#i wonder if the other people there saw it

[theonottsbxtch]

I LOVED YOU FIRST PT2 | FC43

part one

an: not even gonna leave an an, i always had a part two lol

wc: 5.2k

Franco found out she was dating Angelo via an Instagram story. A fucking Instagram story.

But that was almost three years ago now, and Franco tried to let it go, god did he try. He was getting married now, after all. He had to forget about what could have been.

The engagement ring on his finger felt heavier than it should. Not because he hadn’t once thought it was right—he had. Or maybe he just convinced himself it was right. They’d been together for four years, maybe more, he stopped counting. She was beautiful, poised, easy to love, easy to fit into his world. That’s what he’d told himself, anyway.

But now, standing in the grand suite of the London hotel they’d rented for the weekend, Franco stared out the window at the city below, watching the lights flicker in the distance. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was missing. Not that he had any right to be questioning it. After all, he was about to get married, wasn’t he?

The last three years had been a blur of wins, podiums, and post-race parties. Formula 1 had been a dream realised, his face plastered across billboards in every country, every magazine with his name next to the headlines. He’d travelled the world, earned millions, lived a life many envied. But somewhere along the way, his heart had wandered.

And the truth was, despite the glamour, despite the fame, the money, he couldn’t shake the thought of her. The way she’d looked when she told him she loved him first. The way her eyes had glistened with unshed tears that night in Monza—before she left for good. The way she’d walked away, no longer the girl he took for granted. It was like he could still see her disappearing down the hallway of the hotel, leaving him behind, a shadow in her past.

What if I had chosen her?

He thought about that too often. But it was too late. She was gone. She’d moved on with Angelo, the guy who was everything Franco wasn’t—steady, grounded, someone who could give her a love that wasn’t tied to racing, fame, or endless, mind-numbing travel. And that fucking Instagram story—her laughing, the two of them in a café in Buenos Aires, arms around each other, looking so effortlessly happy—had been the final blow.

That was the last straw.

And now, three years later, here he was—about to get married, with the wrong person. He should have been thrilled, but something about it gnawed at him, like he was suffocating in a life that wasn’t his own. She was everything he thought he wanted. She’d followed him to every race, always the perfect girlfriend, the perfect partner. But the truth was, he wasn’t sure he loved her anymore. He wasn’t sure he ever had.

She had been the easy option. She fit into the world he’d built for himself—the shiny, public life, the world of sponsorships and media appearances. She had the right background, the right education, the right looks. She was what was expected of him. What people saw when they looked at a successful F1 driver: the perfect match, the ideal woman.

But the reality was that whenever he closed his eyes, he saw someone else. He saw her. The girl from that small village in Argentina, the one who’d loved him first and probably would, even when he didn’t deserve it. Even when he hadn’t been able to see it for what it was.

He hadn’t thought about her for a while—not in the sense that would make him ache, not the way he used to. He’d buried that pain under the chaos of the last few years. But it was like a low hum in the back of his mind. Every time he saw Angelo’s name pop up, or when he’d hear a new story about her from people back home, he couldn’t help but wonder how her life had turned out. Was she happy? Was she still with Angelo? Was she finally over him?

He could only imagine the life she’d built without him—the kind of life she deserved.

But now, standing on the edge of a new chapter of his life, Franco wondered if he’d ever be able to move on. Because, no matter how many laps he raced, no matter how many trophies he collected, it always came back to her. And now, with his wedding on the horizon, he couldn’t help but ask himself: What the hell had he been doing this whole time?

His phone buzzed on the table, snapping him back to the moment. His fiancée. A text: “Hey, I made reservations for dinner tonight!”

He sighed and stared at the screen of his phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

He knew he shouldn’t, it was ridiculous. It was stupid. He had no right to send her an invitation, not after everything. He hadn’t heard from her in so long, hadn’t even thought about reaching out beyond those painful Instagram stories and the passing updates from mutual friends.

But, for some reason, there he was—typing out an invitation to his wedding.

It’s the right thing to do, he told himself. She was a part of his past. She had been the first person to love him unconditionally. They’d spent too many years growing up together not to extend an olive branch. Besides, she had a life now, a life without him. Maybe it was selfish to think she would even want to come, but maybe, just maybe, she deserved to know. She deserved to hear it from him, the way things had turned out.

He hit “send” before he could overthink it any more. The words felt hollow as they left his phone, but there was no going back now.

It was a quiet afternoon in Buenos Aires. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a soft, golden light through the windows of their apartment. She and Angelo had just finished dinner—nothing fancy, just pasta and wine—and now she was curled up on the couch with a book in her lap, one of the many cosy rituals they had settled into over the past couple of years.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She glanced at it, seeing a notification from her email app. The subject line made her pause.

Wedding Invitation: Franco Colapinto.

She blinked, feeling her chest tighten before she even opened it. It had been so long since she’d thought about him—since Monza, really. It was a chapter of her life that had closed the moment she walked away. But the sight of his name brought it all rushing back. The summers spent racing bikes down dirt roads, his smile so effortless, so wide. The way he’d looked at her before everything changed.

Slowly, she opened the email, feeling a strange mixture of nostalgia and disbelief.

I hope this message finds you well. It’s been a while since we last spoke, but I wanted to reach out and invite you to something important. I’m getting married in three months' time, and I wanted to personally invite you to be a part of the day. It wouldn’t feel right without including you.

I understand if you’re unable to come, but I thought it was important to extend the invitation.

I hope everything is going well in your life.

All the best,

Fran

She stared at the message for what felt like an eternity, the words swimming in her mind. There were so many things she could have said, but the only thing she could focus on was the feeling of her heart, beating a little faster than it should. A soft ache settled in her chest.

Three years had passed. She had moved on, found a life she was proud of—one that was stable and calm, filled with love from Angelo, whose steady hand had never wavered, who had been everything Franco couldn’t be. She had built a future, and it was more than she had ever expected for herself.

And yet, the invitation sat there, a reminder of what had been. Of the boy she had loved, the boy who had never truly seen her. Of the boy who she had walked away from.

She set the phone down for a moment, leaning back against the couch. Angelo’s gentle snoring filled the living room from the slightly ajar door, a quiet reminder of the life they had made together—together, with no ghosts of the past lingering between them. But even as she sat there, she could feel the sting of Franco’s message, the painful reminder of how much had been left unsaid.

She thought about the wedding. How strange it felt to be invited to something so intimate, something so final. It was a life she would never be a part of. A life that wasn’t hers to claim, never was. But part of her, deep down, still wondered what had happened. Was he happy? Was this really the life he wanted? Or was this just another easy option for him? Another decision made out of convenience?

Why am I even asking myself this?

She shook her head, her lips curling into a rueful smile. She knew she didn’t want to go. There was no reason to go back to that part of her life, not now. Not when everything she had built with Angelo was exactly where it needed to be.

The following morning, the soft clink of Angelo’s keys echoed through their small kitchen as he got his things ready for work. He was already dressed in his crisp suit, his tie neatly adjusted, preparing for another day at the law firm. She, on the other hand, was in her scrubs, packing her bag for her shift at the hospital.

She was tying her trainers when she saw him glance at her, his eyes focused on his phone.

“Hey,” he said, his voice casual but tinged with curiosity. “You seem a little quiet this morning.”

She shrugged, setting her bag down on the counter. “I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

It was only a half-lie. She had hardly slept last night after receiving Franco’s invitation. The words had stuck with her, gnawing at her thoughts, replaying in her mind like a loop she couldn’t escape.

“What’s up?” Angelo asked, watching her intently, his brow furrowing slightly.

She hesitated, then sighed and reached for her phone, pulling up the email Franco had sent her. She handed it to him without a word.

Angelo read it in silence, his eyes scanning the screen. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but somehow, she already knew that he would have an opinion on it.

Finally, he set the phone down and looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. “He’s getting married, huh? I didn;’t believe it when I saw it on the news.” he said softly.

“Yeah,” she replied quietly, as if the words themselves felt like an admission. “I guess he thought I should know.”

“You’re not planning on going, are you?” Angelo asked, his voice laced with concern.

She shook her head, biting her lip. “He’s my past now. It doesn’t matter. It’s… it’s not something I need to revisit.”

Angelo nodded, his eyes softening as he stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. He knew how much Franco had meant to her—how he had once been the centre of her world. But that was years ago. And he had never once doubted that she was now his world.

“I haven’t seen Franco since we were sixteen,” Angelo said, his tone thoughtful. “I know things between you and him ended... well, the way they did. But maybe it might be good to go. For closure. For you, if nothing else.”

She met his eyes, her gaze wavering. “Closure?” she repeated, almost incredulously. “I don’t need closure, Angelo. I moved on a long time ago.”

“I know,” Angelo said, his voice gentle but firm. “But I think sometimes it’s easy to say we’ve moved on, that we’re over things. But there are pieces of our past that stick with us, no matter how much time passes. Maybe seeing him—seeing that life—will help you put the final chapter behind you. Don’t you think?”

She was quiet for a long moment, turning the idea over in her head. It made sense, in a way. The past had never quite been put to rest, even if she had buried it deep. Maybe it wasn’t about Franco anymore. Maybe it was about facing what had happened, about finding peace with it, once and for all.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I don’t want it to mess with what we have, Angelo. I don’t want to go and be reminded of something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Angelo smiled softly, taking her hand in his. “It won’t. I promise. You’re the one I want, mi amor You’re the one who matters. Whatever happened back then, whatever Franco was, that’s not us. It’s not our life. But if this is something you think you need to do, then I’ll be there with you. I want you to have the closure you need.”

She felt a warmth spread through her chest at his words. Angelo had always been like that—steady, understanding, and so patient with her. He never pushed her to forget, but he also didn’t hold her to the past. He was the one who made her feel safe, who built her the life she was proud of, and the thought of him beside her through whatever this was made her feel like she could take on anything.

With a slow, hesitant breath, she met his eyes. “You’re right. Maybe it would be good to go. I don’t know what I’ll feel when I see him, but I think... I think I can handle it now.”

Angelo smiled, squeezing her hand. “Then we’ll go. Together.”

She nodded, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. The decision was made, and it was time to let go of the last remnants of the past. Franco and his life—whatever that was now—could stay in the past, but she wouldn’t be running from it anymore.

“Thanks,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “For always being here.”

“Always,” Angelo replied, his voice warm. “Now go. You don’t want to be late for your shift.”

She smiled at him one last time before grabbing her bag and heading for the door. The wedding was still months away, but somehow, her world felt just a little bit more at peace now.

Three months later

The morning of the wedding, the soft rays of the sun filtered through the curtains of their hotel suite, casting a warm, golden glow across the room.

She stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the fabric of her dress as Angelo adjusted his cufflinks in the reflection behind her. The air was filled with a quiet sense of anticipation. It had been a few months since she agreed to come to the wedding, and now, standing in this luxurious hotel in the heart of the Mediterranean, she could feel the surrealness of it all.

She was here. With him. With Angelo.

He caught her gaze in the mirror, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “You look beautiful,” he said, his voice tender.

She smiled back, her heart swelling with a quiet joy. Angelo was always so calm, so steady, and he knew exactly how to make her feel loved without needing to say much. The simple moments like this were the ones that made her certain that their life together, their future, was the right one.

“Thank you,” she said, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. He was perfect in every way. “You look handsome, as usual,” she added with a smile.

He chuckled softly. “I try,” he teased, adjusting the hem of his suit jacket before stepping forward to take her hand. “Are you ready for this? I know it’s been a long time coming.”

She nodded, squeezing his hand. “Yeah. I’m ready. It’s just… it’s strange. You know? We’re not the same people we were three years ago. And I feel like I’m finally letting go of that past. I just need to do it, for me. And for us.”

“Whatever you need, you have it,” Angelo said, his voice unwavering, filled with a quiet strength.

She smiled at him, grateful for his support. They had come so far, and no matter what happened today, she knew she was in the right place.

“I’m going to step outside for a second,” she said, pulling away from him gently. “I’m going to grab a photo of the schedule. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” Angelo replied, watching her with those warm, reassuring eyes.

She stepped into the corridor of the hotel, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She pulled out her phone, navigating to the event details to snap a photo of the ceremony’s schedule. The hallway was quiet, save for the distant chatter of guests below and the hum of preparations for the wedding in the distance. The excitement was palpable in the air, but in this moment, everything felt calm.

That was until she heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

She turned around, feeling her heart give a small, unexpected jolt when she saw him.

Franco.

He was standing there, half-dressed in a black tuxedo with his shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, his tie still loose around his neck. He looked just like he did three years ago—handsome, dishevelled in the way that made him seem effortlessly charming.

Her stomach tightened.

“You came,” he said, his voice soft with surprise. 

She stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say, before forcing a calm smile. “I said I would,” she replied evenly. Her heart beat just a little faster, but she kept her expression neutral.

He looked at her, his gaze a little more intense than she remembered, and she couldn’t quite place the mix of emotions flickering in his eyes. There was something unspoken there, something she hadn’t expected.

“I didn’t think you’d follow through,” he added, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

She didn’t know what to make of that. She shrugged. “I thought I’d at least be polite.”

A silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and thick with everything that had been left unsaid over the years. Franco’s gaze drifted toward the floor for a moment before he looked back up at her, his jaw tense, and his voice was almost pleading when he spoke.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his words hesitant.

She hesitated, feeling her pulse quicken. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want to go back to the past—didn’t want to open that door again.

“I’d rather not,” she said, her tone firm, though her heart was beating harder than she cared to admit.

Franco’s expression softened. “It’s been three years. Three years overdue, don’t you think?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply, the weight of everything hanging between them. She didn’t owe him anything, and yet, a part of her—perhaps the part that had loved him—knew there was still something lingering. Something that she hadn’t been able to shake off.

She finally gave a soft sigh, one that carried all the weariness of the years that had passed. “Fine,” she said quietly, her shoulders sagging slightly in resignation. “But just for a minute. I don’t have time to rehash everything.”

“Thank you,” Franco murmured, stepping forward as he gestured down the hallway. “My room’s just down here. I won’t keep you long.”

They walked down the corridor in silence, the weight of the moment sinking in. She wasn’t sure what she expected from this conversation, but she knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Not for either of them. When they reached his room, Franco opened the door and stepped aside to let her in.

It was a modest suite, far removed from the lavish ceremony unfolding just downstairs. The quiet of the room seemed to accentuate the tension between them. He closed the door behind them, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, his voice distant as he turned to face her. “Water? A drink?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

There was a long pause. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly nervous. For the first time in a long while, he seemed uncertain.

“So…” Franco began, taking a breath, “I guess this is awkward, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice steady, but her insides were churning. “A little.”

Before she even had a chance to settle with what she was doing, he shot her straight to the heart with the words that came out of his mouth.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, his voice quiet. “I know I did, but that wasn’t ever my intention. You were always there for me, and I should’ve done better. I should’ve realised…”

Franco ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that was all too familiar. He seemed to be gathering the courage to say something, but when he spoke, his words were not what she expected.

“I should’ve told you,” he started, voice low, almost regretful. “I should have told you that I loved you.”

She blinked, her chest tightening as she took in the weight of his words. “Don’t,” she said quickly, cutting him off. Her voice was sharp, a defence mechanism against the rawness he was trying to expose. “You can’t do that. You can’t come here and say things like that after all this time. It’s... it’s mean.”

Franco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “I should’ve told you,” he repeated, his voice thick with something she couldn’t quite place—guilt, perhaps? Regret?

She shook her head, unable to stop herself from responding. “Why are you still with her, then?” Her voice trembled slightly, the question feeling more like a challenge than a simple inquiry. She thought of how excited she must be right now getting ready, while he was confessing his love to his childhood best friend. She wondered whether she knew.

He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his eyes flickered away, as though he was ashamed of the truth he was about to speak. “It’s easier to pretend to love her,” he admitted, his voice flat. “It’s easier than facing the truth.”

“Than what?” she asked, her words cutting through the air, her eyes locking onto his. “Than admitting you love me?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Franco’s eyes darkened, and he stepped closer, a hesitation lingering between them. He opened his mouth, but instead of speaking, he exhaled deeply, as if trying to gather the strength to continue.

“You don’t understand,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I was scared. I didn’t know how to handle what I was feeling. I still don’t.”

She looked at him, biting her lip, trying to keep herself from breaking. “You can’t do this,” she said, her voice cracking with frustration. “You don’t get to walk back into my life now and make me feel like I was some... some second choice. You don’t get to say things that undo everything we went through.”

Franco’s gaze darkened, but his next words were even more dangerous. “Say it, and I’ll leave her,” he said, his voice low and intense, as if he were testing her. “Say you want me the same way you wanted me three summers ago, and I’ll do it. I’ll walk away from her. I’ll choose you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart stuttering in her chest. The temptation was there—familiar, painful, and so very dangerous. She could feel that old longing tug at her, the part of her that had loved him so fiercely, so deeply. But this wasn’t that girl anymore. She wasn’t the girl who would wait around for him to realise what he’d lost.

“I can’t,” she whispered, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “I can’t do that anymore. I’m happy now. I’m happy with Angelo.”

The words felt heavy on her tongue, and for a moment, it felt like she had to convince herself of them. But as she looked into Franco’s eyes—still searching, still wanting—she realised that she meant it. She really did.

Franco’s face fell, his expression a mixture of frustration and defeat. “You don’t understand,” he said again, the words sounding more like a plea. “I never stopped loving you.”

She took a step back, shaking her head, trying to clear the emotions that were spiralling inside of her. “No,” she said firmly, her voice resolute. “You don’t get to say that, Franco. Not now. Not when I’ve spent three years getting over all of this. You don’t get to come here and break my heart all over again.”

For a long moment, they stood there, the space between them filled with unspoken words and unresolved tension. But it was over. It had to be.

“I can’t undo what happened,” she added softly, her gaze not leaving his. “But I’m not that girl anymore. And I’m not going to be someone’s second choice.”

Franco didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. The weight of everything they’d been through hung heavy between them, and it was clear now that nothing could fix it. Not words. Not promises.

She turned to leave, her hand on the doorknob, but before she could step out of the room, she paused, glancing over her shoulder one last time.

“I’m happy now, Fran,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite everything. “And you need to figure out what makes you happy too. But I can’t be part of that anymore.”

She opened the door and stepped out, not looking back, not giving him the chance to say anything more.

The wedding was beautiful.

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the guests who had gathered for the wedding. The ceremony was set to take place on the terrace of the luxurious hotel overlooking the sea, the soft sound of waves lapping against the rocks below barely audible amidst the murmur of excited chatter.

She sat there, a few rows back from the front, Angelo by her side. The venue was beautiful—everything that was supposed to be perfect for a wedding. The guests were in their best attire, the flowers were arranged in pristine perfection, and the atmosphere felt like a dream. But something was off. A low hum of anxiety had been building ever since the music started, and she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Franco was supposed to be standing at the altar now. But he wasn’t.

She stole a glance at Angelo, who was sitting quietly beside her, a reassuring hand on her knee. He could sense her unease.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice almost drowned out by the gentle clinking of glasses and conversations around them.

She nodded, but her eyes drifted nervously toward the aisle. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Something feels wrong.”

The minutes dragged on. The officiant glanced at his watch, confusion spreading across his face as he leaned over to whisper something to the bridesmaids. There was no sign of Franco, and the guests were beginning to exchange worried glances. The tension in the air became palpable, the excitement of the ceremony suddenly replaced by a growing sense of discomfort.

After a few more minutes, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She turned to Angelo, her voice barely above a whisper, but her anxiety was thick in her words. “Do you think he’s going to come?”

Angelo squeezed her hand gently, his gaze soft and understanding. “I don’t know, cariño. Maybe something’s happened. He’s probably just... running late.”

But as they exchanged those quiet words, it became clear that it wasn’t just a delay. The guests were shifting in their seats, some starting to murmur under their breath, the ceremony now holding a sense of surreal anticipation.

And then, just as the whispers reached a crescendo, the sound of footsteps echoed from behind. Everyone turned, their heads swivelling as they saw him—Franco. He was walking down the aisle, his face pale, his expression one of guilt and uncertainty. He wasn’t in a rush, though. It was as if he was taking his time, as though he had already made a decision.

The room fell silent as Franco reached the front. He looked out at the gathering of faces—his family, his friends, all of them waiting for the moment when he would say "I do." But he didn’t speak immediately.

He was struggling with the words, and she could feel the weight of the tension from across the room. Her heart raced, confusion and disbelief washing over her as she watched him take a deep breath, his eyes scanning the crowd before finally locking on the bride’s family sitting in the front row.

“Excuse me,” Franco’s voice broke through the silence, shaky but loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m sorry for the disruption,” he continued, his eyes darting nervously between the bride and the guests. “I... I can’t do this. I can’t marry her.”

The air seemed to stop in that moment. His words hung like an echo, the shock rippling through the crowd. She couldn’t look away, her heart pounding in her chest as Freddie stood there, his face flushed with embarrassment, his hands trembling at his sides.

“I’m sorry, I thought I could,” he went on, his voice quiet but steady, “but I can’t marry her when I love someone else.” His gaze shifted to her, and for a split second, their eyes met. The pain, the regret, the history of everything they had been—it was all there in that single glance. But she didn’t feel anything but exhaustion. It was like watching someone else’s dream unravel.

The guests were murmuring, unsure of how to respond. His bride, stood by the doors he’d just walked in from, ready to walk down the aisle frozen and unmoving. Shelooked like she was about to collapse, her face pale as she took in the words that no one had expected.

“I’m sorry, I just—” Franco continued, his voice breaking, “I can’t do it. I can’t go through with it. I’m sorry. I—I just can’t.”

Without another word, he turned and began to walk away, stepping down from the altar, leaving the bride standing alone, abandoned in front of everyone.

The room was filled with stunned silence.

Angelo reached for her hand, squeezing it gently as the reality of what had just unfolded sank in. She didn’t know how to feel—didn’t know what to think. Her chest ached with a strange mixture of relief and guilt, but most of all, there was a numbness that began to set in.

And then, just as quickly as Franco had walked away, he was gone, disappearing behind the closed doors of the venue, leaving a trail of shock in his wake. The ceremony was over before it had even begun.

She couldn’t help herself.

The guilt she felt in her stomach was strong.

It was her fault.

the end.

an: actual an, im sorry guys! i was feeling sad so i wrote this muahhah

tags: @obxstiles @charlosvibesonly @zestytimbit @taygrls

[ragin-cajun-fangirl]

I didn't like Rose for the longest time. I found her shallow, and basic, and.............I'll admit that I kind of thought she was a slut (which I realized stemmed from a lot of my own repressed issues that I'm currently working on).

I didn't like this giggly, silly girl who seemed to take the Doctor and all his wonders for granted. She seemed fussy, spoiled, and ungrateful.

Her constant flitting around, with the Doctor and Mickey and Jack just..........it felt icky to me, like she was just playing them all.

But I just recently sort of realized something. Rose is a product of her life, just like we all are. And she's so unapologetically confident in it.

I mean, in the show over and over we saw people throughout time thinking she was cheap or crass or too wild. I mean, look at "Tooth and Claw". All those stuffy aristocrats thought she was a heathen, a wild child.

But Rose is just having fun.

She didn't have to be mature. She didn't have to understand what the Doctor was giving her.

He said he'd show her a good time, and she did, and there was nothing wrong at all with her enjoying it to the fullest.

Rose still isn't my favorite. I thought there were other companions with better development, better relationships with the Doctor, etc.

But I don't hate her. I'm not going to hate her for living her best life.

how could anyone hate rose tyler. the woman ran around starting unions, killing FUCKING SATAN, travelling between not only time and space, but dimensions, and becoming LITERAL FUCKING GOD. and she’s a symbol of irrepressible guilt and agony and love and light and resilience and courage. all rose haters can go eat mud

[eldritch-spouse]

Reader who’s in Sybastian’s labyrinth and is tired and horny. They decide if they’re going to go out they are going to at least relive themselves so they hop on a bed and get to it. The bed seems weirdly shaky to them but they just assume it’s that they’re just getting really into it. (Un)fortunately for them the mimiced bed decided it wasn’t going to kill this human I mean if you expose your self to him you have to be their mate!

[Fem reader]

TW: Dubious consent; Mentions of gore; Excessive drool; Squirting.

Sybastian spared you little thought at first.

It only took a few months of participating in Vinnel's game to understand how to profile his catches a lot better. He knows who the clever ones will be, the troublemakers that kick and bite, the overly paranoid, and the ones that are so incredibly stupid he almost feels gross getting rid of them.

You didn't fit into any category, when Sybastian first saw you, his mind lumped you into the "standard" group and he moved on to the assumed challenging targets.

This hunt has singlehandedly made the mimic question his own profiling skills.

First, he mistakes the smartass for someone who actually knows what he's doing, and manages to tear into him in no time. Then, a girl who froze at the sight of him actually managed to make him trip, alerting the whole group.

He's had to try to catch the same people several times just because he's failed so drastically in his attempts to gouge their attitudes, and he's sure the jester is cackling behind his many screens upstairs, relaying Syb's failures to the audience like a verbal paddling.

Naturally at this point, Sybastian was wrong about you too.

Because he sure as shit didn't expect you to be the last one standing.

That's not all though. Not only are you the cream of this crop, your savvy side seemed to completely expire as soon as you realized everyone had perished. It's as if you deflated.

Yet, instead of crouching down in a corner to scream your lungs out, or crawling under somewhere to pretend you can hide forever, or simply start pounding at the doors until your nails chip into pieces...

You pace the bedroom where Sybastian disguises himself as a bed. Back and forth, silent footsteps on a carpeted floor. You were smart to discard your footwear and avoid the wooden floors, Lord knows they're made to creak at the slightest miscalculation.

He couldn't help but wonder what was in his prey's mind.

Now that he can see you a little closer, you're one of those pretty humans. At least, the ones he thinks are prettier. The kind he likes to pet on their hair and run his fingers all over. Pretty thing with pretty meaty thighs and a juicy ass. He didn't quite know if he wanted to bite you or lash his tongue against every crevice of skin he could see. It was good that you were the last one, the others weren't as nice-looking.

What could you possibly be thinking of, in that moment? So concentrated, so serious, he could almost have fooled himself into thinking you were on the cusp of hatching a plan.

He didn't think it'd be this...

He didn't think you'd take off your pants. Could hardly believe his concealed eyes when you laid upon him, giving him a spectacular view of your panty-covered goods before he felt the softness of your skin on him.

He shuddered, but if you noticed, it didn't stop you from getting comfortable, adjusting your underwear and playing with yourself.

Sybastian has been sweating for a while now. He hopes you're dumb enough to think the sudden moisture is sweat from your little session. Truth of the matter is that mimic has never had this happen to him. He's never had someone sit on him while in disguise and start masturbating.

Sure, he's been a bench to a few couples drunkenly making out, but it doesn't last long before he's got at least one of them in his jaws.

Nevertheless, this has proved to be a special kind of arousing to the mimic, who relishes the feedback of your movement and desperately tries to shift the position of his eyes so he can get a better view. He's daring enough to catch a glimpse between the sheets you crumpled, locked into the motion of your fingers as you dip an index and middle digit into a wet cunt and clumsily circle your clit with the remaining hand.

You seem rushed, desperate, trying your damndest to rip an orgasm out of yourself for reasons that he can't understand. None of Santi's fluids were utilized in the making of today's traps, so it's not as if you're in an incubus-induced frenzy. He's perplexed, but far from complaining.

Is it that you want him to find you? What a little freak you are, waiting for the big bad thing that's been picking you all off one by one to show itself...

He wonders what you'd do if he rushed into this room, if he wasn't the very bed you're being depraved on. Would you lift your ass and invite him, beg him to please have mercy? Hoping and praying that maybe the offer of your gorgeous body could keep him subdued, could distract him. Cute as you are, not a bad strategy, he'd say.

Syb makes a rumble of delight when the first sounds start tumbling out your lips. Little stressed mewls and gasps that have him this close to losing his mind. Somewhere in his modified form, the monster's cock swells and his need starts to become unbearable. He was never the master of self-control, these games just drive him that much wilder. Drool seeps to the ground when his long, gross tongue peeks beneath the mattress. Sybastian slowly allows his arms to emerge from under the bed, giving them more and more mass while they reach upwards.

With your eyes closed in focused pleasure, you could never hope to see those claws hovering in the air, inches from making contact. The mimic is swift to lock one of said hands around your throat, keeping you pinned to the faux mattress by the neck. The scream he assumes you were going to belt out becomes no more than a surprised cough.

Naturally, he expects the following tantrum. Flailing like a fish out of water, your shrill noises of confusion and terror only excite him further, though the mimic is patient, allowing you to tire yourself out for the time being, rumbling lowly like an engine on standby. Eventually, much to his liking, your motions slow down, vastly due to the realization that the monstrous hand around your neck is static. You breathe rapidly on him, body still overheated and wet.

Syb's reward is a softer hold of the vital location, his remaining hand shamelessly groping the leg closest to it. He doesn't let you have any time to think or react, because one second he's rubbing your thigh, the next he's cupping your belly and slipping fingers between your soaked cuntlips, grabbing you quite literally by the core.

He's excited and rough, able to hear your prior terrorized noises turn into confusion and discomfort. An improvement, in his opinion. Sybastian brushes your clitoris more accidentally than purposely, and the reflexive squirm of your legs paired with the whimper that you let out is what makes him lose composure.

Your poor body nearly tumbles to the carpet when the very furniture you laid on transforms before your eyes, into a looming, lanky monster with a purple chest for head, rows of misaligned teeth decorating the edges of that maw, gangly arms just as long as his legs protruding from it. He makes sure to not let you fall face first, but that might have been a bad idea, because when your doe eyes lock with his acidic yellow ones, you scream again.

Sybastian only tilts his head. It'd be pretty funny if you started running now. He'd have to go after you with an erection, with isn't very comfortable, but it'd be entertaining.

Instead, you shakily crawl back, hues widening like saucers when he brings his own stained fingers to his giant maw and calmly laps the traces of slick off them.

" What... What the fuck are you? "

If he was any other, more dignified type of monster, Sybastian would have felt offended.

" ... Syb. " He grunts out.

You don't look very satisfied with that answer. Unfortunately, you're neither talking nor moving, and his excitement won't let the mimic prolong this pause.

" Want to play. " He points at you, nodding. " I want too. Come. "

The mimic watches your face grow heated, little eyes darting everywhere but him after they catch sight of the tented loincloth doing absolutely nothing to conceal his arousal. He doesn't care to hide it either. You should look, you'll be getting acquainted soon anyway.

" N- No. No, I wasn't... "

Sybastian snickers, mocking. " Was was... I felt. "

Nervousness makes your throat bob.

" I liked. " He adds. " Naughty. Come. "

Sybastian adds more intensity to his poorly constructed coaxing, something you seem to pick up on. A healthy amount of self-preservation is, presumably, what stops you from flailing again when the mimic traces a claw over your ankle, scooting closer.

Sybastian eyes you like a hawk. There's little question, if you make stupid moves, you'll be punished.

Fortunately, you're smarter than that, allowing him to sit right next to your tense figure. Syb likes to think he's being gentle when he pushes the fabric of your shirt up, reaching your collarbone, inhuman eyes widening as you eventually take it off on your own.

Cooperation, from the humans he snags? Now isn't this novel. His cock all but throbs in response.

He laments to see that piece of chest padding your particular type of human tends to don, and his patience does have limits, because he simply uses a claw to rend the thin middle portion apart and free your chest to him.

You have pretty breasts.

Well, a lot of humans do in Sybastian's opinion, but yours have him salivating harder, those soft points visibly perked by your prior activities. The monster rumbles with giddiness, almost unable to belive a catch as appetizing as you landed in his grasp.

He roughly discards his own scant coverings and wastes no time using long arms to drag you closer, skin on skin contact having the mimic rumbling.

" Beautiful mate...! "

He praises, admiring your reaction when a blue tongue longer than your leg unfurls from his gaping maw. You lot always seem to squirm and gawk, and much to his ceaseless amusement today, he gets to see something more than just awe in your gaze. Curiosity.

There's little to no warning before the very same muscle rudely swipes across your chest, clumsily soaking your tits in warm drool while the monster chuckles at the yelp you let out. He savors them like he doesn't get to do this often, finally rolling that clapper between your breasts and easily allowing it to slink downward, across your softer portions and flicking the end of it around your mound.

" Stretch you nice... "

Sybastian sounds delirious even to himself, angling your legs a little roughly just so he can see what he's doing. Your flushed folds stare at him invitingly, he can only imagine what they'll feel like hugging his cock, but your kind is small and frail, he's learned he has to make you sticky and loose first. Whatever you were expecting when your wide eyes glanced down, it certainly wasn't the speed and dexterity that ravished your pussy.

He's never been one to play footsie, or tease, not when he's the one who's been teased to madness by your dirty little show. Sybastian's laps across your cunt are hard and fast, nearly jostling your lower body with their intensity, the pressure against your clit hardly giving you time to gasp in-between each harsh swipe. Not that it lasts long, he's shoving a drool-soaked tip inside far too quickly, trying to worm as much of himself in as he can before he's forced to give you room to breathe and adjust.

The monster beams down at you, his restless spidery hands stroking your thighs, a twitch of his member at every jolt of your legs when he hits something special. Syb can only hum and moan at the taste of your arousal before he's undulating his tongue forcefully, the grip of your inner walls doing nothing to stop him from making space. He salivates even more, a pool of drool drenching the space between your legs and the floor as Syb instinctively tilts his head, as if it could somehow shove him deeper into your poor vaginal canal.

The monster's eyes squint, studying your reactions when you jerk and cry in sudden pleasure. He doesn't like to gloat, but he thinks he's got the science down to make pretty little things like you explode all over his tongue. And if he's not wrong, you're about to give him just that. Impatient, the mimic paws at you until he can get a better feel of your clit, hoping that rolling the nub between his digits while his tongue presses into every crevice of you does the trick.

In no time at all, your undignified noises of animal delight are chocked by a sudden inhale as you tense and freeze. The contractions of your muscles signal his victory, Sybastian all but rips his tongue away to keep torturing your little pearl while you erupt beautifully for him. He laughs and rumbles pridefully when you try to twist away in overstimulation. It could be shame too, but he hardly cares, there's no need to feel ashamed of something so hot.

A lot of monsters can't squirt like this. You though? He wishes he could spend a whole day making you burst over and over-

Giggling a couple more times, the monster finally allows your twitching form to get some rest, peeling away slowly to bask in the mess he's made of you. He makes no secret of his enjoyment, moaning when the flavor coats every inch of his mouth and dropping a hand to his aching cock. The pumping is furious and fast, but not enough, not compared to what you could be doing for him right now

While you pant and huff, the monster grabs you by the neck, careful -Oh ever careful- not to stick his claws where they're unwanted. Not to twist anything wrong. You're smart, smart enough to know you shouldn't jerk your neck or move much in his hold. He can say he's grateful for that, later.

At the moment, Sybastian pulls you closer, slapping something hot and throbbing against your cheek. The way you try to side-eye his dick from this position is hilarious to him.

" ... Say thanks. "

Said shaft bumps against the side of your face tauntingly a couple more times, until his grip eventually lessens and you're allowed to see what you'll be working with more closely.

There are many things a monster like him can flex over humans, and you've come to see plenty today. His speed, his strength, his durability, his tongue... It should come as no surprise that his size would also feature in that list.

Thankfully for you, Sybastian can muster some modicum of patience for this moment, watching the gears turn in that little head as you try to think of how to best please him. One of your hands grabs him by the root, the other cups his balls, your initial attempt to fit him in your mouth fails. On the second one, you manage to at least get a decent portion in, making the mimic pant at the sight of your plush lips wrapped around him.

Chains clink when the mimic lifts his hands, ready to grab you and start fucking into your hot mouth, though he's beaten to it by your own sudden enthusiasm, putting every ounce of effort into making sure he stays still.

Clever girl, you know he'd just hold you down and make you choke.

Syb supposes he can give you that mercy, you're so responsive after all, he's certain you're the perfect mate for him. The way you slurp and hum around his girth is only compounding on this.

As pretty as you look working at him, the mimic's legs are tense enough to snap and he's leaking precum at an alarming rate, so you're nudged off his flushed cock with hesitation.

For a brief moment, Sybastian considers getting you out of this trap and finishing it all somewhere more comfortable. But then he looks at the clear-ish shine on your lips, the peaks of your tits and those cute eyes so focused on his every reaction... No, he doesn't think he can wait.

" Want you bad-! " He all but whines.

It's all too easy to maneuver you however he likes, ending up in the position worthy of a rutting creature, the monster draping over you on all fours. He's long enough to curve his chest of a head and stare back at you when the tip of his slobbered dick teases your opening, beady pupils full of mischief and lust. Although there's mild worry painted on your expression, you spread your legs the smallest amount.

And that's all he needs.

He thinks, pounding into you, seeing your teary eyes glaze in a trance, your mouth hanging open yet silent, it'll be hard to keep such an appetizing little thing away from the others...

The first thrust is drawn out and intense, the two of you groaning in bursts of sensation. He only stops when he's hilted, grinding a bit to milk the perfect grip of your pussy kissing his cockhead. That's the one respite you're allowed before he starts snapping his hips against yours hard enough to clap, snarling and digging dents into the poor ground.

Better it than you.

But maybe, if he fills you up well enough, if he breeds you so hard that the scent of him never leaves, they'll get the message.

[aychama]

Bearer of the Red Crown's Birthday

"These pompous assholes." Narinder opened the door to escape outside and take a breather.

"They were never taught to shut the hell up were they?" He rubbed his temples and wondered why was their birthday gift to him was a headeache.

The calm but obnoxiously loud people inside the greathall had gathered to congradulate the King's birthday. Of course it was a big event and many of the nobles were attending. Some even travveled from the other kingdoms.

But to Narinder it was just a nuisance, just like how it was every year.

They had gathered to make connections, threaten eachother covertly or simply suck up to Narinder. He had to put up with these people and act like they wouldn't turn on him with the twirl of any one of his siblings finger.

He was just looking for a place to hide now but it seemed his hiding place was occupied by a slouched figure.

"Lambert?" Narinder noticed the figure in the corner next to the flower bushes.

"BAH!" They shout out a short bleat and turned towards him. Their funny noise and freaked out face was like a cold fresh water being splashed on Narinder's hot and aching head.

"My King! Please, you need to stop sneaking up on me..." Lambert sighed and got up.

Were they getting away from people too? That wasn't good. He had specifically told them to use this oppurtunity to make connections so they could have people helping them with their new lands troubles.

Just as he was about to start his lecture he noticed the neatly folded fabric in Lambert's hands.

"Is this..." he saw the little bow it was wrapped with.

A gift.

Lambert looked at the item in their hands, hesitated a little and presented it towards him.

"For you, yes."Narinder's fingers brushed Lambert's as he took it and started examining it. It was a red and white scarf.

"Aym and Baal said that you get cold easily so... I was actually going to knit it myself but it was way harder to do than I thought it would be. Haha..." They let out a defeated sigh hidden with a tired smile.

"I-it's not an expensive item I know but I-"

"It's made out of your wool." Narinder cut them off as he took off the bow and ran his fingers through the fabric. It was so, oh so soft. He didn't even have to bring his nose closer to it to know it smell like them.

"You can tell?" Lambert's face looked horrified, their smile dropping down as they looked up at him.

They suddenly reached out towards the scarf and started to pull it out of Narinder's hands.

"That's just weird isn't it? I-I knew it would be weird argh stupid Berith-"

"Wh- No!"Narinder did not let go of the scarf and it stretched between the two."Lambert no it's not weird." He looked at them hoping he sounded genuine.

"It's no secret that I like wool and this is perfect." Lambert stopped pulling and looked at Narinder, unsure.

He had gotten many presents today. So many that he lost count. So many things that he did not care. Jewelry, expensive items, some magical crystals, decorative weapons. Presents that were given to a King so that they wouldn't lose face or even worse, so that the noble families could look at eachother and say 'Look at how rich I am. The King surely likes me more than all of you so I can use him to scare you and get my way'. It was all so obvious and so shallow that he thought the amount of jewelry and necklaces were going to stuf his throat so much that he could drown without water.

But this,

This was from Lambert.

And it didn't have any underlying intentions.

Narinder slowly pulled the scarf from Lambert's hesitant hands.

"I remember reading a book when I was young."

He wrapped the scarf around his neck.

"It was about the culture of our folk."

He adjusted the scarf and both ends hung over his shoulders lovingly.

"And I remember reading that sheep-folk would give eachother gifts made out of their own wool to show their appreciation for eachother." He adjusted the scarf and looked at them to see the curiosity color their pretty face.

"Really?" Lambert asked and he nodded softly.

Narinder knew that Lambert wasn't taught of their own culture. It was...sad... but not unexpected. There wasn't really any sheep-folk in the 5 kingdoms other than them.

To think Shamura's old books he randomly decided to read would have a lot about sheep-folk in them. Too bad that wretched younger brother of his burnt down Shamura's library just because he was jealous Shamura would read books with Narinder... Narinder wishes that Shamura would have killed Leshy right then and there but they didn't. Soft hearted fool who went easy on all of their siblings but not on their enemies. And that included Narinder too.

Narinder shook his head to get rid of the hatred starting to boil up in his gut and focused on the scarf and Lambert. Their smell and their soft wool was all around him, quickly calming him down as he lowered his head to bury the bottom half of his face into the scarf.

He heard the softest giggle.

"You look silly."

Narinder opened his eyes, he didn't even know when he had closed them, and looked at Lambert.

They were smiling so soft and warmly at him. His throat clogged up again but he wasn't feeling bad this time.

"It's clashing with the rest of the jewelry badly."

He couldn't take his eyes off of Lambert's smile as they talked.

He thanked God that he always had his veil because he didn't think he could explain why he was looking at Lambert's smile like it was the only thing in the world.

"And it looks funny with your fancy clothes. Maybe I should have told Berith to make it look more expensive." Lambert laughed. If he could eat their voice he bet it would taste like fluffy candy, he thought.

The two heard some people talking about where the king has gone from inside and Narinder sighed.

Lambert reached towards Narinder's neck and tugged at the scarf.

"You need to go back in right? You can't just look like this in front of everyone. I'll put it next to the pile of gifts-"

He grabbed their arm and stopped them from taking the scarf.

"No." He said firmly.

"But-"

"Who said I would be going in alone? I remember telling a certain someone that they need to make connections because their poor decisions while ruling their own land had left them in a troubling state." He turned the conversation towards Lambert seemlessly to cover up whatever he was feeling right now.

"A-ah that! I have a little bit of a-no actually a big headache from talking with so many- soooo many people yknow?" Lambert stumbled over their words.

Narinder let the silence fall between them to show them he did not believe them.

"Let's go. I suppose I have to be the one to intruduce you to people." Narinder pulled Lambert by the arm that he had grabbed and walked towards the door.

"I'm- My King! You shouldn''t- you don't need to pull me!"

[alotofpockets]

If the whole world was watching | Ona Batlle x Singer!Reader

Where you aren't out to the world, but a video of you and Ona starts circling social media

Woso masterlist | Words: 1.7k

-----

When you were planning your tour, you had sat down with your girlfriend to make a schedule of important dates for her football wise. While you knew you couldn’t go on tour and be there for all of them, you wanted to make sure you weren’t missing the important things. 

That planning was the reason that you were able to celebrate her birthday with her. Her teammates had planned a surprise party, and you were of course invited. You had been dating a little over a year, and her teammates had become close friends of yours in the duration of those months, so you were extremely happy that you got to be celebrating Ona’s birthday with her and the people she loved.

When you met Ona, you had let her know right away that you weren’t out to the public, that only friends and family were aware of your sexuality. She let you know that she didn’t mind, and that she valued her privacy, so not showing your relationship to the world worked for the both of you.

The celebrations were held in a secluded part of a bar, drinks were handed around, and music played loud. These girls knew how to celebrate big, so it was to no surprise that this was what they had planned.

You were having the time of your life without a care in the world, just enjoying a bit of time off. Them from football, and you from touring. With them around it felt like you were in a safe space, like you were in your own little world. 

While you were talking with Alexia, Ona came walking towards you, and your eyes immediately filled with love. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you wanted to dance.” Her voice and expression are hopeful. You look over to Alexia to see if she minded, “Go. Have fun, love birds.” 

Ona reached out her hand and helped you up, guiding you to the middle of the rented part of the bar where the girls had made some space to dance earlier. She pulled you closer and placed her hands on your hips, swaying to the music together. Your arms snake around her neck, your faces inches away from each other. Occasionally leaning in to say something in the other’s ear. 

You loved being able to be so carefree. Surrounded by people you both loved, without having to think of who was watching. Paparazzi weren't able to enter the bar, so you got to spend an evening without having to keep your eyes out for cameras.  

Well that is what you had thought at least. What you hadn’t realised was that while you had rented a secluded part of the bar, that other people in the bar still were able to look into certain parts of the secluded area.

Waking up to your phone ringing the next morning was definitely not how you had planned to start the day, but when you saw your manager’s name on your screen you sat up to answer. You rubbed your eyes before picking up the phone. “Why are you calling me this early?” Your voice is still groggy from barely being awake yet.

“I take it you haven’t been on your socials then?” You furrow your brow, “No, I was out last night with Ona’s teammates, and I just woke up from your call. Why? What’s going on?” Ona stirred awake next to you. “Sorry baby, go back to sleep.” You say quickly before slipping out of the bed.

“Yeah go on, sorry I didn't want her to wake up.” You let your manager know once you’ve closed your bedroom door behind you. “You’re good. Now what I wanted to talk to you about is a video that is going around on social media. I think it is best if you watch it first, and maybe talk with Ona about it. I will send it to you, and you can call me back later.” 

To say you were confused was an understatement, so you did what she told you. You hung up the phone and waited for her to send the video your way. The thumbnail of the video gave it away instantly, you pressed play anyways.

A grainy but unmistakable video of you and Ona dancing together, arms wrapped around each other, happy faces mere inches apart. It showed you leaning in to say something in her ear and Ona’s face lighting up after you spoke. 

You watched the video with a swirl of emotions. Surprise, nerves, anger, and worry. Both of you had been so careful to keep your relationship private. Knowing how much privacy meant to Ona, you were afraid of how she would feel about this now being on the internet for everyone to see.

The sound of footsteps heading your way pulled you from your thoughts. “What’s going on?” She said, her voice still thick with sleep. Ona sat down beside you on the couch and cuddled up into your side for some warmth. You hesitated for a moment, before you showed her the video.

Her eyes went wide as she watched the moment the two of you thought you had shared in private. You were nervous for her reaction, knowing that this wasn’t what she had wanted when she let you know how important privacy was to her. 

When the video ended Ona let out a small sigh, “Well, I guess that is one way for us to go public.” It didn’t click for you that she wasn’t saying it in a disappointed way, so you opted for apologising. “I’m so sorry, Ona, I did not mean for this to happen.”

Ona quickly sat up and took your hands in hers, “It’s okay, you didn’t do anything wrong. We knew it was bound to happen at some point, and I don’t mind people knowing. People knowing doesn’t mean we have to lose our privacy.” You nodded along, happy to hear that Ona was okay. “But what about you, Amor? How are you feeling about this?” You hadn’t really thought about your feelings on this, instantly focussing on Ona’s feelings and the fact that they invaded your privacy. 

The thought of what it meant for you made you freeze. You always valued privacy as well, and part of not coming out to the public was because you didn’t want people to focus on that, or spread rumours whenever you were even just talking to a girl, which you had seen happen to quite a few of your friends in the industry.

“I don’t know.” You settled is what you settled on with a sigh. “Is it okay if I take some time to decide how I feel about it?” Ona cuddled back into your side. “Yeah, take as much time as you need. Whatever you decide, talking about it or not, I am good with it. We know what’s important, and no matter what, we have each other.”

You texted your manager that you would call her back later, that you needed to wrap your mind around everything and let it settle for a bit. She told you to take your time, just like Ona had done, and to let her know whenever you were ready. 

Since you were both awake way earlier than you were planning to be, you spend the morning cuddling up on the couch. You stayed quiet and seemed to be lost in your thoughts for most of it, and Ona hated that she had to leave for training, but you had told her you would be fine. She had hesitated before closing the door behind her, knowing that maybe some time on your own was what you needed to understand your feelings.

At training Ona had told her teammates about what happened, though a few of them had already seen the videos come by. They listened to all her worries, and tried being there for her as best as they could.

The next few days you had tried to ignore the topic at every given moment, which without your knowledge was making Ona quite anxious. You were continuing your tour again, flying out that morning. 

Before you got on the plane, you called your manager with how you wanted to handle the situation. She loved your idea and gave you the go-ahead, which you knew she would. She had been with you for years, and you had always been on the same line and had become good friends.

Ona’s teammates had noticed that she had been nervous, and that the reason was most likely the videos circling on the internet. So, they had decided to all hang out at Ona’s place the first night you were away again. 

Patri was scrolling on her phone when all of a sudden she gasped. Everyone turned to her with questioning looks on their faces. “So a stream of y/n’s show just showed up on tiktok, and Ona, I think you’d like to see this.” 

She handed her phone over to Ona, who watched the screen in disbelief. There you were on stage singing your heart out in a Barcelona jersey. The streamer stood close enough to the stage to where Ona realised it wasn’t just any bought jersey, it was a match worn one. Which meant that you had taken one from her closet. Her assumption was confirmed when you twirled around and ‘O. Batlle’ was written on the back of the jersey.

She watched with a proud smile. Knowing that without speaking on the videos it was a way of confirming the rumours that it had started, which meant that in a way that was you coming out to the public. Ona couldn’t believe that you had gotten up on stage in her jersey.

It was the talk of the rest of the evening. The mood was a lot lighter knowing that you were okay, and that the videos online wouldn’t get in the way of anything.

The moment you got off stage and had your phone again, you sent Ona a message. You couldn’t stop smiling thinking of what you had just done and couldn’t wait to share it with her.

Y/n: I should've said something before I wore this on stage, but baby, if the whole world was watching I'd still dance with you x

Ona: This was perfect. I'm so proud of you 💙❤️ -----

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[agwitow]

Be careful, they warned. He has swayed many heroes with talks of how you and he aren't that different. The number of fallen heroes would stagger you.

That's what they'd said. And, it was, somewhat, true.

"We don't have to fight," he said, his sunken eyes weary and skeletal hands spread open in a placating gesture. "I understand your anger, your drive."

"How could you understand what I've lost? What I'm fighting for?"

He smiles sadly. "Your family, no? Your children."

"How dare--"

The duke pressed a hand against your shoulder. "Don't listen to him," he said. "He is trying to sway you."

"Of course I am," the lich laughed bitterly. "I wish the previous Dark Lord had tried to sway me, then I wouldn't have turned out like this."

"What?"

The petite priest stepped up to your other side, her robes somehow still pristine. "Only a warrior from another world can slay the Dark Lord. We cannot defeat him without you."

You can feel their expectations like a weight across your shoulders. A weight you did not ask or volunteer for. One you only carried because of the promise to be sent home. But a feeling in your gut, one you'd been trying to ignore for awhile now, whispered that there was more to this whole summoned hero business than they'd told you.

You shrug off the priest and the duke. "What do you mean, Dark Lord?"

His smile softens, a sad relief filling his eyes. "A lifetime ago, I was a summoned hero myself."

"Lies!" the priest shouts. "You were naught but a false hero!"

He shrugged. "Based on the records in the lich's tower, this is a cycle that has been going on for a very, very long time."

Your fists clench. That gut feeling whispering, I knew something was wrong! "Go on," you say.

"I was summoned away from my family. My wife. My newborn son. They gave me weapons and magic and taught me to use both, then set me on the path to slay the Dark Lord."

"Slay him, not replace him," the duke scoffed.

The Dark Lord ignored the comment. "I was promised I could go home if I did. So I fought, and I won. The pain and injuries didn't matter if it meant I could go back. And they promised, soon, just after the victory celebration. Just after we've rewarded you for your efforts. The people want to honour you, so wait just a bit longer. The mages are busy with the kingdom's affairs, they'll be back soon. Excuse after excuse."

You glanced at your companions. The discomfort and guilt on their faces more than enough confirmation of his words.

He shook his head again. "When I'd had enough, I confronted those who had called me friend. They admitted that it was the Dark Lord's power that allowed for bridges between worlds to be established. With him defeated, they had no way to send me home."

"I'm sorry," you said, anger and sympathy raging in your heart. "But if you hadn't become a Dark Lord yourself, I wouldn't have been brought here!"

He nodded, guilt heavy on his face. "I tried to adapt to this world, I genuinely did. But then I started to wonder... if I claimed that power I could send myself home. I would only be the Dark Lord for a short time, there would be no need to defeat me as I would leave as soon as I could. So I returned here. Just as they'd intended all along."

"What?!"

Tears glistened on his withered cheeks. "I gained the power. I opened the gate. I saw my wife and son. He was three, though I'd been here for over ten years by that point. And I couldn't cross."

The duke laughed, though it had a brittle quality to it. "Couldn't give up the power once you had it, huh?"

The Dark Lord glared at him. "No. I physically couldn't cross. They gave you a potion when you first arrived, did they not? They said it was to help your body adjust to the magic of this world. While it does help, its primary purpose is to bind you to this world. And the binding is complete the moment you slay the Dark Lord."

Flashes of moments filled your mind. Memories of the weird looks people gave you, the strange things they'd said, that had been brushed off as being innocent misunderstandings. The suspicions you'd suppressed for so long shook you.

"Did you know, without the power of a Dark Lord, this world begins to wither away," he said, his voice conversational, as if he were commenting about the weather. "It's fascinating how they hate and fear this power, but it is literally what keeps their world alive."

"You're a lich! Why should we believe anything you say?" the priest said, pointing an accusatory finger.

"This power is also something only someone from another world can wield. The only way to stop the cycle is for an other-worlder to slay the Dark Lord and never pick that mantle up themselves."

You swallow, dread settling deep in your bones. "And the other summoned heroes?"

"I sent them home. How could I ask them to give up their family?"

The priest flinched.

"What happens next?" you ask.

"Once I send you home, they will have to regather their resources. It'll be another decade before someone else is summoned. Then, when they reach me, I will tell them this same story."

"And what about you?"

He seemed surprised by your question. "I will continue on, withering away in this cursed half-life."

"And it all ends, so long as I don't become the next Dark Lord?"

"What? You can't do that!" the duke shouted. "Our world will end!"

You level a glare at him. "You have already ended my world, so why should I care about yours?"

He drew his sword. "I can't let you do this!"

His attack was strong and quick, befitting the kingdom's best swordsman. Except they'd spent months filling you with potions and magic as they trained you. You were far stronger than him. Even the priest's attack did little more than stagger you for a moment, their magic splashing against all the protective enchantments layered over you.

You shared a knowing look with the Dark Lord. Neither of you wanted anyone else to be ripped away from their family. You would both miss your respective families until the day you died. There was understanding and acceptance.

"Noooo!" the duke and priest both cried out as your sword pierced the Dark Lord's heart.

A heaviness settled on your bones, and you instinctively knew it was the binding the Dark Lord had mentioned. There was no going back now. You'd made your choice.

"No, no, no," the duke said, his gaze unfocused.

"It's... it'll be okay," the priest muttered, clutching her arms as if she were cold. "No hero has been able to accept life here. It'll be no different this time. Yes, we just have to wait. It'll work out."

Your hand landed on her shoulder and she flinched. "I will never become the next Dark Lord," you promised.

You left the two of them there and set out into the world. You would try to find a corner to start a new life. And, if you couldn't, you would turn your blade on yourself. This cycle would never repeat again.

You've been summoned to another world, "destined" to save it. Except you're a mom/dad who just wants to get home. At the end, the BBEG offers to send you home. No tricks those really are your kids. Now everyone is saying your selfish for wanting to leave. Except you're not selfish. They are.

[papaya-twinks]

love/hate it - l.n 🎈

Warnings: Angst-To-Fluff, Swearing, Crying

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader

It had been a whole year since you and Lando had broken up. It was also the day he turned 26. Why he’d broken up with you on hir birthday, you didn’t know, but why he did so, you were pretty aware of.

Neither of you could pursue your own careers whilst being tied to each other, and long distance would simply fade into the background, more painful than just ending it there and then, so he did what you didn’t have the guts to do.

But oh how you missed him.

All those birthdays he’d spent with you, in your arms, celebrating and partying into the night, or him waking up the next day with you beside him, the heat of your two bodies when you made love early in the morning, or after hours of partying.

You wasn’t even sure why Lando’s mum of all people had decided to message you, that too, so late into the day. You spoke all the time, of course you did, she loved you nearly as much as her own son, and she’d been heartbroken when she knew you and Lando had broken up. 

But to get a message at 11pm on the 12th if November wasn’t on your bingo card. 

Lan’s Mama 🤗❤️: Hi darling, I’m sorry if this is too late for you, but I was wondering if you would be alright coming round to the family home tomorrow? Whenever you’re free, of course x

Y/N: No, no, it’s fine, I’ll be there x 

Interesting. But you complied, the next day, wearing a warm beige sweater with a skirt underneath, your tights showing your skin through them slightly as you rang the doorbell to the house, smiling as you saw his mother.

“Oh darling,” she hugged you, her arms wrapped round your waist as you squeezed her slightly, letting her sway you on the spot as you smiled, “beautiful as ever,” she took your hand in hers, leading you into the house. “You as well,” you smiled, following her inside.

Lando was sitting on the sofa, resting his chin on his hand, staring down at the carpet as you walked in, his gaze never shifting from the specific spot. “Lando,” his mum said, her voice firm and slightly cold as she addressed her own son.

He finally tore his eyes from the floor, almost reluctantly, meeting yours for what felt like hundreds of years more than just that one. You didn’t say anything, your breath shaky as you looked to your boyfriend, your ex-boyfriend, as he walked slowly towards you. You weren’t sure if you loved or hated this.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice half-cracking. You’d never seen Lando cry - would this be the day? “Lando��Lando, what for?” you asked, confused as he wrapped his arms round your waist in the same way he used to do all those times before, your arms snaking so perfectly round his waist.

“I don’t know…everything,” he said, his voice muffled into your neck as you held him, swaying slightly on the spot, “I’ve needed you for so long, I just wanted to know if you’re o-okay and stuff,” Lando mumbled as you raked your nails through his curls, just how he liked it, soothing and calming.

“I can’t go a year without you, Y/N, please, not again,” he said, almost pleading with you, “I’ll make it work, I’ll m-make it work,” he said, his hand fumbling to hold yours, intertwining your fingers with his as you smiled. “Lando, Lando- slow down,” you whispered, pulling him back into a hug.

“We can make this work, okay?” you squeezed his hand together, “I hated being without you too,”. Lando nodded, his face remaining in your neck, just how he always did it, accepting your warmth as much as you did for him. “We’ll make this work, Lando, okay?” you smiled, kissing him again.

[bunjywunjy]

Hello, I have an outdoor cat. That's something I type nervously as people tend to paint such a person as an irredeemable sinner with a special circle of hell waiting for them - I made the mistake of reading the comments. The more people are rude and righteous about it, the more I am inclined to ignore them. However, I saw one of your recent posts about the dangers of letting your cat outside. I was wondering what diseases and parasites are outdoor cats likely to get? You can give them preventative treatment for worms (round and heart), fleas and ticks. You can immunise them against cat flu, feline infectious enteritis and feline leukaemia virus. And you can spay/neuter to avoid kittens. Are there other diseases my cat is likely to get from going outside? I do think it is a very strong argument for not letting your cat out to protect the local wildlife and something I am strongly considering since she caught a bat. I restricted her to not going out from dusk during summer after that. The other arguments don't really feel all that strong to me - there aren't other dangerous predators around (unless you count dogs or foxes and I have only heard of a fox harming a cat once in my life). She is very unlikely to get killed in traffic where we are so that's low risk enough for me to discount it.

well, the big ones are FIV, FTP (distemper), rabies, and any number of cat-specific rhinoviruses. parasites like tapeworms and toxoplasmosis are also a concern, and a major issue is that free roaming cats can easily ingest lethal levels of poisons by doing things like drinking from puddles of antifreeze, or eating rodents that are dying of rat poison.

another real and pressing danger to outdoor cats is. outdoor cats. cats fight each other all the time, and fights can often result in some pretty gnarly injuries. the kind that cost big bucks at the emergency vet to fix, if your cat is lucky enough to make it home afterwards.

also, humans are terrible! strays and free-roaming cats end up picked up for use as bait cats or just harmed for funzies all the time.

and if any of these things happen to your cat, you probably won't ever know for sure. your cat just won't come home one day, which is what happens to the vast majority of outdoor cats eventually. it's often more a question of when than if.

[purinfelix]

beautiful stranger ₊˚⊹♡ - franco colapinto

summary: as your city's turn to host a Formula One race rolls around, you're not surprised when your usual morning commute is disrupted. the arrival of an unexpectedly charming face, however, takes you by surprise w/c: 1.2k

a/n: yes this is inspired by a post i saw saying that franco insists on catching local buses instead of a car when going to the Williams factory - he is just so cute i cannot handle it

Your bus stopped to a screeching halt, almost throwing you with it as you made a last-ditch attempt to hold onto the rail with all your might. Silently, you thanked your many years of committing experience, having lived in a busy city, for saving you from flying into the nearest person.

Your relief was short-lived though as you caught sight of the long line of people waiting to get onto your bus, many of them donning racing-related merch. Letting out a sigh, you tried your best to shuffle out of the way to let them in and maintain your patience as you got shoved every which way.

For the most part, the public transport in your city was manageable - but being home to a Formula racing track made particular times of the year insufferable. It seemed that this time had finally come again, and it was just your luck that the track was on your regular bus route. Maybe this was the reason why you had never cared about the events, only seeing them as pure inconvenience - you probably couldn't name a single driver if you tried. You never had been that big of a sports fan, and motorsports were certainly no exception.

You're once again reminded of this fact as your bus makes a stop outside a train station and yet another hoard of people clamber on. Halfway through groaning in frustration, you lock onto a pair of green eyes, your grip on your bag slacking slightly.

If you hadn't been so taken aback you would've assumed him to be just another crazed fan, especially considering that he's wearing what you assume to be racing merch. Though as he squeezes into the bus, conveniently into the spot right next to you, you notice that the team shirt is all that evidences this. Everything else of his is completely normal, from the cargo pants to the backpack he slips off to place between his legs - well everything aside from the fact that you feel out of breath just looking at him.

You watch him brush his deep brown curls out of his face, sending you a smile - one that's polite, and nothing more than that - but your heart still skips a bit at it. Your eyes dart to the floor between your feet, desperate not to make a fool of yourself in front of this handsome stranger and an entire bus full of people.

Though fate has never been kind to you, taking complete advantage of the fact that you're not paying attention to where the bus is - sending you flying the next time it screeches to a halt. Flying conveniently into him.

"Fu- shit," you gasp, first at the feeling of losing your balance and second at the feeling of his large hands - one around your waist and the other catching your arm.

"Woah," he exclaims. There's a moment of silence, an agonisingly long one, which you take to regain your balance and try your best to comprehend what just happened. If you didn't know any better you might've thought you had bumped your head too hard and woken up in a romcom - and as you turn to look at him, you consider the chances for just a second, because maybe being in a romcom with him wouldn't be so bad.

But the minute you feel the hot flush of your cheeks and your heart leap into your throat, you're reminded of the cruel reality. "I am so sorry," you breath out, hands reaching for the nearest pole which so happens to be the same one he's holding.

"No, it's alright, I've got you," he laughs, and god you're wondering how even his laugh is gorgeous. "Just be careful, it's packed in here."

You laugh nervously in agreeance, "Yeah, I mean no wonder why."

He tilts his head in confusion, and even though it's adorable you're more distracted by his cluelessness.

"The Formula One race? It's today, don't you know?"

"Ah, of course!" it's his turn to let out a nervous chuckle, as your eyes dart between his face and his shirt.

"Are you not a fan?"

"Well not really, I'm-" he begins to talk, but stops himself before he can explain. "It's my sister's shirt, I'm actually on my way to work right now."

"Right," you say, drawing out your response to show you don't entirely believe him, though you're glad the conversation has swung in your favour - and now you're not the only one who seems embarrassed. You decide to take the opportunity to push further. "I'm headed to work as well, how come I've never seen you before?"

"Well normally I catch the later bus, but I thought I'd beat the crowd today." This time his response seems more natural.

"Right, of course," you nod, "What do you do for work?"

"Oh, I'm a driver."

"What, like for Uber?"

"Uh, yeah something like that."

"I see," you reply unconvinced, though before you can ask for more details the two of you are pushed even closer by more people boarding the bus.

"Is it always this busy around races?" He asks, his face mere inches away from yours.

"Oh yeah," you sigh, "it's such a pain."

"I take it you're not a fan?"

"Not really, I don't really get what all the hype is about."

"It's pretty interesting to watch," he says, looking out the window. "At least, that's what my sister's told me!"

You laugh, "you're funny."

He smiles shyly, letting out a soft laugh as well. "I think you should try watching a couple races, who knows it might be your style. Plus, I hear some of the drivers are pretty good looking as well."

You quirk an eyebrow in response, "Really? I don't know if they'd really be my type."

"You never know," he hums to himself. You're just about to throw another snarky response but the bus stopping interrupts you once more. It's the stop right outside the race track, and so immediately the people around you start filing out, chattering so loud you almost don't notice your new companion moving alongside them. You raise your eyebrows in interest, though figure an Uber driver could probably make good money at an event like this. Before he gets too far though, he manages to call out to you again.

"Pay attention to this one driver, Franco, I think you might like him!" He sends you a wide smile and a wave as he steps out and blends into the crowd now flooding through the gates of the track.

What a strange guy, you think to yourself settling down into a free seat, your bus now mostly empty as it drives off. It hadn't been the morning you were expecting, but at least you've got an interesting story to tell your coworkers once you finally got to work. That is, after you look up this 'Franco' guy he told you about.

taglist: (reply/send me an ask if you'd like to be added!)

@spreadyourwings-my-smiling-angel @alelo23 @scill-a @multifan-idk

[osakanone]

I wonder if there's a way to write a story which directly turns and looks at the audience having baited them into this and says "you're the problem" to the people doing this shit?

Mouthwashing tried and it still got ignored by willfully ignorant dipshits.

Its almost like work needs a "I don't understand what's happening" button with extra information to clarify the author's explicit intent.

What sucks is stories work by showing someone a cause and an effect, and making them play the linking middle part out themselves so they are forced to use emotional intuition and inferrence to not just know what's happening but fully comprehend and understand it.

Handholding can damage that process, like scaring away the process in cautious audiences who need the lesson most.

I will say, I learned more about writing through fandom than any writing class or any literature class because I saw other people's responses and felt the dissonance as it happened.

Maybe there's like, a way to do that in a work some how in a way which feels natural and real.

The closest I can think of is Disco Elysium, which uses its mechanics to do this by rewarding players in ways which feel bad and fake, or punishing players in ways which feel authentic.

Its such a huge amount of work, though...

video games/tv shows/media in general will sometimes be really good and depict women with complexity and their own nuance and sometimes maybe even the traumas they face.

only for the fandom surrounding it to completely discard her and her trauma and turn her into either shipping fodder (especially with her abusers) or a tie between pure infantlization or objectification.

and then the worst route of all, demonization cuz she's kinda mean, not mean, KINDA mean.

[socksracoon10]

p2 where the argument turns into a makeout sesh yes or yes?

𝐇𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐮𝐧 (𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐)

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: (𝘠/𝘕) (𝘓/𝘕) 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘰𝘣 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯… 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴? Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr. x F!Reader, Charles Leclerc x F!Reader, Max Verstappen x F!Reader A/N: I AM SO HAPPY SOMEONE ASKED FOR A PART 2 BECAUSE THAT'S ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT SINCE I POSTED THE FIC YESTERDAY... anon thank you I was over here giggling and kicking my feet reading your ask... uh halfway through writing this I realized I got carried away it's MUCH longer than I intended LMFAO Read The First Part: Hit and Run

𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙤𝙨 𝙎𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙯 𝙅𝙧.

"Hey man, next time you race try not to kill the other drivers," (Y/N) (L/N) sunk down into the P3 chair next to Sainz, who had just won the race. He glanced over at her with a scowl, clearly wanting to say some nasty things if it wasn't for the million cameras in the cooldown room. She shifted in her seat, stretching her arms as she watched the race's highlights on the screen besides her. Carlos and her both had a spectacular race, considering they had started from the bottom of the grid more or less. She knew she had the skills to get to the podium, but she was surprised at the fact that Carlos had managed to somehow win the race from nowhere. It didn't seem like his normal self and she wondered what could've motivated him to actually drive good for once.

"Next time you race, try not to be cocky and drag other drivers down," Carlos grumbled, his voice was muffled due to the rag that was currently soaking up all of the sweat on his face. She glared at him, holding an accusatory finger to the air before Max had settled down in the P2 chair. He shook Carlos's hand, before waving at (L/N). The room was silent, spare Max rambling on about what he saw during the race. As Max continued to talk, (L/N)'s eyes flickered occasionally onto Carlos, wondering what was going through his mind. She was definitely in the wrong, but her ego wouldn't handle that and she needed to tear him a new one once they were done with all the celebrations. She always hated this circuit anyway.

"She's not supposed to be here, mate," Charles giggled, jerking his thumb towards the woman that was angrily storming into Ferrari's garage. Carlos looked up from where he sat with a groan escaping his lips.

"She isn't," Carlos stood up, taking the cap off his head to run a hand through his hair, "I suppose you've come to apologize for your behavior this weekend? Or last weekend? Or the many weekends before that?" "Apologize?" (L/N) snorted, rolling her eyes, "I've come to ask about what you said at the press pen!"

Charles, sensing the tension between the two, gently ushered the two into Carlos's driver's room before shutting the door. The last thing Ferrari needed after this lovely weekend was to deal with the drivers having to go through PR training once again, especially with the amount of times Carlos had been talking shit about (Y/N) (L/N). Carlos had stood by the door, arms crossed as he gestured with his hands for her to begin whatever stupid argument she had managed to pull out of her ass this time.

"You remember what you said?" She growled, and when she saw him shake his head, her nostrils flared, "You literally told the press, 'sometimes, I like to put people in the places they belong and that's precisely what I did with (L/N)', are you kidding me?"

"You should be happy," Carlos scoffed, "I could've said way worse. Besides, I was giving you a taste of your own medicine. You said after qualifying yesterday that even with a million practices, I'd still fumble."

"Yeah, because you do! You're inconsistent as hell and that's why-"

"And yet who won the race today starting behind you." Carlos interrupted her. She closed her mouth, chest heaving. Carlos could see the gears turn in her head, she was trying so hard to come up with something. He had a smug smile on his face and somehow this was more victorious than winning the Grand Prix.

"It doesn't matter if you win today or not, you won't be driving for Ferrari soon, anyway," She spat. She smirked at the way his face fell, her arms crossed with her head tilted upwards. That cocky look on her face that always drove him wild.

"You're such an asshole," Carlos seethed, and before she could respond with a snarky remark, his lips crashed onto her. His hands came to hold onto the sides of her face, pulling her as close to him as he could. He pulled away for a brief second to take a quick breath and noticed the way her eyes widened, "Did you just kiss me? Listen here buddy, I'll have you know that-" Her words died down when she noticed Carlos's eyes flicker to her lips. God, her absolute hatred for him made her forget how charming he truly was. She wouldn't admit to it, though. Not now nor ever. Right now, all they needed was to blow off this steam. She grabbed onto his neck, pulling him down to another searing kiss, eyes closed as their teeth crashed into one another. She tugged his hair and he squeezed her waist, both of them realizing that feelings may not exist at the moment, it was all about just shutting each other up.

"I hate you," She murmured before going in for another kiss.

"I hate you more," His lips attached to her neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses that were sure to bruise her.

"Well, I hate you the most, stop trying to be better than me." She snapped in a strained voice and he groaned out loud, pulling back to stare at her,

"How much money do I have to pay for you to shut up?"

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙇𝙚𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙧𝙘

Charles didn't win the next race, unfortunately. He was a bit happy that he didn't DNF, but the fact that the winner of the race was none other than his sworn enemy did little to comfort him. He glanced over to Max who was at P2, and looked around to the room to make sure that rat wasn't lurking nearby.

"W-What was the gap between you and her?" Charles asked. He knew asking would literally do him 0 help, but he couldn't stop himself from wanting to know.

"I want to say around a good 20 seconds or so? Maybe a bit more, I wasn't too sure," Max responded, watching Charles sink deeper in his seat with a look of despair. He gulped, staring aimlessly onto the wall in front of him. How was she that fast? What had she done with the car overnight?

"I'm sorry for (Y/N) for the next few races," He heard her, loud and clear, as she entered the cooldown room, mocking him for what he said last weekend. Charles instantly glared at her, not even bothering to hide his true intentions. No amount of PR training could hide his disgust for her. She settled into her seat, relishing in the feeling of being the race winner.

"You do anything with your car?" Charles grunted, and she shook her head,

"No, no. I just have more skill," She flashed him a smile, before getting up once again to grab a bottle of water. Max, for once in his life, decided to be quiet in the room and see the argument follow through. He'd heard Charles tell him multiple times about how (L/N) got on his nerves, but seeing it in person would be amazing.

"I doubt that. You used to place below me during the races," Charles took a sip of his water.

"What are you insinuating then?" She snarled, and Max glanced over to the camera crew, signaling for them to leave. While this would do numbers for the ratings and news headlines, they were promised some share of money if they got their asses out.

"Um guys, I don't think we should be fighting, we have to cooldown anyway..." Max began, but his words fell onto deaf ears as Charles stood up from his seat to stalk over to where she stood.

"Maybe you'd be more likeable if you were honest with yourself, sometimes cheaters-" Charles began, standing his ground when she yelled back,

"So you think I cheated in this race? Seriously? That's your argument?"

"Well, we do know that last weekend there was water in your tires," Charles snapped,

"That wasn't my fault? Stop being such a sore loser, Leclerc. Maybe this is why you haven't won a championship yet."

Max's jaw dropped as he watched the words fly out of her mouth. Charles, in the meantime, tossed his water bottle to the ground and stepped closer to her with his finger in her face,

"At least I raced clean without losing grip when I tried to overtake someone. You just got lucky today, that's it."

"Luck, really? Yeah, tell me about your luck when you're fighting more with your teammate than with the other drivers on the grid during the race." She hissed.

Was it the air? Was it the fact that the adrenaline was still high after the race, or was it the fact that despite not being able to stand each other they were only centimeters apart. It didn't take long before Charles's hand dug into her scalp, pulling her head back ever so slightly as he kissed her. Seeing this as another challenge, (L/N) brought Charles down to the ground, both of them fighting to be on top while still furiously kissing each other. His hands gripped her waist and she had her arms around his neck, dragging him towards her as they rolled off of each other on the ground, tongues practically in each other's mouths with the intention of wanting to ruin each other. She scratched him, he yanked her hair, she punched his chest and he twisted her arm and yet their lips never stopped wanting to consume the other. It wasn't until (L/N) pulled away to breathe again did they both realize that Max was still there with a very shocked expression.

"I'm... I'm just going to leave and make sure uh no one else enters this room but uh guys you might want to... put yourself together before we get on the podium," Max had one hand covering his eyes as he walked out of the room.

"Do you think he's gonna tell people we just made out?" She asked, propping herself onto her elbows.

"I doubt it," Charles responded with a roll of his eyes, "I mean, who would go and loudly state that Charles Leclerc was kissing you of all people? I wouldn't wish that upon my worst enemy."

He winced when her hand smacked the back of his head.

𝙈𝙖𝙭 𝙑𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙣

Max never forgot. He never forgot anything. He had made a promise to himself that he would wipe that smirk off her face and he intended to keep it. Even with all the setbacks that he was facing this particular weekend. Back to back penalties, a grip drop and on top of all this, a very haughty (Y/N) (L/N) purposely bumping into him on the paddock with a bright smile,

"Have fun! I've always wondered how the view from the back would look like for you," She chirped, speeding past him on a scooter. Max's jaw went taut, and he did little to hide his anger for the rest of the day. He was going to make sure that the race tomorrow would haunt her for the rest of her life. She had chosen the wrong person to mess with and he was determined to prove it to her.

Max was on a different level during the race, he was unbelievably fast and it surprised everyone but mainly (Y/N) (L/N).

Her radio went off, and someone buzzed through, "Max is currently at P6, he's coming up behind you."

"What the hell?" Her voice was a bit quiet, still in disbelief at the fact that Max was now right behind her, "How does he do this?"

And before she can react further, she sees him overtake her as he flashed his middle finger at her before speeding off. That got her going, and despite the radio telling her to calm down and control her motions, she began to chase after Max. Her ego was bruised but surely she could redeem herself. Unfortunately, she lost grip and her car went spiraling out of control towards the barriers.

"A safety car will be deployed soon, Max," GP informed the driver.

"Who crashed?"

"(Y/N) (L/N)."

Max couldn't help the giggle that escaped his lips, and to quote Alonso he merely stated, "Karma..." before turning his radio off for the rest of the race.

By the time all the celebrations were done, Max walked past (L/N)'s garage and he noticed the way she was pouting, legs crossed as she was busy texting somebody. Her fingers flew across the screen, and it almost looked like she was about to cry. Max did feel a bit bad for her, he knew she had worked to get to where she was - she was after all the only female driver on the grid so she was talented. He walked over to her in the best hopes that he could try to make her feel better, I mean he wasn't a monster.

"Oh, look who's here, the ugly ass sloth who can't mind his own business," She sneered, crossing her arms as she looked up at him. Yeah, that was it. Max didn't want to comfort her anymore, he was going to stoop down to her level.

"You know, maybe if you learned to shut your mouth and admit your mistakes, you could've actually done well in the race today." He scoffed, towering over her. She stood up, going back to texting her friend with a scowl on her face.

"Texting your mechanics to help salvage what's left of the car?" Max snorted.

"No, I'm texting my friend about how some douchebag keeps talking to me like I even asked for him. Like why the hell are you even here? Go back to your own garage, asshole." She snapped, pocketing her phone. Max threw his backpack onto the ground besides her and took a step forward,

"You know I was going to be nice to you-"

"You said Karma over the radio, I heard that shit clearly," She hissed, stepping closer as well.

"I said it in the moment, but right now I was going to be nice. I was going to comfort you. You are talented, you're not a shit driver like I said you were, but God... your ego. Your stubbornness. Your... your absolute pathetic move to shift the blame onto someone else for your wrong doings. Get over yourself, you don't know shit about your own car and yet you always blame me for something during the race!"

"My car is completely fine before you wrecked it!"

"Oh, so that DNF last weekend was my fault? You rammed into me! Let's not forget that!" Max yelled, glancing over to the new shiny car that would be in use next weekend.

"Oi, eyes on me," She snapped her fingers in his face, grabbing his jaw to turn it to her, "Don't stare at my winning car."

Max yanked her hand from his jaw, glaring at her. Oh, he hated her. He hated her so much. Even when he wanted to be nice to her, she always found a way to ruin it. How was it possible for a woman as beautiful and genuinely talented as her to somehow always end up as the most annoying, stuck-up little piece of shit that he had ever seen? Within seconds, he had her against her "amazing" car with his lips onto her. She gasped in surprise, eyes darting to the corner of the garage to make sure all the mechanics had left, but considering the way Max was making her melt in his kiss, her worries soon faded away. Max had one hand pressing her down against the car, her back hit the edge of the halo and she groaned in pain, causing her to arch into him as he deepened the kiss. Her hands came to grip onto his shoulders as she bit down on his bottom lip, and she could feel him smiling against her.

"I wish you were like this every weekend," He whispered, delving into another kiss. She wrapped her hand in his hair, tugging him gently away from her,

"I hope you realize this is a one time occurrence. I have standards," She smirked.

"They must be pretty low then like your racing skills," Max snapped, kissing her once more as he felt her smirk fade against his lips. He really did mean it when he said he was going to wipe it off her face, he just never imagined it to be in this way.

"Shut up," She mumbled, "Just shut up."

[leupagus]

On Taash

I think one reason people keep pretending that Taash's character is badly-written is because they remind them of what they were like as a young adult: blunt, convinced that they were always right (and everyone else was stupid), and flailing around for an identity that didn't hurt. That often makes for an unpleasant person to be around, and someone who at times is even unlikable. But we never see the beam in our own eye while discussing the splinter in someone else's, so I think there's a certain degree of "well I certainly wouldn't yell at my mom like that!" (You would, honey. You would.)

IMO, Taash is one of the best-written companions in Veilguard precisely because they are thoughtless and callous and blow up at people for no reason at times. They're trying to figure their shit out! They got voluntold to work with the Veilguard without any warning, under a leader who's a complete stranger and alongside people she's never met and often has fundamental conflicts with. They've got an extraordinarily complicated relationship with their mom, who gave up her entire life and culture and place in the world out of love for them, but who withholds approval in a way that so many of us can relate to. They're confronting the wrongness of their old gender expression (woman), then embracing a new one (nonbinary) almost as soon as they learn about it—which is how a LOT of identity works, remember? Remember learning the term "trans" or "bisexual" or "genderfluid" and thinking oh shit that's me? It's relatable, but it's still uncomfortable as hell. Considering all that Taash has on their plate, including hiding a fundamental aspect of who they are (their dragonbreath), it's a wonder they're as stable as they are.

As for the conversations about their identity that people are claiming are "cringe" or "unrealistic"—my babies, I have listened to more people talk through their gender and sexuality journeys than you've had hot dinners, and let me tell you they often sound a LOT like Taash. That's not a bad thing! But it's like learning a new language—or heck, joining a new fandom—where you use the unfamiliar terms in clumsy ways and want to talk about it all the time, even to people who aren't fluent. (Taash talks about other shit too; yes, a lot of their quests touch on their gender, but a lot of them don't and frankly expecting someone who's only just figured themselves out to not talk about it is...kind of cruel. Of course Taash isn't a real person, but man I hope you people complaining about how often you have to "deal with" Taash's gender conversations don't have any friends who have trusted you with those conversations.)

Taash is extraordinary in so many ways—the way they talk to Spite directly like a kid who needs firm boundaries; the possible romance they have with [spoiler]; the nuanced and emotional way they talk about dragons; the way they care for birds and refugees and anyone else in their orbit, if they're allowed to. They are one of my favorite companions (although right now it's kind of a seven-way race between all of them), and I have snort-laughed at more of their lines than any other companion by a country mile.

It's just a shame that so many people saw a reflection of the more grating parts of their own personality and so decided that Taash is badly-written, instead of considering the possibility that they are simply badly-heard.

[moonstrider9904]

Show Me Those Pretty White Jaws

Crosshair x Female Reader one-shot

Summary: Crosshair is used to getting any woman he wants, but when he can't get together with you, things are bound to get tense.

Word Count: 6.3k

Tags/warnings: SMUT 18+. Minors are not allowed here. Pining, jealousy, foul language, alcohol consumption. Love confessions, soft!Crosshair, flirting, being approached at a bar, playboy falling in love trope. The reader is a woman and described with short hair, but no other details are given except for she is also shorter than Crosshair. PiV sex, a bit of sub!Crosshair.

Playlist: Jaws and Rain by Sleep Token i promise you these songs are so crosshair coded and it hurts

One shot masterlist | Main masterlist | Read on Ao3

Dividers by @stars-n-spice

Sweet and smoky whisky filled his senses as he pulled his glass up to his mouth and tilted it to let the burning liquid warm his throat. Ever watchful, the GAR’s finest sniper examined the surroundings from his post on his usual booth facing the whole bar, his back pressed against the cushion where he sat. There in the noisy 79’s bar, there were dozens of faces similar to his, though none quite like him—a factor that greatly stroked his pride. Along the sea of bar goers, various feminine faces and features glanced and smiled at him, many of whom he had already met and taken back to his place. Crosshair never liked a sure thing, however. He liked the thrill of the chase, the excitement of seeking out and then succeeding.

Brown, piercing eyes finally landed on a figure that hadn’t caught his attention before. Your petite frame was angled away from him as you sat at the bar, and all he saw was the loosely-fitting black sweater draping over delicate curves, and short wavy hair stopping above her shoulders. You appeared to be by yourself, though it wasn’t long before Crosshair saw your frame moving as though you were talking, and the bartender finally made her way to stand in front of you, visibly responding to whatever you’d said. There you exchanged words for a moment, and the bartender was then called away by a soldier in need of a drink, but it didn’t seem the conversation between you two had ended for your body angled itself in the direction of your friend, letting Crosshair see more of your features with clarity.

He stopped sipping his whisky. In a quick glance, Crosshair was able to take it all in—the details of your outfit, the pronunciation of each curve of your body, the way the lights of the bar illuminated your silhouette, the shape of your eyes and your lips. There was something about you that made you stand out from the rest of the crowd, a softness, a delicate quality to you that made him wonder why you were at a bar instead of a cozy book shop. But he wouldn’t continue to question your presence there. The fact that you were was all the more lucky for Crosshair, and he resolved to make you his next unforgettable memory.

Crosshair downed the remainder of his drink with one last, swift gulp and set the glass on his table with a clank. He stood up and began making his way through the crowded dance floor; the sheer amount of people there made him grateful he was in civvies rather than his armor, despite the fact that his full armor always did him more favors when it came to impressing a lady. After a certain number of conquests, Crosshair had noticed the attention from a potential mate always seemed to gravitate towards his shoulders, chest, and waist, with the appendage on his left shoulder pad always earning him curious, beady-eyed questions about what it was like to be a sniper, questions he always replied with a seductive smirk and charming play at how lonely of a position it was, one he’d already memorized and learned it never failed—not only was his armor practical for a sniper, but his role as one captivated.

He wasn’t that far away from the bar now. The closer he got, the better he could make out the details of your smile, and finally he was close enough to hear your laughter above the other noise. Just a couple steps away, fate shone on him in the form of you glancing in his direction, and for a moment, Crosshair stopped. Your hair framed your pretty face better than anyone he’d ever seen, and your eyes were the most genuine specs of light in the entire bar, not unlike stars putting a city skyline to shame. Your eyes fell right on his, and as if Crosshair hadn’t been convinced already, your lips curved into a smile, one that showed him your pretty pearly whites and shone with knowing and confidence and a hint of spunk that beautifully contrasted with your overall tender aura, and enticed him to find out where that softness ended to become pure fire. His own lips flashed his signature seductive smirk at you, and though his eyes followed in that intention, his curiosity bled into his gaze, betraying how much he wanted to succeed in at least being worthy of knowing your name.

Dammit, Crosshair was certain he had to have you.

The intense longing lasted for merely an instant before you turned away from him and gave your attention to your bartender friend again, but Crosshair knew the night had just begun. He reached the bar and positioned himself to your left, not making any contact with you at first. The bartender glanced over at Crosshair, and the latter requested another glass of neat whisky. Before obliging to the request, the bartender quickly eyed you and retreated to get a glass, leaving you seemingly wide open for the sniper to make his move.

Crosshair then turned his back to the bar and glanced to his left side over at you with the look he already knew would work—he was gorgeous, and he knew it. He noticed you smirking as though you were holding in a chuckle, and finally, you met his gaze.

“Never seen you here, beautiful,” Crosshair opened, his voice smooth and deep. “Mind if I buy you your next drink?”

“I’d just finished for the night,” you smirked back.

“Ah, what a pity,” Crosshair answered just as the bartender handed him his glass of whisky. Crosshair took it and sipped it without breaking eye contact with you, and then he set it down again. “I hope you’ll stay with me while I finish mine then. You’d be making my whole night.”

You let out a gentle laugh and glanced momentarily at your friend, the bartender, and the sound of your laughter shook Crosshair’s confidence. He decided to push through it, though.

“Five,” you answered.

“Care to let me in on what that means, sweetheart?” Crosshair leaned in slightly towards you.

“Okay,” you got up from your chair and stood next to him, revealing your height to be much shorter than his, a trait he found endearing. “I’m gonna stop you right there. You’re handsome and everything, but I’ve already heard you using that line five times.”

Crosshair raised a brow at you and, silently, sipped his whisky again. “Is that so?”

“It’s not such a big compliment for your opening line to be ‘never seen you here’ when I’ve actually been here many times,” you smirked at him. “I don’t care how many pet names you add at the end of the sentence.”

Crosshair couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he took another sip from his drink. “I knew there was a fire to you. How about you show me what those pretty jaws can do?”

“I’ll bite,” you answered. “Every time I’ve come to this bar to chat with my good friend here, I see you perform the same exact dance, each time with a different pretty face. I know your type, and I’m not going to be another one of your little trophies.”

“Oh, darlin’,” Crosshair hummed, downing his drink and setting his glass down without asking for a refill—if he played his cards right, he wouldn’t need another one. He leaned down slightly closer to you, looming over you with a seductive glint in his eye. “You know what’s going on here, and I like it when a girl packs a brain.”

“Is that so?” You smirked at him, tilting your head to give your eyes an enticing look.

“Yeah,” Crosshair’s airy voice softened, betraying him once again as it let you know just how much he desired you. “Now, wouldn’t we be perfect together, sweetheart? Just tell me your name.”

Crosshair’s hand slowly, almost doubtfully, made its way up to your chin, his touch soft in a way that would let you swat him away if you wanted to, but finally his fingertips made contact with your skin. As he tilted your face up to him, your endearing smile widened, and your body wiggled so softly he wasn’t sure if you’d done it on purpose or not, but he loved the way you moved. Your smile made it hauntingly clear to him—he was done for. He’d replay that image in his mind for years to come. Then, your eyes met his again, and Crosshair noticed that you were angling yourself closer to him, painfully slowly, and he matched your pace in leaning down closer to you. He was sure he’d won, and any second now he’d feel your lips against his, he’d learn what your name was and pronounce those syllables in his mind repeatedly until he could have you in his arms and his body with yours, and he’d continue to do so since.

Instead, you pressed an index finger to his lips, and your seductive look was replaced by one of knowing, even a little mischief.

“Not gonna happen,” you whispered, and you pressed your hand towards his chest, pushing him away from you enough to walk past him and leave.

An army led by a tactical droid had never caught him as off guard as you just had, and the disappointment was visible in Crosshair’s features. He closed his eyes and furrowed his eyebrows together with evident regret, and a sharp exhale accompanied his strain. All that was left for him to do when his eyes opened was to watch you leave, but you’d bolted so fast that he wouldn’t be able to do that.

“Damn,” a voice filled his ears.

It was your friend, the bartender, staring at him and visibly struggling to contain laughter.

“What?” Crosshair hissed.

“Can tell that one hurt. You’ve been rejected before, mate,” they said. “Never seen you make that face.”

The bartender then poured another glass of Crosshair’s favorite whisky and set it on the bar in front of him. Crosshair couldn’t help but direct a puzzled look at them.

“That one’s on the house,” the bartender stated. “My condolences.”

Crosshair was unamused by the bartender’s banter—the fact that they were your friend gave him the awful premonition that you’d be hearing about this in the future—but he accepted the free whisky and downed it all in one gulp as if it were a shot. He placed the empty glass on the bar and returned to his usual booth, alone, disgusted at his failure and at the fact that he knew he wouldn’t get your gaze out of his mind for the rest of the night.

He wasn’t able to do it for the many nights that followed.

There were some nights he did see you at the bar, and there were nights he didn’t. The nights you weren’t there were worse—though he gave you your space when you were both at the bar, he couldn’t help but find solace in knowing you were there seeing a friend at the bar instead of a lover. When you were nowhere to be found, he found his mind wandering and clinging on to all the possibilities, all the men you could be with, men who hadn’t thrown away their shot with you without even knowing it, without even valuing it.

And he still didn’t even know your name.

You—despite the fact that you had lost track of how long it had been since the cocky gray-haired sniper had made his move on you—would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought of him. You were proud of standing up for yourself and your beliefs, and of not stooping down to a level of one more on the list of meaningless conquests at a bar, but the image of his enticing eyes had made its way into your mind in the course of those weeks. You’d thought back to the whisky on his breath, the way his teeth bared ever so slightly when he smirked, and how his chest felt under your hand when you pushed him out of your way.

It hurt, truly, that he was so careless with his own feelings, and the feelings of whomever he deemed attractive. But a part of you didn’t dare think of what things would be like if he was the relationship kind of man. Maybe you wouldn’t even be his first option in that scenario.

You found yourself at the bar on your usual spot, holding your usual drink in your hand, but its cool temperature had already caused the glass to sweat, and a thin ring of water had already appeared around the base. On any normal night, your drink wouldn’t last that long resting on the bar, and around you, everyone seemed to be getting their orders faster, a testament to your lack of chatter.

Finally, your friend the bartender approached you and crouched slightly to meet your downtrodden gaze. “No refunds for unconsumed drinks, I don’t care how sad you are.”

Your first instinct was to chuckle. “What, sad? Of course not!”

They raised an eyebrow at you and, from under the bar, pulled out a bottle of what seemed like hard liquor. “Maybe a shot of this will get you talking.”

You chuckled again, more genuinely than last time, and your whole body seemed to soften as you finally let your guard down. “No fair, you’re a bartender. Your expertise to read emotions is unmatched.”

“I like what I do,” said the bartender. “You’ve been getting more upset progressively. What happened?”

You looked up at them and sighed, taking a sip from your drink and setting it down again. “I’ve… lately, I’ve felt a bit lonely.”

“Dating scene’s hard, eh?”

“Not just that,” you said, tilting your head in reconsideration. “Actually, yeah, it’s just that. We’re at an age where we can, in theory, choose who we want to be with. But what happens when the person you want to get to know and maybe get intimate with is a total playboy who will most likely not see you the same way? What happens when being with the person you want to be with also means being at your most vulnerable and risking being cast aside by him?”

The bartender set the bottle of liquor down and their eyes widened at you.

“No way,” they said. “The sniper.”

You groaned and shrank in your seat, crossing your arms and leaning forward on the bar. “Yes. The sniper.”

“Baby girl, he is right there,” they said.

“Did you not hear me?” You asked. “I want something real, not a one night stand. I don’t care how—” you began to stammer, “-utterly handsome, gorgeous, and sexy he is.”

“So you stand by your choice to reject him,” the bartender asked.

You sighed and straightened your back as though to gather yourself. “Yes. Yes, I do. I just needed to vent.”

“So…” your friend began again. “Do you… want the sniper? Or do you want a palette cleanser?”

You met your friend’s eyes and hesitated. “I… I want to say… palette cleanser?”

It was obvious that you were doubting, but your friend, being the expert bartender and well experienced in listening to his clients’ problems, only had to look you in the eyes for a moment to know exactly what you needed. They knew every single customer at the 79’s—never mind the fact that most of them were identical—and for a couple moments, the bartender’s gaze drifted past your left shoulder and lingered for a while as though examining, as though they were plotting. You took notice of your friend’s positioning of their gaze, and you looked over your shoulder hoping you would see your next match.

All you saw was the sniper sitting at the farthest booth with a glass of whisky in his hand, all alone. But he wasn’t looking at you. With your heart plummeting in your chest, you turned away and reached for your own drink and took a large gulp from it.

“Wait here,” the bartender said. In the few moments they were gone, you paced yourself with your drink, beating the need to drown your sorrows, and when your trusted bartender finally returned, they did so with an agreeable-looking man, one who wasn’t a clone.

He was tall, had hazel-colored eyes and light brown hair that may have been blond in more natural lighting. He was dressed nicely, appropriate for a bar but not in a way that screamed a need for attention, and the amount of cologne he was wearing was rather attractive, certainly not too much of it. His lips were full and his bright smile crinkled his eyes as he looked at you, giving him a somewhat innocent gleam as he was visibly excited to meet you.

“What’d you say your name was?” The bartender asked him.

“Aiden,” he replied, looking at the bartender, and quickly went to meet your gaze again. “Aiden Maverick, pleased to meet you.”

You giggled softly, slightly surprised at how quickly your friend had gotten you company. Still, despite the speed, Aiden wasn’t a blatantly terrible choice. Actually, Aiden seemed like someone you could talk with, maybe hit it off, see where things went.

“Pleased to meet you too,” you said softly, holding out your hand to shake his. You then introduced yourself to Aiden and pronounced your name for the first time in a long time, perhaps even since you’d first set foot in that bar.

From the booth at the other side of the bar, Crosshair had tried hard not to stare at you. He wasn’t one to linger or to insist, but you’d made his mind your permanent residence. For the past weeks, even when he was on a mission sniping on some foreign cliff, his thoughts would often drift to the nameless girl from the bar, the one who only made him want her more when she was brave enough to tell him off like he deserved. For a moment, he asked himself why he continued to frequent the 79’s bar if all it did was remind him of how he screwed up with you before he could get himself a chance to try. It wasn’t as if he’d gotten a date since you turned him down. He hadn’t wanted to look at anyone else.

Some idiot he figured himself to be. Always confident and arrogant and snarky, with a quick remark ready for any occasion, but the moment one pretty girl turns him down, he shatters. Crosshair took a large gulp from his whisky—you weren’t just some pretty girl. No, he knew it when he first met you. He knew the second your bright eyes stared up at him and your soft, kissable lips smiled at him. He knew right then that he was a goner, that he would never be the same, that no one could compare to you, and nothing could compare to being smiled at by you.

But it was futile to lament. It wasn’t as if you knew, and it wasn’t as if you could. It didn’t matter when it came to you that Crosshair hadn’t gotten involved with anyone since he met you. You were the only person he cared to know that fact, and you didn’t.

For a moment, he dared to look at the bar, and the sight made him want to gag. Some nobody had gotten your attention—perhaps that nobody wasn’t notorious for anything and seemed perfectly rational. You were smiling at whoever that guy was, and Crosshair found himself wishing it was him standing next to you, flirting, charming you. He thought of going up there and putting up a fight, but some corner of him felt like he’d only be getting in your way of being treated nicely the way he couldn’t do the first time. Then, in the middle of his brooding, Crosshair’s watchful gaze picked up on another pair of eyes drilling into him just off the side of you and your acquaintance.

The bartender. Much like Crosshair in a battle, they saw everything. And it hit him. If anyone at the 79’s had taken note of the fact that Crosshair had put aside his old habits, it was the bartender. The bartender who, coincidentally, just so happened to be your friend, and just so happened to be staring intently at him as you hit it off with some other guy at the bar. Crosshair raised a brow at the bartender, asking with his gaze what he was supposed to do. He noticed the bartender directing a quick eye roll at him, and then they walked their way back to you and your new friend and placed one hand on your shoulder, the other one on the new guy’s shoulder.

“Alright, buddy!” The bartender called loud enough for Crosshair to hear. And then, the bartender continued to call out that “he” had their blessing to be with you, and then, the bartender pronounced your name.

Upon hearing what your name was, Crosshair understood. He understood that he couldn’t sit there for another second—to do so would be blatant waste, and if he did it, he would never deserve to be with you. But he downed the rest of his whisky, set the glass down loudly on the table, and stood up with more resolve than he had ever mustered in his life. He made his way across the crowded dance floor, finding it harder to do so than last time—his armor played a certain part in that, but despite the fact that it gave him confidence, the master-of-control sniper felt his chest shake with every step he took closer to you.

At last, he reached the bar and positioned himself beside you, catching Aiden’s attention. When Aiden looked at Crosshair, you realized he was standing beside you, and your eyes widened in surprise. You couldn’t help but feel defensive for a moment—you weren’t sure you’d be as firm to turn Crosshair down a second time.

“You’re gonna have to leave,” Crosshair told Aiden.

“What?” Aiden raised a brow. “Who do you think you are?”

“I haven’t been able to get this woman off my mind for weeks,” Crosshair evaded any temptation to buff up in testosterone and chose the path of brutal honesty. “You’ve known her for five minutes, I’ve needed her since the first time she smiled at me. I have gone back and forth six missions since then, been on the line of fire, and a blast to the heart would be heaven compared to never having another chance to make things right with her. I’m all the more hopeless than I was when I blew my chance, but I’m gonna need you to step aside right now because I need to make this okay.”

You barely knew Crosshair, but you didn’t reckon he was a man of many words. For him to say that much—and speak that beautifully—about you, made every fiber in your body shift towards him. You glanced quickly over at the bartender, and they were already looking at you with knowing eyes, raising their brows and gesturing at Crosshair before going on their way to tend to the rest of the customers. You let out a soft chuckle, flattered at the change in events, and you knew to trust your friend. With apologetic eyes, you looked over at Aiden.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “Could you please give us a moment?”

Aiden appeared disappointed, but he nodded and stood up from the bar, taking the rejection like a pro and even managing a polite smile at you. “Right. Have a nice night.”

You directed a soft smile at him too as he walked away, but then your attention tunneled towards Crosshair, and your big eyes looked at him with hope and a twinge of caution.

“So…” you began, speaking as softly as the volume at the bar allowed. “I’m guessing changes of heart are common in soldiers.”

Crosshair stifled a chuckle. “Being a soldier had nothing to do with it.”

He was hesitant to touch you, and instead, he resorted to letting his gaze gently shower you with his purest intent. “What I said was true. I want to be with you, and I don’t care for anything else. All I could want is to come back alive from every mission to come home to you.”

You scoffed, but ended up smiling at him. “But… look. I’m crazy about you, and I never would have dreamed you’d want something with me. But you’re still you, you still get out and about and get whatever woman you want—”

“That’s over,” Crosshair said. “It has been since we met.”

“I can vouch for that,” the bartender jumped into the conversation. You looked over at them, half indignant, half amused, and your friend dismissed themself with a carefree wave of their hands before continuing their work.

You then looked at Crosshair again, and he looked at you. His entire aura seemed to soften, and he leaned in closer to you, almost shyly.

“You have a beautiful name,” he said.

You smiled, feeling your cheeks getting hot. “Thanks.”

He smiled back at you—he had a truly beautiful smile—and finally, Crosshair leaned in enough to rest his forehead on yours. Down at your side, you felt his fingers beginning to brush yours, and when you let him take your hands fully, you noticed his smile widen.

“So,” you said sweetly, “do you want to get out of here?”

His eyes met yours as your foreheads continued to rest on one another. “Yes. Do you want to?”

Your smile widened too and you gave a soft nod. “Yes.”

Crosshair gave a smooth chuckle, regaining some of his usual charm and confidence. “So, this is gonna happen after all?”

You giggled in response. “You’re pushing your chances, but yes.”

The laughter between you quieted down, and for a moment, your lips hovered over each other, flirting with the possibility of sealing the space and sinking into the first kiss. The tension in those millimeters left between your lips and his was electrifying, utterly delicious, and you wanted to savor it. You wanted that drumroll to lead to the best possible first kiss, and with your gaze suddenly full of mischief and excitement, you stood up from your chair and began leading Crosshair outside. He followed gladly, but not without leaving a generous tip for your friend, the bartender.

Outside, you were met with cool air and drops of rain falling from a cloudy, gray-blue twilight sky. The towering Coruscant skyline simply hit differently in the rainfall, and the countless lights that twinkled around you were reflected in the puddles on the pavement. You had no idea where you were headed, and you had the feeling Crosshair didn’t know either, but for that space, all that sufficed was to position yourselves under a lamp post. With Crosshair leading the way, he stopped next to it and turned around to face you as you caught up with him, never letting go of his hand, and that was when the rain began to fall harder. Anyone else who wasn’t covered from the shower would hurry out of the mist, but you felt it then without a doubt—the moment had come.

You smiled up at Crosshair and felt your spine erupt in sparks when he directed a smirk at you, one that was suggestive but didn’t lack an evident tenderness to it, a joy fueled by your presence and your hand in his. Towering, his armored, handsome figure inched closer to you, and his free hand secured your waist. Crosshair pulled you closer, you angled your face up as a sweet beckoning for his lips, and in those final beautiful seconds, Crosshair leaned down and took your lips in his, unleashing every bit of that delicious tension that had formed between you two. Every one of your feelings for him escalated, and you took a leap to wrap your legs around his waist, feeling him secure your rear end with strong hands. A playful moan escaped you, and you went on kissing him under that lamp post, mindless to the fact that you were soaking in the rain, for each second was worth the cold surface of your clothes in exchange for that heat building between your body and his.

In a matter of a blur, you and Crosshair left the spot under the lamp post that would forever belong to you two. The whole way back to your place, you could hardly keep your hands off of him, and when you managed to make sense of reality again, you found yourself in your living room clinging to his body once again, smirking into playful kisses as you both stumbled to your sofa. You rested on the couch cushions, wet clothes be damned, and enjoyed the sight of Crosshair looming over you with his figure still broad and armored. You let your hands roam freely over his silhouette, feeling damp plastoid on your fingertips wherever you touched, ranging from his back to his chest, his shoulders, even his expert hands. When Crosshair slipped his tongue into your mouth, you both moaned at the sweet sensations caused by the friction, and the taste of whisky prompted a wiggle of your hips that sent him reeling.

You felt your deepest corners beginning to ignite, and you let go of Crosshair’s body to bring your hands to your wet clothes, slowly beginning to remove your sweater followed by the blouse that clung to your body. When Crosshair noticed, you perceived the darkening of his gaze, and he aided you in removing damp garments. Your skin was left exposed, feeling cool as it came in contact with the air around you, and swiftly, Crosshair reached for a blanket you had folded on the armrest of the couch to cover you from the cold.

He resumed kissing you, and you decided it was his turn to lose the armor. You helped him remove the shoulder pad with the appendage, and the one without; his belt came off and then his chest plate, followed by one set of arm pads and then the other. By the time you were growing impatient, Crosshair was left in the black, thin suit that concealed his skin from you, and feeling the freedom from his armor, he pressed himself firmly to your body, letting you feel the hardening bulge between his legs. You invited him into the cocoon of your blanket, letting warmth engulf you both as your kisses wore on, and you felt his gloved hands taking their liberty with your curves.

Soon, you pressed yourself up to him and you were both sitting on the couch, breaking the kiss for a split second, only enough for you to pull the skin-tight black shirt over his body. You hesitated before kissing him again, prompted to take in all his beauty and memorize it, and when you kissed Crosshair again, your hands brushed from his lower abdomen and all the way up to his chest and collarbones; you could feel shivers forming on his skin as your hands trailed over him, and Crosshair let a deep moan bleed into the kiss, entranced by your touch.

You felt him standing up and bringing you along with him. He made sure you were still covered by the blanket as he carried you, and you broke the kiss, panting for breath with an enticing grin, biting your lower lip as you pointed your nose in the direction of the bedroom. Crosshair stood on the spot for a moment to kiss your lips one more hungry time, and then with almost impossible tenderness, he carried you to your room and set you on the bed, where you kneeled on the mattress facing away from him. As soon as Crosshair got on his knees on the mattress, with your back pressed to his chest, he kissed your neck and whatever he could of your collar until you turned your face to capture his lips once more. The blanket that covered your naked body fell down to your sides, and with your skin exposed again, Crosshair didn’t hold back before letting his hands feel your waist and travel up your breasts.

You ached in those moments of foreplay, longing for more, letting that hunger manifest in your kisses quickening and your breath straining. With a smirk into your lips, Crosshair obliged your silent request, and one of his hands went to your knee and snaked up your inner thigh, pausing for just enough to make you whimper in anticipation. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and you let out a wanton moan when you finally felt his fingers brushing over your clit in expert motions, not wasting another moment. Pleasure instantly flooded you, awaking every one of your nerves, and your body sank back into his as you moaned at the sweet electricity coursing through you. You could feel it building and bubbling more with each second that passed, enjoying every instant of it until you knew release was imminent. Your gaze found his, knowing you wanted to be looking into those beautiful amber eyes when it happened, and when it finally did, your whole body curved in its inability to keep upright at such intense pleasure expanding to your every corner. Crosshair moaned in unison with you as though to cheer you forward, enjoying every bit of your reaction, swelling in pride at how good he could make you feel. He didn’t let himself stop his expert work on your clit, he wanted you to feel every ounce of pleasure you could possibly feel, and when the time was right, he let you go for a breather.

He’d expected to remain on top, but Crosshair was met with you grasping his shoulders and leading him to lie down on the bed. You climbed on top and straddled his waist, eyeing the lines of his muscles standing out in the dim lighting of the room. You leaned forward enough to set your hands at the base of his hips where the fabric of his pants began and, pressing gently, you ran your hands up his abdomen, feeling the rise and fall of his muscles as his breath quickened in arousal. When your hands reached his chest, you felt the bulge in his pants hardening more, pulsating against your crotch, and Crosshair threw his head back on the pillow in a futile attempt to suppress a moan of sheer excitation before he looked up at you again with hungry eyes, his lips mouthing the word Please barely under his breath.

You leaned forward and kissed him again, moaning in tandem with him. Your hands reached down to the fabric that continued to cover the lower half of his body, and you undid the buttons at the top to pull it down enough to free his erection, and you heard Crosshair moan softly at the sensation. Barely giving him time to dimension, your hand grasped his girth and began pumping slowly, and you grinned with satisfaction into the kiss at the sound of Crosshair moaning louder at your touch.

“Yes,” he hissed, moaning into your kisses once more as you continued massaging his length. He continued to mumble things into your lips, only letting you make out faint details of “Touch me” until the final request was, like music to your ears, “Fuck me.”

You obliged, lifting yourself only to sink on his entire length, hissing at the sharp pain that quickly turned to pleasure when he stretched you out. You kept your lips close to his, and with his help, you bucked your hips up and down, rising and falling on his cock at a luscious pace. The heat emanating from your bodies continued to build between you, until you’d reached the quickest pace you could in that position. The sight of you on top of him was enough to entrance Crosshair, but he still ached for more. He wouldn’t have enough until you were writhing in his grip, and in a swift movement, he rolled over on top of you. In full control, Crosshair bucked faster into your hips, enticed by how deep and warm and wet you were. Every moan you let escape dragged him deeper into the state of ecstasy he found himself in, and he knew he’d never escape.

But he didn’t want to escape it. He’d pined for you long enough, and there you were, entwined in your lovemaking.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, letting him pound deeper into you until you once again exploded into raw pleasure. Your fingers clasped the silver hair on the back of his neck, and you let yourself moan his name out as you pronounced yourself his. After a few more movements, Crosshair was coming undone inside you, savoring every wave of intensity as the ropes of white flooded you inside, releasing airy moans as his body slowly allowed itself to calm down and he collapsed beside you.

Your visions blurred for the moments to come, and all either of you needed to know was that the other lay there beside you. You gathered yourself and rolled over onto one side facing Crosshair, and you let your hand slide gently up his torso one more time. You lay your head on his shoulder and rested your full weight on him, holding him close to you, and then you felt his arm draping around you as he let out a gentle, fulfilled sigh.

“We’ve got to do that again,” Crosshair panted.

“Yeah,” you said dreamily, and then you giggled. “You didn’t plan on sleeping tonight, right?”

Crosshair’s signature seductive chuckle rumbled low in his chest and he rolled over on top of you once more, seemingly ready to continue. “Not a chance.”

If you like, please reblog too. Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed.

Back to masterlist

[syzygyooo]

in op’s defense, I’ve remember a time i started reading a fic and kudos’d it first chapter because i thought it was really really good… and then the next chapter had things that had previously been untagged.

I’m some nobody so who cares but also. it was a small community. I didn’t want them to think i was down w that. Once i saw a popular author in the kudos list of that same fic, i wondered if the same happened to them or not.

The point is that it’s always a way to recognize an author’s work but other people could take it as endorsement in certain situations. And yes while you could just wait until all chapters all out, if you can take a back a like on a post why can’t you have the ability to take back a kudos? Plus imagine if you had to wait til u wrote out ur entire fic and published it before receiving kudos. Anyway. i get u op.

Petition to get AO3 to make kudos undoable.

Sometimes writers make surprise hard turns into unpleasant territory and I don't want my name on there as an endorsement anymore.

[vampiresbloodx]

Enemy. chapter one.

pairings: Jinx x reader, vi x caitlyn, various characters.

synopsis: when you, a tired full time bartender who gets paid shit and lives in a small one bedroom apartment gets sucked into the world and battles that are happening around you all at once, you just wish you could remain blissfully unaware, you'd prefer not to know others business, as it's never good, then you meet a girl named jinx, and you grow more and more attached, which has always been an issue for you, to make things worse, you not only have to make sure neither of your friends kill each other while being stuck in the middle.

word count: 907.

warnings: fluff angst suggestive themes, adult jinx still canon season 2 but not really I fear idk her confirmed age so just putting it out there, canon typical violence, found family, PTSD, pain, alcohol, reader is a bartender, mutual pinning, hurt/comfort, arcane season 2 spoilers!!!!.

Jinx. 

The name you are starting to hear a lot as of late, you’ve always heard whispers of her, some call her silco’s daughter, you could honestly almost believe the story yourself when you look at them standing by each other. 

But you know the truth more than others know. 

You weren’t even sure of your own part in the story here, in everyone else’s lives, Jinx stuck around you because she wanted to, and she claimed to like you, a lot, so much so that you ended up one day coming home and finding her laying on your bed, like it was nothing, knowing you did not mention where you stayed at all to really anyone. 

“Is this your place? Cool.” 

Jinx murmured, unbothered as there was a curious look in her eyes as she looked everywhere, going through your stuff without asking for permission, as you rolled your eyes in annoyance at her. 

“Do you have to be any more of a creep?” you asked, slightly disappointed but not surprised by this. 

It's not like the two of you sit down and discuss your feelings to each other, how the other makes the other feel, what you really mean to another, nope, none of that. Anytime you even ask Jinx about anything she gets pissed and walks off in a huff, having an attitude towards you, blaming you all of a sudden, you see how her cheeks get red as she stutters her words more than usual, its cute, but you just wish you two would fucking talk. 

“Yup.” 

You watch as Jinx goes through your clothes, pulls out some underwear and your sports bras, holding them up as she winks at you, you stare back dumbfounded. 

“fucking put that back-” 

Then it became more frequent visits to your apartment, well the one shitty bedroom apartment you could afford in this hole, for a while, you worked as a bartender, still do, you were good at your job, making customers happy as you made their drinks and put a smile on their face, you met so many people, that’s how you’d regularly see Jinx. 

She’d come to your bar just to talk shit and complain about everything and everyone, but you always ended up enjoying her presence the more she came, she didn’t even ask when you will be off or when your shift started, she didn’t care about those details, because she knew that already, you called her a stalker and she laughed loudly like it was the funniest thing she’s ever heard. 

Some days, Jinx bothered you more than anyone else could, you were so used to the solitied life that now you were longing for the connection of others. You hated it. The feeling that ate away at you, eating at your soul, your body, your flesh, your mind, heavily. And the one face you always saw that was a constant was her. 

And so, you grew attached. 

Unwillingly so.

She knew that, which is why she stayed around on purpose, because she knew how lonely you were deep down, you’d never admit it, but you like having her around, hearing her stupid jokes and her loud ass laughter, her non stop talking and rambling, it made everything less quiet, and it took your mind of a lot of things. That was kind of nice. 

You wondered if you were that to her as well. In a way. You weren’t sure. 

If you could grab her face by your hands and scream everything you wanted to say and more to her, you would. You just didn’t want to lose her. She could easily walk away and leave you behind, you couldn’t handle that. 

For a while, Jinx would randomly leave without a word for a couple of days, weeks even, you got sick of waiting for her, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, wanting to hear her voice again, it never came, until you woke up one night at three am, trying to get a decent sleep in when you felt warmth next to you and arms wrapping around your body, you freaked, almost stabbing the girl with the knife you always hide underneath your pillow for safety reasons, she chuckled, “my girl, so feisty, just the way I like them” she murmured. You stared confused at her, this isn’t the first time she’s invited herself over for the night, but something about tonight felt different, instead of wanting to cuss her out, you watched her fall asleep, she looked so at peace, it was strange. 

The next day you woke up to her trying to cook you breakfast as you threw your pillows at her, still annoyed as she acted like nothing happened, laughing. 

Then she found out you were friends with a certain pink haired girl and her blue haired lover. 

What a small world it is. 

It was hard though, and still you were going to do it regardless, you didn’t care what happened to yourself, you care too much, too little, it was all consuming, overwhelming you, that Jinx hopes even she doesn’t break you. 

Before you even do that to yourself. how much of a mess you were in between choosing your friends, being on their side or Jinx’s side, watching them chase after each other like crazy, as there was you, in the middle, making sure neither of them get too close for your liking. 

[pennyserenade]

common people | jim o'mahony (the delinquent season) x reader

summary | old enough to know better, but too exhausted by life to really think about it, you have an affair with a man you met on the bus. rating | (explicit) tags/warnings | explicit smut, questionable morals, age gap (reader is in her mid to late 20s, jim is in his early 40s), pinv, angst, infidelity, unprotected sex word count | 3.6k+ a/n | this is sadder than i intended it to be, and perhaps less sexy because of it because at the end of the day i fear i'm a thought daughter more than a thot daughter. one day we'll find the balance, girls. just not today. love ya

The line that drew you here – sitting on the bed in your shoddy three bedroom flat with your mouth wrapped around Jim’s fingers – is by no means a straight and narrow one.

It had begun with a glance. You had done it because you wanted to feel seen. Jim had sat on the opposite side of the bus, wearing a puffy winter jacket, his black hair peppered compelling with visible grays, and his face had been indifferent as he watched out the window of the bus. With his arms crossed over his chest and his lips pressed into a pout, he struck you as an interesting subject. You had allowed your eyes to roam over the sharp sculpt of his jaw, and to inspect the enticing dust of freckles along the bridge of his nose, which danced out to the hollow of his cheeks. Then you caught his eyes as he turned his head in your direction. The sweet thrill of being noticed itched up your spine, just the way you were used to it doing.

Jim hadn’t let his face of plain indifference shatter in the wake of being watched, but you knew that he was watching you too, and that was enough. That wasn’t to say he was special. There’d been other people - other men - whom you had engaged in this game of sorts with before. Before Jim, it really meant nothing. You did it with people you didn’t even find all that attractive, just to know you could. There was the power in the act of maintaining eye contact with these people, and you liked the ambiguity that resided in the length of your stares–what it could suggest, or what it could lead to, even though it never had. The only thing that separated Jim from all of them was that he looked back for longer, and in his eyes you saw something more potent.

Sometimes you wonder, the way you, as the other woman, are apt to do, about the way he is different for his wife. Does he gather her in his lap? Does she put her mouth around his fingers and does he hum in delight for her, too? Or is this yours, just as that first shared glance was on the bus?

His fingers sit heavy on your tongue now. They taste of nothing. You arch into his body and his lips form into a smirk that makes you bloom inside with an insidious warmth. This man is someone’s husband, and he is spending a Tuesday afternoon in your bedroom. He is the creature of adulthood that lurks in your barely post-graduation adobe, a shape of security who sometimes brings your flatmates bottles of inexpensive ale and dinner to keep them amiable when his wedding band gleams in their direction. To make matters worse, he is older than you – so much so that you wouldn’t like to tell your mother about it, even if he wasn’t married.

Drawing his wet fingers out of your mouth, Jim trails them down your body, bunching up the fabric of your sleep shorts between his fists like a greedy child. You reach between your bodies and pull the leather out of his belt buckle. The clack of it resounding through your stuffy room makes you feel obscene and naughty. He marvels at the way you take initiative, his blue eyes following the diligent movements of your fingers as they work the belt through the hoops in his pants.

He leans back on the bed for you, and with a soft sigh, he accepts the cold tips of your fingers dancing across the skin of his lower stomach. You linger there, tickling over the hair below his belly button, relishing in the warmth his body has trapped beneath his jumper.

Before you pull the sweater up any higher, he takes your eager hands in his palms. “I didn’t even ask you how your day was yet, you know?” he says, voice airy—too light for how earnest you feel about fucking him.

A coil of frustration winds up inside of you. It must be treason, these small intimacies of his. Not only is he a husband but a father, too: an island of his own; a man with a country to abandon, to betray.

You offer him a placid smile. “It was slow. I was waiting for you.” Your fingers escape his grasp and he winces when they race out to his warm skin again.

“Mine was fine too, thanks,” he laughs, his own fingers gripping onto your hips. You ignore him, in no mood for conversation.

Jim allows you to draw his shirt above his arms. He pulls you closer against him after you do, your body flat against his exposed chest. You can smell the tea you made him on his breath, and feel the lustful fascination he has with you poking against your hip. He may be the most interesting thing that has ever happened to you, and you might be his.

You snake your hand down the front of his jeans, measuring the width of his want, the strength of your appeal. “Fuck,” he hums against your mouth. The deep timbre of his voice runs through you, causing slick to gather between your legs.

Jim opens his mouth for you, licking his tongue against yours as his fingers slide down the slope of your stomach to your clothed cunt. When you draw out a surprised breath, Jim inhales, taking your air before pressing his lips harshly upon yours. One hand curls round the back of your neck, holding you there. There’s a primal aspect to this, some need that existed before the both of you being manifested. His other hand cups your cunt, and he watches with invested interest as you grind down into his palm, desperate for release of any kind.

After a few moments of you grinding above him, Jim retracts his hand from you. Smiling, he takes off your shirt as you undo your bra. It’s a dance you’ve practiced so many times together, and it happens without falter or failure this time. You fist a handful of his salt and pepper hair as his warm tongue traces circles around your freshly exposed nipple.

Moaning softly, you rut against his crotch, trying to relieve the ache that grows between your legs as the warmth of his mouth wets your pert nipple. His tongue begins to trail up, wetting the skin of your chest, and he guides you back on to the bed. Nibbing softly at the skin below your ear, Jim’s hands slip off your shorts. You help, raising up your hips.

He smiles down at you, a soft, gentle thing, and you feel like a co-conspirator–a shameful title, but oddly thrilling all the same.

“Oh, Jim,” you say softly, before he has even touched you. Caging your lip between your teeth, you watch him as he stands on his knees before you, making room between your legs. Your head feels full. He doesn’t even bother with taking off his slacks. With the tip of his cock leaking already, he strokes himself, showing you, allowing you to see what you wanted to all those months ago on that bus: how much he wants you, how much you can be wanted. It is an accident– an incredible error–that you throb at him looking at you lovingly as much as wantonly these days.

You’ve read the reddit forums: women, like you, who know better and do wrong anyway. You’ve read entire threads about the reasons why they do it, and how they cope with it, and most of all, you search out the women who have seen themselves all the way through it. It scares you to think of all the paths this could lead to, when it wasn’t ever meant to lead to anywhere. Will you be the jilted lover in the end? One of the women who talk about how liberating it is to be free from something so private and soul crushing? Or will you end up concocting a story with him like the women who marry their men do? The ones who say they met on vacations or in bars months after the divorces have been filed so as not to be treated cruelly by the public? And could you live being either of those things?

“Missed you so goddamn much,” Jim whispers against your mouth, bracketing your head between his hands. You take his bottom lip between your teeth, kissing him hard, pulling him more closely to your body, as if your desire will eradicate that you want more than just lust from him these days.

He lines himself up to your entrance, his intense eyes watching your face twist up as he inches inside of you slowly. Jim is thick, and a little bigger than the other men you’ve been with in the past. It takes a moment for you to adjust around him, but he gives you it, kissing you tenderly until he‘s bottomed out inside of you. “Gotta be quiet,” he whispers against your lips. He swallows harshly then, as if having to digest his own sounds.

You feel the ghost of his breath against your chest when he hangs it down, watching the way you connect together. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you allow him to go deeper, pleading with him inaudibly to stay inside for longer. His hand pushes strands of your hair away from your face. Sweat begins to gather between your bodies, and he moves inside of you with the care of someone who is used to being discreet.

When the bed begins to creak beneath the sway of his hips, something primal unfurls inside of you. It is evidence that this is real. Evidence he allows - that he encourages - his needy fingers moving down, griping the flesh of your thigh as his cock slides back inside of you with ease. He grunts against your shoulder. “Fuck. Fuck, you’re so wet, darling,” he says. “Wanted me badly?”

You nod, turning to your head to capture his lips. You slide your hand underneath the waistband of his slacks, gripping onto his ass, guiding the movements of his hips as they press into your own. You feel an overwhelming desire for him, a thing bigger than you would like. It is warm, and blinding, and makes you stupid. “Wish you could be inside of me all day,” you say, meaning it.

“Fuck,” he whines. “I want—I want that, too. You’re taking me so good.”

You can feel the increasing ease with which he settles deeper and deeper into your body. “You make me feel so good,” you tell him. Your voice feels like it’s coming from some place deep inside of you, another version, who wants everything and can say it.

“Do I?” he manages to say, eyebrows threading together. He’s not really paying attention to what’s coming out of his mouth no more than you are. His eyes drop, looking at you beneath him, and then his head does too. His mouth wraps around your pebbled nipple, tongue swiping against your chest. He hums: the same satisfied song he sang you when you put your mouth around his fingers.

“Do you fuck her like this?” something inside of you speaks, hungry, desperate, needy. “Your wife?”

Too turned on to stop, or perhaps prepared for this inevitable question of yours, Jim gives an abashed, crooked smile, but does not stop.

“I fuck you like this,” he whispers, his voice low and sultry. It is such a non-answer, clever and just right. His hand comes up and gropes at your breast.

For a moment you imagine it, let the whole idea take place. Some woman you do not know, a faceless but important woman, older and wiser. She wears a wedding band on her left ring finger, and is elegant and caring. He has told you that she likes to go to the theater, and that she is a good mother. She is not the type to cheat. In fact, she is hardly the type to have a husband that cheats, either, but then life can be impossibly cruel, and not what you imagined it might be. Jim pulses inside of her, telling her he loves her, meaning it, probably. When she says she loves his cock inside of her, it doesn’t sound needy or submissive but erotic, demanding, and he asks her for another child, maybe. The things you do to save a marriage.

A man can only have so much, and you’ve never been particularly demanding. You won’t win this. Even here, under him: you want to give him everything, to allow him to tell you what to be and when to be it. His hand curls around your mouth, his head burying in the hollow of your neck. There is the warmth of his tongue against your flushed skin, and the idea that he could leave whatever marks he might like on you, despite the fact that you can’t do the same to him. You’d let him, happily. This he knows.

He does not tell you that he loves you, but instead mutters, “I want to make you feel good.”

In some ways, you have more than his wife does. Maybe what he’s given you has more weight, more truth; maybe it will last indefinitely longer than marriage vows that have been said and broken. You grip onto one of his arms as he pushes inside of you. You tell him, “You are.”

His skin has grown damp and warm beneath your fingers. You run your hands down his back, becoming intimate with the muscle and sinew of his frame as it writhes above yours. He grunts as the movement of his hips become more frantic—shorter and steadier thrusts, the creak of the bed too loud as he settles himself deeply inside of you.

It doesn’t make you feel embarrassed. It doesn’t even make you ashamed. An overwhelming flame of desire engulfs your soul, and all you can focus on is the way he feels: hot, warm, the full length of him stretching you and yet still looking to go deeper and deeper still. His mouth finds your shoulder, and you listen as he pants against the flesh there, stalling an inevitable end. He slows down, and you relish the slow push and pull he does with his hips. You’re sure you’ve never been so wet in your life, and he seems to agree, moaning at the sound of your cunt taking him.

“I want to ride you,” you puff out, brushing your lips against his ear. He nods eagerly in agreement, and you assist in pulling down his slacks until they’re hanging around his ankles.

Deftly, he kicks them off into a dark corner of your room, and then looks up at you, light eyes clouded with lust. “I love when you tell me things like that,” he tells you softly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His hand finds your breast, his mouth sliding across the column of your throat. “You’re so fucking hot. You gonna cum on my cock?”

He twitches inside you and you kiss him hard on the mouth. “Yes,” you whisper back.

Jim pulls out of you slowly. He sits in the spot next to you on the bed, lifting himself up onto his elbows in anticipation. You straddle him, gripping onto his shoulder for balance. He offers you a tender smile as his fingers grip onto your hip in encouragement. “Take what you want, then,” he nods.

Your fingers wrap around his cock, slick and hot, and his eyes dart down to watch as you line him up to your entrance. As you slide down onto him, Jim closes his eyes, leaning his head back against his shoulder and moaning softly. He looks so beautiful like that: his jaw clenching just beneath the surface of his taut skin, his hair mussed from your hands running through it, his cheeks glowing red from desire.

You press your chest to his and kiss the middle of his throat. His fingers travel over the swell of your ass, and you begin to move your hips for him. “That’s it,” he hums, opening his eyes. You maintain eye contact as you draw up off of him. It is as if you are the only two people in the world, your hands playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, the head of his cock sitting at your entrance. He lets out a sigh in relief when you slide back onto him. One of his hands reaches up and splays out across the small of your back, guiding you as you move. Your breathing becomes more shallow, and the hazy sensation of an orgasm begins to grow in your pelvis as you grind down into him.

Sensing this, Jim’s lips twitch up into a smirk. “So tight for me,” he mutters. His lips brush against your warm chest. “Fuck, and you’re wet. Not gonna last much longer like this.”

You tuck your face into his neck, panting softly as your hips roll into his. You listen to the soft grunts that fall involuntarily from his lips, and think about him cumming inside of you. He’s done it once before, and you liked it more than you should—it’s another sign of his desire for you to devour.

The orgasm hits you in waves and you gasp, gripping helplessly at his shoulder for purchase. Every limb in your body seems to give into the sensation, until you are reduced to nothing but that warm glow spreading rapidly through you. He kisses along your shoulder, your collarbone, tucking an arm around your back to support you as you slump down onto him.

You feel him twitch dangerously inside of you, and know that if you go for a little longer, he’ll cum too. Gathering the last of your strength, you lift your hips, watching between your bodies as his cock plunges inside of you. His fingers brush against your stomach, and the air between you becomes little more than a shared moan.

“I’m gonna cum,” he warns. He gives you the choice of what to do. You rest your head against his, your noses brushing against each other as you pick up the pace. He cums inside of you with a strangled gasp, and you smile when the hot spurts of his want fill you. His fingers press into your sides, his body stiff beneath you.

For a moment you sit like that, his cock buried impossibly deep inside of you, your fingers intertwined in his hair. Sweat mats his fringe to his forehead in places, and he swallows harshly, his breathing labored. You can’t find it in yourself to be ashamed that you don’t want to part from him as you brush his hair away from his eyes, smiling.

He smiles back, content. All the lust that once filled his eyes is replaced with an affection you consider infinitely more dangerous. You lay against his shoulder and close your eyes. His heart thuds against the cage of his chest and his fingers stroke your back softly.

“I’m sorry for what I asked,” you murmur. The shame finds its way to you.

“It’s s’alright.” His lips brush against your shoulder. “I haven’t fucked her in a long time. Not like that. I’m not saying that just to make you feel better.”

“It doesn’t make me feel any better.” You lift your head off of him, meeting his eyes. “None of this does.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“You’re still in me, for Christ’s sake,” you laugh. He laughs too, and you know that’ll probably be the end of the conversation. A part of you is happy to let it go. You’re not ready to end this, even though you know you should. You don’t feel like the other woman, after all. She was meant to be more clever than this, wasn’t she? You feel like you’ve fallen into something you can’t get out of, something you’re terrified to even approach for what it might say about you.

“Hey,” he nudges his nose along your jaw. “You alright, then?”

“Sure,” you nod. “Stay a little while longer?”

“Yeah, of course.” He pats the hair on your head down, laying back on the pillow behind him. You rise up off of him, but still straddle his thighs. He holds you close, wrapping his arms around your torso. You can feel his cum trickle out of you.

“I like you a lot, if that’s any consolation. More than I should,” he tells you. “Enough to frighten me, really. I never thought I’d be this guy, you know? The cheater, especially with a younger woman. I don’t—you were the first I’ve ever felt anything for, you know?”

You lay your head on his chest again, and let out an amused laugh — though nothing feels particularly amusing. “Jim?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to convince me of anything.”

“Right.” He kisses your temple, staying there for a moment before pulling back and saying, “I’m just saying. I don’t want you to look back on this and think I thought of this as meaning nothing. It’s a big thing for me, too.”

You let out of a soft sigh, tracing up his freckled arms with your finger. “Jim?”

“Yes?”

“Will you fuck me again? I don’t want to talk about this anymore. ”

He laughs softly, kissing below your ear. “Of course,” he responds, his hot breath cascading across your sensitive neck. “Only this time, tell me what you want, love. I want to hear you say it.”