#impossible (said in a french accent

[tourmalinedreams]

I STAND WITH MY CANCELLED WIFE

[pampushky]

Mon Petit Doudou

Pornstar! Charles Leclerc/Pornstar! Reader - 7.4k

here it is!! enjoy! please reblog and share and all that lovely stuff! getting your comments makes my day and seeing how excited everyone was for this made me super happy :)

uhhh anyway. Might be a bit inaccurate, I'm not all that well versed in BDSM stuff so if anything is like... a super negative connotation within the community that's inaccurate (besides one character who has bad etiquette for plot reasons sorry)

anyway lmk what ya think lmao

masterlist |

He was too beautiful to be doing something like this for a living. With those bewitching hazel eyes. The effortlessly styled hair. His athletic build. The sweet slur of his accent as he lowered his voice to a sultry level when he talked to you.

But weren’t you as well? Wasn’t that why you fought so hard for your anonymity? That was why you had only ever allowed your mouth or lower to be seen in any stream or video, combined with the concealer that hid away any tattoos or marks from the prying eyes of those who watched you pleasure yourself on camera. Why you never wore your glasses to any professional shoot. It became a necessity to dress so differently on and off screen.

So why did it feel so weird now? Two of you, the same profession between you as you discuss plans for your… collaboration. Charles smiles at you. Stubbly beard and white teeth, a bit of the foam from his coffee clinging to his mustache. Perfectly styled hair as though he’d just stepped out of a convertible. You know you look similar. The soft cardigan slipping off your shoulders. Exposing the delicate tattoos of rue on your upper arms that circled your biceps and danced up to your shoulders.

Herb-of-grace. Purity. Innocence. How ironic for you, considering what your profession had turned into. From a part-time job to a serious career that often ended up having better benefits and more money. 

Charles leans forward, whispering something in French you don’t quite catch, making you frown as he cackles, leaning back. Other tables at the cafe look at the two of you, and you can see the adoration in their eyes. You look like the perfect couple. In a way, you are, just not a romantic one. A spoiled rotten sub and the protective, sweet dom.

“I think you should let them see the tattoos, no? I think they would like it,” Charles says, shit eating grin on his lips. “What does the rue flower represent again?” Because he damn well knows what it means, he just likes to tease you.

“You’re impossible,” you take a steady sip from your cup, looking down at the journal that you’d brought to jot any ideas or notes down in. “You are aware of that, right?”

“But the people like it.” Charles leans back with a shrug. “So. To continue…”

If only the other tables were close enough to hear any of your discussion. To hear the things he was suggesting. But you couldn’t even protest against most of his ideas— they were appealing. Sponsorship deals that both of you had been offered. Not only would your audience like it, but… well, you would enjoy it as well. You can’t help but the little smile that makes its way onto your lips when he nudges you under the table with his foot. 

“Don’t play footsie with me,” you kick him back gently, making sure to just brush his shin. “Who said it was my foot?”

“Har har.” You roll your eyes, but Charles kicks you again, and you can’t help but laugh with your head tilted back. “And was that your foot, this time?” “Wouldn’t you like to see, hm?” 

The rest of the video series is figured out pretty easily. The safewords, plot, who’s going to edit the videos (Max will. He’s one of Charles’s buddies who you’ve seen edit together the most filthy things from previous collaborations and blending everything together with a straight face while sucking on a fancy bendy straw leading to a tall can of Red Bull). You’re comfortable with it all, even asking if Max would be willing to let you use the straw for your water bottle during filming breaks when shooting more traditional videos. 

“Probably not. He’s very protective of it,” Charles says sagely, watching as you just doodle loops and loops of ink into your journal. “Do you still use the same brand of concealer? Just so I can have it on hand. The other bottle you gave me expired.”

“Ah, no, ended up having a bad reaction with it the last time I used it,” you scratch your neck and shrug the cardigan back on. Covering up the twin rue tattoos. “I’ll text you the new brand. I can bring it, too, because it’s a bit pricy…” 

“Don’t worry about it, I can get it.”

“Yeah?” 

“Of course,” Charles looks down at his phone when you text him the link, frowning more so about how you had thought you’d even need to think about buying it. A bottle of your matching shade is ordered by the end of his sentence. “You know that.”

“Tattoo seals are also a good thing to use,” You turn to reach into your bag, missing the way that he traces over the leafy, flowering tattoos on your shoulders. You push a few of the little stickers across to him, and he raises an eyebrow. “Don’t have to worry about replacing or cleaning the sheets, then.” 

“Hm. My smart girl,” His praise falls easily from his lips, and he doesn’t miss the way your gaze seems to soften for just a second after it. “I’ll let you know,” Charles snaps a picture of a few and pushes them back towards you. “Stream in a few days then? Don’t forget the collar, mon chou,”

You just laugh, leaning back in your seat while finishing your tea. Like you haven’t been discussing an upcoming scene that will take place in your next shoot with your dom over coffee. How you’ll split the costs and whatever monetization comes from the videos, while also letting him spoil you with the tea and pastries you love. It’s almost like a date. Perhaps in another life, it would be such an innocent thing, and not the planning of a semi-niche porn live stream.

Charles trails kisses down your neck, letting his stubble brush against you, chuckling as your skin flushes, leaving a wake of goosebumps and heated skin under his lips. The camera is on, but you don’t exactly see it, most of your face is pushed out of frame with how you’re lying across his lap.

“Are you going to be good, mon chou?” 

One of his hands rubs softly on your back, while you’re laid across his lap. You’re face down, and you know you’re positioned in a way so that the viewers will be able to see all of your body. You squirm gently, and nod, trying to tilt your head back so that you’ll be a bit closer to his face. You lay so that you’re facing away from the camera. Your tattoos have been carefully covered with a mix of concealer and tattoo patches. It’s warm, and you feel safe, your mind fuzzy as you slip into subspace. Your hair falls in small waves around the duvet, like a halo. 

Sitting comfortably against your neck is your newest collar. A lovely burgundy leather with brass d-rings and pressed eyes that have been carefully polished to shine. A few pendants hang off the D-ring, little gifts from Charles to you. The inside of the collar itself is lined with soft velvet, made to stop the skin from chaffing. Admittedly, Charles had splurged on it for you, wanting you to have only the best as he worshiped you.

“Uh uh uh,” His hand moves to cup the small of your back to stop your squirming. “Doudou, they want to see you. Don’t move so much,” He looks over at the screen, where a few messages are beginning to pop in. A few donations pop onto the stream’s overlay, displayed for all to see, along with the chat on the side, displayed by one of his other monitors.

ugh she’s so cute (€5) Is that a new collar? Looks so cute on her!! (€10) awww!! she’s getting so excited!! happy to see you both <3 (€20) Such a good girl, listening so well already (€5) Make her answer the question. Give a sub an inch and they’ll take a mile. (€50)

Charles frowns at one of the more recent messages in the chat. Very rarely did he ever need to punish you for being a brat or acting out of turn. Whenever he did do this, it was always scripted for the viewers. Played up, and a rare event that usually came after a request was put in for it, along with a substantial amount of money. But fifty euros is nothing close to what would substantiate any punishment, so he brushes over it and smiles at the chat as more tips and excited messages drop in.

“Oh, mon chou, they’re so happy to see you again,” Charles whispers, watching as the viewer count starts to grow as people tap on the notification that you’ve both gone live. More comments in the chat pour in. “Yes, she’s been so good lately, haven’t you, ma moitié?”

He runs a hand up and down your back, and then gently squeezes the swell of your ass. You squirm a little bit again and make a needy noise rather than answering.

Make her answer. She seems like a bit of a spoilt sub, needs a reminder of who’s in control. (€50)

The message donation floats on the stream overlay for a few seconds, before being replaced by more donations. The chat is a mix of more praise and excitement along with a handful of confused ‘???’ about the last donation message. It’s the same username as the other donation that had confused him a bit. His mouth quirks down into a frown before he quickly masks it with a little smirk as he looks down at you.  

“Doudou, have you been good?” Charles whispers softly in your ear, leaning down to ask you. His stubble brushes over your skin, and he gently rubs your lower back, encouraging you to speak. “They want to hear your sweet voice, bébé.”

“Uh–huh,” you mumble out, starting to squirm again. “Been good, sir.”

“Yes or no, bébé,” Charles gently reminds you, his touch still reverent around your skin as you lay across his lap, stomach facing down. “I know you have, but our lovely friends watching you don’t.”

“Y-yes, been so good,” your voice is soft, and his heart melts. Charles is already a very soft dom towards you. Never pushing. Never raised his voice. He doesn’t like using any crops or toys that can verge on pain. That’s just what the relationship between the two of you had become. 

she’s so cute!! Aaksfhasl so so good for us!! I just wanna see her cute little face (T^T) She’s so eager to please!! 

The chat is a blur at this point. Mostly compliments for your good behavior and how eager you appear to be to start the steam. Lovingly, Charles rubs your back again. Kisses the top of your head, and then gently starts to finger you open, prepping you for what you’d both discussed for today’s streams.

“There’s a bunch of toys we’ve gotten today,” Charles leans back to grab the little basket of toys, reading out their names and the slightly dry sponsor segments he knows he has to read. He lifts each one to show the camera, and you press your legs together with a whine as he reads out the descriptions the sponsors had given him for each toy.

He tilts his head back to laugh a little bit at your desperation and softly kisses the small of your back. 

“You should have seen her the other day,” Charles looks at the camera, while you let out little squeaks. You’re still on his lap and trying your best to keep still as he gently pumps in and out of you with his ring and middle fingers. “She was so good. Even when she had a plug in.” 

Hot hot hot omg

You squirm slightly at his words. Whining softly. Staying as still as possible just like he’d told you, lost in the sweetness of subspace. The tip of his middle finger brushes against a very special, spongy spot inside of you that has you keening into the duvet on Charles’s bed. 

“Oh? Did I find something?” Charles feigns disinterest while curling his fingers to press just a bit harder into your G-spot. He reaches with his other hand to grab the camera, wanting the chat to have a good view of your folds clenching around his fingers tightly. When he pulls his fingers out, they glisten with your wetness, and your sweet hole tightens around nothing. “Look at you, so responsive for me,”

He brings himself to a slower pace, no longer thrusting his fingers in and out of you with the same rigor as he had minutes before. You wiggle your rear at him again, craning your neck to look over your shoulder at him with a little sigh, your pleading look invisible to the camera. Just as his lips quirked into a small smile over your sass, another donation popped up just as he pressed the camera back onto its little stand. 

What an indignant little thing. Put her in her place, hopefully this helps you grow a pair. (€100)

Charles holds back every childish instance to flash his balls to the camera just to specifically show this donor that he does indeed have a pair, and a rather substantial set at that. You whine again, and without really thinking, he brings his palm down onto your left cheek, the one closest to the camera. It’s not too hard, and it sounded worse than it actually was. You let out a little yelp, and still, your hands fist in the duvet covers even tighter, looking over your shoulder at him with wide, shocked eyes. 

“You know better than to whine, you’ll get what you want,” Charles' gaze softens, and he already feels a bit of regret for spanking you without warning. The collar around your neck shifts a bit, some of the pendants hanging off the D-ring jingle together from how you’d jerked your head back to look at him. The little bell on the collar chimes sweetly, and soothingly, Charles continues to rub your left cheek, leaning down to softly kiss you out of frame. You whine, and he swallows all your noises, before leaning back in, looking at the camera while lovingly soothing the skin where he’d smacked down. 

To some satisfaction, he can’t see any new donations from that particular donor. He’ll make sure you feel nothing but loved, with the two hundred euros the person had dropped on it. Charles just smiles again, letting his hand still on your lower back, continuing with the stream as planned. 

An hour in and he’s had you nearly cumming on one of the rabbit toys sent to you. It’s smooth, and the actual toy part is a lovely mint green color. A very nice one, with several different speeds used to keep you squirming and whining softly under his touch. Small sighs of “—Sir— please���” and “Ch—Charles—” fall from your lips ever so often, and he even manages to coax a loud moan from your lips, which the chat goes insane about. When you do climax, you don’t even have the where-with-all to try and warn Charles. And he doesn’t even mind, he’s always been happy to just let you chase your own pleasure and highs. 

You whine, slumping against him, feeling him pull the still-vibrating toy from your folds. Your clit is puffy and engorged, and the chat loves to see how you whimper as Charles brushes his fingers through your folds, holding the camera close to give everyone a good view of your still-twitching cunt. 

so pretty now give her another!! Her whines omg Good Girl <3 (€25)  Such a cute little sub Wish i had a dom to take care of me like she does waaaa

Despite himself, Charles smirks, knowing his face is out of view while he gives everyone a good view of your slick heat. The donor who’d been provoking him hadn’t said anything in a while. He grins at every little noise you make, especially with how you whimper at his touches, still sensitive. But you don’t move away— you know you’re safe, and that he’d never do anything to harm you. You have safewords for that exact reason, and you’d never had to use them outside of practice scenarios Charles would make you do just in case. 

He settles the camera back onto its stand, tilting it down so that the stream can also see a bit of himself. He’s shirtless, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low around his hips. The waistband of his boxers is visible, showing off the V-line of his lower body, and the happy trail of dark brown fuzz that crawls up his torso. 

“Did you like that one, mon chou?” Charles croons, moving so that he blocks the view of the camera, purposefully hiding your pretty face so that you have a bit of time to reposition yourself. “Hmm?”

“Mhm,” your voice is dreamy, and your head lolls uselessly to the side as he strokes your cheek. “S’good…” 

There’s no need for you to call him ‘sir’ at this moment. He doesn’t even really enforce the title, it’s just something that slips out occasionally while he takes care of you. It’s adorable, in all honesty, the way that you talk when he’s truly gotten you into the hazy, carefree state that is your subspace, never so much as raising his voice when talking to you. That’s his brand. That’s your brand. Just a needy sub and soft dom pairing that verged on Charles having an obsession with you cumming and feeling safe while he’s there. 

The rest of the stream goes about as planned. Charles tries a variety of new toys on you, ranging from a dual-purpose clitoral suction toy that doubles as a dildo to vibrating anal beads that you are not much a fan of, but let him try them on you for the sake of experimentation. It all comes to the grand finale of Charles then having you bounce on his lap as you ride his thick cock, your walls clenching around him as you whine and wail out pleas for him. 

“That’s it, mon chou, you’re being so good for me, always so wonderful,” Charles squeezes your waist, guiding you up and down on his lap as you whine out a sound that might be his name. The camera has a wonderful view of your back, zoomed in to specifically see the way he slides in and out of you. Your cream covers his cock. 

You lean against him, your forehead on his shoulder as you gasp and pant. He can feel the way you’re loosely gripping onto his shoulders, not strong enough to scratch his skin, but certainly hard enough to remind him that you were here, if the warm wetness of your cunt somehow didn’t. 

“Where do you want me? Where, mon chaton?” Charles whispers against your head, and he is rewarded by you looking at him with a hazy glance, just for him.

“I-inside,” you whimper, trying to lean against him further, trying to get him to press his face against yours, stopped only by the fact that he needs to keep your face out of frame.

So he gently moves so that both of your faces are out of frame, his stubbled cheek against yours. Thrusts growing more rapid until you clench around him, trying to milk his cock for anything he may give you. He finishes a minute after, twitching inside of you, and breathing hard as he comes down from his high. In the back of his mind, Charles imagines his cum settling in your womb. Making a baby. Seeing you grow round as the months passed, needing help with simple things. Perhaps it would have if it weren’t for your implant and his vasectomy. Just precautions of the trade. 

Gently, he pulls himself from you, still panting. He brings the camera closer, giving the viewers a good look at how his seed trickles from your folds, mixing with your release. 

hot!! Eeeek!! breeding kink breeding kink She’d look so fucking cute all round with a baby Give her a baby!! (€20)

Charles pauses the camera feed for a few minutes, gently wiping at your core with a warm cloth and praising you endlessly as you mewl helplessly. The chat feeds into his little fantasy. He thinks about you as his housewife. Coming home from a normal office job rather than a studio shoot with other people. Kissing the rue flower tattoos on your shoulders lovingly, while his hands come to hold the little bump of your pregnant belly. 

But with a shake of his head, it’s gone. Because that isn’t your relationship with him. So he turns the camera back on with you settled in his lap, wearing a pair of his boxers and one of his hoodies. You’re curled up happily, face nuzzled into his shoulder, hiding everything away from the camera’s view. He can feel you placing almost sleepy kisses on his neck, along with the contented sighs you’re making. 

As is the normal routine, Charles thanks everyone for their donations, while also allowing viewers to make requests in the chat. Answering questions about the little break from any streaming and videos the two of you would normally do. This is usually when more of the donations sweep in, much bigger ones. The notifications are delayed, and his eyes nearly bulge out of his head when he sees one rather large donation come through. 

I’d like to commission something of the two of you. I’ll be reaching out to your business email after the stream, just to ensure that this tip doesn’t bounce. (€800)

It’s the same username as the donor who had dropped €200 earlier in the stream. Part of Charles feels incredibly uneasy over whatever this commission could entail, simply based on the comments they had made in their previous donations. 

But if they had been able to give over €1000 in a single stream…. Which was nearly a third, if not more, of the total donations…

You shift slightly in Charles’ lap, bringing him back to the present. You’re still lost, he can see that by the distant, glazed-over look in your eyes. What you need right now is a good bath, a bottle of water, and something to snack on while he massages the knots from your back. You can talk about the possibility of something like a commissioned video later.

“That’s…. Hm, we’ll have to see about that, won’t we, bébé?” Charles grins, pressing a chaste kiss against your forehead, before bidding farewell to the stream, and turning off the camera. The donations still pour in for another thirty minutes, and that’s when Charles gets the light ping that everything’s done downloading, right as he’s gotten you to finish a bottle of water. He sends it to Max immediately, who’s already gotten the rough outline of how the video should look. Charles will go over to his apartment tomorrow to work on the specifics of what everything should look like, and then send the link to you for final approval to post. Knowing Max, the Dutchman is likely just starting to wake up as the world is going to sleep. He’ll probably have a mockup done just as the sun starts to rise. 

For now, Charles turns his focus to you, watching as you slowly munch on goldfish crackers, as if deep in thought. It’s funny, really, you’re so lost in your thoughts and somewhat spaced out still. But when you look at him, he can see the little grin on your face as he walks over to you. Letting you curl into his embrace.

“You’re all sweaty.”

“Mm. I was fucking you rather hard near the end.”

That makes you giggle, and you look up at him with a mischievous little grin. “You also spanked me.”

“I did.” Charles swallows a bit of his guilt down. “Are you sore?”

“No. It was… just unexpected.” You fiddle with the strings of his sweatpants, and he plays with the hair at the back of your head. It’s domestic and sweet. It could be a scene from the everyday life of any young couple. Charles feels like he’s in the wrong for wishing it was. “It startled me a bit. Nothing bad.”

“Sorry.” 

You just shrug, and let him help you out of the hoodie. With the utmost care, he peels off the tattoo seals. Wipes away the concealer. And helps you into the shower, washing away any of the stubborn bits of makeup that insisted on staying behind. The rue flowers bloom under his touch, and without really thinking, Charles kisses them, his lips trailing around your shoulders and upper arms as if he’s worshiping some idol. 

It’s the most intimate thing someone’s ever done for you. And Charles realizes he may have just crossed a serious line, looking back at you like a deer in the headlights as you stare at him over your shoulder, with a mildly sleepy gaze. His hands start to shake.

“Why’d you stop?” 

The way you tilt your head is sinful. That someone so innocent and willing to give and submit your body to him also looks at him in such a way. Asking such obvious questions when you already know the answer. Entering a relationship because of your shared profession with him could be catastrophic. You both work in such a niche of your industry when it comes to the kinks and roleplays you’re willing to work through that both of you would be screwed if feelings got in the way of your work. 

“Because we shouldn’t take it any further,” 

“What if I want you to?”

Charles nearly chokes on his surprise. The water is still warm around him. Your hair still has the conditioner in it, just soaking on your scalp as you wait for him to help you wash it out. 

“That’s a bad idea. We shouldn’t.”

“But you were just kissing my tattoos.” Your brow furrows. “That’s hardly the porn we normally shoot.”

“It’s—  it’s not about the porn—”

“Then ask me out.” You say it so plainly. As if it’s that easy… and maybe it is. “I like you.”

“What?”

“I like you. You seem to like me.”

“I do like you!” Charles blurts out. And then blushes violently, his pale skin turning a vibrant pink-red as he starts to rinse the conditioner out of your hair, making you turn away from him so he doesn’t get any of it in your eyes. He still feels guilty for spanking you without much warning. “But don’t you think this could be weird—”

“I think it could be nice.” You sigh, leaning into his touch. Entrusting him to put you back together after breaking you apart. “Don’t you?”

He can’t bring himself to speak after that. Drives you home. You watch him from the window of your apartment as the rear lights of his car fade away. 

The moment Charles is out of sight, he goes to Max’s flat. Pounding on the door hard until the disgruntled Dutchman opens up. He can hear Daniel moving around somewhere in the apartment, talking to one of the cats as Charles stands dumbly at the threshold of the happy couple’s home.

“What?”

“I think I’m in love with her,” Charles blurts out, and Max just scowls further.

“Mate, I could have told you that!” Daniel calls from deeper in the house, as Max pulls the panicked man inside, making him sit down in the cozy living room. Max’s computer set up is pushed into the corner, with a cat tower beside the desk. Sassy currently sleeps happily on the highest little bed, while Jimmy weaves through Daniel’s legs as the Australian offers a slice of pizza to Charles. “What finally made you realize?”

“She— she told me to ask her out. Wait— does that count as her asking me out—?” 

Charles’ voice grows more frantic, and his hands go to his hair as he starts to pace in the living room. Both cats watch him go back and forth, while Max settles at his desk, opening the file to start editing. 

“Who cares? Do it. You’ve been making moony eyes at her for the past year of working with her.” Max grumbles, clearly unamused by the drama of it all. 

“We make porn together!”

“So? That’s how I met Max.” Daniel tilts his head, at which point Jimmy does the same. The Monegasque frowns at him. “Didn’t stop us.”

“You’re both gay.”

“Ouch.” Max’s stoic tone is somehow cutting, even when he’s focused on the screen, pulling up the video Charles had sent to him, and then the outline on the other monitor. “I don’t see how that changes anything. The only difference is that I was Daniel’s editor rather than costar.”

Charles flops onto the couch. Daniel just looks down at the man, before looking over his shoulder at his boyfriend. “And how’d you respond?”

“What?”

“How did you respond to her asking you out?”

His face goes blank, and a look of realization dawns on his face. 

“I panicked?”

“How badly?”

“I kept— okay I responded pretty badly,” Charles admits, and then groans right into his hands, rubbing his face in frustration. He keeps thinking about how he’d kissed your tattoos. Had he inadvertently made you feel like you could ask that? Furthermore, were you really, truly asking that, or were you still somewhat caught up trying to be a good sub?

Images of you sleeping in his bed as the morning sun rises conjure up in his mind, followed by cooking together in the kitchen of his flat, and he can’t help but groan angrily at himself for letting such a fantasy with someone who he could call his coworker appear in his mind at this moment. You, smiling up at him with that coy grin on your face as you sit across from him at the cafe, brushing your foot against his shins while sipping at your cup of tea. Your feet up on his lap while reading a book on his couch, pure domestic bliss. 

“Fuuuuck,” Charles just keeps his hands on his face. “She’s gonna hate me.” 

“She’s not going to hate you,” Daniel tries to comfort him. “Just tell her you need time to think about it.”

“No but— I was also sending mixed messages,” he mumbles, and he hears a long, drawn-out sigh from both Max and Daniel. “I was kissing her shoulders. I— I couldn’t help it, I felt bad, I kinda spanked her without warning earlier in the stream—”

“Gross.”

“I know! But this one donor was getting so pissy about how she was responding—”

“I’m sorry, you let someone who was watching and imagining touching her dictate how you were actually touching her?” Daniel raises an eyebrow, and he folds his arms across his chest. “Dude. You’re her dom, not to mention how many times you’ve been with her. Why would you get so possessive then?”

Maybe he is a bit possessive. Last year, during a studio-based shoot when another dom had been too rough with you, using your blindfold to practically drag you around the set, and spanking you much harder than he had originally implied he would, Charles had immediately cut the camera and kicked the man out of the room, not even letting him get dressed. He’d gone straight to your side after that, checking you were okay for nearly an hour before even considering letting the filming start again. 

That had earned him a bit of a reputation as possessive over his subs, you in particular. The lack of collaborations with any other actors certainly hadn’t helped much either, with your last one being with Daniel almost half a year ago, and that one had been a cuckolding video, where he had posed as the husband watching his wife getting fucked and bred by another man, not even touching you throughout the process besides a scripted kiss at the end. 

Now, Charles feels like he is 1.) the stupidest man on planet Earth and 2.) just passed up on an opportunity that you had presented him on a silver platter. He stares up at the ceiling as Daniel looks down at him. Maxis typing away in the corner, and makes a little ‘hm’ noise, likely getting to the part of the stream where he’d spanked you. 

“Wow. That sounded bad. Didn’t leave a mark though,” Max hums, and then starts to type again, before making a much more distressed noise. “No fucking way— Dani! It’s the fucking guy again!”

“Wha— really?” Daniel dashes over to look at the screen while Charles stays on the couch. “Ugh. What a fucking creep.”

That piques some interest.

“What?”

“Yeah— the guy with the weird dono? Total creep. Tried to commission me into some weird, non-con roleplay. Wanted to do a solo stream for just him, totally ignored all of my rules for that stuff, and outright told me to ‘Just suck it up’ when I used the safeword for some of the shit he was saying about me.” Daniel shivers, and for a moment, Max looks like he wants to strangle the man until his boyfriend squeezes his shoulder. Charles's blood runs cold. 

“What?!” Charles looks over the username again. MattiaBinn. “Jesus fucking—Je le tuerai moi-même pour avoir voulu que je fasse une telle chose avec elle—”

“English, Charles.”

“I’ll kill him myself,” Charles growls, and starts to march right towards the door, “I need to talk to her right now—”

“Or maybe we need to give her time to cool down,” Daniel reaches towards him, holding onto his shoulder and pulling him backward. “She probably still needs some space and to take care of herself after the stream, regardless of how much aftercare you did with her.”

Part of Charles hates that Daniel’s right. Another part of him says that no, you should be letting him take care of you. That’s what his job was as your dom, he was supposed to take care of you and make sure you didn’t experience sub-drop. You deserve only the best, and right now he’s not acting like that. Quite frankly, he’s being a bit of a self-righteous prick about his own feelings for you. 

His phone pings with a notification, and out of pure irritation, he considers silencing it, until he sees it’s an email from a frankly disturbing email address. From: Mattia Binotto. Subject: Commissioned Private Stream.

“Oh, putain de merde,” Charles groans, and quickly scans through the email. It’s exactly as Daniel described. Non-con, harsher treatment, and quite honestly, the opposite of nearly everything Charles did as a dom and that you would agree to. Infuriatingly, your business email has also been sent this. You text him not a second after he’s done scanning it.

Did you also get this?

It seems… uhm, interesting. 

Attached is a screenshot of the email. You’re awake, at the very least. Alert enough to be checking your business email. He texts back quickly. 

I’m not doing any of that.

That’s not the shit I do. Fuck.

…okay. 

Sorry, you seem to be in a bad mood. 

It’s not your fault

Please don’t blame yourself for any of this, mon doudou

I kinda feel like it is…

I didn’t mean to push any boundaries or make you upset about this

I am sorry, Charles.

Charles wants to bash his head against the wall because now he feels like utter shit for making you feel guilty about his own stupidity. Just as he’s about to text you back you send him a goodnight text. When Daniel glances at the screen he visibly winces. 

“Yeah. I’d give her some space.”

Space turns into a week. Instead of the normal collab stream, you do a solo one. Charles ends up watching it. You’ve got an array of toys behind you, most pretty pastel colors or swirling abstract designs that make an odd pit settle in his stomach at the idea of them bringing you pleasure rather than him.

You’re currently fucking yourself on a dildo he’d gifted you, shaped like… certain sweet treat. It was meant to be a bit of a gag gift— the name of it was called the banana split, for Christ’s sake— but seeing you fuck yourself on it made him groan, palming the hardness in his pants as you gasped and whined. You were wearing one of his hoodies too, muffling your little noises into the sleeves. And the chat was loving it, encouraging you to keep going. 

And then the fucking donation showed up from that fucking prick Mattia.

Needy little thing. Do you think you deserve to cum? (€50)

The robot voice that read out the message had you whining, and you momentarily pause, before slowly lifting your hoodie to give the cam a better view, showing the slight bulge in your tummy from the toy resting inside of you before you started to bounce up and down on it again, rutting your hips forward as if that could provide some respite for the high you were chasing. 

“Y-Yes—wanna cum—” Your face is hidden, as per usual, just off-screen, but at the very top, he can see how your chin wobbles a bit as if you’re currently panting with an open mouth, “Please please please please—”

Hold it. Not yet. Needy little sluts only get what they need when they’re good. (€50)

Rage bubbles in Charles’ stomach. Who the fuck did this asshole think he was, first of all, calling you a needy slut, and then acting like you were his to take care of. Charles makes a note to ban him from both of your chats as soon as this is over. 

He can tell by your posture that you look startled, and the chat mixed. Some are telling Mattia to fuck off, while others are encouraging you to listen because Charles isn’t there. You whimper, confused, and Charles nearly screams, sprinting to get to his keys while the stream continues on his phone. He knows how insane he must look, having porn very audibly playing on his phone, but he doesn’t care, not as he starts his car and calls you. He can hear the phone in the background of your stream, and you whine even louder, the wet sounds of you fucking yourself on the toy pausing.

“Fuck, doudou, pick up,” Charles groans, his driving becomes more and more reckless as he gets closer to your apartment. “Pick up!”

The sounds of your stream seem to pause, and there’s a rustle as you move, hopefully reaching for the phone and—

Did I say you could do that, slut? Or are you too stupid to listen to directions? (€50)

Charles roars as he hears you let out a pathetic whine, followed by sniffles. How dare Mattia insult you like that, how dare he make you feel unsafe when you should be feeling nothing but safe and loved. He was going to find him. He was going to find whoever this Mattia Binotto was and beat the tar out of him.

“M’sorry— wanna be good—”

“You are good,” Charles’ mouth is dry,  right as he pulls outside the front of your flat, with a half-assed park job that’s likely going to get him a ticket if he stays there until morning. “You’re so good, mon petit doudou, just hold on,”

You’re not being good now. Apologize, you useless little slut. No wonder your dom isn’t here. What a spoiled little sub. (€50)

Charles fiddles with the lock, searching for the spare you’d told him about, hidden under a fake rock right off of your stoop. He opens the door, nearly forgets to close it behind him, and screams out your name as he tears through the kitchen.

Find your biggest toy for me. And show us how badly it hurts. Do it if you want to be good for me (€50)

When he manages to get to your room, you’re startled by his sudden appearance, and so is the chat. There’s a new, much larger toy positioned under you, the tip just brushing against your folds. The first thing that Charles does is cut the camera. The next thing he does is end the stream. A final donation, clearly placed before the stream ended appears on the screen, all the notifications from the tip jar making a discordant melody with your hiccuping sobs and Charles’ panting.

The donation makes him see red.

Fuck yourself. Slow. Let me hear you cry. (€50)

You let out a whimper, shaking, as you sink onto the toy, only to be scooped up by Charles. He doesn’t give a shit that he’s knocking around the toys and is probably making his possessive reputation worse. He’s not going to let you hurt yourself because some fucking pervert got in your head, and he’s furious that you’ve fallen for the same manipulation he did. 

“M’sorry— m’sorry, I wanna be good—”

“You’re so good, tu es si bon pour moi,” Charles croons, rocking you back and forth, holding you close as you cry into his chest. “I’m here. I’m here. You don’t have to do any of that. Let me take care of you.”

It takes nearly thirty minutes to get you to stop crying. You keep your face pressed into his shoulder, shaking as Charles soothes you, humming softly to you. He speaks in French, knowing that you enjoy the way his voice sounds when he speaks it. 

“Can you tell me where you are, Doudou?”

“In my bed,” 

“Wonderful job, so smart for me,” Charles praises, kissing your forehead softly. Your grip tightens on his shirt, and he can feel a small huff of air against his skin when you breathe out. “And what’s my name?”

“Charles. You’re Charles.” You murmur. “How did you get in here…?”

“Spare key.” He shifts so that you can look at him, one of his hands coming to cup your cheek. His thumb brushes under one of your eyes, the skin sticky from tears. “I was… I was watching the stream.”

“Oh.” You lean against his chest, letting him stroke up and down your back. You nuzzle into the collar of the hoodie. Charles presses his nose into your hairline, inhaling your scent, while keeping his lips against your forehead. “So you���.saw…”

“He’s banned. It’s the same guy from the commission email.” There’s a hint of rage in his voice, which fades the moment your nose nudges under his chin, dislodging him from your hairline. 

“Thanks.” He can feel the curve of your lips turning into a smile as you nuzzle into him further. “My hero. Taking care of me, even when you’re upset.”

“I’ll always take care of you,” Charles’ voice catches in his throat at the admission, pulling away enough to look down at you. You, smiling up at him with that coy grin on your face, and a sleepy look in your eyes. 

“It could be nice,” You murmur again, shyer than before. “You and me, couldn’t it?”

“I think it could be more than nice,” His lips are so close to yours, enough so that he can feel your breath against them. Charles has been balls-deep in you. Has fucked into you until you cream around his cock and sobbed out his name. But this is quite possibly the most intimate thing he’s ever done with you. “Really, really nice.”

The taste of your lips on his is divine as he holds onto your waist with one hand, and cups your face with the other. You giggle when he pulls away to catch his breath, and before he can even stop himself, he’s grinning and pressing you into the bed, blowing a raspberry against your cheek just to hear your shrill laughter and feel the butterflies in his stomach that appear every time you laugh around him. 

“Mon petit Doudou,” He can’t stop the grin on his face as he kisses all over your face, looking down at you with nothing but adoration in his eyes. Your hair is fanning around your head like a halo. Your smile is infectious. And he can see a few blooms from your tattoos under the neckline of your hoodie. His hoodie. “Mine, mine, mine.”

“Yours, yours, yours.” You respond, curling into him happily as the two of you lay in your bed.

[holdthdfuckup]

I feel like not enough people talk about this -

Jean's french accent is probably still so fucking strong. I have a french friend and she said that their accent is so deep rooted it is almost impossible not to have it, and Jean was 14 when he was transferred to USA, meaning he still spoke French the majority of his life, so Jeremy hearing his name from Jean, his crush, his TYPE, with a fucking french accent must have been disarming. I would MELT right there and then if I were Jeremy.

[chiffxna]

A Love Too Dark (08)

The Marquis Vincent de Gramont x Reader

Chapter 08: Wrapped Around

WARNING: THIS IS A DARK FIC.

This story will contain 18+ mature themes, blackmail, forced kissing, dark romance, toxic behaviour, blood, violence, stalking, manipulation, a lot of smut, dubious consent, non-consensual content, non-consensual creampie, breeding, yandere Marquis de Gramont, power play, and power imbalance, obsession, dark Marquis de Gramont, and abuse of power. The list will be added more as the story progresses. Minors, don't read.

Story Masterlist

PREV : Chapter 07

NEXT : Chapter 09

Chapter Summary:

After everything he’s forced on you, don’t you deserve something back?

“Now,” he continued, his eyes locking onto hers, the command in them unmistakable, “get under the table.”

Yn stared at him, wide-eyed with shock and disbelief. Her heart thudded heavily against her chest at his audacious demand. She breathed out incredulously, “What?”

“Get under my desk,” Marquis repeated coldly yet slowly – emphasizing each word so there would be no mistake about what he expected from Yn.

A shiver ran down Yn's spine as it dawned on her what he wanted her to do next. She was terrified. Humiliation began to course through her figure as she contemplated disobeying such an order. She did not want this. She was disgusted by the thought of it.

But reality soon set in as imagination of what could happen if she refused flooded in her mind. Yn felt trapped, caught between two impossible choices. Obey and debase herself, or refuse and face his wrath. She stood frozen, unable to move, as she held a bated breath.

Marquis's gaze bore into her, hard and unrelenting. He growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Now, ma douce. I won't ask again.”

The words ma douce were foreign to her, but the way he said them sent a shiver down her spine. Even if they meant something sweet or romantic in French, his tone carried a sense of danger and caution. Like a predator whispering sweet nothings before pouncing on its prey.

Yn’s legs trembled as she slowly lowered herself to the ground, her eyes evading Marquis’ penetrating gaze. The plush carpet felt rough against her knees as she crawled forward, each movement a surrender of her dignity.

Under the desk she went, enveloped by the dark mahogany wood – a cage of his power and control. She huddled there, making herself as small as possible, praying to disappear.

Her gaze followed the Marquis as he strode towards his chair, his long legs flexing with each step. As he settled into the seat, he spread his legs wide, positioning himself directly in front of her. The chair scraped against the floor as he slid it closer, obscuring his legs under the desk and trapping her in between them. She instinctively tried to avoid any physical contact with him, feeling a sense of discomfort and unease at his close proximity.

He peered down at her, taking in the space beneath the desk where she was sitting. She must have felt his gaze because she looked up at him with big, innocent eyes. A satisfied smirk appeared on his face before he said in his usual thick French accent, “Good girl. You will be rewarded for your obedience.”

She whimpered. “Can I get up, please?”

“Not yet, ma lapine,” he replied as he caressed the top of her head affectionately. “You will stay here until I say so.”

Out of the blue, the hand that had been gently stroking her hair now grasped the back of her head and yanked her towards his lap. Yn stiffened as Marquis pulled her closer to him, her body automatically tensing up at the thought of what would happen next. His hand on the back of her head kept her in place, keeping her face close to his crotch. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, smell the musky scent of his arousal. Panic began to rise in her chest as she realised what he wanted her to do.

She looked up at him with pleading eyes, silently begging for mercy. The Marquis met her gaze, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he savoured her helplessness. Her pleading eyes only served to inflame his desire further. He chuckled darkly, his fingers tangling in her silky hair.

“You look so pretty on your knees for me,” he purred, his voice dripping with mock affection. “Such an obedient little rabbit.”

His other hand moved to his belt, slowly undoing the buckle. The sound seemed to echo in the quiet room, each click of the belt ratcheting up Yn's dread.

“Open your mouth, sweetheart,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “It's time for your reward.”

The Marquis’ hand grasped the front of his trousers, pulling them down and revealing his erect member. It stood tall and proud, heavy with desire as glistening droplets of pre-cum adorned its tip. The veins along its length pulsated with arousal, and the heat radiating from it was almost palpable. He pressed it against Yn's soft lips, smearing the sticky fluid across them.

“Suck,” he ordered, his voice a guttural growl. “Worship my cock like you love me.”

With a forceful thrust, he rammed his entire length past her parted lips and into the hot, slick cave of her mouth. Yn choked and gagged, feeling him hit the back of her throat and tears springing to her eyes from the force. But he showed no mercy, gripping her hair tighter and shoving deeper, his desire for control overpowering any concern for her comfort.

“That's it,” he groaned, his hips rocking slightly as he forced her head to bob up and down his length. “Take it all like the obedient little rabbit you are.”

The Marquis's face contorted with desire and dominance, his hand roughly gripping Yn's hair as he forced her head to move up and down on his erect member. Her tears flowed down her cheeks, creating wet trails on her flushed skin. The Marquis's cock stood tall and proud, the veins pulsating with every thrust into Yn's mouth. Her muffled sobs added to the soundtrack of his pleasure as he revelled in his control and dominance over her. The room was filled with the sounds of her choking and gagging, mixed with his guttural groans of satisfaction.

Abruptly, a succession of knocks resounded against the door. Yn's eyes widened in fear as she realised she was completely exposed to this humiliating position. She desperately looked to the Marquis, hoping for some form of mercy. The Marquis, however, merely chuckled at her terrified expression.

“Ah, it seems we have company,” he drawled, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards into a smug smile. “Don't stop, sweetheart.”

He then glanced to the door and spoke out loud, “Enter.”

Yn's body tensed as she prepared to push herself out from under the desk, but the Marquis leaned forward in his chair, pushing her further beneath the desk and shoving his cock deeper down her throat. Now she was completely hidden under his office table, shielded by the Marquis' body and chair.

The door swung open suddenly, startling Yn, who was currently occupied with the Marquis' member in her mouth. She froze, trying not to make any noise that would give away her position, afraid of being caught by whoever had entered.

“I did it, beau.”

Yn's eyes grew wider as she recognised the voice. It’s Sabrina, a fellow bunny-girl who fancied the Marquis.

With a commanding grip, the Marquis placed his hand on Yn's head and guided her up and down. The weight of his palm pressed against her scalp, silently urging her to start pleasuring him with her mouth. A mix of fear and submission furrowed her eyebrows as she looked up at him before finally giving in and complying with his demands. Her lips formed a tight seal around him as she began to suck, feeling the heavy weight of power pushing down on her.

“So, did you get anything out of him?” the Marquis asked Sabrina.

“None, just his cum,” replied Sabrina with an arrogant tone. “He just kept mentioning his wife’s name. Probably guilty that he cheated on her.”

Yn's face turned to a frown as she contemplated how Mr. Gabriel must have been feeling. She knew he loved his late wife dearly, but Sabrina had somehow convinced him to become intimate with her. It was likely that Sabrina had manipulated the situation, taking advantage of a massage to turn it into something more, just as the Marquis had instructed her to do with Mr. Gabriel.

The Marquis asked, “Did you try asking him about anything?”

His hand rested on Yn’s head, his fingers tangling in her locks as he guided her movements. Every so often, his fingers would tighten in her hair, silently urging her to move faster or deeper. Yn's face showed a mix of submission and discomfort as she complied with his commands, her lips forming a tight seal around him as she sucked. His other hand rested on the table, his grip tightening on the edge as he leaned back in his chair, enjoying the pleasure Yn was providing him.

“I did, but he said he didn’t know a single thing,” answered Sabrina.

Yn's face was focused, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked and her tongue flicking against him in all the right places. Her hands were placed on his thighs, supporting herself as she took him deeper.

The Marquis leaned his head back as he quietly harrumphed, “Hm…”

Yn tensed as she heard footsteps approaching the table. She hadn't anticipated Sabrina being so bold as to move closer to the Marquis. Yn desperately hoped that Sabrina wouldn't circle around the table and discover her servicing the Frenchman's member. Suddenly, a noise came from the desk nearby, startling Yn.

“Marquis,” Sabrina’s voice had turned seductive. “Is there anything else I can help you with? Anything?”

Yn slowed her bobbing motion on the cock and looked up at the Marquis, who was intently watching Sabrina with a raised eyebrow.

The Marquis replied, “No. You are dismissed.”

There was a moment of stillness as if Sabrina froze, astounded that she had been rejected. Then the sound of feet walking away echoed through the office, heading towards the door. Yn heard Sabrina's voice break the silence, saying, “If you ever need any help, sir, please don't hesitate to come to me. I can make sure you have an enjoyable, all-night experience.”

As the door clicked shut behind them, the room fell silent. Yn's pace in sucking the cock slowly increased as she realised there was still work to be done.

Suddenly, without warning, the Marquis slid back in his chair and stood abruptly, his cock slipping from her abused mouth. Yn gasped for air, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

But her respite was short-lived. The Marquis stepped forward, looming over her kneeling form. With brutal efficiency, he shoved his cock back into her mouth, not stopping until he felt the head lodged in her throat.

Yn's eyes were wide with fear, and her mouth was forced open, stretched around the Marquis's thick cock. Her tears mixed with the saliva and pre-cum that dripped down her chin, her face twisted in discomfort and distress. The Marquis’ hand was still tangled in her hair, controlling her movements as he roughly thrust into her mouth. The muscles in her neck strained as she struggled to accommodate his forceful thrusts, her gags turning into wet choking sounds. The sound of their harsh breathing filled the room, along with the wet slapping noises of his cock penetrating her mouth.

“Take it,” he snarled, his hips slapping against her face with each brutal thrust. “Take every inch, ma lapine.”

The Marquis’ hips moved with a frenzied rhythm, each thrust pushing his thick cock into Yn's mouth. His hands were tightly tangled in her hair, pulling her head towards him with each thrust. Yn's mouth was stretched wide open, her tongue flattened against the underside of his cock. The muscles in her throat bulged as she struggled to accommodate his forceful penetration. Her tears mixed with the drool and pre-cum that dripped down her chin, and the wet sounds of his balls slapping against her chin echoed in the room. Yn's eyes were wide with fear and pain, but she couldn't resist him as he continued to ravage her throat.

The room was filled with the wet smacking of flesh against flesh, the sound of his hips slapping against her face with each forceful thrust. The Marquis himself let out guttural grunts as he pushed deeper and deeper into her throat, his grip on her hair causing yelps of pain to intermingle with the sounds of their coupling. Yn's choked gasps and gags added to the cacophony, creating a symphony of rough and violent noises. Tears streamed down Yn's face as she tried to take in every inch he offered, her strangled cries muffled by his thick cock shoved deep into her mouth. The repeated slapping of his balls against her chin echoed through the room, a constant reminder of her helplessness and submission to the Marquis' brutal desires. And yet, despite the pain and fear in her eyes, she couldn't fight him off as he continued to ravage her throat mercilessly.

The mixture of saliva and pre-cum glistened in the dim light, dripping down her chin in thick strands and landing on the carpet below with a wet splat. The pool of bodily fluids grew larger with each thrust, staining the once pristine carpet with their mingled essence.

“I'm close,” the Marquis grunted, his hips pistoning faster. “Swallow it all.”

Yn's eyes widened in panic, her hands scrabbling at his thighs. She tried to pull away, desperate for air, but his grip on her hair was unyielding. She had no choice but to submit to his brutal face-fucking, tears streaming down her face as she choked and gagged.

The Marquis’ face contorted in pleasure as he forcefully thrust himself into Yn's mouth, his hips slamming forward and pulling back with a rhythmic motion. Yn's mouth was stretched wide open as the Marquis forced himself in, his own face contorted in ecstasy. His hand gripped her hair tightly, pulling her head closer to him. Yn's eyes were wide with fear and pain, tears streaming down her face as she struggled to take in the fullness of him. The Marquis’ cock was pulsing and throbbing, its veins protruding against Yn's lips and tongue. The cum shot out forcefully, filling her mouth and overflowing as she tried to swallow it all. Yn gagged and choked on the bitter taste.

“That's it, ma lapine,” the Marquis groaned, his hips jerking with each spurt of cum. “Drink every drop.”

Yn gagged and choked as the Marquis's cum flooded her mouth, the bitter taste overwhelming her senses. Thick, viscous ropes of semen coated her tongue and throat, making it difficult for her to swallow. She tried to pull away, desperate for air, but his grip on her hair was unyielding.

"Drink it all," the Marquis growled, his hips jerking with each spurt of cum. "Every last drop."

Yn had no choice but to obey, her throat working overtime as she tried to swallow the copious amount of semen. Some of it dribbled out the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin and onto her heaving chest. The salty, musky taste made her stomach churn, bile rising in her throat.

The Marquis held Yn's head in place, his cock lodged deep in her throat, as he savoured the sensation of her swallowing around him. Each contraction of her throat muscles sent jolts of pleasure through his body, drawing out his climax. He groaned in ecstasy, his hips jerking with each spurt of cum down her throat.

Yn gagged and choked, her eyes watering as she struggled to breathe around his girth. The bitter taste of his semen coated her tongue, making her want to retch. But she had no choice but to swallow, her throat working overtime to comply with his demands.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Marquis's orgasm subsided. He pulled his softening cock from Yn's abused mouth, a string of saliva and cum connecting them for a brief moment before breaking. Yn gasped for air, coughing and sputtering as she tried to clear her throat of the vile fluid.

“Good girl,” the Marquis purred, taking a few tissues from his desk to wipe his cock clean. “You swallowed every drop like I wanted you to.”

The Marquis carefully wiped his softening cock with a tissue, his movements slow and calculated. Yn remained on her knees, her face a mess of tears, saliva, and semen. Her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks flushed and damp. The thick white substance clung to her lips and dribbled down her chin, mixing with the tears on her face. She was still in shock from the ordeal, her body trembling as she tried to compose herself.

The Frenchman wiped his softening member clean with the tissues and reached for a few more. With a gentleness that seemed at odds with his previous brutality, he began to wipe the mess from Yn's face. He brushed away the tears, the streaks of mascara, the saliva and cum that clung to her skin.

As he cleaned her, the Marquis gazed down at Yn with adoration, almost tenderness. His look said he was pleased with her, satisfied with her performance, that she had pleased him and served her purpose.

Yn remained kneeling, her head bowed, as the Marquis tended to her. She didn't resist his ministrations, too exhausted and traumatised to do anything but comply. Her throat ached, her jaw throbbed, and the taste of his cum lingered in her mouth, a bitter reminder of what had just transpired.

When the Marquis finished, he tossed the soiled tissues aside and reached out to tilt Yn's chin up with his finger. She met his gaze, her eyes wide and haunted. There was no joy in them, no hint of pleasure or satisfaction. Only fear, pain, and a deep, simmering anger that she didn't dare express.

“As a reward, you may go home early,” the Marquis told her, his voice soft and almost gentle. He reached out, caressing her cheek with his thumb. “Or if you want, you can stay. But remember, you are forbidden to service any men. Understood?”

Yn nodded meekly; her head bowed in defeat. She couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze, her eyes still haunted by the trauma she had just endured. Her throat ached with every swallow, a constant reminder of the violation she had suffered.

“So?” the Marquis asked, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. His thick French accent was unmistakable. “What will it be? Will you stay, or will you go home?”

“I want to go home,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and broken.

The Marquis smiled adoringly. “Very well.”

He stood up and reached out his hand towards her. She looked at it with a puzzled expression until she realised he was offering it to her. Like a gentleman. As if he had not roughly fucked her throat like a fleshlight.

Yn reached out and grasped the Marquis's proffered hand. He pulled her to her feet with surprising gentleness, his grip firm yet careful. She wobbled slightly on unsteady legs, her knees still bearing the marks of the hard floor.

To her shock, the Marquis then took a few tissues and bent down before her. With tender motions, he brushed away the dust and grime from her knees and legs, his touch feather-light against her skin. Yn stood frozen, unsure how to react to this unexpected kindness after the brutal assault on her body and dignity.

When he finished, the Marquis rose and looked at her with those piercing eyes. He simply tossed the used tissues aside and spoke to her, “Now, go home. Or would you like one of my bodyguards to bring you home safely?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you, sir.”

A smile spread across the Marquis' face as he placed both hands on her jaw, gently holding her in place. He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead before pulling back to admire her once more with a pleased smile. He nodded in contentment and said, “Take care, ma lapine. Send me a message once you get home safe.”

Before Yn could comprehend what was happening, she found herself sitting on the bus, headed back to her run-down apartment. The usual commotion of her coworkers chatting and laughing surrounded her, but today, no one seemed to acknowledge her exhausted appearance. Everyone was too preoccupied with their own responsibilities in the casino and their own personal issues.

She arrived at her apartment, numb and exhausted. Barbara, her cousin who had been watching Sydney, greeted her with a concerned frown. “Yn, are you alright? You look tired.”

Yn forced a smile, not wanting to burden Barbara with the truth. “I'm fine. Just tired. Thanks for taking care of Sydney, Bar.”

After seeing her cousin out of the apartment, Rosie, her cat, padded over and nuzzled against Yn’s legs, her soft fur brushing against her ankles. Yn bent down, scratching gently behind Rosie’s ears, trying to find some small comfort in the warmth of her purrs. Rosie was blissfully unaware of her owner’s turmoil, and Yn envied her for it.

Yn went through the motions of feeding her, though her mind was still elsewhere. She filled the cat’s bowl and made her way to Sydney’s room to check on her. The small figure of her sister was curled up under the covers, fast asleep, her breathing soft and even. Sydney’s hair splayed across her pillow, and her small face held a peacefulness that seemed to ease some of Yn’s own tension. For a moment, Yn stood there, simply watching, her heart aching with a fierce protectiveness.

Her fingers brushed a strand of hair from Sydney’s forehead, careful not to wake her. She whispered, “Sweet dreams, Syd.”

With Sydney safely asleep, Yn slipped back into her own room and prepared for bed. She changed into her nightclothes, the familiar fabric a small comfort after the tension of the day. She let out a long breath as she slid under the covers, hoping to find some rest finally.

But just as her head touched the pillow, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message. The text, short and disturbingly familiar, appeared from an unknown number, but it didn’t have to tell her who it was.

“Did you get home safe, ma lapine?”

Yn froze, her fingers trembling as she stared at the message. The Marquis. It was like he was still watching her, like his presence lingered over every part of her life. For a moment, she considered ignoring it, pretending she hadn’t seen it. But she knew better. Not answering him meant risking his anger, and she couldn’t afford that – not when her family’s safety depended on her compliance.

With a shaky breath, she forced her fingers to type out a response. “Yes, sir. Thank you for your concern.”

She set the phone down, her stomach twisting with unease. She hoped that would be enough to end it for the night. But seconds later, the phone chimed again. Another message, bold and clear across the screen.

“I will be busy tonight, so I can’t sleep over or take you to my mansion. But I expect to see you tomorrow night. Don’t disappoint me.”

The words sat heavily in her chest, the “expect” as binding as any chain. She put the phone down slowly, her appetite gone, and lay back on the pillow, her mind racing with the familiar dread.

As Yn thought back to the Marquis’s last message, an odd sense of relief flickered in her mind. At least tonight, he was occupied. It meant, however briefly, that she had a night to herself, a small pocket of time to think without his shadow looming over her. It was strange, but she realised that on these rare nights when he was busy elsewhere, she felt the smallest glimpse of hope. If he wasn’t watching her every move, maybe - just maybe – she could start laying the groundwork for a plan.

Something. Anything to free herself from his grasp.

Sitting up, Yn grabbed her phone, her fingers hovering uncertainly over the screen as she tried to steady her thoughts. Where could she even begin? The idea of fighting against him felt impossible; the Marquis’s power extended into every corner of her life. He seemed untouchable, someone with influence that couldn’t be shaken.

But perhaps that was just the image he presented. Maybe there were cracks, secrets—things he didn’t want the world to know. She swallowed hard, fingers beginning to type as she searched his name.

“Vincent Bisset de Gramont.”

To her frustration, there was barely any real information about Vincent Bisset de Gramont. The few articles she found only mentioned his philanthropic gestures – donations to select companies, mostly efforts to support the arts or “improve communities.” The profiles were sparse, the details vague. And any mention of his title, “Marquis,” was treated as little more than an exotic label, a lingering remnant of French nobility without any real bearing. Nothing, absolutely nothing, hinted at the man she knew—the one who controlled her life with invisible chains.

She scrolled through yet another article that praised his contributions, his “quiet charm” and “respectable reserve,” and Yn felt a wave of irritation bubbling up in her. It was a facade, all of it. But she couldn’t tear down the walls around his reputation with frustration alone.

She leaned back, letting her mind drift. Maybe he was so careful with his image because there was something to hide. The thought brought her a sliver of hope. Men like him always had something – everyone had a weakness. Maybe his was hidden in the connections he kept out of the public eye.

With a few deep breaths, she started a different approach, digging into forums, old message boards, and anywhere that didn’t depend on mainstream news. She scanned through threads buried in obscure forums, focusing on posts from those who hinted at elite circles, the kinds of people who might cross paths with someone like the Marquis.

Eventually, she stumbled across an old post that caught her eye. One user left a cryptic, subtle comment that immediately caught Yn's eye:

“The underground world is crumbling. Thanks to Baba Yaga.”

Baba Yaga? Yn opened a new tab to search for what it meant. Boogeyman.

Yn sat still, her eyes widening in remembrance of Mr. Gabriel's words.

“There’s been a... shift. A big one. A high-ranking figure in the criminal world – one of the untouchables – was murdered. By a rogue. And everything started to fall apart. The whole network... it’s crumbling.”

She thought about it, letting the idea settle. Baba Yaga was behind the recent chaos in the syndicate. Sure, she didn’t have much to go on. But it was something. This mysterious figure – it wasn’t impossible they could be… well, good. A just and honourable person. Someone willing to stand up against the worst in this world, tearing down that dark empire from the inside.

After staring at the screen for a while, Yn felt a spark of something unfamiliar – a thin thread of hope. The “Baba Yaga” could be more than a mere myth or threat. Could this person truly be tearing apart the network of untouchable criminals? She sat back, processing the idea, her mind racing. Maybe this figure wasn't just another ghost in the criminal underworld. Maybe Baba Yaga was a vigilante. Or someone working in the shadows with the power to dismantle the syndicate piece by piece.

It was a far-off notion, but the thought refused to leave her. What if this shadowy figure could be... an ally?

She doubted herself almost immediately. After all, what did she really know about this Baba Yaga? He might have collapsed in the underworld, but he might also be a serial killer. He could possibly kill her. It felt foolish, even dangerous, to think that help could come from some unknown rogue in the criminal world.

Yn let out a heavy sigh, despair creeping in as she opened a new tab on her screen. This time, she wasn’t searching for information on the Marquis or the elusive Baba Yaga. Instead, her fingers typed in something else – a list of hotels in far-off cities, scattered across the country. She browsed through different locations, city by city, hotel by hotel. Maybe it was pointless, maybe even desperate, but if things got worse… if the Marquis grew even more possessive or dangerous… she needed a plan. A place to run, to hide. Somewhere she could take Sydney and her mother where they could be safe, even if just for a little while.

Aside from escape plans, Yn also found herself digging into something else: ways to hide her identity. She searched for anything that could help—how to alter her name, replace her information, even vanish from records altogether. Whatever it would take to keep the Marquis from tracking her down. The articles and forums she found were daunting, full of legal terms and methods that felt out of reach for someone with her limited resources.

Still, she skimmed through, taking mental notes, searching for anything that might actually be doable. Fake IDs. Disguises. She even looked into digital guides on changing up her online footprint. She needed to be careful; anything she left behind could be a breadcrumb, a hint leading back to her and, worse, back to Sydney.

After a while, it dawned on her just how hard it was to sift through all this information on her phone’s tiny screen. The small display made everything harder to read and harder to process. She needed a laptop – something bigger, faster, and more practical for her constant, quiet research. But she didn’t have one. And the thought of buying one was laughable, considering the little money she had tucked away.

Then, like a dark cloud, the Marquis’s face surfaced in her mind. Just ask him, a voice in her head suggested. Get him to buy you a laptop.

Immediately, she recoiled from the idea. No. She wouldn’t. She had fought him for so long, resisted every attempt he made to pull her closer, to buy her obedience or loyalty. Asking him for a favour now, especially something as costly as a laptop, felt wrong. It would feel like... giving in. Or worse, like using him for his money.

But as she argued with herself, another thought pushed forward, small but stubborn. After everything he’s forced on you - her mind whispered, don’t you deserve something back?

The next day, Yn found herself surprisingly free from any messages or interruptions from a certain Frenchman. She welcomed the silence, savouring each hour. It felt like she was living a slice of her old life, a day untouched by his looming shadow. She spent the morning caring for Sydney, chatting up her coworkers during her shift at the café, laughing a bit too loudly at Edric’s jokes, and letting herself relax. For once, she let herself breathe.

After work, she picked up Sydney and swung by the hospital to visit her mom, who seemed brighter that day, her face lighting up at the sight of them. It was one of those rare days Yn wanted to freeze in time, where everything felt almost… normal. But as they made their way back to the apartment, reality crept in again, reminding her of her other obligations.

The casino awaited her that evening like a haunting echo she could never escape. Yn got ready slowly, pulling herself back into that guarded version of herself, the one with calm smiles and cautious words. She made sure Sydney was settled, checking and rechecking that her cousin Barbara had everything she needed to care for the little girl. As she prepared to leave, Yn lingered at the door, pressing a gentle kiss to Sydney’s forehead before turning to Barbara with a grateful nod.

“Be safe,” Barbara called softly, concern laced in her voice. Yn forced a smile, offering her cousin a reassuring wave before stepping into the hallway.

Yn arrived at the casino and made her way to the dressing room, where the familiar scent of hairspray and powder filled the air. She went through the motions, slipping into her bunny-girl costume and sitting down in the mirror to start her makeup. Just as she was reaching for her eyeliner, her friend Emily sidled up beside her, a sly grin on her face.

“Hey,” Emily nudged her shoulder playfully. “So… what did you and the Marquis talk about last night? In his office.”

Yn’s hand stilled, her heart skipping a beat. She forced herself to keep her tone light, glancing at Emily in the mirror with a practised smile. “Oh, not much. Just some work stuff. The usual.”

Emily raised a brow, looking unconvinced. “Uh-huh. That’s all? You mean to tell me a man of royalty, a Marquis, who pulled you into his office last night, barely says a word to you outside of ‘work stuff’?”

She paused as she went to her make-up table beside her. “I thought he had dragged you into that room and made out with you. It was clear to everyone that he was jealous when he learned that you were with another VIP. He likes you that much.”

Yn shook her head incredulously. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t understand why he became angry when I was just trying to do my job.”

Emily rolled her eyes, clearly amused. “Yn, the man’s used to getting what he wants. And right now, that happens to be you. He’s probably not thrilled seeing you pay attention to anyone else, even if it’s just part of your work.”

“But he’s got his pick of women,” Yn replied, a note of frustration in her voice. “Women with power. Real status. People in his world. Not… someone like me.”

Emily leaned in closer and said with a low voice. “But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Sometimes people with all that power want the one thing they can’t have.”

Emily paused to give Yn a pointed look. “Maybe you’re the mystery he can’t solve.”

Yn fell silent, her gaze fixed on Emily as she pondered the possibility that the Marquis' possessiveness towards her was due to what Emily had just said.

With their makeup done, the bunny-girls filed out of the lounge and slipped into their roles on the casino floor, each one assuming their stations with the practiced ease of a long night ahead. Yn took her usual spot at the roulette table, pasting on a smile as she welcomed the first players of the night.

An hour into her shift, she spotted a group of men striding into the casino. Dressed in black suits and dark sunglasses, their expressions cold and unreadable, they moved with a purpose, cutting through the crowd. Every step seemed calculated as they made their way directly toward the Marquis’s office, where Chidi, the Marquis’s trusted bodyguard, was already waiting by the door.

The tension thickened as the men exchanged brief, hushed words with Chidi. Yn glanced over at Sophia, who was standing nearby, greeting patrons.

She leaned in, keeping her voice low. “Sophia, who are they?”

Sophia’s eyes followed Yn’s gaze, and a frown crossed her face. “I don’t know. But they look like trouble. But if they came here to meet with the Marquis, then I guess it’s normal. It’s his type of people.”

Yn instantly remembered that the Marquis probably had ties to the underworld of crime, so these men were probably from that kind of world too.

“It’s better not to ask, Yn,” Sophia whispered. “Better to just do your job and keep your head down.”

As Yn stood behind the roulette table, she watched as Chidi signalled for additional bodyguards to join him. He knocked on the door and swung it open, motioning for everyone to enter the Marquis' office, including the suspicious-looking men. They disappeared into the room, leaving Yn to ponder the topic of their conversation.

The minutes ticked by slowly, each one feeling like an eternity. Yn kept herself busy, calling out bets and spinning the roulette wheel, but her mind was elsewhere, lingering on that door and the people hidden behind it.

Finally, after what felt like an hour of suspense, the office door opened. Slowly. Too slowly. Yn’s heart was in her throat as she tried to act casual, pretending to be deeply interested in the game in front of her, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from drifting to the scene unfolding across the room.

The suspicious men came out first, still dressed in their sharp, dark suits, but there was a change in their demeanour. They were talking amongst themselves, quick, hushed words that Yn couldn’t make out, and their expressions were grim. Serious. Chidi followed them, murmuring something to one of the guards before stepping aside. And then, the Marquis appeared.

He was calm, almost eerily so. His suit was immaculate, not a hair out of place, but there was a sharpness to his gaze that hadn’t been there before. He looked around, scanning the room until his eyes landed on Yn. She felt a chill run down her spine. It was as if he could see right through her, right into the thoughts she was trying to suppress.

Out of nowhere, the Marquis raised his hand, a simple but unmistakable gesture, beckoning her to come to him. Yn's pulse quickened. For a moment, she froze, her feet glued to the spot, as if unsure whether to obey or pretend she hadn’t seen him. But there was no avoiding it. Not with those eyes on her. She took a breath, forcing a calm she didn’t feel, and quickly waved over another bunny-girl to cover her spot at the roulette table.

As she made her way across the floor, weaving through the crowd, her mind raced. What did he want? Why now, right after that meeting? She approached him slowly, trying to keep her steps steady, even though her heart was pounding.

“Yes, sir?” she said, her voice coming out softer than she intended.

The Marquis smiled. He stepped closer, and before she could react, he reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering for just a second too long. It was a simple gesture, almost intimate. The way his presence seemed to command her attention, her compliance.

“So good to see you,” he murmured, his tone smooth as if they were simply exchanging pleasantries. “I have a task for you. Come.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he turned on his heel and began walking toward the office, expecting her to follow without question. She hesitated for a split second, but then her feet moved, trailing after him.

The Marquis pushed the door open and stepped inside, holding it for her to follow. Yn’s breath hitched as she crossed the threshold, her eyes darting around the room. Not one thing was amiss. He closed the door behind them with a soft click. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He just stood there, studying her, as if trying to decide something. Yn shifted under his gaze, feeling small, exposed.

“Yn,” he said finally, his voice low, almost gentle. “I need you to do something for me tonight.”

“What is it, sir?” she asked softly.

“Sit down on the table.”

Puzzled, she glanced over at the massive mahogany table that dominated the room. It was littered with paperwork, a half-empty decanter of brandy, and a touch of dust in the corners. Surely, he didn't mean for her to sit on that?

She walked over to the table and gingerly hoisted herself up onto it, wincing as she upset a small stack of papers. The Marquis strode towards her in haste and said, “Wait.”

He wrapped one arm around her waist and swiftly cleared the table with his other hand to make sure she wouldn't sit on anything. As he moved closer to her, their faces almost touched. When he finished, he turned to face her with a smirk and asked in his thick French accent, “Are you comfortable?”

Yn could only avert her gaze to the side and nodded, “Mm-hmm.”

She was stuck perched on the edge of the mahogany table, her feet dangling above the ground. The Marquis stood before her; his hands went to rest firmly on the surface of the desk on either side of her hips. His face was close to hers, a small smirk playing on his lips as he looked down at her. The room was dimly lit, casting intimate shadows across their faces. Yn couldn't help but feel a sense of unease as she realised she was trapped between his hands and the intimidatingly large desk behind her.

“If it’s just us two together in a room,” the Marquis said, raising one hand to remove the mask on Yn’s face, “you can remove your mask.”

Yn did not have to do anything as the Marquis himself took off her mask and tossed it behind him without a glance. Her entire face was now revealed to him and that made her feel somewhat bashful, suddenly aware of her vulnerability and shyness.

Out of nowhere, he gently placed his hand on her chin and lifted her face towards his. She was unable to resist as he slowly leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. She stiffened, her eyes widening in surprise, and his warm breath, mixed with a hint of brandy, brushed against her skin.

His kiss was firm but gentle, demanding yet almost tender, a stark contrast to his usual cold, commanding demeanour. His thumb stroked her cheek idly as if to reassure her. It contrasted sharply with the intensity of their situation, and it took Yn a moment to comprehend what was happening.

As his kisses ran down her neck, she finally found it in herself to speak up, “Sir, you said… you have a task for me…?”

“Yes,” he answered breathily as he laid kisses around her neck. “Your task is to stay still.”

His lips made soft, featherlight noises as they travelled down her neck and along her collarbone, leaving a trail of kisses that sounded like tiny pops as they connected with her skin. Yn's breath hitched as she tried to hold back a soft sigh, her heart pounding in her ears in time with the gentle rhythm of his movements. She could also hear the slight rustle of his clothes as he leaned closer, his touch sending small shivers down her spine. It was a symphony of sensations, one that left Yn's mind in a blissful haze, to her surprise.

“I’m glad,” she heard the Marquis say. “You still wear the necklace I gave you. I assume you love it.”

His fingers trailed down her neck, tracing the delicate line of her collarbone. Yn shivered, goosebumps rising on her skin despite the warmth of the room. She could feel his breath, hot and heavy, against her throat as he worked his way lower.

Lower and lower, until his lips brushed the swell of her breasts, peeking out from the low-cut bodice of her costume. Yn inhaled sharply, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. This was wrong, so wrong. She had never given him permission to touch her like this, to take such liberties with her body.

But she couldn't deny the way her heart raced, the way her skin tingled wherever he touched. It was a traitorous response, one that filled her with shame and confusion. How could her body betray her like this, responding to the attention of the man who forced himself on her again and again in the past? She wanted to hate him.

The Marquis’ hands slid around to her back, fingers splaying across her skin as he pulled her closer. Yn squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the sensation of his touch, the scent of his cologne filling her nostrils.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, stop.”

But the Marquis ignored her, his mouth trailing lower, lower until his teeth grazed the sensitive skin just above the neckline of her costume. Yn gasped, her back arching involuntarily.

It was too much, too fast. She felt like she was drowning, suffocating under the weight of the Marquis’ attentions. Her mind screamed at her to fight, to push him away, but her body wanted to drown more in this pleasure.

Instead, she sat there, trembling and helpless, as the Marquis continued his relentless assault on her senses. Each brush of his lips, each nip of his teeth, sent sparks of unwanted pleasure coursing through her veins.

The Marquis grasped the neckline of her bunny-girl outfit and tugged it lower, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze. Before Yn could even think to protest, he had latched onto one rosy nipple, sucking it into his mouth with a ravenous intensity.

“Ah!” Yn cried out, her back arching at the sudden sensation. It was too much, too fast. She felt like she was drowning in a sea of unwanted pleasure, her body betraying her at every turn.

The next thing she knew, she was on her back on the table. The Marquis lavished attention on her breasts, his tongue swirling around each sensitive peak. He bit down gently, sending jolts of pain-tinged ecstasy shooting through her nerves. Yn's hands flew up to grip his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

It was wrong, so wrong. But God help her, it felt good. Too good.

The slurping, suckling sounds of the Marquis' mouth and tongue exploring every inch of her exposed skin rang in Yn's ears, a mix of pleasure and discomfort. The occasional moan or grunt escaped his lips, accompanied by the sound of Yn's sharp intake of breath or a whimper. The bite on her nipples elicited a faint gasp followed by a sharp cry of surprise and pleasure.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as the Marquis continued his relentless assault on her senses. She could feel herself growing wet, her body responding to his touch despite her mind's protests.

Shame burned through her veins, hot and acrid. How could she let this happen? How could she allow this man, this monster, to violate her in such a way?

The Marquis pulled away from Yn’s breasts, leaving them glistening with his saliva. His eyes, dark with lust, travelled down her body, lingering on the curve of her hips. With a wicked grin, he hooked his fingers into the panty-shaped bottom of the bunny-girl costume and tugged it aside, exposing her thin panties.

Yn’s breath caught in her throat as the cool air hit her heated skin. She squirmed on the table, trying in vain to maintain some modesty, but the Marquis simply laughed at her efforts. He hooked his fingers into the centre of her panties and pulled them aside, revealing her most intimate parts to his hungry gaze.

“No,” Yn whispered, shaking her head in denial. “Please, don't...”

But her pleas fell on deaf ears as the Marquis lowered his head, his hot breath ghosting over her sensitive flesh. Yn gasped as his tongue made contact, a jolt of unwanted pleasure shooting through her core.

He licked and sucked at her folds, his fingers spreading her open wider. Yn's hands flew to his hair, torn between pushing him away and holding him in place. It was too much, too intense. She could feel herself growing wetter, her body responding to his touch despite her mind's protests.

The wet, lewd sounds of the Marquis's mouth eagerly feasting on Yn's most private area echoed throughout the room, mingling with her soft moans and whimpers of pleasure and discomfort. Each slurp and suck was like a symphony of forbidden desire, suffocating any rational thoughts or protests Yn tried to make. The sound was both arousing and repulsive, a twisted melody that consumed both of their senses. It was wrong, so wrong, but she was powerless to stop it.

Just as she teetered on the brink, the Marquis pulled away, leaving her desperate and wanting. He grinned up at her, his lips shiny with her essence.

“Not yet, ma lapine,” he purred, his French accent thick with desire. “We're just getting started.”

With that, he dove back between her legs, his tongue delving deep into her folds. Yn cried out, her hips bucking involuntarily as he lapped at her most sensitive spots. It was too much, too intense. She could feel herself teetering on the brink of release, only for the Marquis to pull away at the last second, leaving her desperate and wanting.

He repeated the process again and again, edging her to the point of madness. Yn's body was on fire, every nerve screaming for more. But still, she fought against it, clinging to the last vestiges of her sanity.

“Please,” she whimpered, tears streaming down her face. “Please, stop. I can't take it anymore.”

But the Marquis just grinned, his lips and chin shiny with her essence. “Beg me, Yn. Beg me to fuck you. Beg me to fill you.”

Yn shook her head frantically, even as her body betrayed her, aching for his touch. She sobbed, “No. No, I won't. I don’t want that.”

The Marquis's eyes narrowed, his grip on her thighs tightening. He growled, “You will. You will beg for it, and you will enjoy every second of it. Deep down, you know you want this. You finally want me.”

And with that, he surged forward, his tongue spearing into her core as his fingers rubbed mercilessly at her clit. The Marquis continued his relentless assault on Yn's senses, his tongue delving deep into her folds, his fingers rubbing mercilessly at her clit. Again and again, he brought her to the brink of release, only to pull away at the last second, leaving her crying.

Yn thrashed on the table, sobbing. “Please. Please, stop. I can't take it anymore.”

But the Marquis just grinned, his eyes glinting with sadistic pleasure. He doubled his efforts, his tongue swirling around her sensitive bud, his fingers pumping in and out of her dripping core. Yn's back arched off the table, a moan tearing from her throat as another orgasm was nearing, but the Marquis withdrew again before she could explode.

It was too much, too intense. She was drowning in sensation, in the wrongness of it all. And yet, even as her mind recoiled, her body craved more. More of his touch, more of his attention, more of the forbidden pleasure he offered.

Yn whimpered, even as her hips bucked against his face, “Give it to me. Please!”

But the Marquis was relentless and adamant. He licked and sucked and fingered her until she was a writhing, sobbing mess. Her body was on fire, every nerve screaming for release.

That’s when she recalled what Emily told her a few hours ago.

“I thought he had dragged you into that room and made out with you. It was clear to everyone that he was jealous when he learned that you were with another VIP. He likes you that much.”

“He likes you that much.”

Does he?

“Fine!” she begged, tears streaming down her face. “Please, fuck me. Fill me. I need it. I need you.”

The words tasted bitter on her tongue, a betrayal of everything she stood for. But in that moment, lost in a haze of unwanted pleasure, Yn knew she would do anything, say anything, just to make it stop. To find some measure of relief from the torment of the Marquis' touch.

The Marquis's triumphant laughter echoed in the room as he loomed over Yn's trembling form. With a wicked grin, he crashed his lips against hers, his tongue forcing its way past her teeth and into the warm recesses of her mouth. To his surprise, Yn responded eagerly, her own tongue tangling with his in a heated dance.

The Marquis growled into the kiss, his hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt. He needed to be inside her, to claim her, to make her his. With a swift tug, he freed his throbbing cock, the thick length bobbing heavily between their bodies.

Yn's eyes widened as she felt the heat of him pressing against her slick folds. This was it. The moment she had been dreading, the moment she had been fighting against, but also the moment she had been begging for. Even as her mind recoiled, her body also seemed to welcome his intrusion.

The Marquis broke the kiss, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts. His voice was low and dangerous as he purred, “You want this, don't you? You want me to fuck you, to fill you until you're screaming my name.”

With tears rolling down her cheeks, Yn nodded her head, her hips canted upwards, seeking his touch. Her voice was small and broken as she whimpered, “Yes, please! Fill me, sir!”

With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, stretching her walls to the point of pain. However, it also filled her in the most pleasurable, gratifying way. Yn cried out, her back arching off the table as he began to move, his hips snapping against hers in a brutal rhythm.

It was too much, too intense. Yn could feel every inch of him, could feel the way he pulsed and throbbed inside her. And despite everything, despite the shame and the guilt and the wrongness of it all, she could feel herself responding, her body welcoming his invasion even as her mind screamed in protest.

The Marquis's thick, throbbing cock was buried deep inside Yn's slick, tight folds. His hips moved in a brutal rhythm, snapping against her with each thrust. Yn’s back was arched off the table, her body fully exposed to his powerful movements. Her hands were laid on the table beside her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked up at him, her eyes filled with both pleasure and pain. Her pussy juices coated his cock and flowed freely as he relentlessly pounded into her. Her breasts bounced up and down her body with each pounding.

Yn's breasts heaved with each powerful thrust, rising and falling with the rhythm of the Marquis's hips. Her nipples were flushed and hard, her skin glistening with sweat in the candlelight. They jiggled and bounced, almost mesmerising in their movements. Their size and fullness were emphasised by the force of his movements, and Yn couldn't help but feel a mix of pleasure and pain each time they bounced against her body.

Yn's legs were spread wide, her toes curling in pleasure as she felt the Marquis's forceful movements. Her skin was flushed and slick with sweat in the dim candlelight, the muscles in her thighs tensing with each thrust. Her legs swayed back and forth, following the merciless rhythm of his hips as he took her.

The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with Yn's sharp cries and the Marquis's low grunts, filled the room. The creaking of the table and the rattling of the objects on top of it added to the symphony of pleasure and desire. The wet sounds of their bodies joining and separating, slick with sweat and juices, echoed off the walls, creating a primal melody that consumed them both. Through it all, the heavy breathing and guttural moans of pleasure from both Yn and the Marquis could be heard, intensifying with each powerful thrust.

The Marquis, driven by an insatiable lust, maintained his brutal pace, his hips snapping against Yn's with each powerful thrust. The room was filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, mingling with Yn's sharp cries of pleasure and pain.

“Take it, ma lapine,” the Marquis growled, his voice rough with desire. “Take my cock. Take everything I give you.”

Yn could only sob in response, her body shaking with the force of his thrusts. She could feel him everywhere, could feel the way he stretched and filled her, the way he claimed her so completely. It was wrong, so wrong, but in that moment, lost in a haze of sensation, she couldn't bring herself to care.

The Marquis's hands roamed over Yn's body, gripping her hips, her thighs, and her breasts. He pinched and tugged at her nipples, sending jolts of unwanted pleasure through her core. Yn's back arched, a scream tearing from her throat as he hit a spot deep inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids.

“Please,” she begged, though she wasn't even sure what she was asking for. “Please, more. More!”

The words tasted like sin on her tongue, but Yn was too far gone to care. All that mattered was the feeling of the Marquis inside her, the way he made her body sing with pleasure even as her mind recoiled in shame.

And so she surrendered to it, to him, letting the Marquis take her in the most primal way possible. Her body was his to use, his to claim, his to ruin. And as the pleasure built to an unbearable crescendo, she knew she could finally get it. She could finally cum!

The Marquis's thrusts grew erratic, his hips slamming against Yn's with a force that shook the table beneath them. Yn could feel the tension coiling in his body, could sense the impending release that hovered just out of reach.

“Cum for me,” the Marquis growled, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Cum on my cock. Now.”

And then, with a final, brutal thrust, Yn's world shattered. Pleasure exploded through her body, so intense it bordered on pain. Her back arched off the table, her mouth open in a silent scream as her orgasm crashed over her in wave after wave of ecstasy.

The Marquis's expression contorted in pleasure; his eyes tightly shut as he reached climax. His fingers dug into Yn's hips, leaving red marks on her skin as he pulled her flush against him. His cock pulsated and throbbed inside her, spilling his seed deep within her womb. Yn could feel the hot rush of his release, could feel the way it filled her, claimed her, marked her as his own.

The room was filled with the sound of heavy breathing, the only indication of their end of recent fucking. The Marquis and Yn remained locked together, their bodies still trembling from the intense climax they had just shared. The sound of skin sliding against skin could be heard as they tried to catch their breath, with the occasional low groan escaping from the Marquis’ lips. And then, as the moment stretched on, the soft sound of nuzzling could be heard as the Marquis buried his face in Yn’s hair, breath hot against her neck as he showed his affection for her.

“Mine,” he whispered, his voice low and possessive. “All mine.”

Yn heard it. She heard it all, even if he whispered. He sounded so possessive and so obsessive. So smitten. Emily’s words rang in her head.

“He likes you that much.”

She remembered a part of her had once told her. Get him to buy you a laptop. After everything he’s forced on you, don’t you deserve something back?

“I…” you spoke up, attracting the Frenchman’s attention.

In his weariness, he gently lifted himself off of you, yet still close enough to feel his warmth. He placed his hands on either side of your head and leaned in, towering over you with an intimate intensity. His gaze was filled with desire as he looked at you with a pair of bedroom eyes.

“What is it?” he asked.

You stared at him in silence, wondering if it was okay to ask him for something. Would he get angry? Would he look at you in disgust? Would he see you as an opportunistic and materialistic bitch?

“Say it, ma lapine,” he told you.

His sweet nickname for you convinced you to do it.

“I want… a laptop,” you meekly said. “That’s all…”

The Marquis's eyes glinted in realisation at Yn's request. Yn, the woman who had resisted him a lot in the past, just asked him for something. She had seen him as a provider. A reliable, dependable man to provide her with anything. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his features.

“A laptop, hmm?” he mused, his fingers trailing lightly over Yn's cheek. “And what do you intend to do with this laptop?”

Yn swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She knew she was treading on dangerous ground, that the Marquis was not a man to be trifled with. But something about the way he looked at her, the possessive glint in his eye, made her feel that she could do this.

“I... I want to do more,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want to learn more on the Internet. It would be convenient for me and my family.”

The Marquis’ smile widened, his hand cupping Yn's chin and tilting her face up towards his own. “Oh, ma petite. You have no idea how pleased I am to hear you ask me that.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against Yn's in a tender kiss. It was a stark contrast to the brutal passion they had shared mere moments before, but no less intense for its gentleness.

“Of course, you shall have your laptop,” the Marquis breathed against her mouth. “And anything else you desire. You have but to ask, ma lapine. I have the money to provide you with everything.”

You glanced up at the magnificent ceiling above you, your thoughts empty as his words slowly sank in. Then, one thought surfaced in your mind.

You got him wrapped around your finger.

PREV : Chapter 07

NEXT : Chapter 09

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[fanfictionismyaddiction]

I love 'Meme-ing my way to your heart' sm!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️ Would you consider writing part 2 for it??🥺 Thanks!!!

Meme-ing my way to your heart (Part 2)

Word count: 1k

Pairing: Toto Wolff x Wife!reader, feat. Jack

Part 1

hope the second chapter is good enough Xx

________________________________________________________

The paddock hummed with life as you relaxed in the Mercedes hospitality suite, phone in hand, scrolling through the latest batch of Toto-and-Fred memes. The internet had gone wild after last week’s race, and today, they’d reached a whole new level of creativity.

You laughed out loud as you came across one that had you practically in tears. It was a photoshopped image from the now-famous shot of Toto leaning over Fred’s shoulder, looking intensely at a phone screen that another man had been holding. Except this time, instead of the man, it was you—your face was awkwardly slapped over the man’s head. The caption read: 

When you thought you were just a supportive wife, but the fans cast you as the comic relief in Toto and Fred's love story.

Toto walked in, spotting you laughing at your phone. He sighed, already knowing what was coming. "Another one?"

"Oh, this is gold," you said between giggles, holding out the phone. “Look at this!”

Toto took one glance and groaned, though a smile was already tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Are you serious? They've put you in the meme now?"

“Yup!” You beamed. “Apparently, I’m the third wheel now! Look at me—stuck in the middle of the most epic romance of the paddock.”

Toto leaned over, taking the phone from your hand. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, even though his amusement was impossible to hide.

“Oh, come on,” you teased, nudging his arm. “Admit it, you two are the power couple no one saw coming.”

Toto rolled his eyes but chuckled. “I'm going to have a word with Fred about this.”

“You better. At this rate, people are going to think I’m the mistress, and you’re leaving me for Fred.”

Before Toto could respond, Jack came running into the hospitality suite with Lewis and George trailing behind him. Jack’s face was flushed with excitement. “Mummy! Daddy! Uncle Lewis and Uncle George took me to the garages, and I got to sit in the car!”

“Did you?” you grinned, opening your arms to hug him. “Was it fun?”

“Yeah! It was super fast, even though it wasn’t moving!” Jack’s enthusiasm was infectious, and even Toto leaned in to ruffle his son’s hair.

“Looks like you’re training the next generation of drivers, Lewis,” Toto remarked, smiling at the two racers who were chuckling nearby.

“Oh, he’s got talent,” George added, winking at Jack. “We might have to sign him up in a few years.”

“Or sooner,” Lewis said with a smirk. “He’s already faster than half the grid.”

Toto laughed, patting Jack’s back. “We’ll keep an eye on him.”

After a bit more chatting, Lewis and George headed back to their prep work, leaving Jack to continue his exploration of the paddock with one of the Mercedes team members.

You couldn’t resist pulling out your phone again. “You know, the internet has more to say on your bromance,” you teased Toto, showing him yet another meme.

Toto looked at the meme and burst into laughter. “Oh my god, they really have too much time on their hands.”

“You’re telling me! You and Fred are practically star-crossed lovers at this point,” you said, leaning closer with a mischievous grin.

At that moment, Fred Vasseur himself walked into your teasing with toto, apparently having just wrapped up a meeting nearby. “Bonjour! I ‘ope I am not interrupting anyzing.”

“Oh no, Fred, you’re just in time!” you said, standing up and waving him over with a grin. “I was just showing Toto how the internet is fully invested in your little… romance.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, glancing from you to Toto with a confused smile. “Romance? With Toto?” His thick French accent made his confusion even more amusing.

You pulled up the latest meme and showed it to Fred, watching his face as he scanned the image of you, Toto, and himself. He let out a hearty laugh. “Ah, I see now! Yes, of course. I ‘ave become ze villain, ‘ave I?”

“Oh no, Fred,” you said with a wink, “You’re the hero of this story. The one who finally steals my husband away.”

Fred grinned, his eyes twinkling with humor. “Ah, so zat’s it! I am ze seducer now?”

“You sure are,” you teased, crossing your arms and tilting your head. “I mean, with all the time you two spend together, it’s only a matter of time before I’m kicked to the curb.”

Toto, shaking his head, pinched the bridge of his nose in mock exasperation. “This has gone too far. Fred, you need to help me get Y/n off my case.”

“Ah, but I cannot ‘elp you, Toto,” Fred said with a grin. “Ze internet ‘as already decided our fate. We are clearly in love.”

Before Toto could respond, Jack came running back into the room, tugging on your sleeve. “Mummy, is Uncle Fred Daddy’s boyfriend?”

The room fell into a stunned silence for half a second before Fred doubled over with laughter, his whole body shaking. “Oh la la, I ‘ave not ‘eard zat one before!”

Toto’s face turned bright red, and he ran a hand through his hair, trying to contain his own laughter. “No, Jack. Uncle Fred is not Daddy’s boyfriend.”

Jack looked up at you, confused. “But you said he was stealing Daddy…”

Fred wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “Ah, but zat is a joke, petit. Just a joke.”

You crouched down to Jack’s level, smoothing his hair with a gentle smile. “That’s right, sweetheart. We’re all just teasing.”

Jack looked at Fred with wide eyes. “So you’re not taking Daddy?”

Fred grinned, kneeling down to be at eye level with Jack. “Non, non, petit. Your daddy is all yours.”

Jack nodded, satisfied, before running off to find his next adventure. You and Toto exchanged a glance, both of you shaking with silent laughter.

“I think that’s enough teasing for today,” Toto said with a grin, finally catching his breath.

“Oh no, this is just the beginning,” you replied, slipping your phone back into your pocket with a wink. “But don’t worry, Fred. I’ll fight for him.”

Fred chuckled, patting Toto on the back. “Bonne chance, mon ami. You are in for a long season.”

[pia-nor481]

She Looks Like a Star- Chapter Two

Multidriver x reader (mostly Charles)

She meets a few members of the company, some captivating her, some not. What she can’t get over is the idea of filming with Charles.

2.9k words 18+

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Oscar walked in front of her to open the door, letting her walk into the room first. She was shocked by the amount of people there, a few she recognised, meaning she had seen them on twitter briefly, others she didn't know at all. The nerves Oscar had melted away were quickly coming back as she looked around the room. She noticed a lot of the crew wearing black, yet everyone else was either wearing the same robe Oscar was, or where missing one item of clothing. 

"Is she a new fluffer?" Daniel asked, directing his whisper to Max. "Are you serious? How do you not know who she is?" Daniel just shrugged, turning back to her. The only thoughts rushing through his mind was how gorgeous she was. "She huge, anyone who watches any content should know her." Max rushed out, truly baffled at how unaware Daniel was. "Wait seriously, you've not watched one of her videos?" Carlos interrupted, "It's almost impossible to not cum in a few minutes." A look of shock painted Daniel's face as he finally registered Carlos' words. "Wait, really?" They all nodded with a small smirk. "Who's she working with first?" The Australian asked, "I'm guessing Oscar." Carlos said with a pointed tone as he looked over, noticing the hand on the small of her back. 

An American was the first to walk up to them. "Hi, I'm Logan. I worked with Oscar at his last company. It's nice to me you." He said with a bright smile, holding out his hand. She shook his hand and mirrored his smile. "So have you been filming for long?" She asked, looking back at him. " Four years now, I think. But this is  my second year working here." She nodded with a quick hum. "And you? You've not worked for a company before right?." Logan asked, truly interested. She blushed slightly while answering, "Um, yeah I've not worked for a company before so this is a little nerve wracking actually. But I've been filming for two years." She muttered the last part feeling slightly embarrassed that she wasn't as experienced as someone who was considered new. "That's pretty cool and don't worry, You'll do great." Logan said walking away just before he was called to start filming. Oscar's hand ran up and down her back in an attempt to comfort her. "Relax, you'll be okay." They walked up to Max and Daniel, she was aware of who Max was, it was hard not to be, almost everyone knew his name. "Hello." She almost whispered feeling a little more shy than before. Daniel returned the hello accompanied with a small hug. Max on the other hand didn't interact too much, she'd heard that he doesn't enjoy the more social aspects of the job. "It's a pleasure." Was all he said with his signature smile. "Ignore him...I'm excited to work with you." Daniel said, joy practically radiating from him. The formalities were quickly draining her energy, but there was one more man she had to meet. She noticed that he spent the whole ordeal in the corner of the room just observing her, it didn't feel as weird as it sounded. "Hello, It's nice to meet you. I'm Charles by the way." He said with a small smirk. The first thing she noticed was his accent, and then how enticing his presence was. She was almost captivated. She didn't get a chance to say anything back as she watched him walk away and start talking to the other French speaker Pierre. 

"I can't tell what just happened." She stated looking back at Oscar. "They're just nervous, mostly because you're actually really pretty, plus you're new. So don't take it to heart." He smiled, guiding her back out of the room.

 "Lando wasn't there." She stated simply, not bothering to look up from her feet as they walked back to her so called office. "I think he's filming right now." Oscar said, shaking his head slightly. "Already?" She asked in shock, fumbling with the key to the door. "Yeah, he's the reason there's a filming limit. Once he starts doing something It's all he can think about. So he focuses on that a little too much." He replied, watching her reach for a drink with wide eyes. "Yeah it's one of his kink shoots, so most likely he's not actually fucking her. Those take at least an hour for him to set up before they start filming anyway. Plus there's a lot of changes to the set in between shots. So all in all it probably takes around five or six hours total." Her jaw dropped lightly before she handed him a drink as they both sat on the bed. "That's insane... I'm guessing he does the full nine videos a week." She was still stunned, how could one film for six hours. "Yes, but only three or four of those videos he's actually getting off. He usually doesn't film the full nine every week. But there's a higher expectation for the men in this industry to film more. But he's one of the few that doesn't really mind that." Oscar paused his rant to take a sip of the tea. "You'll be fine, you've not asked to do one of those shoots with him. Plus they are easing you into filming here. Honestly you need to relax a little bit." Oscar was probably one of the worst people she could have heard that from, he always seemed so calm and collected. "Come on, you need to get home and prepare for your meetings." The Australian held his hand out to her. 

The drive home wasn't something she particularly enjoyed, the streets were always busy and people just never seemed to be looking where they were going. When she closed the door to the flat and placed her belongings at the door she noticed a message.

It amazed her how sweet he was being, then again he was the outsider no one wanted to speak to last year, so it only makes sense that he wanted to ease the transition for her. A loud sigh left her lips as she sat down on the sofa, the stress of the day finally catching up to her. 

She walked to her bedroom with haste, grabbing her camera and laptop. She wanted to rid of the stress the best way she knew how. She placed the tripod at the foot of her bed before pulling out her box of toys. She quickly decided on using the white wand from her first video. After plugging it in, she stripped of most of her clothes, just leaving her bra and panties as she climbed on the bed. She clicked the 'stream' button and waited for a substantial amount of viewers before she actual began. "I've had such a stressful day today, and I most definitely need your help." She said rather quietly, running her hands up her abdomen so she could cup her breast, squeezing slightly. With her eyes closes she began to toy with herself, still wanting to give her viewers a show. Her fingers danced over her thighs before she spread her legs, showing off the lacy blue thong she was wearing, she pulled on the waist band before she began to rub her clit lightly, head falling back slightly. "Feels so good already." She mumbled before pulling her hand away, opening her eyes. looking straight at the camera with a big smile. "You better have your hand around you cock." She said in an almost bratty tone, yet she still seemed so sweet. She rose slightly, resting on her knees as she reached behind her back, unclasping the bra. The anticipation of pleasure was almost killing her. She rolled her nipples between her fingers, moaning quietly at the feeling. One thing she prided herself on was making her content as realistic as possible. She didn't want to be sat in front of the camera fake moaning as loud as possible and intentionally making lewd faces. She wanted it to be raw and real; Her fanbase and even casual viewers appreciated it. 

Her eyes shifted from the camera towards her laptop. She smiled seeing the kind words in the chat; "Oh that's terrible.", "I'm sorry you're so stressed.", "I hope you're feeling a bit better now." and "Wishing you the best right now." Even though they were there to watch her get off, she liked the attention and what seemed to be a genuine adoration from certain viewers. "Thank you...You're so sweet to me." She whispered, having to pause to catch her breath. She lowered her hands once again, a small smile adorning her face. She reached for the vibrator to her left and waved it in front of the camera before turning it on to the lowest setting. She started by brushing it over her chest, watching how her nipples hardened at the sensation. She brought the toy down, ghosting over her clit. "Fuck, I want it so bad." She looked back at the laptop waiting for a influx of messages giving her permission. As soon as the vibrator made contact she gasped, body pulling away from it with a small giggle. "Let's try that...Again." She huffed, struggling to get her words out as the vibration sent impulses through her body. "Fuck, needed this so bad." Her eyes rolled tot eh back of her head as she focused on the feeling. The stimulation not only affecting her cunt, but also her stomach, she felt butterflies as she rocked the vibrator against her skin, hips bucking to meet it as much as possible. Her moans bouncing off the walls made it clear how close she already was. She turned the toy up a setting before she began to move it in fast circles on her clit. "Oh, Please, Please. I'm gonna cum." Her vision became blurry as she began to twitch around nothing, eyes closed as her lips turned up into a smile. She could feel her cum slowly dripping down her thighs as she gasped for air, body falling forward slightly as her head dipped, right hand coming in front to support her almost limp body. "Fuck, I can still feel my legs shaking." She giggled once more, looking up towards the camera. She took a moment to fully collect herself and come back to reality.

"Sorry for the unannounced stream, I just wanted to feel good and thought you deserved to see it. Thank you for coming." She smiled before ending the stream, bothering to put the equipment back, just ensuring it was all turned off. She threw her body back onto the bed, head hitting the pillow softly before she reached for her phone.

The next morning she awoke feeling slightly groggy and irritated by the alarm going off next to her.  She groaned loudly as she got out of bed, practically running to the shower to wash off last night's events. She decided that wearing something slightly smart would be best for the meeting, even if it was only to discuss the scene, speaking of which, she was immensely nervous for. After staring at her wardrobe for about six minutes, she decided on a nice pair of trousers and a simple blouse would be the best decision. She slipped the clothes on before walking over to her laptop. Typically after she finished a stream she would look though the comments and donations before she went to bed. But last night, as soon as she locked her phone, she couldn't resist the urge to rest. So this morning, when she woke up to the words of praise she was almost ecstatic.  

As she walked through the dark corridors once more she realised how much she was already missing Oscar. He let her know that he was filming today and so wouldn't be in the building. She struggled down the halls once more looking for the right board room, her nerves quickly rising. Oscar's statement about her not focusing too much on production was really starting to get to her, especially after last night. Was that a bad thing? That she only focused on getting off, not making sure the stream or videos actually looked good. Should she be focused on that more? Her thoughts paused when she watched Charles enter board room three. A small sigh of relief escaped her lips as she followed him into the room. 

A few hellos and reintroductions were said as they all settled down. "So the shoot is in one weeks time in bed set one." Andrea started, looking through plenty of paper work on the table in front of him. "And since this is your first shoot with us, we want to keep things pretty simple. Zak and I think it's best to start with a more romantic and sweet scene and we want to know you're opinions with that?" This was the first time she'd even thought about the scene properly, not just thinking about Charles. "Yes, I think that is good." He said with a small smile, hands resting on the table. "Although I think it would be good to start the scene almost as if we were coming back from a date. It will look a little more, how do you say? Fluid, realistic maybe." Charles questioned. It was clear he had been working with them for a long time, He didn't even hesitate to suggest an idea. "I like that." She smiled, becoming slightly shy. "Okay, that's all good then. We will need your clothing sizes so we can get something appropriate for the shoot if that's okay?" Andrea asked, looking up at her, sliding a piece of paper across the table. She began writing with a small hum. "I would like to wear a suit if possible." Charles spoke up once again before taking a sip of the water in front of him. Andrea nodded righting down the request before turning to her. "Maybe a little dress of some kind." She didn't sound particularly sure of herself in that moment. 

"So, playing off of Charles' idea; You both come into the shot, quietly talking about how nice the date was and how much you really missed time with each other. Charles with come up behind you, holding your hips or waist and whispers something flirty to you. Then we'll cut to a different camera and he'll start undressing you." He paused briefly, letting Toto chime in. "So how many cameras do you actually want for this shoot?" Toto was the head of directing and was usually pretty hands on when filming, often found with a camera or a mic in his hands. "Possibly two. One on a tripod in front of the bed and one handheld following them around the room. I think it would be best to start with that one so we can get the shot from the front, then the one of Charles unzipping the dress in one go." Andrea stated looking directly at the Austrian. "I think having another would be best, maybe not following them around per say, but another handheld." Toto had been filming for almost eleven years now so he knew what was best and everyone truly trusted his opinion. 

"Okay, that's good. It will make the set up and directing a little bit longer. Just need you to know that." You could hear the sound of her heels tapping against the wooden floor of the room as he spoke. "Then after all the clothes are off I just want you to do whatever feels most natural in the moment but we want it to seem as sensual and loving as possible." Why did she feel like that was worse than having to follow a script? She wasn't completely sure she was ready for this. "One last thing, If either of you want anything to pause, end or be changed in some way say 'Stop' This isn't one of the more rough scenes so there is no need for any other words. So if you hear the other person say it, asks them immediately what's wrong." Andrea spoke with conviction, looking between them both for confirmation. Charles just could not take his eyes away from her for the rest of the meeting, he was enthralled with her. That was half of the reason he could only keep his introduction short the day prior, he didn't want to say anything stupid. 

"You need to be in the building by ten am giving you time for hair, make up et cetera. You need to be ready on set by eleven so we can sort the last few things out; Mostly what you're going to say and the final locations of the cameras and if there are any last minute details we need to add we have the time to do so." Andrea took one last pause before closing his notebook and folder. "That's all I need you for." 

She was just as overwhelmed now as she was when she left the first meeting and so thought it was best to go to her office to lie down for a moment. She once again struggled without Oscar's guidance. A small blush rose to her face as she sat down, thinking about Charles. Was it normal to be thinking about a colleague in such a way? Is there even that kind of line when your job is to fuck said colleague? Probably not. Even with the pillow covering her ears she could still hear the sound of the message on her phone. 

[dvrcos]

Have you written anything about Neil being mic’d up? Bc I would love to read that

Tbh I feel like Neil would be the least entertaining when mic’d up. Not because he’s not funny but because he gets so hyper focused on the game he isn’t talking outside of shouting in French at Kevin. I think Kevin is the same way tbh.

What they would do instead is have Neil watch and commentate his highlight reels and explain his thought process.

*neil getting body checked by a 6ft3 back liner and just ducking and rolling to grab the ball again*

“Oh yeah that hurt. Mans a skyscraper but ya know it was just instinct. You just gotta like tuck your head in and pray” *demonstrates how to do a somersault in the least graceful way*

*neil staring at andrew from across the court*

“Andrew made an impossible save, it was hot”

*from off camera* “junkie”

*some backliner all up in neils face, clearly arguing and screaming at him*

“I don’t even remember what I said to him but it clearly set him off.”

*aaron and neil arguing with each other*

“I don’t even remember what I said to him but it clearly set him off. Probably deserved it”

*neil getting up after a nasty tackle and limping off the court after Dan sent him off*

“I was fine”

*Andrew from off screen* “You were not fucking fine you almost broke a rib”

“Yeah, but I didn’t” *shrugs*

*neil running and jumping into matt’s arms after the game ends*

“I was just thinking ‘this is what it must be like to be tall’ honestly”

“If that’s what Kevin and Matt are seeing all the time, I’m not interested”

*watching the teams shaking hands at the end of the game*

“Asshole. Asshole. Asshole. Good player. Asshole. Asshole. Fuck him. Good player. Honestly a good team overall, can’t complain”

His mic would pick him up mimicking the opposing teams accents (subconsciously or on purpose). And it would start a conspiracy amongst fans about what neils real accent is

[sarawritesfics]

₊⊹ his favourite engineer | CL16

✧.* summary ; can the monegasque ferrari driver fix the shy workaholic?

✧.* authors note ; my first ever fic! vvvv excited about how this ones turned out - *written in the third person*

Chapter One

It was silent in the Ferrari garage. Apart from the slight clicking of keys in the office sector.

She was the only person in the building, the bright screen illuminating her light skin and and emerald green eyes as her slim fingers clicked rapidly against the keyboard on the desk in front of her.

Olivia took great pride in her work. Not only was she an engineer for the Ferrari F1 team, but she was one of their best. And she solemnly believed that it was because she worked as often as she possibly could.

She would spend as much of her time as she could working on bits that needed finishing or making adjustments and tweaking things. She was all too aware that by working 24/7, her private life barely existed.

Work, drink coffee, work, maybe sleep, repeat.

But she sort of liked it that way. She was a very timid girl growing up and she carried that shyness into her adulthood. But enjoying being alone most of the time didn't mean that she wouldn't like to find a hobby that she actually enjoyed. (but she very much struggled with that as she was always too tired)

Olivia was at peace when she was at work. It was her happy place. Mainly because she didn't have any hobbies and therefore was utterly bored when she wasn't working.

But she was ambitious, and she adored the fact that it seemed impossible for her to get burnt out or for her excellent work ethic to ever slow down.

She never failed to lose track of time.

"I won't be as late out tonight!" she'd tell her colleagues when they left the building at a reasonable 5pm.

But of course, that never happened.

It was 8am when she arrived to the garage that morning. A Thursday, in the humid Canada. But now she'd lost track of time as per. And the clock she hadn't bothered to check read 1am.

As well as failing to notice the clock, she also failed to notice the whole other person whom had entered the office. It wasn't until she heard a voice behind her that she paused her work for a moment.

"Isn't It too late for you to be working?"

She recognised that deep french accented tone.

It was Charles Leclerc, one of the two Ferrari drivers. Her and him had never really crossed paths, but they had spoken once or twice at team meetings and to her, he seemed pretty alright. To him, she was beautiful.

Olivia carefully spun around in her chair as she glanced at the clock, finally noting the late time.

"Guess I lost track of time," she sighed.

Charles chuckled and shook his head lightly as he moved to lean against the wall next to her, "As always," he crossed his arms over his chest, "You know, It's late. You should be back at your hotel by now. You should've been back ages ago."

"I just need to finish a few things." she replied to him as she fiddled with her hands in her lap.

He rolled his eyes, "It can wait, you know." he said as a small smile grew on his face.

"But what If It can't?" she replied quietly. She always was paranoid that If she decided to skip out on even the smallest of tasks, she would come in the next day and the team would need it desperately.

He dropped his voice a tad lower in slight concern, "You need to take care of yourself at some point. When's the last time you slept?"

Olivia stayed quiet as she had taken a pen off the desk and was fidgeting with the lid.

Charles was silent for a few moments, studying her face before he spoke again, "Seriously? Don't you think It's time for you to call It a night? You must be exhausted."

"I have my coffee to keep me going." she reassured the man in front of her as she softly gestured towards the cup of, now lukewarm, coffee on her desk behind her.

He laughed softly and and reached his hand out, carefully taking the cup from her desk and holding it tight. "Aaaand I'm cutting your caffeine sources for the night. How many have you had?"

"More than three."

Charles' eyes widened slightly in disbelief, a hint of concern crossing his face at the same time, "In total today or just tonight?" he questioned.

"Just tonight. Since everyone else left, and that was around five ish." Olivia replied, looking back down at her fidgeting hands. Unable to meet his gaze.

"You're telling me you've drunk more than three cups of coffee tonight alone? Olivia that's insane! Are you trying to develop a caffeine dependency or something?" He replied, concerned for her well-being more than ever at this point.

"No, I'm staying awake. That's what I'm doing." She said In her usual shy manner, although she was confused as to why he cared so much.

"By pumping yourself full of caffeine? Seriously, do you think that's healthy?" Charles asked her in a gentle yet concerned tone.

Olivia sighed lightly before moving her gaze up to meet his, "Look, I know It's not the healthiest thing ever, alright? But I need to get this work done so If you could please leave me be."

He huffed faintly at her persistence and delusion, "You always put your work above yourself. When was the last time you had a decent night's sleep?" he questioned, crossing his arms again after he put the coffee cup on the desk beside hers.

"Last night, now go." Olivia said quickly as she spun back around in her chair to continue working.

Charles wasn't buying it for a second and knew she was just trying to get him to leave quicker, "Last night? You expect me to believe that? The bags under your eyes tell a different story." He stated, not moving from his spot despite her request.

Olivia ignored him and continued to work, tapping away at the keys in front of her. She couldn't understand why he cared so much. She was just an engineer. Right..?

He let out another huff, annoyed that she wasn't listening to him. He pushed himself up from leaning on the wall beside her and stepped closer, gently grabbing her arm, "Hey, I'm serious. This needs to stop. You're going to work yourself into exhaustion."

"I'm not doing such a thing." She replied without looking up from her computer screen as she typed in all sorts of information and formulas.

"That's exactly what you're doing. You're a workaholic, and it's not healthy," Charles replied firmly, not letting go of her arm, "You're going to burn yourself out if you keep going like this."

She sighed, why was he so persistent? "You aren't even supposed to be in this sector of the garage. Drivers aren't supposed to see engineer workings until they're official plans."

"Right now, that's the least of my concerns," his tone was gentle but firm, "Listen, I care about you. You're constantly working, barely sleeping or eating, it's not healthy."

Olivia's tone was surprised and tinged with slight disbelief, "Why do you care about me? I'm just one of the engineers. I'm no different to the rest."

Charles rolled his eyes, slightly frustrated by her dismissive tone, but his tone remained gentle, "Come on, stop acting like you're just some random employee. You're an engineer, sure, but you're also an important person. We wouldn't have achieved even half of our successes if it weren't for your work."

"Exactly, that's why I'm working now." She replied calmly as she continued to type things into her computer with her free hands, despite his hand being on her arm.

A third huff left his mouth, fed up with her stubbornness. "No, that's not what I meant and you know it. You're working yourself to the bone and it's not sustainable." She turned to look up at him, making his arm drop back to his side. "You need to take a break. You are not a robot, you have limits." He added.

Olivia sighed faintly and after a few moments of consideration she realised this was not a battle worth fighting during her current level of weariness. "Fine. I'll go back to the hotel."

Charles was pleased that she had finally agreed to leave for the night, but his concern didn't diminish. "Thank you. At least that's a start."

1.4k words CHAPTER TWO

ooooh!! what do we thinkkkk??? i'm so happy with how this first chapter has turned out. so excited to see what you guys think!<3

feedback and constructive criticism welcome!

navigation

[cyphyree]

Adolescence of Utena -- Architecture x Character Designs

Dunno if I read it from somewhere, but I realized that Utena's new uniform is styled somewhat like the architecture of Adolescence Ohtori, namely how her clothes are black and white (later with red accents) . Whereas Utena stands out in the world of RGU, she blends right into Adolescence Ohtori, almost as if she is a part of the architecture and vice versa.

The movie is also called The *Adolescence* of Utena (or Girl's Revolution Utena: Adolescence Apocalypse), and in the show, we see adolescent Utena wear black and white at the funeral. I think that her wearing this scheme again in the movie is a sort of return to her adolescence. Not to say that she regressed back into the child she was before the show, but more so to represent the child that Utena still is even after maturing. An adolescent is defined as someone roughly between 10-19; Utena is still a teen who's growing in this age range.

That said, Adolescence Ohtori seems to be an architectural representation of Utena's inner child/self. Like a mindscape of sorts. At the end of the movie, both she and Anthy would leave the mindscape of their adolescence and enter into the unknown "outside world" of adulthood.

Red is associated with the Rose Bride, ie Anthy. Before meeting Anthy for the first time in the show, Utena's clothing was absent of red (her child funeral dress); however Utena's RGU uniform afterwards would have red accents.

Similarly, Utena's Adolescence "boy" clothing doesn't have red, but her "prince garb" after meeting Anthy does.

Speaking of, if we continue seeing Ohtori as Utena's mindscape, the deep red of the Adolescence rose garden is like the part of Utena's mind that Anthy occupies. The tower where the girls draw is also Anthy's domain, as it's draped in red.

Even other black-white architecture of Ohtori is accented with red--Anthy has always been present in Utena's thoughts, even if subconsciously.

Alternatively, red in Ohtori could represent Anthy's mindscape "overlapping" with Utena's. Anthy is still wrestling with leaving Akio after all, and after the events of RGU, it would make sense that she and Utena share "spaces"/experiences/solidarity.

Anthy's Rose Bride dress also more closely resembles Utena/Ohtori's aesthetic (white, red with black accents), and we only see her transform into that when she is with Utena. It seems to signify that Anthy has become more familiar/recognizable to Utena, as her Rose Bride dress visually brings her closer to Utena, more so than her generic mint-green uniform.

When Utena first meets Anthy in Adolescence, a light flurry of rose petals fall from the garden above, crossing from Anthy's domain into Utena's-- they are beginning to cross each other's paths again. During the dance in the garden, a much heavier shower of roses blanket the school architecture below, as if Utena and Anthy's connection has now become much stronger. From then on, Utena would try to create a genuine bond with Anthy (as we see during the drawing session)

Alternatively, it could also signify a progression towards Anthy taking the spotlight when she and Utena decide to leave the school for good:

Near the end of Adolescence, we are back in Anthy's rose garden, we see the chairman's tower (associated with Anthy and Akio), and everything is washed in purples and reds-- Anthy's colors. Utena's black/white structures are now absent. From here on out, Anthy is going to drive (heh) the story forward.

I wanna talk about the architectural styles of Ohtori, but that'll be its own post once I do a bit more research. I wanna expand on some differences such as:

Adolescence- constructivist, Russian Revolution, industrial, "masculine"

Show- neoclassical/rococo? French Revolution, floral/decorative, "feminine" -- perhaps Anthy's mindscape in a way.

Anyway this was supposed to be a bullet point list of miscellaneous stray thoughts, but I guess that's impossible, so I'll just eventually write more individual utena thoughts posts lol

Please feel free to tell me what you think btw!

There's also another post by @nothing-suspicious-in-there about Utena's uniform that's a completely different take, please check it out!

[virescent-v]

French Kiss

A/N: This is a combination of two requests I got: a fluffy fic of Emily telling you she has a crush on you and asking you out and a fluffy fic of Emily teaching you another language. Combining them seemed perfect!

Summary: Emily teaches you a little French ;P (Translations for the French is at the bottom!) Word count: 950 Warnings: nada, this is tooth-rotting fluff. :) Well, the only warning might be that I got the translations from Google, so if they're wrong don't yell at me lol Ps: If you haven't seen the tiktok of Paget speaking French....go do that first. 🫠😩🥵😵‍💫

You hated the fact that you never took a foreign language in middle or high school, when it was easier to learn. Now, it felt like grasping the semantics of another language was nearly impossible. 

You let out an exasperated whine, rubbing your temples. “Why does French have to have so many rules?” 

Emily chuckled, rolling her eyes at your antics. “It’s not that bad once you get the hang of them,” she said, rubbing your shoulders. “Quoi qu'il en soit, c'est une belle langue.” 

You squinted your eyes, glaring at her. While teaching you, Emily would consistently throw out random French sentences, hoping the constant exposure would help you. It only further irritated you. “Says the one who’s been fluent in French for most of her life, and who has lived in Paris.” Another eye roll. 

Emily’s smile grew. “J'aime parler une langue que vous ne pouvez pas. Tu es très mignon quand tu es irrité.” 

Another second of glaring might make your face permanently stick like that, so you decided to ignore her. “Moving on,” you said, looking intensely at the notes before you. “Possessive adjectives. Mon, ma, mes for the masculine, feminine, and plural my.” Your face scrunched up, your eyebrows furrowed a little. “Easy. M’s for the my’s.” You felt your tongue peek out in concentration. “Ton, ta, and tes for you.” 

You tapped your finger along the paper, the rhythmic cadence a tactic you hoped would help you remember everything. A loud sigh. “Why do these languages have to have gendered descriptors for everything?” 

Another giggle came from beside you. “Parce que, oie idiote, ce sont les langues romanes!” Emily exclaimed, forcing a more dramatic French accent. 

A loud pause. “Did you just call me an idiot?” 

You’ve never heard Emily laugh so candidly, loud and carefree. It made butterflies erupt in your belly, a deep blush heating up your face – not out of embarrassment, but because you made her laugh, made her nose crinkle and her eyes shine. It was one of your favorite sounds. 

You’ve had a crush on Emily for months, ever since you started working closely to her at Quantico. A shared case between your two units brought you together and you quickly became friends, bonding over similar interests and upbringings. 

You thought of the idea of having her teach you one of the many languages she knows as a way to spend more time together. It was an added bonus that you got to hear her speak another language; something about the way French rolled off her tongue was hypnotizing and…incredibly hot.  She had jumped at the idea and you became hopeful that she might have shared feelings for you. But after weeks of constant texting and a few study sessions, she’s never hinted at feeling anything other than friendship. 

“Absolument pas! Cependant, je pense que vous êtes incroyable. J'adorerais t'emmener dehors un jour.” Emily paused, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. Hey eyes traveled across your face, taking in everything, like she was trying to profile you. “Comme rendez-vous?” 

You felt the air shift even though you couldn’t understand what she was saying to you. It was in the way that she looked at you, how her dark eyes had grown fond, intimate almost, as if she was trying to stare into your soul. You had an inkling of what she had said, rendezvous being an easy translated word.  

“Ask me in English,” you whispered. 

Emily turned more to you, grasped your hands in hers and looked you in the eye. “Would you like to go out with me? As a date?” 

Your smile was timid, growing as you watched her start to fiddle with your fingers in nerves. “Oui, Emily.” One of your hands came up and brushed hair behind her ear, watching her grin spread. “But I have a question for you first.” 

Emily’s smile turned a little more serious, a hint of nerves creeping back into her expression. You watched as she took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever you might ask of her. “Ask away.” 

You paused, schooling your features into something you hoped was more serious, letting her sit in her nerves for a second just to mess with her. “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” 

You watched as Emily’s brain stuttered, her mouth opening for a second before she burst into another fit of laughter, her hand coming up to cover her eyes for a second out of shocked awe. “I’m glad Lady Marmalade taught you something in French, my god.”  

You two laughed together, the tension of finally admitting your shared feelings broken. As you calmed down, Emily gazed at you, all of her feelings for you finally shining through. You felt your entire being warm to the look she was giving you, finally overjoyed in being able to relish in the attention you craved from her. 

As your gazes locked and held, you decided to break out the one other sentence you had been practicing in French. The one sentence you were wishing you would get to use on her. Your hand cupped her jaw, another timid smile gracing your lips. “Puis-je t'embrasser?” 

Emily smirked, inching her face towards you, pulling you closer by your hips, before whispering, “Oui, s'il vous plait.” 

Your lips met in a soft, tender embrace, tongues lightly gliding over one another. It was the first kiss of what you both hoped was many.  

As you broke apart, a quiet giggle traveled up your throat, making you softly shake your head in exhilarated bliss. “I love French lessons.” 

Emily waggled her eyebrows, a mischievous smirk growing. “I can’t wait to teach you more French things.” 

___________________ 

Translations: 

- “Quoi qu'il en soit, c'est une belle langue.”  - Regardless, it’s a beautiful language. - “J'aime parler une langue que vous ne pouvez pas. Tu es très mignon quand tu es irrité.” - I like speaking a language you can’t. You’re very cute when you’re irritated. - “Parce que, oie idiote, ce sont les langues romanes!” - Because, silly goose, it’s the romance languages! -”Absolument pas! Cependant, je pense que vous êtes incroyable. J'adorerais t'emmener dehors un jour.” - Absolutely not! However, I do think you’re amazing. I’d love to take you out sometime. -“Comme rendez-vous?” - As a date? -Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” - Do you want to sleep with me tonight? -”Puis-je t'embrasser?” - Can I kiss you? -”Oui, s'il vous plait.” - Yes, please. 

[crushribbons]

𝓈𝒾𝓁𝓀

summary: The years have been exceedingly kind to Garreth Weasley.

cw: 6.8k words, s m u t (18+ ONLY), bridgerton girlies this one's for y'all!, oral sex, penetrative sex, slight fix-it because ominis and anne are married because i love them, semi-public-ish sex, i don't know what year it's supposed to be and i refuse to choose one, fem reader. reqs open, put some filth in my inbox!

a/n: i sowwy xx laney

It was unclear why the Ministry of Magic felt it necessary to hold an annual gala for its employees; surely, the money could be put to better use. But another year had come and gone since her protestations of the last one, and her boss was very eager to know why the top-performing Auror never made an appearance at the time-honored event. So, as snow began to fall in gentle wafts from the night sky, she had forced herself into a borrowed dress of her friend Natsai’s before she had time to decide to stay home for another year. 

After checking her reflection in the mirror above her mantle and being satisfied with the way her curled hair framed her face, the witch took a deep breath, which was hard to do in the restrictive corset that Natsai had also leant her. 

“I’m not wearing that,” she had balked when her friend held up the lace and silk monstrosity. 

“You have to! It maintains the shape of the dress,” Natty insisted. “Come now, that gown was my mother’s, and she wore it to her first ball, where she met my father. It is imbued with good luck already.”

The darling story did nothing to persuade the stubborn woman with her arms crossed in front of her. “And if a troll should barge in and attack the gala? How will I fight it off if I’m confined to a straitjacket?”

“You are impossible,” Natsai declared, and left the dress laid over an armchair and the corset in a crumpled heap on the floor as she turned on her heel and clipped back through the front door. 

“Thank you!” her friend called meekly after her. It was so typically kind of Natty to lend her a dress with such a precious history without a second thought. The dress was a spectacular beauty: light violet silk hugged her torso and spilled down over voluminous netted skirts. Lace of the same color lined the neckline that swung low across her chest and shoulders, leaving her arms almost bare, and small satin violets were embroidered around the neck and hemline. It was easy to see how Mr. Onai had fallen in love with the professor after seeing her in this.

However, as the dress restricted her movement so much so that she could hardly clamber into the toilet that hid the entrance to the Ministry, she cursed Natty’s kindness under her breath. The apparating process had been hell, as it already gave the traveler the impression that they were being smothered without also wearing a bone-crushing corset, and the ride down and through the floo fireplace disoriented and oppressed her further. She tumbled several meters past the grate and into a pair of feet. “Oof.” The wind was knocked out of her, but she rolled over with as much grace as she could summon. A hand belonging to the owner of the pair of feet reached out and pulled her the rest of the way up.

“Ominis!” she breathed in intense relief. “Thank God that you’re here!” The slick Gaunt smiled in his gentle way when his wand passed in her direction and he identified her. 

“You look lovely tonight, madame,” he said, with a gentlemanly bow and an affected French accent on the final word. She fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Clearly, you’ve lost your knack for truth-telling,” she replied. 

“Is it just you this evening? Haven’t you come with anyone else?”

The worst part of all of this. She’d really hoped to just slip in long enough for her superiors to notice that she had come, then disappear the rest of the evening. Especially because Sebastian decided to schedule his convenient trip to Albania during this very week. She’d begged and pleaded with her coworker and friend to escort her to the gala, promising that they would be in and out in a matter of mere seconds, but he’d waved her off and insisted that this trip was of utmost importance. Their boss, Melodia Thistlewit, didn’t just hand out promotions, after all, and Sebastian was certain that this scouting trip would secure him one. 

The witch continued to curse every horrible word she knew at Sebastian as she now faced down the prospect of walking into the large ballroom that Ministry workers had transformed their central atrium into. “Just me,” she told Ominis, but then a thought occurred to her that could save her from certain embarrassment. “And are you alone, as well?”

“Don’t sound so happy at the idea of my solitude,” Ominis drawled, although his smile was still in place. At that moment, a slender woman with pale skin and chocolate hair brushed into a beautiful updo appeared behind Ominis and took his arm. 

She couldn’t find the space to be disappointed that she couldn’t poach Ominis as her own date when she looked at the couple in front of her, staring adoringly at one another. “Anne! You look so wonderful!” Sebastian’s sister blushed as she always did when complimented. Her dress was emerald green, matching the cravat Ominis wore against his all black tuxedo. They made a lovely pair.

“Yes, she does,” Ominis hummed. Anne looked ready to sink into the floor under the weight of the praise from her husband and friend. 

“Thank you. You’re too kind!” Anne looked behind her as if expecting to see someone there. “Didn’t my brother come with you?”

She sighed and shook her head. “No, he preferred the company of Albanian dark wizards,” she replied and Anne grinned knowingly. Sebastian didn’t hide the fact that he was married to his work.

“Well, he’s missing out on a nice evening. We’ll see you in there?” Ominis asked as he held up an arm to escort Anne into the throng of party-goers. The Auror was left, standing alone, watching hundreds of couples shoot out of the fireplaces and giggle to each other as they stood and brushed the soot off the other’s clothes. Though it had been the only career she’d dreamed of having since her days at Hogwarts, being an Auror was not without its disadvantages. The work was exciting and invigorated her to no end, but there were often long hours of tedious research and documentation before she was able to leave the office. And when she went on expeditions, it was cutthroat. Sebastian was one of the only people she trusted to have her back, even though he’d failed in that regard tonight. 

It had become commonplace for her to glance up at the calendar on her desk while she worked, do a double-take, and realize that it had been an embarrassing number of months since she’d gone to dinner with anyone. The streak continues, she thought as she gritted her teeth and finally began making her way into the ballroom. The shiny marble floor clicked underneath her heels, and she felt a little wobbly. Hoisting her numerous skirts until they floated above her ankles helped her awkward gait, and she wove in and out of the people dancing and chattering, champagne glasses tinkling softly in toasts all over the room. Silk skirts and starched trousers intermingled and a light strain of musical laughter floated through the revelry.

As a house elf carrying a tray loaded with flutes passed her, she reached down to snatch one and quickly take a gulp of it. Champagne was going to be a necessary social lubricant this evening. She was acutely aware of the many glances she got from men as she passed by. Natty had chosen a beautiful dress for the event, but it also showed off far more of her clavicle and décolletage than she was accustomed to showing. She was fairly certain she saw Leander Prewett stop talking to the short, middle-aged witch he was having a conversation with to gawk at her from across the room. He looked ready to start pushing through the crowd to make his way over to her. She didn’t much feel like talking to someone from the office of Muggle Relations; truthfully, she respected their work but found it terribly dull. Leander had once trapped her in the hall with a story about a rogue Puffskein that had fluffed its way through Hyde Park, spooking two Muggle children. “Couldn’t you have just told them it was a baby rabbit or something?” she’d asked. The look of smug satisfaction had slid off Prewett’s face as he considered this.

“Uh…well, I mean, it is standard practice to obliviate…” he’d muttered.

She wove through six couples that were waltzing to the tune the enchanted instruments were playing from the conjured stage at the front of the room. Many murmured “excuse me!”s and “pardon”s got her safely to a table tucked against a relatively deserted wall, and she leaned up against it, sighing in relief and scanning the room for any sign of Anne and Ominis, or the encroaching Prewett. It was then that she noticed the table she stood next to held still more glasses of champagne. She quickly downed the rest of the glass she still held and picked up another one. 

From across the room, Melodia Thistlewit caught her eye and raised a glass. “Fuck,” muttered the Auror as she put on a painful fake smile and responded in kind. If she didn’t engage herself with someone else soon, Melodia would certainly drag her into the center of the gala and parade her around to anyone with a pulse. Glancing around again, desperate to see the Gaunts and run to the safety of their conversation, she noticed a man standing on the other side of the champagne table, alone. She ducked down out of sight of Melodia, who was just under five feet tall and could not see well over the large crowd in the ballroom. 

“Alright, I know this is strange, but I really just want to avoid talking to my boss so if you could pretend that we are deeply engaged in some riveting bit of gossip for the next few minutes, I’d appreciate it so much,” she said as she sidled up to the man she’d spotted. She spoke in a low and commanding tone, as if negotiating hostages away from him. Her eyes were fixed on the spot of the room where she was sure she’d seen Melodia, but she startled and spun around when the man exclaimed her last name in a jovial tone and said, 

“Are you trying to kidnap me? What’s going on here?!”

Garreth Weasley was beaming at her. She hadn’t even registered that she knew the stranger haunting the only other empty part of the room. He’d been in her year at Hogwarts, though she’d rarely had occasion to get to know him. The realization that she knew him at all, however, was enough to make her stand straight back up and feel relief wash over her.

“Weasley! I’m so sorry, I had no idea that was you! What are you–” The question regarding his reasons for being at the gala died in her throat as she took in his appearance. In almost ten years since leaving school, she hadn’t given him a single thought, and she saw now what an utter waste of ten years it had been. Weasley was tall, taller than he’d been even in seventh year. His broad shoulders were prominent under the white dress shirt and vest he was wearing, his bowtie and collar loose despite the party having just begun. A worn tuxedo jacket was slung over one arm and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing freckled and distractingly well-muscled forearms and hands. And his hair was fiery as ever, still growing in unruly curls that hung down into his eyes and over his ears. He was grinning the devilish grin she remembered from many ill-fated potions experiments.

“Look at you, all grown up. And top Auror as well!” he crowed. She blushed darker red than his hair.

“How did you know that?”

“Everyone here knows that.”

Forgetting herself, she gawked at him. “You work here?”

Garreth raised a hand to his heart, feigning a grievous injury. “You wound me,” he mocked, but the smile never left his lips. Always good mood Garreth. “I just started a few months ago, in the Improper Use of Magic department.” When he caught the still-shocked expression on her face, he acquiesced with a chuckle. “I’m only joking. Can you imagine? Me? Trying to stop anyone from doing something improper?” He reached forward and pinched her on the upper arm playfully. Why such a simple act caused electric sparks against her skin that traveled through her entire body, she had no idea. 

She cleared her throat and took another sip of champagne. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to imply that you couldn’t work here! Only that I thought you’d never be caught dead doing something so…sanctioned.” Garreth broke into a raucous laugh that, if she’d still been concerned with anyone else at the party, she would have been nervous would attract attention. Instead, she basked in the sunshiney feeling that his laughter brought and felt herself and her nerves melting away like ice cream on a summer’s day. 

“Unsanctioned is the only way I know how to operate!” he quipped, and then his green eyes fell from hers to the dress she was wearing, and she caught him falter and trip over his next words slightly. “Y-you look gorgeous tonight, Merlin’s sake.” Her heart pounded in her chest and she wondered if Garreth could see it beating from the huge expanse of skin that Natty’s dress revealed. “How long has it been?”

Too long, she wanted to say. Entirely too long and I’d like it never to be this long again. His boyish good looks had matured so much better than she ever would have guessed. Rather than tell him that he, too, looked like sex wrapped in silk, she sputtered, “Nearly ten years, I believe. How is your aunt? Dear lady.” 

He smiled appreciatively at the question. “She’s wonderful, thank you. Actually, she’s the entire reason I’m here tonight. Had an extra invitation and she wasn’t exactly about to take Professor Sharp.” The image of the two kind but stiff-upper-lipped teachers arm in arm on the dancefloor made the two of them giggle, Garreth leaning in conspiratorially to grumble in a poor imitation of their potions professor, “Why, Matilda, you dance divinely.” She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle laughter as he did the same. 

“Well, I must say hello to her before the night is over.”

“I’ll see that it happens.”

The two lapsed into comfortable small talk as they continued scanning the room, making remarks about anyone they recognized from school. “My God, that can’t be–it is! Prewett!” Garreth exclaimed, but before he could wave and shout for Leander to come join them, she grabbed one of his arms in a death vice and pleaded with him not to.

“Noooo, not Prewett, not right now,” she begged, and Garreth looked down at her in surprise, his gaze then drifting to where her hands were wringing his arm. She flushed and dropped it quickly, hoping she hadn’t been too familiar with him. “He’s just so dreadfully boring and I am having so much fun right now,” she explained in hushed tones. 

“I’ve never been one to prevent a lady from having fun,” Garreth muttered, so lowly that she almost missed it. She would have noticed the heat growing in her chest at being tucked away so close to him, but at that moment, she saw that Leander had caught Garreth’s call after all, and she groaned as she saw him making his way over to the both of them. 

She cursed. “Prewett’s coming over. Ooh, he’s going to ask me to dance.” She looked up pleadingly at Garreth and begged, “Please don’t let him, Weasley. I have two left feet and frankly, so does he.” He gave a winning but somewhat awkward grin back.

“Where’s your escort for this evening? Surely, such an accomplished witch didn’t attend alone…?” His question was open and hung between the two of them as she stared into the depths of his eyes. They reminded her forcefully of sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees in the Forbidden Forest, green and gold and endless. 

“I tried to arrange one, but couldn’t.” She also tried to inject a tone of disappointment into her words, but couldn’t. Sebastian’s trip to Albania was now possibly the greatest thing that had ever happened to her, and she made a mental note to bake him a cake or something to thank him for the enormous favor he’d done her by fucking off for the week. 

Leander was almost upon them now, so she did not have time to react when Garreth slid his hand around her waist and pulled her gently so her back rested against his chest. “Prewett! How are you!” he cried when Leander finally stood before them. The stuffy Muggle Relations officer looked between the two of them with confusion. 

“Nice to see you, Weasley.” He turned his attention to the Auror and started to ask, “Are you–” but Garreth interjected loudly over top of him,

“My love, you must say hello to Aunt Matilda soon or she will be in a right state.” 

Her stomach flipped in a perfect circle and her head spun as she tried to make sense of what Garreth had said, but there was no time to process as Garreth bid the bewildered Leander goodbye and tugged her by her waist away from him. “You’re welcome,” he muttered into her hair as they squeezed through the crowd and found refuge near a table of desserts. Ah, he’d been trying to prevent Prewett from asking her to dance. That was all. 

“Thank you,” she said with a small smile, too embarrassed at her body’s reaction to his few featherlight touches to make eye contact with him. Wetness was pooling between her legs by the second, and visions of Garreth pressing his mouth to her ear or running his fingers over the ribbons that laced her dress shut were flooding, unbidden, into her mind. My love. Fuck, it had sounded all too lovely when he said that. She needed a breath. “The champagne is making me a bit light-headed. I think I’ll step out for a moment.”

Garreth didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll join you. If you fall down, I can catch you,” he winked, and she wanted to groan in defeat. 

It’s not the champagne, you infuriating delight. It’s you. “Alright.” The redhead trailed behind her as they slipped from the cavernous room into an empty hallway. Lamps lined it, flickering softly and providing only dim illumination without the daylight that usually filtered through from the atrium. She rested her back against the wall and took a deep breath, hoping Garreth couldn’t tell how silly and flustered she looked. A man she hadn’t seen in a decade pops back into her life, and half an hour later she could think about nothing but him taking her clothes off. And vice versa. 

Next to her, Garreth was talking, and she only realized this in time to hear the tail end of what he was saying: “...mind-numbing. I’m glad for my own loudmouth sake that I didn’t land in an office. I’d drive everyone up the walls.”

She laughed. “You’d do wonderfully here, Garreth. We could always use clever people like you.” She didn’t expect his cheeks to turn pink at her words, but they did. He waved her off and looked bashfully down at his drink.

“Potions is my lot in life for now, and I’m quite happy with it,” he said. “Although…” He tapped his chin and she found her eyes sliding out of focus as they gazed dumbly at his soft, pink lips, also splashed with freckles. “Mr. Pippin has been considering opening a shop in London and having me run it. Perhaps I’ll be seeing more of you then.”

Oh, he’d probably be seeing too much of her. She wracked her brain for the name of a potion that she could believably purchase once a day.

They stayed in the hallway, chatting aimlessly, for what felt like hours. Every time Garreth launched into a new story about the unusual and zany clientele he catered to in Hogsmeade, she was sure that she’d hear the sickening sound of the music halting or the magnified voice of the Minister thanking everyone for attending the gala. But neither came, and as the hours ticked on, she found herself falling into dangerous infatuation with the Weasley boy who’d once set his own hair on fire at six o’clock in the morning.        

His tuxedo jacket was thrown carelessly on the ground, and they’d long since slid down the wall to a seated position. The witch was trying her best not to crease Natty’s gown as she told Garreth the story behind it.

“It looks as though it was made for you,” he murmured when she had finished, and felt the silk of the skirt between two of his fingers. They’d each had three glasses of champagne at this point and were working on their fourth, and she couldn’t recall if his hair had been that tousled when they’d first run into each other, or if he was just running his long fingers through it quite a bit. And his bowtie had most definitely still been on his neck, but it was now cast down beside the jacket and the stiff collar of his shirt was open to expose a kissable swathe of neck. Her body felt hot, uncomfortable as it was from the corset, and even more so due to the looks Garreth kept giving her as they talked, an uncharacteristic darkness in his gaze.

“Thank you,” she whispered back. Absently, she ran her hand along the neckline of the dress, feeling the delicate lace that lined it while she took a sip of champagne. Over the rim of her glass, she swore she heard Garreth make a low, choked sound in the back of his throat. “Mm?” She lowered the glass and cocked her head at Garreth inquisitively, looking much more innocent than she felt.

He turned to face her directly, and she inhaled sharply when she saw the way he was staring her down. Like a man who hadn’t drunk water in eons looking at an oasis. Come to think of it, she hadn’t “drunk water” in eons either, and the thought made her want to burst. “Stop that,” he said, glancing down at where her fingers were still trailing over the lace lining. His voice was hoarse. 

Her fingers dropped in dumb obedience to her lap and she set the glass aside. Before she could speak again, Garreth’s fingers replaced hers, ghosting over her neckline and making her skin burn in their wake. “So pretty, so fucking pretty,” he muttered under his breath. She decided then and there to wear that dress every single day of her life. 

“Garreth,” she breathed. It seemed impossible to misread the way he was touching her, his fingertips just missing contact with her breasts as he played with the lace. But her nerves were alight and she had to be sure. “Garreth, what are you doing?”

In answer, he trailed one finger up from the lace, over her cleavage and neck and crooked it under her chin, lifting her face to him. She felt exposed in the most wonderful way as he thickly said, “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” His eyes had lost all trace of humor. “Letting me see you in this…this fucking scrap of fabric? Merlin’s beard, you were always beautiful in school, but I never…I didn’t know how…” He trailed off and her cunt pulsed and begged for him, her body moving closer to his in unconscious desperation. 

“What about you?” she whispered against his lips. Heat was rising in her chest once more. “Teasing me senseless for most of the night? You’re no cherub, either, Weasley.”

“A cherub, no,” he agreed, his signature smirk appearing briefly before the lust in his eyes won over. “I’d actually like to do some truly hellish things to you.”

“I bet they’d feel heavenly, though.”

They both snapped at the same time. Garreth buried his hands in her hair, upsetting the updo that Natty had painstakingly helped her pin, and groaned while she clutched him by his vest and pulled him to her lips. The kiss knocked the breath out of her. Tiny, whiny moans escaped him when she began fumbling around the buttons on his shirt. “Off,” was all she could huff out before she dove back to his mouth. Garreth somehow managed to laugh while still kissing her.

“Right here? Like this?” he panted, glancing around the hallway, still empty but only steps away from the bustling party. 

They stopped discussing logistics for a moment to resume their fevered pawing at each other. Garreth’s hands wove back into her hair and pulled her with force against him, and she obliged by crawling the last few inches that separated them and onto his lap. The voluminous dress pressed and bunched between them, causing an irritated grunt to spill from Garreth. “Decide where you want to go now, angel, or I’m laying you bare on the carpet right here and ruining this gown.” She moaned with need, pleasure building in her core and spreading through her entire body at his touch. He kissed her like he’d been waiting to do so for a thousand years. His lips were every bit as soft as they looked, and he tasted like champagne and peppermint, a slight spice on his tongue that made her go mad with craving.

“Anywhere,” she whined, and meant it. The hallway was lined with closed offices, so Garreth pulled her up to stand on wobbly feet and they ran down the hall, trying every door to see if any happened to be unlocked. She would have used alohomora, but breaking into someone’s office for what promised to be a highly illicit act (if Garreth’s dark emerald eyes and the large bulge pressing against his trousers were any indication) just felt too indecorous. If a door happened to be open, however…it was practically an invitation.

It took turning down two more hallways, one stairwell, and yanking on probably twenty doors to find one that finally, blissfully, turned under Garreth’s hand. Mere seconds later, he had cleared every possession from the poor Ministry employee’s desk with a sweep of his arm and threw her onto it. “Gods, I’ve not been able to think about anything except this since I saw you,” he slurred through kiss-swollen lips as he grasped her shoulders and ran his featherlight touch down her bare arms, sending a cold shock through her body. He moved in between her legs and pressed himself, as best he could with the gown still on, against her. She could tell even with all the fabric that his cock was impressively hard and that she would certainly feel this in the morning. 

“Fuck, yes, you will, you naughty little thing,” Garreth breathed against her teeth. For Merlin's sake, she’d said the last bit out loud. Oh, well. “If you don’t, I haven’t done my job.”

With this, he dropped to his knees in front of the desk and grabbed as much silk and netting as he could, shoving it up around her waist. She clutched at the silk as best as she could and fought to remain upright, but once Garreth had pulled her undergarments down so they pooled around her ankles, the feeling of his hot breath against her core had her arms going slack. She slumped against the desk and felt his fingers grip her by the thighs.

His muffled voice reached her buzzing ears through layers of fabric: “Bury me here, darling, promise you will.” A wretched cry tore from her throat as Garreth laid his tongue flat against her cunt and began moving it in circles, alternating light flicks and kisses against her clit that had pleasure ramping up wildly inside her stomach. She reached forward, desperate for something to steady herself with, and made contact with his strawberry locks. Using them as leverage, she yanked him closer to her until nearly his entire body was engulfed by her dress.  

“Garreth,” she moaned. The pleasure was making her stupid, and words were taking extra long to form in her brain and exit her mouth. “How did we never do this back at–”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he panted, coming up for air and replacing his tongue with his pointer and middle fingers. He drew fast, hard patterns over her clit and her back arched. “Not thinking about back then because I have you now, and I never want this to end.” He was so genuine and earnest, his eyes pleading with her to let him stay in this position forever, that she pulled him up by his shirt collar into another kiss. The taste of herself on his lips made her blush prettily.

It was all happening so fast that it made her thoughts rush in a frenzied whirlwind around her head. She didn’t want it to end either, but what it was, she wasn’t quite sure. Would they go their separate ways again after tonight? Would she find herself staring glumly at that pesky desk calendar on Monday, starting the count over from zero? Was it a terrible idea to fuck him anyway? Her drunken mind produced one coherent thought: Who cares?

As Garreth ghosted his lips over the shell of her ear, whispering pure filth while he began undoing the laces of her dress, she wondered if perhaps she had been gifted with a touch of legilimency. Hadn’t she envisioned this very moment earlier while fighting to stay prim and proper against his flirtiness? Never again, she decided, would she doubt her excellent instincts. The dress fell away from her shoulders and chest, leaving her in only her corset, gown and undergarments discarded on the floor. “Oh, for fuck’s safe,” huffed Garreth as he noticed the corset. “You don’t need to wear one of those.”

He said it in such a matter-of-fact tone that she colored and muttered, “I don’t ordinarily but…it maintains the shape of the dress.” She glanced sheepishly up at him and he rolled his eyes. 

“That gown should thank its lucky stars that it ever graced your body. My God, you’re just…” He trailed off, taking in every inch of her that was exposed to him. She was quickly losing her capacity for embarrassment or shyness as her need for him to ruin her overtook everything inside her.

“Take this off and fuck me, Weasley,” she tried to order, but it came out more as a breathless plea. Despite this, Garreth obeyed. He turned her over so her hips were digging into the front of the desk and began haphazardly yanking at the ribbons restricting her torso. The corset fell away after a few seconds, and she barely had time to crane her neck around and see that he was shedding his dress shirt, vest, and trousers with the urgency of a madman before he placed one strong hand at the base of her neck and directed her to bend over the desk. She tried to protest, having very much been looking forward to seeing his cock freed from its restraints, but she found the protests dying in her throat as she felt it.

Holy fucking–! Every impure word and expression she knew flooded from her brain and out her mouth as he pressed his hard length against her ass and bucked his hips involuntarily, groaning with the effort of holding himself back. “How does it feel?” he rasped against her ear, leaning over her to do so and inadvertently making his cock brush against her dripping wet center. She cried in shocked pleasure, and more incoherent begging and pleading followed. “Are you ready for me, darling?

“Yes,” she half-sobbed, half-demanded. She didn’t think she could hold on much longer. Garreth ran his hands down her bare back and rested his forehead against the back of her head, sparing one more second to worship her before he braced himself on her waist and pushed into her. 

Their moans intermingled deliciously as he fully sheathed himself inside her. He was fucking huge, and she gritted her teeth against the initial stretch. After a moment, he asked if he could move and she nodded, not trusting herself to speak. His cock dragged against her walls, lazy and heavy, stoking the fire inside her and causing obscenities to fall from both their lips.

“You do feel fucking heavenly,” Garreth panted, picking up his pace after a few languid strokes. He flattened her more completely to the desk and moved his hands to her ass, kneading and using it to pull her harder back onto him. Sweat was beginning to pool on the back of her neck, and she felt a drop of it drip from Garreth’s hair onto her spine. “Shit!” he spat. “I’m not going to–fuck, not gonna last long. Are you close?”

Questions? At a time like this? He expected too much of her. She moaned vaguely, trying to indicate that she was close. He picked up his pace even more, fucking her in a ravenous way she’d never felt before, hitting deep and high points that made stars burst across her vision. Her fingernails dug into the mahogany desk in front of her, curls of wood left behind in long trails as her fingers curled. Through their frenzy, she managed to ask a question of her own that had been burning in her mind since she saw his shirtsleeves rolled. She tossed it over her shoulder with a grin, panting: “Does it have…Are there freckles on your–?”

Garreth’s hips stuttered as a hysterical laugh cut through him. “Plenty of time to find out for yourself, darling,” he retorted, and snaked a hand around to her clit. The second he applied pressure there, she found herself coming. Her orgasm rolled over and through her and burst out of her like she’d been filled with an uncontainable light. She cried Garreth’s name, tears rolling down her face, and felt herself clamp around him.

“O-oh, fuck.” He faltered, not expecting the silken sensation of her to take his breath away. “Where do you want me, sweetheart?” 

She was still caught in the arms of ecstasy, and only had the energy to pant, “Inside.” That was everything Garreth needed to be pushed over the edge. He came with a strangled yell and fell on top of her, filling her completely. With his last remaining strength, Garreth rolled off of her and laid next to her, on his back. The desk was far from comfortable, but at the moment, it felt like a king-sized bed at the finest hotel.

They caught their breath for several minutes. She tried to make sense of it all; Garreth Weasley, who gained a reputation in sixth year for being a wildly damp kisser, had just given her the best sex of her life and she was ready to beg for more. Her heart hammered even as her breathing returned to normal, because she was very sure now that she could fall for her old classmate. Not to even mention his godlike sexual prowess.

Her face was still pressed to the desk, and as she waited to regain the ability to walk again, Garreth’s cum dripping steadily down her thigh, she turned her head to the side. The man was still panting, propped up by his elbows and staring at the ceiling in disbelief. Her gaze wandered southward and she couldn’t help but smile. It sure did have freckles, and even while softening was larger than any other she’d ever taken. Sighing, she turned her head the other way and caught sight of one of the pictures that he had thrown to the ground when clearing the desk.

It was a picture of her. 

The confusion made her bolt upright. She rubbed her eyes with the palm of her hand and crouched down to pick up the photograph in its brass frame. There she was, smiling and laughing with her arm around Ominis Gaunt and–

“Oh, shit!” The frame clattered from her hands and Garreth sat straight up, startled, as she frantically raced around the room, taking in its contents. A bookshelf, filled with books by and about famous dark wizards. Several stained tea cups that needed to be taken home and washed. And worst of all, a gilded name plate cast onto the ground that read “S. Sallow, Auror.” 

“Fuck! Fuck, oh no! How did this happen?!” She wailed, clasping her head in her hands. The scratches she had left in the desk glared back at her, their position making it far too obvious as to what had been done atop the piece of furniture. She snatched the ball gown from the ground and dug around in the skirts for the sewn-in wand pocket. When her fingers brushed against the yew wood, she pulled her wand free and frantically cast Reparo! at the desk. The scratches stayed resolute. She swore and cast the spell a second time, again to no avail. 

“Er, it’s not really broken,” Garreth chuckled, watching her efforts as he yawned happily. He was reclining, his long legs stretched in front of him and arms clasped behind his head, showing off his toned chest and stomach. She wished he would have a smidgen of decency. Not because his body wasn’t spectacular, but because she found herself frustrated and turned on almost immediately. And now was not the time, not when they’d just accidentally fucked on top of Sebastian’s desk and left undeniable evidence that someone had done so.

“But this is–!” She began, but Garreth had spotted the nameplate and reached down to grab it.

“S. Sallow,” he read, then thoughtfully put a finger to his chin. “Hey, that’s not ‘Sallow’ as in–”

“Yes, EXACTLY as in Sebastian Sallow! I can’t believe I didn’t read the doorplate before you opened it!” she yelled. They’d been so blind with desire that she hadn’t even noticed they had landed in the Auror offices. Sebastian had told her that he was leaving his office door unlocked so that she could access any files he had while he was away. She wanted to sink into the ground. Her own office was just the next door down. 

She could feel her hair falling free around her shoulders in her upset state and remembered with a jolt that she was naked. Snatching her undergarments from the floor, she began to pull them back on, but Garreth leapt into action when he sensed that clothes were entering into the equation once more.

“No need for that!” He shushed her frantic rambling that Sebastian was going to notice and he was going to put two and two together and wrapped his arms around her. “You can tell him that you, uh…” He squeezed his eyes closed while trying to come up with a believable lie, and she melted a little against him, recalling how he used to do the same thing in their shared classes when he was called upon unprepared. His eyes flew back open. “I’ve got it. You can sit that fantastic little cunt on my face.”

She spluttered, not sure if she was more indignant or approving of the proposal. “And how is that going to help this situation?” 

Garreth grinned. “This won’t seem like such an ordeal when I’m finished with you.”

When he was right, he was right. It took no more convincing for her to push him down onto the soft carpet and swing a leg over the side of his face. He ate her out like it was his last meal, which, she reasoned, if Sebastian ever figured out what they had done in his office, it may be. 

They stayed in Sebastian’s office and did all sorts of things that made Garreth turn the portrait of Anne that Sebastian kept on his bookshelf facedown for several hours more. It wasn’t until they were lying on top of the violet gown, legs tangled and whispering to one another while she ran her fingers through his hair that Garreth shot straight up and cried, “Aunt Matilda probably had to go home without me!”

She tried to stifle laughter at his genuine alarm. “Weasley, I’m sure she can make it there just fine without you.”

“You haven’t seen how she can put away champagne when it’s free and offered to her.”

They both laughed, and Garreth leaned over to kiss her, sweet and soft. “When can I see you again?” he murmured. He suddenly looked lost, like he wasn’t sure what he’d do next depending on her answer. It charmed her to no end.

“I’ll need an escort to this gala next year, I suppose.”

“And in the meantime?”

She smiled. “I’d like someone to go to dinner with.”

masterlist

[pottedplant53]

Oumota Post [Contains Spoilers]

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Something I don’t hear talked about enough in relation to Oumota (or just Kokichi and Kaito in general) is the SHEER NUMBER of parallels that they have with eachother, beyond just their narrative roles. Their philosophies of Faith VS Logic and their respective Hero/Villain personas are undoubtably the most interesting part of it, but there’s so much more to be said than just that. Even their physical appearances are designed to contrast. Here's a list of some of the similarities I found.

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•Kaito is tall with broad shoulders, while Kokichi is short with a small frame.

•Their hair colours are almost exact opposites on the colour wheel. On top of this, while you don’t really see it due to their respective hairstyles, they both have roughly shoulder-length hair.

•Tying into the previous point, they have very similar colour schemes. They both wear white shirts, and have red, yellow, grey, and white accents scattered around their outfits. They’re also both heavily associated with the colour purple, with Kaito being more aligned with magenta (pink) and Kokichi being more aligned with indigo (blue).

•Kokichi is especially pale compared to the rest of the cast, while Kaito is noticeably tan.

•Kaito’s eyes are upturned, and Kokichi’s are downturned. I’m not sure how to word it but it’s almost like their eyebrows are going in different directions, too.

•They both wear capes that fan out in their splash arts. Kaito’s is a coat, but it has the same effect.

•They’re both bilingual. Kaito can speak English, Japanese, and Russian thanks to his astronaut training, and while it’s unclear why Kokichi can speak multiple languages, we know that he can thanks to his second FTE with Kaede, wherein he says ‘common sense’ in English, Japanese, French, and Spanish. ‘Common sense’ isn’t a commonplace word that new speakers of a language would know, implying some level of fluency.

•In the original Japanese script, Kaito had quite a few homophobic, misogynistic, and transphobic undertones, all seemingly stemming from internalized toxic masculinity. Kokichi was very much the opposite of this (read: not straight), as is discussed in-depth in the trivia section of his Wiki page. [We do not talk about Japanese Kaito in this household].

•Kokichi’s birthday is the 21st, an inversion of Kaito’s birthday, which is the 12th.

•Neither of them portray themselves 100% authentically. Depending on how you read their characters, you could almost argue that deep down, they’re more similar to the other’s persona than they are to their own.

↓

Though he’s often referred to as an idiot due to his stubbornness in the trials, Kaito is actually rather analytical when he so chooses to be, seeing straight through Maki’s lone-wolf act and understanding her needs startlingly fast. He was intelligent enough to pass his astronaut entrance exam (which would’ve involved extremely complicated scientific concepts and a basic understanding of medicine) and has proved himself willing to cheat and lie to get what he wants (i.e, forging an I.D to get early acceptance).

This isn’t the only instance of him lying when it wasn’t strictly necessary, another notable example being the entirety of his Free Time Events; he lies about his impossible summer escapades and brags about how many famous people achieved success because of his influence, seemingly just to boost his own ego and to make himself look more impressive to Saihara. Shuichi internally calls him out for this, more or less verifying that it was all a lie.

He repeatedly lies in the trials (like when he tried to insist that he was the one in women’s underwear in chapter 2), and of course, hid his illness from the others by pretending he was fine, when in actuality, he was on death’s door.

None of this makes Kaito’s passion and kindness any less real, but it’s important to note how he’s not as saintly as he seems. He’s a lot of things, but he’s also an Egotistical Liar, much like Kokichi promotes himself to be.

Moving on to Kokichi, while it’s hard to say with 100% certainty what kind of person he is, we’ve seen him become emotional a number of times throughout the game, most notably in Gonta’s trial. There’s a lot of debate over whether his tears were genuine or not, but the general consensus is that they were. He shows anger here, at both Gonta, the situation, and more likely than not, himself. He clearly feels a lot of shame and grief, but ultimately continues to push on with his plan for everyone else’s sake.

He shows mercy to Yumeno in chapter 3, when he asks her what she was holding back at the end of the trial. This is seemingly done in an attempt to help get her in touch with her feelings, with no obvious ulterior motives or mocking undertones. Him calling her out earlier in the trial can be chocked up to his hatred of hypocrites – as is seen with his overall relationship with the rest of the cast, specifically surrounding how they gang up on him and treat him like a monster for lying when it’s something that they themselves do – but this interaction shows that he sympathises with her, proving that he has some level of empathy.

Kokichi is EXTREMELY selfless, something that’s proven over and over again to the point that if I sat here and tried to list every example, we’d be here until the release of the V3 anime [forever]. He actively plays devil's advocate, knowing that this would lead to the rest of the group disliking him, and his entire plan to end the killing game centred around villainizing himself, all so that he could die to save the rest of the cast. He’s shown to have spent time, likely days upon days, thinking about how to end the killing game – if his room is any indication, he’s poured a lot of toil into making that a reality. Much like with Kaito, none of this changes how Kokichi chose to act – he’s still a bad person who did inexcusable things, but there’s some merit to the fact that beneath all of that, he’s a human being.

 In the end, he dies as a Selfless Hero, trying to save a group who he surely must’ve known would feel no gratitude for his sacrifice. He's the exact kind of person that Kaito would approve of, were it not for the other, less pleasant aspects of his personality.

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Again this is all just my interrpretation and what do I know but I thought it was interesting so here :3

[abiiors]

canvas 🎨 // matty healy x reader

a/n: matty painter au because i have gone slightly insane idk. i love the interview these photos are from <33 got weirdly poetic with this i'm so sorry

the author heard "paint me like one of your french girls" and took it too far :)

cw: paint play???? cum play if you squint (yeah ik paint is toxic but these people are Very Horny)

wc: 3.4k

there are streaks of paint on her hips. 

a smudge of yellow right under her navel, fingerprints of blue, touching, moving, caressing the apex of her thighs as they slowly morph into green and disappear somewhere between her legs. 

she lounges lazily on the chaise, a bunch of red grapes dangling in her hands. when matty takes a break, she quickly pops one in her mouth. it bursts with a pop, grape juice pooling at the corner of her lips and sliding down, down, down. it disappears somewhere on her skin. 

matty’s breath hitches and he digs his nails deeper into his palms. 

“could you fold your leg a little more, please?” his voice sounds husky to his own ears.  

“please?” she raises an eyebrow, “since when did you start being so polite?”

“since this is a professional relationship,” he grounds out through gritted teeth. instantaneous. he's not unfamiliar with this back and forth by now.

matty looks up at her once again and sees her eyes, alight with mirth, looking right at him. it’s a peculiar feeling, he realises, he wants her to never look away from him again but he is also about to spontaneously combust.

each stroke of the brush reveals more and more of her lithe body; the curve of her hips that dip into her waist, the soft velvet of the chaise bunched up under her shapely legs. 

“eyes at the window, please,” he chastises gently. the thought of her dark gaze on him as he paints is too much to bear. 

this is not the first time he has painted with a nude model alone, even a female nude model for that matter. in fact, matty prides himself on the fact that he’s a consummate professional, that he has never been sleazy with any of his nude models. but she seems intent on pushing all his buttons. 

they had met a few months ago at a fancy tribeca bar. he had been celebrating his newest exhibition at a modest art gallery and she, the extension of her visa. they took to each other like moths to the brightest of flames. he soon learned that she was, like him, a starving artist. except her medium of art was her body. she had modelled for all kinds of designers all over nyc but she had yet to ‘make it’. 

he still remembered the way the smoothness of the live jazz band had permeated through his bones. the old fashioneds he had been drinking had created a nice buzz when he had heard her order a dirty martini in a very distinct accent. 

“come work for me,” he had said before the alcohol and drugs had consumed all rational thoughts. all that remained from that night were vague memories of red lips, fingers that trailed down his stomach and flashes of ecstasy. but now those same fingers rest in front of her abdomen, just inches away from where he wishes his head was. so matty has to swallow roughly and go back to his canvas. 

the painting is nowhere near being finished. he has only just finished the outlining process a few days ago but the thought of being here in this cramped space with her is too much to bear. matty’s grip on his brush tightens involuntarily. 

he mixes the colours on his easel carefully. matching the perfect shade of her skin is damn near an impossible task. there are shades of golden and then there is the pale hollow of her throat that he so desperately wants to mark up. how pretty she would look with a necklace of marks left by him. how her lips would part, sounds of ecstasy escaping, echoing in his studio, inside his skull for days. 

the brush digs into his hands as his thoughts reach a crescendo. a loud cracking sound resonates through the room and her eyes snap to him once again; this time a startled expression on her face. but it doesn’t long before it morphs into one of amusement and slight smugness. 

matty’s face pales when realisation dawns. he gripped the brush so tightly that it snapped in half. splinters of the wood dig into his fingers and he takes it as a welcome opportunity to walk up to the bin in the corner of the room. 

anything to escape her dark and knowing gaze.

“everything okay with you?” she asks and he bristles at her tone, at the way she doesn’t even try to conceal her amusement. 

“yes,” he has to clear his throat before he can speak again, “yes, perfectly fine.”

matty wants to set fire to the canvas in front of him. 

or perhaps it’s the sweat that gathers at the back of his neck and runs down his back that’s making him feel so irate. it bothers him more than it should, her stare bothers him more than it should. 

“window,” he reminds her through pursed lips. it’s better to use as few words as possible. that way they can get this done quickly and go home and he won’t have to think about her again till their next appointment…

but who is he kidding? matty knows she will be there, present in his waking and sleeping thoughts, burrowing herself in his brain, in its crevices like a permanent splotch of paint on his carpets. 

“i told you to look at the window,’ he says. his voice is gruff and commanding. 

“and i told you that i liked it better this way.” it’s a challenge—open and daring. her gaze refuses to leave him as she slowly gets to her feet.

matty freezes in place—it’s stupid, he knows it. he’s been staring at her naked body for hours now, memorising its contours and immortalising them on his canvas. watching her stand like this in front of him shouldn’t bother him. shouldn’t make his mouth go dry. the traces of paint between her legs beckon and taunt him. how easy it would be to worship her—first with his mouth and then with his hands. 

how sweet would she taste, melting on his tongue?

“what are you…”

“let's take a break.” she stretches, fingers intertwining together as her arms lift high above her head. her eyes close in satisfaction, a soft sigh falling from her lips. the sun warms the room. the sight heats up his blood. 

“your robe is on the table,” matty points to a corner of the room, averts his gaze with great difficulty. as expected, she smirks because to her it’s a cat-and-mouse game. and he’s her prey.

“why? does it bother you?”

footsteps pad softly towards him, the carpet rustles but he doesn’t stop her from walking to him. a small part of him likes knowing that the sway in her hips is for him. likes knowing that he haunts her thoughts just like she haunts his. 

“no.”

lies. a rouge and traitorous thought slips through.

matty is sure she can feel his racing heartbeat when she stops right in front of him. their chests touch, separated only by his flimsy cotton t-shirt. the proximity makes him realise how he towers over her, how she has to tilt her head to look him in the eyes. it’s a rather pleasing angle on her. the red smudge on her lips drives him mad. 

“tell me, matty,” her accent snags on his name as she flicks her eyes to his lips, “is this how professional relationships work here?”

she’s throwing his words back at him; teasing, taunting. her big eyes bore into his. matty’s cock twitches in response. the golden sun floods the room, illuminates everything in its path and he is once again struck by how beautiful she is. how much he yearns to hold her by the waist, to capture her mouth, to hear her soft sounds and loud moans. how much he yearns for her. 

his thoughts are fuzzy. he’s not thinking straight, he hasn’t been ever since she’s walked into his life, in his studio. his brain short-circuited the moment she shed her soft silk dress, the moment he watched the straps fall down her shoulders and the fabric pool around her ankles. 

he’s not thinking straight when he pulls her closer by her waist. 

“no,” he breathes, eyes already fluttering shut as her scent hits his senses anew. “you’re just an exception.”

when their lips crash against each other, something comes alive in him. a missing piece of the puzzle, a colour he’s been trying to mix just right. his heart thumps in his chest to the beat of the song playing in the background. an old jazzy french tune that has been stuck in his head all day. something that reminds him of her, of the curve of her hips and the softness of her hair.

“matty,” she moans right in his mouth. his name on her tongue exploring the inside of his mouth. her skin feels slightly sticky with paint and sweat. 

it feels like an out-of-body experience at first. the fingers caressing her jaw move so confidently leaving streaks of red in their wake. in an instant, he forgets about the painting. 

the kisses are raw and hungry, bordering on feverish. matty’s table clutters when she pushes him against it, her naked body pressed flush against his. goosebumps litter all over his skin, electric tingles that shoot straight from her fingertips and zap through his bloodstream. 

“say you want me,” she all but moans. “i know you do. i see–fuck, i see how you look at me.”

matty smirks at the way she almost loses her train of thought as soon as he nips at her skin. it’s the hollow of her throat that’s been driving him crazy—unmarred and soft. his teeth graze her pulse point, leaving behind soft pink marks that he soothes with his tongue. 

“i want you,” he licks over another bruise. “so bad—can’t think straight sweetheart.”

and it’s true, it’s never taken him this long to finish a painting before. hours of staring at her and he still can’t seem to get enough of it.

“so fuck me then.” her head is thrown back at this point. her voice is distant to matty’s ears, still he hears the lust in it. the want. and it fuels his own. 

she is art, he thinks. she should be his masterpiece. an idea forms in his head, bright as a star, a vision he sees so clearly. or it’s just hallucinations of a horny brain. either way, he breaks away from the kiss, grasping at her jaw roughly. 

“get on the canvas,” he commands. and she obeys without hesitation.

“on your back. and lie still.” even with his dominant side, there is a softness to matty and so she does as she’s told. 

he has to stop and marvel at the sight—she’s a vision on his half-finished painting of her, hair fanning out in unruly waves, nipples hardened. she comes alive under his stare, smiling smugly at matty’s unabashedness, at the way his eyes linger—first on the swell of her breasts to the curve of her waist and between her legs where wetness gathers the more excited she gets. she wants him to touch her, whines for it even. and he wants to give her what she wants. but not so easily. not like the first time when both of them were too drunk to appreciate each other’s bodies. 

this time he wants to remember. more than that, he wants to make it memorable. 

he dips both his hands in a dish full of paint, pink on the right, grey on the left. matty settles on his knees, right between her legs, parting them further with his paint-stained hands. the colours mix with the preexisting streaks on her body, greys with greens and pinks with yellows. matty’s mind swims with possibilities. 

“what are you waiting for?” she tuts, hooking her legs around his waist. paint sticks to his trousers. colour blooms high on his cheeks. 

when matty bends to capture her breast in his mouth, she gasps sharply. he’s briefly aware of the coolness of the paint that’s now on his stomach, a new shade of pink that morphs into something else the more they move against each other. 

“i never knew you made such pretty sounds,” he praises, tongue moving between her breasts from one nipple to another. he smirks when her legs tighten around him. 

“keep doing more of that,” she pants, “and i’ll give you any sounds you want.”

matty chuckles, mouth moving lower. now that he’s started, it’s impossible to stop or slow down. his hands trace the length of her thigh, smudging the old colours on smooth skin, mixing them with new ones as he traces a finger up to the apex. she squirms under him, hips thrusting into his.

she’s soaking wet and panting; practically dripping onto the canvas. it’s mesmerising to him, how her cheek presses against the white surface, leaves behind hypnotic patterns. 

her fingers are on the column of his spine, nails scratching softly as she traces his skin. matty feels himself growing harder, head spinning as all his blood rushes south. he wants her, he needs to feel her, to be inside her. 

“such a good little pet,” he mumbles against her mouth, lips capturing hers in a searing kiss till she’s writhing under him and clenching around nothing. 

“please, matty,” she begs. her hands move faster, fumbling with his belt. she all but rips it off him as desperation and instinct take over. matty watches transfixed. 

the ruby red of her swollen lips, the silvery sheen on her face. the necklace of mottled mauves he’s left around her throat—it’s prettier than anything he could have come up with himself. 

“beautiful,” he whispers on the shell of her ear and feels her shiver under him.

the sound of his zipper tears through the room. matty hisses with pleasure, eyes fluttering shut as she palms him—first over his boxers, then playing with the waistband. 

“touch me,” he pleads, unable to help himself, and watches her pull his cock out.

matty loses himself in the feeling of her hands wrapped around him, the way she rakes her nails down his length, traces the vein pulsating along the side. his stomach tightens with pleasure. 

“please,” she whines again, “need you in me, please.”

and this time he obliges, lining himself against her entrance. he moves his hand between their bodies, finding her clit and rubbing the bundle of nerves in circles. their bodies are so close that matty only needs to bend down to kiss her again. but he stays where he is, tip teasing her entrance, fingers flicking her clit. he wants to watch her fall apart under him, around his cock, again and again. 

“like toying with me, do you?” she wraps a hand around his base, lining his dick against her entrance properly. matty knows she can take charge if she wants to but he’s not about to let that happen. not today. 

“someone’s needy,” he tuts. in truth, he loves her needy whines, her desperation and at last matty gives her what she wants. 

he thrusts into her slowly, fingers still rubbing her clit at a steady pace. his other hand is next to her face, leaving behind smudges of pink in the vague shape of his palm. her eyes are rolled back her head, mouth parted—the room echoes with soft sounds. 

“harder–shit,” she moans. “please…”

“begging is a good look for you,” he whispers cheekily. the primal, male part of him can’t help itself. 

matty rocks into her, bottoming out again and again. 

“so tight baby, so wet for me,” he gasps as his thrusts come faster. she trembles under his touch again, letting out a string of curses. matty can tell she’s close as she clenches around his cock again and again. 

her nails rake down his back, on his shoulders, leaving behind scratches and cuts but none of them particularly care about it. all matty cares about are her moans and cries, the way she says his name again and again. 

“gonna cum,” she pants, “go faster, please–please.”

so matty does; grabbing her hips, he thrusts into her over and over again, increases his pace to the point where it’s bruises. filthy sounds of flesh slapping on flesh fill the room, moans from them both. matty loses track of time, of his surrounding, until he feels her clench around his cock and let go with a cry. 

“so pretty,” he coos and can’t help but trace a finger down her nose, along her bottom lip. “such a good girl for me.”

“come on pretty girl, i know you can cum for me one more time.” her pretty little whimpers shoot straight to his cock as he goes faster still. “you're so good for me, so fucking good around me, fucking made for me.”

“made for you,” she repeats, “ye–yes. go faster. shit.”

matty groans when she wraps her legs around his waist. it’s sudden, between one thrust and the next he’s suddenly reaching deeper than he was before. they both cry out as intense pleasure swirls in matty’s belly. 

he’s close, he can feel it. he just wants to coax one more orgasm out of her, watch her fall apart one more time. he wants to bottle up the noises she makes, for his ears only. 

his pelvis grinds on her clit, rougher than before. the intensity of it is blinding. the fire runs right under his skin, ready to consume everything in its path and burn him in ecstasy. 

“you can cum for me again, yeah? let go, darling,” he coaxes, and lowers his mouth to hers again, swallowing away her moans and cries. matty runs his tongue on her bottom lip, nipping at the corner of her mouth. 

her face is wet with tears of pleasure. he knows she’s overstimulated, struggling to keep up with him but she cries out again. a sob rips out from her as matty feels her cumming around him again, legs twitching as he fucks her through her orgasm. 

their sweaty skin sticks together, rubbing against each other and mixing paints. but matty knows what he wants, knows how to finish the final piece of his art. 

“iie still now,” he commands, “gonna cum on your pretty tits. you want that?”

“please,” she nods vigorously, hissing when he pulls out of her in one go. her back arches off the canvas, fingers curling on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. he’s marked forever. 

matty fists himself, once, twice, head thrown back as he cries out her name. he feels his cock twitch one last time, balls tightening until he’s spurting out thick white ropes of cum all over her tits, her stomach. it pools in her navel and puts a sheen of milky white on the paint. matty watches, mesmerised. 

he’s never felt this perverse satisfaction before. this much primal possessiveness. 

“fuck–fuck, matty,” she breathes hard, eyes still closer and hands in her hair as she comes down from her high. 

matty can’t help himself as he places a finger in the mess he’s made. he traces it in arbitrary shapes, swirls and lines, mixing colours and spreading his sticky release on her until his fingers reach her jaw. 

cheekily, she opens her mouth. an invitation—the desire to taste him written all over her face. so matty obliges, moaning when she swirls her tongue around his fingers, sucking them cleaning. her cheeks hollow from the effort of it. for a moment he feels like putty in her hands until she lets go of his fingers with an exaggerated pop. 

“like seeing me like this?” her voice is hoarse but the tone is still smug. like a cat that got the cream. “covered in you, naked. do i look pretty?”

matty rolls his eyes, “got what you wanted, didn’t you?” and watches her flutter her eyelashes. and she does. look pretty that is. she looks like a masterpiece. his masterpiece. 

“i always do,” she grins, hooking her arms around his neck to sit up. matty watches the cum run down her chest. 

“clean me up?” she asks sweetly, “and then we can look at the art we made.”

[randombush3]

But She’s A Stranger

florence pugh x footballer!reader

summary: originally titled ‘saved’, because that’s what you and this blonde woman seem to be doing for each other

words: 10048

warnings: none (😮)

notes: okay i know i said no more football fics, but i couldn’t help myself. i really couldn’t and you’re going to have to deal with that!

a few of my fav things about writing this include having to check flo’s instagram to see what hairstyle she’s had at what time, creating multiple timelines of club transfers to keep things consistent, and learning catalan! i speak spanish and quite a bit of french so it could have been worse. i also don’t explicitly say this (i think) but the reader played for wolfsburg when she was in germany.

January is fucking freezing. The wind is biting and it rains a lot, clouds lingering, having had to hide for Christmas. The days are grey and dark, trainings are hard, and you’re miserable about being stuck in England after spending a week in Cuba.

You walk down Portobello Road simply because your sister forced you to watch that Hugh Grant rom-com and you’ve got a bit of time before you need to get back to St. Albans. After exploring most of the main road, you stray into a side street, and then another… and another. Until you’re slightly lost (very lost) and in need of food.

Florence Pugh is having a peaceful cup of coffee to make her feel like she’s had a productive day.

Her head snaps to the door when the bell chimes. People don’t often come in here. You sort-of-stumble inside, first looking as if you’re going to walk right out, then settling.

While she is sitting at her usual table (the one in the corner, always with a tulip in the vase), you are aimlessly flitting from seat to seat, deciding on whether this place is worth your precious time. Something about the confusion in your eyes draws Flo in, try as she might to remain incognito. “It’s good,” is all she says, barely looking up from her book, not wanting to have the safety of anonymity stripped away. You glance at the pale blue ceramic mug sitting on her table, and walk to the counter.

“Please could I have whatever she has,” you tell the barista, who takes a moment to understand what you’ve said and then nods with a smug smile. She had been hoping someone would have a little coffee romance in her café.

“Would you like that to go?”

You check your watch.

Hòstia.

Maybe you got carried away on your adventure.

It’s 3.47pm.

Jonas requested everyone meet for team bowling at four, expecting most of you to have been eating lunch together anyway (as that usually happens on Saturdays with the Arsenal women’s football team). Even if you weren’t known to be the most punctual on the squad, getting to St. Albans for that time when it’s 3.47pm now is impossible.

You smile nervously at the woman serving you, and Flo is now intrigued as to why such a beautiful woman looks so terrified.

“Yeah, to go would be great, thanks.” She nods and you are left waiting there, foot tapping, time ticking, nowhere interesting to look other than into those green eyes peering at you from the other side of the room. “Could you… Could you make it quickly, please?”

Flo snorts.

Someone’s just invaded her little sanctuary and then told the barista to hurry up, and she can’t help but find the awkwardness fucking attractive. Like you’re some action in a tranquil day, a rain cloud in a blue sky.

Zach is going to be listening to a very long rant about this later.

It strikes her that you seem different to anyone else she has ever met, though she can barely say to have met you. The way you carry yourself with an air of importance but a dash of humility, the way an accent she can’t place curls around your words, the way you frown at your phone as you furiously type away text after text at the object of your frustration.

The way your eyes meet hers when you realise you’re being stared at.

Before she can defend herself, give you some bullshit about the wall behind you, the barista hands you your coffee. “Thank you,” you say, smiling, though it feels a little ingenuine considering the speed the words tumble out.

As you switch your phone off and reach out to the machine in front of you, the barista grimaces. “Our card machine is broken, sorry. It’s cash only.”

Well she didn’t mention that before.

You gave your last bits of cash to Jordan, having lost some stupid bet about how many of her shots you could save. She said you’d keep a clean sheet; you were humble and said she’d get one past you.

“Merda,” you mutter. Looking up at the barista, you reply, “I’m so sorry, but I don’t have any cash on me,” a little panicked and ready to risk it all by dashing out of the shop.

You and the barista exchange a helpless look. She needs the money, but you don’t have it. It’s frankly super awkward, and makes Flo squirm in her seat. She really has to put a stop to this, she can’t bear to watch you and the barista be struck dumb any longer.

She stands and walks over to you, “here,” handing the barista a fiver and trying her best to ignore how your jaw goes slack. Have you recognised her?

(No, you’re just wondering how it’s possible to be this attracted to a stranger.)

(Like, this is one of those moments when you truly are no better than a man.)

“Oh!” you exclaim, finding words again. “You don’t—”

“It’s okay,” she says calmly, though she feels anything but. You have eyes that seem to pierce through her. “You can just buy me—”

But whatever smooth remark she is about to make is plucked from her tongue and swallowed by an aggressively abnormal ringtone. It’s a new experience to be shut down by a duck quacking, and an unwelcome one too.

You grimace once again, finding that this supposedly simple detour has caused more chaos than £5.00 coffee is worth. The caller in question is Beth Mead, recently granted close-friend status after she found you mid panic attack in the gym having been overwhelmed by the watt bike, having to constantly use your third language, and the fact that Ona was being a little standoffish the last time you spoke (you were being dramatic — she hung up on you in favour of going clubbing with her own team). Beth won’t tell you this, but Jonas realised you were struggling in London at the start of the season and asked her to keep an eye on you.

Keeping an eye on you has, apparently, turned her into your mother.

“Where are you?” is what she greets you with, her annoyance drowning out the faint sounds of a bowling alley in the background. “You can’t skip mandatory team bonding.” After a pause, the woman on the other end of the line seems to soften. “Are you okay? You’re not lost, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you sigh, glancing at the stranger who you are now in debt to. She’s retreated back to her table, accepting defeat, allowing the universe to quell her potential one-night-stand or more. “I’m in Notting Hill. I got distracted by a café, but I’ll be on my way shortly.”

“You’ll be here in an hour, then,” says Beth, unimpressed. “I’m telling Jonas that you got lost, it’ll save you a lecture.”

“Thank you.” You’re grateful for Beth. “I’ll call a taxi now.”

Florence looks at you dumbly. You spare her a concerned look, but then realise she may have been… No, that’s absurd.

“Thank you,” you say once more, this time directed at the blonde, the curve of your lips undeniably attractive and the glint in your eye even more so. Flo nods curtly, attempting to save face, and then forces her eyes back onto Dune. It’s far less interesting than that entire interaction, but what can she do?

The door of the café shuts with a little click, the bell chiming once more, but Flo refuses to watch you leave. That’s creepy, she tells herself.

In truth, as you get into the taxi pulled up outside, you glance back at her, wondering who she is. Why does she look familiar?

You’re seconds away from figuring it out, having a right old lesbian ponder in the car, when Beth pops her head through the abruptly opened car door. “Hola,” she tries, “estas aqui, finalmente.”

“Sí, estoy aqui,” you reply, grinning. She realises your smile might be slightly mocking, pride replaced with slight frustration. “You tried. I’m sure you will improve.”

“It’s not fair if I’m trying to make you more comfortable and you keep talking to me in English,” she groans, but you wave her off.

“I’m grateful, but I need to practice my English.” The pretty blonde woman is worth the struggle. Not that you’re going to talk to her anytime soon. Because you don’t have her number. Or know her name. So really this is all a fantasy, and you’re being a little wistful and probably very horny. Thinking about it, the last time you slept with someone was at least two months ago, and even then it wasn’t the most mind-blowing night of your life. It’s not like the pretty blonde woman is your soulmate.

- - -

She becomes a dream for about a month, something that maybe happened but has become somewhat a fantasy.

As usual, your mother nags you about needing to date someone every time you call her, but unlike previous times where you find it easy to protest and defend your independence (loneliness), you understand what she means.

It’s so fucking stupid that you’re obsessed with a stranger, but it’s the truth.

How embarrassing.

On the 27th February, you forgo playing against Liverpool in favour of attending a big fundraiser for a mental health charity; an event your brother has strongly encouraged you to go to.

You realise why when you get there.

The banner adorning the entrance to the venue clearly states who tonight’s host is: Tomàs L/n. There is the same picture of him plastered around the place; chest puffed out proudly, his Barcelona kit underneath a blazer. No wonder he was so mysterious about this thing. His lack of warning means you actually have to do little interviews, wondering if anyone really cares what you have to say.

“How do you feel about your brother’s recent increase in his involvement with this charity?” a reporter asks you, mic held to your face as if you have an opinion on this.

“I think it’s good,” you reply vaguely. “It’s good to support something you are passionate about.” You can’t say anything else because you haven’t been briefed by his (admittedly over-bearing) publicist.

“You’re missing a match for this, despite playing time being hard to get for goalkeepers. Is family more important to you than your career — seeing as you need the minutes to be selected for the upcoming Euros?”

An odd question, but okay.

Minutes are difficult, but you’ve been first choice all season. The Euros squad will be finalised in early June, though your agent is confident in your selection. “I think that supporting my family should always come first.” You smile. You’re on camera. “And it is a good cause.”

There’s a surge of movement behind you, shuffling and shouting, clamouring for attention. Cameras begin to flash excessively, and before you can turn around, your brother is beside you.

“Hi,” he greets the reporter, grinning with sparkling teeth and a glint in his eye. “Could I borrow her, thanks!” He places a hand on your shoulder and steers you further into the crowd until you reach a corner that isn’t deserted enough to draw attention to the two of you. It being towards the back of the venue makes it somewhere that feels less exposed than the edges nearing the press

“Fuck you,” you hiss in Catalan, happy to switch back to something natural now that you’re alone. “You’re such a dickhead.” He came all the way from Spain to host this event, but you suspect this isn’t the actual reason for his trip.

“Am not,” comes his indignant reply. You scoff, rolling your eyes at his ridiculous ensemble. “Oh, you don’t like the suit? Cèlia said the same. Dolce&Gabbana sent it.”

“Yeah, well, your wife and I are right. It’s awful.” It’s very… loud. Crimson with golden roses. “I’m getting a headache just looking at you.”

“No,” he waves off with a smirk, “that’s from hitting your head against the goalpost.”

“You saw that?” you ask, scrunching your nose up at the memory. You had saved the ball at the price of a few brain cells, luckily scraping a pass in the concussion test you were forced to sit through.

“I’ve started watching your games more,” he admits earnestly. “Barça want you back, you know. You could come home.”

So this is why he’s here.

“To not be played at all?” you retort, walls going right up.

“They’d be crazy to not put you in goal now, and it’s good to play with the national team in the league. That’s easier if you’re actually in the country.” National camps have been going just fine. “I mean, haven’t you had enough of hiding abroad?”

You think about it for a moment. “Not really, no.” An indignant scoff follows, and then, “I have been back, you know. I flew to Barcelona that one time — and then I got the train from there to Madrid.” Plus, your old teammates (and national teammates) go on enough holidays for you to scrape by nervously in Ibiza and Mallorca, and relax in countries further away.

“Y/n, she left the country four years ago. You couldn’t possibly run into her.”

“My chances of that are even smaller in England,” you state firmly. You spent three years in Germany and she still managed to find you twice, conveniently appearing in her stupid, American law firm’s Munich office.. Away from mainland Europe is a safer bet, surely. “Maybe you could copy me and transfer to Arsenal, just like you copied me when I got into the Barcelona academy.”

- - -

Florence hates events held by footballers.

She rarely goes, and doesn’t if avoidable, but the cause is a good one and her publicist wants the media to paint her as a passive advocate for mental health awareness. Nothing too abrasive, but a quiet reminder of her support. It’s quite clever, really.

Sulking in the corner, she sips her martini with a scowl, watching the crowd wearily. The invitees are not her type of people and most seem to have cleared out Dolce&Gabbana’s SALE rack. The guy in front of her is the perfect example, golden roses sprawling across the back of his crimson blazer.

Internally, she rolls her eyes, taking another sip of her drink. This is unbelievable and won’t get interesting until the auction in two hours.

The man in front of her steps to the side slightly, revealing that he hasn’t been talking to himself but rather to someone who looks strangely familiar.

Your eyes meet hers and there’s a moment where you both go into mild panic mode. The recognition in your stare quickly turns into desperation as your mouth moves rapidly to reply to your brother’s opinions. Florence doesn’t understand the conversation at all, but realises she’s being asked for help.

The confidence people see in her usually isn’t real, but she squares her shoulders and walks up to you and the man.

“There you are!” She’s an actress for a reason. “I was just about to get another drink — I’ve been looking for you for ages.”

Your brother’s eyes narrow.

She slips an arm around your waist, hiding any shock about your muscular form, pretending she knows your name. You lean into her.

“Yeah, let’s go.” Flo has half a mind to send him a glare, but you do it for her. “Tomàs, no hi tonaré.”

The venom in your tone does something to Flo’s blood pressure. It’s sort of… sexy.

“What was that about?” she asks once you’re by the bar, snapping you out of a moody trance.

“My brother?” Your brother is Tomàs L/n. Interesting. (If Flo knew the first thing about the football world, she’d have realised who you were by now, but she doesn’t and so you remain nameless.) “He was being stupid. It doesn’t matter now. Thank you for saving me.”

She finds that she would’ve done it again in a heartbeat, which is a little weird considering she doesn’t know who you are. Flo secretly decides to chalk that one down to having just gotten out of a long-term relationship and needing someone to latch onto.

“No problem,” she replies with a smile. “I believe you owe me a drink…”

You smile. “Two martinis, please.” The bartender nods, looking exasperated by the demands of the overflowing bar.

“That’s my favourite,” Flo says — sort of whispers — as she bashfully looks away. The faint blush creeping up her neck and cheeks is hidden well enough by the blue lighting of the place. “How was your coffee?”

For a moment, you look at her blankly and her heart drops with embarrassment. Then, you let out a little laugh.

“I didn’t drink it. It spilled all over me in the taxi!”

“All that stress for nothing, huh?”

Not nothing, you think, but you’re not brave enough to tell her that. “I was recently introduced to Café Nero, and that tastes the most—”

“No!” Flo explains, pressing her hand to her heart. “That’s unacceptable.” You shake your head, laughing more, and she wants nothing but to hear it on repeat for the rest of her life.

“British coffee is unacceptable,” you answer, rolling your eyes. “But I found this place called Reinetta the other day. Very Spanish, very brilliant.”

“Are you from Spain?”

What a genius.

Your incredulous look quickly goes when you realise she’s serious.

“Yeah!” She notices how your smile grows wider but your eyes become a little haunted. “Hablo español,” you say with a smirk, sending her a superfluous wink.

And, if the bartender hadn’t interrupted by serving you your drinks, you would be well aware of how red she goes.

She takes a sip, groaning in appreciation. “This is a good—” She turns around suddenly, squinting at the woman waving at her in the crowd looking furious. “Fuck, I can’t believe I forgot. I’ve got to go.” You catch sight of the person she’s looking at; a stern-faced publicist wading her way through the mass of people to get to her client. In a last ditch attempt of actually getting to know you, she throws out, “you should totally show me this Spanish coffee place,” and rushes off to meet her publicist.

You stand stock-still. Stunned. Oh, that definitely gave you goosebumps.

The rest of your evening is mostly passive aggressive. With hardly anyone else to talk to, you end up hovering in whatever conversation circle your brother is in.

At the soonest possible moment, you leave and join the late-night recovery dinner at Beth’s house, earning wolf-whistles from everyone as you bundle through the door in your formal attire. Beth tells you to change almost immediately, throwing you a t-shirt and jog pants. “Recovery is all about wearing pyjamas,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And eating.”

“What have you made?”

She gives you a wry grin. “Come find out.”

The girls are sitting around her table, eagerly awaiting your arrival so they can tuck in. Jordan, Katie, Jen, Steph, and (surprisingly) Viv are all eyeing the food like starving wolves would look at a herd of sheep. It smells good and familiar and like Beth has kidnapped your abuela and chained her to a paella pan…?

You seem to fill with energy at the sight of the dish, and Katie announces she’s done being patient, spooning a hefty portion onto her plate and prompting Steph to do the same. They begin eating while you remain a little taken aback.

Beth nudges you. “I called Less and practically begged her to give me Ona’s number last week, sending her a text once I got it — to which your friend took bloody ages to reply. And then she was very difficult about when she could FaceTime, so when we eventually could I ended up making a mini version of her paella and memorising the recipe.” Her rambling is nervous. “But I sent her a picture of this one and she said it looked delicious.”

“Déu n’hi do, it looks delicious,” you agree, sitting down as quickly as possible and piling some onto your plate. Mouth now full, you continue, “it tastes like my mother’s cooking! It’s great, Beth, really.”

“She can cook,” Katie proclaims proudly, directing her statement at Viv; you think, for a moment, that she is going to list all of her positive qualities. Your eyes narrow and Beth shoots you a look that says ‘later’. “Y/n, can you cook?”

You almost choke on a prawn. “I can make pesto pasta. That’s it.”

Jen’s jaw drops. “You’ve only been eating pesto pasta this season?!” she asks, sounding scared.

“Yes, because I chose a club without Ona.” At Wolfsburg, you didn’t live on your own. Here you do. “I don’t mind. But Beth might have to make this weekly.”

“Absolutely not. This drained me more than any game of football ever could.” Beth motions at everyone to keep on eating, feeling accomplished that the meal is good. “Katie scored twice today.”

“Did you now?” She nods her head very proudly. “I bet I could’ve scored today.”

The laughter turns into silence as you eat contently, something that is broken when Jen goes, “where were you?”

The thought of having to talk about it causes you to grip your fork tighter, earning Beth’s hand on your shoulder. “Some charity event, right?” she replies for you. “Tomàs hosted it.”

“He came from Spain?”

“Yes,” you answer, and the girls hear how badly you don’t want to talk about this.

No one here knows exactly what happened, but when you abruptly transferred from Barcelona to Wolfsburg four years ago, you allegedly haven’t been back to Barcelona for longer than a day. Ona was saying to Beth the other day that with some convincing you can be persuaded to Ibiza (you’re about to be invited to two trips to the Balearic Islands), but anything on the mainland is strictly business — camps, games, the like.

Everyone has their theories, but Katie and Jenny think something happened between you and your brother. It’s not like you didn’t say outright in an interview that you have had a far better career than him despite being younger, yet he’s the one being paid €12 million a year.

“Guess what Ruesha fucking did yesterday,” Katie changes the topic.

Everyone groans.

“No one cares, Katie. Like I couldn’t care less.” Beth bites her lip to not laugh at Jen’s words. “Y/n, what’s happening in your love life? Got a girl, boy, cat?”

Feeling a bit like a deer caught in headlights, you look up from your plate. “I met a girl in a coffee shop in January. She was pretty.” You wonder how her interviews went. “I saw her today, actually. But I don’t date so—”

“You don’t date?” Steph asks, eyes widened a little.

“Yeah, because, like, it’s hard… with football.” They look at you like you’re a dog tearing apart a slipper: so unbelievably unimpressed. “Because it’s time consuming?”

In reality, you don’t date because your ex is the reason you can’t even be in mainland Europe, but they do not have to know that.

“So what’s this girl’s name and how did you go out with her if you were at an event?” Beth asks and it sounds a bit too much like a police interrogation for you to feel comfortable.

You shift your weight in your seat.

“I don’t know. She was just there.”

- - -

It’s the middle of March when you’re back in Notting Hill. With training sessions left, right, and centre, you’d been pretty much confined to St. Alban’s and Beth’s house for social activity. Today is a rare day-off, coincidentally aligning with both Manchester United’s schedule and Manchester City’s. Ona has dragged Leila, Laia, and Vicky down to London to see you.

“I can’t believe we had to come to you,” is the first thing Vicky says when you meet them at Euston.

“Wow, not even a ‘hello’,” you say back. “Come on, we’re going to a market.”

They roll their eyes. All of them. At the same time.

You wonder why you ever missed them.

Laia is the only one interested in Portobello, darting from stall to stall to another, excitedly giving you a rundown on her life while she does. Leila is hungry, and ruthlessly cuts her off.

“We get it. You felt sad for a week. I need coffee, Y/n, take me to a coffee shop.”

“It was more than sad,” Laia protests, but acquiesces to the group’s change of plans.

You lead them to the place you found in January — maybe this time you’ll actually get to try the coffee. But on the way there, Laia finds a mildly creepy clothes shop and manages to herd you inside. She flings clothes at the girls, while glaring at you for flirting with the shop assistant instead of letting the woman do her job and help.

You’re halfway to getting her number when there’s a commotion outside and the mood lighting of the shop is ruined by bright camera flashes.

For a moment, you wonder if they’re for you. People could have thought your brother was here, and the paparazzi love him.

But there’s something familiar about the voice shouting at them to back off; the rasp, the accent. Curiously, you look out of the window.

It’s her.

With brown hair?

Flo catches your eye immediately, and it doesn’t take much thinking for you to dash out of the shop to grab her hand and pull her inside.

The paparazzi have no choice but to crowd around the window, except none of their shots will turn out well once the shop assistant closes the blinds.

“Gracias,” Flo pants, out of breath.

Leila’s eyebrows shoot right up, closely followed by the rest of the girls. “Y/n, that’s Florence Pugh,” she blurts, thankfully in Spanish.

“Y/n?” Flo tries. Now she knows your name and her stomach feels settled with endearance. Your name suits you. “Thank you for saving me. I needed it.”

“I owed you,” comes your reply as you shrug.

“Y/n saves things for a living!” Ona butts in.

(Is she sabotaging you or being your wingwoman?)

There’s a tense silence, of which no one knows what to fill it with, until the shop assistant opens the blinds and informs Flo that the coast is clear. It takes that statement then to be repeated to snap you and Flo out of the mildly creepy eye contact you’re sharing, but once it does she can’t seem to look at you again.

She inhales and resets herself. “Right. I’ll be off. Things to do, people to see.”

“Yes,” you reply, beginning to feel embarrassed in front of your friends’ keen and watchful eyes. “Yes, yeah. Bye.”

“Bye, Y/n.”

With that, you let the woman you’ve been thinking about for months walk away, out of the shop, and down the street. You give yourself an internal kick for lacking the game you know you have in three other languages, but rub it better because now you know her name.

Florence Pugh. Like the actress from that creepy cult film Obi was obsessed with. And the girl from that Marvel movie.

You pause.

“The actress Florence Pugh?” Your question has Leila shoving her Wikipedia in your face. British actress, born in Oxford on 3rd January 1996. Florence Rose Pugh. Maybe you’d heard someone call her Flo before? “Oh, this is the girl I’ve been meaning to tell you about.”

“The girl with no name is Florence fucking Pugh?” Leila shrieks, hands on your shoulders, shaking you. “You know I love Marvel!”

“Sorry,” you chuckle, amused by her overreaction.

Vicky catches your eye, looking like she wants to say something.

Laia does it for her.

“You need to learn how to flirt in English, because that was atrocious.”

You glare at them both. Partly because it’s true.

“The Y/n who fucked four women in a week at the grand old age of eighteen did not just say — no, splutter — ‘yes, yeah, bye’ because she was looking at a pretty girl,” Vicky adds, smugly. “We have finally found the language barrier between Y/n and sex! Round of applause please!”

“Alright, alright,” Ona says, coming to the rescue. “Stop teasing her when she looks like a lovesick puppy.”

Fuck you too, Ona.

“Florence Pugh is practically a stranger.” You look at Leila, “we are not getting married.” You look at Vicky, “she is not being invited to dinner tonight.” You look at Laia, “she will not be upgrading your train tickets to first class.” And finally, you look at Señorita Ona Battle; the woman who has been your closest friend for years. “I am not in love.”

“I’m sure she’s in love too,” Ona says, pushing it.

“But she’s a stranger!”

Your friends are delusional because you’ve been over it in your head millions of times, clinging onto the shreds of interaction, and you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve met the woman. Florence Pugh can possibly be categorised as a celebrity crush at best. What Ona is talking about is way too serious.

- - -

Flo is certain that Ibiza is a good idea. Or so she tells herself.

And, well, Harris tells her.

He thinks she’s been in a bit of a slump since she and Zach broke up. While Flo can barely talk about it without wanting to cry, she mourns the loss in a very vocal manner to her closest friends. She misses him quite a bit.

Harris allows her a month of moaning before putting his foot down; vetoing Flo not joining them in Ibiza because she is sad. “You’re single, you’re hot, and you’re one of the most sought-after actresses and you don’t want to go on a hot-girl vacation…?” His puzzlement is almost comical when he asks. “It’s for my birthday, babe. You can’t not come.”

Her valid apprehension is quelled with the promise of lots of alcohol and sun, and so this is how she ends up on the Spanish island. Harris calls this a ‘come-back curve’ — when you let loose again after being in a long-term relationship.

It’s fun, really. The beach, the time with friends, the drinking. This is the kind of life she had coveted during her youth; the one most believe comes with the fame. When there aren’t any cameras in her face, she feels at peace with her situation.

(Is this what getting over someone feels like?)

Except for one, tiny problem.

Whenever Will drags them all to a nightclub and pumps her full of vodka, she manages to avoid the gaze of every pair of eyes looking for someone to sleep with. Usually, Flo after ten vodka shots would be on top of someone or on her way out, but the days go by and she can’t help but cockblock herself.

She racks her brains to figure out the cause, the reason, but there is nothing in it apart from the echo of your laughter and the sound of you speaking Spanish. She closes her eyes and she can picture you, clear as day, grinning right back at her. She is not okay with it.

Obviously.

Despite the idea of you throwing her off her game, she is still easily convinced to venture out to nightclubs. Leading her here.

Paraíso.

It’s sticky inside; surfaces, people, floor. And packed. Bodies pressed to other bodies, hair trapped, shouting, screaming, singing.

For an already drunk group of people, it’s perfect.

Crammed into a booth in the heart of the club, Flo and her friends do two rounds of lemon drops, the sugar going everywhere. When her nose scrunches at the bitter taste of the rind, Harris snaps a picture, says he’ll post it later.

Good, she thinks. Maybe you will see her having fun.

If one was to ask, and Flo decided not to lie, it would be revealed that she has spent every night this week making her way through articles about you. Your Instagram didn’t take long to find, nor to scroll through, but it saddens her slightly to discover how little people write about you, and how much they write about your brother.

She is dignified enough to refrain from scouring your Wikipedia page.

Funnily enough, you have been doing the same, though the material to get through is significantly more substantial. Mapi has taken to calling it your ‘bedtime reading’, prompting you to announce very loudly to every guest sitting in your family villa in Ibiza that you own the place.

Well, your dad does. (Same thing though.)

Housed in said villa are Mapi and Ingrid, Ona, Laia, Leila, Patri, and Pina. Beth, Jordan, Leah and a few of their England teammates have come along too, staying in a boutique hotel not far away; about a fifteen minute walk. The groups merged very quickly after a bottle of wine.

As you get further into the holiday, you dive deeper into Florence Pugh’s digital footprint, and everyone else is very over it.

“This obsession isn’t cute,” Patri teases, snatching your phone as you spread out on the sofa. “But Leila wanted me to let you know that Florence Pugh is in Ibiza.” Your heart clenches hard; this could be a heart attack. “Oh, and we’re all going out tonight. England girls and us lot. Ingrid is also banning Spanish in case they think we’re talking about them, Pina broke the shower on the third floor, and Laia has fed that stray cat so much that it is now curled up in her bed.”

You glare.

Many of those things are so unbelievably far from ideal.

Patri raises her hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

In time, you wish you had and that your evening was being wasted away in jail, because this place is loud and busy and it is far from acceptable for you to go back to internet-stalking Florence Pugh around such interesting company.

The England girls have chosen a club called Paraíso, though you wouldn’t have known from the way they pronounced it. Most of them are dancing, but Beth, cheeks flushed from a few vodka sodas, has sat next to you in the booth, looking like she’s about to pour her heart out.

You turn to her. “Go on, then. Tell me about you and Viv.” And she grins like that’s the best thing she’s ever heard, launching you into a timeline of events that have you feeling disappointed in yourself about your situation.

If it all hadn’t been ruined, you could have been able to reciprocate the conversation.

It’s a bit like a knife to the stomach to be reminded of something you don’t have.

Eventually, Beth is finished, eyes shining because she is so happy with her and you are so supportive of it. She cares what you think, and is glad you approve.

“I’m going to get a drink,” you say, deciding there’s not enough alcohol in the world to make you feel better but that you can at least try. Beth nods and finds the others on the dance floor.

The bar is well staffed, and it takes all of two minutes for you to place an order of three Jägerbombs. All for you, but you hesitate to tell the bartender that.

Someone brushes your arm and your stomach drops to the floor.

“Hi,” she says, practically sparkling under the club lighting.

This is why you don’t come home. Fucking hell.

“¿Inglés?” you question, raising an eyebrow. Adela used to hate having to learn the language.

“Vivo en Nueva York en la actualidad.”

Tomàs was right. She doesn’t live in Spain anymore. So why is she here? Why is she in the last slice of your home country you can be persuaded to let loose in? Why does she have to ruin everything?

Though time feels frozen, someone else has placed their hand on your waist. You tense as you turn around, but hope Adela doesn’t see it.

When you realise it’s Florence Pugh, you are very close to running away to Australia in search of complete isolation.

“Hey, babe,” Florence drawls casually. She’s an actress, you remind yourself. Improvisation is a skill she’ll be great at. “You alright?” Her hand squeezes your waist in reassurance.

Flo’s hair is blonde again. It looks nice.

“Yeah,” you breathe, feeling a heat pulse through your body. “Just waiting on some Jägerbombs.”

Flo stands her ground. She wants to wait with you. She doesn’t want to leave you alone with the beautiful woman who’s got you on edge.

Is it wrong to feel protective over a stranger?

(Neither of you feel like such — a consequence of extreme internet-stalking on both ends.)

“¿Tu novia?” Adela asks. You smirk at the flash of jealousy in her eyes. “Pensé que estabas follando a todos a la vista como siempre.”

“No, es mi novia. ¿Tienes un problema con eso?” She shakes her head. “Bueno.”

“Sí.” She looks Flo dead in the eyes. “Adiós.”

The two of you let the silence take over, both aware of how she’s still got her hand on your waist, now with her body pressed up against yours.

“Your ex?” Flo asks, praying it doesn’t sound hopeful. There’s no way you’re not into women, right?

“Yeah,” you answer miserably.

She adjusts herself so that you’re now facing each other, but it only aids you both in feeling a little turned on. Seeing the other looking just as flustered does nothing to quell the possibility of where this night is going.

“Want to get out of here?”

She grins. You take that as a yes.

Her hands are sweaty as they cling to yours, but the club is packed now and she’d get lost if she didn’t hold on. Getting outside is like a rebirth, fresh air washing away the grime and a soft breeze cooling her down. That is until you look at her, biting your bottom lip.

“You can if you want,” she whispers as you sort of back yourselves into the alley beside the building. You place your hands firmly on her waist.

You smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” And with that you close the space between you, pressing your lips against hers and a hand against the wall to support you both. She kisses back desperately, opening her mouth, clashing her teeth on yours. Her hands run up your back, wrapping around your neck.

You make out for a while, before she pulls away.

“I’ll call a taxi to my hotel.” She gives you the opportunity to text Ona.

You: no volveré esta noche

You’re about to tell your friend where the spare keys to your villa are, before Flo kisses you again, capturing your attention in order to direct you to the taxi.

From there, it’s a downhill slope of ripped clothing, walking into things, and being fucked into oblivion.

The morning comes brightly, unforgiving of any hangovers.

Her suite is really nice, but is partially destroyed by last night’s storm of a hookup. The sofa cushions litter the living area’s floor when you try to find her.

She is sitting on the sofa, hair wet, lazily watching the TV. As you laugh at the program, she snaps out of her brood.

“Do you understand what they’re saying?” you ask through your giggles. It’s a pretty crass show to have on at 10am.

“No,” she sheepishly replies. Her eyes tear from the screen to focus on you, examining your body from head to toe, resulting in a frown. “I went out and bought you something to wear.” She directs your attention to a shopping bag on the coffee table.

“You didn’t have to.”

“It was nothing, really.”

You pause.

She looks beautiful. You wish you hadn’t been so drunk. Now all this will be is a one-night stand.

“I’ve got to go. I thought I texted my friend where the spare keys were but I didn't, so they've all crashed at our friends’ hotel, and they’re not happy about it.” Flo laughs, recalling giving you enough time to let everyone know of your changed plans. Maybe you were too caught up in staring at her.

“No worries,” she says easily. “I’m headed to breakfast, but feel free to use the bathroom to clean up.”

There’s a stagnant silence.

Neither of you are going to further this interaction. Alright.

It will be fine. She’s less of a stranger now, and no interview could ever inform you on what your name sounds like as she moans it over and over again.

You tell yourself this again as you approach the England girls’ hotel, bar the last bit. (Though it does remind you of the game you once had.)

Everybody is waiting for you in the small restaurant, the group practically filling the space. There are many colourful words, both in Spanish and Catalan, being muttered as you walk in.

It’s fair for them to feel irritated, and you did leave as soon as possible to allow them back in. You probably would have slept in that expensive hotel bed for the rest of the day if Pina’s seventh phone call hadn’t awoken you.

“You are unbelievable,” is the first thing Mapi says, ignoring the questioning looks from the English girls. None of them speak Spanish, though you’ve heard that Lucy is learning. “Where were you? Pina says she saw Adela as soon as we walked in, and was about to go looking for you to get you out of there.”

“Well Pina didn’t do that,” you reply, folding your arms. Clàudia looks away guiltily. “And I spoke to Adela.”

“So you have a run-in with her and you take off? As if the years haven’t made a difference? As if you’re not over her?”

You clench your fists. “No, I was with a girl.”

“Which girl?” Ona excitedly interjects. “Do we know her?”

“Yeah,” you say, but intend to give them nothing else. “I just came back from her hotel. Would you like to get back to the villa or not?”

“Y/n, you’re such a dickhead.”

Beth asks for a translation.

Before you can omit the parts you don’t want her to hear, the whole of the group is made aware of what you got up to last night. Patri skips over the background information about Adela once she catches the way you are looking at her. If looks could kill, she’d be long gone by now.

The conversation evolves naturally into something more general, until everyone is gathering their things and leaving the hotel to walk to your place. With a group of fifteen, the pavement is cramped, meaning Ona and you pull ahead.

She nudges you when you go quiet for a bit.

“So…” Ona begins, smirking. “Tell me about your night.”

“My night was too scandalous for Onita to handle,” you tease, ultimately avoiding the question. Her eyes narrow and she grabs your wrist to stop you from crossing the road. “I’m not going to run away.”

“But you love running away!”

You sigh. “My night was good, Ona. Really good.”

Ona is clever enough to piece together a story in her head. Adela has a way of disrupting the flow of your life, and a certain someone is in town.

“Fucking hell, Y/n. You slept with Florence Pugh?!” she exclaims.

“Keep your voice down,” you say loudly, shaking your head as to not let the others know. “It was a one-time thing. A mistake.”

She studies your expression, realising how your regret was easily confused for sternness earlier. “You wanted it.”

“It’s a celebrity crush!”

“Not if you’ve actually met her. Then it’s just a crush.”

“You’re just a crush,” you retort. Ona bursts out laughing.

“You slept with your crush and it’s a mistake because she thinks it’s a one-night stand.” Your friend shakes her head in disbelief. “Now I remember why we stopped talking about your love life. It’s chaos!”

Technically, it’s because your love life went very dry once you reached Germany, but you laugh along with Ona because she’s right.

Your hushed Spanish is safe from the ears of the others, but when you lay your phone on the kitchen worktop in the villa, Beth notices two Instagram notifications.

@florencepugh has started following you.

And a DM.

+44 7701 923892 xx

Flo throws her phone across the room once she clicks send, and hides under the covers from a cackling huddle of her best friends.

- - -

Somehow, you are persuaded to cancel your flight to Gatwick and follow the girls to Barcelona. Now that Adela herself has told you she isn’t in your home city anymore, maybe you can visit for longer than five hours again.

When you knock on the door of your family home, you’re tackled to the ground by your mother. Though you didn’t go radio silent on them, the only time they really get to see you is when you’re playing a home game for the national team. Even then, it isn’t guaranteed.

“You’re home?” she asks, pinching your arm to see if you’re real. “My baby was driven out of the country by some stupid girl, so is this stupid girl dead or…”

“Mamá!” You frown and step past her to get inside. It smells like your little sister has found out what incense sticks are and burnt them everywhere. “I thought I’d visit before the Euros. I was in Ibiza anyway.”

“I know,” she says matter-of-factly, making your stomach turn with guilt. “Eva showed me how to work the Instagram.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise you checked.”

She smiles softly and it feels like everything you have been missing has always been here.

“Of course I check to see what you’re up to. Wherever you are. Especially since you stopped calling as much.” You shake your head as if it will make it better. You’ve been busy in a new country. You assumed having Eva and Tomàs was enough to keep her hands full. She seems to read your mind. “While your brother and sister are a lot, I’ve missed you.”

You’re suddenly fighting back tears.

“I’ve missed you too, Mamá.”

She pulls you into a calmer, firmer hug. The moment is ruined when Eva comes charging down the stairs, screaming at the sight of you.

The last time you saw her in person was when the Barça academy took her team on tour to Germany last year, but she’s acting as if you’ve come back from the dead.

She alerts the attention of everyone else in the house, meaning your grandma and dad flock to the kitchen, dropping whatever they’re doing. You can hardly blame them. You must have become a myth.

Plans are quickly made to go out to the usual spot for dinner with Tomàs and his family. Your older brother has a wife and three children that you never actually see. You haven’t met his youngest because he was born just before the pandemic started (as if you’d have visited anyway).

With that, you are integrated back into your old life.

You dust off your motorbike from the garage and go on rides through your city, watching the sunset from the rooftop of your friend’s old apartment building with Eva. She tells you about how her football is going; how everyone thinks it’s odd she plays neither in goal nor as a striker.

Growing up, you were forced to save Tomàs’ incessant (but increasingly more accurate) shots, meaning you’d had a fair amount of goalkeeping experience by the time your dad put you onto the football team he coached. You played what you knew. Tomàs hated being on the same team as you, but it didn’t last long when you were scouted and put in Barça’s academy. He followed soon after.

Eva, however, decided to stay away from her older brother and sister’s constant practice. She ended up on your dad’s football team too, scouted again by Barça, her name written down like you and Tomàs had done before her. At seventeen, she might be on track to be signing for the senior team next season. You promise to get the girls round and introduce her to them.

In turn, you tell your sister about the woman you keep on running into. How her eyes looked more grey in January than they did in May. How she makes you nervous, makes you forget how to do things. How you slept together five days before you arrived home.

You have her number, and you show your little sister. She begs you to call it, but you quietly admit you’re scared. She leaves you to move at your own pace, even if she finds it painfully slow.

As the days go by, you become Eva’s chauffeur. She finds it exciting to be driven about on your motorbike, and you have nothing to do but wait for the final Euros squads to be announced.

Your little sister often has places to be. Today it’s The Museu Picasso. Apparently, she’s ‘cultured’ and ‘sophisticated’ and will be getting high as a kite before entry. Makes the experience better.

As you weave through taxis and try not to run over any tourists, a certain blonde catches your eye. She sits dejectedly on a bench with her phone held loosely in her hand. You pull over without a second thought.

“Lost?” you tease, taking off your helmet. Florence startles and almost drops her phone, before coming to her senses and recognising you.

“Very,” she sighs. “My driver cancelled and I’m stranded.”

“Need a ride? She’s getting off here anyway.” You nod to Eva, who is looking affronted by the suggestion of that.

“Jo sóc?”

“Sí, Eva.” She stares at you blankly. “Baixes de la puta moto.”

“Ah. Aquesta és ella.”

You hum in confirmation. “Ara aneu a escampar la boira.”

Flo watches the conversation trying not to blush. The Catalan might be sexier than the Spanish.

After a second of rebellion, Eva gives in and gets off the bike, thrusting her helmet into your stomach bitterly. The museum really isn’t far away — about a ten minute walk — but it’s the principle. What happened to sisterhood?

You get off as well, unsure of whether Flo knows how to get on. She does, thankfully, meaning you don’t have to fumble your way through that. Dodged a bullet there.

At first she keeps her arms loosely wrapped around you, awkwardly holding on. When you speed up, she squeezes you tighter. If she hadn’t squeezed tighter and pulled you out of thought, you’d have been pancaked by an oncoming lorry (they’re memories — it makes it worse).

“Where am I taking you?” you ask, shouting to be heard.

“Coffee!” she replies, amusement audible. “There’s this woman I like who owes me one!”

You pretend you didn’t hear her second sentence, focusing on the road in front of you instead.

Florence relaxes quickly, enjoying the way the people change from tourists to locals; the buildings become more homely and less commercial. Barcelona is beautiful. Your eyes are brighter than when she last looked in them.

The coffee shop you take her to is the one you’ve been going to for years, though the colour scheme has changed from blue to red since the last time you came. The staff are fresh-faced and young, but the manager pulls you into a hug immediately. Flo hangs back, feeling like an elephant among the mice. She doesn’t understand what you say, and takes a minute to realise you want to know her order. Even then, she’s uncomfortable with reading anything off the menu and shrugs.

The manager, Pablo, is the son of the owner, and has worked here longer than you’ve been alive. When you first sat down for a coffee fifteen years ago, exhausted from a 10k run, he gave you a free biscuit on the side. You’ve been close ever since.

Naturally he asks who Flo is. Why is she here?

You can only shrug, say she’s a friend, and deal with his unconvinced expression.

Sitting opposite her on a wobbly table starts the first conversation you have intentionally had. One not tainted by alcohol or put in place to distract from an unwanted discussion. It’s now not a failsafe or emergency, but something you want to happen. It’s weird.

“Thank you,” she says earnestly. “I was a lot more panicked than I looked.”

You laugh. “You looked pretty panicked.”

“New city. Haven’t had a chance to get my bearings.” You wonder why she’s here. What do actresses do for fun? Would Florence go to a museum? “My flight got in yesterday, so it’s really new.”

“This is where I grew up.” She figured as such.

“I went to one of your games, you know,” she blurts. “The last one of the season. My friend was looking to invest, and I only put the pieces together once I saw you from the stands.”

“So you don’t know who Tomàs is?” She shakes her head and you look at her with horror. “Do you not like football?” you ask, eyes wide.

“Do you like musicals?”

“Touché.”

The corners of her lips twitch upwards into a smile. “French as well?”

“My talents don’t extend that far.” Innuendo settles in your words. Oh, she knows exactly where your talents lie. “In Ibiza…”

“Who was she?”

“An ex-girlfriend.” She raises her eyebrows. “The ex-girlfriend.”

“We all have one of those,” Flo says with a sly smile. “Mine got me kicked out of the school choir when I was fifteen. Yours?”

Your leg shakes anxiously. There is something so incredibly unfair about having to feel so horrible every time she’s brought up. As if she feels the same way. Your life was the one that was obliterated; the collateral damage.

Flo listens carefully when you talk about signing for Barça’s senior team and moving out. About the lifestyle you adopted from your brother; the parties and the drinking and the constant meaningless sex. And then, when you tell her that Adela seemed so mature, that she had her own place that was quiet, she actually understands. Zach felt like that. An example, a teacher. Someone who was safe and quiet and knew what they were doing.

You would sit quietly in Adela’s little flat while she did her work for her law degree, unwinding and relaxing. She’d stroke your hair and do yoga with you after rough games.

But Adela got tired of it. She was sick of always coming home to either an empty flat or you being exhausted, and she couldn’t handle how much she had to put her own life on hold because of your football. She had been offered a training contract at a big American law firm’s Spanish branch, which would require her to move to Madrid and work like a dog.

She said you were holding her back.

It was the most heartbreaking thing you ever had to do, because she gave you a choice: her or football. And you chose football. But you loved her a lot, and her leaving was like losing your favourite teddy. You became stuck in a dark place; you couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Barça became concerned by your playing standard and you were replaced by another keeper. When the transfer window came, you ran off to Germany without so much as a goodbye to Barcelona and hoped to never have to run into Adela again.

“Good thing she now thinks you’ve got a super sexy, hot, famous new girlfriend,” Flo jokes when you finish, attempting to diffuse the tension.

It only adds to it.

“Did Ibiza mean anything to you?” you ask quietly, nervously. She catches your eyes and holds them, trying to make you feel better. Safer. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you for months,” she confesses, almost a whisper. “Before I even knew your name.”

“I should have called.”

“No, it’s okay. That was very bold of me.” She took a shot before sending it. “I’m not in Barcelona very long, but I have a hotel room and my hotel room has wine. And a—”

“Do we need a bed?” Your wink makes her cross her legs. “First, let me introduce myself, yeah? So we’re not strangers.” She nods. “I’m Y/n, and I saw you in that overpriced coffee shop in Notting Hill.” Pablo pretends to not be listening.

“Hola,” she tries valiantly. “Soy Florence. Call me Flo. Um, that’s the extent of my Spanish.”

“It was good,” you lie. She hits your arm lightly. “No, really! I’m sure you’ll learn some.”

“Oh, I did.” Her smirk is unsettling. “Dámelo más duro,” she moans, imitating you.

Your blush makes your face feel like it is on fire.

“We have got to leave this place right now, oh my god.” She gladly stands. You hand Pablo €20 because you’re not focused on how much money this will cost you. “You’ve got to never do that again. Especially not on the motorcycle. I’ll crash.”

“Yeah, I noticed how you nearly killed us earlier.” You don’t get to make a witty comeback, because she firmly plants her hands on your waist and kisses you hard.

Your heart soars.

- - -

It has taken six months for you and the mystery blonde woman to go on a date, but it’s perfect. You eat out at an Italian place, followed by a different kind of eating out later into the night.

On the 15th June the national team for the Euros is confirmed, she is at your family home, halfway through helping your mother to prepare lunch. The whole family swarm the kitchen to congratulate you on being the first choice of goalkeeper. They couldn’t be prouder.

When you kiss her in front of most of the crowd at the last game of the group stages, she has to wipe away your tears. While everyone else appreciates the effort of your clean sheet, your teammates are thankful you’ve found someone. They knew you seemed different the whole tournament.

Obviously, the quarter-finals are conflicting for Flo. She dons an England shirt, but while her friends seek out their Lionesses afterwards (famous people always think sports teams want to see them), she searches for you instead. You sob into her embrace and she knows how stressful the tournament has been for the whole squad. She supports you fully when you and fifteen other Spanish players email the Football Federation with complaints of the manager.

In September, she’s thrown into the middle of the current hottest scandal in Hollywood. You’re there for her to rant to, scream at, and talk with — even if most of the time it’s over the phone. She misses you the most when you’re away for matches, so for her to be filming in Budapest takes a toll.

Flo tells you that she loves you when you pick her up from Heathrow terminal three, something your little sister goes feral over (another Hugh Grant romcom, apparently).

You say it back without hesitating.

You say it over and over again until it’s your most commonly said phrase. The girls tease you for being obvious about when you get laid, because you can’t keep the smile off your face the next day. In truth, you grin anytime you see her.

Christmas and New Year’s with the Pughs makes you love her more, and you reflect on how far you’ve come since January. How she once didn’t know your name, but now can sort out your bills if you asked. Florence Rose Pugh means more than a Wikipedia page because you say it when you propose, and she manages to say yes in Spanish through her tears. It makes the 29th December a special day forever, and it’s still too cold in England for your liking but it’s an excuse to bury yourselves in blankets that night. And for all the nights to come.

She’s no longer a stranger but she has always been so much more than that anyway.

tags: @pewpughpew @ridleypugh @jeyramarie @flosbelova @kassies-take @delfiore @yelenabelovasbxtch @xsophiesx @slut4milfs69 @sunshadesnrainbowz @karsonromanoff

[bobamilkk]

TF2 HEADCANONS PART TWO ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

I told myself I’d get these up one of these days👍 I finished this list at 4 am last night so none of this makes any sense and every word is more chaotic than the ones before it and no I’m not sorry y’all sighed up for this bs

Scout

-Can understand a good chunk of French but can’t speak more than a few simple words if that, has no clue how he understands it (Spy spoke a good amount of French around him as a baby or something idk)

-Can be just has hard to find as Spy-once you loose sight of him he’s impossible to find if he’s actually trying to stay hidden-Like father like son

-Can and will steal your food-this includes Heavy and Medic-He has no fear whatsoever and has been sent to respawn god knows how many fucking times because of this-And yet he still does it

-Loves scifi movies and comics and if you watch a movie with him half of it is him pointing out random trivia facts because he’s incapable of shutting the fuck up (this is also what happens when you watch a movie with me irl. My grandparents are sick and tired of it. Yes this is even more self projection what of it?)

-has mastered the younger sibling talent of fucking climbing people if it means getting something that’s held over his head. He also bites

Soldier

-it’s impossible to tell if he’s insulting you or complimenting you 90% of the time

-Has stabbed Scout’s hand to the table to prevent him from stealing food before and no one stopped him

-The team has movie nights once a week and Soldier always puts on the same inaccurate WW2 documentary he made himself when it’s his turn to pick-he used to put on 10 hours of the American National Anthem but someone (read: The rest of the team working together) lost (read: Violently destroyed) the tape after the third time

-I said he was from Missouri once in a rp cuz my rp friend and I are both from different parts of Missouri so that’s my hc now

Pyro

-I always hc him as Irish for some reason idk why

-Can casually pick up every merc except for Heavy-He struggles a bit with Medic because that man is pure muscle but they can indeed pick him up

-May or may not be a cannibal-it’s a little uncertain but either way they’re banned from the kitchen and cooking duty

-I’m a sucker for the hc that he does not like water whatsoever-Getting this man a bath is like trying to bathe a cat except somehow even more deadly

Demo

-This may be the impulsive sleep deprivation but my brain randomly went “What If he can see general ghosts because of his possessed eye socket, not just Eyelander or the scream fortress ghosts” so sometimes people walk in on him casually having a conversation with the air. Considering he’s made out with his own organs in his head, this is one of the less weird things they’ve walked in on him doing

-Surprisingly he’s the best with kids out of all 9 mercs, Heavy is a good runner up though and Spy’s not far behind but will never admit it

Heavy

-Accent gets thicker when he’s talking to people he cares about

-Was the one who suggested the movie nights in the first place

-Actually cleans up in the base unlike literally everyone else

Engie

-People don’t realize how unhinged this man is ok??? Anyways he’s a caffeine addict and has developed the habit of pulling way too many all nighters if it means getting work done (like me. It’s 4 am as I work on this list. Help)

-What’s a southern farm boy without a few dozen concerning stories about pushing cousins out of second story barn windows or near drowning fishing story? My cousins lived on a farm when we were kids and they scared the shit out of me I swear there was a new broken bone every summer

-probably once had a sleep deprived mental breakdown on his workshop floor because the sweet tea one of the mercs made him wasn’t sweet enough idk man I’m sleep deprived rn and could really use a southern style sweet tea

Medic

-Mann vs Machine hc that his hometown would rather deal with the robots than having Medic anywhere near them ever again. They want him GONE

-Sleeps like a fucking corpse-You can’t even tell he’s breathing unless you look closely. He even crosses his arms like a corpse

-Will take you graverobbing for a romantic date-gotta get experiment canvases somehow he’s running out of room on the other mercs without them just dropping dead from it all

Sniper

-The opposite of a morning person, but his internal clock won’t let him sleep in ever. The suns up? He’s up! Someone help him

-Has befriended a wild owl and feeds it at night-The offense trio very violently helped him name it (They fist fought eachother over who’s name was better while Sniper spaced out thinking about random gator facts)

Spy

-An adrenaline junkie but will never ever admit it

-Spy can mimic voices to a near perfect even without his disguise kit-he however rarely uses this and instead simply mocks everyone instead because he finds it funny (“This is Scout! Rainbows make me cry!”)

-Wears a corset because I said so-It always matches perfectly with his outfit and underwear too-He feels SO bonita

Bonus since it’s Pride Month

-Scout is gay and so many levels deep in the closet it’s embarrassing-He’s also trans because I said so

-Soldier is trans, bi, and poly :) his list of wives consists of anyone and everyone /j

-Spy is bi and a cis man who wears dresses regularly he’s gnc af and I love that for him he’s my wife now

-Medic is gay and still legally married to his wife they’re mlm wlm solidarity married for tax benefits /j

-Pyro is trans, non-binary, and pan and uses he/they pronouns because I said so

-None of these men are straight ok

-Medic did both Scout and Soldier’s top surgery but both of them instead have overly extravagant extremely gorey stories on how they got their scars

[josefavomjaaga]

Lefebvre's French

I swear I was looking for stuff related to the Junots. Really! Instead I came across this anecdote in the "Mémoires anecdotiques" by Armand Alexandre Hippolyte de Bonneval, and while I cannot verify its autheticity, it's just too cute to not be repeated. This allegedly happened in 1812, during the march from the Berezina to Vilna.

I had just encountered Marshal Lefebvre. Like the rest of us, he was on foot, with a long stick in his hand, and we were walking side by side. When we reached a bridge cluttered with baggage and troops that made it almost impossible to cross, the marshal found a large six-foot tall figure in front of him, dressed in a cuirassiers' coat. He gave him three or four strokes on the back with his stick, and shouted in his German accent: "Moof ahead, vat the hell, you are blocking my way!"

I just have to add the original French here as I am unable to imitate the effect in English: "Allez tonc, qué tiable, fous m'embechez de basser!"

The other quickly turned around; it was the Duc de Trévise [Marshal Mortier]. - "Ah, my comrade," said a confused Lefèbvre, "if I'd known it vas you, I vouldn't have hit so hard!"

In Alsacien French: "Ah, mon gamarate, si ch'avais su que c'edait fous, che n'aurais pas dapé si vort!"