#but the people in the first few rows are so close to me that I feel like they definitely still saw it

[tavolgisvist]

When I interviewed Derek Taylor he was in semi-retirement. Being off the drink he wouldn’t meet in a pub, suggesting instead a cafe near my office and close to Brian Epstein’s old London HQ, by the London Palladium. Just across Regent Street was the Savile Row building where Apple used to be.

Within the record business he was still revered by PRs and journalists who’d watched him operate in his heyday. ‘There’s a man I have a lot of admiration for,’ one told me. ‘He was a man of manners. He had great style. And when you didn’t get anything from him, he made you come away feeling you’d been royally entertained.’ Another said: ‘If I’ve ever modelled my approach on anyone, it was him. It just struck me that he had this incredibly civilised attitude to the whole thing.’

Raised in the Wirral, Taylor left the Manchester showbiz desk of the Daily Express in 1964 to be Brian Epstein’s assistant - he’d just helped Brian write his autobiography A Cellarful of Noise - and then became the Beatles’ public relations man. ‘My inclination was always as an enthusiast rather than a relentless hunter down of evil men, which is why I crossed over from writing about the Beatles to writing for the Beatles.’ Friendship with Lennon was cemented one drunken night in Pans: ‘Are you pretending to be from Liverpool or something?’ John demanded. But he could be won over, Taylor recalled, ‘once you had proven you weren’t from Manchester and therefore useless’.

Derek looked after Epstein’s public relations in the media frenzy over Merseybeat, which had no precedent in Britain. ‘I remember going to get hold of Cilia Black at a hairdresser’s in Liverpool - because if you got to Number 1 you went and had your hair done. It was a more innocent age. The joke of getting your parents a house in the country had been laid out in the 50s: the paradox was that whereas pop stars were seen as very vulgar and crude people, they were in fact very sentimental people who bought their parents homes.’

Within a year he was restless, however, and after a minor tiff with Brian he moved with his wife Joan to Los Angeles. Here his first PR clients were the Byrds, another brilliant group who were transforming the sound of pop. When they toured England, Brian took them to a West Country gig by train, so that they could re-create the scenes in A Hard Day’s Night. In America, Taylor’s gentle whimsy and optimistic world-view made him an ideal mouthpiece for the Love Generation, and in 1967 he helped set up the first great hippy event, Monterey: ‘Doing the Monterey Festival was easy. I was never afraid of looking a prat. I sent out a very fancy press release: “Through a gold Californian sky, a festival of great delight and magic . . .” It was part GCE poetry, part journalese and part marijuana, and it was saying this is not an ordinary thing we’re doing . . . We were not trained PR men. I wasn’t that smooth. I was honest. The Beatles got us pretty well trained to be straight, to be yourself, and that got me by a lot.’

Droll and charming, Taylor acquired a glittering reputation for hip eloquence. He’d need these qualities more than ever when he was recalled to London to become the Beatles’ PR again. During their troubled and final years, he was the spokesman for their idealistic but chaotic Apple adventure. ‘That was the biggest test,’ he told me. That was a hard and unhappy time, a lot of the time. The press had turned against the Beatles, and the Beatles turned against Apple. I never lost faith. I still believed in an Apple that was there to fulfil at least some of the promises, to give people a cup of tea if they came in, or a few quid. At the same time we were all having a couple of drinks during the day… And what we were trying to do was to save the world. This had gone beyond PR, this had gone to another phase. In my case it was entirely political: we had lots of money and other people had bugger-all, so Apple seemed to me like a wonderful idea.’ Was money wasted? ‘Well, what is money wasted? It depends on what you think money is for. I’ve always felt that it was for spreading about.’

Newsreels show Derek, bravely defending John and Yoko in the media circus of their bed-in for peace. Back at Savile Row, his hospitality was legendary. He became an alcoholic in the process. ‘So, what with the Beatles falling out, the money running out, my administrative skill being limited, my generosity with their money being unlimited, confusion ensued. Downstairs you had John and Yoko running a peace campaign on a grand scale; Paul was wondering how he’d got into this madness in the first place; George was only interested in spiritual matters; and Ringo was quite indifferent to the whole thing, really. There was a lack of direction, to put it mildly. In Liverpool they were asking, What has happened to our boys? Liverpool has the capacity to absorb all sorts of craziness, from Derek Hatton to Bill Shankly. It’s a place which is never short of extremes. But the Beatles even had Liverpool baffled: “They’re goin’ round in fuckin’ dresses now!” ’

When the Beatles split, Derek stayed on for another year: ‘I didn’t accept the break-up. I’d say: The break-up is temporary. The Beatles will never break up. And they haven’t. They can never be ex-Beatles.’

Then he took a job at Warner Brothers, eventually becoming its UK boss. His philosophy was unchanged: ‘It was always trying to show people a good time, that was the thing. And that meant lunching, parties, receptions, meeting them at the airport with enormous limousines and people with flowers. In Liverpool I’d see that they stayed in the Adelphi and not some modem place.’

He’d greet the visiting US acts at Heathrow and drive them into town via Windsor - a big detour, but Taylor always took the qualitative view of life, not the quantitative.

When he spoke about the Beatles it was never the statistics of chart success that excited him, but the magical essence he detected at the group’s very core: ‘I never saw the charts as being the real measurement of value. Real value doesn’t necessarily end up in the singles charts.’

He kicked the drink in 1975 and as a Warners executive sponsored several Liverpool acts, especially George Melly, but also Liverpool Express and Deaf School. (When he tried to sign the Sex Pistols from EMI in 1977 he was overruled.) By 1978 he was ready for retirement in East Anglia: ‘I began to dread people coming in and saying, “D’you wanna hear the guy’s new album?” Because I didn’t. I wanted to hear George Formby.’

His last project for Warners was overseeing the clever Beatle parody the Rutles. ‘After that I realised that was more or less it: I’d done the Beatles at the beginning and the Rutles at the end. Out!’

But that was not the end: by 1995 he was back at Apple, hard at work on the Anthology CDs, films and book. I’d visit him there, in the company’s smart new place in K. - no longer dispensing unlimited hospitality, but still the in-house wit and sage, perched above the fray like some benevolent owl.

As a publicist he was a cut above the average spin doctor; he had the sense to know that the spinner is not the ball. ‘Anyone can do it,’ he said of PR. ‘There’s no mystery to any of this. On the other hand, what I love about soccer, or tap-dancing, is that there’s no deception there. I’d watch John Barnes on TV, taking those corners, and say to my wife as a joke, “He’s bullshitting, it’s trickery.” Because it so obviously isn’t. It’s all so wonderfully honest . . . Artists are reachable, and so deeply human and insecure, that if you can slot into that - the fact that we’re all little children, weak, we’re all in this struggle to get by as best we can - then you can become a publicist and you can become their friend.’

Derek Taylor died in 1997, leaving the magnificent Anthology book as a memorial. ‘If you want to think I’m a bit of a Charlie,’ he once told me, ‘I still believe that we come back, and that your body is just like a coat and hat that you take off, and you’re still here even if you’re dead.’ On the dangers of fame, he wrote: ‘I would guess that there is no combination of weapons more dynamic than a strong childhood within the closeness of Liverpool, a sense of humour and a belief in a power higher than ourselves.’

(Liverpool - Wondrous Place by Paul Du Noyer, 2002)

Part (I), (II), (III), (IV), (V), (VI), (VII), (VIII), (IX)

[tyttetardis]

Macbeth Q&A 18th Jan 2024 Part 1

Was lucky enough to get a ticket for the Member's Event at the Donmar Warehouse that took place on the 18th...with the price of the patronages I sure never thought I'd have gotten the chance, but luckily, they also let in some non-members 🥹❤️

The brilliant performance of Macbeth was followed by a very quick cleaning of the stage - thought for sure it would've taken them longer to remove the blood than like 5 minutes - followed by a lovely, little Q&A session.

The Q&A was led by Craig Gilbert (Literary manager) who talked to Annie Grace and Alasdair Macrae (Musicians and part of the acting ensemble) as well as Cush Jumbo and David Tennant.

Anyway, just gonna write down some of the stuff they talked about :) sorry if it's a bit messy! Might be spoilery if you haven't seen it yet but are going to!

To begin with Craig remarked that he didn't think he'd ever seen that many people staying behind for a Q&A before (While I was just wondering why some people even left!? Stressful!).

David introduced himself with "My real name is David "Thane of Paisely" Tennant - while Cush introduced herself with "I´m Cush Jumbo - there's only one of me".

First question was Craig asking them what it was that brought them to the Donmar to do Macbeth - to which David pretty much just replied that 1. It's the Donmar! 2. It's Macbeth! One of the greatest plays of all time in an amazingly intimate space - and that the theatre is famous for its quality of work. So he found it quite hard to think of a reason not to do it!

Cush said she'd worked there before and loves the theatre, how it's so intimate but also a great workspace. Followed by her saying she said yes because David asked her. She talked about how important it was for this play to do it together with the right actor playing opposite you.

David says Max Webster asked him about a year ago if he wanted to do the play - he gave him the dates - and since there weren't any obstacles in the way, David didn't have any excuse not to do it.

He then said that he had slightly avoided Macbeth - there sorta being the assumption that if you're Scottish and has done some Shakespeare plays before you have to do Macbeth. Which he joked was a bit odd since it's not like every Italian has to play Romeo. Then he mentioned that Macbeth is probably a bit more of a jock than he is - that it seemed more like a part for big, burly actors.

Max had laid out his initial ideas to David, a lot of which are in the final production, and David thought he seemed lovely, bright and clever and inventive plus it being the Donmar Warehouse! To which joked that he had last worked there 20 years ago - when he was 8 years old! "It's just one of those spaces" - friendly and epic at the same time where it's such a pleasure to be on the stage.

When Craig asked his next question concerning the sound of the play someone asked him to speak louder as she couldn't hear them - to which David joked that they've gotten so used to whispering. But also said sorry, and that they would!

Alasdair explained a bit about the process of the binaural sound - bit I find it a bit difficult to decipher it all correctly, sorry. He did say that a interesting part of it is that it allows them a controlled environment where they can put all the musicians (and even the bagpipes!) behind the soundproof box so "Poor David and Cush" doesn't have to shout over all the racket.

Craig asked David and Cush what their reaction was when they heard about the concept of the binaural soundscape - to which David replied that it didn't quite exist when they first came onboard - Cush joking they were tricked into it. Then she talked about her and David going on a workshop with Max to get a feeling of how it would all work - and get a sense of how it would sound to the audience, as this was one of the few times, they got to hear that side of it. Their experience of the play being completely different to the experience the audience has.

Cush said they can hear some of the sound - like she can hear some of the animal sounds and David can hear some of the stuff from the glass box - but most of their cues and information comes from timing with each other. She said they won't be able to ever hear what the audience hears - to which David joked "We're busy".

It felt like mixing medias - as it all went quite against their natural stagecraft instinct - but Cush found that in the long run it made things very interesting - like they don't have to worry about getting something whispered to each other - as the audience will hear it anyway.

David said the odd thing is that they don't really know what the experience truly is like. He mentioned that to the sides of the stage there's a speaker for them where they will get any cues that they need to hear. Like they can hear the witches - but they can't hear where they are "positioned" - so they have to learn how to place themselves to fit with what the audience hears. They don't hear everything, though. And the audio they hear is quite quiet, so it doesn't disturb what comes through the headphones.

He thinks it's been exciting - that it's a bit like a mix between film and theatre. It's happening live - but it's also like post-production is happening between them and the audience as it's going on. They just have to trust that the audience is hearing what they are supposed to for it all to make sense.

Cush said she thinks in 10 - 20 years, as these technologies has developed, doing theatre like this will feel a lot more normal - not that they will do it ALL the time, but that they will be doing it - whereas now it's still like an experiment. What Cush really like about the concept is that if was done in a much bigger theatre - then people in the cheapest seats would be able to have an experience much more similar to those in the most expensive seats - they'd be a lot more immersed into the action.

David then talks about how it feels extremely counterintuitive to not go on stage and speak loud enough that the people in the back row can also hear you. And usually, if they can't hear you, you aren't doing your job right! But then it felt very liberating. He loves it.

Cush then talked about how it felt odd waiting in the wings for a cue you can't hear - where you traditionally wait backstage and you can hear your cues, you can hear the rythm and know when it's your turn - so it was quite disconcerting to hear silence. So it's basically down to them now knowing the show and each other's timings - like if David is standing at a certain point, she knows how long she has before she needs to say/do something. So you have to watch each other more closely and really focus on what the others are doing.

David asked the musicians if they can hear everything inside the box, to which Annie replied that they get everything except some extra bits in the soundscape. But they can hear the actors on stage. Annie said it's actually a bit of a mystery to all of them what the audience actually experiences - how the big pictures actually look like - they just have to trust that it's there "Is it there?!".

Someone asked if they had had any adverse reactions from audiences to having to wear the headphones. Quite a bit of laughter all around :P then David said "There's the odd person" and something about if someone hadn't gotten the memo before turning up...but not sure how he ended the line. Then once again says that yes, there's the odd person who doesn't like it and that's fair enough.

The same audience member then said he could see the advantage of it in a big theatre where the distance is big, but not in a small place like the Donmar - to which David very quickly, rather passionately replied that it's not about projection, it's about being able to do things you wouldn't normally be able to do live - where they can speak so quietly that they can't even hear each other when standing next to each other. So even in such a small place, people wouldn't be able to hear that. It's about creating a different play - which isn't to everyone's taste and that's fair enough. But for a play that's been done a hundred and seven million times he thinks it's very valid to try and find a new way into the play - even if it's not for everyone.

Part 2

[teddybeartoji]

i stop eating my popcorn when it's a quiet scene lmao i stop eating it because i know it Makes Noise and i want everybody to just be able to focus on the film . while some people decide THAT'S the moment they have to tell their friend something????????? you couldn't wait until the scene was at least over??????????

[cuteniaarts]

Wine stains on porcelain

(Alternatively: @katkastrofa and I have created 5 OCs in 3 days and I suffer from chronic “I wanna draw the little guysssssss” disease)

[snzyspencer]

A public speaker with a terrible cold who is trying to speak through the pain in their voice.

They’re subtly trying to wipe their nose with their sleeve or a tissue they keep fishing out of their pocket.

They’re doing their absolute best to hide the fact that they’re ill from the people they’re presenting to but their voice is thick and stuffed up.

They’re just trying to rush through what they have to do so they can go hide pitifully in some corner and finally just blow their nose.

Sick presenters ♥️

[honey-pages]

Learn your Lesson - Viktor x Reader

Description -

After an intense lecture, Viktor invites you to his study where he ensures you learn your lesson.

2.7k words

F/M. 18+. Smut. NSFW. Sex. Teacher/Student. Riding.

@kskajjwiqqj

Viktor was nothing like the other professors that you had met. He was younger, known by his first name, and was quite clearly very attractive. You had been invited along to a skills class with the rest of your department and any interested outliers. Viktor was the reason you attended. You aspired to impress him, to become his student. There were always rumours circulating, however with Viktor, the only thing you had heard was how impenetrably private he was.

His back was to you as he wrote on the board in chalk. It was strange seeing someone in the position he was at such a comparable age to yourself. You did not even want to consider how old professor Heimerdinger was. The way he looked standing there authoritatively in his everyday suit was immaculate. It was taking your attention away from his teaching.

“The principles of Hextech's functions are fundamentally rooted in our understanding of magic's interactions with our reality. The volatile nature of unrefined hex crystals stems from this. Magic in and of itself cannot be quantified with precision, only comparatively by constants. “

He was presenting half to himself as the majority of the room looked out of their depth. He stopped asking call and response questions a while ago as he had no responses. Now he was picking on people.

“So, why is it an impossibility for magic to be married to our understanding of, say, gravity? “

No one makes to answer the question. You wait for a few seconds as he looks quite disheartened. He sweeps over the room. Silence. He locks eyes with you. The questions weren’t essentially that difficult, they were just to register attention. Most of the things he asked were things he had previously mentioned or things that were graspable by taking the things he had taught and applying its logic.

You put forward an answer, “It is impossible to apply something which lacks numerical quantification to a concept as characterised by numbers as gravity. You'd end up with too many unknowns. The best you could manage is to average those constants, which is not precise enough when working with hextech “

“Close! It is certainly a challenge, although not impossible, to determine properties of a gravity field under magical influence, in precisely the manner you have described. However, more fundamentally, the issue lies in the fact that the gravitational constant is a dimensional property defined by distance and mass, while any magical constant lacks such constraints. But very very good thoughts Miss (Y/N).”

He knew your name. As he responded to you, he did a double take, watching you. You caught him scanning your whole person, losing his train of thought for a second. He smirks before catching the thought he had just lost. It was quite noticeable, the effect you had just had over him, and you were almost certain that it wasn’t just because you were the only one answering questions. Maybe the times you had thought he was being personable were something more?

He was finishing up his teaching, but still whenever he referenced something you had put forward or said something particularly related to your thoughts, he looked at you.

“We've discussed today a number of approaches to applying magical principles in our limited understanding of physical laws. The crux of what makes this application an impossibility is as follows: A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property. “

He addresses you, ���With all the answers you have given, Miss (Y/N), I perhaps should invite you to speak with me privately afterwards.”

As he calls over to you, you realise the invitation he has just extended to you may not be one of a regular professor. Students are beginning to pack up and filter out of the hall, noise levels rise. Your seat on the first row, closest to Viktor, enables you to be one of the first out of your seat. Your courage feels disembodied and far from you now as you face him without the defence of the group setting.

“I’d like that. When are you free?” You ask, smiling and holding his gaze. It feels more difficult at close distance to deal with his focus, like the sun being beamed through a magnifying glass.

“Come to my study.” He suggests.

He collects his jacket from the back of the chair, folding up papers and books from the lectern and placing them into his bag. He holds back a little longer, waiting for the last of the students to have left the theatre. The room feels much smaller now you are alone together.

“I am serious about your potential, Miss (Y/N). I think with some support you could do great things.”

You flatter, “If I had a teacher such as yourself Viktor, I would already be doing great things.”

“You look beautiful today.”

You fluster, it was unexpected. You stumble.

“Flattery doesn’t work on either of us.”

“I’m serious Viktor, take me on as your student.”

He pauses.

“What was my final point in today’s lecture Miss (Y/N).”

Your mind was blank. Not strictly due to a lack of memory, focus or attention as you can guarantee to certainty that your attention was on Viktor, but due to how completely attracted you are to him. As time passes, his gaze becomes more confident. He knows he has you where he wants you.

“A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property.” He reiterates. “It is no issue that you have forgotten. I have identified exactly where to begin tonight’s lesson.”

You walk with Viktor through the corridors and leading passages to his study. It is an interesting place in an interesting building. It is decorated beautifully, with full bookcases and large empty boards scrawled with workings. It is a small place that looks well used and lived in, as though it were an external reflection of his internal musings.

“Make yourself at home.” He insists.

You place down your belongings in one corner, neatly out of the way of any space Viktor might need. He sits down in a chair in the corner opposite to the one you stand in, and ushers you to sit in the respective seat. Although you are diagonally placed, the smallness of the room almost presses the caps of your knees together. It is cosy and feels like a special place to be invited to.

“I do not usually invite people here, even if they are prospective students.”

You smile, not knowing quite what to reply to show gratitude, humility and not betray the all-consuming attraction you have towards him. Ever since he said you looked beautiful, any hextech knowledge you may have unlocked had been jumbled and rearranged to make some sexual collage.

“I meant it” He states.

“What?”

“You look beautiful today”

You try to play it off cooly how much that compliment meant to you. “I thought we had agreed not to flatter.”

“I wanted to be clear. I didn’t just say it because I wanted to compliment you. I said it because I meant it (Y/N).”

You freeze up again. Your pulse began to be audible through your ears and your blood ran hot.

“You look flustered.” He recognises, sitting forward.

He reaches out a hand to touch your knee. He looks concerned. He doubts the appropriateness of his actions for a second before reassessing. You are both adults, he has no direct power over you, you are both consenting to being here. Then why did this feel so strange. It felt dream like to him. He had fantasised about you for so long, had stalked your progress in your studies. He had seen potential in you from the moment you were accepted through intake, in fact he made the decision.

You sit up too at his touch. In doing so, you shifted in your chair, your legs widened slightly. Due to the change in position, his hand now sits significantly higher up your thigh. A happy accident. Viktor understands why you are so nervous. He is also aware as to the position he now has you in. In his office, in his chair, with his hand on your thigh.

He tries to make you more comfortable, “Let’s take this back to hextech. Ah yes, perfect, what was the last thing I mentioned in today’s lecture?”

You stared absolutely blankly. Every time you had begun to think real words, Viktor had knocked you back ten steps. Now you were at square one again. You tried to recall the words, but they were fuzzy and blurry and so far out of your reach.

“Viktor, I’m sorry, I can’t remember.” You plead.

“Come on, Miss (Y/N), with your answers earlier we both know what you are capable of.”

“My brain feels foggy. I think I am misremembering.”

“An educated guess is the first big step.”

Throughout the conversation, the intensity of eye contact and body language meant that neither of you had realised that Viktor’s hand now held dangerously highly on your upper thigh. He looked down at his hand on you. It had not felt like he had moved it that far up. You realised that you had gradually been spreading your legs further apart. Gravitating towards one another. Everything leading to one eventual outcome. This was all the confirmation that was needed.

“Come here” He asks, smoothly.

You hesitate, blushing.

He pats his lap, sinking back into his chair. “A good student does what they are told.”

You hesitated not only due to feeling intimidated, but that you were not wearing any underwear. To make it more noticeable to him, you were also wearing a skirt. Of all the days to be sitting on Viktor’s lap, today had to be the one. You climb up onto his lap, sitting side saddle, keeping your knees together.

“So rigid. Where was this posture when you were just spreading your legs?”

“It’s not that Viktor, its- “Your voice trails off.

His hands find themselves around your waist and hips, feeling and calculating, building and rendering what you must look like underneath. His touch is comforting, his hands are hot and hungry. You want to give yourself to him, allow yourself to be devoured.

“I’m not wearing underwear.”

Viktor’s hands stop moving momentarily.

“Is there a reason you came to my lecture without them?”

You don’t answer. You shift more comfortably into his lap, directly onto his crotch. He is satisfied without an answer. He decides that if the outcome of your studies today was to catch him, he was very much in your reach. As you shift in your seat, his hips jolt forward, grinding up into you. It is uncontrollable for him.

“Open them for me Miss (Y/N).” He continues

Viktor guides your hips to move you to straddle him, shifting your legs apart. He watches your movements, eyes focused on you. He raises his hand to his mouth, placing in two fingers, coating them with saliva, before pressing them to you. He slides them over your clit and then down to your entrance. You are already slick with wetness, mainly from the anticipation and mental chess he was playing with you.

“So wet for me already.” His voice is silk. “What a prepared student you are.”

You uncontrollably push forward against his fingers, increasing the pressure against yourself. You moan out accidentally.

“Beautiful” He watches, “And if I place them here, then what noise will you make”

He flicks his fingers over your clit, hovering them over your entrance.

“Please.”

“What was the last thing I said in today lecture Miss (Y/N).”

Your chances of remembering were zero even though he had repeated himself. You really had no excuse for not remembering but it was so impossibly difficult now. You rut against the tips, desperate.

“Viktor, I’ve forgotten again.”

“Such a shame, you seemed so attentive. You will learn and progress, you just need encouragement.”

He unbuttons and unzips his trousers, angling upwards to pull them under his hips and down his thighs to his knees. As his underwear comes away, he springs free. He is exactly as you expected. Seeing him explicitly feels like a sin in itself. With both hands on your hips, he shuffles you forwards to be directly positioned above his waist.

“Information recall is important Miss (Y/N).’ He states. “Repeat after me.”

“Yes.”

He spells the words out slowly. “A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property.”

The words are alien to you, meaningless now. You try to remember, there are two long ‘D’ words, two alliterative ‘C’s. The second he says it, it’s gone from your head again.

“Your turn”

“A dimensionless… cannot contain... dimension” You know it is incorrect even as you say it.

He grins, watching you unfold under the pressure. He begins to stroke himself slowly. You may as well be dripping on him. He lifts your shirt and unbuttons your bra.

“I can do it” You insist.

He removes the shirt and bra, exposing you before him.

“Dimensionless constants contain… no, define…”

He is quickening his pace, pleasuring himself with speed to the vision of you in front of him, stumbling over words he has fed you. So desperate to impress him.

“Viktor, please can you say it again.”

“A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property” He moans and signs as he speaks. Punctuating the words as they fall out of his mouth. He aligns you with him as he prepares for your repetition.

You reply quickly while it is fresh in your brain, “A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property”

He slams quickly upwards and inside of you, stretching you around him. You scream out his name. He doesn’t stop moving, furiously thrusting and thrusting and thrusting. He gets deeper as you sink down on him.

“Again, Miss (Y/N)”

“A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property”

There is no slowing Viktor down and you hold onto the chair for balance. He has both hands gripping either thigh and his face is warped in concentration and pleasure. His fingers are gripping firmly and roughly.

“I am going to fill you Miss (Y/N).” He commands, “So deeply that you will feel me inside of you until your next lecture.”

“Please Viktor- “

You are filling the study with swearing and ecstatic cries. It isn’t soundproof, Viktor knows that well enough in hearing conversations outside of his door. He wonders how they will react to him holding you down on his cock as he finishes, the sounds you will make. Whether people will hear his name, will recognise you as the prospective student who seduced him and got fucked consequently.

He has slowed his pace slightly, using his hand to rub your clit. You feel yourself building, unravelling. He feels you internally tense around him, gripping his cock and pulsating around it. You will finish imminently.

“I’m going to- “you pant. “Your fingers will- “

“Do it, (Y/N).” He is near his end too, “For me. Show me how badly you want it. Give me no choice but to undo you.”

He speeds up his fingers, forcing you through a powerful orgasm.

“Viktor- “You scream out.

You are shaking, quivering but he doesn’t stop. He removes his hand and buries it into your hair, tilting your head back, pulling you downwards as he pushes upwards.

“Take it” He demands, “My perfect student. Look at you - a whore.”

With these words, he firmly grabs you and holds you still, as deeply as you can manage. He feels himself twitch and spasm, coating your insides with his thick load. He begins to thrust a few more times to feel the wet slapping noise that he has reduced you to. He is at a loss of breath, a loss of words.

You collapse onto his chest, folding into his arms. It feels good being held there as your heart rates begin to settle themselves. There is something pure and honest about the way you both interlock after such an extreme session. He smooths your hair back, kissing you across the face, planting thoughtful kisses on your forehead. He sinks deeply into the chair, as you sink deeply into him. Together you fall into a tired, lazy nap.

Tag List - @gubkkki, @veru-boom

[jaylalolz]

Heyy girl i love ur writing so much! Could i do a request of Father Charlie Smut, with him and reader who loves wearing short dresses and skirts but like she’s innocent girl. She wears one during mass and he can’t stop eyeing her the whole time.

❛ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 ❜ . . . nicholas chavez

INNOCENT!reader x PRIEST!charlie 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

SUMMARY, charlie can’t take his eyes off of her while she wears those short skirts all the time. he realizes that she needs to be punished.

A/N, thanks for requesting!! hope you like it.

WARNINGS, smuttyyyy

Charlie stood at the altar, his voice steady as he read from the Bible. It was an ordinary Sunday mass, yet something felt off. His words were focused on the sermon, but his mind kept wandering, distracted by a presence in the crowd. A familiar one. He tried to ignore it at first, pushing through the scriptures, but every few minutes, his eyes darted back to the same spot.

There she was, sitting in the third row—his favorite girl. She had a way of turning heads without even trying.

Charlie noticed her as soon as she entered the church, the short, black skirt she wore clinging tightly to her legs. It was far from appropriate for a Sunday service, or for any visit to church. It wasn’t just the length—barely reaching mid-thigh—but the way she seemed completely unfazed by it, sitting there confidently, crossing and uncrossing her legs like the length didn’t matter.

He could feel a tension rising inside him, an unfamiliar mix of emotions that tugged at his composure. Why had she worn that here, of all places?

As mass ended and people began filtering out, Charlie couldn’t help but keep his eyes on her. He needed to say something, to address it before it gnawed at him further. With a sigh, he stepped down from the altar and walked toward her.

She was lingering by the restrooms, her usual smile playing on her lips. As soon as she saw Charlie approaching, her eyes brightened.

“Charlie,” she said warmly, tilting her head. “Your sermon was great today.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, his tone a little more serious than usual. He paused, looking at her outfit up close, his brow furrowing. “can we talk for a second?”

Her smile faltered just a bit, noticing the change in his mood. “Sure,” she said slowly, stepping aside with him.

Charlie took a breath, keeping his voice low. “Listen… I couldn’t help but notice what you’re wearing today.”

She blinked, her brows raising in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“The skirt,” he gestured awkwardly, his eyes darting to the hem that barely covered anything. “It’s… not exactly appropriate for church.”

She looked down at her outfit, as if she hadn’t even thought about it before. Her expression was neutral, but there was a hint of something else in her eyes—maybe defiance. “Is it bothering you?”

He shifted on his feet, unsure how to respond. “It’s just… This is a place of worship. People come here to connect with God, and I think what you’re wearing might distract from that. Not just for me—for everyone.”

Her lips curled into a small smile, her voice softening. “Are you saying I’m distracting you, Charlie?”

His face heated up at her teasing tone, but he forced himself to stay serious. “I’m not trying to make this personal. I’m just asking you to be mindful of where you are.”

She studied him for a moment, her eyes searching his face as if weighing her next words carefully. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene. It’s just a skirt, Charlie. Can’t help it if people stare.”

“I know that,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “But people judge, whether we like it or not. And in a place like this, modesty is important.”

Her smile faded, her expression softening. She looked him in the eye, sensing the sincerity behind his words. “I didn’t think it would be such a big deal. But… I’ll be more careful next time.”

He exhaled in relief, nodding. “Thanks. I just want to make sure everyone’s focus is where it should be.”

She gave him a playful nudge. “Well, maybe you just need to focus a little better.”

“You think this is appropriate? You’re drawing attention to the wrong things” Charlie ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep his cool. He knew he wasn’t explaining it right, but the way she stood there, so confident in defying him, was only making his thoughts more muddled.

She cut him off, her eyes narrowing. “Drawing attention? Isn’t that a you problem? Maybe you’re the one who’s distracted, not me.”

Her words hit a nerve, and suddenly, everything Charlie had been holding back came flooding out. “Yes, I am distracted!” His voice was louder than he intended, but it was too late to stop now. “Do you think it’s easy standing up there, trying to give a sermon, trying to focus on leading a mass, when you’re sitting there in the front row, wearing something that… that—”

“That what?” she pressed, her tone icy now.

Charlie swallowed hard, the confession finally spilling from his lips. “That makes it impossible not to notice you. Every time I look out at the congregation, you’re the first person I see. And it’s distracting. It’s not just about the skirt, it’s about… you.”

The air between them felt heavy with his words, and for a moment, She seemed stunned. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, processing what he had just admitted.

“You know,” he began, his voice low and smooth, “I bet you like it when I give you my attention.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt the color rise to her cheeks. She quickly looked away, trying to laugh it off, but her laugh came out awkward, a bit too high-pitched, betraying the nerves that were now crawling their way up her spine.

“What are you talking about?” she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice wavered. She could feel the heat in her face, the way her hands suddenly felt restless as she fiddled with the edge of the throw pillow beside her.

Charlie chuckled, leaning forward slightly, narrowing the distance between them. “You do this thing,” he continued, his eyes never leaving her, “where you act like you don’t care, like I’m not getting to you. But I can see it.” His voice dropped lower, his tone almost teasing. “I can always see it.”

Her heart raced faster now, a dull thrum in her chest. She pressed her lips together, unsure of what to say. He wasn’t wrong. Of course, he wasn’t wrong. She hated that he could read her so easily, hated that she couldn’t hide how his attention made her feel. Nervous, yes. But there was more to it than that, and she wasn’t ready to admit what that was.

“You’re full of yourself,” she finally managed, her words barely above a whisper.

Charlie’s smile widened, that maddening, knowing smile that only made her nerves worse. He leaned back again, but his eyes still held her captive. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong, am I?”

She swallowed, trying to hold onto whatever was left of her composure. “You’re imagining things,” she said, shaking her head, but even to her ears, the denial sounded weak.

“Am I? cause for some reason you always wear a skirt when your around me. I’m not stupid. ” he asked, his tone challenging now, as though daring her to keep denying it.

she looked away again, desperate to break the tension that was steadily building between them. But it was too late. His words had already burrowed into her mind, making it impossible to escape the truth she was trying so hard to ignore.

"Just admit it, already," Charlie said, his voice low and certain, sending a ripple of heat through her.

She swallowed, her hands fidgeting in her lap as she desperately tried to hold onto some sense of control. "Admit what?"

Charlie smirked, standing up from his spot and slowly walking toward her. He was too close now, his presence too overwhelming, the scent of his cologne filling the air around her. He stopped just inches away, his gaze holding hers captive, daring her to keep pretending she didn't know what he was talking about.

"You like it when I give you my attention," he said, his voice almost a whisper, but every word felt like it hit her with the weight of something inevitable. "You like it when I make you nervous."

Her breath caught in her throat. She could feel the heat rising in her face, the rush of adrenaline making her pulse quicken. She wanted to deny it, to brush off his words like she always did, but something about the way he was looking at her made it impossible to lie.

Charlie took another step closer, so close now that she could feel the warmth of his body radiating toward her.

She leaned back slightly, her back pressing against the wall as if it would give her some distance from the truth staring her in the face.

"Charlie, I-" she started, but the words got caught, tangled with her emotions.

He leaned in just a little more, his face inches from hers, his breath warm against her skin. She could feel the tension between them building to a breaking point. His eyes softened, just a flicker of something raw and real underneath the teasing. And in that moment, she knew he wasn't going to let her hide.

"Admit it," he whispered, his voice so quiet, yet so commanding. "You wear those skirts for me”

She hesitated for a split second, her heart pounding in her chest, her thoughts racing, before she finally let go. It was terrifying how right he was.

The way he made her feel, the way his attention seemed to pull her in, no matter how much she tried to fight it.

She couldn't keep denying it, not to him, and not to herself.

"I wear them for you," she finally whispered, her voice barely audible, but she knew he heard her.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Charlie's face, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them seemed to buzz with something electric, something inevitable.

Then, before she could overthink it, before she could take it back, Charlie's hand was at her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin as he tilted her face up to his. The world seemed to slow down, the room spinning away until there was only him, only them, in this moment they both knew was coming.

"Good," he murmured softly, his eyes locked on hers. "My naughty fucking girl."

And then, with a deliberate slowness, he leaned down and kissed her.

It wasn't hesitant or unsure. His lips were warm, soft, yet firm against hers, and the moment they connected, something inside her melted. She felt herself lean into him, her hands instinctively finding their way to his chest, clutching his shirt like it was the only thing holding her upright.

The kiss deepened, his hand slipping into her hair, pulling her just a little closer. She could feel the tension unraveling between them, all the unspoken words and hidden feelings pouring out in that one perfect moment.

Everything else faded away-the nerves, the fear, the constant push and pull-until all that was left was the warmth of his lips on hers, the way his touch seemed to set her skin on fire.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless, their foreheads resting against each other's. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, both caught up in the aftermath of what had just happened, of what had been building for so long.

He says, "I thought about you every single day after I met you for the first time," as he presses kisses to her cheek and slides his hands down her arms in a leisurely motion that mimics the path his wet lips followed on the way up.

She's trying to listen, but as they explore, the ache he's started between her legs feels like it's pulsating in her ears, and his hands are scratching her skin. He shakes his head and lets out a breathy laugh before giving her another painful kiss and nips in between his low, hoarse confessions. “Always thought about those fucking skirts you wore" When he traces his sharp nails from the inside of her knees up to the tops of my inner thighs, she gasps.

He presses his mouth to her ear, his hot breath making her shiver. "No one compares to you," he mumbles, his voice lowering to a low pitch that turns her stomach. He presses his face against her head and lets out a deep groan as the fingers on one hand slide higher and higher until they draw a slow, agonizing stroke up her heat. The other hand smooths back up her stomach.

Her eyes roll closed and she can only hold her breath as her head lulls back. "All those times you teased me.. I think you deserve to get punished," he says forcing her to a wall.

He exhales, "Shit, you're soaking." She can feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against her back as he lingers, slowly and indulgently stroking his fingers along her shamefully damp folds, avoiding where she really needs them. Nipping at the flesh on her neck, he mumbles against her, "Such a good girl for me, yeah?" she nods eagerly.

One of Charlie's fingers sneaks up and softly wraps around her throat, while the other eventually slides up to rest on the area that has been throbbing ever since he had her pinned to a wall. He maintains his lips tight against her ear, matching the pants pouring out of her, starting to circle his fingers around her clit in the same rhythm.

"Do you feel that?" He flicks her nerves more quickly and puts more pressure on them while rasping into her ear. “your chest get tighter and your heart beating faster?"

She shifts her hips against him mindlessly, her mouth hanging wide, and she doesn't even know how she manages to say a breathless yes, but nevertheless, she manages. "How incredible that feels, you never want it to end?" He goes on, getting a closer hold on her throat, not tight enough to stop her breathing, but tight enough to pull a high-pitched groan out of her, taking her earlobe between his teeth. She panted out another yes and swallowed. "That's how I feel when you're around me, looking at me through your eyelashes- smiling at me. I can feel it in my bones."

She squirms, unable to keep still at the fire igniting inside of her, between what he's saying and what he's doing with his fingers, and her legs begin to shake. His loud, taunting voice reverberates around her, his untamed hair strewn about with strands falling in front of his hungry gaze. "No coming just yet, Angel. I need to taste you."

She can only fling her head back and hide a choked groan the moment he presses his lips to her warmth. He offers her one last slow, dimpled smirk as he wraps his arms around her thighs, holding onto her hips as he sits between her legs. His warm tongue flattens against her clit as his fingers bite into her skin while he lets a deep sigh that rumbles up through him and vibrates against her and she whine at the feeling.

Her back arches as she lets out wild cries that she can't control, and she's clinging to his hair for dear life as his tongue begins to circle and draw deft patterns against her nerves. Her senses are completely assaulted by the guttural moans and growls that are coming out of him as he relishes every response he receives from her. The stress within her was nearly too much for her to bear.

She cries out at the sensation as he his ring and middle finger enters her. The build-up to everything and the delicate way he's sucking and lapping at her pulsating core while his fingers coil inside of her to target that point that has her vision blurring are just too many sensations happening at once. He retracts his tongue while maintaining a fixed gaze on her. He accelerates the speed of his fingers, purposefully striking the area of her body that is producing such a strong pressure.

"Charlie" She exclaim, "What-What is, I don't know what's-oh fuck"; she squeezes her eyes tight, feeling a growing sense of violence inside of her. He examines her expression and quickens the tempo of his careful fingers. He purrs, encouraging her to go forward as he flicks his eyes down to watch his fingers thrust into her. "Don't worry baby, just go with it, it's okay, you're okay".

He moans as he continues to watch what he's doing. She begins to shake, her muscles contracting. She can no longer resist the sensation that her body is having a seizure and going into seclusion at the same time. "Charlie!" She throws her head back, arches off the wall, and yells until the pain tears through her like nothing she has ever experienced. When it finally fades, every part of her body feels as heavy as cement, and she nearly collapses on the ground, her chest heaving as she tries to take in as much oxygen as she can.

“Never wear that skirt again or you’ll regret it”

[pyrrhiccomedy]

This is my cat.

His name is Eddie Potato.

Eddie Potato came home with us from the animal shelter in January (so about 9 months ago, now). He was around five years old, and had been living on the street before he was picked up by the cops and brought to the state run shelter (my boy was arrested for loitering). When we met him, he was sick, mite-infested, and covered in matted fur, scratches, and bites: but he was also very sweet, and very friendly, and he was already fixed, so we knew he must have once had a home with some loving humans.

[Eddie at his first vet appointment, trying to hide behind a paper towel.]

We'll never know what Eddie's first family was like, of course: but within a couple of weeks of adopting him, we were able to make a few guesses. He was happy to be pet, and calm about being picked up: but the only way he had to let us know that he'd like us to stop petting him was to swat our hands away, claws out. He'd then watch us, very closely, a little tense; like he was either expecting to be scolded for scratching, or expecting us to try to touch him again.

This told us that he had an affectionate family, but maybe not one that respected his boundaries. Maybe it was a family with kids, or maybe just a loving but pushy owner.

He's a medium-to-long haired cat, so he needs a bit of grooming to stay hygienic around his, let's say, pants area. I bought some quality clippers and a pet grooming electric razor. The clippers he was completely calm about: he let me trim the mats out of his fur very calmly, even the ones behind his ears.

The razor terrified him. I mean, he knew what it was on sight. He was sitting next to me on the couch when I took it out of the box, and the moment he saw it, his ears went back; he crouched low and fearful; and then jumped down and ran out of the room.

Okay; so his first family groomed him, or took him to a groomer, that was obvious: and it was probably a 'hold him down and get it over with' kind of experience, given how frightened he was.

He was very sweet, and very gentle - except when he wanted you to stop petting him. This was a cat who expected kindness, who believed that the humans around him were his friends: but he'd learned that his friends wouldn't listen to him when he told them to stop unless he drew a little bit of blood.

We just thought: wow, this cat is a really good communicator. He is being, like, so clear.

Eddie Potato is a very stupid boy - uncommonly stupid, even for a cat - so we prepared ourselves for it to take a while for him to learn that things had changed. We paid very close attention to him while we were petting him for the signs leading up to that swat, and we got better and better at stopping before the swat ever came.

I let him get used to the razor very slowly: for the first week, I just set it next to his food bowl at dinner time, about a foot away, so he could see it while he was at his happiest. For the next week, I'd pick up the razor, and move it around while he ate. The week after that, I turned it on for a few seconds, so he could start to get used to the noise. The week after that, it went on for most of his meal time, and I moved it around his body while I pet him: so he could start to associate the razor sound with nice touching.

Then I groomed him. And he was - fine. A little bit antsy, but fine. Happily munching away at his dinner while I neatened up his pantaloons. I usually only had about a minute before he made it clear that he wanted it to stop, but that was okay: I just groomed him for a minute or so for two or three days in a row, until the job was done.

After four months, Eddie Potato wasn't scared of the razor at all anymore.

And it broke my heart a little bit, because his first family had clearly loved him. And Eddie is a cat who needs to be groomed! And it had obviously always been a scary and stressful experience for him. But it didn't have to be! He just needed patience! Surely, if the people he had lived with before had known that he could learn to not be afraid in just a few months, they would have tried.

Teaching him that he didn't need to swat didn't take much longer. It was so clear that this was not a cat who wanted to hurt us. Once we got the hang of stopping before he got tired or stressed out by petting, the swatting went away completely.

What was so sweet was what he learned to do instead: when he was done with being pet, he started placing his big paws on my hand, and gently but firmly pushing it away.

"Oh, okay!" I'd say. "We're done!" and take my hand away. And he'd watch me, for two or three seconds: and then he'd start to purr like crazy, and push under my hand again.

He wanted to be pet. He just wanted to know that he could make it stop if he wanted to!

It's been months now since the last time Eddie swiped at either of us. Sometimes, he likes to play his little push-away game for ten or twenty minutes at a time! He rolls onto his back for a belly rub, and I do for a few minutes; then he pushes my hand away, and watches to make sure I listened; then he rolls onto his back again for more belly rubs. The whole time purring, purring, purring. Eddie loves his belly rubs, and he loves being listened to just as much.

I'm just so proud of him! He's had such a hard and scary year: losing his family, living on the street, ending up in a kill shelter, going to a strange new home with strange new people. And he still extended his friendship and trust to us, and let us show him that he doesn't need to be scared anymore, of razors or hands or thunderstorms or the sound of traffic. He's so dumb and so small and he's had so much happen to him, and now he gets exactly as much petting as he likes, and he isn't afraid to get his pantaloons trimmed.

Like. That's my little guy. I get to make sure he'll be okay from now on.

[dcxdpdabbles]

I found and read this cute story on AO3, about Frostbite being Danny's legal parental guardian. In the story Bruce Wayne runs into Frostbite (in his full yeti glory no disguise) who is setting up for school bake sale. Got me thinking about what if Danny's past rogues took turns filling in and doing parental stuff especially at school functions. Like Frostbite does the bake sale, Pandora shows up for his games, Ghostwriter goes to all of the PTA meetings, Clockwork goes to teacher meetings, so on and so forth.

The 43rd Annual Gotham Academy Bake Sale by Faeriekit

Ohhh, that sounds good! I'll get it a read when I have some time. Thank you for the rec!

Danny Fenton is one of the lucky few who have a very involved household. His various family members would always sign up for any school event the boy needed support in. It didn't mean that the boy won everything, but as a teacher for nine years, Emily has come to learn how much it mattered to just have someone show up.

She had seen students whose entire faces light up after spotting someone in the crowd in the same amount she saw a student's hope crumble after they scanned the room.

Danny was a polite young man, a bit on the shyer side, but kind and not a troublemaker, his previous school had her believe. If anything, he seemed to struggle with fitting in, but no students blatantly disliked him.

The general opinion of Danny matched, as her students would say, "I know him from class, but I don't really talk to him. He seems cool though".

Maybe that's why so many people were supposed by his family to march into the auditorium during Danny's talent show. Seeing him wave at the row before starting his gymnastic act had been such a surprise.

Now, Gotham wasn't a close-knit community, not with the size of their city and the millions of people living within it, but everyone would have noticed that Danny was adopted.

After all, he was the only one that wasn't glowing or a large humanoid animal. They cheered the loudest among the crowd; uncaring Danny got bronze- having lost to Joey's tapping dancing for second and Damian's spectacular multi-instrumental cover of a meme song for first place- and Danny beamed back at them.

Gotham was known for not being meta-friendly, but that was only due to a few mean people who shouted the loudest on media outlets. Many of Emily's students were meta, had family that were meta, or knew someone meta. It wasn't a common enough trait one would encounter a meta on every outing, but you would see them in Gotham well enough.

Everyone knew, but no one said it out loud. In the same way, she knew which students' parents were in the country illegally but worked harder than anyone else. Saying anything would help the cops, or worse, the rich running Gotham.

Even the most prejudiced Gothamite would rather be spat on then give them aid. And those who were so prejudiced to help the poor man's enemies, well, Emily has lived here long enough to know they vanished rather quickly. The smart ones kept their mouths shut.

No one could forget what happened to that guy who accidentally insulted Penguin. His grandmother had been an illegal immigrant on his mother's side.

No one messed with that side of the family.

"Hello, Mrs. Jackson." Danny's adoptive father, Dr. Frostbite said, ducking down to avoid banging his head on the door. On one of his shoulders was a box of hotdog wieners; on the other were multiple bags of bread. "I'm here for my snack bar shift."

Emily tilts her head back to look the Yeti in the eye. He had been shocked the first time they met, but she could admit that Dr. Frostbite was a relatively gentle and wise soul. "Welcome aboard. The girls are just about to take the field. You can put that down by the crock pot over there."

The mountain of white fur brushes by her with the grace of a king as Dr. Frostbite does as she says. There were no customers at the window, so she leaned on the counter and offered him a smile. "Did you enjoy the game?"

"Yes. I was saddened our team did not win, but Danny hit a home run." Dr. Frostbite's sharp smile could have been frightening if he wasn't oozing parental pride. "I caught it all on video."

Emily opens her mouth to respond when a hand lands loudly on the counter with a loud crack. Her heart leaps, and she looks into Danny's Ember. She isn't one of Emily's students, though she does appear to be a teenager in appearance.

You know. If it wasn't for her hair made of fire. Or her blue skin. Or her glow.

"I set a boy on fire," She announces with a cackle.

"That's so?" Dr. Frostbite gently rips open the box, taking out the hotdog packages. With one large claw, he rips a hole into it and lets the few weiners slide into the crockpot with a gentle splash. "What did he do?"

"Tried to slap me on the butt." She huffs, rolling her eyes, but her smirk doesn't lose an edge of smugness.

"Well done." Dr. Frostbite praises placing the lid back on. It always surprised Emily to see such careful actions from the large creature. "I assume you did so out of Pandora's line of sight?"

"Naturally. I don't want her lecturing me in front of the whole community." Ember scoffs, crossing her arms. Behind her, the top of Pandora's head can be seen swinging side to side over the dugout, keeping an eye on the ball.

She was the best volunteer referee because even the parents knew not to shout insulting things when she was present. Emily doesn't think she has had such peaceful games in a long while. Hopefully, Danny will try out again for baseball next year so the woman can return.

"Oh hey, you're Danny's English teacher, right? Mrs. Johnson?" Ember asks, leaning on the counter to give Emily a curious look.

When the blond nods, holding out her hand for a shake. "That's right. It's nice to see you again, Ember."

The girl's hair flairs a little as a grin grows on her face. Her hand is ice cold to the touch, but she's got a firm grip that her husband would appreciate. "Likewise. I got a message for you from Ghostwriter. He sent the notes for the last PTA meeting to you and the revision playwright for the musical you two were working on."

Emily's mood brightens up. "That's wonderful. Could you tell him I'll check it out when I get home and get to my laptop since my phone broke in the last Two-Face attack?"

Ember's hair flickers in the wind when she nods, but Danny bounces right up behind her just as she opens her mouth to speak. He's wearing his Gotham Acadamy Baseball uniform with pride despite them losing. "Hey, Frostbite, can I go with Tim and Duke to get Peoeria Pizza? We'll be back before the girl's game ends."

"Only if you take Ember with you," Dr.Frostbite says, nodding to his daughter, who looks alarmed to be included. "She needs more friends."

"Hey!"

"Sure. Come on, Ember, you'll get along with Duke. He likes old-school rock."

"It's not old-school!"

Emily laughs, watching the two siblings bicker as they stride away, blending into the crowd with no one batting an eye at the glowing girl anymore. How blessed that boy was.

"I'm glad Danny has gotten comfortable here. I always worried he never was going to have a normal childhood." Dr. Frostbite confesses to swirling the hotdogs around in the water to ensure each one is cooked.

"I think you and the rest are doing a wonderful job. You're a great father." She assures him, thinking wistfully of her William. He's been on deployment for a few months now and will likely miss the holidays again, but his contract is almost up. They may try for a child when he gets in the reserves. "How are things at the clinic?"

"Oh, wonderful. I'm grateful that Mr. Wayne has allowed the expansion of Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic. Dr. Thompkins will be covering the east side of Gotham while I help those on the west. It's much more fulfilling than working in some hospital that demands funds for the silliest things. Back home, that would have been illegal. The people would have burned me at the stake if I had allowed anyone to pass away due to greed."

"My kind of people." She laughs. A sharp crack sounds from the field as the bat makes contact with the ball, and the crowd goes wild. It's a wonderful day.

[formulawolff]

america's princess - t.w.

pairing -> popstar!reader x toto wolff

word count -> 3.1k

warnings -> age gap relationship, cursing, slight angst (mostly online hate), toto is completely down bad and would do anything to make reader content, yadayadayada

a/n -> this fic was inspired by this ask! i hope you enjoy this one babe! <3 if you guys enjoy this one, i may consider expanding the au :p

"it appears that i have one more guest tonight. abel, would you please join me on the stage?"

in that moment, the sound that floods your ears is deafening.

abel tesfaye, also known as the weeknd, strolls onto the stage, bearing a dazzling grin as he approaches you. donning his signature sunnies, he pulls you in close, wrapping you tightly against his chest.

you can barely hear the words as the crowd roars. the flash from the phones is blinding, fans desperate to capture what was to come.

"i am so proud of you, pretty lady."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"th-hank you," your voice falters, threatening of tears as your head swivels, surveying the arena.

never in your life would you have predicted that you would be standing here, performing for a sold out crowd of tens of thousands of people.

people who banded together for one sole purpose.

to watch you perform.

and although you were on the verge of completely coming undone, the humility crashing over you like a tidal wave, you were well aware one thing.

the show must go on.

no matter what.

swiveling on your heel, your fingers curl around the microphone, bringing it to your plush lips, "i think you guys will like this one."

shooting a wink, you hold you breath as darkness swaths the stadium. all around, there are hushed murmurs, brimmed with anticipation. there are a few shouts here and there, but you remain still, your chest heaving as the adrenaline pumps in your veins.

a singular spotlight illuminates the stage, showering you with a silvery glow.

almost as if you were bathing in moonlight.

abel lingers to your left, remaining in place. in your peripheral, you catch him dipping his head, flashing a brief thumbs up.

this was it.

now or never.

as the notes begin, fans scream. in the first few rows, you can make out a band of girls of girls jumping in place, jostling with excitement. never in your life had you seen so many phones raised in the air, each of them pointed at the stage.

"i had a vision," your voice, oh so tantalizing, overcomes the stadium, the crowd growing silent. almost if as they were in a hypnosis, completely and utterly entranced by the scene unfolding before them.

"a vision of my nails in the kitchen. scratching counter tops, i was screaming. my back like arched a. my position couldn't stop you were hitting it

and i shouldn't cry, but i love it, star boy. and i shouldn't cry, but i love it, i love it, star boy."

as you move across the stage, twirling about, abel starts in, maintaining eye contact, raising an arm as he points.

"i just want so see you shine 'cause i know you are a star, girl."

inhaling a breath, you join in, the euphoria only growing more and more intense as it builds in the pit of your stomach.

"i just want to see you shine' cause i know you a star, girl."

with each note hit effortlessly, you finish the song, beaming as the stadium erupts. abel strides toward you, bringing you in for one final embrace before the lights dim. you feel his lips press against your cheek, and he murmurs something you can't quite decipher.

you wish you could make out what he said, you really did.

but you were too busy riding that high.

that feeling that left you buzzing, your fingers and toes trembling as you take a step forward, to the center of the stage. clearing your throat, you scramble to formulate a coherent sentence as the crowd chants, begging for just one more song.

"thank you, new york city. thank you for having me! madison square garden, you will forever be my favorite! from the bottom of my heart, thank you! be safe getting home! and remember to pick up after yourselves! goodnight!"

shifting your body, you begin to exit the stage. your crew flies forward, swarming you with congratulations as the stadium lights fill the venue, affirming the end of the show.

shaking your head, you graciously accept a bottle of water from your manager, nearly downing it. furrowing your brow, you can't help but notice the expression plaguing her features.

"come on hun, let's get you to the dressing room."

"what about abel?"

"we'll call him later," your manager waves a hand, almost dismissing the fact that you just performed with one of the largest artists in the world, "he let me know that he was on a tight schedule anyway. i'm sure he'll have some free time later on."

"are you--"

"i'm sure," she interjects, "come on now, let's go."

as she leads you down the maze of hallways, security in tow, you can't help but sense that there something slightly off. the energy all around was bursting with electricity. yet, it wasn't tense.

it was almost as if she was bursting with a secret she could no longer keep the way her cheeks were dusted pink. it didn't help her case that she was swaying slightly, almost fidgeting.

the walk to the dressing room felt like it was an eternity, the hallways never-ending. it was one turn after another, but you finally made it. however, before you can enter the room, your manager darts forward, her hand wrapping around the knob.

"allow me."

"is everything okay?" your heart is racing, thudding against your rib-cage as she nods, a little too fervently.

pushing the door, the two of you enter the room. however, your manager leaves the door propped open, rather than closing it shut. taking your hand, she almost tugs you toward the array of couches.

"okay! now close your eyes."

pursing your lips, you cock your head, "can you please tell me what the fuck is going on? you're acting really weird. are you sure everything is okay?"

"y-yes! there's just one last surprise for you! and i can't contain it anymore! i'msorrybutijust--"

"what is it?" you press, "you can't just say something like that and not--"

there's a tap on your shoulder, a brassy yet familiar voice rumbling from behind.

"some performance you put on tonight, miene liebe."

spinning on your heel, you nearly collapse at the sight before you.

toto wolff, team principal of mercedes amg petronas, and well, your boyfriend towers over you, an exquisite bouquet in his grasp.

a sob rises in your throat, and you can't help but melt into his arms. scooping you up into his embrace, he nearly crushes you against his chest, a hand cupping the back of your skull. nuzzling into his polo, you catch the scent of his cologne, tears streaming as strands of german roll of his tongue.

"h-how did you get here?"

a chuckle rumbles in his throat, "i pulled some strings. let's just say it was a work perk."

"i'll give you two some privacy," your manager clears her throat, "just text me in you need anything, hun. we'll let you know when it's time to board the bus."

as she darts out of the room, you raise your head, ensuring that the door was closed. toto hangs onto you, his hands beginning to roam. blinking, you almost study him, the realization that he was actually there starting to sink in.

tonight, he was clad in a dark leather jacket, a crisp white polo stretching across his toned chest. as always, he left the first two buttons undone, a chain glittering as it rested against his collarbone. khakis stretch down his legs, the team principal opting for a pair of loafers.

his brunette locks were swept up into their typical messy updo. he wore a silver watch on his wrist, the piece screaming luxury and wealth.

god, he always dressed so simple. but it was classy, put together. the look of a man with status yet graced with humility.

and that was the type of man toto was.

there was no elaborate story on how the two of you met.

you were introduced to toto wolff through a mutual friend.

and that mutual friend was none other than lewis hamilton.

it was a warm weekend in austin. a brand had invited you to attend the united states grand prix. at the time, you were on the uphill slope of your fame. you were a household name, an opener for the 1975. well-known but not large enough to sell out stadiums. it was a unique tour at the time, as your sound was a tad bit moodier, teetering on that line separating alternative and pop.

little did you know, that weekend would change the entire trajectory of your life.

at first, you were apprehensive about attending. you did like formula one, as your dad was a lifelong fan. yet, this was the first time in your life you were presented with the opportunity to not only watch a grand prix, but witness it from the paddock.

it was an offer you could not refuse.

so, naturally you accepted. the only stipulation was that the brand had to provide two more passes. one for not only your dad, but your mom too. they deserved to experience the weekend just as much as you did. after all, they were the reason you existed.

they were the ones who ignited your passion for music. they were the ones who supported you when you were just throwing together tracks in your bedroom.

so, the three of you flew out to austin. in the airport, you received a notification, from instagram. it was a message request. but not just any message request.

a message request from lewis hamilton.

in the message, he expressed his excitement that you were attending the grand prix, as he was a "big fan." he shared that he hoped to get a moment to introduce himself and show you around the mercedes paddock.

what sort of twenty-one year old would refuse that?

as fate would have it, you got your opportunity to meet with lewis. he showed you around the paddock, providing a full, in-depth tour of the garage as well. of course, you were a flustered, giggly mess.

never in your life would you have dreamed that you would be on lewis' arm, cracking jokes with the seven-time world champion.

and that is when you met toto wolff.

that weekend, he was a tad stressed. mercedes was not quite performing to their caliber, and the press was churning out headlines left and right. and with max verstappen completely dominating the track, the dream of another constructor's title was slipping away with each passing day.

the team principal was deeply invested in a conversation with his engineers when this giggle filled his ears. it was airy and light, reminiscent of a summer breeze. it only grew louder and louder, toto figuring that lewis was wooing another model.

however, as she came around the corner, toto realized that he was fucked.

completely and utterly fucked.

you were wearing a pair of light denim jeans, paired with a plain black short sleeve shirt. the material was smooth, hugging your frame in all of the right places. it was slightly cropped, as he could see the soft skin of your abdomen whenever you raised an arm or waved.

your hair was put together in a simple do, one for comfort and long-wear. from where he was, he could pick out the gleam of jewelry, with numerous rings on your fingers. you were wearing a plain pair of shoes, opting for comfort.

you were wearing makeup, the tones and hues accentuating your striking features.

and god, when you turned, facing him, toto swore he was done for.

however, it would be weeks before the team principal could even muster up the courage to ask lewis for your number. well, he had to do some eavesdropping at the grand prix to make sure lewis had your number in the first place. once that was knowledge was secured, he decided to act.

at first, the british driver was intrigued, confused on why his boss wanted his new friend's number. it didn't take very long for lewis to register what was happening. well, the way toto was stuttering and blushing did help.

however, across the ocean, you were working on an ep.

not just any ep.

an ep produced by the weeknd.

following austin, lewis was able to provide you with some connections. who knew that a formula one driver had so much access to the industry? regardless, you were extremely grateful for lewis' help.

and from there, the rest was history.

well, at least the fame.

coined america's princess, it was difficult for toto wolff to avoid you. he saw you nearly everywhere. on social media. in advertisements. at the paddock during race weekends.

since you were so close with lewis, you were starting to make more appearances in the mercedes garage.

which worked out in toto's favor.

although he did have your number saved in his phone, he wanted to get to know you first. the real you, in person. not over text. so whenever he was given the chance, he would strike up a conversation with you in the garage. sometimes he would take an early lunch just so he could catch you in hospitality.

then there was the night in brackley.

during a slight break in your tour, lewis invited you over to brackley for a weekend away in the countryside. you were a little burnt out, aching for some change in scenery. the nights on the bus were growing a little too long. the days were starting to blur together.

you ended up booking the quickest flight overseas, ready to just spend some time away from it all. it only took eleven hours and you were at the mercedes headquarters, laughing harder than you imagined possible. lewis introduced you to george, the two of you hitting it off instantly.

who knew that a popstar and two formula one drivers would be such a good mix?

before you knew it, lewis was suggesting drinks. george was on board, goading you to join them for a few rounds at a local pub about twenty minutes from the headquarters. it would just be a few shots, something to take your mind off things.

one thing lead to another, and you somehow ended up in the passenger seat of toto's luxurious coupe.

well, lewis and george were there too. the team principal did not expect to spend his night babysitting, but it was better than waking up to a tabloid headline in the morning. the team principal drove all three of you straight to his sprawling mansion. he ordered the boys to the guest rooms, while he helped you to his bed.

well, it was more like he carried you to his bed.

he maintained his distance, although every fiber of his being desperately wanted to touch you. to finally relish the softness of your skin. to hold you close. to feel you against him.

he maintained his composure. actually, he was quite proud of himself for keeping it together.

that was until you uttered those four words.

"stay with me, please."

it only took two steps until he was right there in that bed with you, burrowing under the covers so that you could nestle into chest. you fell asleep instantly, your lips parted ever so slightly.

and in that moment, toto had never seen anything so beautiful. so ethereal.

and that was how your relationship started. it was not an easy feat, as social media speculated. fans lurked, attempting to snap photos of you with your mystery man. the internet was full of sleuths, and they went to great lengths to puzzle the pieces together.

of course, there were a few moments in which you both slipped up.

every grand prix was excruciating. you couldn't even be in the same room as toto without the fans spreading wildfire. you had to be careful about what photos you posted. you had to dance around questions in interviews, the reporters desperate to divulge the truth. you were constantly hounded by the public on whether or not you were in a relationship.

who was he? what did he look like? how old was he? what did he do for work? was he in the industry? was it abel? or lewis? the two of you were pretty close. maybe it really was him all this time.

yet, you wouldn't share those private details. not until you were ready. there were people who knew, but it was only a select few. only those in your inner circle.

one day, the world would know who america's princess was dating.

sure, you were ready to share. you were chomping at the bit, actually. you wantd the world to know that you were dating toto wolff, team principal of amg petronas.

but were you ready for the storm that would follow? could you handle all of the press? the accusations on social media? the way people would talk about you?

would you lose your crown?

as you lay your head on his chest, toto's fingers dancing along your jawline, down to your neck, you can't help but shake this nagging sensation.

someone had to have seen toto at the show.

you didn't know who, but someone must have spotted him. there was no way you could miss him.

"something on your mind? you're rather quiet."

his voice breaks through the silence, grounding you back to earth. you shake your head, clearing your throat.

"i'm fine. just tired from the show, that's all. i'm not ready to leave you either."

"i know, my love," toto exhales, pressing a tender kiss to your temple, "we'll be together soon. only a few more weeks."

as the words fade in your ear, there's a ding on the table. licking your lips, you sit up, reaching for your phone. it was more than likely a text from your manager, or a message from your mom congratulating you on the concert.

however, as the screen lights up, your jaw goes slack, the phone nearly sliding out of your grasp.

it was a notification from X, several of them actually.

your fingers tremble as your eyes scan over the post. sensing your distress, toto straightens up, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

"what's going on? tell me what's -- oh fuck."

the post was a photo of the two of them. it was grainy, but it was no use. all of the evidence was there.

it was a photo of the two of you after a night out. a series, actually. you couldn't quite distinguish where you were, but you could make out that it was you. with him.

your bodies intertwined, back against the passenger door of his car. one hand was shoved underneath your shirt, the other wrapped around the base of your neck, the world crumbling away as your mouth found his.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[ofbatsandballads]

kindness you can’t afford

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: injured character, multiple descriptions of blood + wounds

a/n: so this is the very first jason fic I’ve written since I was twelve, so forgive me while I find my jay’s voice now that I’m not a preteen. anyways I humbly offer thee my wares.

divider credit: cafekitsune

Gotham’s a shithole. You hadn’t known that when you first moved here. To be honest, you’d kind of thrown a dart at a map and gone where it landed. Alright, maybe it wasn’t literally a dart throw, more so finding the cheapest metropolitan city because New York was tempting but it would bankrupt you. Mostly you just wanted a place to not exist. And so Gotham’s relatively low rent rates and towering skylines were the pick with little to no research.

Gotham’s a shithole. You know that beyond a shadow of a doubt now. It’s surprising, honestly, how little of Gotham’s chaos makes it outside the city limits. One would think a psychotic killer clown that’s prone to gassing a whole city district or a half-plant poison lady or a guy going around dressed like a bat would make national news. And yet, no. You’d known superheroes existed, of course. Superman was the shining jewel in the crown of the country that is Metropolis. Everyone knows about the extraordinary Wonder Woman. It’s not like hyper skilled people working for the greater good aren’t a thing. But Gotham plays her cards close to her chest.

You've lived here almost two years now and you’ve managed to make it through relatively unscathed. An impressive feat especially since you live in the Bowery. The Bowery itself isn’t so bad, but its neighboring district Park Row, more often known as Crime Alley, is about the worst Gotham has to offer. You’ve heard your fair share of gunshots and sirens, and you’ll never forget the time that Scarecrow released fear toxin in the district and you had to shove every towel and blanket you owned against the cracks by the doors and windows to keep it out. However, you’ve avoided being mugged or assaulted or anything like that so far. And you’ve never encountered the vigilantes that run the night here.

But there’s always time for new and exciting experiences.

The loud thunk that sounds outside your living room window makes you jump and starts your heart pounding. You know you should just ignore it. Crawl off the couch and to the bedroom, lock the door. The lights in the apartment are already off, only the television light illuminating the room, so it would be easy to creep unseen. But you can’t. Something pulls you to the window. Maybe it’s the cat killing curiosity, or maybe it’s your own little voice of self destruction, or maybe it’s something else entirely. All you know is that you have to go look.

So you do. And there, out cold on the fire escape, is a man. A very large man. A very large man in a red helmet. A very large man in a red helmet with dual pistols holstered to his thighs. Red Hood. Red Hood is passed out face up on your fire escape. Huh.

You’d heard of him. It was hard not to. The Bat had the most notoriety by far, but it was Red Hood that truly scared the criminals of Gotham. Batman might break your bones, cripple you even, but you’d leave with your life. No such guarantee existed if you crossed Red Hood. Hurt a few innocent people and you might end up with a bullet or three in your skull. Then there was that thing about heads in a duffel bag and Red Hood running crime for a solid year in Gotham, but he’s better now, apparently. None of this is deterring you from unlocking the window, pushing it up, and stepping out into the cold winter air. Not when you see the blood seeping through his body armor start to drip off the fire escape grate.

He needs help and he can’t stay unconscious in the middle of the city. If whoever injured him didn’t find him, the cops would. He’s just as wanted as the actual rogues of Gotham. You think it’s bullshit, which is why you’re trying to find a way to get him inside the safety of your apartment. He’s huge up close. This is going to be very, very difficult. Your mind flashes suddenly to one of your favorite childhood movies and how the princess pulled the dashing rogue around with her hair. You glance down at the street before heading to your bedroom.

You come back out with sheets bundled up in your arms. You’re not even sure if this harebrained idea will work, but you weave the sheets through the gaps in the grates and around Red Hood’s waist nonetheless. You secure a knot and go back into your apartment with the length of the sheets. Your legs are stronger than your arms, so you brace them against the wall and pull. You can feel his body slowly dragging towards you and you pause to check your progress. He’s slumped against the window now. Good. You loop your arms under his, place your feet back against the wall, and pull hard. Your hard work is rewarded with his body breaching the threshold of your window and landing directly on top of you. The air is knocked clean out of your lungs. He is heavy.

It’s a struggle but you manage to roll out from under him and immediately see the massive red stain contrasting against the white of your fluffy pajama pants. A small puddle of blood is emerging on your floor under his left thigh, and droplets of blood have splattered next to his torso. He’s not in great shape. It suddenly hits you what you’ve done. You dragged an injured vigilante, known for shooting first and asking questions later, into your apartment with no plan on what to do after the fact.

What the fuck did I do?

That’s all you can think as you look down at him. Then something snaps into place inside your rattled mind and you run to your bathroom to grab your first aid kit. You’d bought it and learned the basics after Wayne Enterprises ran televised infomercials about the importance of first aid a couple months back. You’re carefully balancing all the supplies in your arms as you head back out to the living room.

The empty living room. No vigilante in sight. Then your world spins. Everything clatters to the floor as you’re yanked backwards by your waist, pinned to something solid and unable to move.

“Who are you?” A growl sounds behind you, modulated to sound semi-mechanical.

Ah. There he is. You think you should be panicking, absolutely losing your shit even. But your brain is moving in slow motion.

“Someone trying to help you,” you breathe out.

“Doesn’t answer the question.”

The grip around your waist tightens. You want to laugh. As if you could’ve made a run for it in the first place. You tell him your name, and explain that you live alone. There’s no one else here but the two of you and you really do want to help.

“You were passed out on my fire escape. I couldn’t just leave you out there,” you explain cautiously.

The two of you stay like that for a minute longer. Then, a mechanical sigh sounds from behind you and the vice grip on your waist goes slack. You turn to him and see that he’s already halfway to your window.

“Hey! Wait! I can help!” you shout, scrambling after him.

“Don’t need it,” he snaps.

“You were bleeding out on my floor!” you exclaim.

You don’t know why you feel so strongly about this. Maybe because he seemed so…mortal. It’s easy to forget that these guys running around at night are people. They’re strong, tough, and capable, but they’re still human. The fact that he stumbles and has to catch himself on the window frame proves your point.

“Please. I promise I won’t take long. Please just let me help,” you beg.

He turns around and even through that unreadable helmet you can tell he’s sizing you up. You’re sure you must be a sight in your fuzzy white cat pajama pants, old Snoopy t-shirt, and fluffy white socks. Honestly, it’s a bit of a ridiculous tableau. Massive armed man in tactical gear opposite a woman in fluffy pajamas, both bloodstained. But either you seem harmless enough or he’s in exceptionally bad shape, because he just slumps against your wall and gives a barely noticeable nod of his head.

You go into autopilot the second you get his consent. A dining room chair is dragged to the center of your living room and Red Hood drops himself into it, the old wood creaking under the force. You go to assess the damage on his torso first. Light slashes litter his waist, none of them are deep enough for stitches. You grab the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls from the floor where you kneel before warning him that it might sting.

“I got slashed. Think that might’ve hurt a bit more,” he deadpans.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

The torso slashes are light work. It takes all of five minutes to disinfect them and seal them shut with bandages. It’s his thigh that you’re a little more concerned about. There’s enough blood that it’s soaked his tactical pants around where you’re guessing the wound is. You can vaguely make out what appears to be cut fabric, so you’re assuming he was stabbed.

“How deep did the knife go?” you ask.

“Hm. ‘Bout two inches?” he offers.

“Why’d you take it out?” you ask incredulously. Anyone with half a brain knew not to take a knife out of a stab wound.

“No idea. Should’ve just gone runnin’ around the city with a knife wedged in my leg.”

The mask’s modulator does nothing to hide the teasing edge to his voice. Of everything you’d heard about Red Hood, you’d never heard he was such a smartass.

“You know how to do stitches?” he asks.

Great. So he saw the deer-in-headlights look you had while thinking about how to fix his stab wound.

“If you count mending clothing then, uh, sure,” you reply.

The white slits of the helmet stare hard at you before a warped chuckle comes from under it.

“Well, close enough.”

Oh, so he liked to gamble with his health then. Okay. Sure. Great. You could totally do this. Untrained, unlicensed, unsupervised you. You have to stop your hands from shaking as you thread the curved needle. You have to stop yourself from vomiting with anxiety as you push the needle through his skin. He hisses and you immediately feel bad. He’d handled the alcohol without flinching, but the stitches were a different story. You whisper sorry’s with every puncture of his skin you make. Soon enough, his leg is closed up and the whole thing is said and done.

“Okay, should be good to go,” you start, “Well, not good per se, but functional to go.”

A hum and a quick nod of his head are the only response you get before he’s back on his feet. He’s about to climb out your window for the second time tonight when you call out to him again. He turns around and you’d swear he almost seems exasperated.

“Take these with you. You’ll probably need them,” you say as you toss him a water bottle and a small carton of orange juice.

He snatches them easily from the air. But then he just stands there and stares at the drinks in his hands. You think you may have somehow offended him and go to apologize when he speaks.

“Thanks,” he says, mechanical voice catching on the word.

And then he’s gone. Out your window and off into the night. Once you shut and lock the window you feel exhaustion hit you like a freight train. All the adrenaline drains from you and it takes whatever energy you have left to collapse on to your bed and drift off to sleep.

You’ll never know it, but the Red Hood spends the last fifteen minutes of his patrol sipping his orange juice and dutifully watching your apartment window.

You’ll never know it, but Jason Todd lingers across the street to make sure you get home from the grocery store safely, and he scoffs as he sees you feed and pet a stray dog. It’s silly, he thinks.

Don’t you know that now you’ve shown it some kindness, it’ll just keep coming back?

[scoupsakakitty]

Front Row Hearts | idol!S.Coups x idol!reader | fluff

My fingers tugged nervously at the hem of my outfit as I stepped out of the car. The Loewe fashion show. My first big event as a newcomer idol. My debut had been a whirlwind, but this? This felt completely different. There were cameras flashing, people shouting, and my heart felt like it was pounding louder than the noise outside.

“You’ll do great,” my manager said, not even looking up from their phone as we made our way inside.

“Right,” I muttered, barely believing them.

“Oh, and by the way,” they added, far too casually, “you’re sitting next to SEVENTEEN’s S.Coups tonight.”

That made me freeze mid-step. “What?”

“It’s part of the plan,” they said with a sly smile. “You and him together? Perfect for the cameras. He’s already on board.”

My stomach flipped. “So… I’m supposed to just sit there and act like we’re close?”

“Exactly,” they replied, as if it was no big deal. “A few laughs, maybe some subtle glances—it’ll get people talking. Trust me, this is good for you. And for him, too. A win-win.”

————————————————————————————

Inside the venue, I was already feeling out of my depth when I spotted him.

Choi Seungcheol. S.Coups.

He stood near the seating area, dressed in a sleek black suit that somehow made him look even more confident than usual. He was chatting with someone from his team, but as soon as I walked in, his eyes landed on me.

He smiled, an easy, disarming smile that made me feel like maybe I wouldn’t completely embarrass myself tonight.

“You must be Y/N,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was warm, and up close, his presence was even more overwhelming.

“That’s me,” I managed to say, my voice quieter than I intended.

“I’m Seungcheol,” he said, his hand outstretched. “Or just S.Coups, if you’d rather.”

I shook his hand, hoping he couldn’t feel how clammy mine was. “Nice to meet you.”

His eyes lingered on me for a second longer than necessary, and his smile softened. “Don’t be nervous. Tonight’s going to be fun.”

———————————————-—————————————

The seating arrangement was exactly as planned—front row, side by side. Every camera in the room was aimed in our direction, but Seungcheol looked completely unfazed. Meanwhile, I could barely sit still.

“You okay?” he asked, leaning in slightly.

“Just a little overwhelmed,” I admitted, keeping my eyes on the runway.

He chuckled quietly, the sound low and comforting. “Don’t worry about them,” he said, nodding toward the cameras. “They’re not as scary as they look. Just act like it’s me and you.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I replied, trying not to notice how close his shoulder was to mine.

“Hey,” he said, his tone teasing now. “If it makes you feel better, I get nervous too sometimes.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “You? Nervous?”

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “Like right now. What if you think I’m boring?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, my nerves easing just a little. “You’re definitely not boring.”

“Good,” he said, leaning back slightly but still keeping his gaze on me. “Because I plan on keeping you entertained all night.”

————————————————————————————

The show itself was stunning, but Seungcheol made it impossible to focus. Every so often, he’d lean over and whisper a comment about one of the outfits, usually something ridiculous that had me biting back laughter.

“That jacket looks like my grandma’s curtains,” he said at one point, and I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing too loudly.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” I whispered back.

“Trouble?” he repeated, smirking. “I think you’re blaming me for your terrible sense of humor.”

————���———————————————————————

After the show ended, the photographers were still lingering, and Seungcheol turned to me with a glint in his eye. “Want to give them something to really talk about?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“A TikTok,” he said, already pulling out his phone.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m serious,” he said, grinning. “Let’s do the ‘HOT’ challenge. The fans will love it.”

Before I could protest, he had already opened the app and handed me the phone. “You know the dance, right?”

“Of course I know the dance,” I said, pretending to be confident even though my heart was racing.

“Alright then,” he said, stepping back and getting into position.

We started the dance, and at first, I was too nervous to focus. But Seungcheol made it easy to forget about everything else. He was playful, teasing me whenever I missed a move, and somehow, we ended up laughing more than dancing.

“Come on,” he said after we finished, reviewing the video. “Not bad, but I think you held back.”

“I did not!” I argued, crossing my arms.

“Sure you didn’t,” he said, smirking. Then, out of nowhere, he added, “So… are you a Carat?”

I froze, my mind going blank. “Uh… what makes you think that?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You knew the dance. And you’ve been way too quiet about it. So? Who’s your bias?”

I hesitated, debating whether or not to tell him the truth. But before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Mingyu.”

Seungcheol stared at me for a second, clearly caught off guard. Then he burst out laughing, the sound loud and genuine.

“Mingyu?” he repeated, shaking his head. “I can’t believe this.”

“What?” I said, suddenly feeling defensive. “He’s charming!”

He leaned in, his grin teasing. “So I’m not charming?”

“I didn’t say that,” I muttered, my face burning.

“Well,” he said, still smirking, “I’ll just have to work harder, won’t I?”

————————————————————————————-

After we finished the TikTok, Seungcheol walked me to the exit. The crowd had thinned out, but the air between us felt heavier now—like something unspoken was hanging there.

“This was fun,” he said, his voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” I replied, meeting his gaze.

He hesitated for a moment before leaning in slightly. “We should do this again. No cameras next time.”

I felt my heart skip, but before I could respond, my manager called me over, breaking the moment.

“Guess I’ll see you soon,” he said, his tone light but his eyes serious.

“Yeah,” I said softly, watching as he walked away.

————————————————————————————-

When I got back to my hotel room, I barely had time to kick off my shoes before my phone buzzed.

A new message.

The number wasn’t saved, but the text was unmistakable:

“Dinner soon? Just us this time. I’ll even forgive you for picking Mingyu. —Seungcheol”

I stared at the screen, my face breaking into a grin before I even realized it.

Maybe tonight wasn’t just for show after all.

————————————————————————————

[curseofaphrodite]

you and me.

REMUS LUPIN X FEM!READER | fluff

summary: the aftermath of fake dating. | kofi

Can I feel sad over breaking up with someone I never dated? Remus thought, sipping his glass of butterbeer.

Gryffindor had won their gazillionth Quidditch match in a row, and the party was in full swing. He might be the only person not intoxicated, but the urge to let that record go became more and more persistent when he watched you laughing with that blonde prick from Ravenclaw.

Why are Ravenclaws even allowed in here? Didn't they freaking lose to Gryffindor?

"Yeah mate, but Darcy is an exception 'cause our Y/N likes him," Sirius explained, his words slurring.

"Did I say that out loud?" Remus wondered, looking at his butterbeer. "This is my first glass. How can I be drunk already?"

"My beautiful girlfriend," James sighed, patting Lily's head — who was already asleep on his lap. "Had the beautiful idea to do a Refill Charm on all utensils, so your first glass will always stay your first glass."

Remus groaned. "For Prefects, you guys do a lot of troublemaking."

"Hogwarts nearing its end, Moony," James said dreamily, his eyes soft as can be. "It's the season to let all hell break loose."

Remus grunted something inaudible, which Sirius found funny. He fell from the couch laughing.

"Woah, woah," James turned his mom-mode on. "No more refilling glass for you, Pads."

"Take it away from him first," Sirius pointed at Lupin. "He's the one crying over his ex-girlfriend."

"I thought they were just fake-dating?"

"We were!" Remus said defensively.

"For Darcy to get jealous?"

"Yes."

"And he did get jealous so they broke up?"

"We all know the story, thank you very much."

"Oh my god Sirius, do you think Remus fell in love with Y/N while they were fake dating?"

"Can you please stop talking like I'm not here!" Lupin said, throwing his hands up in protest. "Y/N is dumb to go after him and I would never like her. Most importantly, I do not like that asshole Darcy, who got the name and character of an egoistic 18th-century pig! She only liked him because he's hot and popular!"

Silence fell among your friends, one that seemed like he was in trouble. Following their line of gaze, he turned around to see you towering over him, your hands on your hips and an unmistakable hurt look.

"Y/N—"

"Is that what you think of me?" you asked softly, anger slowly tinting your voice. "And of Darcy? You helped me get him jealous and now you think he's a pig?"

"I'm drunk?" Remus tried helplessly.

"You think I went after him because he's popular and hot?!"

"Well, he is popular and hot—"

"I haven't even gone on one date with him yet and you guys are already talking shit about me!?"

"It was just Remus!" Sirius said defensively. Remus shot him a sharp glare.

"I cannot fucking believe you guys!"

You stormed off before Lupin could open his mouth again.

"For what it's worth," Marlene said earnestly. "I do think he's a pig. He's been dating that Slytherin girl on the down low. Real casual, everyone says."

Remus sat up straight. "What about Y/N then?"

"Well, my sources say he already tried asking her out on a date. And she said no."

"What, why?"

"Girls tell girls and they tell more girls. My guess is she found out about the Slytherin girl and didn't want to get involved in their mess."

"Then why on earth would she bring him to this party?" Remus asked in exasperation. "Why does she have to be so confusing!?"

Marlene shrugged.

--------------------------------------------------

Once you get mad at someone, you shut them out completely. Being your close friend, Remus knew this already, but he never expected to be on the receiving end. Over the next few days, you mysteriously disappeared whenever he saw you and never sat next to him in classes. While eating, you always came in late and sat two rows of people down, and while he tried to come up and talk to you, you'd disappear yet again.

If he didn't know better, he would have thought you mastered how to disapparate within the Hogwarts wall itself.

After Potions class one day, Remus was more determined than usual. He stayed behind when he spotted you clearing a doubt with Professor Slughorn. He'd just have to ambush you when that was done.

"You're wasting your time," Lily came by his side. "Slughorn talks her ears out for hours. And if she sees you, she'll just run to the loo, which happens to be just down the hallway."

"We're not in first year! She wouldn't be that childish."

"Oh, don't let her hear you that."

Remus sighed. "Alright, fuck it."

"Wha—?"

Before Lily could finish that question, Remus barged over to the front desk, where you were talking animatedly to Slughorn. Your eyes widened when you saw him, but before you could react, he bent down and scooped you up, and threw you over his shoulders. His werewolf strength had never been more helpful.

You yelped in surprise, but he walked off before Slughorn could react.

"Let me down!" you yelled, but he remained as quiet as ever. The last thing you saw before you talked out of that room was Lily trying to hold back a laugh.

------

Remus put you down when he reached an empty classroom, and he closed the door behind him before you could pull another disappearing act.

"You have got to stop acting like a kid!" he started, completely ignoring what Lily had said.

"Excuse me?" you scoffed, though you felt a little embarrassed yourself. "You're the one who basically called me dumb for liking a freaking guy!"

"He is a dumb guy. I didn't call you dumb. I just called the act of liking him dumb."

"How is that any different, Lupin?"

"Wow!" Remus laughed, though he looked anything but friendly. "One fight and I'm on last name basis? Over your fucking boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Then why the hell did you bring him to the party?!"

"I didn't! He came with Alice, you utter buffoon!"

That shut him up. But you weren't finished.

"You're always quick to judge and I never thought you'd include me in that list and—"

"Y/N—"

"—no, you listen to me. If I did go on a date with someone, it's none of your business since you said you'd never like me. So stop pretending like my fucking boyfriend because we stopped that act weeks ago! He and I are no more than friends than you and I are!"

Whatever he was about to say choked and died away in his throat. You felt guilty, though you didn't know why.

"No more than you and me." Remus gritted his teeth. "Makes sense."

You watched him walk away in all kinds of feelings. But before you could call out, before you could react in any way, he stopped and turned.

"Ah, fuck it," he said for the second time that day and walked straight back to you.

You felt his hold on your face and then his lips were on yours. Your eyes widened before closing altogether. You grabbed him by his collar and kissed him back, as hurried and passionate as him.

"Still friends?" he asked in between the kisses, picking you up again to put you on top of the benches.

"Not by a long shot," you smiled against his lips, pulling him closer.

----------------------

Lily's face was red when she reached the common room.

"What happened?" James asked, sitting up straight.

"Next time we have a meeting with Dumbledore, we should ask him to soundproof the dungeons." She said, shuddering.

[italiangirlcoresblog]

main masterlist \\ max masterlist

-----------------••✩🌃🌑🎇✩••----------------

𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 (𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐨𝐧)

✩ : the aftermath of the las vegas grand prix with max

𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭. : max verstappen

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : fluff, fluff, and more fluff

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 0.7k

✍︎ : SO SO SO EXCITED FOR MAX, I HAD TO POST SOMETHING (i don't know if i like it tho, let me know what you think!)

-------------------------❦︎------------------------

You couldn’t remember the exact moment when the tears prickling your eyes had started streaming down your face, but right now it didn’t matter. Nothing really did.

The only thing you could focus on was the roaring of the engines right across the pit lane, matching the loud thumping of your heart.

One more lap.

Just one lap, and Max would’ve been crowned World Champion for the fourth time in a row.

You brought your hands up to your mouth, squeezing them together in a silent prayer as your eyes remained glued to the little screen in the Red Bull box. The crowd cheered as George Russell was declared winner of the Grand Prix, their screams seeming miles away from you as you still held your breath. The race wasn’t over yet.

Then, coming in fifth, Max crossed the finish line, and it felt like the world had started spinning again.

The next few minutes were a confused swirl of people shouting, hugs, and congratulating pats on the back — a river of blue suits that dragged you outside into the crisp night breeze. You ran alongside the rest of the crew, vision blurred with tears, until you reached the barrier and let out something between a sob and a laugh.

There he was.

Standing tall on top of the car with both arms thrown in the air, taking in the thousands of people yelling his name and chanting him with a deafening applause, Max had never looked so genuinely happy and excited about one of his own achievements.

Suddenly, his gaze caught yours through the visor of his helmet, and you could swear you’d seen his eyes light up. In less than one second, he jumped off the vehicle and ran up to where you were standing, his large hands immediately finding your waist as you secured yours around his neck, letting him effortlessly lift you off the ground and spin you in the air while just screaming with pure, raw joy.

Once he was done, he didn’t let you go, wrapping your legs around his torso and placing his hands on the back of your thighs to keep you up. His chest rose with every heavy pant he let out. You closed your eyes, tears still spilling from them, before resting your forehead against the cold glass of the visor and taking a deep breath of relief: finally.

Pulling away, you gently helped him take the helmet off, one of his hands quickly leaving your side to rip the balaclava off his head. All you could see was a glimpse of his icy blue eyes before his fingers firmly cupped your jaw and drew you into him, your lips crashing together. The suddenness of the kiss made you drop the helmet to the ground.

You ran your fingers through his hair, trying to pull him impossibly closer, your lips chasing each other in their own perfect race, breaths intertwined in a flawless melody.

Even with your eyes closed, you could feel the blinding flashes of the paparazzi’s cameras surrounding you. You could hear the amused whistles coming from both fans and the other drivers, but you couldn’t care less. This moment was yours and yours only, and it felt so right: just you and Max, melting in each other’s arms.

When you moved back, breathless from the intense kiss, you brought your still trembling hands up to his face and traced every inch of it with your fingertips, your touch feathery, almost as if to draw a map on his glistening skin: thick, pensive eyebrows, always so focused eyes, full lips.

“You did it, Max,” you managed to whisper, voice hoarse from staying silent for too long. “Four-times World Champion.”

“Actually, this is the first World Championship I’ve really won.” You could hear the laugh in his voice, his smug expression making your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Because it’s the first one my world came to see,” he explained softly, his fingers running up to your forehead to brush a lock of hair out of your face before grazing your silky skin, his gaze lovingly locked onto yours.

You felt your eyes well up with hot tears once again, but as soon as one of them started rolling down your cheek, he was quick to catch it with his thumb and tenderly wipe it away.

“Nice reflexes, Verstappen,” you muttered against his lips, a faint smirk plastered on your face.

“Not bad for a four-time World Champion, huh?” He grinned back before closing the gap between the two of you, drunk on the feeling of your mouths dancing together.

The world around him was long forgotten. For now, the only world he seemed to care about was the one wrapped tight into his arms.

-----------------••✩🌃🌑🎇✩••----------------

©italiangirlcoresblog // do not copy, rewrite, or translate any of my work on any platforms

[sanguineterrain]

YES. BODYGUARD JASON TODD.

He's used to being looked over, just seen as meat & muscle (he doesn't mind, it's part of the job) but you're the first "job" who actually sees him, talks to him, makes him laugh 🫠 he doesn't know what he'll do if someone actually tries to put their hands on you 🙂

hiiii aud thank you for the scrumptious jaybird thoughts <3 so begins my bodyguard!Jason agenda!

bodyguard!jason todd x gn!reader. fluff, pining, and tension so thick you could cut it with a batarang.

All fics are reblogged to @sanguinelibrary

****

"Y'know, I think you just keep me around to carry your bags."

You grin over your shoulder where the Red Hood trails behind you, always five paces behind. Your takeout bag is in one hand, your new shirts in another. He wears a red mask over the lower half of his face, like always. Only seeing his eyes used to unnerve you, but now it's a comfort, finding his gaze in a crowd.

"That's not true. I also keep you around for something nice to look at," you say.

He tilts his head. Your belly flutters. "Flattery will get you nowhere, trouble."

"Flattery got me outside of my hotel, Red."

He sighs. "Tricking the hotel concierge doesn't count."

You laugh. "Sure it does. I think it does." You stick your arm out. "Will you walk next to me?"

"You know my rule."

"But you can easily cover me if you're next to me! And I'm so good at ducking. See?"

You duck and straighten a few times in a row to demonstrate. A few people stare. You ignore them. Hood's eyes crinkle in a way that tells you he's smiling.

"Mm, incredible technique. Wonder who taught you that. A ruggedly handsome bodyguard, perhaps?"

"Always hungry for the credit," you say. "Despicable."

"Ain't I?"

You turn around and stop. He stops five paces behind. You take a step forward. He takes a step back.

"I wanna see your face when we talk," you say, face pinched.

"Not in public, trouble. It's for your safety. You know that."

"Can't you come a little closer?"

None of your friends are like this with their personal guards. A moment from a friend's birthday party resurfaces.

It's almost like you'd rather be with him than us. You know he's just doing his job, right?

Hood stays exactly where he is. "This is the ideal spot for covering you. Now, c'mon. Thought you wanted to shop."

You sigh and let your arms flop to your sides. He must be nervous today. You can't imagine why.

"Fine. Be that way."

You hurry ahead. Hood doesn't lag behind. Stupid long-legged bodyguard.

"You can be mad at me as long as you stay safe," he says.

You turn again, about to really bitch about how strict he's being. But his proximity stops you short. He's inched closer, so close that you can properly see his eyes.

"This close enough for you?" he asks.

Hood's eyes are warm in the light, mossy and rich. His lashes and brows are dark and thick. Once or twice, you've seen a splash of freckles across his nose. The bridge of his nose is crooked like it's been broken one too many times.

Dear God, you yearn to know him.

Your stomach does more flips. Hood watches you, half-lidded.

"What're y'doing, trouble?"

His voice is soft, the way it gets when he's trying to smooth over a tiff between you. You can't figure out why he does that. You always get over it. And so does he. He has no choice.

"I'm looking at you, Red," you say.

"Yeah? What're y'lookin' at me for?"

"'Cause I want to."

He blinks. "Me? Not much to look at."

You look at each other for another minute. The want bubbles up again, spills out of your mouth before you can stop it.

"Please walk next to me," you say. "I need to know you're there."

He leans in to speak, black curl tumbling over his forehead. He smells sweet, like apples and spice. You almost appreciate the danger in your life because it keeps you in the Red Hood's line of sight.

"Wha's the matter? Y'nervous? I'm right here."

Oh, you're nervous, alright. Just not in the way he thinks. The way you ought to be.

You turn around. For your sake and his.

"Not nervous. Just... just... never mind. You pick where we go next, Red."

"It's your day. 'M just the driver," he says.

"If you won't walk next to me, the least you can do is pick where we go."

"The least I can do, huh?"

It's clear he isn't going to choose. So you watch him instead. You turn the corner and sneak glances over your shoulder. You don't care much about shopping anymore anyway. It's only an excuse to go out. To be alone with him.

Your answer comes. It's only for a split second, but you catch it anyway. He taught you to notice things after all. Says it could be the difference between living and dying.

You immediately change course. Hood follows you easily, and you breeze through the bookstore's entrance. You sneak a look to gauge his reaction. He's looking around, but that could just be him clocking the exits and obstacles. You grab his hand. He looks at your joined hands, then at you.

"Feeling lost?" he asks.

"No. Just trying to keep you present. Nothing’s gonna happen in a bookshop, Red."

That crease in the middle of his forehead returns. "'S my job to plan for the worst. Keeping you safe is the only thing that matters."

"Not the only thing."

His eyebrows rise. "Whaddya talking about? 'Course it is."

You look at your joined hands. This is bad. This is really, really bad. You'd might as well pull your heart out of your chest and let Hood carry that too.

You start to walk, fingers slipping out of his. Hood doesn't try to rejoin them.

He stays closer in here, close enough that you can talk quietly and smell his apple pie scent.

"What do you like to read?" you ask.

Hood glances at you. "Clocked that about me, did you?"

"I was taught by the best," you say sweetly.

He hums. Doesn't joke or laugh. Just makes a soft sound. It's not often you render him speechless.

"I loved Frankenstein as a kid. I always hoped he'd love his monster, but..."

Hood disappears for a moment, lost in his head. You take his hand, heart be damned.

"Red?"

He looks at you again. His eyes are wild. Sometimes, it seems like they glow.

"My... my dad used to read it to me," he says. "One time I asked if he'd love the monster anyway. He promised he would."

You rub his knuckles. He flinches, like he's forgotten where he is. 

"Someone's devotion to our monstrous parts is something we all want," you say.

You spend more time in the bookstore. Hood attracts a few stares, like always, but you're left alone. He carries your shopping without complaint, without strain, and you wonder if your friend was right, if this is just a job.

You buy a special edition of Frankenstein under his attention. Then you turn around and hand him the book. He keeps it under his arm.

"Ready to head back? Y'hungry?"

"That's for you," you say.

"Hm? What is?"

"The book. It's for you, Red."

Silence. The second time that you've stunned the words out of him. You're on a roll.

"Y'don't have to do that," he says, gentle as can be.

"It's a present for you. A thank you."

Hood shakes his head. "You don't need to thank me for protecting you. Just doing my job."

"I'm thanking you for being my friend. Because... you are, right? My friend?"

This time, Hood's eyes on you are heavy. You wonder if he can see your heart beating, see your belly fluttering, see the real reason why you get nervous around him.

"Yeah, trouble," he says, book cradled to his chest like it's precious cargo. "I'm yours."

[pastryfication]

HIIII so I was wondering If you could pleaseee write a dad oscar piastri x daughter (like four y/o) where he teaches her how to play chess and turns our she's so good at it just like Oscar was as a kid!

checkmate! | oscar piastri

oscar sat cross-legged on the living room floor, the chessboard laid out between him and your daughter. the pieces were neatly arranged, ready for the first move. his little girl, barely four years old, was sitting opposite him, her tiny fingers hovering over the pawns, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“alright, sweetheart,” oscar said softly, smiling at her focused expression. “this is how we start. the pawns move first, see?” he nudged one of the white pawns forward, showing her how it worked.

she nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration. her hands were still so small, but she mimicked his move perfectly, pushing one of her black pawns forward.

from the couch, you watched them with a warm smile, your heart swelling as you saw the bond they shared. oscar’s patience, his gentle guidance, and your daughter’s eager determination—it was one of those simple, beautiful moments that made everything in life feel just right.

oscar chuckled softly, glancing up at you, his eyes twinkling with pride. “she’s a quick learner, isn’t she?” he said, admiration clear in his voice.

you nodded, your smile widening. “just like her dad.”

they continued playing, and as the game went on, you couldn’t help but notice how your daughter wasn’t just following oscar’s instructions—she was thinking ahead, planning her moves with surprising skill for such a little girl. you watched closely, fascinated, as she carefully moved her pieces, her little face scrunched up in concentration.

“daddy, look!” she suddenly exclaimed, her voice bursting with excitement. “checkmate!”

oscar blinked in surprise, his expression shifting from shock to a proud smile. “wow, sweetheart,” he said, genuinely impressed. “you’re really good at this.”

you couldn’t contain your laughter as you saw the joy in your daughter’s eyes. “looks like you’ve got some serious competition, osc,” you teased.

it don’t take more than a few minutes before “checkmate!” once again was declared triumphantly, her little giggles filling the room as oscar slumped back dramatically, pretending to be utterly defeated.

“you beat me!” oscar laughed, pulling her into his lap. “you’re amazing, you know that?”

you watched them cuddle, your heart full to the brim. there they were—your two favorite people, sharing a special moment that you knew would be one of many. as they whispered about playing again tomorrow, you knew this was just the beginning of something beautiful.

“we can play as much as you want, my little champion,” oscar promised, and you couldn’t help but smile, knowing that your little girl was already following in her dad’s footsteps in more ways than one.

——

five years had passed since oscar piastri had first introduced his daughter to the game of chess on their living room floor. what had started as a fun bonding activity had quickly grown into a shared passion, and now, at nine years old, she was entering her first school chess competition.

the gymnasium buzzed with excitement as students and parents gathered around the rows of tables set up for the event. the air was thick with anticipation, and you could feel your own heart pounding as you watched her from the sidelines.

oscar stood next to you, his hand resting on your lower back affectionately, his face a picture of calm pride. “she’s got this,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, though you could see the hint of nerves in his eyes.

“of course she does,” you replied with a reassuring smile, squeezing his hand. “just like her dad.”

your daughter sat at her designated table, her chessboard in front of her, looking as poised and focused as you had ever seen her. she glanced over at the two of you and grinned, that same spark of determination in her eyes that she’d had since she was little. you waved back, trying to send her all the confidence you could muster.

the first match began, and you watched as she moved her pieces with a precision and foresight that left you in awe. every lesson oscar had taught her, every late-night game they had played together, all of it was coming to life in this moment. she was no longer just playing for fun; she was competing, strategizing, and, most importantly, enjoying every second of it.

as the match progressed, it became clear that she wasn’t just good—she was exceptional. one by one, her opponents fell, each match ending with a handshake and a smile, and each time, she looked over to the two of you with that same joyful grin. it was in those moments that you knew she was doing exactly what she was meant to do. and you couldn’t be more happy that you had chosen oscar to be the father of your children, because the beaming smile he received as she stood and accepted her trophy made your cheeks hurt from smiling. and when she later found her way back to you and sprinted into his arms where he held her tight, whispering to her that he was proud of his little champion, you heart was close to exploding with joy.