together. An award show here, a charity function there—the kind of acquaintance that lets you say hello without raising eyebrows, but not much more.

All this to say it makes some sense to slide yourself onto the barstool to her right, ignoring that the rest are completely unoccupied.

The smile that Mina gives you as you approach is a little sharper than it needs to be, a little too knowing.

“You’re not going to ask if this seat’s taken?”

You return the smile, a mirror image of hers, and lean onto the bar. You don’t even need to look at the bartender; your drink is in your hand, cold and crisp, the second you set it down. “I thought I’d risk it.”

“Neat trick,” Mina says, posting her chin on one hand, watching the sleek liquid slide down your throat. She’s got a flute of champagne in front of her, untouched.

There’s a gravity to her, you’re realising only when you’re this close. Something in the way the moonlight's kissing her skin, a blend of porcelain and peaches, glowing. Maybe that’s why she’s been left alone; the other guests were smart enough not to get swallowed up in it all. Better to appreciate at a distance than to drown in it.

She regards you for a beat, runs a finger around the rim of her glass. "Shouldn't you be off being the centre of attention somewhere? Shaking hands, kissing babies, that whole bag?”

“Nah," you’re dismissive, looking back out to the crowd milling about, lost in their own conversations and power plays. "This whole thing's more for them than it is for me."

Mina scoffs. Raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. You follow her eyes—across the banners, the placards, the giant projection cast onto the palace itself.

A brushstroke circle—the logo you designed—swirling around, stamping itself on what was once a symbol of absolute power, now reduced to just another stage for the rich and the elite and all their insignificant little games.

You feel the need to clarify. “For the company.”

Mina ripostes. “That just so happens to be named after you.”

“Just one of those funny coincidences.”

“Apparently so.”

It does occur to you that it should be somewhat startling how instantly familiar you feel around Mina. Slipping into casual conversation—light jabs, coded compliments; all soaked in insinuation. Just enough edge and implication to keep you on your toes.

There's an ease to her, to how she smiles, how she laughs, how she just sits there, all drop-dead gorgeous and oh, this? Nothing special, just how I always am.

So it’s only natural that somewhere in all this easy banter, between your third drink and her second, her hand lands on your forearm, your knee brushes against hers and you both decide to stop being so subtle.

You pick your moment, as she’s thumbing through a menu of drinks she’s already deciding she doesn’t want, to try to solve the mystery of her. Past the red of her lips, the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. Along the neckline of her dress, where the silk clings like it’s afraid of letting go, and down to where it dips and angles out; the open shoulder, the collarbone, the swell underneath.

It’s the sum of it all, you’re realising. The dress, the look, the woman.

(Accentuate without revealing. Tease without giving away the prize. Show off that flawless ass and dare the world not to look. And yeah, they fucking look. They all do.

You’re just the only one that doesn’t look away when you're caught.)

But now, you could reach out and touch her; unlatch the straps of her heels, run your fingers from her ankle up, up over the smooth expanse of her calf, her knee, the bare skin of her thigh right where her dress decides to daringly split, and underneath, until your hand is filled with the heat of her and all she knows is you.

You could complete her. Or she, you, you think.

Only, there’s a slight misstep in an otherwise immaculate ensemble.

A necklace.

A ridiculous, ugly, tacky thing. Hanging off her like a misplaced jewel on a swan; more ‘costume party’ than ‘refined modern gala’. Fighting the simplicity of her gown, offensively jarring, especially against the serenity of the moonlit garden.

Mina notices you staring. “A gift.”

“Boyfriend,” you realise, doing the math in your head. A careless present, given by someone who doesn’t know (or doesn’t care to know) her. Hoping the flash, the dollars spent overshadows the unfamiliarity.

(It doesn’t.)

“Partner,” Mina confirms. There’s a slight dip at the corner of her mouth, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of something unpleasant. It disappears as soon as it comes, but you caught it. “A little too old to have a boyfriend.”

“Hm.” You click your tongue. Narrow your eyes. You’ve been told that it makes you appear disarming. “And where is this partner?”

Mina’s smile returns. She takes her first sip of champagne. “You tell me. Don’t you sign off on all the invites?”

“Just the important ones.”

“Even so, not like he would have come if he was invited.” Mina leaves you to fill in the gaps. “A tad too public. For the both of us, really.”

“I see.”

And you do. You’ve seen your fair share of these types of arrangements, participated in a few, even. At the beginning, the secret of it all, the cloak and dagger; it’s exhilarating. But that only lasts so long. Eventually, like all things, it fades. Leaving you with someone who you don’t really see, who you don’t even know, and the sinking realisation that maybe the thrill was the only thing that kept it interesting. 

“So,” you lean forward, drawing your conclusion. “You’re here. All alone. Stuck in a relationship with someone dumb enough to let you go out looking like that.”

“Careful.”

“It’s just,” you offer, your gaze lingering on her throat, “You don’t strike me as the type to settle for anything less than you deserve, Mina.”

That makes Mina pause. Almost flinch. Imperceptibly if you weren’t looking so closely at her lips. The sound of her name rolling off your tongue, like it's always been there, waiting to escape—it has her reeling.

And yet, somehow, she recovers.

“Because you know me so well.”

So, you switch up, throw a curveball. “Is it the sex?”

To her credit, Mina barely reacts to that provocation, as if she was expecting the follow up. Just takes another sip of her champagne with a grace that seems rehearsed. You’ll have to try harder.

She shrugs a bare shoulder.

"Sex is just sex. It’s not everything."

“So, no sex at all, then.”

Mina’s smile is like a knife’s edge. “Are you always this forward?”

“All I’m saying,” you keep going, somewhat emboldened by the game, by the warmth of the whiskey poisoning your kidneys. “If it was me—”

Mina’s hand slides up your forearm, ending somewhere around your triceps. You’re close. Close enough to inhale her perfume; cinnamon, smoke, darker than anticipated. You’d fill your lungs with it, if you could. “If it was you.”

You take another drink. She watches.

And it clicks into place. What this really is. What she’s really doing here.

The slight tilt of her shoulder, a slip of her dress—just a fraction. A shift in her seat and suddenly, the silk has risen, too high, and there’s a stretch of skin leading up to a flash of lace that’s more moonlit than the night itself.

The suspicion sets in. Was she waiting for you?

Mina laughs.

You ask, “What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking,” Mina says, lowly. Grinning, like she’s reading your mind. “How even you’re the same.”

“How so?”

“All you men. How you see me, how you’re looking at me right now.” She reaches up to her neck, taps the clunky stone hovering over her throat. Once. Twice. “Making it about you. You think I need saving.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open once more to protest—

“That’s what you think.” Mina interrupts, smirks; and your eyes are on her lips, wondering if anyone would be able to pull you off them if you were so lucky enough to taste them. “What you want is to own me.”

“Mina,” you regard her, openly. Honestly. “I could never dream of owning you.”

She nods back towards your logo, emblazoned across the castle walls. “Because you’re clearly not the type of person that likes owning things.”

And there’s a realisation here, as she’s staring into your eyes—a real, actual, bone-deep revelation—that she's been doing the same thing as you this whole time. Reading you, until she's seeing through you.

The silence stretches, thick and sweet , and it’s obvious to see where this is heading. The idea that’s being sparked—lean in, kiss her right here, right now, with all these eyes on you. Kiss that smirk right off her face, steal whatever clever rebuttals she’s composing from her lips, the flirtations that she’s left hanging in the air. Replace them all with your name.

But it’s all hypothetical, for now.

“You’re not even thinking past right now, are you?” Mina asks, amused. "The rumours you've started just by sitting next to me."

"Rumours."

"The kind that ruins careers. That never leave. That would make him want to kill you if he found out."

Another sip, letting it burn down your throat. Think about it. Attack it from every angle—

(Doesn’t it just make sense; the billionaire, and his beautiful celebrity partner? Or even if there was a scandal, just a one-night fling; wouldn’t it be worth it?

You could both live off the thrill alone, it’d reignite whatever embers her boyfriend hasn’t stomped out yet.)

“Maybe I want the rumours.”

Mina’s eyes widen. It’s the first time she’s dropped her guard.

“If you were mine,” you start, and stop immediately, reining in that last word on the tip of your tongue. “If you were my girlfriend, partner, whatever label you want to put on it. I’d tell the whole damn world. Broadcast it on every channel. Make sure everyone knows exactly who I’m fucking every single morning, afternoon, night.”

You’re hitting the mark of something, you can tell, because Mina’s hand tightens around your arm, and she doesn't seem to mind when yours lands on her thigh. A flash; the thought of spreading them, of seeing her laid bare underneath you. Or flipped over in front of you, crumpling that dress around her waist, so you can take proper purchase of that ass that’s been hinted at all night long.

And all of a sudden, she doesn't seem to be as spoken for as she might have led you to believe.

She bites her lip. Keeps it there for a second, two, before letting it go.

“So, this is what you usually say to all the pretty girls you invite to these parties?”

The alcohol’s loosened your tongue enough to state truths you’re supposed to keep to yourself. “I usually don’t have to say anything at all.”

Mina challenges. “Must be nice, being this rich, cute, and charming.”

“The being rich part does a lot of the hard work.”

“So, the cuteness and the charm?”

“I’ll let you decide,” you finish, watching her smile spread, the corners of her eyes crinkle. It makes your chest tighten.

“I suppose, in your perfect world,” Mina surmises, and now she’s so close that your knee is splitting the difference between her thighs, and you’re already planning the logistics of it all—the where, the how— “this ends with you fucking my brains out behind one of these old houses.”

“I’ve got a few in mind.”

“I bet.” Mina takes one last pull of her drink, empties it, and sets it back down. “And afterwards? After you’ve made me forget my own name and made the entirety of my existence revolve around your cock—what’s your plan then? Who are we—who are you going to be?"

You finish off your own glass, setting it down with the same deliberate clink as hers. “You know, the funny thing about money is," you say, sliding your fingers up her thigh, higher, higher. "It can make you whoever you want to be. So, the real question is—who do you want me to be?"

You’re holding your breath as she answers: “Not some knight in shining armour. I don’t need a saviour. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Then what do you need?”

Mina inches, gets close, and now her breath’s a tickle on the shell of your ear. She bites. “Just someone to help me scratch an itch.”

There’s a moment, somewhere before Mina threads her fingers through yours, lets you lead her through the throngs of guests and into the shadows of the palace; where all of this—this want, this need, boils over. Where Mina kisses your cheek and warns:

“You don’t have the time for me.”

Now it’s your turn to grin; reaching up to her throat, slipping that necklace off her, leaving it to clatter onto the granite below never to be spoken of again.

“Maybe. But I can make every second count.”

—

This is how you end up:

Pinning Mina to some ancient wall; the moon’s spotlight spilling over the contours of her body, a hand tangled in her hair, the other pushing her dress higher up her thighs.

You weren’t lying, you did have a place in mind. Namely, by the west gate, where a house that used to be the servant’s quarters stood. It’s a part of the palace that’s been neglected in the reconstruction, and thus, ironically, the most authentic part of this whole sham.

A true hideaway for those not to be seen or heard; a building that’s seen centuries of service, of lives lived in the shadow of royalty, and now it’s going to bear witness to this, to you and Mina, undoing each other with every passing second.

Something a little sacred, a whole lot profane.

She’s smiling against your lips; a smirk, more likely. Because she’s new to this kind of thing—the almost romantic picture the two of you are painting—chaste kisses stolen in quiet corners of royal residences. The kind of thing that could fuel a dozen dramas.

But you both know better.

So, you let her start things off, let her set the pace for this evening's affairs. And Mina, to her credit, is gracious enough to tell you exactly what she wants.

(Kiss me harder, touch me here, please, please, don't let go.)

Twisting the lapels of your jacket in her hand, desperately pulling you closer, even though there's no more room left. Kissing you with longing. Making you believe that she's missed this—missed you—despite the fact that you've only just officially met. And sure, it's a lie, but it's a lie that feels so good, so right, that you’re willing to indulge her.

Indulge yourself.

Your lips veer off the corner of her mouth, ignoring the tongue and teeth that try to keep you there, the hand that kindly urges you to not stop kissing her.

Because you’ve got a ticking clock in the back of your mind, counting down the seconds before someone calls you or her away, or more problematically, catches you and her, a heap of limbs and lust and fucking in the dusty archives of history.

You break away, keep things moving, kiss your way along her neck, feel her heartbeat drum against your lips. Follow her neckline down, down; find this sweet little spot, a darkened freckle right on top of her collarbone that makes her sigh.

“Tell me something, honestly.” Mina finds her voice the same time your fingers meet the promised lace of her underwear, turning her words into these breathless moans. “How often do you do this?”

You tug the fabric pooling at her waist—once, firmly—and Mina’s dress slips from her shoulders, whispering down her arms and leaving her in nothing but flawless white and a strapless bra that matches the silk in hue. 

You smile, look up. “This?”

Mina clarifies, "Whisk some innocent girl away into a deserted corner and—"

She’s cut off by the click-clack of her bra releasing behind her back, your fingers slipping beneath the cotton, and you’re filling your hand with the swell of her breast; so soft, so perfect.

The sound when you touch her and she gasps; if only you could capture, keep it forever. You’ll just have to make sure she keeps making it—kneading gently, rolling the pebbled peak of her nipple between your thumb and forefinger, feeling it bead and tighten.

Your lips to her shoulder, you ask, “And what?”

Mina sighs, “fuck her completely, thoroughly senseless,” and you swear there’s something revelatory about how she says it—sinful ideas from saintly lips.

"Honestly?" You pause, your gaze lingering on the goosebumps rising across her skin. "You're the first."

Her laughter's a surprise; it's light, disbelieving. "First?"

"First tonight."

Mina's smile widens, her grip on your jacket tightens. "You're so full of shit," she says, but there's no malice in it. Just the thrill of the hunt. Or, being hunted.

You don’t bother to argue the point; let her think what she wants. Instead, you lean into it (into her), let your other hand snake around her thigh, over the elastic of her panties and lower, until you’re palming the curve of her ass.

Firm, taut, flawless—because of course it is; exactly like the rest of her. She’s so hot under your touch; the softness, the smoothness of it. And you know—without a doubt—you’re going to worship this ass.

A squeeze for good measure—balancing the fine line of respect and greed. Mina yelps—surprise, pleasure.

“God,” Mina shudders, does her best under the assault of your lips on her neck, fingers pinching, tugging, hand squeezing. "You're—oh, you're not so bad at this."

You press a kiss to her throat. “Flattery gets you everywhere, Miss Myoui.”

“Please, not with the government names,” Mina hisses, her cheeks flushing a soft pink that matches the glow of the lanterns outside.

“Apologies.” You chuckle, slipping your hand underneath the band of her panties, and around—down—pressing against her and sinking lower until you’ve got a proper hold of her. Soaking wet and dripping heat onto your fingertips.

A cry from her lips. A shiver. A buck of her hips.

Her hands shoot to your chest.

“Please, kiss me again.”

You oblige—how could you not, with the way she’s begging?

Her nails dig into your shirt, her breath hitches as you push your finger—your index—past her entrance and inside, and just before she can moan your name into the night air, you’re filling her mouth with your tongue, licking inside.

You kiss her like it’s your first kiss, like it’s your last. Like the only way to calm her down is with your mouth and your tongue and your teeth. She’s so wet and tight and pulsing around you, she’s trying to suck you in; and fuck, when you’re knuckle-deep she bites down on your lip so hard she nearly draws blood.

The moans that she's filling your mouth with; this symphony of want sends a jolt of pure, unfiltered desire straight to your cock. You're straining—against your trousers, against her thigh, straining against the urge to rip that dress off her and leave her bare, but you're not there yet.

It's about her, about needing her, making her beg for it. Making her so desperate that she'll do just about anything to get you inside her.

(Because there’s something about her, about Mina, that just makes you want to take your time. To learn the ins and outs of what makes her tick. The secret spots that make her moan into your mouth, the places to touch that make her shiver, the sighs and sounds that only you can coax out of her.

It’s etched into every line of her body; every curve and sharp edge—just pure heat from head to toe; And there’s a beauty so absolute in her perfection, the dash of makeup, the careful draping of her hair, it’s too good not to ruin. To not want to leave your mark on her in some way so that everyone knows she was once yours, if only for a night.)

“You’re just so needy, Mina.” You hum into her jaw, when your lips slip from hers and you struggle to resist the urge to leave these marks on her. Her cheek, her neck, her collarbone. Every part of her that she’s offered to you, every part you’re eager to claim. “Like it’s been ages since someone’s touched you like this.”

“I don’t—please—” is all Mina can manage, because the pad of your thumb is ghosting over her clit, pressing in and circling, and the way her pitch rises and she sighs your name gives you your answer:

It’s been a while.

“I don’t think—gah—” She tries agin, but you torture her with another finger, stretching inside her, sinking in and curling upwards. “I don’t think I’ve ever been touched like this.”

“Good,” you tell her, and she shivers when your voice rumbles through her, when you drop down and your lips go low again, and you take one of her stiff peaks between your teeth. “I don’t settle for second place.”

“Neither do—God—I—” Mina braces herself against the wall behind her, failing to find anything but cold brick to hold onto as you map out the rest of her with your hands and your fingers and your lips.

She’s so, so hot for you; you would’ve never predicted it, not in your wildest estimations. Never thought just how easy it would be to undo someone so poised and put-together like Mina, to render her into this puddle of need.

“So why don’t you show me then,” Mina breathes, voice trembling as much as she is. You suck deep, swirl your tongue, make her arch her back to push more of herself into you. “What all the—oh my—what all the fuss is about."

“As you wish, darling.”

And there’s part of you that’s recognising the awfulness of what you’re doing, taking something—someone—that’s not yours, and having her tell you all these things, finger fucking these words of oblivion from her lips, touch me, please I need it, kiss me harder, more, more, make me feel it, make me feel you.

But even that part of you is so, so small right now, buried deep down with everything that isn’t Mina, with everything that isn’t her pussy clenching around your hand, or the taste of tits on your tongue.

Ignore all thoughts of the after, of what happens when you’ve made her cum again and again, and you’ve wrecked yourself in the pursuit of it all. What happens when you return to the throngs of nobodies, all rumpled and flushed and red, and the whispers start flying, and the glances are no longer just knowing but shamelessly envious.

That’s a problem for future you.

Right now, you’ve nearly stripped her entirely, pressed up against a wall that’s seen more than its fair share of secrets, and your two—now three—fingers are ruining her in a way that has her dancing on that borderline.

“I’m close, so close,” Mina cries, but you already know.

Because you’re already giving it to her; everything she wants and then some. Touching her, fucking her with your fingers, pushing her higher, watching her unravel.

Making her whine against your skin, making her eyes squeeze shut like she’s afraid of what’s happening, afraid of how much she wants this.

“We’re only just getting started, Mina.”

You let her nipple pop out from your mouth, leaving it to bob in the cool night air, sensitive and dying to be back between your teeth. Hand shifts from her hip, sliding up to cradle her jaw, to tip her face back—force those deep, dark eyes to open so you can really look at her.

Panting, pupils blown wide, and the sight of her so undone sends another wave of heat straight to your cock.

“Look at me.” It comes out harsher, more of a firm command than intended. It does its job. “You're going to cum now.”

She nods, frantically, eyes locked on yours as your thumb traces over her bottom lip, feeling it plump and swollen from your kisses. Her tongue darts out, swipes over the pad, tasting herself and you; and you’re thinking about filling that mouth of hers, or maybe that cunt, or if she’s game, that tight, untouched little asshole.

But one thing at a time.

“I’m going to eat your pussy,” you’re saying everything you’ve dreamt of saying to her since you first saw her, first caught sight of that ass daring to wander past your line of sight; and suddenly, every raw, filthy thought you’ve had of her is coming to the surface. “Then I’m going to fuck you. Again and again. Your cunt, your mouth. That ass. I’m going to take it all. And you’re going to let me, aren’t you, darling?”

Mina breathes, nods, signing a verbal contract to let you do whatever the fuck you want with her, promising you all of her, every part of her you’ve so shamelessly craved.

“Good.”   

And so, you drop to your knees.

You glance up at her. She looks down at you.

Like she’s been burning for this; like she’ll combust if you make her wait a second longer.

Pushing her dress up until it's around her waist, keeping it up with your hands on her thighs, spreading her legs wider. And you’re seeing her pussy, the darkened, plump flesh—bare, wet, begging—and so, so pretty.

Fuck—what kind of guy could resist this?

(The kind that buys her jewellery without knowing the first thing about her. The kind that leaves her to sit alone at a gala like a trophy on a shelf. The kind that doesn’t get to taste her—doesn’t know how.

The kind that’s not you.

And maybe she was right—you do think you could save her.)

“What are you doing?” Mina huffs, impatient.

You smirk, unable to resist the urge to drag this out, to keep her on edge a little longer. "Just appreciating."

Mina's eyes narrow, but the smile never leaves her lips. "Well, appreciate faster."

You don’t need to be told twice.

Take her by the hips, spin her around, make her inhale—sharp. Force her to look away from you, to face the cold, indifferent wall, to brace herself.

“Wait, why—”

“Hold your dress up for me,” you mumble against her thighs.

Mina’s hands obey, holding the silk out of the way; and now she’s bent over, like a fucking present. Letting your eyes drink in her ass; unable to do anything but just stare.

How the moonlight kisses the curve, makes the shadows play against it. So perfect. So round and tight and full. Fruit so ripe you could pluck it from the tree with your teeth.

You’re leaning in, kissing the top of her thighs, right below where her cheeks spill over. Kissing up, a soft press of your lips to one cheek, the other, and fuck Mina’s trembling; barely holding it together, and you’re just getting started.

You drag your nose up, across the cotton of her panties and inhale her deep. Sweet and musky, a fine wine that’s been left to breathe, and she squirms.

Shivers under your breath.

And when Mina sighs something that sounds suspiciously like a warning—because she’s not the type to let you get away with anything like this so easily—you take the band of her underwear with your teeth, feeling the fabric stretch. Thin, delicate, begging to snap.

The panties fall away, down to her ankles. The sound of her heels tapping the ground as she lifts her legs to let it slide off, leaving her bare, vulnerable, and yours.

Mina goes still.

Hands spread her cheeks, and finally, you dive in, tongue first. Swipe along the crevice of her ass, taste the sweetness of her from bottom to top, forcing this gasp from her lips. You’re not shy about it—no room for anything close to it when your nose is pressed up against her asshole—and Mina’s thighs are trembling, muscles in her legs tightening like she’s trying to run away from what’s coming next.

But she won’t. You’ve got her pinned. You’ve got her right where she wants to be.

You flatten your tongue against her pussy, lick from cunt to asshole in one, long slow drag, make her sigh your name like it’s a prayer.

“I can’t believe—I never—no one’s ever—” She’s talking, trying to keep it together, trying to rationalise how something so filthy is making her fall apart in a million different, tremendous ways. But the words break off into moans, pure music to your ears.

“Like that?” You murmur against her skin, words disappearing into her.

“Oh my god, yes,” Mina cries out, a benediction. Her grip tightens on her dress, holding it up like a veil. A fucked-up kind of thing, marrying her cunt to your lips; arousal so potent you’re drowning it.

Because she’s a wreck, been a wreck since the moment you laid a hand on her. And now you just have to keep her there.

You let your tongue slide up and down her slit, teasing the folds, going lower, spreading her legs to lap up her clit until she’s begging for it—until she’s begging for you to push inside, to fuck her with it, to make her scream.

"Enjoy it, enjoy being so messy for me.”

"Oh—oh my God!" Mina cries out as you delve into her, and the sound echoes down empty corridors, bouncing off the walls, taking a grand tour of the palace. “I can’t believe—can’t fucking believe—"

You can't believe it either. That no one else has had the pleasure of tasting, of licking, of dining on this slice of Eden laid out before you. It's a crime against nature, really. A sin that you're more than happy to rectify.

"Fuck, you're so good," Mina voice is strained, her legs buckling under the weight of her own desire, she needs to post one hand onto the wall to not completely collapse into your mouth.

A dark chuckle escapes your lips. Feeling smug and utterly in control. "It's not rocket science, darling. Just a little bit of appreciation goes a long way."

But you're not just tonguing her ass because it’s there, because it’s what you’re into. You’re doing it because it’s driving her wild, because you know it’s a button that’s been left untouched, unexplored. And there’s something about being the first to do it that makes your cock throb, makes you want to worship not just her ass, but all of her.

Every part of her that's been neglected, overlooked, ignored.

"You have no idea," she breathes, her legs trembling harder now, "How good it feels."

You lean back, just a fraction, looking up at her, the tension coiling up her spine. "Oh, darling," you say, "I do. Believe me, I do."

A kiss into the small of her back, and you slide your finger back into her, once at first. So impossibly wet, stretching so easily for you, welcoming you right back in.

It’s all for you.

And you can’t get enough, so you add another, then another, stretching her even more, making her drench you and moan for you louder and louder.

You’ve figured it out. How to fuck her, lick her, press into her cunt just right. Finding the rhythm, that makes her breath skip and her body tense, that makes her pussy clamp down around your digits.

“Oh, God, oh, oh, oh—yes—right there—right there—” She’s panting, her hips jerking back, meeting every thrust of your fingers and your tongue.

You’re so close to making her cum—so close that you can almost taste it on the air—and she’s begging for it, so sweetly, so desperately.

“Please, please, don’t stop, I’m right there—” Mina’s hand reaches back, tangling in your hair, and she’s pulling you closer, grinding herself against your mouth.

Bury your face between her cheeks, fuck her fast with your fingers. It’s heaven down in the depths of hell; her thighs, her cheeks, her cunt, her ass. So soft, so wet, so very yours.

That whimper, that beautiful sigh that escapes Mina’s lips is her final invitation. You push your tongue inside her, opening it up, feeling the tightness, the warmth. The shock coursing through her as she surrenders to the unspeakable filth and bliss of your mouth on her asshole.

So tight, so clean, so delicious.

You lick and suck and kiss, fucking her with your fingers, pressing into her, exploring the depths of that tight little hole.

"This is, this is—” her voice strains, wonder, desperation, downright heat at what you’re doing to her. "No one’s ever done this to me. Keep eating my ass, please."

It’s her words that keeps you going, and it all becomes a blur of moans and shivers, of the way she tastes, smells, feels. But you don’t stop, you can’t, all you want to do is make that tight ring of muscle yours.

“Please let me cum. Now. Please. I need it—I need you—”

She needs you to never stop.

You take her, right there in the moonlit garden, hidden by the shadows and the foliage and the silk of her dress. You can almost feel the vibrations of her voice in your mouth, against your tongue, like it’s a part of her, like she’s speaking straight into your soul with every moan and gasp and plea.

The squelch of your fingers fucking her. Her cunt griping you, being devoured. Your tongue invading her ass. The way you’re ruining her for everyone else. Her cries.

She’s so loud.

It doesn’t matter.

The whispers of the gala seem so far away, so irrelevant. It’s all about Mina and her ass and your three fingers sawing in and out of her and she’s saying—

“God, fuck, how can you do this, how can you make me—fuck—"

The answer to her unfinished question: it’s because she’s worth it. It’s because of her, how she makes you want to prove yourself. Because of her hips and her thighs and her cunt and her ass and all of her, every single part.

And that’s your name on her breath, that’s your name when she’s close, that’s your name when she finally tips over, when her legs give way and she’s gasping it into the night.

“Oh my—”

Mina cums.

You swallow.

Drink your fill from her cunt, fill up your nose with her scent. Burn the memory of what it’s like to have your face buried in her ass and have her leaking down your chin. It’s a full body spasm that wracks through her, setting her soul on fire. She’s a star, a supernova, a fucking explosion on your tongue.

Her walls pulse around your fingers, squeezing, clenching, and you give it to her, keep fucking her through it, keep licking, because she’s still there, still hovering.

It overwhelms her—she lets it—you feel her body tighten, quiver, then release like a bowstring snapped.

“Fuck me, fuck me, please—yes, like that—right—right there—yes—yes—yes—”

A chant of yeses right before falling off a cliff and into an oh fuck, I’m cumming.

And you’re right there, knees in the dirt, smiling against her cheeks, holding onto her hips, making sure she doesn’t collapse entirely.

And fuck, she goes, and goes and goes.

Until the ground falls beneath her feet.

You’re there to catch her, to ease her down to the ground with you, hold her in your arms until her world stops spinning.

It takes a moment, two.

And she looks up at you, like she’s unsure of how she got there, in this tangle of sighs and limbs and you. But it doesn’t really matter because she pulls you closer, hand still buried in your hair, needing to kiss you just one more time.

Her taste lingers on your tongue—sweet and salty and so uniquely her. She kisses you again, a little less frantic this time. A little more like she means it.

It’s hard not to feel anything but pride.

Mina’s cheek is pressed to your chest, her eyes barely able to focus, her breaths coming in quiet, contented puffs.

And you’re coming to realise what kind of woman Mina is. Even now, when she should be an unrepairable mess—sprawled out on the cool floor with her dress in a puddle around her, her pussy still pulsing and leaking down her thighs—there’s this poise to her that’s downright intimidating.

She breathes, “You’re just a fantasy, aren’t you?” It feels like a warm hand sliding down your spine.

You lean down, kiss her forehead, tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

It’s peaceful. It’s perfect.

And then your emergency line rings.

Mina inclines her head. A spell is broken. “Well, that’s timing for you.”

You instantly regret the next words that come out of your mouth, the rational words that have never sounded more irrational. “I need to go.”

Mina’s far too polite, far too graceful to say what she wants to say, what you’re pleading her in your mind to say. But she knows the game. You both do.

She just nods, rewards herself with a peek at the tent angrily poking underneath your slacks.

“It’s fine,” she says. (It’s not). She reaches up to your lips, running a thumb over the gloss she’s stained you with. “I think I can handle it from here.”

Her other hand slips down to your thigh, gives you a courtesy squeeze as a farewell, and it’s all you can do not to jump. But you can’t, because the phone’s still ringing, because at the end of the day you’re still a billionaire with responsibilities and a reputation to uphold.

She’s kind of enough to give you an out. “You’re supposed to be giving a speech, right?”

Said responsibility and reputation has you answering, “Yeah.”

You’re stupid for it, stupid for even entertaining the idea of letting her go, or leaving her behind. But you’re not completely blameless—it’s near impossible to even think straight when all the blood in your body has gone south for the evening.  

“Are you going to be okay with,” Mina blinks down at you. “Your situation?”

It’s painful to even say it. “I guess I’ll have to be.”

Mina sits up, pulls herself off you, untangling her legs with a grace that seems almost otherworldly.  Pulls her panties back up, tucks them into place with a little shiver. Smooths her dress down, twisting it back in place.

You’re already regretting letting her leave before she’s even gone.

But the messages have piled up on your phone, and Mina can see it all, the endless frantic texts, the missed calls.

You’re late.

You’re needed.

The world’s waiting.

Mina reads your face, and you can’t tell if she’s impressed or disappointed. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

You stand up, help her to her feet, because that’s what you do—you take care of your own messes. She’s still smiling at you, and you want to tell her how much you wish you could stay.

“It’s okay,” is all she says, as you tuck your shirt back in and slick your hair down.

She’s redoing her own hair, trying to fix it into something presentable. Something less ‘I’ve been fucked raw against a brick wall’ and more ‘gee, quite a strong wind tonight’.

“I knew from the jump you didn’t have the time.”

You’re blurting out, “I can make more.”

“Not even money can buy that.”

Your phone rings again.

Mina’s eyes follow the screen, the glow lighting up her face. Ethereal. Yeah, that's the word for how she looks. You've never been sure of the definition but you're certain it fits.

And when she stands on her toes to kiss your cheek, to bid you farewell, she holds onto your shoulder long enough to whisper her address in your ear. “I’ll be waiting. If you can get away.”

“Why don’t I just come with you now?”

She laughs—but it’s empty, almost a little sad. “Because, you have a job to do, and I have an appearance to keep up. And unlike you, I’m not quite sure I’m ready to broadcast to the whole world who I’m fucking. Or who I’m going to fuck. If he’s not late, that is.”

And with a quiet breath, she’s gone.

A ghost in the moonlight, slipping away like she’s been painted out of existence, leaving you with the memory of her on your mouth and the ache she’s leaving in your cock.

You turn back to the gala.

The air feels somewhat colder.

—

The rest of the evening goes far, far too slowly for your liking.

While your absence has been noted, the whispers and glances are more curious than concerned. They don't know where you've been, and one of your assistants is kind enough to fetch you a new shirt to replace the one that's smudged with lipstick and makeup and Mina, before any real juicy rumours can start.

You try, and fail, to get things moving as quickly as possible:

(A business rival pulls you aside to congratulate you on the recent product launch—You're just thinking about Mina's ass.

A board member sings your praises about last quarter’s earnings, how you're really sticking it to those idiots that forecasted a downturn—You're only thinking about sticking it between Mina's thighs.

A reporter that sneaked in wants to know if you're planning another acquisition so soon after the last one—Yes, you're going to acquire Mina; find somewhere far away from here with another wall to pin her against and make her scream and ache all over for you.)

Thankfully, your assistant is at the ready before you can really make a scene, dragging you over to the stage and pulling you out of this shit show.

‘Just stepped away for some air’ is what you had assured her when she took the shirt off your hands, but really, there's no point trying to hide it.

She's seen that look before, that glow that you can't quite wipe off.

But she's loyal, she doesn't ask questions. Just tells you that you’re on in five, and that in the meantime, she’ll make sure the driver is ready for a quick exit.

So, you force yourself to smile, address the faces that meld together into a wall of teeth.

Make a speech that’s just a rush of words that you've recited countless times before. Innovation and growth, the future of the company, the same spiel from the annual report wrapped up in a shiny new bow.

But none of it matters. You're not even hearing yourself speak. You're hearing the echoes of Mina's moans, feeling the tremble of her thighs as you devoured her, replaying her orgasm in your mind again and again.

You can't wait to get off this fucking stage.

The second the applause dies down, you're off like a shot. The podium forgotten; the spotlight cold on your back. You grab your phone and slip out of the garden, dodging the eager hands that reach out for just a second of your time.

You find your driver waiting, just as instructed; Mina's address already punched in the navigation.

Just go, drop me off. Don't stick around. I'll call you to pick me up in the morning.

—

“It was cerulean,” is Mina’s amused answer to your admittedly idiotic question.

Not your best moment, to be fair. You raced up to her apartment so quickly that you really didn’t have anything more intelligent to say than ‘what happened to your dress?’ and ‘I wanted to know what colour it was’.

But still, show you the person living or dead that could have said anything coherent when being greeted by Mina, opening the door to her apartment—so unashamedly smug, and so very naked.

So what if you just stood there and stared?

Stared at the curves and dips, the way her hair cascades over her shoulders in inky waves, damp from a shower; making it cling to her skin, drape over her collarbone, her breasts. The nipples peeking straight at you, dusky, pointed, waiting the return of your tongue. Her pussy winking between her thighs, a treasure hidden in a sea of smooth flesh.

You don’t know whether to apologise for your lack of eloquence or thank her for being so incredibly distracting.

You kind of want to request that she turn around.

Mina laughs at what is certainly a stupid expression colouring your face; folds her arms across her chest, crosses one leg over the other. "Waiting for me to offer you a drink?"

You blink. “Thought you already gave me one.”

She scrunches her nose, answers, “I was only being polite.”

“I think we’re well past that.”

There’s that gravity again; shifting around Mina, tilting the world towards her until she’s pulling you into her apartment and you’re kicking the door closed behind you.

“Then hurry up and take me upstairs.”

—

There’s a part of you that feels like you should warn Mina when she tells you:

“Look, you’ve kept me waiting too fucking long. I need your cock, your cum inside of me. Right now. Before it’s too late and I change my mind. So, just please, please, please—”

But those kind of thoughts are lost halfway up the staircase; when you both decide that you just can't wait anymore, and your hands are back on her hips and your tongue is pushing into her throat.

Her fault, really.

Stripping you down the hallway, leaving a trail of your clothes through her kitchen; taking you by the cock. Firm, confident pumps as she leads you through her penthouse, refusing to give you a moment to breathe.

Because she’s obsessed with it. Obsessed with how it fills her hand, how it jumps at her touch, how it throbs when she squeezes it, strokes it.

“So big for me," Mina's says—to you, to herself, to your cock. "So perfectly, impossibly, big for me."

You’re never going to make it to the top.

Pressing her up against the banister, kissing her, hard. Deep, bruising kisses, because now that you’re out of the garden you don’t give a fuck if you’re leaving marks.

You just want her to remember this night, to feel it in every pulse and every breath.

Make her think of you when she’s with him, if she can even go back to him after this. Because you’ll both know that she’s yours even when she’s not.

“You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”

You look into Mina’s eyes. You can see it all, how the rest of the night will play out. You and Mina, tangled in her apartment. You and Mina, on top of the kitchen island. You and Mina, against the shower walls, on the living room floor, maybe even on the balcony.

You and Mina, until the sun rises.

You kiss her harder. “Is that a request?”

“Of course it is.”

Because now you actually have the time to appreciate her, to let your hands wander.

They glide over her body, mapping it out again, but slower this time. You've had your fill of the frantic touches, the greedy need. This is something else. This is savouring.

You start with your thumb at her navel, tracing the line down to her hips, then back up against to the base of her ribcage. It’s the feel of the muscles in her stomach tensing and relaxing as you touch her, the inhale and the exhale. How ridiculously tiny her waist feels in your hand, how your palm fits so perfectly into the curve of her side that you swear she’s been tailored for you.

Mina chokes on her breath as she tells you, “You’re going to have to stop, or we’re not going to make it to the bedroom.”

You don’t even slow down. You just don’t care.

Your hand rises, higher, finds her breasts again; cupping it in your palm. A thumb rolls over her nipple.

You pinch. She gasps.

You smile into her neck. “So, so, sensitive.”

Mina’s so willing, so keen to give herself over to you, to your touch. You’ve proven yourself to her already, made her cum with just your fingers and tongue. Now it’s just a matter of doing it all over again—but slower, better, more thorough.

You palm her breasts, rolling and pinching them until they’ve been given the attention they deserve, until she’s panting through your teases and caresses. Kneading the soft flesh beneath your hand and making her arch into your touch.

“You’re really going to take your time, aren’t you?” Mina mewls, half-sigh, half-plead. Grinding herself into you, making a shimmering mess on your waist. “Going to torture me until I can’t breathe.”

“It is your fantasy.”

Pull her closer, take a handful of that perfect ass once again. It hasn’t really been that long since you last had it in your hands but it’s all you’ve had on your mind. What it looks like under proper lighting, what it feels like without the dress in the way. What kind of noises will she make when you grope, and she doesn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing.

Press and squeeze, dig your fingers into her flesh. Not rough, but firm. Leaving little spots of red that will be gone by the morning.

Slide your finger down, down between her cheeks, and deeper, pressing into the sweet heat of her ass.

And then you feel it.

Her asshole. Wet and slick. Prepared.

A wink. A laugh. "Not my fault you're predictable."

You can’t fucking wait anymore.

She’ll just have to settle for the staircase.

Grab her by the hips—her ass, and pull her down with you onto the steps, her legs straddling you as you sit down.

Take her in—all of her. The curve of her, the line of her spine, the fucking paradise that’s her cheeks. Unbelievable.

You kiss into her back, follow down that trail right to where it swells, feeling the heat of her skin against your lips. You’re going to ruin this ass; permanently plant your flag there, mark it as property of you and your cock until she can’t take a seat without cursing your name.

Mina's shoulders tense when you pause, and she looks back over to you. There's a flash of nerves in her eyes, a gasp of "Here?" that's so faint you almost don't catch it.

Another kiss into her skin, you murmur, “Here’s perfect, Mina,” and she sighs when your finger presses against that puckered ring, cold with lubricant, made as ready as she’s ever going to be.

It’s the preparation that gets you; the idea of her in anticipation for you, for this, making sure she’s nice and primed. Mina at the store, still wearing that dress, fresh from her orgasm, buying lube. Mina in her bathroom, stripping herself bare, toying with her asshole, making it perfect for you.

And Mina, now, eyes clenched shut, breaths heavy as your digit is pushing through, slipping into her, and she’s so fucking tight around it.

“Oh my god,” she hisses through her teeth, a quiver in her legs as you push deeper into her tight channel.

Your hands shoot to her thighs to steady her, a reassuring anchor to keep her from toppling over as your finger fills her completely, twisting and turning, slowly but surely easing her into the idea of being taken.

It’s the moans that get you, the sighs as you intrude inside her. She’s so responsive, her breaths skipping and her pussy already starting to gush, coating your finger, your thighs, the steps below.

“You doing okay?”

“Yeah—yes,” Mina stutters, her footing slips just so, but she catches herself on the banister. “It’s—it’s intense. So intense. But don’t stop, I can take it. I want—I want more. I need this. I need this now, before—before I take all of you inside of me."

“You want more?” You repeat her words, before giving her what she needs—adding a second finger, pressing them in deep, making sure she’s good and open. The lube helps, but it’s the eagerness that gets her most of the way there; it’s that trust that she has in you, her willingness to let you take her here, in this way.

“Yes, please,” Mina cries, doing everything she can to not collapse on top of you, to not come completely apart.

You’re merciless, adding a third finger, stretching her until she’s panting, until she’s crying out, making this noise, this hushed whimper that takes the shape of your name.

“Please, please, please,” Mina whispers to herself, pushing back against you, starting to rock back onto your hand, taking your fingers into her ass.

“Not yet, Mina, not yet,” you tell her, because even though she’s close, even though she’s begging, you want her to be absolutely fucking desperate for your cock when the moment comes. 

You reach around her with your other hand, finding that button, already swollen and begging for attention. Playing with it, gently at first, a soft pressure to help her let go, to allow herself to let her voice echo up the staircase and through the penthouse.

God, how is she this sensitive, reactive to every little touch, to every exploration of her cunt, her ass, her body.

It’s the ceremony of it all; this lurid, obscene ritual that you’re walking her through. Making her ass bounce on your hand in this hypnotic movement, making her stretch around your fingers, making her repeat your name over and over until she’s convinced herself that all of her belongs to you.

These perfect, near-silent sighs. This unbelievable tightness. Mina’s body, turning itself into a fucking playground for your touch; to do with it as you will. Even if it means ruining her.

And it’s when you have her creaming all over you; down her thighs, making a mess of herself with these pushes and pulls, these declarations of how ready she is for you, that her body shakes with one last, long shiver.

She cums.

Softly, soundlessly, another cry of your name dying on her lips. A hand to your wrist to stop you abruptly, panting.

Tiny, tiny shivers, twitches in her thighs, around your fingers, leaving her barely there, barely with you. Head hanging low, chest heaving, catching her breath, putting herself back together again.

Time stretches before she's cognisant again, and she turns back, looking over her shoulder and straight at you. Eyes half-lidded, hazy, dripping with lust, anticipation, burning with need.

Deep, heavy breaths. And then Mina says the most devastating thing:

“I’m ready. Fuck my ass. Now. Please.”

A gunshot in the quiet of her home, rumbling through your bones.

Your fingers leave her ass, her cunt with a wet pop, forcing a whine from her throat at the sudden emptiness. A look at her asshole, how it clenches and unclenches, beckoning for you to fill it, to claim it as your own.

“Good girl.”

Holding her by the hips, lining her ass with your cock, nudging her opening with your tip and making her shiver. You don’t go in immediately; you hover, giving her one last out, to really see if she’s absolutely certain.

Mina trembles. Nods. That’s all the invitation you need.

“God, I—”

You push in, slow and steady, eyes on her ass as she takes you. So fucking tight, so intense, you can feel every part of her squeezing, accommodating you, moulding itself around your girth and swallowing you whole.

“Take it slow, darling, take it slow,” you whisper into her skin, guiding her down, telling her how good she’s doing, how good she is for you, how much you love her tightness, her trust.

It seems impossible at first, the grip she has on you, like you’ll never get in. But inch by agonising inch, she takes you, and it’s nothing short of total heaven.

Mina, so fucking beautiful in this moment of raw vulnerability; all sharp inhales and strained quivers wrecking through her, voice shaky as she tells you, “I’ve never felt anything like this, I never thought—fuck—I never thought I could take anything like this.”

“You’re doing so good,” you kiss your words into her, wrapping your arms around her, holding her.

“I can—I can do better,” she gasps, and you believe her.

But you still go slow, so painfully slow, even though every fibre of your being is screaming at you to just dig into her hips and slam into that glorious fucking ass and never look back.

“I can take it,” Mina breathes, “Do it, I can take it. I want all of you. In my ass. I can handle it.”

Mina nods, clenches her ass, her cheeks firming up around your throbbing cock.

“I want it to hurt so good.”

No more convincing required. You push in deeper, make her back stiffen, her muscles contract, making her cry.

It’s a dance, a delicate ballet of bodies, of breath and touch, of your cock inside Mina’s ass. Lost in it, in the feel of skin on skin, the sound of wet, needy noises that she’s making, her shudders in your arms.

Until finally, with a strangled gasp, she’s fully seated. You’re buried in her tight, hot ass, basking in the warmth of her, leaving you both winded and struggling for air.

Stillness overrides the moment, because it’s too perfect, too overwhelming, and the feeling. You need to get used to the feeling.

You break the silence first. “Mina?”

“I know. I know.”

A kiss against her neck, scraping the soft skin there. A whisper in her ear, your breath hot and ragged.

“I’m going to fuck your ass now.”

You always keep your promises.

Mina answers by leaning back into you, her hand finding yours, her nails running along your fingers as if to say, “Yes, please, now.”

Moving, so slow it’s almost painful. The drag of her ass around your cock like nothing you’ve ever felt before—like you’re sliding through warm, velvet-covered steel.

“Fuck, yes, please,” with every inch you pull out, and “Too much, so good, too fucking much,” when you push back in, deeper and deeper still.

It builds and builds, this sweet agony, each pass in her ass faster, harder, turning Mina’s cries and wails into moans of pure bliss. It takes time and long, hard fucking for her body to relax into this rhythm, letting you take her, own her.

A vision above you, sweat glistening on her back, hair matted and sticking to her shoulders, and Mina’s ass, a snug ring around your cock. You watch as your cock slides out of her, the way her ass clenches around the head, holding on for just a second before pushing all the way back down.

You can’t help but groan, “Christ,” as she moves on top of you like that. So gracefully, so beautifully, so fucking obscenely on your cock.

“Thank you—God—thank you, thank you, thank you.” Mina’s moans are pure music to your ears, she’s babbling, talking through the pain, through the pleasure. “So, so good, filling me like—fuck—never been filled up like this.”

And as you push on, push further and further until your cock is melting inside her, burning her up in every way she's ever dared to dream, you can see the smile curling onto Mina’s face. It’s pride, you’re realising. Proud of herself, proud of how she can take you, how she can handle this kind of depraved ecstasy.

“It feels so deep.”

Tearing her open. Revealing the tender, delicate core beneath the glamour, the lights, the unreal beauty that is Mina. Leaving her sobbing, pleading, whining for more, more, more.

Bouncing on you now, each more assured than the last, cries of nothing but need. Opening up to accept you fully, completely, her ass a tight fucking sleeve for you, coming down and wrapping itself around you like a searing hot second skin.

You know the truth, but you still want to hear it.

“How many?”

Mina has her answer ready: “You’re the—you’re the first.”

You grin. A smug, triumphant baring of teeth that spreads from ear to ear. “I have no fucking idea how that’s possible. How nothing has ever been up this tight, perfect little asshole.”

“Oh, there's been toys,” Mina moans, strained and shaky as you pump into her, “But you’re just the first that's real.”

“Then your boyfriend is a fucking idiot,” you growl into her ear, your hand moving to her throat, gently clasping, making her gasp, making her eyes go wide with shock, with excitement. “He doesn’t know what he has.”

“Enough about my boyfriend,” Mina's quick to answer, snapping, her head thrown back, eyes screwed shut. “Even though—even if—he wouldn’t, couldn’t dream of filling me like this. Filling me up so much that it hurts, so much that—fuck, it feels so right, so fucking right—”

“You love this, don’t you, Mina?” You ask, but all Mina can do is nod vigorously, too overrun by the fucking to form words. “Underneath it all, you’re just a dirty slut for it, aren’t you? Letting me use this pretty, tight ass like this.”

“I—” she stutters, right before confessing, “I love it.”

She slams her hips down on you, the stairs groaning with each thrust, not built to withstand this kind of punishment.

“I love that it’s you, love that you’re the first. I can’t believe it—just—I need it. I need your cock in me, so deep—I need you, I need you, I need you—so please don't stop.”

“I would never dream of stopping.”

Never.

Not when she’s begging like this, her voice hoarse and her body quaking. When she sighs and shivers every time you fuck a little faster, push a little harder, testing just how much she can take.

Tits jiggling with every thrust, cunt leaking all the way down your thighs, ass puckering and loosening.

Her whole body, yours.

Yours for the taking. Mina’s divine body, in all its sharp planes and ridged muscles, squeezing and coiling at every juncture, every penetration setting her alight.

You declare it, even though it doesn't need to be said. “Made for me.”

“Yes,” she’s nodding. Or rather, letting her head fall into one. “God yes.”

“Just been waiting for me for so long, haven’t you? Been waiting for the right cock to come along and split you in half.” You’re saying these things, these stinging words that you fuck into Mina, send shooting through her like sparks. She’s a live-wire, a fucking blackout waiting to happen.

Weeping down her thighs, choking out every whine, “Yes,” she whispers, “yes, yes, yes, been needing to be ruined. Needing it, needing you. So much, so much, so—fucking—right—”

“Fucking criminal that you had to wait,” you’re saying, loving this, so enraptured by all of it. “But I’m here now.”

Mina shivers, pussy clenches, and she just can’t stop saying, “Yours, yours, yours—”

Completely, totally yours, now.

You know it. She knows it.

It’s written in the way she takes your cock, in the way she loses herself to you, loses all semblance of composure and decorum, peels back all the carefully curated layers that make her Mina, until all there is to see and touch is the raw, unfiltered need that you’ve unleashed from underneath.

"Touch me, fuck me, take me, take my ass, I need more—"

Again, your fingers find her folds, sticky and swollen and waiting.

You touch her, press down on her clit. Circling it with the same rhythm as your hips. Striking a match in a dark room, lighting up her body in this blaze.

The noises that it all makes; the slosh of your fingers at her cunt, the squelch of your cock invading her ass, so fucking explicit, so fucking filthy. 

She’s erratic, breath catching, throat pulsing against your fingers, and she somehow, impossibly, clenches even more around you, suffocating your cock with just her tight, tight ass.

You keep that same tempo. That desperate, fucking unyielding beat that’s going to make her come, going to turn this idol, this mystery, this drop-dead fucking gorgeous woman who should belong to someone else but is now screaming proudly just how much she’s yours, into nothing but a trembling mess of whimpers and whines.

“More, fuck—oh my god, oh my fucking god—it’s so fucking good—so good—so fucking good—”

She’s reaching her peak—her voice, her body, her cunt, her ass—all of her reaching that perfect crescendo of pleasure that you’ve been orchestrating, that you’ve been waiting for.

“I’ve never—no one’s ever—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Sinking into her, making her feel like she’s being torn apart and remade with every stroke, making her feel nothing like she’s ever felt before, making her feel like nothing but your fucking whore.

So, so close, barrelling towards it now, all these tears running down her cheeks, these filthy words slipping from her lips. Coming apart in your arms, because she’s never been this filled, this complete.

“Going to—going to cum—fuck me, harder, harder—going to cum all over your cock—” Mina tells you, a warning, the last one you get before she screams, “Too good—filling me—so good—give it to me—God—I can never go back—”

She shatters. Monumentally.

Into a million tiny pieces of pleasure, each one more brilliant than the last.

Her body spasms, her ass squeezes so fucking tight around your cock that you can feel the orgasm ripping through her, up her spine, through her throat, until she’s crying out and it’s hitting your ears—

“Oh my God, I'm going to—just, say my name—please, say my name when I—”

“Mina,” you say, and she cums.

“Mina,” you repeat when her pussy floods over your hand, ass smothers your cock.

“Mina,” again when it ripples across her skin, leaves her in fits, uncontrollable quakes, consumed by pure, unfiltered joy.

You watch the whole thing—watch her scream your name, watch her shake and quiver and fall apart, right there on your cock; and you're fucking her through it all, fucking her well past it, chanting “Mina” over and over again.

You'll never forget this, never forget this sight—this woman, this star, built up and broken down just for you.

“Mine,” you bite into her ear, because now, it’s true.

Mina’s barely there, eyes glassy, hand cradling your face. But she’s able to say it, because it’s branded into every bone of her body: “Yours.”

It’s a complete disaster.

And now you're cumming.

Brand new sensations, devastation in full measure—your soul ripped from your chest, until all that’s left is this impulsive, overwhelming need to give her your all, your everything—to fill her entire existence with just you.

You drive your cock into her once more, impaling her deep, and let go.

It floods her, rushes inside her, spills and spills.

Mina can't do anything but feel it—every pulse, every spurt. She throws her head back, her mouth open in this silent plea, satisfaction painted across her face as your heat surges inside her. Her ass milks you, needy for every drop, so, so thirsty for it.

“It's—cumming inside my ass—so, so nice, keep cumming for me.”

You hold onto her, throb inside her, pump ropes into her, and there's a kiss—hot and clumsy—somewhere in the midst of it all, your mouths colliding and tongues wrapping around each other in a futile attempt to last just that little bit longer.

Getting all dizzy and spellbound, floating back down to the ground as the last waves of your climaxes start to subside, until one of you says, “Thank you,” and the other echoes it back.

You stay like that, swallowed up inside her, dripping out of her ass. Lowering one hand from her throat, rising the other from her pussy, pulling her into an embrace, keeping her as close as you can while you both try to put yourselves back together.

It’s sex that soaks the air, fills the penthouse—sweat, lube, the musk of all the evidence you're leaving behind. Intoxicating, breathing it in, setting your nerves alight, rousing your cock inside her all over again.

But Mina, she’s a stunning catastrophe, torn asunder in all the best ways. Perfection not marred, but made better. Completed. Looking up at you with wonder, with gratitude, with a smile.

You look down at her and admit it, “Perfect.”

Mina laughs out loud, “Disastrously perfect.”

“This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

You kiss her once more.

Mina kisses you back.

“Only if we make it one.” 

—

You think you can read her mind.

And she, yours.

It’s the only way any of this makes sense—how perfect you fit together, how well you read each other; fill each other’s needs without use of any words outside of curses and names and strangled pleas.

Printed onto your DNA, carved into your bones, these exact pathways you shape through her home and into her skin.

You do make it to the bedroom, somehow.

And then, exactly as predicted:

The shower, where Mina takes you into her mouth, gags herself around you, covers herself in your cum before letting the water wash it all away.

Then the kitchen, polishing off a bottle of wine, slurring promises into Mina’s cunt, having her rake the back of your scalp and scream the same promises back into your ears.

And finally, the living room, folding her over the couch, tumbling onto the floor with Mina, riding you so hard the neighbours below start banging on their ceiling in protest. 

It's only the balcony that goes untouched.

Maybe another time.

But that’s where it ends: sprawled across a lush rug, sticky with sweat and cum and wine, naked and bare. Ignoring the watchful eyes of the photos that line the walls and shelves—family, friends, her boyfriend. Just living in this bubble where the sun will never rise and the world outside ceases to exist.

Getting to know each other in ways few people ever do.

Tracing patterns into the small of her back, asking these questions. Is this what you always imagined you would be doing? How you thought your life would be? Does it ever actually feel enough?

Mina pokes and prods back, her nails lightly scraping against your chest, leaving half-moons in her wake. Do you think you could ever be happy? Do you ever wonder why it’s so hard for other people to keep up? Are you fucked up in all the same ways as me?

And it’s so easy to answer truthfully, to be honest, because you’re both still maintaining the façade of this just being a simple fling; a blip along the timeline of your lives.

The yours and mine of it all, all those promises you were spilling. Just callous words tossed in the throes of passion.

They didn’t mean anything real.

Because it’s not like you’re going to see each other again, not like there’s going to be a mess of emotions and consequences that will have to be dealt with in the morning after.

Eventually though, the light does slip through the curtains, the clothes come back on, and you’re kissing Mina against the doorway and thinking of a million reasons why you should stay.

"So, how long are we going to pretend that this is normal?" You broach, and it immediately feels like you’re breaking some unspoken rule. 

Mina’s keeping herself busy, hands at your shirt, buttoning it back into place, one by one. Hiding away evidence that her mouth, her lips, her teeth were ever on you.

She looks up at you. Smirks. “Fucking ‘til the break of dawn, giving each other orgasms that never quite end? Flooding each one of my holes with your cum?” 

You tilt your head. 

“I don’t know. This whole thing is… unique. Uncharted territory and all.”

“It goes without saying, but, yeah. Same for me.” You echo, “Unique.”

You reach for her, smoothing her hair back. The early morning light makes it shine like a crown of jewels. 

“Do you want it to stay that way?”

Mina considers. Leans into your hand. “You think we should make a habit out of this? I didn’t pin you for the type.”

“Neither did I, but it didn’t seem so bad when you were riding me on that couch,” you tease. “And in the shower, and on the staircase, and in the kitchen…”

She blushes, lips caught between her teeth, looking like she’s struggling to hold in a laugh. There’s this glint in her eye as her hand wanders up to your cheek, thumb hovering just shy of your mouth. For a second, you think she’s going to kiss you again.

But instead, she just looks at you.

Eyes you with something close to fascination, something that makes your heart stop. And you're reading each other’s minds again, knowing you're both going to lie, going to pretend like this was just a one-night thing. Something the two of you can easily wipe your hands with and walk away from like it never even happened.

Because this really is the first time—you’ve never done anything like this before. Sure you’ve dipped your toe in the pool of commitment, paddled around in the shallow end, but you’ve never fallen for someone proper.

Never worried about what someone's going to be doing when you’re not there, never thought about whether you’d be better off sticking around to find out. 

But you have a job. A company to run.

And Mina, a career. A boyfriend. A life.

So, you don’t make plans.

You don’t even ask for her number.

You don't need to.

Deep down inside you know you’ll find her again.

For now though, you spin your bullshit: “It’s probably for the best if we don’t, though.”

“Probably.” Mina agrees, but she can hear the same ticking clock as you.

The timer that’s already started, counting down to when she’ll inevitably be undoing the same buttons, redrawing the same patchwork of red and pink across your chest, and pulling you into her home and into her; fucking her pussy, her ass, her mouth, in all the ways she needs, until you’re spilling out of her all over again.

 “Definitely.” Mina unlocks the front door. “For the best.”

[frannyzooey]

Veneration

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Rating: E

a/n: another piece from Ao3 — enjoy! ❤️

—

“Where is she?”

Marcus stalks into his chambers, his white cape billowing behind him, a guard following in his wake.

“I asked for her, sir. I’m not sure where she is. She –”

“Just find her,” he growls, frustration etched on his face.

The guard makes a hasty apology, slipping from the room. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

Candles fill the space, pools of shadows gathered around the edges. The fabric on the bed is rich and decadent, every piece of decoration in the room dripping with luxury.

It’s jarring, after so many months living in a battle tent.

A table filled with food in abundance, he bypasses everything on it for the jar of heady wine. Pouring himself a cup, he drinks deeply.

He thumbs at the slice on his neck, smearing blood on the tips of his fingers. His hands are used to being drenched in blood, crusted with it, the firm hold of a sword nearly molded to the creases of his palm.

It took everything he had not to raise it to the fucking pup who cut him. The one who is so careless and callous, he threatens to burn down everything Marcus has worked for.

All of his protection, wasted. His entire career, played with for sport.

Where is she?

He rips the pin off his tunic, tossing it to the side — he should be more careful with it, but he’s in no mood to be careful with anything. The laurel comes next; the stupid fucking pageantry. He’s a general, a man made of sweat and blood and his fingers tear at the clasps of his armor, but he quickly gives up, pouring another cup of wine. Beautiful and untarnished, the armor is all for show, just like the adornments they covered him with.

It felt good to ride through the city and wave to the people he has been campaigning for months, but he could do without the show of it all. He recognizes the need for celebration, and he’ll gladly give it to them, but he wishes he could do it in his actual armor. The one he defends their city in. The one nicked with a thousand dents from a thousand swords. The leather that fits to his body like a second skin, and he wished for it during the ceremony more than ever, wanting to present himself to the city like the soldier he is.

He sighs, the weight of the day resting heavy on his shoulders. He’d hoped he’d feel more relieved after his conversation with Lucilla, that maybe he’d finally have someone useful he could persuade to act – and yet, the conversation was fruitless.

Frustration throbs behind his eyes, and he closes them, rubbing at his brow.

“You’d think someone who just had a parade held in their honor would look a little less plagued.”

At your voice, his head snaps up. He watches you slip into the room, servant girls on your heels.

He shakes his head, a stern look on his face. “Alone.”

His command is clear, and you obey, dismissing the girls with a slight wave. All for show in the first place, they turn and leave the two of you.

“Where have you been?” he asks. “I’ve been waiting to see you since we entered the gates.”

You walk closer, bending to pick his cape off the floor. “You know I’m not allowed up there with them.” You finger the rich fabric, fighting the urge to bring it to your nose just to inhale his scent.

A scent you’ve missed for almost a year now. A scent that was pressed into your bedding before he left, a scent you used to have memorized from the soft divot just underneath his ear. Oil and sweat and a heady fragrance that clung to his curls and clothes - one you’d been longing for since he left you behind for the promise of North Africa.

“I know,” he answers. “I thought you’d come to see me sooner. Or that I would have seen your face along the route.”

“Would you even have remembered what it looked like?”

It’s childish, the question. You know it, but a barrier comes up automatically, placing protection around your heart. You were so sure of your bond until you saw him climb those steps, taking his place alongside the Emperor. A tiny prick of doubt at the display of his status bled within you, and though you want nothing more than to run to him for reassurance, you can’t bring yourself to do it.

“How can you even ask that?” he asks lowly, hurt and frustration buried between his dark brows.

He steps closer, and yet you withhold, standing your ground.

You did see him on the route, hidden in the back of the crowd, watching from underneath the hood of your robe. The second you heard he was approaching the city, anticipation stole the air from your lungs, so strong that you had to stop your chores. A thousand different scenarios of reuniting with him swirled through your mind, all of them abruptly stopped by the remembrance that you couldn’t greet him. Not in public, not where anyone could see. You watched him instead from the depths of the crowd, feeling pride as he rode past.

There, he looked like a shining god. Here, in front of you, he looks older.

Aged in a way that makes him even more handsome, there is new gray along his temples. More, along the curve of his jaw. The candlelight catches strands that mix in with his dark curls, and you take in the wrinkles the line the edges of his eyes, the ones that crease his forehead. The one between his brows was there before he left, only it’s deeper now - something you know has to do with the way you haven’t touched him yet.

“This finery suits you,” you muse, fingering the edge of his armor.

He scoffs, catching your hand in his. Bringing it to his mouth, you watch with rapt attention as his lips mold to your knuckles, one delicate kiss after another.

“I hate it,” he mumbles against your skin.

You smile. “Then let’s remove it.”

–

He’s patient as you help, but barely.

You can feel the tension radiating off his body as you unclasp his armor and lift it off, the heavy leather set to the side. His eyes stay trained on you as you guide his thick tunic upwards, discarding it onto the floor. He stands in his underclothes for a moment before you sink to your knees and undo the tie at his waist, letting them fall as well. Bare now for your eyes, you inspect him from your position, your hands running over his skin.

It’s familiar, yet not: new wounds that have healed, new scars for your touch. He stirs under your exploration, twitching along his thigh, but you don’t give into the touch you know he wants - not yet. You used to spend hours exploring his body: working oil into his tired muscles, memorizing the firm planes of them born in the training yard. He’s just as thick and strong as you remember, maybe even more so now.

Standing, you turn to retrieve a strigil from his bedside table, undoing the clasp of your tunic with one hand with your back facing him. It falls from your shoulders, slipping onto the floor in a puddle of cloth and when you turn to face him, the hunger in his gaze at your nakedness floods you with arousal.

“They bathed me before the parade,” he says dismissively, glancing at the tool in your grip.

You had a ritual before he left: he would summon you to his chambers, and be waiting for you. You’d help him undress, and sometimes you’d bathe him, but sometimes he liked it better this way - your small hands smearing rich oil along his tanned skin, your fingers working it in. The deliberate strokes of the strigil swept along the lines of his muscles, the tool gathering all the grime and the dust and the sweat from the yard. Never enough that it disappeared though. You smelt it on you when you slipped from his chambers later that night, always pressed into your limbs, his seed trickling from between your thighs.

Assuming he wants the same veneration tonight, you’re surprised when his hand flicks out faster than you’re prepared for, his grip relentless on your wrist. It tightens, and he pulls you towards him, your back to his front. The heat of his body is flush with yours, the weight of his cock thick along the curve of your ass.

“How long I’ve waited to have you,” he breathes into your ear, his tone a growl that sends a shiver down your spine. The scruff along his jaw scrapes against your skin, and you melt into him. “Why are you doing this?”

You drop the stirgil on the tiled floor, the sound barely heard over the pounding of your heart. Letting yourself lean against the thick, broad plane of his chest, his hand lets go of your wrist to skate up your side, roughly palming the weight of your breast. He groans when he touches it, a relieved one that blends with your softer moan, and his other hand curls around your front, cupping you firmly between your thighs. His fingers reach for the curve of your entrance, his teeth scraping along your shoulder when he finds you wet. His touch lingers there, his fingers spreading you to find more evidence of your need.

There is a tension that still vibrates from his form behind you, hidden underneath his skin. He’s holding himself back just for you, and though you want nothing more than to put aside your hesitation and your pride, it’s actually easier to do it this way. To encourage him to take, so different than the sweet murmurs you’ve wished for in the night, less vulnerable than the tender touch of his hands.

You want it to hurt, just like you’ve hurt, and you know he also needs this right now.

Your hand rests upon his, sliding it up.

Up, up, up until it circles your throat.

He flexes his grip, his fingers pressing into your pulse that thrums underneath his touch. You give him silent permission — permission to be the one he wants to be with you sometimes.

Permission for him to be rough, like he is in battle.

Permission to take you as he needs to take you.

Tilting your head to the side, you whisper against his scruffed cheek. “I’m yours, General.” The title gives away the game, your slip into character. “Tell me what you want.”

Your words set him alight, his body moving just how it does on the field: in control, precise, power emanating from his stance when he tugs you away from him and pushes you to your knees. He blocks out the light above you, his fingers curling around your chin to pull you closer. Your hands splay on his sturdy thighs to catch your balance, and he steps forward, crowding you.

“Open your mouth.”

An order, like he was born to give.

Dutifully you do, and he wastes no time feeding himself between your warm, wet lips. The thick tip of his cock brushes against your bottom lip, the weight of him smearing across your tongue the deeper he gets. He tastes so good and so familiar, so musky and masculine, and your tongue runs along the underside of his shaft, curving to the skin as he hardens even more. You slide it along every ridge, every vein of his thick cock, and when he pulls back just before pushing himself deeper with a groan, you swirl your tongue around the rounded tip.

Going back for more, you do it again.

Your hands slide up his thighs to his hips, your fingers digging into the skin, and you pull him deeper, encouraging it. He groans loud and shameless, your cunt throbbing when you look up to the light flickering over his skin. It looks so rich and real , your hands slipping backwards to palm the curve of his ass with a greedy grab.

The release of want pours from you both, his body still tight with tension but a different type of tension: not frustration, but need.

He gives in, thrusting into your mouth harder, flickering candlelight catching the drool that gathers around the edges of your mouth and slides down your chin. Your cheeks hollow, his thumb fitting into the indented curve. Your eyes shut tight, his cock pushing against the tight ring of your throat. He holds there for a moment, and then pulls out, his is cock glistening and he strokes it while you catch your breath, but you’re already grabbing for him before you’re ready.

“I want more,” you beg, your voice hoarse. “Take what you need.”

He strokes himself faster, harder, his stomach tensing.

“I know you’re holding back, but don’t. Take anything you want from me. I can take it.”

Those are the words that do it. He growls, his hand palming the back of your head to force you back onto his cock. He pushes it past your lips as far as it will go and then some, not stopping this time when he reaches your throat. He feels the tight, constricting curve of it, and pushes a little further still, thickening at the strangled whine you let out into the dark curls at the base. Swiping the hair from your face, he cups your cheeks in his hands and angles your face to turn up towards his own.

Then, he fucks.

His pace is relentless, brutal, his cock slipping into the tight fist of your throat with every thrust forward. Stars dance along your vision, your chin soaked with spit. Desperation radiates from him, his grip tightening on your face, your fingers digging crescents into his hips and he groans, wanting more pain.

A familiar ache, one that he’s used to. Something to distract him from the deeper pain of your hesitation when you first walked in the room. Deeper still, the ache he felt for you while he was gone.

“You have no idea how much I missed you. How much I missed this.” Every word of his confession is mixed with his heavy breaths, with soft grunts from the back of his throat.

You hum, a tiny frown pulling between your brows. You missed him just as much, missed this just as much — the way he emanates authority, the way he bends and molds and positions you just like his soldiers, to do as he bids.

He pushes you further, shedding the frustration and pent up tension of the day with every harsh stroke. He feeds it to you, makes you swallow it as it pours from him into your waiting mouth and an ache blooms in your throat, your jaw tense with the effort of trying to stay open wide enough for him to fit. Slipping your slim hand between his strong thighs, you cup his heavy balls with a tender squeeze — a touch that makes his head tip back as they draw up.

Harder, faster and then he doesn’t give you any warning before he fists your hair and pulls you off his cock, stroking it with a slick, rapid beat to come on your chest. Your collarbones, the swell of your breasts.

More, when you start to smear it into your skin like oil, pressing it into your skin.

When he’s finished, he sags with release — though you know he’s not done. His hands reach for you, pulling you up off the floor and then finally — finally — he kisses you.

Fevered and desperate, his mouth open to taste yours, his tongue sliding against your own. Your fingers thread through his curls to keep him close, and his own dig forcefully into your skin, as if you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you tight. They splay to slide up your back and down again, stretch to cup the curve of your bottom and he lifts you to carry you over to his bed. He means to drop you there so he can sink to his knees, but when you cling to him, he falls with you, his weight settling over your body.

This — this is what you dreamed of every night he was away. This is what you held onto, this is what you missed. This version of Marcus that no one else gets. Not the stoic General, but rather the tender touch of his calloused hands. The slide of his body against yours, the murmurs of his adoration poured along the column of your neck.

Your legs wind around his waist, your hips canting up and he groans into your mouth at the sticky smear you leave on his stomach. More than ready for him, desperate for it.

“My love, I need a minute.”

My love. The endearment fills your heart until tears leak from the corners of your eyes, and you pull him closer, wanting to be buried underneath his bulk. Winding your arms around his neck, you keep his mouth pressed against yours, only to frown when he pulls away.

“I need a minute,” he repeats, his head bending to brush his mouth along your throat. “But let me indulge myself in the meantime.”

You watch the muscles in his thick shoulders shift as he holds himself above you and bends his head, taking your breast into his mouth. It’s a greedy suck, his hand pushing the soft weight of it up so he can fit more. His teeth scrape against the peak, and then he’s moving onto the other one, giving it the same attention while you moan underneath him.

Down further still, he presses kisses along your belly, against each hip. Your thighs open wider, making room for him. A part of you expects him to tease you like you did him, but he doesn’t — he settles in, hooking his arms under your thighs and spreads you wide right before he bends to devour.

Your hands rest upon the top of his head; your own version of a laurel resting on his curls. No adornments, no finery, no pristine armor and gold.

Your eyes close, savoring the slow, wide licks of his tongue. The devotion he gives your cunt with every slick, firm slide.

Not the General that the city fears and adores in equal measure - just Marcus, bending the knee for you.

[help-itrappedmyself]

Dead on Main short part 3

Debating if this can actually still be called a short....

Masterpost to find earlier parts, or my other work.

Danny shudders underneath him and grips the front of Jason’s jacket with both hands. They are both about to make the kiss deeper, when Jason hears the sound of Bats surrounding them. 

Jason can recognize that they make for a weird picture. Jason, kissing some man no one else in the family knows, with the Joker’s dead body five feet away. But he just wants to groan at the interruption. He needs to take Danny back to a safe house so he can learn everything about him as soon as possible. 

Maybe figure out how exactly he killed the Joker while he’s at it. Not that the means change anything about the end point, but Jason is curious.  Because as much as Jason wanted to kill the Joker, planned to kill the Joker, would have if it had come down to it, if this night had ended a little differently.

 The Joker did always seem a little unkillable though. He had a way of coming back. Like a cockroach. Jason may have to make sure that they burn the body.

Jason pulls away from Danny before he could continue the kiss, causing a truly adorable pout. Jason chuckles lightly, stepping back and letting his arms fall to his sides. Batman jumps down from the fire escape he was lurking on. He lands directly behind Jason, with a growl of “Hood”, that Jason knew was both a question and a command. Jason ignored it and watched as Robin jumped down as well. 

Robin crouched next to the Joker and did his own assessment of the body. 

“Dead.” The announcement is not a surprise to anyone present. It still brings Jason joy to hear.

“Hood.” An even lower growl than before. Getting more gravelly, Jason is starting to push Bruce’s tolerance for his bullshit.

It’s not funny. It shouldn’t be funny. But Jason throws his head back and laughs. He laughs for a god ten seconds before he calms and glances behind him at Danny, smiling so wide his cheeks are starting to hurt. Danny gives a small, nervous chuckle when Jason turns to him, but he keeps glancing between him and Bruce. Clearly nervous about Batman’s reaction to the manslaughter.

Jason turns back to Bruce, and his voice comes out so chipper when he talks it elicits another chuckle from Danny.

“I think we should burn him!”

“Hood!” And this one is as exasperated as Batman will allow himself to get in costume. 

Jason saunters over the Robin, whispering at him conspiratorially ��We should maybe do this full-vampire style. Chop him up into pieces and then burn him.”

“I can’t help but agree.” Robin mutters, kicking Joker lightly in the arm. Jason liked this kid before, but his affection was growing. Jason  put his arm around Robin in a quick side hug. 

Robin was not expecting it, which gave Jason a full second before he had to dart away from a knife, laughing. 

“Explain. Now.” Batman’s main focus is on Robin and Hood, but he is also crowding Danny, who looks like he is trying to sink into the wall.

“Hey, leave him alone.” Jason walks back over, quickly, hoping Robin will start with the body while he distracts Bruce. He has faith the kid is good for it.

“What is he doing here and what were you doing with him?”

“Batman, this is Danny.” Danny gives a short wave. “Danny here was startled by the Joker, who confronted him while he was very innocently minding his business. Danny then defended himself against him, and now the Joker is dead.”

Batman gave him a blank stare. “Danny killed the Joker.” It’s flat, but conveys his disbelief perfectly.

“Do you see any bullet holes?” 

“Hn.” Batman grunted, turning to look back at the body. Which Robin might have actually been about to get started on. Jason spares a thought for what they would have donw about all the blood

“Robin!” The shout is sharp, and Robin lowers his knife, despondently putting it back in its sheath. “Robin, bag him and get him ready for transport.”

Robin sighs, but starts doing as he was asked.

Batman turns back to Jason and Danny. “ What were you two doing when we arrived?”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Look old man, I know kissing is not unfamiliar to you.” Batman grunts again. “But Danny, my new favorite person,” Jason takes Danny’s hand as Danny smiles at him. “Is my soulmate. Recently discovered, obviously. Just after he did what all of you refused to do for me, and by accident.”

There was a moment of quiet.

“I really didn’t mean to, Batman, I swear.” Danny is still holding Hood’s hand, squeezing it intermittently. Jason squeezes back every time. “Wait, what do you mean they refused to do for you?” Danny peers at the stoic faces of Batman and Robin, before nodding to himself. “Not the time.” 

“Hood, cave for debrief.”

Batman immediately started to turn around, but Jason scoffed. Jason could not believe the nerve actually, gaping a little at Bruce as he turned back around, before turning to look at Danny and then back at Bruce.

“ Hood, I understand the situation, but this is something that must be discussed.”

“B, you can’t be serious! He-”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Jason and Bruce both shift their gazes over to Danny. “I understand that meeting your soulmate in costume is probably not ideal. You don’t know me, and I’m not going to pretend you trust me yet.” Danny’s entire focus was on Hood.

“Go, talk things out with your group. My name is Danny Fenton. I’m sure you can find whatever you need on me with that. Find me later, okay?” Jason looked upset and it hurt Danny to already to see it.

“I’m okay with getting to know you in a mask if need be. Find my number, text me, call me. I can and will wait until you trust me.”

[adrianastrix]

Another thing I'll add here is something that I was coincidentally discussing with a friend yesterday: this kind of issue can only be solved if our science education (and I'm talking BOTH Natural Sciences and Humanities) doesn't rely on teachers being simply a source of "correct" information.

I put "correct" in quotes because guys. GUYS. I was in a comitee for quality control of kids science textbooks (ages 11-14), and Jesus Christ. It was a book written in the Year of Our Lord 2022 and it had a SLUR as an "alternative name" to Down Syndrome. Not to mention information that was BLATANT WRONG when you as much as googled the legal definition of a certain thing, and much much more. We obviously bombed it, but there's the kicker: the only thing our ban ensured is that this textbook collection is out of question for Brazilian public schools. Private schools can use it, if they want to.

Which means that even schools can and, as much as we try, will spread misinformation, even if it's in a small scale. The teacher in the Twitter thread very astutely identified it as a crisis of authority. If education is just a matter of relaying "correct facts", it all comes down to a matter of authority. And the poor teacher feels hopeless because she can't even say, in good faith, that her word is inherently better than ChatGPT or Wikipedia or TikTok because, guess what, she could be wrong. There's no such thing as infallible authority.

There's only one solution, one that Education Scientists (which ARE a thing, I'm one of them!) have been saying since, I dunno, THE 18TH CENTURY: giving kids an education centered in DOING science, not memorizing its products. The teacher started amazingly by asking the kid to "look it up" in front of her. But what she COULD have done, if prepared for this kind of challenge (I obviously don't fault her for freezing when confronted by something for the first time) was to ask for the notebook or cellphone and show the student what she meant by "look it up" and how the results vary. And tell him that NO single source should be trusted, either her or ChatGPT, and when sources disagree, what should be the tiebreaker?

In other words, the only antidote is showing the kids HOW science is done, HOW you arrive at conclusions, and HOW documental research is done. Science isn't something that Very Smart Geniuses do in their ivory towers to create The Truth. It's science, not a sacred religious ministery. Science is mundane, messy, controversial, and everyone* can do it with a bit of training, just like everyone* can cook or sing or draw with the proper training. [*"everyone", of course, being a rethorical generalization; obviously there are circunstances in which people might NOT be able to do it, or might need especialized assistance that others don't need, but those are the exceptions, not the rule.]

The main reason why our education is stuck in memorization and trying to out-authority the internet has a name: Standard Testing.

It's LEAGUES easier to test for how many facts someone can spew exclusively from memory (you just need a multiple choice test that can be graded by a machine) than it is to test students for their ability of create, research and communicate knowledge (the current optimal way to do it is the whole process of writing a monography/dissertation/thesis).

The whole EVALUATION system holds us down WAY more than the teaching methods themselves, because when you are teaching scientific abilities, you WON'T be sparing time to ensure that all your students are commiting definitions and formulas to mind. At the VERY least, tests should allow students to search for the info they need: this alone already demonstrate that student's ability to research, compare and choose correct information.

The idea that you can compare kids by a test that quantifies the amount of information they have on their heads, and that once they perform well on a test, that info is certified as correct and true is RIDICULOUS. Information on the brain degrades with time, unless you need it constantly. And people who grade tests are human, humans can be wrong. The accepted answer in a test can be wrong.

But we have to maintain the illusion that we can OBJECTIVELY rank students, schools, school systems and nations on how much knowledge they have. Otherwise, how investors will be reassured that they are "top quality"? How private education businesses can boast that they are "the best", thus justifying their price tag? How international banks will "ensure" that the amount of money countries are investing in education are being "correctly spent" (instead of being used to repay them)?

Soooo... ChatGPT is only the tip of the iceberg. There ARE ways for us to solve that problem, there HAS been ways for it since the 18th FREAKING century. But as long as they don't make the money people happy, as long as we expect school knowledge to take the form of a standard list of memorized correct info, we will still be ineffectively fighting the robots.

[hyperdramas]

1-800-got-stress | jeon wonwoo

pairing: jeon wonwoo x reader

warnings: non-idol au, college/professor au, slight romance (?), english professor wonwoo x teacher's assistant reader, tiny sprinkles of humor, one-sided crush (?), wonwoo is very dense when it comes to reader's romantic feelings (not really though), reader still loves him anyways, cute ending??

now playing: return of the mack, mack morrison

dedicated to: @k1eev (<3)

"After the lecture, I want you all to come see my assistant before you leave. She has the next module printed out and organized for you all." Wonwoo's deep voice is the next thing you hear once you snap back into reality, and many of the college student's eyes dart away from you as you look around, more than likely aware of how long you've been gaping at the English professor.

Jeon Wonwoo was the person always on your mind now—ever since you started as his teacher's assistant earlier this month, you've always been thinking about him.

He was everything you weren't—calm, professional, disciplined and put-together. He knew what to say and how to say it, and what to do and how to do it—you were ninety-nine percent convinced that there was nothing Wonwoo couldn't do.

Not only was he annoyingly perfect at his job, but he was annoyingly handsome too—he was handsome to a massive amount of people, students and other professors included. He had sharp eyes that seemed to grow even sharper with the perfect amount of tiredness, and hard-edged features that you had memorized now with how much you had stared at him when he worked.

Time went slow as Wonwoo talked, deep voice echoing through the lecture hall as he gave his presentation on the deeper story of Romeo and Juliet, asking his class questions as he gaged their attention span.

You thought about how nervous you would feel under Wonwoo's gaze. Your face just heated up at it, imagining how you wouldn't be able to look him in the face without feeling completely inadequate.

It was already hard for you to look him in the face, and you were his personal assistant.

"Please finish the last essay I assigned at the beginning of the month. Since we're starting a new module this Friday, I want everyone to be on the same page." Wonwoo's voice was monotonous as students started to pack their things, and you placed the stack of module papers on the desk, letting the students grab and go.

The class filtered out slowly, some staying behind to ask Wonwoo questions and garner advice from him. You watched them quietly, straightening the closet as you dipped in and out of their conversations.

You had just heard another professor enter the room, asking Wonwoo to go out with her tonight for a drink, (to which he politely refused), when Wonwoo had addressed you.

"Are you doing alright? You've looked really tired today." Wonwoo's thick, stern eyebrows are flat as he stares at you blankly, and you try to read his sharp eyes for any flicker of emotion for a quick second, giving up as you give him an awkward smile.

"Oh, I'm fine, Mr. Jeon. I'm not even tired—just a bit distracted, that's all." You reassure him, and Wonwoo nods, looking down at his watch as you finish straightening up your desk.

"You should get some rest. It's not good for you to be tired and trying to assist me, is it?" Wonwoo has a faint smile on his lips when he says this, and you try not to blush or melt under his hot gaze against your skin, fiddling with your collar awkwardly as you nod.

"Here, let me help you with those." Wonwoo's voice is directed to the stack of heavy books teetering on the end of your desk. You nod to him gratefully, allowing him to pick them up as you walk to the other side of the room, unlocking the storage closet door.

He held the books without strain, face still as he waited for you to finish putting your share of books down. Wonwoo followed you, cologne wafting in the air and drifting under your nose as he turned off the lights.

"Thank you for today. You did very well." Wonwoo's voice was sweet as he smiled at you, and you returned the gesture stiffly, making your way back to the desk as you grabbed your things.

"Of course, Mr. Jeon. You did well too, I mean—you did well with the lectures and everything. You teach everything in such a fresh way, it's tough for anyone to not be compelled or interested in what you're teaching." You were a sucker for Jeon Wonwoo, and it was starting to show more and more now—how were you supposed to be normal about him?

"It takes a lot to make the lecture engaging and informative, so I'm glad you think that of me. Many students call me the boring teacher." Wonwoo's voice is lighthearted as he finishes straightening up his desk, and you chuckle, mostly at the absurdity of his words.

"You're quite the opposite of a boring teacher, in my opinion. Your stories and explanations are way more animated than the textbooks could be." Were you showering your superior-turned-crush with embellished compliments? Yes. Did you want him to notice?

...Not really.

"You sure do have a lot to think about me, don't you?" Wonwoo's voice is still playful, even if it has a neutralness to it. You blush slightly at his words, earning a smile from Wonwoo as he smiles. "I'm just teasing you. I appreciate everything you say to me."

A slight pink tint to Wonwoo's cheeks brings an even brighter one to yours, and the two of you fall silent, obviously sensing something between you. Wonwoo's eyes rake over your form, and you shyly look up at him, dark brown eyes behind his frame still making you warm inside as you sigh (dreamily and deliriously, as you might add).

You had made Wonwoo—Professor Jeon Wonwoo, the boring, scarily neutral English professor—blush from your compliments. You would be wallowing in your achievement if you weren't also blushing at the moment.

"Well, I, uh—" You stumble over your words, also stumbling over your book as you pick it up from the floor. Wonwoo watches you quietly, glasses sliding down his strong nose bridge slightly as he watches you head towards the door. "I should get going. It's getting late, and I have to be back here early tomorrow."

"I'll walk you to your car." Wonwoo nods, following suit as he slips his jacket over his broad shoulders and picks up his briefcase. His dress shoes hit the wooden floor as he follows after you, and he turns out the light, leaving you two engulfed in darkness for a few seconds as you stumble back, stepping on Wonwoo's foot.

He grunts harshly under you, and you scramble back, lights in the hallway illuminating your embarrassed blush. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

Wonwoo just smiles again, smile lines sending butterflies that go straight to your stomach. "No worries. You couldn't see because of me, and I'm sorry." His cologne is so strong and so him you can't think straight, but you do your best to string your words together.

"Well, Mr. Jeon, I'll see you tomorrow," The two of you had just left the building, now by your car as you unlock the door. Wonwoo watches you with sharp eyes, clearing his throat as you turn to him.

"If—If you'd like, we should converse over dinner sometime. Not as coworkers, but as good friends." Wonwoo's sentence brought a rude awakening to your world, and you stood in shocked silence for a second, processing what he said to you as you blinked blankly.

Wonwoo considered you to be a good friend—you would have never told by how unfazed he was by most things, but he considered you to be more than a coworker or partner. He saw you as a friend. A good friend who was asking you to dinner.

"Yeah, we—we should, Mr. Jeon." You agree, and Wonwoo clears his throat, sharp eyes daring away as he adds, "Oh, and you can call me Wonwoo. We're comfortable with each other now, so we can drop the formalities."

Not only were you Wonwoo's good friend, but you were such a good friend you could now call Mr. Jeon by his real name, Wonwoo. Too many green flags were going off in your head, but could Wonwoo sense he was giving you all these green flags? It only made your crush on him worse.

"Well, I'll get going, Wonwoo." Even his name on your lips felt sweet, and Wonwoo nodded, giving you a small wave as he closed your car door.

"Until tomorrow." He smiles softly again, and you melt into your seat, smiling as you nod back. "Until tomorrow."

feedback & reblogs are appreciated! love u lyrnation <3

[muletia]

[tfp] obsessed!orion pax x human!reader

summary: what if optimus' obsession bypassed his memory loss? what if he was so infatuated that even his past self yearned for you?

cw: fluff, pinch of angst, canon divergence: orion is taken by the autobots, obsessive thoughts, clinginess, orion literally cannot be left alone for one(1) second, tbh nothing happens in this, i just wanted to write obsessed!orion interacting with you, bad writing, silliness

an: i wanted to implement more ideas, but it came out as it did. i will definitely write some more fics with orion, maybe some smut??? ;)) who knows

word count: 4700

"Come to the base. It's urgent."

As you stare at the terse message from Ratchet, your chewing slows and stops. A storm of questions whirls in your mind, panic creeping into your body. Before you can even type a single letter, your phone rings. The caller is none other than the Autobot medic himself. You answer in less than a second.

"Hello? Ratchet, please don't scare me—what exactly happened?"

"It's about Optimus." Your heart skips a beat. "During the last mission, he was... injured. Or, to be precise, damaged."

"Is it serious?" you ask, pacing nervously around the break room. Lunch now long forgotten. "Will he be all right?"

"Physically—he's never looked or felt better. Mentally, however... that's a different story. I'll explain the details when you get here. And make it quick."

"Hold on, wait—I can't just leave work early like that. There's a whole procedure for this. I can't just waltz out, even though I’d love to leave right now."

"...In an hour and a half, I expect to see you here at the base. See you then."

He hangs up. You stare at your phone screen for a moment, replaying the conversation in your head. Something serious must have happened—Ratchet wouldn’t disturb you at work otherwise. And it involved Optimus... You bite your lip, torn by indecision. You need to at least make sure he's okay, to see with your own eyes what Ratchet was talking about. Otherwise, you'll regret your negligence and spend the rest of the day worrying.

Shoving the half-eaten sandwich into your bag, you rush to your computer to draft a request for early leave, praying fervently that your boss will grant it.

You kept pressing the gas, speeding toward the base, trying to balance obeying traffic laws with worrying about the Autobot. You knew he had been preparing for a mission recently, he had told you about it during a ride you shared, but you didn’t expect it to end like this. Maybe you should have, considering you were associated with a race of aliens deeply embroiled in a centuries-long war, but you always pushed such unpleasant thoughts to the back of your mind, wishing your friends the best. Now, though, all the worst scenarios were coming to the surface. Had he fallen into a coma? Was his processor damaged? Had he died? You didn’t want to think about such an ending. Optimus was alive. You were sure of that.

Seeing the familiar red rock, a tight knot of anxiety gripped your throat. In a few moments, you were about to drive into what was practically your second home, not knowing what awaited you. You glanced at the clock. You were half an hour late—well beyond the time Ratchet had given you.

As if on cue, the medic called you again.

“Don’t enter the hangar. Leave the vehicle at the entrance.”

He hung up before you could say a word, and you sighed. The situation had grown even more worrying.

Before you could say a word, he hung up, leaving you to sigh in frustration.

Following his instructions, you parked at the main entrance and made the rest of the journey on foot. The lights seemed especially harsh, glaring into your eyes as the tunnel stretched endlessly ahead of you, as if warning you, giving you one last chance to turn back. But no force on Earth could stop you now. Determined, you marched forward, needing to know what had happened to your friend.

The hangar was full of Autobots, their sheer presence intimidating. You had thought you were over the feeling of smallness that came with being one of the humans among them, but now it hit you again, hard, dredging up memories of when humans in their midst were still a novelty. You froze for a moment, your courage momentarily disappearing in the shadows of giants.

It wasn’t until your eyes landed on the reason you had left work early that you began to breathe again. Optimus stood there, seemingly whole and healthy, facing the platform where the kids likely were. Relief washed over you. He was alive. Your heart was still racing, but the weight of dread lifted slightly, leaving you braced for the next wave of bad news.

"Hey, sorry I’m late. Work took longer than I expected," you called out.

Your voice immediately caught his attention. Optimus turned to you so abruptly that it shocked everyone present, abandoning the conversation he had been engaged in. Tilting your head back to meet his gaze, you were surprised when he knelt down on one knee, making himself more accessible. You still had to look up, but now his face wasn’t obscured by his… windshields.

The first hint that something was off was his smile—wide, cheerful, and curious. Optimus didn’t smile like that, not even when something genuinely delighted him. Worry started gnawing at you again. Something was wrong.

"Greetings. You must be our next human ally, correct?"

At first, you were at a loss for words. Of all the scenarios you had imagined, memory loss hadn’t even crossed your mind. But before the conversation could veer into awkward territory or panic could take hold, you managed to reply, mirroring his smile.

"That’s right."

"You seem… familiar. As though we have met before."

The hangar fell silent, the atmosphere thickening.

"Of course he would remember her," Ratchet hissed under his breath. You shot him a glare filled with venom.

Focusing back on the mech before you, you forced a calm smile, masking the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You felt like you were on the verge of exploding—uncertain whether to jog his memories or pretend this was truly your first meeting. Why hadn’t anyone given you guidance on how to handle this?

"Erm, well…" you began, only for Ratchet to step in and spare you.

"Humans can look quite similar at first glance," the medic interjected. "Orion, this is [Name], the last human who should know of our existence."

A flicker of something lit up in his cyan optics—something indefinable, known only to him.

"Greetings, [Name]. It is a great pleasure to meet you."

He extended a servo toward you. Tentatively, you clasped one of his digits, ignoring the ache in your heart. This shouldn’t have been happening. You shouldn’t have to forge a new relationship with someone so dear to you. It felt uncanny—like he was wearing Optimus’s skin but was someone entirely different inside. It was unnerving, disorienting. Yet this stranger had knelt before you, reduced himself to your scale to show respect, just as Optimus always had. It was a glimpse of his alternate self, a sign of the inherent honor and kindness he still carried.

"Hello, Orion. The pleasure is all mine."

Letting go of his servo, you gave him an apologetic smile, signaling the end of the conversation. You needed answers, clarity about the situation, before you could decide how to proceed. As Orion straightened up, you stepped past him toward the platform. You could feel curious optics on you, particularly his, as you fist-bumped the kids. Unbeknownst to you, Orion clenched his servo in the same way you had during your handshake.

"So," you said to Ratchet, "what happened?"

The medic sighed, clearly weary of recounting the story yet again. But you had to know. You listened intently, the details unsettling and at times horrifying, but you felt a growing sense of calm. At least now you knew what you were dealing with—what topics to avoid, how to act. The relief faded, however, when you learned that the first attempt to restore Optimus’s memories had failed, and no date had been set for the next.

As Ratchet spoke, most of the team dispersed, leaving only you, the medic, and Orion in the hangar. Taking a moment to process everything, you glanced at Orion, catching his curious gaze.

This was your new reality. Optimus was gone, yet not entirely, standing just a few meters away, watching you intently. It was too much to dwell on. You needed something to distract yourself.

Standing from the couch, you headed down the stairs. You figured you’d be here for the rest of the evening, so you might as well find something productive to do.

"[Name]?" Orion’s voice stopped you in your tracks. He looked genuinely concerned. "Are you leaving already?"

His behavior puzzled you.

"I’m just going to grab my things. I’ll be right back."

"I see. May I accompany you?"

Oh, that was adorable—especially with the hopeful tone in his voice.

"I’m not sure you’ll fit in the tunnel in your current form," you teased with a laugh. "It won’t take long. I’ll be back in a minute."

This time, you quickened your pace.

For several hours, Orion's life had been filled with uncertainty. He didn’t know how he had ended up on this planet, who the Autobots around him were, or why they called him "Prime" when he felt he was unworthy of the title. And now, another enigma had appeared—you. Orion could not rationalize the overwhelming need to be near you. He had felt it the moment he laid his optics on you. The need to stay close, to converse, to observe. The need to know you better. Never before had such intense emotions stirred within him for anyone, let alone a stranger. But you weren’t a stranger. This may have been your first meeting, and he may have spoken to you for the first time, but you were not unfamiliar. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes into hours since you had disappeared into the tunnel. He regretted not following you, even if it meant transforming into his alt-form. At least he would have kept an optic on you, preventing the gnawing feelings of confusion and longing from devouring him from inside.

Ratchet watched his friend closely. He recognized that look, that body language. He knew what it signified, what storm was brewing in Orion’s processor. Optimus had been the same when it came to you. For a brief moment, his friend was back. Too bad it was under such circumstances.

"Do you really remember that woman?" he asked.

"I am not certain," Orion replied, still gazing toward the tunnel. "I feel like she is not a stranger, even though I know this was our first encounter. And as… Prime, if I indeed held that title, was she close to me?"

Primus.

"Perhaps closer than any human, but only Optimus knew to what extent. That might explain why you recognized her."

"Then she is special."

"Everything points to that."

Orion glanced at him, offering a faint smile. For reasons Ratchet couldn’t quite explain, the gesture was hard to look at. Fortunately, you emerged from the tunnel, giving him an excuse to start working again.

"See? I told you it’d only take a minute," you laughed, a black backpack slung over your shoulder.

Orion didn’t confess the truth—that by his reckoning, you had been gone an eternity. He watched intently as you climbed the stairs and took a seat on the couch.

"So, Orion," you began, "what did you do on Cybertron?"

Oh. You were curious about him? Truly? He had never thought of himself as particularly interesting.

It was fortunate that you were not looking at him because his body language betrayed his embarrassment.

"I was an archivist. Do humans on Earth have similar professions?"

"Of course. You know, I’ve always admired archivists. It’s meticulous work, requiring patience and nerves of steel—if you know what I mean. Anyway, it’s an important job, and anyone who takes it up is very cool in my book."

"Cool?"

"You know, fascinating, impressive, admirable."

"Does that mean that... in your optics, I am… cool?"

He asked without thinking and immediately regretted it when you gave him an amused look. Embarrassed, he tilted his helm downward. For such a towering and formidable being, he was also astonishingly skittish. It was peculiar to see a former Prime in such a light, but it made him more relatable, more emotionally accessible. Even so, you couldn’t deny that you missed Optimus.

"Of course, you’re cool to me."

That answer brightened him. A spectacle of stars dances in his optics.

You returned to typing on your laptop, but Orion had other plans for you.

"It seems I still have much to learn about this planet."

"I think you’ll catch on quickly. Besides, if it makes you feel any better, the other bots don’t know everything either. If you’re ever unsure, just ask. I’ll do my best to help."

"Thank you, [Name]. Your kindness is very important to me."

"Anytime. If you’d like, you could also explore our literature—it’ll give you a good insight into what humanity is all about. That sounds like a fitting activity for an archivist, doesn’t it?"

He would much rather have you as his sole source of knowledge about your species, as it meant spending more time with you. He wanted to know not just what you were but who you were—your interests, where you worked, how you spent your free time, your philosophy, beliefs, and hobbies. Everything you were willing to share. He wanted to know you inside and out, to solidify this sense of connection and make it real. And if you wished, he would bare his own secrets, reveal his spark, and show you every part of himself. Perhaps then you might look at him just for a second longer.

"Yes, I believe that would be an enjoyable activity. And what is it that you do?"

He asked question after question, each answer adding a new layer of understanding about you. He shared a little in return, preferring listening to you—your opinions, your perspective.

Time passed swiftly in your company. Relentless and unforgiving, it waited for no one. Orion realized this when you set aside your device and began stretching. It was a mesmerizing sight—your movements were so different from those of Cybertronians, fluid, and light. That was until the air was pierced by the loud crack coming from your back.

Energon froze in his fuel lines, and his spark leaped to his intake.

"[Name]? Are you alright? Are you harmed?"

"Hm?" you hummed, confused. He looked as though calamity had befallen him, as though you’d been beheaded. Then you remembered—it was Orion, not Optimus, and the human body was weird. "Oh, that. Don’t worry, I’m fine. It’s perfectly normal." To prove your point, you began cracking your knuckles, stopping quickly when you saw his horrified expression. "Okay, sorry about that. But really, I’m fine. I just need to stretch."

"Alright…" he replied, though he didn’t seem convinced. You couldn’t blame him.

You rose from the couch and stepped down from the platform, intending to take a short walk. Panic erupted in his spark. Oh no. No, no, no. He didn’t want to be left alone, not after such a jarring experience. He wouldn’t let you out of his optics now—not even for a moment.

"May I accompany you?"

"Of course!" you replied without hesitation, smiling—a gesture he immediately mirrored. "It won’t be very exciting, though."

"On the contrary, I find you to be a most intriguing individual."

"Oh, thank you," you said, clearing your throat, embarrassed. Compliments delivered in that baritone still flustered you.

Together, you ventured deeper into the base, bypassing various sections. In the training room, Arcee worked on her speed, while Bulkhead struck a makeshift punching bag fashioned from an old car. The children watched the spectacle, occasionally entertaining themselves. You both quickly slipped past the always-open entryway and continued on your way.

“[Name]?” Orion inquires. You turn into an empty hangar with a high platform, starting to ascend the stairs.

“Hm?”

“How do humans attempt to court their partners?”

You hadn't expected that kind of question. You stop mid-step, pondering your answer. When you look at him, his expression is dead serious, though his optics betray a determination. Why would he want to know this? You decide it’s probably mere curiosity.

“It depends on the person.” You continue climbing the stairs until you finally reach the top, now level with his faceplate. “Some buy gifts like flowers, others go on elaborate dates. But the common factor is spending time together, and getting to know one another. Feelings tend to develop naturally that way,” you explain. “Actually, that’s an interesting topic. How did it work on Cybertron?”

“Similarly. However, instead of exchanging ‘flowers,’ we presented rare metals or crystals to leave the best impression. To demonstrate strength and potential as a partner.”

“I know a few people who would totally fall for that approach. Heh, I’d be thrilled to get a geode myself.”

Orion suddenly lights up. Were you suggesting something or just sharing an opinion? Whatever it was, he felt compelled to try. To prove himself worthy. Perhaps he could even find the ‘flowers’ you mentioned.

“I see. Thank you for enlightening me.”

“You’re welcome?” you reply, unsure exactly how you’ve helped, but the sight of his broad smile and bright optics makes it all worthwhile. He was utterly adorable.

The two of you chat casually until you’re forced to check the time. You inhale sharply, and Orion tilts his head slightly, curious about your reaction.

“It was great talking to you, but I really need to go. I have work tomorrow and I’d like to get some sleep.”

Panic flashes across his face. He had enjoyed your company so much. He didn’t feel alienated or alone when he was with you. The sense of connection played a significant role, but Orion had already let you into his spark. He had found a safe harbor in you and wasn’t ready to drift away just yet. He wasn’t ready to let go, even if the world around him were to crumble.

“May I accompany you?” he asks, desperation seeping into his tone.

“Excuse me?”

“May I accompany you?” he repeats, now begging.

“My home isn’t exactly designed to host a giant robot. Besides, it’s dangerous and... wait, do you even know the traffic regulations?”

His expression answers the question, but he still attempts to defend himself.

“I have acquainted myself with them partially.”

“Who has the right of way at an uncontrolled intersection?”

He opens his mouth but quickly closes it again, visibly crestfallen. He looks as though he might cry.

“Orion, we’ll see each other tomorrow,” you reassure him. “The first thing I’ll do after work is come here.”

He frantically searches for an argument to keep you with him—anything to prolong your company. Then he remembers his first encounter with human children.

“Every child was assigned a guardian who escorted them home and ensured their safety,” he states, refusing to give up. “Do you have a protector?”

“Unofficially, that was Optimus…”

“Then I would like to carry on his mission.”

“I’m not a child, Orion.”

“I understand that. I merely wish for your safety, [Name],” he explains earnestly. “And… I would prefer not to part from the company most dear to me.”

Your thoughts drift back to something he said earlier—how he recognized the bond you once shared, even though this was your first conversation. He hadn’t recognized Ratchet or anyone from his team—only you.

You tried to put yourself in his position. To suddenly find yourself in a foreign place, surrounded by strangers addressing you by a false name and feeding you information that might as well be fiction. And then, in a world where nothing is familiar, someone steps in—someone you vaguely recognize. You might not know their name, but you know there was once a connection. Wouldn’t you cling to that tiny thread, desperately pulling it closer if someone tried to take it away?

Orion had found solid ground, and you were unintentionally trying to undermine it. You exhale softly. You already knew you’d be saying goodbye to sleep tonight.

“Alright.” His smile makes it all worth it. It’s as though you’ve handed him a star from the sky. “Let’s see what Ratchet has to say about all this.”

"I see no objections."

Orion looks at you with excitement sparkling in his optics.

"Wow, that was quick."

"It's a good excuse for Orion to explore the area and get accustomed to his alt mode."

The medic refrains from adding that if the former leader remained at the base, he would likely have wasted away in longing for you, lamenting to every sentient being that he couldn't wait to see you again. Though the comment teeters on the edge of his glossa, he opts for discretion. Optimus, at least, had never vocalized his peculiar obsession with you quite so openly.

"Should anything unusual occur, contact me immediately. Someone will come for you in the morning," Ratchet advises his friend before turning to you. "Good night, [Name]."

You thank the medic for his diligence and ask him to take some rest, earning a piercing glare that almost feels lethal, then retrieve your backpack and head toward the tunnel. Orion stays close by, not leaving your side even after transforming. Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for you, visibly delighted at the prospect of your first shared drive together. In his mind, this was more than a mere drive—it was a deeply intimate act, almost akin to inviting a partner into one’s private space.

But his dreams are promptly shattered when you inform him that you have your own car.

The journey is uneventful but nerve-wracking; you constantly check your side mirror to ensure Orion is still following you. Thankfully, there are no issues, and he even remembers to use his turn signals when necessary. Everything proceeds smoothly until you pull into your driveway and are struck by a dreadful realization: Will a Peterbilt even fit in my garage?

You park your car to the side, leaving Orion enough space to drive safely. Exiting your vehicle, you open the garage door and wave at him to proceed. You nervously bite your thumb, watching the massive truck carefully edge into the space. There are barely three centimeters between the roof of the truck and the ceiling. When you close the garage door, the already limited space shrinks further.

"So, do you regret your decision now?" you ask, stepping around to the front of the truck.

Orion transforms with meticulous precision, carefully positioning his limbs and helm to avoid damaging the walls. The process goes well until his helm grazes the ceiling with an audible thud, dislodging a few small pieces of debris. He winces slightly and rubs his helm but offers you a warm smile.

"I do not regret my decision."

"Pfff, well, that's good. Are you all right?"

"I am unharmed."

You can’t help but feel guilty for confining him to such a cramped space, but it was his choice. If he insisted, he would simply have to endure it. Of course, that meant you would have to endure it, too, as the issues began almost immediately.

"All right, I’m going to grab my things. I’ll be back in a moment."

He panics again—something you’re beginning to expect from him.

"Please, do not leave me."

His voice is unchanging. A deep and thick baritone that permeates your body, speaking straight to your soul. It is strange to hear the same voice coming out of a shamed and uncertain being, begging you for company.

"I’ll only be gone for two minutes."

You reach for the door handle, but his servo shoots forward, blocking your exit.

"Orion," you chide, your tone sharp and reprimanding.

He doesn’t meet your eyes, his apprehension laid bare.

"Please, I do not wish to be alone."

"Two minutes," you say firmly, though your annoyance falters when you see the raw emotion in his optics. Sighing, you place a hand on the edge of his digit, catching his attention. "I’ll be back. I promise."

He believes you, of course he does. He trusts you to return, yes, he even knows it. It doesn't change the fact that he is frightened, he feels alone, and your proximity calms the storm raging through his processor. His whole body is clamoring for you, screaming for you to stay with him. He craves bodily contact, he wants your soft hands to stroke his metal and your lips to whisper sweet nothings. He wants more, he wants to feel the softness, more, more, more.

He takes his servo away.

"Good mech."

As you disappear through the door, Orion buries his face in his hands. Despite his embarrassment, he can’t suppress a grin. He had enjoyed that moment—far too much.

He wants to hear you say it again.

When you return, you’re carrying a blanket, a deck of UNO cards, some snacks, and your laptop. Orion beams at the sight of you but frowns when he notices you shivering.

"Are you cold?" he asks with concern.

"Hmm? A little, but I’ll warm up soon."

Without warning, he gently scoops you up in his servo, handling you with the utmost care. The shock is brief—you don’t even have time to protest before he places you on his chassis. His servo remains loosely wrapped around you as a precaution, but your back presses against his warm metal frame. Tilting your head up to glare at him for pulling such a stunt, you find him already watching you, amusement dancing in his optics.

"Ask next time before you do something like that," you scold lightly.

"I make no promises," he teases, earning a playful flick to his digit.

"I was planning to play UNO, but since you pulled that move, let’s watch a movie instead. Unless you’d rather do something else?"

"I leave myself entirely at your mercy."

He would have been content doing nothing as long as he could hold you close.

"All right, then. A movie it is."

It's hard for him to keep up with the plot when he's overstimulated, but he tries, because your questions encouraging discussion come out of nowhere. And it was just at moments when he started to drift off, when the optics shifted from the tiny screen to you; when there was only you and him in the world. Sometimes, however, he would focus for longer, especially during the romantic scenes. He longs to experience something similar with you, an indestructible, sappy love. To recite poetry into your ear and watch you blush, to announce to everyone how much you mean to him. To bestow expensive gifts, the geodes you mentioned earlier. He needs your tender words, your praise, your touch. You could do whatever you liked with him, and he would give you his spark.

He worries when you fall silent for too long.

"[Name]?" he calls softly, leaning closer to check on you. Relief washes over him when he sees you’ve simply fallen asleep. Poor thing—you must have been exhausted.

Still, a part of him resents it. He wanted to talk to you longer, watch more films, learn more about human romance to win your favor. But he knows his thoughts are selfish. Setting the laptop aside, he carefully covers you with his other servo, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety.

He's not sure he'll be able to recharge. At least not now, when he was too absorbed in devouring you with his optics. You felt safe with him. You gave him your trust. You chose him.

A spark of possessiveness sweeps through his processor. He doesn't want to let you go. He doesn't want you to go to work tomorrow and leave him for eternity. He also knows he shouldn't think that way. The spark goes out.

Watching you sleep, his processor churns with thoughts. You trusted him. He vows to prove his worth tomorrow, to show you just how deep his feelings run.

Because he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be himself. How much longer he will remain as Orion Pax.

[multipleoccupancy]

Theo drew in a breath as they spoke of what it had been like after Sloane's betrayal. He missed working with Samantha in the field but he was so relieved she had an office position that kept her safe instead. He thought about Violet and her potential disorders. He had noticed she stayed away from the big window in the past, but he also understood why. "They manifest and you work them out as you go. I didn't really understand my OCD for a long time and then the paranoia made it much harder to reach out for an explanation." His counterpart had done a number on her thought and he had to think for a moment on what to say. "I suspect that a fear of heights is only natural after what you have been through. But you see now how these things come about?"

He nodded about there being enough agents to merit a HR department, though even he didn't know exact numbers. However he should have expected her to fire off with relentless questions. Theo did feel overwhelmed for a moment and he wondered if he should shut the conversation down or risk destabilising how far he had come in the last few days. There was plenty there he wouldn't answer and he regretted opening up the option for her to ask. "They send another agent still, I have recruited a couple of people myself. I sit with them and talk about the work and ask them to join, giving them instructions on what to expect." Whether or not that was the right way he wasn't sure but he felt it was the best he could offer.

He purposefully skipped over how he was assigned missions and coded messages, she had a letter from Delta Green and that was enough. He didn't want her digging through his mail looking for triangles to see if or where he was going next. "I no longer have a team," he said plainly, "My team was Samantha and Sloane and he went and put an end to that. Since then I am either sent to other groups of agents on missions to discipline or lecture them or partnered up with agents when I am needed. They're strangers." Most of them anyway. Despite his trust issues he still had favourites. He dodged over the questions on monsters and she gave him the perfect excuse to do so with her final question. She should not have known about the Apocalypse Club and he raised a very fatherly eyebrow at her.

"It's a cultist ring, I am the lead agent in bringing it down one by one. Middle-Sized Tony is one of their leaders." He did not specify it was in the city, nor that it was a physical place, not wanting Violet to go looking. "They're very dangerous people. A lot more put together and in control than Sloane. They mainly work in crime and amass ridiculous funds through it." Of course he had his own instructions on handling them from the Horned One but he had to bring cultists in enough that he was still able to stay the lead, in a way he felt it balanced out. "I wouldn't normally leave my files out like that, I am sorry I did and you saw. It won't happen again." There was still elements of fear in his tone despite himself, as if he was preparing to be punished in the back of his mind and trying to mitigate against it.

However, he saw her embarrassment about the letter incident and shook his head. "I should have been more respectful in how I handled that too. I never meant to upset you but I panicked," Theo explained honestly and watched her carefully in case he upset her further. "I'm sorry I shredded your letter," this apology much more genuine than the last. "I should have explained this to you sooner. But it's easier now that you know why I didn't want you to read it. I was so scared."

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 & 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 @multipleoccupancy

"It must have been difficult," she mused a little bit sadly, "when Samantha stopped working as an agent. If she was the only one you trusted..." Her dad must have felt really alone, especially after Sloane's betrayal. "I understand that you're distrustful, after what Sloane did." But then again, it seemed that was a disorder, gained from his time as an agent. "How will I know if... if I have a disorder? I've seen so many things already. And... I still can't get anywhere close to the window." Violet didn't usually talk about that. She supposed it was obvious, and yet she pretended it wasn't an issue.

Violet was very curious about Samantha's job, now. Luckily for her, Samantha was around. Maybe she could ask her about it? "There are a lot of agents, then?" Enough for Delta Green to need an HR representative.

Her dad had just allowed her to ask him whatever she wanted to know, and yet Violet fell silent for a few seconds. The questions were jostling each other in her mind, leaving her speechless. She felt like it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and didn't want to waste it on stupid questions! "How do they recruit agents now, then? And how do they tell you your missions? Do they send coded messages? Do you know the other agents on your team?" Surely her dad wouldn't be surprised to hear her firing questions at an impressive rate. Fastest draw in New York! "What's the scariest monster you've ever seen? How many monsters have you killed?" And finally, a question she asked with a blush on her cheeks: "What's the Apocalypse Club? I just- your file was opened on the table, and I saw the name."

After that, she had to take a moment to catch her breath.

"I understand now, why you were worried. Why you shred the letter. You were just protecting me. They shouldn't have sent that letter in the first place, not after what they did to you." Violet looked down, embarrassed by the huge tantrum she had thrown about that letter.

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ requiem of a cringe

did something embarrassing last night and was like "I need to go crawl in a hole and die. OR I could write"

type of post: blurbs characters: cater, rook, jack, vil, idia, malleus additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral (the term "damsel in distress" is used in vil's part, but it's meant to be teasing and not indicative of the reader's gender), reader is yuu, rook is rook

I. Talks Too Much

It's not that you're trying to be annoying.

Your mouth simply moves faster than your mind, and before you know it, you've been talking for twenty uninterrupted minutes about... well... nothing.

You always notice that uncomfortable, irritated look on their face just after you're done. And then you keep rambling in an attempt to make it less awkward (it never does).

And now you're here, hiding in the hedge maze outside Heartslabyul, thinking about getting lost and never coming out of it.

Of course, if anyone were to find you now, it'd be him.

"Hey, hon~ you busy?"

"Please, not now, Cater," you mutter.

The boy stills, looking a little taken aback by how miserable you sound.

"Are you still upset about that thing at the Unbirthday Party? That was hours ago, babe! I bet no one even remembers,"

You physically cringe. The faces of your uncomfortable tablemates won't seem to leave your memory...

"I remember it," you murmur, burying your face in your hands. "I'm so annoying."

For once, Cater is quiet. A minute goes by, and you think he may have left, until you hear the grass crunching under his knees as he kneels down and pulls you into a hug.

"You are not annoying. And even if you were, it'd only make me like you more," he mutters, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Understand?"

Your surprise at his change in tone doesn't stop you from hugging back. "Understood,"

You hadn't meant to say all of that.

You just spilled a potion you'd been working on for hours, and amidst your frustrated floor-scrubbing, you had vented about your entire week to your poor lab partner, a person you had been trying to impress all semester.

He had, gracefully, let you finish your rant, and then let you sit in it, just like the harmless potion now coating your knees as you cleaned up the floor.

Then, he awkwardly said: "That... sucks. I guess. I don't know what to say,"

There had probably never, in your whole life, been a person who looked more unhappy to be around you.

Afterwards, you found a nice spot in the woods behind campus to die.

You lie there, hoping nature would reclaim you before next alchemy class, when some purposefully loud rustling in the bushes catches your eye.

"Ah, Trickster! You really should not lie like that- a predator will take that as weakness, non? Are you injured?"

"Only my pride,"

"Talking about it will make you feel better," Rook says. It's more of a demand than a question.

You sigh. "I think I've done enough talking for... ever, actually,"

"Nonsense," he suddenly straddles your waist and pins your wrists to the earth. "I will not move until you tell me the problem, mon cœur."

You're like an animal in a snare. Once Rook has made up his mind, that's it. He will find out.

And so, with a sigh, you let him take the kill- that is, you tell him everything. Your whole, terrible week, the potion incident, the look on your lab partner's face...

When you're done, he's just. Smiling. "I see now. You are embarrassed,"

"Well... yes. You don't think that's embarrassing?"

He beams. "You are simply overflowing with beautiful emotion and passion for la vie! How could I ever find that embarrassing? You and I are not so different,"

In a weird way, that makes sense. Rook is never one to let shame hold him back from expressing his feelings.

He smiles at your pensive expression, and gives you a kiss on the head.

"Mais, next time you are upset, maybe you should come to me first, non?"

II. Clumsy

Forgetful, scatterbrained, oblivious, dimwitted are all words you've become used to hearing.

As well as a few colorful swears.

You have two left feet, even when you're not dancing- you're used to walking into walls, tripping, and dropping things- it just sucks that you have an audience now.

The first years that had gathered around the mess you made- tripping over your own feet and spilling the papers you were meant to deliver to Ace and Deuce all over the floor- are watching with grins and phones out.

You pretend they're not there, even with their taunts and whistles and laughter.

"Hey! Loitering is a waste of time!" someone barks. Literally.

You look up to see Jack moving through the crowd, scolding the other first years for blocking the hall.

When he sees you in the eye of the storm, on your hands and knees picking up your spilled papers, something upset takes his usually-stoic demeanor.

"What's the matter with you?!" he snarls at the boys. "Didn't anyone teach you any manners?! It's rude to stare- and laugh!"

His ears are flattened against his head when he kneels down beside you to help, collecting the papers, and putting them in your hands.

"Come on, we'll be late if you keep 'sittin there,"

Jack pulls you to your feet and gives one final snarl to the other first years before walking you off.

"...Thanks,"

"Eh? Don't mention it," he says. "Leona woulda had my tail if I just walked by..."

You know there's more to it than that, but you don't push. You're just happy he's forgotten to take his hand out of yours.

You can't handle being the center of attention.

For good reason, too- you're awkward, clumsy, and about the least graceful a person can get.

A true Ugly Duckling at a place like NRC. But Vil Schoenheit sees the swan in you. Perhaps that's why he's always been so patient and sweet.

It's a little distracting.

So much is obvious when he waves at you in the hall and, distracted by his smile, you walk right into a wall.

Though you can't see anything but stars after falling on your butt, the stares and snickers of everyone else are hard to miss.

Vil glares them away with a look that could kill twice over, and then stands over you as you lay on the floor.

"Come on," he says, holding out a hand. "I'll check you for concussion."

He brings you to Pomefiore and sits you down, shooing off a few curious underclassmen as he checks your pupils. "Do you feel nauseous?"

"Not really,"

"Then you'll be fine. Just a bump. You really should be more careful, though,"

You've heard that one before. Vil smiles at your dazed expression, and presses a cold compress against your head.

"This will help with the swelling,"

"Thanks," you mutter, still a little out of it. "You're my hero."

His eyebrows raise in true surprise, and then he chuckles. "And that makes you a damsel in distress?"

He doesn't give you a chance to respond before taking away the compress and kissing the red mark on your head.

"Don't think that being so cute is going to distract me. I'll make some time for lessons on poise this weekend,"

III. Unsociable

You'd think that being quiet and staying out of people's ways would get them to leave you alone, but it really just attracts more attention.

And after a grueling period of your tablemates making you the butt of every joke ("wow, I didn't know you could even talk!" "are you quiet because you hate us? come onnn, you can tell me!") you were ready to bury yourself alive.

"I don't ever want to leave," You mumble into the bundle of sheets and blankets on Idia's unmade bed.

"You could stay, y'know," Idia says from his desk, mindlessly scrolling through some gaming forum. "I should blackmail Crowley into letting you stay down here at least half the year."

"Couldn't it be the whole?"

"Nah. You need like, sunlight and stuff,"

"And you don't?!"

Idia snickers. "I'm built different. You know that. I get all my nutrients from blue light... You could at least stay for the weekend, though,"

You roll your eyes.

"...And I'll leak those normies' data. I'm sure I could get into their browser histories and have that emailed to their parents,"

Hm. You genuinely consider it for a moment, but eventually decide to give mercy. You're basically a saint.

"I think I just wanna pretend like I don't exist right now,"

Idia nods in understanding and pushes his gaming chair over to the edge of the bed, before crawling in and wrapping himself around you.

"That can be done. Pancakes tomorrow?"

Sure, there were people who talked to you, but you didn't talk back.

You just don't know how, you suppose. Every time you try, you end up saying the wrong thing, or are accidentally rude, or do something embarrassing.

You don't understand the references people make. You don't get social cues or hints. You have the social skills of an oyster.

Four months at Night Raven College, and you didn't have a single friend.

Well- except for him.

"How are you enjoying your tea?" Malleus asks, polite and curt as ever.

You take another sip- it's tangy, sweet, with a hint of bitterness. Some sort of Briar Valley blend that Malleus had imported just for you.

"I really like it,"

He smiles. "I'm pleased,"

One of the things you find so agreeable about Malleus is his simplicity. He often says exactly what he means; albeit, in a sort of 13th century Lord sort of way.

There's less stress with him. You don't have to pretend to be interesting, or outgoing, or cool. You can just be... you.

Because he likes you.

"You know," you say with a faint smile. "You're so nice to me. Sometimes I think that you're the only person I need. I could be happy with just you for the rest of my life."

You had meant that casually, but when you look back up from your cup, Malleus has this... look.

Wide-eyed, his lips pressed firmly together. There's even a dusting of color on his cheeks.

"Oh," you internally panic. Was that too much? Was that weird? Did you make things awkward again? Crap, you should have just acted normal, what's wrong with you?! "S-sorry, I-"

"Do you truly mean that?"

You go quiet, looking back at him with wide eyes. Your heart is pounding against your chest.

"...Yes,"

Malleus hums, his expression becoming more... pensive, and then...

He smiles. "I feel the same. Shall we go for a walk while the night is still young?"

[2amriize]

.ᐟ friend!RIIZE flirting with you ༉‧₊˚.

req: I js discovered your blog and im obssesedddd😭 could you do riize as friends flirting with you on party and being very bold? thank youuu

pairing: friend!riize x reader —masterlist

⭑.ᐟ shotaro

Your group of friends had decided to throw a party to celebrate the end of your first year at university. The party was pretty crowded, and although you didn’t usually enjoy these events, you were having a good time. At one point, Shotaro, one of your closest friends, came over to talk to you, and the two of you spent a long time chatting while sipping your drinks. You weren’t sure if it was because the music was so loud or because Shotaro had had a bit too much to drink, but he kept moving closer to you, leaning in to your ear every time he wanted to say something. You didn’t expect him to place his hand on your hip and whisper:

"You look too good tonight, and you smell amazing... Should we find somewhere more private?"

.ᐟ eunseok

Since you arrived at the party, you’d been hanging out with your friend, dancing and having some drinks. The moment you noticed Eunseok watching you, you couldn’t stop wondering why he was staring. When your friend stepped away, Eunseok wasted no time approaching you to start a conversation, offering you a drink while his eyes swept up and down your figure. After a few seconds of silence, he brought his hand near his lips and said:

"Wow... I've been waiting all night to come up to you, and I don’t know if I can wait any longer to get even closer."

⭑.ᐟ sungchan

One of your friends suggested playing truth or dare during a small party your group had planned. After some time drinking, you all decided to make things more exciting with the game. The questions and dares grew increasingly bold, which made the situation even more interesting. You didn’t expect that one of the dares would result in you spending five minutes alone in a closet with Sungchan. It felt strange being so close to him, and you couldn’t help but notice how he was looking down at you.

"People will probably think we’re doing something in here..."

"I mean... I wouldn’t mind giving them something to talk about if it’s with you."

⭑.ᐟ wonbin

Although you’d known Wonbin for years and were part of the same friend group, the two of you had never really talked alone, so you didn’t know much about him. One night, your group decided to go to a nightclub together. You spent a long time dancing and drinking with your friends, but gradually, they began pairing off with others or heading off with their significant others. At one point, you stepped outside for some fresh air and ran into Wonbin. You ended up talking for a while about how it seemed like everyone had someone except for the two of you. After a moment of silence, he surprised you by saying:

"If we were together, everyone would be jealous of us... Don’t you think? I think we’d make a great couple."

⭑.ᐟ seunghan

You weren’t a big fan of parties, but Seunghan had spent weeks convincing you to attend one that a classmate was hosting, so you finally agreed. You didn’t plan to stay long, but at least you could keep Seunghan company for a while. When you arrived, you went over to him, and he offered you a drink. The two of you ended up talking for a long time. You were good friends and got along really well, but something about the way he was looking at you that night felt different. Every chance he got, he’d touch your cheek or your shoulder. When Seunghan stepped away to grab some snacks, a guy approached you to ask for your number. As soon as Seunghan returned and saw what was happening, he placed his hand on your arm and said:

"Hey, back off. I saw her first, she’s mine."

⭑.ᐟ sohee

It always surprised you how much Sohee’s personality changed after a few drinks. You were at a party he’d organized at his house, and although he was usually calm and adorable, just one drink made him outgoing and energetic, chatting with everyone. But for some reason, Sohee had stuck by your side all night. At one point, you stepped out into his garden to get some fresh air, and the two of you sat on the grass. After a few seconds, you noticed Sohee was staring at you.

"Mgh? Is something wrong Sohee?"

"I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or you, but my heart’s been pounding all night when I’m around you. I can’t stop looking at you, y/n."

⭑.ᐟ anton

Your friends had decided to celebrate the end of exams with a night out at a nightclub. You were with a big group, and you’d spent hours dancing and drinking with your friends. At one point, when you went to the bar for a drink, you ran into Anton, one of your friends. You chatted for a few moments while waiting for your drinks. Once they arrived, you turned to leave, but you felt Anton grab your hand. Confused, you turned back to face him. Pulling you closer and placing his hand on your arm, he leaned in and whispered:

"I’ve been watching you all night, y/n, and I need to know if I have a chance with you or if I should just pretend I’m not obsessed with you."

masterlist // taglist: @regularsuh @gacktsa @totheseok @kkumistars @taroddori @enhacolor @ladylilith @electric-hearts @astrobymarwa @layluv123 @sunflowers1610 @nctrawberries @synkjellies @ramyeonzprincess

[azzifuddslover]

off the court

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

themes: angst, pining, light jealousy

word count: 3.6k

tw: swearing, talks of alcohol use

a/n: very proud of myself for finishing this as quick as i did. ngl i was so giddy writing this chapter, it might be my favorite so far! please lemme know how y’all are liking it, enjoy! 🩷

CHAPTER FOUR

paige wakes up in her bed, in the same clothes as the night before. her pounding headache is evident, and her memory is foggy. she recalls drinking far too much, but there’s still a gap in her mind regarding the last few hours. how did she end up in her dorm?

she came to the conclusion that nika or aubrey had brought her back home. i mean, they did witness her drinking more than she should on a thursday night, so it’s a solid assumption.

paige reaches for her phone; there’s three missed calls from nika, two from aubrey, and one message from coach auriemma. fuck. she’s late for practice.

the memory of azzi rejecting her floods her mind, which makes paige contempt staying in her bed for the remainder of practice.

as paige scrambles to get dressed and head out, she’s physically off balanced, still dizzy from all the alcohol she had consumed. she grabs an advil and quickly shallows out before throwing her basketball bag on and rushing out the door.

heads turn to look at paige as she strides through the gym door, already out of breath.

nika is the first to pull paige aside; “girl, where were you? are you good?” she questions, concerned.

paige fakes a smile, “i’m good nik. i just overslept.”

“you sure you’re okay? you were drinking a lot yesterday.”

“really, i’m okay.”

nika gives paige a reassuring squeeze on her shoulders, “alright. if you say so.”

paige begins to walk to the lockers rooms, purposefully avoiding coach, who calls her over anyway.

“where were you?” he asks, clearly furious at paige’s absence.

“i’m sorry coach, i overslept.”

“you should know better, paige,” he says firmly, “everyone, run 10 laps.”

loud groans come from each of the players. coach auriemma’s eyes widen in challenge, “don’t like that? make it 20.”

paige’s lips curl; she receives dirty looks from her teammates, annoyance bouncing off them. she desperately wants to run away, go anywhere but here, yet she sets her bag down and runs with her team.

practice is the slowest it’s ever been for paige. and the pounding headache she continues to have doesn’t help one bit. she remains out of sync, constantly missing easy layups and wide open 3 pointers. all she wants is for this damn practice to end so she can sleep the rest of the day away.

she’s been intentionally avoiding azzi, not meeting her eyes, building distance between the two, not even passing her the ball, regardless if she was open or not.

but when azzi throws a soft glance at paige does she meet her eye contact. azzi wears a concerned, light expression on her face, with an ounce of sadness in her gaze.

paige shoots a glare at the younger girl as she remembers the events of yesterday. azzi and paige’s bodies flush together. their lips inches apart. azzi’s rejection. azzi running away from her.

paige is first the break eye contact, going back to shooting. or atleast, attempting to shoot.

once practice comes to an end, everyone is eager to leave. it’s been a long day, and they all needed rest.

as azzi was about to exit out the gym door, paige pulls her into the locker room, quickly and swiftly.

“jesus, paige-“

paige places her hand on azzi’s forearm, “look, azzi. about yesterday,” she begins.

azzi’s cheeks flush, “paige-“

“listen, i was drunk out of my mind. i didn’t realize what i was doing or who i was doing it with. i hope you’d know i would never do that sober.”

pain hits azzi like a brick. she knew paige would regret it in the morning.

although azzi had been the one to pull away, it didn’t mean she didn’t want to kiss paige- she did. she desperately did. she still does.

“i.. okay,” azzi whispers, eyes flicking to the floor.

paige pulls her hand away from azzi’s arm, while continuing to look at the brunette.

“alright then,” she nods, “we good here?”

azzi opens her mouth, then shuts it and nods as well.

paige flings her bag over her shoulder and casually moves for the door. azzi’s not far behind her, placing her bag on her own shoulders and leaving the locker room.

the two girls walk in opposite directions, not bothering to glance back. paige closes her eyes as regret strikes her hard. she had lied to azzi. she wanted to kiss her yesterday, still wants to, but what else could she do? azzi pulled away. she pulled away. she had to at least try to act like it was a mistake.

later that evening, paige is in bed, with her phone in her hand. ever since practice earlier in the day, she had been completely worn out, still suffering from a terrible headache.

paige scrolls on tiktok for while, before switching over to her favorite app, instagram. she views her teammates stories and likes a few posts. she sees caroline posted a photo dump, and as she scrolls through the photos, observing each one, she notices azzi in the last photo.

it was a picture of her and caroline in one of their dorm rooms, arms around each other, and azzi’s lips on carol’s cheek, in a friendly manner. it doesn’t settle the blinding jealousy paige feels, though. her fingers tighten in her hands, causing marks on her palms.

god, azzi looks so good in that photo. her hair was loose at her shoulders; she had on a bright pink hoodie paired with black leggings. paige never wished more to be someone else in this given moment.

paige clicks on caroline’s photo, causing azzi’s instagram page to pop up. she quickly hits it to reveal lots of posts from throughout the years.

she scrolls through all her posts, way back to 2015, and she’s reminded of USA basketball days. when azzi dmed her about accidentally liking an old photo of hers. red covers her cheeks in embarrassment.

she views azzi’s most recent photo dump; it was a few pictures of her playing basketball and some with their teammates.

with a slip of a finger, paige likes the photo. again.

“god fucking dammit!” paige exclaims, shifting up in a sitting position while nerves stir in her stomach.

she shuts her phone off and tosses it on the bed. paige covers her face with both hands, shaking it head at her stupidity.

her phone buzzes against her bed; paige already knows what it’s going to be. and as expected, it’s an instagram dm.

i’m getting deja vu, it read. paige’s lips tilt up, somewhat pleased that azzi still remembers their interaction from years prior.

would u believe me if i say it was another glitch? paige texts.

anxiously waiting for azzi’s respond, paige fiddles with her fingers, a nervous habit of hers.

i’d say these glitches are awfully convenient, aren’t they?

a soft giggle escapes the older girl’s lips, as she swiftly replies.

they most definitely are, she sends.

after a couple minutes, azzi finally replies: sooo watcha doing?

paige arches an eyebrow, surprised to find azzi continuing the conversation.

laying in bed, what about u? she types almost instantly.

yeah same, i’m so bored, azzi’s message read.

an idea arises in her mind: same. wanna maybe come over? dorka isn’t here rn.

minutes pass without a respond from azzi. was that too much? does azzi not want to hang out with her? does azzi still hate her?

and do what? azzi finally sent.

paige tilts her head- what would they do? she hadn’t thought that far ahead.

not really sure. we could watch a movie or something, whatever you want.

seconds later azzi responds. sounds good, i’ll be there in 5.

paige scurries off her bed, frantically trying to make her room look somewhat presentable for the younger girl. not that she wanted to make an impression, or anything.

she stuffs dirty clothes in her bed, throws away old water bottles and miscellaneous wrappers before lowering the lighting to appear slightly darker.

as she replaces her current hoodie for a cuter one, she hears a quiet knock at the door. her head whips in that direction while nerves erupt in her stomach.

she opens the door to reveal a smiling azzi. she has on a simple white sweatshirt, baggy black sweatpants, with a pair of nike slides.

“hey,” azzi says, looking into paige’s eyes.

“hi,” paige replies, holding eye contact, “come on in.”

paige moves to the side, allowing azzi to enter her dorm room, cautiously. azzi observes her room better than she previously had when they were first in here alone, taking in the posters, books, decorations. it was all so paige.

paige gently shuts the door before going to sit back on her bed.

“you played really well yesterday, you know,” paige compliments.

azzi’s smile grows, revealing her dimples that paige loves a little too much, “thank you. that means a lot.”

blush reaches paige’s face, “yeah, of course. but i’m sure you already knew that.”

azzi arches a brow, “what do you mean?”

“how coach compliments your game all the time. you’re the team’s princess, practically,” paige notes.

“well, i wouldn’t-“

“not that i can blame him, though. your skills are undeniable, az,” paige cuts her off, the tips of her lips lifting.

azzi brings a hand up to cover her wide grin at paige’s compliment and the use of her nickname.

“getting soft on me, bueckers?”

paige playfully rolls her eyes, “you wish.”

paige shifts over on the bed, making enough room for azzi to sit as well. “you can come sit, y’know.”

azzi is hesitant, but regardless, walks over to paige’s bed and sits alongside the older girl. their thighs brush against each other’s, sending butterflies to azzi’s stomach.

the two girls settle on a movie, the notebook, to watch for the evening.

“want something to drink?” paige offers.

“um, water is fine, thanks,” azzi answers.

paige simply nods and walks out the bedroom, out to the small kitchen her and dorka share. while she’s gone for a quick moment, azzi decides to get more comfortable, allowing herself to lay out in paige’s medium sized bed.

paige comes back to the room and brings herself to a halt. god. azzi laying on her bed was not one she’d imagine actually happening, but is damn grateful it is.

“thought i’d get more comfortable for the movie,” azzi says, like the answer is obvious.

“that makes sense,” paige replies, breathlessly. she sets down azzi’s requested water and her own on the bedside table, while she carefully crawls in bed next to azzi, laying out as well.

the two girls bodies’ are side by side, full on touching one another’s. and paige couldn’t be happier.

“y’know, you’re a really great player too, paige,” azzi whispers, a couple minutes into the romantic film.

“thank you,” paige begins, “i thought i’d never hear those words come out of your mouth.”

azzi snorts, “yeah, well, me either to be honest. i’ve always hated you.”

paige’s lips turn slightly downward, yet is unsurprised at azzi’s comment. she knew azzi had hated her, ever since USA basketball. she hated azzi, too. well, tried to hate her.

“i hated you, too,” paige lies right through her teeth.

azzi turns her body to face paige, “do you still hate me?”

paige scoffs, because how could she, or anyone for that matter, ever hate someone like azzi? paige shifts her body, facing the brunette’s; “i don’t know, my opinion on you changes everyday,” she teases.

azzi smiles- her brown eyes roam paige’s face, then drop to her pink lips. she knows better; paige literally said mere hours ago she would never kiss azzi sober.

“i’m kidding. i don’t. i could never hate you,” paige mutters, barely loud enough for azzi to hear.

just as azzi’s about to respond, exhaustion washes over her, causing her to drift to sleep. in paige’s dorm. in her bed.

paige’s eyelids flutter open as the remnants of sleep faded. the warmth of her bed surrounds her as she was the first to wake. she glances at the body in front of her, taken aback at the sight of the curly headed brunette. her breathing is steady and peaceful, lips slightly ajar. paige lays motionless for a moment, listening to the gentle rhythm of her own heart, before carefully, slowly reaching around to grip her phone.

paige’s eyes widen as she views the current time- 3:01 am in the morning. they had been asleep for several hours at this point, right alongside of each other.

paige looks over at dorka’s empty bed and is surprised not to see her. she figures she’s staying at one of their teammates room.

paige sets her phone back on the bedside table, takes a swig of water, before returning to her laying position in front of azzi, who remains asleep. she slowly reaches her hand out to graze azzi’s cheek, then twirl a loose curl around her finger, careful not to wake the younger girl.

minutes later, with paige continuing to stare at azzi, her eyelids finally open. she stretches slightly, lets out a faint yawn, before making eye contact with the blonde.

“hi,” azzi whispers, still dazed from her long rest.

paige gently smirks, “hey.”

“we fell asleep?”

“guess so. i don’t think i watched past 10 minutes of the movie,” paige laughs.

“same,” azzi shares the laughter.

the two girls shift into a sitting position, not caring enough to move when they touch one another.

“pass me my water?” azzi asks.

paige nods, grabbing azzi’s water bottle, as well as her own.

“thanks,” azzi says once paige hands it to her. she downs the entire bottle as paige silently watches in admiration.

“thirsty?” paige teases.

“you have no idea,” azzi replies, out of breath, “can i have some of yours?”

paige’s eyebrows rise, kind of surprised at the question. “yeah, ‘course.”

she passes her water off the azzi, who gratefully takes it. she takes several sips.

“what time is it?” azzi questions the older girl.

“3 am,” paige replies.

azzi turns her head at paige in surprise, “are you joking? we slept for that long?”

“i know right,” paige says, equally as shocked.

“i should probably get going then,” azzi says, beginning to get off the bed.

paige turns her head to azzi, “what? you don’t have to. it’s the middle of the night, azzi.”

“you want me to stay?”

paige looks away, flustered, “um, i didn’t say that. i’m just saying you’re allowed to stay if you want to. dorka’s probably at one of the girls’ room, so we have enough space.”

“alright then,” azzi nods, “do you have a shirt i can borrow? i hate sleeping in sweatshirts.”

“didn’t seem to have a problem with it earlier,” paige notes, “but yeah, i do.”

the blonde rises off her bed, scrambles in her messy closet, blocking it with her body to avoid azzi seeing the clutter. she pulls out an old USA basketball t-shirt that she figures azzi would be fine with.

“this good?” paige questions.

glancing at the shirt, azzi’s lips turn up, “that’s great. thanks, paige.”

she throws the shirt to azzi, who also pushes herself off the bed, easily catching it. paige exits the room, going to get more waters for the two of them. azzi lifts off her sweatshirt, tosses it to the ground when paige quickly returns.

paige nearly drops the bottles of water at the sight of azzi’s bare back. her eyes widen, her breath hitches. she wasn’t wearing a bra this entire time?

azzi pulls on the t-shirt paige kindly let her borrow, before turning around, noticing paige staring at her with her jaw dropped.

“i- i’m sorry…” paige stammers, shaking her head at herself.

azzi’s heart is basically beating out of her goddamn chest. she smiles gently, “you’re fine.”

paige finally moves from her spot at the door and places the bottles down. she stares at azzi, wondering if they’d continue to share the bed or if one of them would move to dorka’s.

azzi stares back at the older girl, thinking the same think but not voicing it.

eventually, paige breaks the silence. “i can sleep on dorka’s bed.” she walks over to the empty, made bed, slightly disappointed azzi isn’t protesting against it.

panic soon sets in for azzi, “what? no, it’s your bed, paige. you should sleep it in.”

“really, it’s fine, i don’t mind,” she lowers herself on the bed.

“paige, cmon. i’m not making you sleep in a different bed,” azzi argues.

“okay then..” paige says, confusion setting in.

azzi plops back onto paige’s bed, moving over so there’s enough room for the older girl, “just come back over here.”

paige’s cheeks blush against her will, a smirk settling on her face. “if you insist.”

the two girls get comfortable on the bed, legs touching ever so slightly.

“night,” azzi whispers.

“night, az.”

azzi, this time, is first to wake. paige is much, much closer to her than she had been when they first fell asleep. azzi suddenly feels an arm wrapped tightly around her waist that has her pulled practically flushed against paige’s body. paige’s hand is underneath azzi’s shirt, on her bare back. azzi allows herself to admire a sleeping paige for a quick moment.

she checks her phone- 8:30 in the morning. azzi carefully takes paige’s arm and places it gently on the bed, then crawls out of the warm bed, trying her best not to disturb the blonde.

with her phone in her hand, she glances back at paige, and exits the room.

later that day, in the afternoon, the entire uconn women’s basketball team is scattered in paige and dorka’s room. there’s players on both beds, on the small couch, on the floor. azzi is planted against paige’s bed, while paige is seated on the couch.

the team had been chatting about a variety of things when kk comes up with an idea for the girls.

“guys, we should play spin the bottle!” kk announces, loudly.

“what are we, 10?” paige scoffs, rolling her eyes at the game idea.

“cmon, p, don’t be blame. plus, i’m so bored,” kk whines.

“i’m down,” nika agrees.

“same, why not,” jana says.

soon, each player agrees to a game of spin the bottle, even though paige is convinced it’s a stupid idea. they all sit in a circle, tight enough so they’re all touching, due to the size of the dorm. kk places a bottle in the middle of the circle and gives it a gentle spin.

it lands on aubrey and lou. nika lets out a soft chuckle, causing aubrey to laugh as well.

“pucker up, lou lou,” aubrey smiles before swiftly placing a kiss on lou’s lips, not lasting more than 2 seconds.

the bottle is once again spun, fast this time. it lands on nika and jana, who smirk and touch lips.

paige shifts in her seating, silently wondering if the bottle would ever land on her. she doubts it.

kk gives the bottle a good spin, making it travel faster than before. paige anxiously watches the bottle, fidgeting with her fingers as nerves take over her body.

the first spin lands on azzi. oh jesus. whoever this next spin lands on should consider themselves lucky, paige thinks. she then takes in account that azzi still is wearing her USA basketball shirt.

it’s azzi’s turn for nerves to overpower her. her heart quickens, palms begin to sweat in anticipation for whoever she’s about to kiss.

the next spin seems to last an eternity. paige swears it goes in slow motion. but eventually, it points directly at the blonde.

azzi’s eyes practically bulge out of socket. her jaw drops as she locks eyes with paige, who looks equally as surprised.

ignoring the o’s and ah’s she receives from her teammates, paige makes her way over to the curly headed brunette, careful not to show how nervous she is to kiss azzi.

the older girl settles comfortably in front of azzi. her gaze roams azzi’s flushed face, which causes paige to smirk knowingly.

there is a heavy silence, the air between them electric, both eager and tentative. slowly, paige places her hand on azzi’s hot cheek, and leans in. when their lips finally brush, it was gentle- hesitant at first- but the warmth between them quickly grew, the kiss only deepening as both hearts speed up. a soft, trembling sigh escapes azzi’s mouth while paige’s deepens the kiss even further. she slips her tongue into the younger girl’s mouth, swirling and testing the waters.

after what feels like forever but not nearly enough, paige pulls away, disconnecting their lips. she removes her hand off azzi’s waist- which uncontrollably moved there from her cheek- and crawls back to her original spot, besides dorka and jana.

she glances back at azzi, who’s lips are pluffy and a darker shade of pink, while her cheeks are a softer pink.

the room continued to buzz with energy, the laughter of her teammates echoing from the game, but all paige could hear is the steady of her own heart. her pulse quickens when azzi meets her gaze, heat and want in her lingering eyes. for a moment, the noise of their friends fade away, leaving only the weight of a shared silence between the two.

the blonde didn’t take her focus off azzi. she didn’t smile, didn’t do or say anything. just watched.

azzi clears her throat, trying to act as casual as possible, but her hands betray her, nervously fiddling in her lap. she quickly flicks her eyes to the ground, but not before noticing paige’s lips twitch softly, as she was fighting off a grin.

then, without a word, paige turns her attention back to the silly game her teammates were continuing to play, yet azzi couldn’t shake the warmth in her chest or the growing electricity still intensely present between them.

[sagesariadnd]

My retail job didn't train me for the things I actually needed to know to do my job right. They expected me to be there in the mornings before the buses were even running, then didn't even give me a phone number to call to let me in because the doors were still locked. And when I DID have a number I could call, nobody answered. They told me to call the answering machine if I was gonna call out sick, but my manager never checked the machine so she'd mark me as a no call, no show if I didn't also call her, but I didn't have her personal number so if it was too early for the call to go through to my department, I was screwed. Should I have asked for her number? Sure. But you'd think that would have been step one on orientation day. They didn't even give me the number of the INTERCOM and yelled at me for never using it for several months. They didn't even pay me enough for their health insurance to be worth it.

My retail job's manager was constantly abusive to me. She'd tell me to do something with zero instruction, then yell at me for not doing it right. She'd huff if I asked a simple clarifying question to be sure I was doing something right, and snapping "*I'll* do it then, go clean." She'd scold me for the floor being a mess because I was busy helping customers on a busy Saturday afternoon. She'd scold me for missing that a customer needed help because I was focused on the thing she wanted me to get done faster. She was CONSTANTLY nagging me to work faster. She made me cry a few times from yelling at me, and said "I don't care that you're crying" as if I was doing it to manipulate her.

She constantly got my schedule wrong when I told her what days I was unavailable because of classes. She asked me EVERY WEEK to write it down, then EVERY WEEK she got it wrong, and she told me *I* was the one being inconsistent. She would acknowledge that I was going out of town one weekend, then call me demanding to know where I was that Saturday. She almost wrote up my coworker for being absent on his SON'S WEDDING. She threatened to write ME up when I tried to call out after slipping on the ice in my driveway and hitting my head, basically bullying me to come in. She screamed at me about calling out on Easter Sunday when I was up all night crying in pain from a COMPLETELY VERTICAL IMPACTED WISDOM TOOTH. I'd've loved to know a dentist that was open that day to give me a doctor's note.

The one time I actually reported her for screaming at me for using the bathroom and leaving the floor unattended (I TOLD my coworker where I was going and HE was the one who left the floor unattended to solve a problem at the register), the HR manager sighed and stared at the ceiling when I mentioned her name.

After she got transferred and someone else took over, my new manager was barely more tolerable because he was more passive-aggressive than abusive. He'd never confront me if he had a problem, just cut my hours to next to nothing. He never seemed to listen when I had to call out. He expected me to come into work the day after I called out indefinitely because I had been HIT BY A CAR. And when I did come back after months of recovery, I couldn't keep up anymore from pain and physical exhaustion. And the reason I'd already called out of work so much as it was was because being on my feet that much was literally destroying my ability to walk at all. My knees still have problems to this day from trying to kneel down to do lower shelf work to give myself some relief from my feet. And every time I tried to explain why I couldn't go any faster than I was he brushed me off. I literally quit that year, right before Christmas.

Someone who worked at a notoriously toxic retail store heard the name of the one I worked at and felt sorry for me.

I am never going back to retail.

People always gloss over how mentally damaging it can be to work in retail. I fucking hate that whenever I say “I could never work in retail again” someone has to reply “You snowflake millennials can’t take a starter job because you have to INTERACT with other people” No. Fuck you. I’ve worked as a planetarium host. I’ve worked as a public speaker. I’ve worked as a tutor and as a student teacher. I can work with people. I can work with crowds. Retail was fucking different. Retail was being treated as a subhuman. Retail was being treated so poorly that you have anxiety attacks before work. Having to work retail was a factor in my last suicide attempt. If I hear you say one fucking word about retail workers playing the victim I will personally break every bone in your body. Fuck You.

[corseque]

On the scale of 1 (Rise of Skywalker) to 10 (Shadowbringer/Endwalker), where would you place Veilguard?

critical post

I’ve burst into enraged tears like 5 times since I finished it, which is not nearly even close to as many times as Rise of Skywalker, but still 5 times too many. Just the shallowness of the writing, the obviousness, the incredible frustration at the simplicity, the ignoring so much of my favorite character in order to make a stupidly simple plot work, the horrendous time I had trying to ignore Rook’s annoying stupid fuckass pov while just trying to self-insert myself into the end of my favorite fictional character of all time’s story after waiting 10 years. I screamed in frustration that I had to hear the painfully obvious commentary these brand newcomer characters who I did not give a shit about, explaining to me like a toddler how I should feel about revelations I have been writing about for 10 years, especially when what they were saying was stupid as fuck. I cried at the thought of so many cutscenes and so much effort went into stories I found very forgettable and went nowhere, while they were able to only scrounge up like 10 total animated shots reuniting Solas and Lavellan. I mourn that I could not make any decisions in a BioWare game. I mourn Solas’ story so much, and probably will for years. I will never get over the way they talked down to him and never listened to him for even a second, lest they actually have to write a branching path into their game. I hate that the theme was regret but Rook regrets nothing ever so (shrugs) regret doesn’t affect them or mean anything to them. I mourn the loss of the voice and point of view of his people, the ones he was fighting for, the ones who are alive. I mourn that it turns out that he’s just a stupid feral dog who is 100% wrong about everything always and he always has been from the beginning of time. I cried that the game said the answer was that Solas should NOT try to help his people and they never even discussed it as a philosophical question or the ethics of it or anything, or playing as a character so dense they never once even wondered if accidentally freeing the gods killed more people overall than the veil coming down would have. (We avoided this question like the plague, lest we feel less like purely Good Heroes who could talk down to the gods with righteous fury). I mourn that I’m never going to know what would have happened without the Veil. I feel so stupid for thinking that elves or spirits as factions would appear in any capacity with lines and perspectives in this game. I’m so angry at how safe and smoothed over everything in the setting is, and how it felt like the main characters never struggled with anything and have nothing to say. I can’t believe Dragon Age is so shallow and unsatisfying and head-empty. I mourn that the story of Dragon Age is Over to me and I will never play another game.

I’ve also cried a few times at the completely separated and individual imagery and music in the last scene. I’ve cried that my favorite character didn’t die in any world after 10 years of being at death’s door. I’ve cried at the thought of him being a little worm spirit, and that I was right about him the whole time. I cried when activating Felassan’s crystal in the final fight and seeing all the buffs. I cried when I turned the page and realized the default inquisitor was exactly the same as my personal Lavellan, down to hair style, eye color, hair color, vallaslin removed. I cried when I realized Solas thought he should have died as a spirit rather than be born. I cried that the main story Dragon Age has been telling the whole time has been about the reconciliation and freeing of my favorite fictional character. I cried that Solas and Lavellan got married in the end, when I genuinely wasn’t expecting either of them to even be alive. They’re both still alive and in love in every single world. I can’t wrap my head around that.

I have no idea where to put it. It’s a few high highs but some intolerably low fucking lows. It could have been so much worse but the bar is on the fucking floor. I go back and forth between moderate enjoyment to just being so angry. It could have been so much more and I do not know who to bite for it.

I have no idea.

[existential-crisis-of-the-mind]

Love Language (Jason Todd x Reader)

Prompt: Jason Todd with a gift giving love language

Jason Todd wasn’t the best good at- capable of expressing feelings of affection. Maybe it was just a byproduct of having skipped most of his adolescence, what with the interruption of being buried alive then resurrected in green goop. But whatever, maybe that was just speed running his character development.

What’s not so nice however, is that he’s missed out on those teen years of fumbling through relationship firsts. Sure, maybe they’d be awkward, and he’d look back and laugh at those memories today. But part of him feels like those adolescent years would be far more forgiving towards hesitant confessions and embarrassing slip ups.

Now he’s having to navigate it all as an adult. Unfortunately, it’s not all smooth sailing for Jason, what with his twin quest for revenge and justice blocking out most of his schedule.

The thing is, he has no issues knowing what affection should feel like. He’s experienced the butterflies in his stomach, his throat lodging up because he’s afraid he’ll say the wrong thing, sneaking glances and immediately averting his eyes when he gets caught admiring you.

He’s experienced the pre-date nerves, having to stare down the mirror to convince himself he’s got this (why is it so much easier to punch a bad guy then tell you that your hair looks nice??)

And he’s also experienced the post-date embarrassments, replaying moments where he felt like a total dunce cause of something he said without thinking (he swears up and down he was not being raunchy when he said he likes sleeping with you. He meant it in the literal sense! Your presence helps lull him to sleep)

No, he definitely has no issues in experiencing sentiments of love and affection. But man does he struggle expressing said feelings.

He’s not sure he’s the best at communicating his fondness towards you. At least not with words, given his tendency to put his foot in his mouth when it comes to matters of the heart.

He’s come to realize while he may not be the best with words, he’s a good listener with a keen eye for detail.

Er- okay, perhaps he could have a keener eye for detail, but hey a man’s gotta have his Achilles heel right?

And that is exactly why he’s stood in the living room right now, with three different pairs of vintage sunglasses neatly laid out on the coffee table in front of you.

His stiffens a bit at your questioning gaze before clearing his throat.

“So, do you remember last week, when you were helping me out with groceries and we passed that vintage charity shop on the way back to my place?”

You do have a vague recollection of passing by a well decorated store selling accessories and other Knick-knacks. You nod as you briefly recall pointing it out to him.

He takes your nod as a sign to continue, “Right so, you had pointed out the store, and I recall you admiring a pair of sunglasses at the window display… you said you’d buy it when you get your next pay cheque. But I thought I’d surprise you with it instead”.

Right, well you are surprised, so that bit was accomplished. Though you can’t help but note how he talks in terms of a singular pair, yet there are three (very stylish) pairs of sunglasses in front of you. So you were surprised and confused.

You look back at him, the question on your lips. But the slump of his shoulders and grumbled huff escaping him tells you he’s already figured out what you’re gonna ask.

“Now look, I remembered the shop… I just couldn’t recall which pair you were talking about. So I- uh, I bought all three of them”.

‘Great. Now she’s gonna think I’ve got the memory of a goldfish and make poor financial decisions’

Jason barely suppresses a groan at the thought, averting his gaze in embarrassment.

“Look I think you’d look good in all of them, so yeah… I mean at the very least you like one of them right?” He asks, his voice faltering towards the end as he begins to doubt whether this was a good idea to begin with.

You barely suppress a laugh at his predicament. Of course he’d do this. Instead of just asking you, he’d rather just buy all three pairs to surprise you.

Your mind flashes back to all the times he’s voiced concern that he’s not expressive enough of his feelings towards you, worried that it would drive a rift between the two of you.

But you know that’s not true at all. He does care, he cares a lot. He’s just got a different love language, one that fits him all too well.

You shake your head with a smile as you rise up from the sofa, walking over to engulf him in a tight hug.

“You’re such a goof you know that?” You mumble against his shirt. Jason mutters in protest though he wraps his arms around you without missing a beat.

You lean back to see his face, a bright smile adorning your features, “Thank you I love them, all of them. And I love you” you declare before pecking his cheek.

A short laugh escapes him at your actions. He takes a moment to drink in your happy smile before proceeding to flick your forehead.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“I’m no goof”

“Oh you’re not? Is that why you technically bought one pair of sunnies for the price of three?”

He rolls his eyes at your teasing, deciding not to respond lest he implicates himself further.

So maybe words of affirmation aren’t his thing, and maybe it will take him a bit longer to respond back with ‘I love you too’.

But that’s not to say that Jason Todd isn’t completely and hopelessly smitten with you.

—————————————————————————

God he’s so fun to write, a total deer in the headlights when he’s in love.

Should I try this with other love language prompts? Lmk if you have any suggestions!

[auroracalisto]

secrets and scars

movie!fiyero x gn!reader, 847 words summary: the reader has been scarred for some time now. fiyero discovers them and does something rather... unexpected. a/n: idk what this is. but like... yeah. hope it makes sense. i was gonna queue this and save it for later but i’m gonna go ahead and post it. i have a few queued posts for jonathan bailey characters in the coming weeks so. i’ll try to feed you all for the holidays. ♡ tw: reader has scars? no direct mention of where they are but it could be triggering. slight reference to sexual content, reader is naked for a hot minute but nothing graphic happens. you'll understand when you read.

Scars. They littered your body, an unfortunate reminder of the past you barely escaped. It was as if your body didn't want you to forget.

You wished you could.

You're lost in your thoughts in one of the many archways of Shiz University, staring out at the blue sky above. Your fingers itch to touch your scars—to scratch, to peel them away. You didn't want the reminder of who you once were. You didn't want the reminder of what once happened to you.

In all of Oz, you'd give anything to be able to erase your scars.

Anything.

It's a flurry of a night—confusing all around, and then somehow, Fiyero ends up in your dorm, kissing you, touching you, and by the love of Oz, how is he so quick with your clothing?

But before you can stop him, panic-stricken, he sees them. Your scars.

He's silent, wide eyed as he looked at them, lips parted as his eyes flicker from each mark on your skin.

He licked his lips a bit nervously, glancing up at you.

"You—are—" he stopped himself, seeing the panicked look on your face. "Oh, Y/n," he breathed out, moving to sit beside of you on your bed. He gently pressed a hand to the side of your face. "I'm sorry. I should have asked."

You slowly shook your head. "No. No, it's okay, I just—just didn't expect you to move so quickly. You, uh—"

"Surprised you, hm?" he softly asked. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before he found his voice once more. "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, his eyes fall to your scars, and you can tell he wants to ask you questions—how you got them, what happened, how long ago it happened.

Instead, he says something that takes you by surprise (because of course he did—Fiyero was filled with surprises, was he not?).

"They are beautiful."

"What?"

"Your scars."

You're silent for a moment. "My... my scars? Are beautiful?"

He smiled softly at you, taking ahold of your hand. He looked into your eyes. "Yes. Your scars are beautiful," he softly said. "I won't ask you about them. You can tell me when you decide you are ready, if you ever are."

Your eyes soften as you admire him from your spot on the bed. You feel so exposed—naked to the man not only physically but also emotionally. It was an odd feeling. A... welcomed feeling.

"May I touch them?" Fiyero softly asked.

"My scars?" you questioned for what seemed the hundreth time in the past few minutes.

"Yes. Your scars."

"You want to touch them?"

Fiyero looked at you, an incredulous look on his face. "Yes, Y/n. You can say no, it's quite alright. My feelings will not be hurt if you say no."

You watched him, swallowing nervously. "You... you're so odd," you softly said.

He snorted softly, a smile embracing his features. He leaned forward and kissed your cheek.

"Only for you."

You gave a small nod in return, and watched as he moved down the bed, focusing on the part of your body with your scars. His eyes flicker up to yours and he pressed a soft kiss to the puckered skin.

"Only for you," he repeated.

You feel flustered more than anything, looking away from him and his beautiful brown eyes.

How odd, indeed.

"I... I don't like them," you softly said.

"You do not like your scars?" he softly asked, a finger gently brushing against one of them. "Did something—"

"—I'll tell you. One day. Just..."

"Of course," he said. "I understand. But... Y/n, I meant what I said. They are beautiful."

You pursed your lips.

"They show how much strength you've had to survive, Y/n," he said, leaning forward and letting his lips connect with yours. "They're beautiful because they show me you've had to be brave. To be courageous in the face of such disaster. Your scars may be something you do not like, but do not wish them away."

You don't look at him, but you do not push him away.

"I do not know how you got them," he said, "and I am so sorry if what happened to you was... well, unsavory. But... they show such strength, Y/n."

"Strength is ridiculous and you know it," you muttered. You just want to rebuke his statement, as sweet as it may be.

He pecked your lips again.

"Perhaps that's not the best way to describe what it is, but I can't think of what would be better," he said. "This brain of mine doesn't want to work when the most beautiful person in all of Oz is letting me see their secrets."

Your heart pounded in your chest and you looked up at him, eyes softening.

"You are so odd," you repeated.

He snorted softly. "Yes. We've established this, Y/n. Thank you."

A smile quirked on your lips and you gently grabbed him by his shirt, pulling him in for another kiss.

"You're welcome."

[nathaslosthershit]

The Main Event (Multiple Pairings) Part 1

Can be read as a standalone but also (Part 8 in the Blind Items AU A/N: Its my nineteenth birthday 🥳 I wanted to write about adults being happy in different stages of their life because I am so scared of growing up and the thought of not being a teenager next year makes me nauseous. Enjoy! Each pairing has a Blind Items backstory which is linked at the start of their section (You don't have to read the backstory, though) Multiple (separate) Pairings: Logan Sargeant x Leclerc!reader, Oscar Piastri x reader, Charles Leclerc x reader, Lando Norris x reader, Lance Stroll x reader, Lewis Hamilton x reader, Alexander Albon x reader in the next part Summary: A wedding between Logan Sargeant and the youngest Leclerc child means a very interesting guest list, in which all previous victims of the F1 Blind Items account are included.

Oscar Piastri

“Dude, how come you are more nervous about my own wedding than I am?” Logan asked.

Oscar rolled his eyes and scoffed, pretending what the American was saying was ridiculous, as he nervously picked at his nails, trying to hide his trembling hands. Logan just laughed at his friend's failed attempt at nonchalance.

“It’s just- I’m nervous about the media inserting themselves in the events today. I mean I don’t want to have my toddlers in the spotlight any more than they already are.” Oscar explained. After being forced to reveal his kids to the world before he nor his fiancée were ready, and after just a few interviews and racing events the kids attended, Oscar didn’t want to give the media much more for the time being.

“Wow, way to make my wedding about you.” Logan teased, trying to relieve the utter look of anxiety and despair on Oscar’s face. But the Mclaren driver just shot him an unamused glare. “Look, I have told you time and time again if you don’t want them as flower girls- or kids, I’d gladly make my brother frolick down the aisle throwing petals. As much as I love my honorary niece and nephew, nothing would make me happier than making Dalton do that.”

This finally got a laugh out of Oscar. “They have been practicing too much to do that, we would be in for a shit storm if you tried to take away their time to shine.” It had been a big thing in the Piastri household for the past few months. Every second of every day, Frances and Hudson had been asking their parents questions about what weddings were like, how they should walk down the aisle, and if they had to see uncle Logan kiss his wife (they were not amused by the idea of having to see that). Not to mention the hundreds of times they forced their parents to watch how they would walk down the aisle, asking what they thought and ignoring any criticisms given to them (they saw no reason as to why they shouldn’t be allowed to dance and sing while throwing petals). 

“Then calm down. If all goes well there won’t be any media there, I mean I think we have done a pretty good job at making sure no one outside the event knows about it. Plus, no offense but there are plenty of people with far more interesting stories and scandals than your family. The tabloids are bored with y’all now that there isn’t anything new to expose.” Maybe a harsh way of putting it, but it was true, there were plenty of Formula 1 couples who had been exposed by the media for various reasons in attendance today. 

“Right. Got to say, Logan, the guestlist is impressive. I mean could you imagine telling your 13 year old self that the Lewis Hamilton would be attending your wedding?” Oscar asked. Even after a few years racing against the guy, the shock from being around him never wore off. He just had that ‘greatest of all time’ energy.

“I can’t even take the credit for much of it though. It's the bride who brought all the biggest names.” Logan rolled his eyes playfully. It was true though, his wife-to-be had made friends with all the biggest names in the world and they weren’t half assed friendships either. She could make even the tiniest of acquaintances feel like longtime companionships. She could make everyone feel so unbelievably loved and cherished in such a short time.

God he couldn’t wait to marry her. 

Oscar laughed at the lovesick grin on his friend’s face. Usually he’d tease him, but he decided maybe he should just cut the man some slack on his wedding day. 

But the urge was too great he couldn’t let Logan go unteased, before he could do so though-

“Dad! Dad! Dad! Look, me and Fran match!” Oscar’s son, Hudson, ran into the room, his sister following after him.

The two seemed to light up in their soft blue outfits.

“Don’t you two look awesome!” Logan said from behind the twins, making them turn around. “You guys look better than me on my own wedding day.”

The toddlers shouted in excitement as they ran to their favorite honorary uncle (much to Lando’s chagrin. He fought hard for that title).

“You two ready to be the stars of the show? Throwing petals ain’t easy work.” He said as he crouched down to hug the toddlers.

Oscar rolled his eyes. Leave it to Logan to make his own children completely uninterested in him. Fortunately, someone who was actually interested in him entered the room after them. His wonderful fiancée.

“You look gorgeous, honey.” Oscar said awestruck.

“You saw me in this earlier.” She deadpanned. 

“Let a man compliment his fincée, will you?” Holding her close to him, kissing her deeply. It was only when the two weren’t cut off with toddler “ewws” and “stop grossss” that they looked back at their children, currently in a… dance competition with the groom. “Glad to see how much they care for us.” Oscar sighed, feeling childish jealousy. 

“Let him entertain them, he’ll get some more practice for when he has his own kids.”

“He’s too young, honey. He is about to get married, he doesn't need to think about that right now.” Oscar scoffed, feeling offended for his children that Logan would ever dethrone his honorary niece and nephew from being his favorite kids.

“Says the man who had two kids by 18 and has been engaged twice, but not married, by 23.” Honey amused.

He blushed at the reminder that their relationship had been done a bit… backwards.

“They already have an officiant and audience, maybe we can just jump in with the bride and groom, two birds with one stone.”

“Nope! I already have two Piastri’s taking the spotlight today, I don’t need more.” Logan said while both twins climbed all over him.

Charles Leclerc (And the Leclerc Co.)

Normally, hard launching your child was not something a bride would encourage on her wedding day, but as the youngest Leclerc child, Charles’ sister loved the drama. Hence why her nephew was making his debut to the public as the ring bearer. Only a month old, the media hadn’t gotten to meet the cutie as he was born right at the start of winter break. It brought tears to his eyes, how insistent his baby sister was on having her nephew involved in her wedding. It was already an emotional day for Charles, who felt like he was losing his first baby as he walked her down the aisle and sent her off into her future, but he truly couldn’t be happier.

And doing it with his son by his side just made it all the more memorable. 

“Honey?” Charles’ girlfriend called as she popped her head into the room he was getting ready in. In her arms was their newborn who, while still so small, broke everyone’s heart at how big he was getting. “Oh, my love, are you seriously crying again?” she asked as he tried to inconspicuously wipe away his tears.

Being reminded that he had just been crying only made him start to cry more.

“Charlie, you are more emotional than I was while pregnant. What is going on with you today?”

“It is stupid, I’m sorry. It's just- it was yesterday my sister was in my arms, having just been born, and now she is getting married and the American is taking her away.”

If there was one thing the Leclerc brothers loved to do, it was make fun of their soon to be brother-in-law. They truly did love Logan, but it was so easy to pick on him and he was far too polite to try anything with them yet. If you asked them, they would say they are just treating him like the brother he is, but they also just really love how much it pissed their sister off, who will certainly be defending him. 

“Oh, sweetheart, she isn’t going anywhere. They are still going to live in Monaco, and you race with her husband almost every weekend. If anything now that they are married you will see more of her.” 

It was true. Even if the Leclerc brothers had a strict ban on dating drivers, they had to admit that their sister had found a good partner in Logan. A man who was driving alongside Charles, had been on the same team as Arthur in the past, and knew just how important and difficult the sport was on family. 

Giving her boyfriend a quick kiss on the cheek after wiping his tears from his face, Charles’ partner went on to try and fix the mess of hair that her lover was currently fighting. 

The Leclerc’s had terrible bed heads, something that unfortunately had already been seen in the first grandson, even at just a month old his hair was thick and unmanageable. 

Fortunately, Charles had calmed down enough that he was no longer a complete mess when his brothers entered the room. If Charles knew anything about his brother’s (and his sister) it was that such tears would have led to him being teased for the rest of his life about it. 

“Have you seen her?” Charles asked Enzo, hoping for any indication on how their sister was doing, having been too busy setting up for the wedding and taking care of his son to check on the bride thoroughly.

Arthur rolled his eyes, “When we tried to see her, Maman wouldn’t let us in.”

“Why? Is something wrong?” Charles’ girlfriend asked, the same level of concern in her voice displayed accross Charles’ face. 

“No, no, the bride said she wanted to have a little moment with the four of us before the wedding, so she didn’t want us to see anything before.” Enzo explained. He had understood her sentiment, Arthur… not so much.

Letting out a breath at the confirmation that nothing was wrong, Charles sat quietly while he got his hair tamed, his brothers playing with their nephew in the back.

It was a sight that almost brought tears to Pascale’s eyes, but she had already cried so much and she knew she needed to save the rest of her tears for the ceremony. Her three boys, all in different stages of their lives, all dressed up and ready to support their baby sister on her big day. 

There was a sense of love and excitement in the air, reminding her of when her daughter had first been born, her older brothers hardly able to sit still while they waited in anticipation. Though everyone was calm now, having gotten most of their childish impatience out of their system, those feelings hadn’t changed. 

“Someone wants to see you all.” She spoke up, getting the attention of her boys. Charles’ girlfriend pressed a kiss to his cheek and took their son from his uncles, wanting to give the Leclerc siblings a moment alone. 

“My goodness, you look stunning.” She said to the bride as she walked through the doorway before leaving. This made all the brother’s perk up, losing the rest of their patience as they waited to see their baby sister.

The second she stepped into the room and tears welled up in everyone’s eyes, the Leclercs knew it was going to be a long day full of bittersweet melancholy, but also one so full of love.

Lando Norris

“Have I told you how wonderful you looked?” Lando asked, grabbing his girlfriend’s hand as he ran his thumb over her knuckles.

She rolled her eyes, “Only a thousand times since we got in the car. Not to mention when I was getting ready, when I was trying on dresses, or when I was simply speaking to you about what I was thinking of wearing.” She teased.

He knew it was overkill, but he also knew how stressed she was. Not about the wedding, she was excited to attend and celebrate, but of the fact she knew she’d finally be identified as Lando Norris’s “unremarkable” girlfriend the tabloids have talked about for a while. 

The media knew he was dating not a model, or heir to a fortune, or an influencer, but a “simple” teacher, one who had a private instagram account with hardly 100 people on it. They had seen what pictures Lando posted of her, maybe a few posted by friends, but they never showed her face. They didn’t even know her name.

Even though their words were harsh, even though it hurt they thought she was undeserving of him when they didn’t know her, the anonymity at least came with the sentiment that all their judgements came from one simple fact, that she was a teacher. Now, they would have more to criticize, more to know, and she hated the thought.

Despite the public not knowing about her though, she had still been able to become good friends with many of Lando’s. Had been present for many arguments between Logan and Lando as they defended their individual titles of being “the best honorary uncle” to the Piastri twins and had been there to help watch the toddlers so Oscar’s fiancée could get a bit of a break during races. 

She loved so many of the people there, and she knew they all had her back. Because of this, she felt more ready to face the music. She shouldn’t be ashamed of who she was, she loved everything about her life, and she wouldn’t be made to feel bad for loving Lando. 

In the end, it was what the two of them thought and felt about their relationship that mattered. 

Lando smiled as he watched her take a deep breath, ready for what was to come. He’d move heaven and the earth for her, and he for sure wasn’t going to let some idiots online ruin something so good.

Lance Stroll

“You must have the worst heartburn, huh?” A mutual friend of a friend, Marie, asked.

“Oh, well actually-”

“Ugh it was so bad! And the indigestion, that really sucked. Oh! Reminds me of this one awful stretch of time when I was pregnant. I was actually also at a wedding…” Marie started on a tangent about some pregnancy horror story. One the currently pregnant woman she was talking to, didn’t appreciate hearing at the moment.

Lance looked over at his wife, stuck in conversation looking pained. Fearing that something was wrong with her or the baby, he quickly made his way over with an excuse to whisk her away.

“Are you alright?” He asked once out of earshot of Marie. 

His wife opened her mouth to answer, but was unable to when a choked sound made its way out first. The sound attracted the eyes of several wedding guests, who upon seeing that she was pregnant, turned back to their conversations, finding that as the excuse for such an outburst. While she was embarrassed when all eyes turned to her, the lack of interest in her wellbeing after seeing her belly just made her start to sob even more.

Knowing his wife was in distress and clearly the crowded room was adding to the discomfort, Lance led her to an unoccupied hallway. 

“Come on, hun. How can I make this better?” Sweetness, with a bit of helplessness, in his tone.

“You-you can’t!” She cried. God, how was she ever supposed to explain what the hell was happening with her. Especially when each second, she felt differently.

Maybe that was the problem. 

 “I’m- I am so tired of being the pregnant lady.” She managed to get out.

Lance frowned at the confession. “I know, love. I can’t imagine what it's like to be pregnant, and I wish I could help. I know it sucks, but you can get through-”

“Stop! That's the problem. Every single issue I have is written off as something that just happens with pregnancy. Like they are just side effects that can’t be helped! Like I just need to deal with them alone because “I signed up for this”. Maybe it sounds stupid or childish but I don’t give a fuck anymore, Lance. I don’t want to be treated like some pregnant lady, I don't want to be treated as if every single emotion I have is just because of hormones or because all women are just expected to suffer through this! Marie just came up to me and started talking about her own horror stories from when she was pregnant! I don’t want to hear that, not when she isn’t giving actual advice, just trying to laugh about things I, as the currently pregnant person, don’t find funny! I don’t want to talk about how I am so hungry and have people laugh and say ‘oh that's just what happens’. I want to get food! I want to be able to be upset without people losing interest the second they realize it's just the pregnant lady crying. I want the things I'm going through to be taken seriously, Lance.”

A beat of silence as he took in her words. 

As the silence stretched on though, she found herself with an apology forming on the tip of her tongue, feeling bad for yelling at her husband during her tangent when, even if he had contributed to the problem, he didn’t really do anything wrong. 

Just as she opened her mouth though, he got on his phone. 

She started to not feel as bad as she watched her husband seemingly ignore all she said.

“Are you-” She began, just to be cut off by him putting his phone in his pocket, and kissing her deeply.

Most of her anger seemed to disappear at that moment. He hadn’t kissed her like that in what felt like forever. Since she had told him she had been pregnant, he had been unsure of how to go about doing… well, anything. 

After a few passionately blissful seconds, he pulled away, still holding her face between his hands and stroking her cheek with his thumbs. “I ordered a car to take us to a crappy fast food place.”

She stammered, “What do- why?”

“You said you are hungry, the ceremony hasn’t even begun yet, we are going to be here for a while before we can eat and while I’m sure the bride and groom have an amazing set up, there isn’t a point in making you suffer any longer when we can fix it.” he explained.

She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to agree, but she also wanted to support their friends and knew she probably shouldn’t skip out on their wedding day. But she really needed something to eat and her feet were killing her already- 

“No, Lance, we shouldn’t it- it would be rude.” She answered.

Lance laughed at her attempt at trying to convince both herself and him. “As much as I’d love to stay, I’d much rather watch you eat a disgusting amount of fast food in an impressively short amount of time all the while dressed to the nines. Plus, we both know the bride and groom would be understanding.” He said as he grabbed her purse and opened the door for her. “After you, my love.” 

She sighed, realizing he was right. 

“Oh how gentlemanly of you,” she teased in a posh accent. “Is it often you whisk away distressed damsels to fast food restaurants?” 

“Only the gorgeous ones. I did earn my nickname of Sir Lancelot from my wife for a reason.” He teased back.

“It seems you have.” She replied with a kiss on the cheek.

Lewis Hamilton

“Oh, sweet pea. You look stunning!” Lewis said as he facetimed his daughter, currently at home with her mom.

The young girl giggled at the compliment, asking her dad about the wedding. She had been more than curious about weddings lately after hearing that her dad was attending one. 

“-and the bride wears a beautiful white dress”

“Like the one mommy is wearing?” she asked her dad, pointing to the oversized t-shirt her mom was wearing with paint stains on it from when she and her partner had painted the nursery for the 1 year old currently asleep in said room. Lewis laughed at the image.

“While I am sure your mommy could wear that and still be the most beautiful girl in the world. A wedding dress is a little… different.” Lewis answered.

“Mommy! Can I see your wedding dress?” her daughter asked.

Both parents froze at the question, realizing they might have not told their child a pretty important detail about her parents. 

“Oh- honey. Daddy and I never got married.” She answered. Her daughter looked back at the phone, at her dad, confused.

“Dad? Why didn’t you marry mommy? Don’t you love her?” 

Harsh. Lewis didn’t know how to answer such a question, but he eventually found the words. 

“Sweetheart, you know I love your mom very much. You are all my most favorite girls. Some people just don’t get married, they don’t feel the need to.” He answered. It wasn’t that the two of them didn’t want to, they had planned on it. But their first daughter had been unplanned, then their second had been too, and eventually, as they became everything to one another, they didn’t have a wedding so high on their priority list, knowing the proof of their love was evident in the two girls they were raising, in the life they had built together despite many unwanted opinions trying to ruin it. 

“Let me talk to your dad sweetie. Can you grab my water from the living room?” His girlfriend asked as her daughter handed her the phone and jumped off the bed.

After the sound of the young girl’s footsteps softened in the background, she spoke up, “Sorry about that, Lew, she saw a photo of some celebrity wedding today and her interest in the topic was reignited.”

“She is a curious kid, I get it. She is a smart one too, she gets it from her mother.” He watched his girlfriend blush at the compliment. Even while tired having to take care of the two young children alone, she seemed to be glowing. “We never did get around to marriage, did we?” 

She sighed, “I guess we got too busy. I hadn’t even thought about it in a while- not that I don’t want to marry you still!”

He laughed at her realization she may have chosen her words wrong, “No, I haven’t either. Two kids is a lot, and we both know how we feel about each other. But I will always be ready to marry you, the second you say so.”

“Well, I’ll always be ready to marry you, after you properly propose. You already got two kids out of me, I at least deserve a big flashy ring.” She teased.

“And you shall have it my love.” Lewis suddenly heard his daughter coming back. He spoke up when he saw her pop back up on screen, “What do you think, love bug? Should mommy and daddy get married? I think your mom would look beautiful in a big white dress, right?”

The little girl perked up at that, “Yes! But, will it be hard for mommy to wear a dress with the baby in her tummy?” She asked, pointing to her mom’s stomach.

Both adults froze. 

Slowly, Lewis’ girlfriend let out a deep sigh. “Baby, I told you not to talk about that with daddy till we could tell him…”

If his eyes opened any wider, they would have popped out of his head. “She’s serious? We are having another baby?”

“Surprise? I wanted to keep it a secret till you came back and make it all special but she was so sad when you left I told her to cheer her up.”

Lewis’ heart softened at the thought, “Well, I guess a wedding might have to be postponed for the time being” He amused.

They’d get around to it, maybe after this next kid, maybe after the next few.

Part 2 coming soon featuring: Alex Albon x reader, Logan Sargeant x Leclerc!Reader (Its 1 am and I have work in a few hours)