#next year it will officially become a tradition

[lydiablackblade]

[waves-against-a-cliff]

After the end - Post-apocalypse Omegaverse AU

Summary - You won't be cornered in your territory and that's final. You begin to make little presents for your trespassers should they dare to enter your woods. Meanwhile, the four alphas find something very interesting...

Tags - Omegaverse (duh), alpha/beta/omega dynamics, non traditional dynamics, all of the 141 are alphas, you're an omega. Eventual smut, dub-con, knotting, mating press, polyamory, alphas love alphas. 141 x reader. The reader is officially a bad ass

Prologue

You stared down at the nest you had created and suddenly felt disgusted and angry. These alphas have stepped onto your territory and made you react like this. Three years of near bliss, despite the struggles, gone. The anger rolled over you in waves, it boiled your blood to the point you felt hot all over your body.

No. You weren't about to cower in your cabin and let some stupid alphas wander all over your territory. You were going to do something about it. You marched back towards your living room and opened one of the closets on the side of the hallway. You grabbed the bag full of supplies and swung it over your shoulder then looked at the shotgun leaned against the wall.

You hesitated only for a moment before you grabbed it too. Even in the times before the world ended you hadn't been one for conventionality. You preferred to be alone on your own property living your own life. And no alpha or beta, whether back then or now, was going to take this from you. You shoved the extra ammunition into your pockets and unbarred your door.

The cold winter air nipped at your skin and distantly you could still smell their combined scents. You pulled stuffing from a torn apart pillow and stuffed it up your nose. Happy hunting indeed, you thought as you stepped off into your piece heaven that would become their hell.

"Hey captain," Gaz said as they wandered through the very small town. It had likely been abandoned for ages. The first thing Gaz had noticed was that the windows were smashed in but the doors boarded up. Then he noticed the marks, spray paint in different symbols meaning something or another. "I think this place has been completely stripped bare."

Price hummed thoughtfully and turned to look around at the other buildings. All of them in similar states of disrepair but all with symbols sprayed onto them. He turned to his team, and contemplated their next steps. "Do you think they might still be around?" Ghost spoke up finally.

Price glanced at his lieutenant. They had stuck together when the entire world had completely gone down. First the electricity and then a disease. It apparently didn't take much else to throw the world into chaos. People killed people all the time before but not even Ghost had been prepared for the level of depravity some people dove to. Kidnapping local omegas, killing betas or hunting alphas for sport. Blowing up buildings and ransacking stores.

They had all stuck together as a pack since that was what they had always done. They wandered from place to place and it had taken them a little over a year to make it back to the UK. Bonds grew stronger and their ruts continued. They were all each other's support. Price considered the facts in front of them.

"Negative. I don't think whoever did this is still around," Price said as he eyed the pharmacy. The only building not having been closed off or marked with an 'x'. "Soap, Gaz, go investigate the pharmacy, me and Ghost will try to find any other buildings not marked."

They wandered around the town for a bit with Gaz and Soap meeting back up not long after they had departed. "Over tae counter medicine like Advil but nae much else," Soap tossed Ghost the bottle who looked over it.

"Not expired yet. Good find."

"Wait," Gaz suddenly said and sniffed the air. Everyone paused, Gaz had the best nose of them all. Able to sniff out any scents even days old. He walked over to a telephone pole that had a red smear on it and sniffed with his nose almost on the old blood.

He felt his cock chub up his pants immediately at the scent. At first it smelled like sweat and dirt but underneath that was a tangy, sour then sweet like a granny smith apple or a green grape, scent. An unmistakable smell of omega.

Gaz turned to the three other alphas, "There's an omega around." He grinned.

Hehe I'm gonna have fun writing this

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[a-d-nox]

web of wyrd: annual energies and relationship milestones

my best friend is newly engaged, as i said recently, which has inspired me to focus a little more focused on love and romance posts than you typically would see from me. i previously covered annual energies and some broad themes associated with them, so i thought lets look a bit more at the romantic themes seeing that it's over a year later (since that post) and i have seen WAY more webs at this point and picked up on some other trends.

something to keep in mind though - these are COMMON energy markers, any of this can happen any year. these are just the best case scenarios in my opinion.

for instance you can get married in a 22 year, but i feel like it may not last long term or it might be an elopement that upsets the couple and those around them long term...

or you could have a baby in a 12 year but need a c-section.

just some examples. by no means should you feel limited by what i say below!

let's get to it!

energies that indicate meeting your person

3 (the empress): finding a relationship where both people feel nurtured. it's a loving connection with a great potential to become something beautiful. this is a connection where you can dream about a life and a family together.

5 (the hierophant): meeting someone who shares your values and beliefs. this often leads to a conventional, committed relationship, often marriage.

6 (the lovers): friends to lovers energy for sure - it starts with simple conversations and evolves into love. it more often than not leads to meaningful and deep connections.

10 (the wheel of fortune): suggests that meeting your future spouse / person could be a part of your destiny, often through unexpected or "serendipitous" events.

17 (the star): the relationship is blessed/guided by a higher power. destiny seems to bring you both together. you can sleep well knowing you're on the right path and that the universe is bring you a significant relationship.

19 (the sun): a connection will bring happiness, warmth, and a sense of completeness.

21 (the world): finding a partner with whom you feel whole, a sense of completion, and/or a deep understanding. this leads to a long-term, potentially lifelong partnership.

energies that indicate moving in together

4 (the emperor): moving in together often requires a stable and organized environment, which aligns with the themes of the energy such as establishing a solid foundation and practical arrangements.

5 (the hierophant): moving in together can be seen as following milestones in a relationship leading towards a more traditional or serious commitment (like shared housing).

7 (the chariot): directly linked to movement and travel. represents taking control of one's life and moving forward, which can include physically moving to a new home or location.

energies that indicate becoming engaged

4 (the emperor): suggests that a relationship is entering a phase of solid commitment, usually it's the formalizing of a bond through engagement if that is the next phase of commitment in terms of your relationship.

5 (the hierophant): suggesting that a relationship is moving toward a more traditional and committed phase - if you are in a relationship, it is likely that the next step will be an engagement.

6 (the lovers): this energy is all about love, union, and making choices that align with one's heart. it can symbolize making a significant commitment, like being engaged.

11 (justice): there is a desire to make things official, usually this is an engagement leading to marriage. this is the most common marker i see in the years where people get engaged to one another.

19 (the sun): suggests a joyous occasion, like getting engaged, where both parties feel a sense of fulfillment and happiness surrounding their future together (there might be a large engagement party to celebrate).

21 (the world): signifies reaching a milestone. it can indicate that a couple is ready to complete one phase of their relationship and move into the next one, like engagement.

energies that indicate a wedding/marriage

4 (the emperor): often this is a sign of "securing" the partnership, which can extend to the formality and structure of marriage.

5 (the hierophant): represents tradition, societal norms, and formal ceremonies. this energy can signify a traditional marriage or commitment in the eyes of the community/law, suggesting a formal union. all of the events of a wedding are ticked off: engagement party, bridal shower, bachelorette, bachelor, rehearsal, ceremony, reception, send off, and honeymoon.

6 (the lovers): the union of two individuals. it doesn’t always spell out marriage ceremony, but it often comes up in the context of a relationship oriented commitment.

11 (justice): this can indicate making things official through marriage.

13 (death): this could be a symbol of a brand new era in your relationship (aka marriage).

19 (the sun): this energy can symbolize the happiness and celebration of a wedding, suggesting that marriage will bring joy and fulfillment to the couple.

20 (judgment): like 13, this could be a symbol of a brand new era in your relationship (aka marriage).

21 (the world): indicates that a partnership has reached a stage where marriage feels like the natural and fulfilling next step. symbolized a long-term commitment.

energies that indicate having a child

2 (the high priestess): often this energy shows up when a couple has been trying to no avail to become pregnant and suddenly does. this is because this energy signifies hidden or secret aspects of life (like the early stages of pregnancy). the energy is also connected to the moon and other feminine mysteries.

3 (the empress): the most obvious energy linked to pregnancy and fertility - it symbolizes motherhood, creation, and nurturing. there is a strong possibility of pregnancy in these years

17 (the star): symbolizes hope. this is a time of fertility and holds the possibility for new beginnings. may suggest a blessing or a dream come true (becoming pregnant after a period of trying or waiting).

18 (the moon): deals with cycles (ovulation), intuition, and hidden aspects of life. like 2 energy (but more common in the outer ring) this energy signifies the mystery of pregnancy and the feminine cycles. sometimes i see this in the ring where people weren't trying and tested negative or they don't show (physically or publicly) when pregnant.

19 (the sun): can signify a healthy, happy pregnancy, and the birth of a child (come on it's a kid on a horse). suggesting a positive outcome (you test positive hCG on the stick or with blood).

20 (judgment): suggests the arrival of a new life / the transformative experience of becoming a parent. this could also be a positive sign for couples looking to adopt or foster a child (as it could be a sudden and somewhat unexpected change of events (the list is often long)).

21 (the world): symbolizes the completion of a cycle, such as successfully conceiving or carrying a pregnancy to term (if not beyond the "due date"). can represent the fulfillment that comes with creating life.

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[hotreadingwitch]

Bucky x Reader - Whiskey & Wine

Content Warnings/Kinks: OMEGAVERSE-ish, arranged marriage, praise kink, alpha kink, cum swallowing/play, choking, licking, hickeys, fingering, oral sex, penetrative vaginal sex (+ knotting), impregnation/breeding

Silent, stoic, cruel even, but undeniably 100% Alpha. Y/n had only heard reverent praise and scared whispers regarding the character of her soon-to-be husband James “Bucky” Barnes. She figured it was lower-level werewolves, ones with no real connection to him, that spoke of him this way. Maybe, though logic made her think otherwise, he was simply a kind man with a bad reputation. Surely not, but all she could do was hope…

~ 

The traditional march played as the wedding planner, a female werewolf of her future husband’s pack, ushered her down the aisle. Almost tripping on her heels, she tried her best to put one foot in front of the other. She passed her parents, the same ones who’d offered her up for the engagement in the first place, as well as members of both their packs sitting within the small church. Bucky’s back was broad, his stance dominant, powerful, and intimidating. Only when she was firmly planted next to him did he finally spare her a glance. 

His gaze flicked up and down her face, as if he were tracking her or waiting for a particular shift in expression, one of fear perhaps, like he was used to seeing. She jutted her chin, packing away the stories of malice she’d heard about the man standing beside her at the alter, for sanity’s sake if not for her own self-preservation, because, though potentially cruel, he was possibly the most beautiful person she’d ever seen in her life. Her face must’ve flickered with the internal conflict warring within her because Bucky’s gaze sharpened, drinking her in like he’d sip whiskey over ice, slowly and with leisurely purpose. 

Then, just as he’d finished looking her up and down, clear hunger in his eyes, his nostrils flared and his eyes widened. She knew then, flush creeping up the back of her neck, that they’d noticed it at the exact same time…the scent, the intoxicating smell. To her, he oozed of leather, wood, salt, and fire, but also, somehow, of home. His scent was so strong it was almost like a siren’s call. What she smelled of to him she did not know though it seemed he was struggling similarly. Her lips parted as her cheeks heated, almost curious enough to ask, as if the eyes of both their packs weren’t watching curiously from the church pews mere feet away. 

“Ready, Alpha?” the officiant asked, clearing his throat. 

Bucky’s stare was icy, causing the other man to jump slightly. It was as if he didn’t wish for the moment to be interrupted. She tucked that information, as well as the overwhelming realization of what his scent meant, away to deal with after the ceremony. 

Y/n could barely focus on the words the officiant was saying. The religious component of weddings had never truly interested her. After a while, they were coming close to the end of their vows, 

“…through sickness and health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part? The officiant asked. 

“I do” Bucky responded, with so much certainty it startled Y/n. 

“And you, Y/n’ he prompted, “do you promise to take James through sickness and health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”

The arrangement between them was to broker peace between two confrontational tribes, a marriage made for her on behalf of her parents and his mother. He was older than her by maybe 10 years or so, having just ascended, becoming the Alpha of his pack when his father died. She met his gaze, feeling suddenly, for the first time as if she had a choice. It was something in the open way he was looking at her that made her feel as if she could trust him, as if she didn’t need, let anyone want, to run anymore. 

“I do” 

Bucky’s shoulders sagged in relief and Y/n was so fixated on the movement that she almost didn’t hear the officiant say, “You may now kiss the bride…”

Y/n’s face heated as Bucky gazed at her with nothing but pure want. The hostility they’d both had prior to meeting each other simply melted away, as did the rows of werewolves viewing the moment between them. His hand gently gripped her face, tilting her face upward. Her eyes fluttered closed as he came closer until suddenly his warm lips brushed against hers. 

It was modest, controlled even, and over within seconds. In other words, Bucky’s kiss was nothing like what she’d expected. As she opened her eyes disappointment coursed through her until her eyes caught on his. That smirk, that slight narrowing of his dark gaze. He might not be giving it to her now but he sure as hell would be when a hundred pack members weren’t looking at them in their hotel room that night. 

The crowd cheered as they turned toward them. Bucky’s lips grazed her ears then and she could practically hear the smile in his tone when he said, “Later…” 

She blushed, taking his hand before making their way up the aisle, walking towards the big church doors and their future. 

~

Click. The door locked behind them. 

Bucky’s tall form moved towards her, easily overpowering her space with just a few steps. The hotel they’d been put up in for the night was massive, overlooking the city’s famous skyline, with a king-size bed in the centre of the space. His hand rested on her waist, his thumb caressing her skin. Even the heat from his hand through the fabric of her dress was enough to make Y/n's feelings from earlier all come to the surface. Y/n gazed up at him and judging by the way his tongue ran across his bottom lip, he could tell exactly what she was thinking about. 

“I don’t want to overstep Y/n…” Bucky started, his hand still grazing her waist. 

“I want you to” she interrupted, “Overstep, I mean…I want whatever you’ll give me tonight” 

He cleared his throat and for a second she thought she may have misread the situation, his lingering looks, his words…his scent. Insecurity made her cheeks heat. 

“But only if that’s what—“ 

“Shh,” his hands moved to her warm cheeks before his lips landed on hers, silencing her self-doubt in seconds. She’d normally balk at a guy telling her to shush and yet when Bucky did it her feminist cares went out the window. He kissed her fiercely then, humming onto her lips with pure satisfaction. His hands moved down to her ass as they stumbled backward towards the bed, pushing her down onto the silky sheets. He chuckled darkly as she bit at his bottom lip, dragging her sharp teeth across the delicate skin, “You’re gonna be trouble aren’t you?”

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be” she found herself whispering back, eyes still closed. 

“And if I just want you Y/n? 

That got her to look at him, to truly look, intently searching his gaze. 

“Then you’ll have me” Y/n finally kissed him again, groaning into his mouth as his hands travelled across her body, “Take me, Bucky please, I need you…” 

His hands moved down, checking her expression to make sure she was both turned on and willing, pushing her wedding gown up so that it sat around her waist. 

“Fuck” he swore at the sight of her. 

“Like what you see, husband?” She joked, playfully showing off her lacy, white panties to him.

But all she could do was gulp as his eyes darkened quicker than a rolling storm and he began to slowly roll up his shirt sleeves until they rested just below his elbows, giving her a front-row seat to his strong, veiny forearms. 

“This arrangement is not—” he started only to stop and collect himself, rubbing at his stubbly chin, “You may joke about it now Y/n but the next time the word ‘husband’ comes out of your mouth it’ll be because you can’t help but scream it” 

Before she could even respond, his hands were back on her, caressing the underside of her thighs, spreading her legs wide with gentle but firm pressure. She gasped as he slid her underwear to the side, hungrily taking in the sight of her slick pussy. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked for me baby…” he groaned as his fingers started to run up and down her slit, “…Ruining these pretty little panties”

She whined in response, his fingers felt so good her eyes fluttered shut, her brain zeroing in on the pleasure. 

“Is that okay?” 

“Yes,” she whimpered at the gentle contact, bucking her hips up to meet his touch. 

“Good” he declared, his confidence infectious, turning her on even more. 

“Yes,” her voice was breathier now, desire taking over her body and mind, the need to please him stronger than her will to live. 

Bucky’s finger traced up from her slit to her clit, the simple motion making her shiver and moan softly. He rubbed circles around and around it, languidly, as if he could tease her pussy all day. Her slick made his subtle movements smoother than silk. 

“Such a pretty pussy baby” he kissed at her inner thigh, his growl muffled as he sucked on her skin, “So fucking hot…and all fucking mine” 

Bucky touched her like she was a goddess, like he believed she deserved to come again and again, as long as it was for him and only him. And she could tell it turned him on to touch her. Not only did his pants look extra tight, but his gaze was dark, and his cheeks flushed beneath brown stubble. He groaned as she ground her hips up, feeling his fingers with more pressure, making her eyes flutter shut. 

“Look at me Y/n or I’ll stop touching you right now” 

When her eyes snapped open, Bucky’s gaze was piercing. 

He came up her body as slow as a predator, his tongue grazing her neck in a strong line, cool air tracing where he’d licked mere seconds later. She couldn’t help but shiver. The smooth lick turned to kisses, a smattering of gentleness that combatted his strong command over her pussy and made her melt into him, somehow even more than she already was. 

“…I need you to look at me while I fuck you with my fingers, okay baby? Can you do that for me?” He said as he slunk back down.

“Yes,” she gasped needfully, not taking her eyes off of him. 

“Yes, who?” 

“Yes Alpha” she whined, pulling his hand back to her. 

He slid two fingers into her wet hole, up to the knuckle, and she rocked her clit against his palm, chasing her high, taking everything he was giving to her and more without once breaking his gaze. His other hand mapped her thighs, tracing over her soft skin, almost obsessively. Her back arched at the feeling. 

“So wet, so fucking tight…” his lips pressed between her thighs, causing her to gasp.

She whimpered and whined with every flick of his tongue as he licked like her pussy was coated in the sweetest honey. 

“My needy baby…” He goaded her, making her groan, “Are you gonna cum all over this tongue?”

“Yes, fucking yes” she growled, gasping, “Don’t stop” 

His fingers pumped, curling inside her as they did, his tongue lapping at her clit, until she was on the edge. Her body felt suspended in the air as if she was about to free fall. Back arching, she came, bursting all over his expert tongue. Only after she’d shuddered her way through the feeling did Bucky stop, removing his soaked fingers and sucking up all her juices. 

“See that wasn’t so hard baby” he smirked. 

“Yeah?” She glared, “Why don’t we see how long you can last being teased like that?” 

Bucky’s eyes slowly lifted to hers, “You’re that desperate for my cock?” She aimed to gently slap his shoulder playfully but he caught her hand, grasping it tightly in his, “And here I thought you were a good girl Y/n…or maybe you just want to be fucked like you’re bad?” 

She couldn’t help the whimper that escaped her lips. Bucky grinned fully, canines on display, before throwing her further up the bed. 

“Hands and knees” he commanded, his voice thick with lust. 

The time for teasing was clearly over. Y/n flipped over, adjusting herself so that she was in the position he wanted. If her first mistake was being too playful, then her second was looking back over her shoulder just in time to see Bucky unzip his pants and pull out his giant cock. 

“It’s too big Bucky…” she whined at the sight, tightening instinctively.

“You can take it baby” he stroked her clit softly between kisses on the back of her neck, warming her up again, “I know you can”

His praise made her practically light up inside. If he said she could take then that meant surely she could. To show she wanted it, she arched her back, letting out a small “please” 

He spread her folds, opening her entrance to him before sliding in. She moaned at the feeling, not able to help the way her insides clenched immediately around him. Throwing her back, she was already beyond being far gone. Bucky’s hands swept across the swell of her ass, squeezing the flesh so hard she felt the action in her bones. He thrust slowly, teasing her, dipping his cock in and out of her until he was completely coated in her juices. 

“Fucking soaked for me” he growled as he continued, “You've been thinking about taking my cock all night baby?” 

“Yes” she whimpered and fuck, she really was a complete mess for him, putty in his veiny, sexy hands. 

Bucky’s thrusts continued, speeding up slightly until she couldn’t help but beg him to go faster. 

“Please…” Y/n whined, flustered by his teasing cock, “I need it…it—faster—fuck” 

His hands ran up the space between her breasts from behind before settling around her neck, pulling her up so that her back was flush with his hard chest. Her heartbeat thundered beneath his palm as he squeezed, the pressure gentle but firm.

“You need what, baby?” His voice was rough in her ear, the sound of his breath so erotic she almost came right then and there, “Use your words and tell me like a good girl” 

“I need you to fuck me faster—roughly, please” 

If her request felt stupid to express aloud, Y/n’s embarrassment was literally fucked out of her instantly with the power of Bucky’s next thrust. Her back arched, making his cock hit deeper and causing her to gasp. He slammed into her relentlessly and when she looked back he had that feral grin on his face again. It was like he needed it like this, hard and fast, too. 

“Bucky…” she whimpered, the noise garbled in her throat. 

“Yeah, say my name baby, fucking scream it” he growled, his voice both intimidating and warm.

She clenched tighter around him, moaning at the intensity of the feelings her body was experiencing. He nudged her legs farther open with his knee in response, pushing deeper, eliciting another rumbling groan from her. 

“…Right there” she whispered breathily as his groans of pleasure tickled the shell of her ear, turning her on even more. 

He thrust and thrust and thrust, pushing so deep into her she thought he’d break her. But she didn’t break, in fact, she felt that with Bucky she probably never would. Moaning she bounced her hips back, driving into him, her pussy practically grabbing him and pulling him further inside. Her mind was turned on by Bucky sure, but her body, that was another thing altogether. She seemed to be having a reaction to him that even her mind couldn’t control. It was something deep within her that was attracted to Bucky, something both restless and needy and cellular. 

Logically, she knew he must be her mate. Logically, she knew that having a mate, having sex with a mate, was explosive. What she didn’t know was just how explosive it would truly be. 

“As soon as I smelled you, I knew you belonged to me” he groaned, his thrusts puncturing each sentiment, “Sweet wine, berries in the summertime…Perfect, you’re fucking perfect for me Y/n” 

“I feel—“ her breathing became more and more laboured with each thrust, “—the same way” 

His strong hand, gripped her face, tilting her lips backwards to meet his. Their kiss was passionate and full of all the things they both wanted to say. But they’d found each other, by a stroke of luck they had, and that was all that mattered. Words could wait. 

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna cum…” he groaned, his grip on her hips tightening even more, “You know what’s about to happen, baby?” 

“Yes,” she affirmed, telling him that she understood before whining, “Please..” 

Y/n could feel it swelling beneath her but it didn’t scare her, if anything it made her want his cum more. The need to have him filling her was so intense, her pussy clenched harshly around him. With any other man her tightening that much would surely push him out but not with Bucky, not with her mate. She could feel his knot, his wet lips on her neck, his hand reaching down to flick at her clit, each pleasure making her gasp. Bucky was everywhere but more importantly, he was everything. 

“Squeeze me, yes—fuck” he growled in her ear, “Taking me so good—taking all this cum for your Alpha” 

“Yes, yes, yes—shit” she chanted, her body blissed out as the waves of her orgasm began to wash over her, “Please don’t stop” 

“I won’t baby, never” 

It was Bucky’s lust, his confession, and his confidence in their future together that sent her fully over the edge. 

“Fuck” he breathed in a harsh breath as her pussy started to milk him. 

She breathed in deeply, holding it in her lungs as the pleasure washed over her, making her body twitch and her back arch. And Bucky held her through it all. His hands roved over her with reverence, taking in her perfect form as it writhed before him as if he was in awe of his skill and how he was able to make her feel that good. 

Only when she’d finally finished and he’d deflated, did he pull out of her. She knew then that, after this experience, they’d never part. They’d needed to fuck it out and now the rest of their lives would be better for it. His lips met hers before he began tracing her warm skin, planting kisses in the wake of his gentle fingers. 

“You know…” she started, blushing as she immediately caught his focus, “You told me what I smelled like to you but I didn’t tell you what you smell like to me” 

“And what do I smell like?” He smiled playfully, eyes still soft and hazy from his orgasm. 

“Home” 

[recareels]

something ‘bout you

character: professor!alhaitham

genre: smut ; modern university au set in teyvat

notes: waaaah it’s finally finished!!! i have no idea how this piece got to be as long as it did but alas, here we are. this has got to be the longest blow job i’ve ever written ehehehe. as always, please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: dangerous woman by ariana grande

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, praise, professor/graduate student relationship, sir kink, face fucking, cum swallowing, a teeny tiny bit of manipulation, lying via omission, reader is a film and linguistics student, a bit of academic jargon but nothing crazy or crucial, dom/sub dynamics

words: 8k

synopsis:

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers.  He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning.  “Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?”  Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights.  The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea.  He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes. “I want you,” you admit instead.

The banquet hall is small yet elegant, beige walls warmed by the fuchsia beams of the setting sun, streaming in thick strips through the floor-to-ceiling crystal windows. Silverware clinks delicately against fine china, glass champagne flutes clacking with front teeth as lips wrap around the edges, daintily mingling with the soft murmur of voices blanketing the room. 

Such is the life of a University of Sumeru elite. 

Classes don’t officially begin until Monday, but the entire graduate faculty of the Department of Linguistics had been invited to a prefatory mixer held at one of the grand hotels in the city. 

It is a long-standing tradition, the email invite had informed you, that the professors and supervisors of the department throw the graduate students—new and old—an intimate yet extravagant start-of-the-year dinner. 

It’s mostly meant for new students—only five accepted into the program per year—to introduce themselves to their colleagues and supervisors, becoming familiar with the faces they’ll be seeing for the next one-to-five years of their lives. 

You had been special enough to receive an acceptance letter into the PhD program, travelling from your Masters program in Liyue to the city of Sumeru to study under some of the most renowned scholars of the subject. 

And so now you stand, lingering near the immaculately organized table of hors d’oeuvres and fidgeting with the crystal flute between your palms, index finger absentmindedly tracing the rim as eager, interested eyes sweep across the room again, soaking up the atmosphere. 

You have worked so hard to get here, to get to this point, to stand in this room with the gilt-edged supremes of the scholastic world and be one of them—a part of this exclusive, highly-coveted club composed of the outstanding, the superior, the royals of academia.

A large, smooth hand yanks you, rough and abrupt, from your appreciative daydream, blinking rapidly as you stare up at the man who is unexpectedly talking to you—talking at you—as if he knows you well, already mid-sentence about the legend of King Deshret by the time your shock dissipates, concentration tuning into his frequency.  

“—And that’s why he went mad.”

Teal eyes hold yours, steady and intent and willing you not to look away, the fingers wrapped firmly around your bicep flexing the moment your stare begins to stray, watching through your peripheral vision as a man with white hair and rust eyes passes by, features set in hard stone. 

It is only after the man is out of earshot that your captor relaxes, fingers loosening but not fully releasing their grip on your flesh. 

“Thanks for that,” he says, suddenly sounding disinterested and distracted, gaze flitting around the room. 

“Was that true?” 

“What?” he looks back over at you, as if he’s surprised you just spoke to him. 

“Was that true?” you repeat. “I thought that since Nabu Malikata had warned him of the repercussions of the ritual prior to them performing it that he knew she’d die—that he knew she had chosen to die—and went mad with guilt due to him choosing his own selfish desires over the love of his life.” 

He shakes his head, swallowing a mouthful of his scotch. “A common misconception, often due to mistranslations and the incorrigible feelings of the translators themselves. Romantics, you know,” he shrugs, head tilting as he observes you, bright yet sharp eyes studying your face in slow, excruciating detail, as he he’s trying to divest your thoughts through your features. “Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you around the department before.” 

Razored teal glints like a scalpel as it attempts to dissect you, his scintillating gaze carefully shaving away at any pretences. 

“I am,” you confirm with a nod, struggling to suppress the pride tugging at the corners of your lips as you introduce yourself. “One of the three lucky souls to have been accepted as a PhD Candidate.” 

“Nice to meet you,” the man murmurs, giving your arm another little squeeze in greeting before finally releasing it. “I’m Haitham. Alhaitham, if you want to be formal, but Haitham is fine.” 

His body relaxes, shoulders no longer pinched, muscles no longer coiled as he gets more comfortable, leaning against a large column, his stance becoming permanent. 

“So, tell me. Where did you complete your Masters?” 

Your heart thumps against your ribs, pushing hard breath up your throat, nerves suddenly buzzing beneath the swelter of his intense stare, fighting the urge to shrink away from his fulgurous attention. 

“Liyue,” you say. “I studied under the guidance of Professor Zhongli.” 

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow in lazy intrigue, notes of condescension glazing his tone, a small smirk adoring his lips. “That’s impressive.” 

“You know him?” 

“Everybody in the academic world knows him, sweetheart. I’m sure you know that, as well.” 

Bashful heat seeps into your cheeks, tingling little pinpricks of embarrassment sprouting beneath your skin. 

“Well, I just—”

“Please,” Alhaitham cuts your off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The man is a master in several subjects; there’s not a chance anyone who is a true scholar hasn’t encountered and studied his work. What did you study beneath him?” 

“Um,” you begin, wincing at how idiotic it sounds, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “I wrote my thesis under his supervision. During my undergrad I majored in linguistics and specialized in cinema studies, so naturally my thesis aimed at analyzing and dissecting the role and importance of language in film—more specifically, how particular language conveys meaning and impacts the psychology of the viewer, as well as how particular language influences, dictates and affects the way a viewer derives meaning from the piece.” 

“Wow,” Alhaitham breathes, and for the first time tonight he sounds genuinely impressed, sincerely interested, notes of intrigue imbuing his tone. “I’d love to read it, if you’ll allow me.” 

“Of course,” you preen, the pressure on your lungs letting up a little beneath his praise. “It took me nearly two years to complete, and under Professor Zhongli’s supervision I was even able to conduct field studies and experiments to gather information and data.” 

“Is that so?” his smirk grows into a lopsided grin, his eyes sparkling with supercilious amusement. “Like what?” 

“As I’m sure you’re well aware of, how a certain character speaks and the words they use says a lot about who they are and where they hail from, but that’s only half the equation. The other half depends on the viewer themselves—their own background, upbringing, experiences, beliefs, and intelligence all influence the way they will perceive and derive meaning from an individual film. The research concluded that, based on these factors, two individuals from separate classes more often than not arrive at substantially different meanings of the information provided from the same film.” 

“Well done,” he murmurs, appreciative, and you can’t help but glow beneath his words, his commendation a beam of nurturing sunlight, drawing you closer to his heat.

“Thank you,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “And what about you? Are you a student?” 

He laughs, bright and warm, almost as if your mistake is cute. 

“No, no, I am a Professor.” 

“What do you teach?” 

“Syntactic Patterns in Ancient Runes, and Advanced Morphology,” he says easily. “Speaking of which, will you be TAing any classes this year?” 

“I will! Though I have not yet been approved to teach my own class, only tutorials for the first years. Understandable, I guess, since I’m a new student and all.” 

Your disappointment is palpable, hanging thick and heavy in the air, and his demeanour softens a little, a warm hand clasping over your shoulder.

“Cheer up,” he says. “I’m positive they’ll give you your own lecture the moment you hit your third year—those positions are usually reserved to upper-year PhD’s.” The tips of his fingers press into your muscles in a comforting massage, and you can’t help but lean into his touch a little, body deliquescing. “Which class will you be TAing for?” 

“Intro to Linguistics: Sentence Structure and Meaning,” you make a face, the thought sobering you slightly. “By the way, would you happen to know who’s teaching that class this year? There’s no professor listed on the website yet, but if they’re here I’d love to introduce myself.” 

Something darkens his eyes, his smile turned wolfish, a shock of unease unravelling slow and sticky in the pit of your belly.

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” he says dismissively, though there’s a shard of something submerged in teal irises, sharp and dangerous, glimmering beneath crystal lights. “He’s a jackass anyway. Antisocial, selfish, you know the type. Introducing yourself to him wouldn’t make much of a difference—he isn’t a fan of those overeager polite types, not unless they’re genuine.” 

“Oh,” you frown, deflating a little, ignoring the ice prickling at the base of your spine. “That’s a shame. I was hoping to be on good terms with him.” 

“I don’t think anyone’s on good terms with him,” Alhaitham mutters dryly, eyes narrowing as they sweep across the room, almost accusing in manner. “But who knows,” he says as he looks back at you, hard gaze palliating just a touch. “You might be the one to change that.” 

Confusion sprouts across your face, features crinkling as you draw in a breath to inquire, but a booming voice cuts you off, briskly announcing that it is time for dinner and requesting everyone take their seats. 

“Here,” Alhaitham murmurs as slim fingers cuff your wrist, leading you. “Come sit with me.” 

The dinner is several courses long, but you hardly remember any of them, too caught up in teal eyes and a velvet voice, in the hand that has found it’s way onto you knee, thumb stroking the bone in rhythmic motions through your tights, in the ankles currently tangled around your own, tightening every so often and hauling you a little bit closer—any time you say something that procures that amused little sound, playing on the back of his tongue; any time you say something that raises his brows and leaves his eyes shimmering, head tilted cutely in curious study.

The conversation flows seamlessly as the night passes, as servers bring and remove plates, as guests mingle around the ballroom, arriving to and departing from your table—but the two of you don’t dare move an inch, entirely captivated by your intimate discussion; heads bowed, legs locked, words murmured between the steadily dissipating space between your mouths. 

He tells you about his most recent excavation into the long lost tomb of a prince, about the runes he found intricately engraved on the gorgeous sarcophagus, about what they said and how they fit into his most recent collection of essays—highly coveted information, he had mentioned, sure to note he hadn’t told anyone about this; not until tonight, not until you, his voice taking on a slight air of incredulity, as if he can’t believe he just revealed such information so easily. 

You tell him about the research Zhongli personally funded after you were nearly expelled from the program for sneaking into the film reel archives despite being explicitly denied access—all in the pursuit of knowledge, of course, you had bristled with a roll of your eyes, insisting that such important pieces should not be so inaccessible to scholars—and of the many trips your valued Professor took you on, traversing film festivals across the whole of Inazuma. 

He tells you about his childhood in Sumeru, about what got him interested in semiotics and linguistics, about the first language he learned—and about how his grandmother taught him, eyes gone soft with fondness for the since passed woman. 

You tell him about your childhood in Fontaine, about scraped knees and local theatre and sparkling blue water, about your favourite Fontainian film movements and how they first sparked your passion for the performing arts. 

“I don’t know anything about Fontainian Neorealism or the Fontaine New Wave,” he admits, “but I do know that Sumeru has a flourishing arts and culture sector—and I assume that’s why you’ve chosen to study here. Am I correct?” 

“You are,” you nod with a small smirk, sipping on red wine. “It is exceptionally difficult to study Sumeru’s robust art history without actually being here. All I know are the things I’ve read in books—which are not nearly a suitable substitute for experiencing it with your own eyes.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement. “Let’s make a deal, then.” 

“A deal?” 

“A trade, of sorts,” he begins, smirking when you blink twice in curiosity. “I’ll take you to a performance at Zubayr Theater, and you take me to see a Fontainan film. Sound fair?” 

“Sounds wonderful.”

A small smile graces his lips, wispy at the edges, a peculiar sentiment sparkling in his gaze. “It’s a date, then.” 

And you can’t help the fizzy feeling that starts to froth in your veins at the word, at the promise of seeing him again, of spending more uninterrupted time with him, just the two of you. 

It must show on your face in some way, must be evident in the sweet, girlish giggle that bubbles uncontrollably past your lips, because his smile stretches, still soft, and he chuckles gently, nothing more than a huff of breath on his tongue.

“I’m looking forward to it, too.” 

The palm cupping your knee is hot and heavy, his grasp flexing with his response, staying itself for a moment before it slides up your thigh, slow and careful and appraising, thumb stopping a millimeter shy from the hem of your short black dress.

Keen teal eyes stay trained on your face, focused in their evaluation, ready to analyze any slight change in expression his action may elicit.

But you only lean closer, legs spreading an inch or so wider, shuffling to the edge of your seat, a silent plea for more. 

A silent plea that does not go unnoticed by Alhaitham, as indicated by his small smile, sharp eyes dulling a little with their inquisition and fingers sinking into plush flesh, grip strengthening before relaxing again, the tip of his thumb stroking the material of your dress.

All without a single hitch in his words, swiftly and smoothly moving onto the next topic. 

And you only fall further. 

You can’t manage to keep your hands to yourself, either, it seems, touch vying and voracious for more of him: playing with the gold bangles encircling his wrist; twisting the gilded jade class ring pressed firmly against his second knuckle; drifting over the back of his hand, a single fingertip outlining the bones and veins contouring his flesh. 

He doesn’t appear to mind, though, flipping his hand over to gift you more access, allowing you to trace the lines of his palm with a manicured nail, his fingers spreading wider, presenting more of himself to you as you vividly discuss Metz and how he built his cinematic semiotics theory off of structural linguistics. 

His hand is nearly in your lap now, your thighs cushioning one another’s, knees bumping clumsily against the edge of each other’s chairs as you subconsciously try to inch closer, caught up in every fucking thing about him; his viscous voice, cascading over you like melty syrup; his vivid stare, so bright and full of passion it’s practically glowing; his magnificent mind, gears churning at a rapid yet efficient pace, producing ribbons of wisdom, flowing smooth and fluid from his lips, confident and self-assured. 

You’re drowning in him, submerging yourself further and further into his presence, more intoxicated by his aura than the wine roiling warm and sweet in your belly. It produces something insatiable, a starved clawing at your chest that grapples for more and more and more of him, every fragment of information you manage to extract doing nothing to satisfy the hunger, instead exacerbating the craving. 

You’ve never met anyone like him before; never met anyone so blunt and real and unabashedly themselves, never met anyone so sincerely scholarly, so dedicated to their studies, so zealous in their never-ending pursuit of knowledge.

It’s inspiring; it’s intoxicating.

Alhaitham’s mind is brilliant, beautiful, an ornate maze of thoughts, each one leading to something new, each one unravelling like the petals of a lotus, sparking further debates, remarks, ponders. 

You could get lost in here forever, you think—stumbling your way around sharp corners and down twisting corridors, consistently in awe of the next thing you discover. 

You must murmur it out to him, dreamy and wine-drunk and wrapped up in him, sentiments streaming seamlessly from your brain to your lips without your permission, because he laughs, the sound mild and tender, his gaze softening. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mm,” you nod, lazy and languid. “It’s so beautiful, Haitham.”

“I’ve never had anyone call my mind beautiful before,” he muses. “But I think it might be my favourite compliment to receive yet.” 

Bubbles of pride tingle behind your ribs, and your chest puffs out a little, spine straightening beneath his praise, murmuring out a little self-satisfied, well, then, you’re welcome. 

“Proud of yourself, huh?” he teases, though the notes infusing his voice are playful, his eyes shining as he studies you, cataloging your expressions.

“Yes, Sir,” you confirm. “You’re a hard man to please.”

“Oh, am I?” he snorts, head tilting in question.

“S’not a bad thing,” you continue, words slurred just a touch, heavy with admiration. Dainty hands find his own, your fingers beginning to toy with his, idle and absent-minded as they curl and straighten knuckles. 

“No?” he smirks, pinky catching yours in a swift hook. “I mean, you seem to be doing a pretty good job so far.” 

“I could do better, if you want me to.” 

It’s bold, brash, and entirely unbefitting, but the offer slips from your mouth without thought or consent, startling you in it’s veracity, a jolt of desire zipping through your veins. 

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers. 

He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning. 

“Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?” 

Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights. 

The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea. 

He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes.

Because the desire is too strong, a potent drug infusing your blood and hazing your brain, overwhelming your senses and overriding your better judgement, and you find yourself unable to resist, easily placing blame on the wine and the party and the undeniable allure of this stranger, instead of your own ravenous craving. 

“I want you,” you admit instead, the confession oozing from between pouted lips, stark with it’s honesty, unapologetic with your longing. 

Alhaitham laughs, low and smooth, watching you through thick, fanned lashes. 

“How do you want me?”

He’s playing with you now, a hawk toying with his food between razored talons, forcing his prey to go exactly where he wants it to. 

You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

“However you’ll give you to me,” you respond, brazen but sincere, glassy eyes wide and captivating his own. 

Teal searches your face for a moment, pries apart your features in search of falsities and finds nothing but unadulterated candour, so sheer it boarders on pathetic. 

“All right,” he finally says, hand smoothing along your wrist to press your palms together, lacing your fingers with his and giving a gentle tug. “Come.” 

You tread behind him like the sweetest little kitten, inebriated galaxies swirling in your irises, desperate and obedient and eager for your treat. 

But you’re just a touch too impatient, it seems.

Because he barely makes it to the washroom, free hand on the doorknob, intending to throw one last glance back at you—one final confirmation, are you sure? written in the motion—before you’re surging forward, soft palms cushioning a defined jaw, dainty fingers hooking behind the hinges and yanking, crushing his lips to yours.

It isn’t graceful in the slightest, a rough mangle of tongues and teeth, incisors catching on lips and canines scraping slick muscle, but Alhaitham recalibrates quickly enough, large hands curling around your hips and pulling you to his form. 

The door to the men’s washroom swings open as your knotted bodies fall through it, hinges loose and creaky, the metal handle slamming against the tiled wall, the resounding bang! bouncing throughout the room.

The stumbling of your footsteps echoes around you, obnoxious smacking of lips and slurping of tongues amplified by the open space as you gulp down his breathy little chuckle, the sound warm and tingling as it spills down your throat. 

A tangled mess of legs and limbs, you fall into the first available stall, rickety door whacking off the side, the lock jingling from the force. 

He allows you to crowd him into a corner, hinges of the flimsy door tinkering again as your legs slotting together and your tongues grind, tips teasing each other in curling little licks, catching one another and then slipping away, tracing the ridges of teeth, burrowing into the divots of cheeks. 

A strong hand stays wrapped around your neck, nails just barely nipping your skin as he grips you in place, his other hand busying itself with a palmful of your ass, fingertips planting bruises into soft flesh. 

A responding hiss slithers from your mouth into his, the sound massed on his tongue, the muscle folding around it and sucking, savouring your pain until it melts into his flesh.

Your hands are indecisive, traversing the buttons of his shirt and the loops of his trousers until, finally, they find his belt, fingers eager and vying as they pick at the heavy buckle, and he snorts. 

“It’s cute, how utterly desperate you are,” he mumbles into the kiss, slippery mouths sliding together, leavings streaks of saliva painted across chins. 

You are desperate, too desperate, and if you were of sound mind you’d be rightfully embarrassed of such behaviour, pawing at him like some impatient teenager, pathetically aching for more of him. 

But the wine and the glamour and Alhaitham’s intoxicating taste—cedar wood and mint, cloaked by expensive scotch—has cast a murky cloud over your brain, stuffing your skull full of nothing but ardour, dulling all of your senses, honing all of your needs, to him, him, him. 

The thigh wedged between your own, sculpted from strong, lean muscle, flexes twice, hitching up further into your core, a pitchy mewl spilling onto his tongue as a reward. You can feel his cock, hot and hard and pressed tightly against your hip, rutting into you in small, uneven little motions, dense heat sprawling, slow and sticky, in the pit of your tummy. 

“God, you’re already making such a fucking mess,” he nearly moans into your mouth, thigh tensing again in emphasis, cotton doused in slick arousal. “And I’ve barely even touched you. I guess you really do want me, don’t you?” 

And although his words are teasing, imbued with notes of playful mocking, his tone is sweet, almost as if he’s in awe of how honest you were. 

“S’bad,” you whimper, tongue sketching out the curve of his cupid’s bow. “So bad.”

“Yeah? Tell me,” he pants, a hand wreathing around your jaw, keeping your stare trapped in his. “Tell me what you want.” 

The demand is damp as it drifts across your face, scalding little pinpricks erupting beneath your skin, paired with a low whine of embarrassment. His gaze is too vehement, eyes wide and unblinking as they impel you, your own lids squeezing shut in the face of such fervour. 

“Ah!” the hand clamped around your jaw tightens. “Open them. Look at me, and tell me what you want. You’re a big girl, I know you can do it.”

It almost hurts to look at him, another bout of humiliation flushing through your veins as you squint, features twisted up in a wince. 

“C’mon,” he goads, fingertips thrumming against you cheek once in a fluent wave. “Where’s that big beautiful brain gone now? You were so eloquent at dinner.”  

“I—I wanna ride your cock!” you nearly sob, the profession a stringy plead shoved from your tongue, tangled in threads of saliva. “I really wanna ride your cock.” 

“Aw, how precious,” he clicks his tongue, as if it’s such a shame, words filtered through a slight faux pout. “Too bad naughty girls don’t get to ride my cock.” 

“Wh-What?” you blink, tears beading at the corners of your eyes, just barely caught in outer lashes. “Naughty?”

And, oh, the smile that spreads across his cheeks is downright sinister, eyes flashing with levity. 

“Do good girls put their hands all over a stranger’s cock?” he tilts his head, that shiny sliver in his iris catching in the light. “Does that not qualify as misbehaviour to you?”

“But—But I—I’m good!”  

The response is automatic, barreling up your throat and out your mouth before you have a moment to seize it, a fierce need to prove yourself igniting behind your ribs, eyebrows knit cutely as you stare at him, eyes beseeching despite your bratty tone. 

“Are you?” he raises a brow, eyes hard, but mirth plays with the corners of his lips. “Your behaviour thus far says otherwise.”

“I am!” 

Your gaze steadily holds his own, daring, challenging, insistent, your features scrunched up in a stubborn petulance.

“All right, prove it to me,” he says after a beat, exhaling an amused little huff. “Show me you’re a good girl and suck my cock.” 

And that’s all the encouragement you need, really, desperate to prove yourself worthy and capable as you slide down his body, knees on his toes, lidded stare never breaking contact with his own—heavy, dark, starving.

His collarbone, sharply prominent and peeking out from beneath his shirt lapels, heaves a little with his laboured breaths, the faintest sheen of sweat beginning to lacquer the bones, catching delicately in the fluorescent light. 

Nosing along the impressive bulge straining against his trousers, you hum a little in appreciation, trailing hot, humid kisses up the length in a haphazard outline. A hushed giggle vibrates in your throat as his cock jumps beneath your touch, begging for what Alhaitham would never dare to, tongue unfurling from your mouth to roll, slow and hard, over the clothed head. 

The slick muscle wraps itself around the tip as best it can, wet heat seeping through his pants as your tongue siphons his cock into your mouth, lips closing around the head and suckling, hard. 

A breath snares on his sternum, his hips twitching once in complement, chased by a low, alluring chuckle. 

“Huh,” he says to himself, though the letters are breathless. “I didn’t know good girls were little teases…” 

The implication is not lost on you, and you roll your eyes, grumbling out a muffled no fun into his groin before your fingers immediately get to work—button popped, zipper tugged, knuckles curled in the elastic waistbands, hauling his pants and briefs midway down his thighs. 

His cock is just as gorgeous as he is, thick and velvety and twined with pulsing veins that surge and swell the moment they’re wrapped in your tongue.

It’s impossible to silence the pathetic whimper of appreciation that spills from your throat the moment his cock is free, massive and magnificent, and you can’t resist nuzzling your cheek into it in admiration, catlike, the flushed head leaving a fat streak of pre-cum painted just below your eye.

A curse pries its way past his lips, fading into a breathy exhale, his fingers latching beneath your jaw and tilting your face to his, taking a moment to cherish the sight. 

You look so beautiful stained with him—glistening pre-cum dashed across your check in a perfect stripe; lips swollen and licked raw, shimmering with his spit—and he can’t help but stare, ravenous pupils having gnawed away at teal irises, desperate to soak up as much of the scene as physically possible, leaving nothing more than a thin ring to outline the orbs. 

His thumb swipes through the sticky substance, rubs it into your skin until it’s gone dry, seeped into the tissues and absorbed completely, and your neck strains a little, yearning to present more of your cheek to him, offering.

Another second or two passes as he grants himself one final moment of marvel, before his fingers release your head, a non-verbal command to continue. 

And you obey flawlessly, instantly. 

A dainty hand wraps around the base of his cock, tongue darting from between raw lips to lap kittenishly at the head, flattening along the curve and dragging twice in unhurried succession before digging the point into his slit, procuring another pretty pearl of pre-cum, oozing enticingly to adorn the tip. 

It’s so dense, so bloated it looks mere moments away from dropping, your tongue stretching out   far and wide in a precursory measure, ready to catch it when it falls. And it does, only a beat later, dripping slow and gross into your waiting mouth in a single strand, thick and viscid.

A hefty moan resounds in your throat as it seeps into your tastebuds, his flavour bitter and strong, fluttering lashes framing rolling whites. 

The noise that splinters in his throat is strained, yearning beneath a heavy hedonism, and his fingers tighten in your hair, a subtle caution. Smirking, your glance up at him again, sinful tongue laving lasciviously over your puffy lips, yet your eyes are not bratty, instead glittering with such potent awe it almost hurts, like he’s some sort of veneered saint, exalt pouring from your gaze. 

It crushes down on his chest, flattens his lungs and makes it difficult to draw in breath, oxygen stalling in his throat, the urge to yank you up and kiss the goddamn life out of you near unbearable as it tears at his chest. But he comes back to his senses, restraint held intact by a single spider silk thread, a dull, distant voice in the back of his skull reminding him of your task, of your lesson.  

You seem to know, too. 

No words need to be spoken, no warnings need to be issued, the hand around the base of his cock flexing slightly as it readjusts its grip, feeding him to yourself, taking him inch by inch down your eager throat. 

“S’it,” he encourages as he watches you, eyes lidded and hazy with lust. “That’s it, baby, take as much of it as you can for me.” 

The incentive, haunted by the ghost of potential praise if you succeed, only makes you more avid in your quest, throat stretching around his girth as you stuff it full of his cock, reflexes instinctively attempting to push him from the gummy column, constricting as you gag around the head.

It’s hard to know what he likes—how fast, how deep, how rough and filthy—but from the limited information you’ve gathered tonight, you can infer that he isn’t a fan of teasing; at least, not when he’s the one being teased. 

“A little more,” he instructs, but the command is gentle, a thumb skimming along the line of your jaw, hinges straining as you immediately submit, mouth opening wider, throat sexpanding further as you take more of him, more for him.

“Fuck, look at that,” he pants out, thumb caressing your jaw again before his palm cups beneath your chin, tilting your head up, the action inadvertently forcing his cock farther down your throat. “You’re so good.”

Blinking twice in response, you stare up at him, irises encrusted with stars of worship, their shine unhindered by the bleary gloss of reflexive tears that have already begun to collect, lashes clumped into soaked spikes, just barely keeping the torrent at bay.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt more respected, revered, in his entire life. 

Another blink—a quick beating of lashes—sends crystalline dewdrops flowing down your cheeks, the softest sniffle, half-stifled, shuddering delicately around his cock. 

“H-Hah,” he breathes out, an involuntary little sound pulled from deep within his chest, your agape mouth working itself open greater, lips stretching over his bulk.

He holds you still for a moment, takes time to admire such a pretty sight, hips jolting slightly, eyes watching as the bulge in your throat jumps, as you choke around him but don’t dare push him away, instead squeezing the base of his cock, attempting to jam it down even more. Your chin juts forward in a futile attempt to aid, salacious squelching echoing throughout the bathroom as you swallow, hard and with conviction, trying to lead him further into your body. 

The back of his knuckle swipes through a stream of glittering salt, collecting your tears on his skin and bringing it to his mouth, tongue washing over it slowly, savouring your taste. 

And you wait. 

How very good of you.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he finally says as he releases his grip, permitting you to take control again. “Show me how much of me you can take down your throat.” 

And, really, that’s all of the enticement you need, head beginning to move the instant he demands it, mouth gliding down his shaft, slow and steady, until the tip of your nose just barely brushes your second knuckle. A pause, a mere millisecond for him to feel your throat convulse, before you’re pulling back up, lips puckering as they tighten around his shaft, glazing his flesh in a thin, shimmering film of saliva. 

Each stroke of your mouth has your pace accelerating, opting to keep your fist wrapped firmly at the base of his cock to steady it instead of allowing it to follow the trajectory of your lips.

It grows sloppy quick, your spit-soaked hand readjusting it’s slippery grip as your upper lip repeatedly bashes into it, the threads of saliva keeping your mouth and finger connected snapping each time your lips reach his head, nearly pulling off of his cock completely before your mouth sinks down again

“Yeah, yeah, there you go,” he grunts out, words torn around the edges, breathing raw and ragged. “Good girl, my perfect girl, doing so well for me.” 

A whine reverberates around his cock, your legs spreading slightly as your back bows and your neck arches, an ambitious attempt to take more of him, throat gaping and split open, drenched cunt grinding into the toe of his polished shoe. 

He groans a little, the sound tapering off into something choked and broken, his hips stuttering forward and involuntarily plunging his entire length down your throat, body retching at the abrupt intrusion. 

And suddenly, all of this isn’t exactly enough for you. 

Because while you can nearly fit all of him down your throat on your own, and while he seems to be more than satisfied with your progress, there’s still an inch or so that you’re missing, palm curled around it in a manner that’s almost protective, and you want to take all of him. 

You want to prove that you can take all of him, for him. 

A thick, milky string of spit and pre-cum dangles and droops heavily in the space between your lips and his cock as you peel your mouth from his shaft entirely, wrecked little coughs furling on your tongue, eyes wet and wide and full of reverence as you look up at him, imploring.

With a little effort, he hefts his lids open from their sedative state, staring down at you with glazed, gluttonous pupils, head tilting a little in inquiry.

“I want you to fuck my throat, Sir,” you rasp out in explanation, voice rough and raw, request grating against your throat. “Please, fuck my throat, Sir, please.” 

The plead is garbled, drooled out from the corners of your mouth curled in copious drivels of foamy spit, collecting on your chin and dripping off your jaw in viscous glass cords. 

Chest heaving with ragged breath, he watches as drool drizzles across your collarbone and exposed bosom, sticky and sloppy. You’re making such a mess—he’s making such a mess of you, and you’re so willing, so unwavering, raring for more. 

“Fuck,” he nearly whines out, the curse cracked. 

Deft fingers grip your face, blunt nails biting into your cheeks as he forces your head up further, an attempt to get a better look at you. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, the word drifting across your face, eyes hunting after it in an almost rabid manner. “You want Sir to fuck your mouth?” 

A whimper vibrates on your tongue, head nodding as best it can in his firm grasp. 

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, wanna take as much of you as possible, Sir; wanna take all of you, Sir; wanna be so good for you, Sir,” your head quirks a little, nuzzling into his touch. “Please, help me, help me show you how good I can be.” 

Your confession is molten and dreamy, flowing from your lips in one thick, continuous stream, your eyes limpid, desperate with the desire to please. 

“Though you’ve proven you are capable of doing it on your own, it’s precious that you’re asking for my help.”

A hum of contemplation rumbles in his chest, head tilting in observation, his scrutinizing gaze framed by heavy lids, eyes now slow and steady as they search your face.

“You need Sir to guide you, huh?” he’s asking as his other hand replaces your own, wrapping around the base of his cock and giving it two good, quick pumps before bringing the head to your lips, mouth obediently dropping open, a sound of confirmation playing on the back of your tongue.

Yes, yes, you’re nodding, tongue curling in the air a little, almost as if enticing him closer.

“No, not need,” he revises, smudging a thin stroke of pre-cum across your waiting, urgent tongue. “Want. Isn’t that right?” 

It’s true—you don’t technically need his assistance, could manage perfectly well on your own the task of sucking him off and stuffing your throat with his cum, but you want his aid; want to show him that not only can you succeed, but you can surpass.

“Please,” you whimper, the word a distortion trembling against the tip of his cock. “Please, help me be the very best for you, Sir.” 

Something sharp flashes in his pupils, hungry and craving and full of teeth, his chest stuttering with it—a growl he snuffs out, strangles in his throat before it can grow into a coherent response, replaced with a simple nod.

“All right, all right, baby,” he’s pacifying as you take his cock down your throat again, the hinges of your jaw straining as your mouth stretches around him. “Sir will help you out this time.” 

A mewl of thanks vibrates around his cock as he threads himself down your throat, his hips jerking once, fast and short, a matching whimper spilling from his lips. 

Delicate fingers curl in his waistband and tug a little, begging him to fuck deeper, and he concedes, groaning out breathy praise as your nose presses into that neat smattering of curls adorning his pubic bone, lips kissing the root of his shaft. 

“Christ,” he whines, hips thrusting forward a hint further as he leans back against the stall wall to get a better view, your throat tightening around him with the action. “So fucking gorgeous.” 

The stuffed full column of your throat ripples around him as you swallow with conviction, a greedy attempt to garner him even deeper into you, his shaft swollen and protruding in your neck. Tear-lacquered eyes close briefly, forcing streams of crystal to leak from the corners as you nuzzle into his groin again, the laudatory action causing gummy walls to spasm around his cockhead. 

“F-Fuck,” the curse fragments on his tongue, head tipping back against the flimsy stall wall, angular jaw and Adam’s apple on display. “Look at you, so full of me.”

There isn’t any more time to admire, though, as idle chatter, muffled and indistinct, seeps under the heavy washroom door, yanking both of you from the heavenscape you had conjointly created and shocking you with a bitter dose of reality. 

There’s no warning after that, the brute reminder of the steadily encroaching public entirely shattering whatever trance the two of you had been enveloped in, Alhaitham’s hips snapping sudden and sharp, fucking your throat with a renewed vigour. 

Your grip on his slacks tightens, knuckles curling over the waistband in a feeble attempt to help him, to pull him even closer, jaw wrenched open even wider as his hips work, so fucking dedicated to him, to pleasing him, despite the pang beginning to settle deep within the hinges.

It’s rough, and sloppy, and so fucking hot, scalding saliva smeared all over him—coating his thighs and dribbling down his balls and soaking the matted curls at the base of his cock, slippery and sticky and stained with you. 

“Doing so—so fucking good for me,” he pants out, pace never faltering. “My perfect little toy.” 

Something mangled and muted sounds in your throat, another pair of tears cascading down your cheeks and streaking them with pretty gleaming trails.

It hurts, your throat burning and fucked raw with every ram of his cock, your lungs beginning to shrivel as he smothers your breath, routinely shoved back down in time with the piston of his hips, chest swelling painfully beneath the backlog of unreleased air. 

Hiccups splutter around him as you desperately try to draw in tiny gulps through your nose, the fluttering of your throat eliciting another hoarse groan, tumbling from his lips. 

The ache in your jaw has radiated across your face now, a pounding in your temples keeping flawless rhythm with Alhaitham’s thrusts, a twinging in your cheeks weighing heavy on the bones, creeping into your sinuses.

Yes, it all hurts so very much, but you take it all for him, just like a good little girl is supposed to, just like he asked, just like you promised you would—dutiful, doting, devoted.

And even though his hips are ruthless, avid in their chase to catch his impending high, his grip is tender, the knuckles rooted against your skull firm but not painful as they hold your head in place, his thumbs massaging soothing little circles along your hairline.

You’re weeping around him now, a potent concoction of drool and tears trickling off your tongue in viscid strings, the slick muscle curled flush around the underside of his shaft, protecting sensitive skin from the edges of sharp teeth. 

A dull pain is beginning to seep into the tip of your nose, no doubt a response to the constant collision of your face into his pelvis, and you can feel the early formations of a bruise, fragile capillaries busted open from the consistent blunt force. 

“Oh, Christ,” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before springing back open, gazing down at you with fervour. “M’gonna—ah, ah—” his hips judder, thumbs pressing into the sides of your head, steadying his grasp. “M’gonna cum, and I want you to—f-fuck—to swallow it all, y’here me? Don’t waste a single fucking drop.” 

And, well, you’re nothing if not unwaveringly obedient.

Two more drives of his cock, rough and rapid, and then he’s forcing hot, thick cum down your throat, stuffing the column full with his potent seed.

It’s so much, too much, and you sputter around him, the syrupy substance overflowing back up your throat and into your mouth to seep, slow and sticky, past the tight seal of your mouth.

But he helps you with that, too, holding your head still and pressing your face tightly to his pubic bone, ensuring that his cum shoots straight down your throat as his cock continues to throb weakly, weighting your tongue. 

And you, obedient little girl that you are, devour all of it, even the few stray dollops of cream that managed to escape your mouth and roll down his balls, tongue curling hungrily around them and sopping up the remnants with gentle sucking. 

Truly, you did not waste a single fucking drop. 

And he’s so proud of you. 

“C’mere, precious,” he’s breathing out once he’s sure you’ve swallowed it all, releasing his grip on your skull and hoisting you up, strong hands hooked beneath your armpits. 

He hauls you to your feet in one fluid movement, pliant legs struggling to find stable footing on the tiled floor, and props you up against his body, supporting you. Those big hands cup your jaw, tilting your face to his, aquamarine flying across your features—quick, but efficient—and surveying the damage.

“You were so perfect,” he murmurs, sowing a smattering of chaste kisses along the top of your head. “You were so, so perfect for me.” 

A response hitches in your throat, mangled by the sob desperately attempting to claw past it, and Alhaitham frowns, concern creasing his forehead. 

“Hey, you okay? Huh?” gentle palms tip your head up even further, thumbs killing tears as they swipe over your cheekbones. “You okay, sweetheart?” 

“M’fine, Sir,” you croak out, voice ruined but eyes filled with reverence. “Th-Thank you for giving me your cum.” 

The worry saturating his features is eradicated in an instant, eroded by tender awe, his lips twitching into a small smile as his eyes sweep across your face again—slower, this time, more deliberate, appreciative—thumbs continuing their soft caress. 

The sudden shouting of his name decimates any potential response before it has a chance to form in his mouth, a low growl of irritation rumbling in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he calls back, the moment the washroom door swings open, effectively halting the perpetrator in their steps. “I’ll be there soon. Give me a moment.” 

His voice is hard, stern, cold yet dripping with authority, the meek messenger squeaking out some semblance of acknowledgement before rushing from the room. 

You’re still sniffling, cheeks stained with dried, crusty salt, hair mussed and messy, and his frown returns as he looks back at you, his features pinched, reluctance weighing heavy on his form. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?” 

“I am,” you nod in his grasp, finally standing on your own two feet, as if to prove it. “Promise.”

His eyes hold your own for a moment longer, assessing, before he accepts your answer as truth, fingers beginning to fuss with his dishevelled tie. 

“All right,” he sighs out the words as he primps, palms smoothing down his shirt, wrinkles casualties from your fingers. “Take your time to regain your bearings.” He looks up, a sardonic grin on his face. “I, unfortunately, have business to attend to. Such is the life of a Sumeru professor.” 

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure it’s such a drag to be faculty at the top university in the world,” you snort. 

“Enjoy your ignorance while it lasts,” he retorts, but his smile has softened to something playful. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

“Looking forward to it, Sir.” 

“Good.” 

He refolds his lapels one last time, squaring his shoulders as he mentally prepares, turning toward the stall door.

“Oh, and uh,” hand curled around the stall handle, he pauses, throwing a glance over his shoulder, eyes shining with something mischievous. “Maybe next time you can actually ride my cock, like you wanted to.” 

Head quirking, confusion crinkles your brow, your eyes searching his face. Next time?

A smirk spreads across his lips, smug and supercilious. 

“See you in class on Monday, Teaching Assistant.” 

[thewritetofreespeech]

hello. I read your bg3 marriage headcanons and was wondering if you could do a follow-up on what their first anniversary would be like? also add rolan, even though he wasn't in the original. only if you want to.

BG3 - 1st Anniversary Headcanons

[original ask in question X]

Gale

What does Gale ‘grand gestures are my love language’ Dekarios have planned for your first anniversary? Oh nothing special.

Just all your favorite meals cooked & ready for you. Starting with breakfast in bed. A small, light picnic at your favorite shoreline spot to watch the tides come in and enjoy the sea air. Ending with a romantic candlelight dinner that would put some of the finest Baldurian restaurants to shame.

He gives you a book of love poems as your present. Paper is traditional for the first anniversary after all. It is furthermore inscribed with his own, original poem on the front cover for you.

Astarion

He actually isn’t aware it’s your anniversary. Until he is reminded by someone. It’s not that it’s not important to him. Astarion has just never celebrated one before. How could he, when none of his previous lovers ever even stayed the whole night?

He has to work fast. But luckily Astarion is extremely clever and resourceful.

Playing it off like it was his plan all along to ‘pretend’ to forget, only for you to be further surprised is simply part of his plan. He plays it off so well that you believe him when he tells you that he got you a new necklace because ‘it reminded him of your eyes’. He makes a mental note to remember next year and be more genuine in his efforts.

A!Astarion

Of course, Astarion remembers the day you officially became his. Body, soul, and now legally.

Part of it may just be the celebration of having something that’s his. He hasn’t had anything for so long that he goes overboard. And with you, his most prized treasure, he can’t help it either.

The day, like all your days, is just about the two of you. He has a portrait commissioned for the two of you and commits to having one done every year, so you remember what you look like & how happy you are together. The old ones are kept in an archive below for safe keeping.

Wyll

He’s been looking forward to this day almost as much as getting married to you, the love of his life.

If he chose to stay in the Gate and become the new Grand Duke Ravengard, Wyll will host a ball so that you can celebrate with all those you hold dear. Old and new friends. He has the bard’s college compose a new song to commemorate the occasion, one that he can lead his partner out to the dance floor with and waltz them around all night.

If he went to Avernus to continue as the Blade, they will waltz together, alone, on the stoney rocks of the Hells. While Wyll hums a private tune between them to keep the music going.

Halsin

Halsin isn’t much for ceremonies or constructs of time. Nature and time move hand-in-hand with one another without making much note of their relationship, and he feels that they should do the same.

But…he can appreciate that something like this should be marked & remembered.

He will make time to get away from his duties as ‘Daddy Halsin’ to be a husband for a while; no matter how short it might be. He carves them a beautiful ornament. Something of a remembrance of their year to hang on a tree by their home. Halsin tells them that he hopes, one day, it will be filled with as many happy memories as leaves. The tree growing as with their love for years to come.

+Rolan

Who has time for such frivolities? Rolan has an acclaimed magic shop & literary archive to run, along with the magical commitments he has as the new caretaker of Ramazith's Tower. Surely, as his partner, they must understand that.

Lia gives him an extremely firm talking to about how selfish and narrow-minded he is being. That it’s not just about him anymore it’s about them.

Though Rolan will never admit that she’s right, he does make it up to his spouse. Apologizing to them for being so callous and making an effort to be more ‘traditionally romantic’. He presents them with a single white rose. Enchanted, so that it will never die, never wilt, and never fade. “It will always be as pure and radiant as my love for you. Should I forget to tell you every day, look upon it and remember. Though, I will try to remember to tell you everyday until my last ones.”

[chanaleah]

Tomorrow, my school's Jewish community is having a small memorial service for October 7th. It's a day early, because we're busy people and we all just missed classes for Rosh Hashanah. It's not an official gathering - only the Jewish students have been told, and the Rabbi told us not to spread around that it's happening.

It got me thinking. Because I know I'll commemorate the anniversary this year. Probably next year, too. And the year after that. I suppose we'll just keep going. In 100, 200, 300 years we'll still be remembering.

What will we call it? Yom October 7th? I think that sounds stupid. But it'll get a name.

Eventually, there will be traditions. Perhaps similar ones to Tisha B'av. Will October 7th become the saddest day of the Jewish calendar? My guess is no. But it will be the freshest sad day - at least until the next tragedy.

Will we celebrate on October 7th, or on 23rd Tishrei? Will October 7th be a separate holiday from Simchat Torah, or will here on out Simchat Torah always have an undercurrent of sadness? I don't know.

I remember October 7th, 2023, like it was yesterday. Actually, I don't really know what I did yesterday. But I remember October 7th so clearly. I remember saying that Israel's wars were usually short - the 6 Day War, the Yom Kippur war. This one would be a month - at most. How wrong I was.

I'm a different person now than the person I was on October 6th. It's bittersweet. I'm less trusting of goyim. I've compromised a bit on my values more when it comes to consuming media. I care more about my people than I did before. I know a lot more about Jewish history. I'm willing to argue with someone about I/P - but I don't want to. I don't think I would go back to the person I was on October 6th. But I hope this is over soon.

[kumkaniudaku]

At Last: Part Two

Summary: Mr. and Mrs. Richmond make their union official.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 6.6k

Warnings: None

Part One

Under two Spanish moss trees, the two that towered highest above the rest like gods watching over their creations, Patrice and Terrence were due to share vows and declarations of love with a small crowd of family looking on as witnesses in less than twelve hours.

Her mother referred to the quick turnaround between engagement and nuptials as a “small miracle” as she and her elder sister meticulously planned details that even Patrice had overlooked in the haze of the evening. 

Truthfully, after all the fuzzy feelings and congratulatory bubbly had worn off, she was left with a gaping pit of confusion deep within her belly. Terry had promised one year to prepare for a life together. That amounted to 365 days to learn, grow, and get ready for eternity. A calendar year to decide if the eagerness of fresh love could bloom into something everlasting. Three hours ago, she didn’t need any more convincing. Now, having 365 days cut nearly in half with a wedding occurring on the other side of the sunrise had suddenly become suffocating. 

They hadn’t taken a traditional road, one paved with tangible milestones on the journey to name changes and legal titles. There was no high school sweethearts storyline to follow. They hadn’t awkwardly fumbled over kisses after a first date or met each other’s parents at a Sunday evening dinner. Terry never officially asked to be her boyfriend and she never really treated him as a man to date on the way to some serendipitous revelation that he was, indeed, the one. In her mind, they’d always existed as lovers, time moving in a flat circle back to him as the only man at the altar when she envisioned jumping the broom with a new last name.

But, even with all roads leading back to Terrence James Richmond, the cotton sheets beneath her tired body provided no refuge. She was restless in the dead of night, head pounding with uncertainty and throat raw with questions. She kicked at the thick duvet for some relief from the stifling heat in the bedroom of the tiny guest cottage she and Imani were forced to share for the night. 

Because, even if she and Terry didn’t adhere to tradition, the women of her family held strong. 

Next to her, Imani grumbled into her pillow before flipping the bedside lamp on with a huff. 

“Damn, Petey, what now? You must wanna look like Frankenstein at the altar tomorrow.” 

“I’m sorry. I can’t get comfortable.” 

“What I gotta do? My arms ain’t big as his but I can be the big spoon. Turn over.”

Imani jokingly cuddled up to Patrice, pretending to be Terry as she spoke to her in a dramatically deep voice. “I love you, girl. You the only woman in the world, girl. Kiss me a hundred times so I don’t melt away, girl!” 

Patrice couldn’t hold back her laughter at her cousin’s silly imitation of a man she’d only just met in person but managed to get his mannerisms down to a science. She was good like that. Always able to break the ice and calm Patrice with a joke, even through troublesome storms. 

Turning in Imani’s arms, Patrice faced her cousin to feel less alone in the world. Imani adjusted her bonnet and looked back with a faint smile. 

“Tell me what’s wrong. You nervous?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

“Anxious?” 

“Not that one either.” 

“Worried.” 

Patrice nodded and chewed her bottom lip before answering. “That’s the one.” 

“Spill. You already got me awake. Might as well make it interesting.” 

“I wish I could but, I don’t know what exactly I’m worried about,” she started, shifting to her back to search for answers on the vaulted ceiling. She found nothing. “You think this is all moving too fast? It’s only been a few months. We said we’d wait a year at least.” 

“A year? Three months? Who’s countin’. Those rules are made up.” 

“Yeah, but what about the courting? The whirlwind romance? Being held close while you dance in an empty jazz club tasting champagne on his lips while Etta James plays in the background? What about all that?” 

Imani watched her cousin jump from the bed, waltzing in circles with her head thrown back, treating the empty space between the bedframe and dresser like a palace ballroom. An amused smile tugged at her lips as she sat up to get a better view. 

“Girl,” she exclaimed, laughing and shaking her head to Patrice’s dismay. “None of that shit is real! You watched the Brandy Cinderella one too many times during the pandemic.” 

“Only four times. Five. Six if you count the time we watched it on FaceTime.” 

“That’s why it’s rotting your brain now. How many times you been in love?” 

“Once,” Patrice answered, her mind drifting to Terry and what he might be doing all alone in that room upstairs.

“It’s been three times for me. And guess what?” she questioned, not expecting an answer. “None of them had a formula. Love is illogical, girl. There are no steps or rules or movie scripts to guide you through this shit! It’s about the willingness to give yourself over to something incomprehensible in hopes that you found your person for as long as you can hold on to them.” 

Imani’s rant floated around the room until it began to burrow itself deep into Patrice’s ears in hopes of reaching her brain. She stood there, taking every word in, eyes intently focused on her wise older cousin, knowing she was right yet having a hard time turning that insight into something she could fathom for herself. 

She’d always had a plan that she followed to the letter. She thrived in logical next steps and absolutes. The black and white kept her organized. Routine was her center. But love with Terry? That was different. That was whimsical. That was girlish pining and a botched kiss when they pretended to be a couple for one night during senior prom. It was time away wondering what their bond had become amid infrequent communication and eventual radio silence. Their love was reuniting as adults and running so fast into dizzying passion that she hadn’t time to wrap her mind around what had happened over the last seven months. Their love was intense and scary, beautifully abstract with no rhyme or reason. Nonsensical even. But it worked. 

Scooting to the edge of the bed and standing to her feet, Imani mimicked a chivalrous prince, pulling Patrice into a silly little waltz around the room. “Create your own fairytale, P. Everything doesn’t have to make sense.” 

“You think he misses me?” Patrice asked, her voice so tiny and meek that it almost surprised Imani. “Think he’s thinking about me like I’m thinking about him right now?” 

“Only one way to find out.” 

A mischievous smile spread across Imani’s face as she dashed for her phone. Patrice chased after her, calling for her to stop what she was doing at such a late hour. 

Ordinarily, Terry would be asleep. He was never one to stay up too far beyond the early hours of the night, often dragging Patrice away from a good book to force her to sleep beside him. 

Peaceful slumber, however, had been elusive all night. The moon was too bright. The room? Too hot. He could complain about the bed being a hair too soft or the floorboards creaking too loud whenever someone would sneak down the hallway for a late snack, but all of those would be a deflection from the true issue - he missed Patrice. 

Just as his longing was reaching a tipping point, his phone buzzed against the solid oak nightstand. He had half a mind to ignore the sound. It was likely his mother confirming details yet again or one of his twin sisters finally responding to the engagement video, he thought to himself as he lay on his back staring at the constant revolution of the ceiling fan. 

Then another buzz came accompanied by several more to let him know this was a phone call and only people with emergencies call at that hour. 

He answered without looking at the screen to verify the caller.

“Hello?” He answered, slightly annoyed by the interruption. 

“Terry put some clothes on and come to the cottage. We got an emergency.”

“A what?” 

“Boy, just come on! Skip the third step from the bottom and go out of the side door by the kitchen.” 

Terry wished that sneaking around his fiancée’s family home was among the silliest things he’d done in the middle of the night for a woman. 

He carefully slipped into a hoodie and sneakers before tiptoeing his way down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out of that side door like Imani instructed. The moonlight provided the only guidance down the cobbled pathway leading to a tiny shack at the edge of the property with a little light flipped on in the bedroom. 

Imani watched through the peephole with Patrice hot on her heels, peering over her shoulder as if she could see too. 

Moanie shrugged her away with a harsh whisper. “Girl, get off my ass. He’s coming!” 

Patrice backed away with her hands up in surrender. The wait for his eventual appearance felt like forever. She fiddled with the hem of her nightgown, wondering if he would care that this was all a half-baked scheme to circumnavigate their forced separation. 

Terry ambled up the dirt path with his normal scowl and fists pushed into his pockets to shield his hands from the wind chill. Imani timed his arrival perfectly, swinging the door open before he created a disturbance by knocking. 

“Everything good?” He asked, one eyebrow hiked high as Imani pulled him into the cottage by his arm. 

She stepped back and gestured toward Patrice who stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. 

“I just wanna sleep,” she sighed. “Take her, go in that room, and do whatever y’all do until the morning. Then you gotta dip because I’m not getting in trouble for y’all. My mama will still hit me.” 

Terry’s eyes drifted from Imani to Patrice, catching how she looked nervous under his gaze. He smiled and extended his hand for her to take. 

“C’mon. Let’s go to bed.”

His voice, honied and soothing to her soul, gave Patrice her first rush of comfort in what felt like forever. She placed her palm in his and trailed behind him as he led the way. 

Imani called behind them. “Please, don’t have sex on the bed. I gotta sleep here until Tuesday and I don’t really need that image in my head.” 

“Can’t make any promises but, thank you. I’ll make sure you get the bouquet.” 

“Hard pass. Give it to Moon’s desperate ass. I like to let my fairytales unfold organically.”

She winked at her cousin just before Terry could close the bedroom door to block them from the outside world. 

Wrapped in the midnight hour, they’d finally found peace. 

Patrice watched from the bed as Terry stepped out of his shoes and pulled off his hoodie to expose bare skin to the night air. He slowly crawled in beside her, brushing his fingers against her midsection to guide her against the mattress the way he liked. He pulled her close to his chest to rest his nose in the crook of her neck for a deep inhale of her unique scent. She sighed and pressed even closer, at ease once eyelashes painted butterfly kisses where his warm breath fanned against her skin.

“How’d we get like this,” he laughed once they were settled.  “Can’t even fall asleep without each other.” 

“I still think you put a spell on me in that bathroom. I loved sleeping alone before then.” 

“Had to pull out all the stops for you, baby.” 

“I’m just that fine, huh?”

He chuckled and closed his eyes, already feeling slumber's clutches coming for him in the darkness. His grip around her waist tightened. She trailed her fingers up and down his forearm with her focus on the soft rustle of the linen curtains against the window. Her mind quieted. The room fell silent save for steady, deep breathing and the crickets making music outside. 

“You wanna know something?” 

Terry blinked himself awake to answer. “What?”

“They call me Petey because I had a big crush on Tobey Maguire as Spider-Man one summer,” Patrice admitted in the darkness. “I figure if you’re gonna be my husband by this time tomorrow, you should know.” 

No answer. Only the smack of his lips pulling away from the skin behind her ear in another kiss. He knew not to interrupt her fleeting moment of vulnerability with the silly joke on the tip of his tongue. So, he joined her confessional.

“I used to think Roxanne from A Goofy Movie was fine.”

“The animated dog?”

Terry scoffed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know being attracted to a human spider was better.” 

Their shared laughter reverberated off the walls, uncorking the bottled-up pressure to be present as perfect beings to the world. Terry felt Patrice’s ribcage expand and contract in his embrace as she took a deep breath to release pent-up nerves, silently thanking God that he was the one allowed to mold himself into the curves and contours of her body every night. 

“I want to know more about you.” she requested, sounding like a child asking for a bedtime story. “Tell me something else.” 

So he did. With no hesitation, he told her secrets that seemed so daunting to share until she was the one listening. Anxieties about the future fell from his lips freely, receiving no judgment on the other side. He told her about his fear of clowns and felt his first dose of validation when she agreed that expressionless mimes shouldn’t be around children. The backstory of the small scar on his upper lip was followed by a giggly recollection of the time she put her brother in the dryer to see how long he could spin without getting sick which made him laugh until his abdomen ached. Together they shared uncomfortable memories that introduced intense insecurities, weird theories about the existence of intergalactic forms, and wondered if LeBron James was secretly an android. An elementary game of 21 Questions created a crash course in the entire history of one another. 

They lay there together in a pitch-black room drunk off the jagged, imperfect pieces of each other until their eyes burned with exhaustion and sleep was no longer an option. 

The last thing Terry whispered into Patrice’s ear was a promise to never stop learning about her, to never stop being curious about her likes, dislikes, hopes, and dreams as long as they both lived. She could barely mumble out a worthwhile response but hoped that her gentle hum served as an oath to do the same.

By morning, he was gone. Out into the breeze by first light, leaving only his scent on Imani’s pillow and the fleeting memory of his fingers making a home between Patrice’s legs with whispered praise on his lips as evidence that his presence wasn’t an apparition in the witching hour. Patrice couldn’t resist burying her face into the sheets, squealing and kicking her feet beneath the duvet in elation. 

She was getting married. 

“Y’all are so cute,” Imani swooned, leaning against the bedroom doorframe as she watched her cousin hold a pillow close to her chest like an actress in a romantic drama. “We gotta get you ready, sis! It’s your wedding day!”

People whisked around all morning like busy worker bees, each one darting off to a new place around the estate to fulfill a purpose. Some balanced stacks of white chairs under their arms like magicians to turn a portion of the backyard into a wedding venue. Others hustled through the kitchen’s service door with mounds of ingredients for what could only described as a feast fit for royalty. Women giggled on their way out of the backdoor to meet Patrice and her small entourage to prepare her for a day she’d planned as a girl, but never saw coming together in a dizzying whirlwind such as this. 

In the cottage, women laughed and sipped tea in porcelain cups to go with their fancy hors d'oeuvres on fancier china. The soothing purr from an antique sewing machine placed careful stitches in a beautifully plain satin gown gifted by Imani and Rosalyn to ensure that the garment was made to Patrice’s exact proportions. She was a princess for the day, the world bending to her every whim.

Terry wasn’t so lucky. The bedroom was still too hot and growing even hotter with each unwanted guest moving in and out with more questions than he thought he needed to answer. He wanted a moment to write out heartfelt vows with pen and paper but found himself so frustrated with the whole production that he slammed his writing utensil against the writing desk in the corner and cursed at the wall. 

Another visitor tsk’d behind him. “Boy, you better not let Mama hear you talkin’ like that.”

”She’d pull that ear clean off the side of your head!” 

Equally raspy voices made Terry sigh with relief before he stood to his feet. As two almost identical copies of their mother, Zorah and Zanah were Terry’s first loves. He remembered the day they entered into the world. So precious and honey brown with striking chocolate eyes that could make him bend to their will without a word. He watched them mature through the world like their hired security, never letting harm come to a single hair on their head. He wiped tears, kissed scrapes, and played with dolls like a third parent. When they went their separate ways to grow into adults with individual hopes and dreams, he cried in secret like he’d been the one to birth them. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged his baby sisters but he knew he’d never needed their embrace quite like he needed it in that moment. They hugged him back, two sets of arms wrapping him up in a quiet group hug until he’d had his fill. 

“How is this supposed to be the happiest day of your life and you’re in here cussin’ and breathing all heavy,” Zorah, the oldest of the pair, asked as she cleared her brother’s face of invisible debris. 

She’d always acted as his surrogate mother despite being six years his junior. The everpresent pillar of stability, she left home as soon as she could to explore the other side of the country at UCLA in hopes of studying the ins and outs of music performance. Tall and athletic with long dark locs, her voice became her calling card, but her big brother knew her as a young lady that was once too afraid to sing in the children’s choir at church. 

“You know how Terry is. He think he Obama. All serious for no reason sometimes.”

“That’s not true.” 

“You’re right,” she conceded. “You never gon’ be fine as Obama.” 

Zanah was the hell raiser. Loud and full of energy with an afro big enough to block the sun, she lived to tease her older brother. A zest for bold flavors that could bring even the worst enemies together for a good meal sent her in search of the best culinary school their parents could afford. If you could dream it, she could make it appear in the kitchen with little effort. Terry admired her for her gift, but couldn’t stand her poking and prodding at his expense. 

He kissed his teeth and broke free from their short-lived period of civility. “Treece and the girls are out back. She’ll be happy to see y’all. Zo, get the rings from Daddy as soon as you can. You know how he gets.” 

The twins rolled their eyes at each other while watching Terry pout on his way back to the writing desk for another crack at his speech. Zorah was the first to move with Zanah bringing up the rear. 

She stood over his shoulder to take stock of what he’d managed to write in his time alone. Half sentences and scribbled words scratched through several times over littered the page as if a madman had gotten ahold of his journal. Something about how much he cherished her but with far too much Shakespearean language to be sincere made Zanah giggle behind him.

She sat on the edge of the desk, pretending to judge his work. “Are you writing your vows or the sequel to Romeo and Juliette?” 

“Zanah, please. Pick with me after all of this is done. I can’t deal with the stress right now.”

An invisible weight seemed to push Terry into a defeated hunch, forcing his head into his hands as he angrily rubbed at his eyes. His stress tick was back and more ferocious than ever. Zorah flanked his other side and gave her twin a look of concern before looking back at him.

“Wanna pretend we’re Patrice to practice?” 

He sighed. “No, not really.” 

“Don’t be like that. We won’t tell and you gotta get a move on these vows. It’s a win-win.” 

Terry sat back in his chair to mull over their proposition. A practice run couldn’t hurt. At worst, he’d rid himself of the useless mass of words clogging his brain. 

“Fuck,” he conceded, pushing back from the desk with a loud scrape across the wooden floor. “Look, be nice. If I say something stupid or too mushy just let me finish, alright?” 

“It wouldn’t be nothing we ain’t heard you writing poems about before,” Zanah laughed along with Zorah. 

Terry showed her both of his middle fingers with a smirk as he walked to the center of the room. His days as an amateur poet were a well-kept secret that only his family was forced to witness. One day, when he and Patrice were old and grey, he’d reveal a shoebox full of terrible musings in her honor.

Taking a needed inhale through his nose and long exhale through his mouth, Terry prepared to ramble through his feelings. 

“When I try to imagine my life without you, my mind goes blank. It’s kinda like when you get an error message on a computer or something. No images, no search results, nothing. Empty.” Terry began to pace, finding inspiration in the back-and-forth motion. 

Zorah pressed for more. “Why?”

“I’m not supposed to imagine life without you, Patrice. I don’t want to experience another birthday or Christmas, Earth Day, Juneteenth, shit anything if you’re not there. I prayed for you.” Terry didn’t anticipate getting choked up until the sensation brought with it a lump in his throat. All of the instances he’s asked God for guidance in matters of the heart came rushing back to his remembrance with only one answer at every turn. “Trying to imagine an existence without you feels like I’m telling God that bringing you back to me wasn’t enough.”

His eyes flashed up to his sisters, finding them in the throws of emotion right along with him. 

“Keeping going. Bring it home,” Zanah encouraged. “Give her the fireworks, loverboy!”

Terry laughed through misty vision. “I’m excited to spend the rest of our days together. Tonight, I’m promising you a lifetime of my protection, my devotion, and my desire to show up every single day to make our time together worth the wait. Thank you for choosing me, baby. Let me work on making sure you never regret that decision.” 

A slow clap took over the room, first from two sets of hands that Terry expected, making his shoulder slump from relief. 

“Shit, now I gotta remember all that.” 

“Don’t worry, we recorded,” Zorah assured.

But there was still applause. He whipped his head around to investigate the extra spectators and found his parents beaming from the room’s threshold. 

Diedra spoke up first as she made a beeline for her son. “Oh my God, oh my God! This is really happening. My baby is about to be somebody’s husband.” She claimed his face with her hands, distributing doting kisses on both of his cheeks. “Beautiful vows. Remind me of your father’s.” 

“Not nearly as eloquent,” Marvin laughed, joining the conversation. “Matter of fact, I don’t think I got past the to have and to hold portion without stuttering. The pastor had to move us along because I was so tongue-tied.” 

“Yeah, but the feeling is the same. Your heart’s in the right place.”

“Not right now,” Terry laughed before kissing her forehead. “My heart is in my ass, Mama. Stomach too.” 

The Richmond family laughed harmonious laughs, providing the first bit of ease Terry had felt all morning. 

Marvin reached out to grab his boy’s shoulder for a small squeeze. In all his wildest dreams, he couldn’t have imagined a better man than Terrence had become. All the rearing, the man-to-man talks, the tough love, and every stern redirection had become another foundational brick in not only a worthwhile man but a spectacular human. 

He looked around the room at his girls and wife, trying to hide the overwhelming rush of emotion tightening his chest. “Can you ladies give us a moment?”

Zanah released a dramatic sigh.

“Oh, here we go. They about to cry a river in here. Come on, y’all. Patrice says they’re opening another bottle of champagne and you know I don’t like to miss hearing a cork pop.” 

“You honestly need to talk to somebody about that.” 

“We talk all the time, Zo!”

Time winding down turned advice into a hot commodity, transcending social groups as the sunset drew closer. Everyone had an opinion, an unsolicited tidbit on how to navigate the peaks and valleys of marriage. A hodgepodge of dos and don’ts thrown out like casual information whether Patrice wanted it or not. 

Don’t go to bed angry. Have sex every night. Make sure there’s a separate account for personal emergencies. Keep the kids out of your bed. Some were helpful, others mostly nothing but projections and special circumstances veiled as some sage secret that Patrice and Terry should offer special thanks for receiving.

Nerves were turning into embers of annoyance. By late afternoon, they’d both requested for rooms to be emptied and questions to cease. They’d had enough. No more information. No more guidance. Anything left to learn was up to the test of time, not a bunch of people who meant well, but would ultimately return to their own lives with no say so in what went on between the newlyweds.

Reprieve came when the white chairs were in perfect rows on either side of a flower-lined aisle, ties were neatly draped underneath starched button-up collars, and dresses were pressed to perfection. The sun had begun to dive behind the clouds, leaving the sky full of pink and orange hues. A half-moon hung high in the sky as if it were invited to witness a show made especially for the cosmos. Guests took their seats without care given to which side belonged to the groom or bride. They were all family now. A beautiful mix of lineages and temperaments bonded for as long as Patrice and Terry saw fit. 

At the altar, Sybil stood under two Spanish moss trees towering high above the rest, her gray hair pulled up into an ornate headwrap that matched her dress. She smiled up at both trees as if saying hello to living, breathing beings before asking stragglers to take their seats. 

From the kitchen’s sliding door, Terry bounced on his toes, waiting on his cue to step into the early autumn chill. A tailored suit hugged him close, finally fulfilling its duty to carry him down a path lined with his love's favorite flowers to forever bond himself to the woman handpicked for his unwavering fidelity. 

This was the moment. Fate had willed it so. He wouldn’t turn back for any reason. Destiny had come knocking and he welcomed her in with open arms. 

Dreamy chords from a baby grand piano served as the soundtrack to his final walk as a single man. Measured steps carried him forward, his chest puffed with pride and his shoulders rolled back in the type of relaxed confidence only afforded to people who had no doubt that they were on the exact path they’d been ordained to traverse.

Candles and soft, white light from paper lanterns hanging nearby provided romantic theatrics to accompany his every step. Voices whispered, some calling his name, others leaving comments as he passed. In his periphery, he caught a glimpse of his family. DeeDee’s eyes welled with happy tears as Marvin rubbed her back for comfort. His sisters, both beside themselves with excitement, flashed Terry a look at the wedding bands as a final check-in on their whereabouts. 

At the altar, Junior waited for his arrival as his best man. Terry had requested his presence during a surprisingly heartfelt conversation where Junior had all but lifted his brother-in-law off of his feet to show his appreciation. 

“I love my sister, man.” He repeated over and over under the spell of brunch liquor. “I’m happy it’s you, T. I’m happy it’s you for my sister, man.” 

Junior tapped his right hand over his chest and nodded at Terry, jumping right back into the masculine display of affection that had escaped him when no one else was around. 

Patrice watched it all unfold as she carefully made her way into the kitchen at the tail end of a secret mission to hide her from her husband. Imani trailed her with a bouquet of blue hydrangeas in one hand and the train of her dress in the other. If not for her heels clacking against the black and white tile on the floor, Patrice was sure that her cousin could hear her heart thudding against her sternum. 

“Alright, girl, this is where I leave you,” Imani spoke, a small smile forming as she took another look at Patrice. She tucked a stray curl back into place and presented her with the flowers. “You look beautiful, P. Stunning. My friend is all grown up. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you, Imani. For everything. Let’s not allow too much time to pass before we see each other again, okay?” 

“Of course. I’ll be back for Christmas. But, don’t focus on me. You gotta get down the aisle, Mrs. Richmond.” 

Patrice sighed and grinned at the mention of her new last name. “I can’t believe this is happening.” 

“Believe it, baby! It’s time.” 

A final hug connected the two before Imani was out of the door and comically announcing the bride’s arrival before taking her place as maid of honor.

She stood behind that glass door, beaming as all in the area stood in anticipation of her entrance. 

You fix your makeup just so

Guess you don’t know that you’re beautiful 

Try on every dress that you own 

You were fine in my eyes a half hour ago

Terry had mentioned the song in passing once, commenting on how he heard it in a department store and found John Legend kind of corny. What he didn’t mention was that he was in the department store getting fitted for the very suit he wore as he watched Patrice walk toward him and how he took the song as a sign that he was doing exactly what God intended. 

That cheesy song from a cheesier artist was the reason he was dabbing at the corners of his eyes with his knuckles to stop the incoming tears. 

In a lovely satin dress with a high halter neck, Patrice was the center of attention. Imani had specifically chosen a white dress without any reverence for outdated tradition. If her girl was to be wed, she’d be in the appropriate color, no doubt. A split in the front was a personal gift to Terry, a peek at her oiled legs with each step immediately catching his attention.

Her bantu knots were unraveled, leaving behind shiny, bouncy curls that framed her face just right. Soft makeup enhanced ancestral facial features. Minimal jewelry kept the look tailored to her flare for the understated. 

When she waved at Terry, he waved back with a smile so wide that it made his cheeks burn. In all of her glory, every perfect inch from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, was his to cherish. 

And this evening, I won’t let the feeling die 

I never wanna leave your side

Before the music could fade to make way for the ceremony, Terry had already found himself unable to hold back emotion. His fingertips were damp with tears as he assisted Patrice onto the low platform. 

“Sorry,” he whispered while she pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket and used it to clean his face. “Think they got all this in the photos?”

“I hope so. Might get a couple wallet-sized prints to carry in my purse.” 

Patrice chucked as she tucked the pale blue fabric behind her bouquet’s stem and smoothed Terry’s collar. He captured her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. 

Sybil cleared her throat. “We aren’t at that part yet, but I love the enthusiasm. Should we get to the good stuff?” 

Patrice hoped the good stuff was captured in ultra HD on a camera somewhere. She couldn’t bring herself to care about the flowery words and intricate language. She tried her hardest to listen for her name to avoid embarrassing herself in front of everyone hoping to see something movie-like unfold in front of their eyes. But seeing the light etch beautiful reflections and shadows on Terry’s skin was all she could lend her focus to in the moment. 

Luckily, she made it through her vows without stumbling, even managing a joke that garnered a communal chuckle. 

“Honestly, we’re lucky this is happening now instead of at 18 like you said you wanted. I got to see Juicy J at homecoming one year and that wouldn’t have happened if I was chasing behind you in my 20s. You cute but not miss a Juicy J concert cute.”

She listened to Terry sniffle his way through heartfelt lines, occasionally wiping under his eyes to clear his vision. He gripped her hand tight and bathed her in a gaze so intense it sent a shiver down her spine. 

What she was present for, however, was the grand finale. 

“Do you take this woman to be your wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, to honor her, to comfort her, and to keep her in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?” Sybil asked Terry though she was already sure of his answer. 

His top lip almost disappeared from being stretched so wide in his smile. “I do.” 

Sure as he knew his first name, Terry affirmed his decision with two words and all of his teeth on display. Sybil looked to Patrice, finally seeing her niece as a woman and not the little girl that kept her on her toes every summer. 

She took a deep breath and then laughed. “Lord, now I’m crying!” The family laughed, some using the moment to wipe away their own tears. “Okay, I’m back. Do you take this man to be your husband -” 

“Yes! I do! I mean you can finish if you need to, but that’s my answer. One billion times, yes.”

There was no need. Under the twinkle of ancestors acting as stars and God showing his splendor in the marvelous brightness of the moon, man and woman became one. Mr. and Mrs. Richmond, free to jump hand in hand over a small, decorated broom to honor the folks that had come before them.

Well wishes came in abundance. Gifts big, small, and monetary spilled from a small table onto the rug beneath. Toasts became the preferred way to start a conversation. Buttons and ties had come undone from tight collars. High heels swapped for sensible shoes. Couples already squarely in the mature stages of partnership rushed to slow dance in the center of the communal area between tables. Pictures memorialized a wondrous occasion. They’d sign official paperwork another day. Tonight was for celebration.

While the party raged on, Patrice and Terry sat in the center of the table wrapped up in one another. His chin rested in the palm of her hand as he watched her lips move in time with the lyrics to a line dance song her parents led on the makeshift dancefloor. Her fingernails gently scratched at his jaw, an absentminded habit she’d picked up recently. He nudged her temple with his forehead like a cat begging for affection. 

“Hmm,” she hummed, not looking in his direction. He repeated his actions to receive the attention he craved. She finally looked over and giggled. “What, baby?” 

“Nothing. Just wanted you to look at me.” 

Patrice pressed her nose to Terry’s before placing a soft kiss on his full bottom lip. “Let’s get away from here for a second. Follow me.” 

Without question, Terry allowed Patrice to tug him along, past the throngs of dancing guests, away from music blasting out of jumbo speakers, down a shallow hill, and to a small lake shimmering in the night. 

He held her steady when she stopped short to remove her heels, saying something about needing to feel the grass between her toes. She jogged the rest of the way to the lake with Terry holding her shoes and taking long strides to catch up. 

She carefully lifted her dress before stepping into the water, only allowing it to cover the sides of her feet as she tilted her chin to the sky. Terry watched her with a placid grin and low eyelids. 

“You having fun,” he asked as he placed her belongings on a tree stump and stuffed his hands in his pockets. 

“Mhm. You?” 

“Yeah. I am.” 

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” 

He watched her for a few seconds more, admiring the way she seemed to salute every piece of nature in the vicinity. 

“You know, we didn’t get a first dance.” 

Patrice stopped creating ripples in the water with her toes and looked over at Terry. “Oh shit, we didn’t, huh? Wanna go back and do that? I don’t even have a song picked out. Slipped my mind, I guess.” 

“Nah, it’s cool,” he answered, still smiling. “We can dance right here.” 

He presented his hand for her grab, pulling her from the lake with care until she was up against his chest. They swayed to nothing for a second while Terry fiddled with his phone to find something worthy of their time. Patrice closed her eyes to listen to the breeze, more content with the wind as a soundtrack than she expected. 

Soon, Etta James came rolling through his phone’s speakers. 

Terry dropped one hand just above Patrice’s backside, the other wrapping around her back to lead them in a slow dance. A waltz of sorts in the blue moonlight. 

Her hands snaked up to the top of his head and pulled him as close as he could be, his nose so tight against her neck she could feel the slight suction and release from every breath. 

They stayed there, moving side to side under Etta James’s sweet song of found love until all distractions faded and left them in the fullness of each other. 

Patrice angled her head upwards as Terry kissed along her collarbone. Then her ear. Her cheek, her nose, and, finally, her lips. 

As he said I love you without words, Patrice tried to place the sweet taste of citrus and apple on his tongue. Was it dessert? Maybe her lip gloss or the fancy compote from their dinner plate? 

No, none of those. 

She closed her eyes tighter to taste more. There it was. The ghost of her fantasy. The secret marker of her one true love. 

Champagne.

---

TAGS: @planetblaque @wvsspoppin @thatone-girly @avoidthings @slutsareteacherstoo @eilujion @amyhennessyhouse @yaachtynoboat711 @jenlovey @pinkpantheris @blowmymbackout @onherereading @hrlzy @becauseimswagman1 @thiccc-c @urfavblackbimbo @blackburnbook @ashanti-notthesinger @xo-goldengirl @ariiijestertheklown

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 1: You Shouldn't Have Answered The Door

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy.  This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter one of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 3.6K

Warnings: References to sex, Cursing (once or twice), Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, a little OOC,

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Chapter 2

Present Day

Your head rests against your forearms on your desk, jerking upwards as a loud rhythmic knocking assaults the front door of your apartment.

What?

You think to yourself, rubbing your face with your hands. Your sketchpad was laid open on your desk beneath your head, the rough sketch of an egret bowing its head along the bank of a small pond splayed over the page in shades of gray. It would be the first in your new series of nature paintings that you would be unveiling in a month.

At least I didn't poke my eye out with the pencil. You think eyeing the sharpened point of the pencil that was dangerously close to your face a few seconds ago.

You turn your wrist to glance at your watch and note the time. It was an antique, square faced and strung on a simple black band, a reminder of a past life that you couldn't bear to part with.

Who would come see me at 8:00 am on a Monday?

For a minute you try to remember if you'd received a call from the curator of the gallery downtown, or if there had been a meeting or a lunch with your agent to discuss your next installment of work, but nothing comes to mind.

When you officially retired from being a hero you decided to become a full time artist, a hobby you had since you were a child. You hadn't expected it explode. You had enough money from your heroing career to live several lifetimes, not unwelcome given the fact that you couldn't die, not in the traditional sense at least, so art was supposed to just be a way for you to off steam. But you were happy with your life now, a lot happier than you had been when you were a hero on Payback. The thought of your previous employment with Vought sours in your mouth followed by the unavoidable thought of Ben that you push down with a well practiced sigh.

You didn't feel like reliving all that over again right now, though you knew it would probably happen later. It came in waves, especially at night when you found it difficult to sleep, the melatonin wasn't working, and all you really wanted was a hard drink.

Sobriety sucked.

The knocking persists, rattling around in your head like a bee trying to get out of a plastic cup.

"Fine. I'm coming." You shout standing up from your desk and making your way from the wall that serves as your studio towards the front door of your apartment, while trying to rub away the line the page made on your cheek.

Your apartment was the one extravagance you allowed yourself. Despite the amount of money you had, flashing it had never been a priority even in your hero days. The apartment was open concept with exposed brick walls, tall North facing windows that angled away from the inside and jutted outward over a raised wooden floored area that served as your studio. A large modern kitchen sat just to the right of the front door with stainless steel appliances, on another wall a tv hung above a leather couch and held a dark hallway that lead to your bedroom and the guest bedroom, the other walls were covered in your work, and the final wall held several bookshelves with art supplies and your vinyl record collection. A collection you started forever ago and that continued to grow with each passing year.

Need to get another bookshelf. You note looking at the limited space that remained.

You look through the peep hole in the solid metal apartment door. A tall dark haired man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a black duster and a thin younger guy with brown curly hair stare back at you.

"I don't want to buy any girl scout cookies." You shout through the heavy metal of the door.

The younger guy snorts.

"y/f/n y/l/n?" The dark haired man asks an accent tilting the ends of his words.

"Who's asking?"

He pulls out a badge, holding it up to the peep hole. "I'm Agent Butcher, this is Agent Campbell. We’re from the CIA, here to ask you a couple of questions about Soldier Boy."

At the mention of Ben's hero name you pause. You had avoided thinking about your former best friend as much as possible over the past forty years. Your relationship with Ben was complicated, the final few days you spent together even more complicated than the early years.

It hurt to compare what your life with him was like before you both became supes to the life you had together after. You had grown up together, forced into close proximity because your parents were friends and then became best friends yourselves. You stayed friends, before you both got injected with Compound V and a few years later moved on to Payback together. You were the only person able to keep Ben in check and as violent as his temper was, he didn't like to cross you. You were the only person who knew the real him, had been with him longer than anyone else. Not that he ever admitted that to you or admitted that he cared about you, but you thought somewhere deep down that he had to, felt at least something for you.

That was the problem. You were in love with him, cared deeply about him, cared more about him than anyone else you'd ever had in your life. On the night you finally slept together you were happy, you thought he felt the same way, and then the next day at his premiere you found him in the bathroom with Countess bent over a sink. The fight that followed had been your resignation from Payback and also the reason why you weren't there when Ben died.

Your jaw clenches together at the memory, followed by guilt. You were always there for him, you had his back just as he had yours, but the one time you hadn't been there-

You open the door to look at them. "The singer?"

"What?" Agent Butcher looks confused.

"The artist? Soulja Boy-" You arch a brow feigning confusion. "Because honestly I don't understand why the CIA would be asking me about that."

“No.” Agent Butcher holds up a photo.

You keep your face impassive. It’s a photo of Ben and you at a movie premiere the week before he left to go to Nicaragua. Both of you were standing in your supe suits, your own was a sleeveless black one piece suit with purple embellishments that traced from the sides of your ankles and stretched up under your armpits, while a dark hood covered your head and a black mask hid the bottom of your face. You always thought you looked more like a supervillain in it, but you were thankful that it hid your identity. It was so long ago, but you still remember that night clearly. The ridiculous movie, the afterparty where everyone was so tipsy and the smell of alcohol burned against your nose, and finally when you went to the bathroom and found Ben and Countess together, the immeasurable rage followed by heartbreak that you felt when you saw them.  Not to mention the fight that followed when Ben trampled all over your heart and stated that you meant nothing to him.

“You’re here to talk to me about my mom?” You flit your eyes back to the two men standing in the doorway, easily slipping into the lie that you and Legend invented.

“Your mom?” Agent Campbell looks confused.

“Yeah. Indigo? I mean y’all can come in if you want-“ You open the door wider, understanding that they won't leave, before you begin to move towards the kitchen. “I apologize in advance. I’m not quite myself, I was up late working.” You pause halfway into the kitchen. “I’m going to make some coffee, you guys want some?” You eye the man in the black coat. "Or tea?"

“Coffee is fine."

You find the coffee filters and shuffle through the cupboards to find a bag of coffee, still trying to wake up. Staying up late wasn't unusual for you. You tended to find the urge to create in the wee hours of the morning, not to mention everything that happened in the past kept you up.

You open the bag of coffee to smell the grounds, thinking that it will wake you up, but as soon as you do the smell of Agent Butcher and Agent Campbell washes over you.

You could smell the compound V in their veins pumping through their bodies with every beat of their hearts.

So, they're supes. You think to yourself, pouring the grounds into the coffeemaker. Which means they probably aren't from the CIA.

Despite the realization, you weren't worried. Your particular ability was a well-kept secret, a secret that only Ben knew despite you being on Payback. Stan Edgar and the others had believed that "Indigo," the hero name assigned to you, had enhanced strength and senses, but it was more than that. You had an ability that, if brought to the public, would probably land you in a government facility. Laying low had it's perks, your freedom was one of them.

You watch them begin to walk around your living room examining the artifacts of your new life, the one you crafted when everything fell apart. There wasn't anything in the living room to arouse suspicion that you were the original Indigo. The only remnants of your past life that remained were in a wooden trunk at the back of your walk in closet, hidden behind a collection of paint splattered overalls almost identical to the pair you were wearing right now.

"You've got a nice place." The younger guy says looking around.

"Thanks. It's rent controlled. I got lucky-" You fiddle with the coffeemaker to buy yourself some time.

Why were they here to ask me about Ben? It had been 40 years, hardly seems relevant now. And why were they pretending to be CIA?

"You're an artist?" Agent Butcher asks, staring at the canvas sitting on an easel by your desk. It was a collection of multicolored dark greens that swirled together, flecked with pieces of gold that shone in the brilliant sunlight from the wall of windows where your studio was.

"Yeah. And I tend to paint my best at night. Hence the coffee" You turn, placing your hands on the island to face the two men.

“You’re really good.” Agent Campbell says examining some of the canvases on the wall.

“Thanks.”

“So your mum eh?” Agent Butcher turns to look at you. You note the smirk on his face and incredulous raising of his brow.

He doesn't believe me. Hard not to. I don't age.

“Yes?” You raise an eyebrow to challenge him

“You look a lot like her.”

“Thanks. I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.” You look from Butcher to the younger guy who has moved on to look at your vinyl collection. "And I'm pretty sure that most kids look like their parents. But I'm not a geneticist."

"NO WAY! You have a signed copy of Billy Joel's Glass House!" Agent Campbell shouts holding up the vinyl cover in awe.

"Yeah." You can't help but smile at his enthusiasm.

"How did you-“

"Hughie." Agent Butcher sighs.

The younger guy now identified as Hughie puts the record back with a frown, before turning back to the collection.

“But you have the same name.” Agent Butcher's eyes flit to yours.

“She named me after herself. I’m sure the CIA can locate my birth certificate."

“Right.” Agent Butcher smiles, but it’s tight lipped.

You stand there for another minute looking from Agent Butcher to Hughie, trying to think of why they're here. "So what do you want to know?”

“Well is your mum around-“

You allow your shoulders to droop and take in a shaky breath. "She died about a year ago. Cancer."

They weren't the first to come here and accuse you of being Indigo. Legend and you had come up with the farce to protect you, help you start over, but you hadn't wanted to part with your name. So other precautions were put in place: a funeral plot was purchased and a death certificate was issued as was a fake passport, I.D, and birth certificate that made you thirty two rather than over one hundred.

“Really? I thought Indigo-“ It’s enough to make Hughie turn around and look at you.

“Don’t read everything Vought says." You interrupt. "That experimental shit they put in her veins may have made her powerful, but it couldn’t protect her from that.” You sigh again to sell the lie, before turning to the coffee maker, to pour them and yourself a cup. "There should be some milk in there, sugar's in the bowl." You gesture to the refrigerator and the small blown glass sugar bowl on the counter next to the coffee maker.

Hughie moves into the kitchen to pour himself a cup, but Agent Butcher continues to eye you suspiciously.

“It wasn’t in the news.” He grunts.

“They covered it up pretty well. I mean do you blame them? One of the first supes gets killed by something like cancer. Can’t be good for Vought given they pride themselves on showcasing unstoppable heroes. I mean can you imagine if Homelander or Queen Maeve died of something like cancer? Doesn’t look good.” You shrug your shoulders and take a sip from the coffee in your hands. “What did you want to talk to her about?”

“Soldier Boy.” Butcher moves to the coffeemaker and it takes a strong amount of willpower to stop the urge to turn towards him, but you know that you need to act indifferent.

“Did she talk to you at all about him?” Hughie moves to one of the bar stools on the opposite side of the island with his coffee in front of him.

“Yeah.” You look down at the mug with a sigh, rolling the warm glass between your hands. “He really did a number on her. Plus towards the end she started seeing him everywhere."

The emotion that you summon is not fake. You allow a small amount to trickle over the dam you built to protect yourself from falling back into the pit you fell into when Ben broke your heart and then died. When you broke every piece of glass in your apartment and threw your couch through the wall.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Hughie looks sincere when he says it.

Why is someone like him hanging out with this guy? You think to yourself eyeing Agent Butcher again.

“It’s been hard. But I took care of her, sometimes it was only me. It’s kind of hard to restrain an 103 year old with super strength.” You smile to yourself at the joke.

“So you’re a supe?” Hughie takes a sip from his coffee mug.

“No I was just able to talk her down. Guess that first batch of Compound V doesn’t work the same way. Never transferred. Plus my dad wasn’t a supe so maybe it just diluted.” You shrug, the lies weaving easily through the air. 

“But she did talk to you about him?” Agent Butcher presses. He's leaning against the counter to your left.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“I mean what do you want to hear? There’s a lot.” The mug sends a pleasant warmth through your hands as you hold it, but does little to stop the chill of the past from creeping up your spine.

“Start at the beginning.”

“Well.” You take another sip of coffee. “I don’t know details-details but- I just know that she grew up with him, they were from the same neighborhood in Philadelphia.  All that shit they made up about Soldier Boy being from a poor family was just propaganda. His dad owned half the steel mills in the state of Pennsylvania. Used to invest in property with my grandfather. Soldier Boy and my mom were friends. When he got the Compound V shot, she did too. They were looking for female and male volunteers. I think he asked her to? Or-“ You shrug your shoulders to push away the memory of the day Ben told you about the experiments. When he told you he was finally going to make something of himself and convinced you to go with him.

“They were dating?” Agent Butcher asks.

The question makes you pause. It was difficult to think about that, difficult to relive the memories of Ben continuing to push you away and his final refusal to admit he loved you. Ben never did say that to you. You had been through so much together, so many years as friends and then after the night you finally were together he threw you away like you meant nothing.

“No, but he really hurt her-“ You avoid their gaze.

“What did he do?” Hughie asks leaning forward on the counter.

“They had been through a lot together and I think when their friendship began to transfer to relationship he pushed her away. My mother said something about him refusing to admit he loved her. I think the last straw when she caught him with Countess.”

“Do you know anything about how he died?”

The memory of the phone call strikes you in the chest, when Stan Edgar himself called to tell you Ben was dead. When the darkness swallowed you whole and all you felt was guilt and heart break over the fight you had and how you left him alone when he needed you most.

“It hurt my mother a lot. Broke her. She never really got over him, no one was good enough, not even my dad. She drove him away too and then it was just us.”

“Was she there when Soldier Boy died?” Hughie spins the coffee mug in his hands.

“No. She left Payback  before that mission. It was right after she caught Countess and him together.” You force a shrug. “I think she regretted not being there. She was almost as indestructible as him, but I think she felt worse because they had a big fight right before.”

“So she didn’t know about Nicaragua or the thing that killed him?” Agent Butcher raises an eyebrow.

You cock your head to the side feigning confusion. “What are you talking about? Soldier Boy got vaporized in a nuclear explosion.”

“Well I think we’ve wasted enough of your time.”

They get up to leave.

“Wait-“

 Agent Butcher turns to look at you. 

“Why are you asking me about him? It's been what? Forty years since he died-"

"That's classified love. Thank you for your time."

You watch them leave, but listen to them as they walk down the hallway.

“So do you believe her?” Hughie’s voice echoes in your ears.

“Not a bit. Maybe we trail her for a day. See if she really is an artist." Agent Butcher grunts. "At least until we go to Russia."

Russia? Why would they go to Russia?

You stand there for a second, holding the coffee mug in your hands. As you do the memories of the past 90 years wash across your mind, breaking through the damn that you built to protect yourself.

You were friends for years. You loved him since the moment you met. There were good times before the serum and then the bad, when he got famous and you were there to keep him in check. Sure you may have annoyed him, but he liked that about you, that you were able to bring him back from the edge. The day you finally had sex you remembered it, it was special, or you thought it was. You were excited that finally he loved you as much as you loved him. But then it all fell apart. That fight hadn’t been pretty. When you left him you felt yourself begin to slip, you didn’t eat or drink for days and when you finally got the phone call you thought it was him trying to apologize, but it was Stan.

You think again about Russia and finally your mind drifts to Countess.

She was the one that said that the Russians killed Ben, she saw it happen, saw his body get taken away-

Your jaw clenches together in anger and frustration as you remember the last time you saw her, when she taunted you and you almost ripped off her head. You never heard it directly from her that Ben was dead, only heard it from Stan. Of course the ridiculous funeral for Ben that you were expected to go to would mean that you saw her, but you hadn't gone, didn't want to keep up the charade. Instead you went to Philadelphia and walked the streets aimlessly with a bottle of whiskey in your hand, remembering what it was like when you were kids. Sometimes you think it all would have been different if you never got the injection, if you said no when he showed up in your bedroom and asked you to come with him. He was your oldest friend. The only real person you'd ever loved or cared about. The memory of the fight rings in your ears but you push it down.

You think again about Countess.  She was the reason why Ben and you had the fight. The reason you weren't there in Nicaragua. Regret spikes in your chest. You should have been there that day, should have tried to save him. You always had each others backs and the one time you weren't there he died.

Maybe it was time to pay her a visit.

Thank you for reading! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series let me know :)

Taglist: @roseblue373

[kaiserthread]

shopping spree pt.2

clothes/accessories the bllk boys buy you! characters: nagi, oliver, rin content: pro players, established relationship, f!reader, slight implied nsfw in olivers part (nothing graphic but just in case) part 1 here! tysmmmmmm for the love on part 1!!!!! this one was so much fun to write

NAGI SEISHIRO - couples pajama sets 

loves sitting around the house with you on his off days

values every minute he can get with you 

buys it with the express purpose of seeing you wearing one of his shirts

gives you the shirt from his set and lazes around shirtless

seishiro’s free time has always been very precious to him, even more so now that his schedule is jam-packed with matches, press appearances, traveling, so much practice, and most importantly, you. he’s perfectly content with spending all his off days with his lover. which is exactly why he couldn’t resist buying the cute couple pajamas when he was supposed to be buying groceries. you can’t even find it in yourself to scold him for forgetting the frozen blueberries when he pulls the pajamas out of their bag and presents them to you with a small smile on his face. “i’m letting you off easy this time, sei. only because you’ve been gone for a while.” you say, reaching up to pinch his cheek. “mkay, i’ll remember next time, promise. but only if you match with me tonight.” he says as he leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. “alright fine, since you asked so nicely.” you huff, grabbing the pajamas and making your way towards your bathroom to shower. seishiro is lounging around in his new pajama pants when you step out of the bathroom. “sei, what happened to matching?” he turns his attention away from his phone, passes you his pajama shirt and says, “you always look better in mine, sweetheart.”

OLIVER AIKU - bikini

he likes looking at women in swimsuits, trust he’s gonna know the latest and most flattering styles

he just wants you to look your best when y’all go on vacay together!

reminds him of how you two met

“oliver! come tie the strings on this for me.” your voice rings out and oliver comes running to help. he takes the strings and gently ties them into a neat knot. “you look so pretty, baby.” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck before wrapping his arms around your waist and admiring you in the mirror in front of him. “doesn’t this remind you of how we met?” you giggle, turning in his arms to rest your forehead against his. “how could i ever forget?” he questions, thinking back to that incredible summer several years ago. high off his first big win in the pro leagues he’d found himself on vacation at the beach. you were there for a friend's wedding, fresh off a disastrous breakup with your ex. he’d charmed you with compliments and the two of you stumbled into bed together on several occasions before parting ways, but not before swapping numbers and promises to keep in touch. the two of you made things official the following summer and ever since then going to the beach every summer has become a tradition. “meeting my summer fairy was the best thing to ever happen to me.” he says before pressing a searing kiss to your lips.

ITOSHI RIN - evening gown

you're his princess ofc he's gonna buy you a dress to fit that title

studies your wardrobe for a while to make sure he’s getting one with a good color and a fabric that doesn’t bother you 

he browses for so long that he just says fuck it and goes to a designer to have one custom made

rin honestly can’t believe this, isn’t paris supposed to be known as a fashion powerhouse? the fact that he can’t find something perfect for his princess is beyond ridiculous. he gives up after weeks of browsing and calls in a favor from a manager at the club who has connections to a renowned designer who’s willing to make him exactly what he’s looking for. a few weeks later he’s handing you an extravagantly wrapped box, “an early christmas present.” he explains. you open it and pull out a beautiful floor length gown. “rin it’s stunning!” you throw your arms around his neck before rushing away to try it on. “come zip me up?” you ask, and rin complies, walking over to you and zipping the dress up. “it fits perfect rin, did you get this tailored?” you question. “i had it made just for you, the stores didn’t have anything nice.” rin responds, sweeping you off your feet. “only the best for my princess.”

[writing-intheundercroft]

Ser Freckles // S. Sallow

Rating: T

WC: 2,743

Summary: As heir to the throne, the princess takes appointing her sworn protector very seriously.

A/N: Submitted as part of a writing challenge because I'm a glutton for starting AU projects. inspired heavily by HOTD (I've been looking for an excuse to use the name Gawayne). Much love to the pals who keep Knight!Seb living in my brain <3

“Now that you are of age, and officially the heir to the throne, it’s time you appoint your first sworn sword.”

She looked up to Fig as they walked down the stone stairs, the excited chatter from the courtyard echoing off the walls.  Fig had been her tutor all her life, and only now did she realize her lessons with him had a greater purpose.  She was the only daughter of the king’s dearly departed brother, a king who lacked any heirs of his own.  And now that she’d turned eighteen, with no hopes for a male cousin in sight, she had been formally invested as the heir apparent.

Fig was no lowly court tutor, she realized. He’d been placed with her from her youth, preparing her for what had seemed like a distant possibility that she might one day become queen. Lord Eleazar Fig, a member of the King’s Counsel, had been priming her to take power all along.

”I’m not sure why I can’t keep Lady Singer,” she mumbled, kicking her skirts as they continued their descent. “She’s been my guardian for as long as I can remember.”

”Lady Singer is a governess,” Fig reminded her. “And in no way capable of being your sworn protector.  The young man you choose today will become a knight, sworn to your king's guard.  Can you remind me what the function of your king's guard is?”

”My queen’s guard,” she snipped, emphasizing the word, “will protect my counsel and me from harm, as well as my future heirs.”

“Precisely, Princess.” Fig smiled. “It’s largely a symbolic role considering the relative peace our realm has seen this past one hundred years, even more so with the city watch taking guard of the castle.  But the king—er, queen’s guard is a deep rooted tradition each house takes very seriously.  The gentlemen we’ve assembled today for your selection come from some of the great houses of the realm.  Others have been lauded for their bravery and skill in the battlefield.”

The princess and Lord Fig walked to the balcony, the crowd below falling into silence. There were six men (boys, she observed, especially considering she’d grown up with four of them around court) standing in the courtyard below.  They all wore gleaming armor, save for the last, wearing a dull set without embellishments.  Each had a pennant with their house sigil, members of their families standing behind them. The animals on each pennant were embroidered with gleaming metallic thread–lions, eagles, badgers, and snakes taking center, representing the great houses each family bowed to. 

Lord Fig took her hand, helping her stand on a stool to catch a better glimpse of her future knight.

”The first proposed candidate is Ser Leander Prewett,” Fig stated loudly. “Ser Leander is the second son of Lord Lyonel Prewett.  He is a fine duelist, trained by one of the land’s most notable swordsmen.”

She cocked her brow, observing the redhead below.  Tall, lithe, with a glorious mane of red hair.

”And rather shit on a horse,” she muttered under her breath. “Did you see him in the last tourney?”

”Horsemanship is not a requirement of a knight, Princess.” Fig muttered.

”He truly had no idea if he was facing the front, or the back.” She joked. 

Lord Fig concealed his laugh in a cough. He waved his arm, and Leander’s gleaming smile vanished into a rather sour expression as the next option stepped forward.

”Ser Garreth Weasley,” Fig announced. “The third son of Lord Gwayne Weasley.”

”I know Ser Garreth well,” she smiled demurely. “Is it not one of the oaths as my queen’s guard to take no wife, have no children, and to be sworn to uphold the duties of the crown until death or dismissal?”

”It is, Princess.”

She clicked her tongue. “I know very well my dear friend Lady Natsai would be quite upset if I took her beloved to my service.  I’d rather see the two of them happily married than split apart by duty.” She waved him backwards, knowing Natty would be pleased.  Garreth stepped back, cheeks red, but a relieved look on his face.

“The next option is Ser Amit Thakkar,” Fig looked down at his notes. “Son of the Dowager Lady Tara Thakkar. No notable tourney experience, he’s been—“

”Away for his studies in the new world,” the princess interjected. “I know Ser Amit quite well. Tell me, Ser, how was your research on the skies?  Anything new to report?”

“I’ve identified at least twelve constellations once lost to our maesters,” Amit announced excitedly. “And I do look forward to finding more.”

She tilted her head to Fig, eyebrows raised. “I do believe Ser Amit’s talents are better used with the college of maesters, rather than as a member of my queen’s guard.”

”Moving on,” Fig tutted. “Ser Duncan Hobhouse, son of—“

”No.”

”Okay, on to the next.” Fig winced, letting the young Duncan Hobhouse step back with a sigh. “Next is Ser Isaac Cooper. Son of Ser Tristan Cooper, the Lord Commander of the city watch.  Strong, steady, and good with a lance.  Ser Isaac has topped the tourney lists, specifically winning the tourney of Aranshire this past spring. ”

The princess chewed her lower lip as she appraised Ser Isaac.  He stood tall, black hair cropped closely to his head. His parents stood behind him proudly bearing the badger on their sigil.  Isaac gave her a beaming smile, followed by a rather obvious wink.

“I look forward to serving you, my princess, in all ways you see fit.” Isaac said loudly, followed by a showy bow. A gaggle of young ladies on the upper balcony giggled audibly, Ser Isaac blowing a kiss to his admirers.

The princess gagged, wrinkling her nose as she turned back to her tutor. 

”A tourney knight,” she huffed. “Tell me, Lord Fig, do any of these knights have real combat experience?”

Fig sighed deeply, beckoning forward the sixth option.  It was the knight in plain armor; unlike the others, he did not have a large gathering of family members behind him.  A thin, peaky girl stood by his side, wobbling on her feet as their sigil shook in her hands. The green velvet of the flag looked worn, but a silver snake had been embroidered into the fabric with metallic thread, red beads for eyes.  Behind them was a stern looking man, beard peppered with silver hairs.  

The boy paid them no attention, standing forward with his head bowed to her. 

“Ser Sebastian Sallow,” Fig cleared his throat. “The nephew of Ser Solomon Sallow, a former knight of the city watch.  He was dismissed from his post after the death of his brother, taking on the stewardship of his young niece and nephew.  Ser Solomon and his nephew Sebastian have taken the responsibility of patrolling the lower highlands, protecting their hamlets from ashwinders and poachers.”

She leaned forward over the railing, interest piqued by the humble knight below. “Tell me, Ser Sebastian, of your experience fighting against the ashwinder rebellion.”

He lifted his head, big brown eyes framed by an explosion of freckles. He had a round, boyish face for eighteen, thick brown hair descending in waves. A blush took over his cheeks as he dipped his head once more.

”I have fought against the ashwinders for the past five years, Princess.  For as long as my uncle has allowed me.” He said, tipping his head back towards the stern man. “The lower hamlets rarely see reinforcements from the city watch, so it is up to the residents themselves to gather arms.”

“And when did you become a knight, Ser Sebastian?”

Sebastian turned briefly to look at his uncle, who merely nodded. “The Lord Commander of the city watch was passing through our hamlet when he witnessed me apprehending a cohort of ashwinder assassins.” He adjusted his grip on the helmet in his hands, metal clanking as he shifted.  Unlike the others, there were no grand decorations, no feathery plumes attached to the helmet.  It was practical, well-worn steel that had seen battle many times before. “He knighted me on the field, after the battle.”

”One boy against twenty ashwinders,” Fig whispered in her ear. “Quite a feat.”

She braced her palms against the stone ledge, hair falling over her shoulders. He looked up at her intently now, eyes wide.  even with his armor on, she could see his throat bobbing, swallowing down his nerves.  

“That settles it for me. I choose Ser Sebastian Sallow.” 

The hall descended into loud whispers; the girl holding his sigil gasped with delight, while the man behind her dropped his mouth open in shock.  Sebastian knelt, but kept his gaze fixated upon her.  It was as if the chocolate brown orbs were burning into her, somewhere between admiration and curiosity. 

Fig gave her a knowing look. “Ser Sebastian it is.”

”I’ll leave the details to Ser Sebastian’s investiture to you, Lord Fig.” the princess said, stepping down from the stool. Her heels clattered against the floor, hands folded behind her back. “And measure him for new armor.  Something befitting my sworn protector.”

”The customary armor, of course, with your sigil on the pauldron.” Fig noted.

She paused, turning one last time towards her counsel.

”Don’t forget his snakes.” She reminded him. “Silver with ruby eyes.”

Fig tried to conceal his smile. “Yes, princess.”

“You know we’re not allowed in the armory,” Poppy hissed, trying to tug on her skirt. “Lady Singer–”

“Lady Singer can kiss my arse,” the princess declared, enjoying the way her lady in waiting’s cheeks flushed. “I would like to supervise the fitting.  Will you join me?”

“I think not,” Poppy lifted her nose. “I’ll be off to the library to meet with Imelda.  You should stay out of trouble.” the brunette warned.

The princess pulled open the heavy door of the armory, grinning at her friend. “Trouble is my middle name,” she sang, waving goodbye as she entered the room.  The normally bustling armory was quiet at midday, with most of the knights standing guard.  She stepped past the rows of white cloaks, all hung under their corresponding owner’s name.  Weapons were stacked against the wall on wooden racks; she wouldn’t dare go near the spears, swords, and morningstars for fear of tipping them over.  Her slippers pattered against the flagstone floors as she walked deeper into the chamber in search of her new knight.

“There you are,” she declared, seeing him standing on the pedestal. Ser Sebastian Sallow stood in his freshly tailored white breeches and shirt, half dressed in his new gilded armor.

“Princess,” the armorer bowed his head quickly, stepping away from Sebastian. “I did not realize you were coming in to supervise the fitting.”

“Is it not tradition?” she asked, circling the pedestal with an approving nod.

“It is,” the armor rubbed his hands together anxiously. “For the king.  But you are a young lady, it’s hardly appropriate for you to be in the armory with a knight in a state of undress–”

“Ser Sebastian is my choice,” she pointed out. “So I will supervise the fitting of his armor and his sword selection, just as my uncle did for his sworn swords.”

“As you wish, princess.” The armor nodded. “I’ll fetch his sword at once.”  He bowed, walking backwards out of the room.

“Are you always so commanding?” Ser Sebastian asked, a hand on his hip.

“Only when they’re so formal.” she grinned, crossing her arms. “The armor looks good on you.”

Sebastian’s cheeks flushed. “Thank you.” he stammered. “And thank you for honoring my house.” he gestured to his pauldron, decorated with the Sallow family sigil. Instead of the crudely carved 

The armorer returned, holding a glimmering sword with a checked handle. “His sword, your grace.” he handed it to her for inspection. “I shall return shortly with his cloak; the seamstress was just finishing the hem.” He backed out of the room once more, leaving the pair alone.

The princess bobbed her head as she held the sword in her hand, testing its weight. “Good balance,” she mused, tossing it from one hand to the other.

“You’re trained with a sword?” Sebastian asked, eyebrow cocked.

She gave him a toothy grin, swinging the sword from side to side. “My uncle thought it best that I was taught the same as any other prince of the realm.” 

“I certainly agree,” Sebastian offered. “I trained my sister as best as I could before coming to the capitol.”

“Well then, should we practice for your investiture?” She asked. “On your knees, then.”

Sebastian sank to the floor, beaming up at her obediently.  He tipped his chin upwards, right hand resting over his heart. 

“Do you swear to uphold the code of the kingsguard?” she asked, trying her best to remember the vows Lord Fig had tasked her with memorizing.

“I do,” Sebastian echoed.

“Do you swear to guard the king with all your might, and give your blood for him and his heirs?” She recited the words slowly and thoughtfully.  The sword was beginning to feel heavy in her hands, but Sebastian didn’t budge.  He stayed, knelt below her on the ground, closed fist bound to his chest.

“I do.”

“Do you swear to take no wife, father no children, hold no lands? Do you swear to guard your king’s secrets, obey his commands, defend his name and honor?”

The princess blinked down at her chosen knight, hovering the blade over his shoulder. His big, brown eyes stared back at her, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.  She hadn’t noticed the freckles on his lips; then again, she’d never been so close to him before.  He looked both like a knight and a boy all at once–his armor was unfinished, missing the pauldron on his left shoulder that would bear her sigil.  Sebastian’s messy hair stuck up in the back, and the princess felt the strong urge to pat it down.

She instead remained steady, blade in hand.

“Do you swear, Ser Sebastian?” she asked.

“I swear to take no wife, father no children, nor hold any lands.  I swear to guard my queen’s secrets, obey her commands, defend her name and honor. For as long as I breathe, my life is my queen’s.” Sebastian gave her a coy look, eyes glittering with mischief; he aimed to flatter her, charming the princess with his change in verbiage.

Two could play that game, she thought. The princess lifted her sword, tapping it on both of his shoulders.  “By the grace of the future queen, I name you Ser Kiss Arse.” she declared dramatically.

Sebastian choked, and the princess laughed.  Her whole body shook with her giggles, and Sebastian pouted. 

“No fair,” he complained. “Pick a better name.”

“Fine,” she wiped a tear from her eye. Feigning composure, she straightened her posture and gave him her best queenly glare. “By the grace of the future queen, I name you Ser Freckles.”

“You’re making a mockery of it,” Sebastian whined.

“We’re practicing, remember?” She snorted. “I promise, I’ll be much more official during the actual ceremony.”

Sebastian huffed. “Fine then.  But if I get a nickname, then you get one too.” he warned. “Princess Picky is what I’ll call you.”

The princess scoffed, backing away. “Who called me picky?”

Sebastian gave her a sheepish look, rubbing the back of his neck. “Everyone at court, actually. They thought you were too picky with your requirements of the kingsguard.  The public is fairly certain you’re making a mistake in picking me as your sworn sword.” his smile faltered, a wave of doubt crashing over his face. “My family has no riches, no influence at court.  I have nothing else to offer you.”

The princess chewed her lower lip, dragging the sword behind her as she leaned down to face her knight. “It is no mistake,” she murmured, pressing a hand to his shoulder. ��You are the most deserving of the title.  I chose you. And if that makes me picky, so be it.”

Sebastian touched her wrist; the gesture shocked her, eyelashes fluttering from the surprise embrace.  But she did not move her hand–the princess kept it on his uncovered shoulder, her hair falling in her face as she looked down at her sworn protector.

“Princess Picky and Ser Freckles,” Sebastian joked. “An eclectic pair.”

She gave him an earnest smile. “I’d have it no other way.”

[multifandomgirl08]

Wedding Headcanon [Mini Verstappen Series]

Dad!Max Verstappen x Wife!Reader (Established Relationship)

Photo Credit: Pinterest/Tumblr

Format: Headcanon/Social Media

Summary: Headcanons from Max and the Reader's wedding. Social Media posts from during their honeymoon.

Warning(s): N/A

Words: 0.8k

Previous Part → Next Part Mini Verstappen Masterlist

The wedding was with about 100 people there (Maybe slightly over, who's really counting)

The whole grid came. + Sebastian came but didn't RSVP until the last possible minute.

Christian, Geri, and most of the engineers from RBR ended up coming (ex. GP, Calum, Jonathan, and Hannah), those who weren't able to make it sent Max their congratulations

Lewis ended up sitting on Y/N’s side of the aisle instead of Max’s.

Y/N was nervous to walk down the aisle but talking to Sophie helped calm her down

“Sophie,” Y/N said to her as they walked hand in hand before the music started playing for her to walk down the aisle. “I just want to thank you. Thank you for raising Max the way that you did, and being there for him when Nico came into his life.”

You could see that Sophie was starting to tear up a bit. “My son loves you, and my grandson too. I couldn’t have asked for a better wife to my son even if I had a hand in choosing her myself.”

Victoria ends up being Y/N's Maid of Honor

Max did end up crying when Y/N came walking down the aisle

Her dress was custom-made, and she wore ivory instead of the traditional white

Daniel tried to joke that he lost the rings when the officiant asked for them. Max ended up just laughing before Daniel slipped them into his hand.

There is a section of Y/N's wedding vows to Nico

Nico ended up crying into the skirt of her dress not wanting to let go of her during the rest of the ceremony

Max ends up spending the first few moments of his vows stumbling over his words before reaching for Y/N's hand, needing to feel her to ground him back to just her

Lando offers to DJ the wedding reception as his wedding present, and he would have if Martin hadn't already agreed to do it months before

Daniel made the best best man speech known to man with just the right amount of jokes. His speech ended with,

"But I digress, Y/N, you make Max so happy and have become an integral part of his family. I hope Max, that you know how lucky you are to have her in your life." Daniel lifted his champagne glass. "To many more years for the two of you, to Mr. and Mrs. Verstappen."

Victoria kept her Maid of Honor speech rather short but welcomed you into the family and joked with Max that if he screwed up she got to keep you in the divorce

Max laughed before giving Y/N a questionable look as if to say, Something I don't know about? Before breaking out into a smile knowing that Victoria is joking

Max quickly interjected, "I don't plan on letting that happen." before lifting her hand and lightly kissing the back of it

Everyone drank from their glasses and Nico and Victoria's boys got glasses of sparkling apple cider

Nico ends up cutting in during Max and Y/N's first dance

On the cake topper, the groom is in a race suit instead of a tux

Y/N ends up shoving Max's face into the wedding cake after it was cut

Halfway through the evening, Daniel ended up stealing the photographer's camera and started taking candid photos of everyone

Max and Y/N leave the day after the wedding, Nico staying with Sophie until both you and Max get back from you're honeymoon

ynverstappen

Liked by martingarrix, tiffanycromwell, and 345,926 others

ynverstappen My travel buddy

oscarpiastri Don't know where you're going but can you bring me back a keychain?

landonorris Keychain? I'm surprised that Y/N is even posting on her IG

lewishamilton Enjoy the honeymoon guys 🏝️ 🏞️

View all 381 comments

fan50 I want what she has...

agirlsguidetof1 Officially not allowed to gatekeep shirtless photos of Max anymore

Feb 3, 2025

ynverstappen

Liked by maxverstappen1 and 391,872 others

ynverstappen Before dinner, during and after

View all 605 comments

raquel.james OMG! So cute!! 💘💘

formu14leclerc How do all of her photos maintain the same aesthetic?

girlonthxgrid 😍😍 They are the best couple!

Feb 7, 2025

verstappen1.jpg

Liked by ynverstappen and 273,837 others

verstappen1.jpg Being with you is simply lovely

ynverstappen ❤️❤️❤️

View all 368 comments

fan97 These photos feel like they're straight out of a Vogue shoot

fan47 Max pulled out the Simply Lovely. I'm Dead!

maxverstappen1

Liked by ynverstappen, victoriaverstappen and 586,745 others

maxverstappen1 To share everything with you.

View all 354 comments

fan60 Max double posting on two accounts in the span of a day

fan85 I know it's their honeymoon, but Max is gatekeeping all of the gorgeous pictures of Y/N for himself

Feb 9, 2025

taglist: @karmabyfernando, @barcagirly, @sachaa-ff, @iamahallucinationnn, @musingsbyshreya, @glow-ish, @nonsensical-nonsence, @fanboyluvr, @champomiel, @gothicwidowsworld, @lighttsoutlewis, @itsalwaysgay, @minkyungseokie, @mynameisangeloflife, @ursforever129, @aundercover, @bborra

[flowerandblood]

The Gate of Salvation [1/3]

[ young pope • Aemond x catholic • female ]

[ warnings: sexual tension, angst, anxiety, manipulation, doubts related to faith, chauvinism ]

[ description: During the conclave, a new pope is elected, but to everyone's surprise, he does not intend to show himself to the crowds waiting for him. His ideas terrify the cardinals, and one of them convinces his niece, who is studying marketing, to talk to the new head of the Catholic Church in his presence. Main theme: sexual tension & holy touch. ]

A mini-series created as a thank you and celebration of my 2'500 followers. I initially plan that it will have about 3 chapters.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The Song of Songs (Oneshot) Death and Ressurection (Oneshot)

Aemond as a Pope Edit Series Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

What happened after the conclave took everyone by surprise and caused complete chaos in the Catholic Church; she was one of the people who watched the live coverage from St Peter's Square.

She prayed in spirit that her uncle and her mother's brother, Cardinal Reene, would not become Pope.

Admittedly, it was thanks to him that she was living in Rome, and without his financial support she would not have been able to study, however, her uncle was a person who did nothing selflessly.

He recalculated to himself that if his niece wanted to study marketing at University then he would help her, reminding her at times that he would count on her help in the future, to create a good, sympathetic image of him.

She had the feeling that listening to him she was even losing her faith, which, despite her many internal disputes and doubts, was strong in her. She returned to the bosom of the church of her own free will when she was in high school after years of not attending Mass; she discovered that she felt attached to this tradition, as well as to God himself, whose presence she subconsciously felt all around her.

She knew that her uncle would certainly try to bribe other cardinals and she guessed what his pontificate would be like, so she begged God in her prayers not to allow such a man to become head of the church in his name, and heavens, as always, heard her prayers.

When she saw the white smoke on the screen she let out a loud breath, closing the textbook she had just been reading – she heard shouts and applause of joy coming from the television; the bells rang out, the solemn moment when the new pope comes out onto the balcony to greet his faithful was about to begin.

This went on for an astonishingly long time and she wondered if something had happened or if the votes had been miscounted, however, she heard the cheers of the crowd again as the doors opened. What stepped out was not a procession, but an ordinary priest in a black cassock; she recognised in him the secretary of the late Pope, who was certainly not a cardinal.

He seemed tense and frightened; he approached the microphone and said only two sentences.

"We have a Pope. The Holy Father, who has taken the name Pius XIII, asks you all to pray for him." He said in a trembling, uncertain voice, all pale, and then disappeared back behind the door – voices of disbelief and disappointment spread throughout the square, the gathered people, like her, were shocked.

However, all the internet portals published the name of the cardinal who had been elected; it turned out that the new pope was Cardinal Targaryen, a very little-known, withdrawn and shockingly young priest.

He was only two years older than her.

Journalists despaired that there were no official or unofficial photos of him, no statements from him, as if he had lived for years locked away in some monastery and never stepped into the light of day.

The world was confused and anxious – the young pope had not stepped out onto the balcony of St Peter's Basilica even once despite the crowds gathered in the square below chanting his name day and night.

She wondered if, in this way, he wanted to focus the world's attention even more on himself by standing in the absolute centre of it, and thought that if so, it was not a good beginning to his pontificate.

Two days later, her uncle paid her an unannounced visit at the flat he was renting to her, dressed so that no one would recognise him, just like the other cardinals still hounded by journalists and paparazzi.

"I need your help. The matter is very delicate." He said quickly, handing her his coat, which she hung on one of the hangers, looking at him over her shoulder in surprise.

"Me?" She asked with her eyes wide open, wondering what was going on there that required the help of someone from outside the Vatican.

"Pius XIII is a cripple. He lost his left eye as a child. He insists that if he is to show himself to a crowd, it should only be with his artificial eye, but not an ordinary one, one that resembles the real one, but a completely white one. He thinks this suits his attire and position better, but we think it will create additional confusion about him. Additionally, he wants to keep the Pope's public appearances to a complete minimum. He has fired all the Vatican marketing people with years of experience. This is some madness. Can I have a coffee?" He finally asked after his verbosity, sitting down in a chair at the living room table, placing his black wide-brimmed hat on the tabletop, sighing heavily.

She nodded, snapped out of her reverie and the shock of his words, pulling a mug and black coffee from her cupboard. Her uncle drank coffee made from three heaped teaspoons without milk, and although she didn't know how he could swallow something so disgusting and not have a heart attack in the process, she made it the way he liked it.

She swallowed loudly, pouring water into the kettle, putting it on the burner and turning the fire on under it, analysing everything he had told her.

"It sounds like he has a very low and a very high opinion of himself at the same time. How could I help here, uncle? I'm just a student." She said in dismay, shrugging her shoulders; her uncle nodded his head as if convinced that this would be her answer.

"You are young, you have a fresh outlook. He doesn't want to listen to us old people, he thinks we're out of step with the world and what it needs, whatever that means." He said with a sneer, looking out of the window, spreading himself comfortably in his chair with a creak of wood.

"I'd like you to try to talk to him, to understand what he means, what his vision is. Guide him to the idea that young people too want peace and predictability, not perpetual rebellion. I told him I could introduce you, that you are very talented and he agreed." He said finally and scratched the back of his neck – she heard the kettle whistle and turned off the fire under it, feeling that she had simply run out of words.

"− what? − I − oh God, uncle, I don't know − what if I make things worse and you lose in his eyes because of me? −" She muttered, feeling adrenaline start to bubble throughout her body; she poured hot water over the coffee in her mug, grabbed it and set it in front of him, then started walking back and forth across the room, panicking in some kind of way.

"This would just be a consultation − two young people want to change the image of the church to, let's say, a more welcoming one − this could be your big chance." He said, lifting the mug to his lips, taking a sip from it and murmuring contentedly, apparently finding that his coffee was exactly the way he liked it.

He persuaded her for so long that she finally agreed, but she regretted it as soon as he walked out.

She was inexperienced in discussions with this world, with such people, and was afraid she would make a mistake, do something against protocol and embarrass herself.

Her uncle sent her a message on the day of the meeting saying that she must dress modestly, preferably in white or black, her dress must end at least past her knees, her toes must not stick out of her shoes, her shoulders must be covered. Sharp, defiant make-up was not acceptable.

She was to address the Pope as Holy Father or Your Holiness, keep the proper distance, not sit with her legs crossed, not put her elbows on the armrests, not lean or crouch in front of him, approach him only if he wanted her to kiss his ring.

The amount of information she received overwhelmed her; she took a quick look in her wardrobe and found that her simple black dress with white embroidered collar and cuffs was the perfect length – it had no cleavage, it looked elegant, innocent and girly at the same time.

She decided to wear flesh-coloured tights with it and sleek black shoes, which she had previously polished. She styled her long dark hair in a braid around her head, keeping it in place with pins, short, unruly strands on the sides of her face.

She used only mattifying powder and mascara as her make-up, deciding that this was enough, around her neck a necklace with a small gold cross that she had been given once by her grandfather.

At the appointed hour, a black car pulled up in front of her townhouse; she got into the back seat and greeted the driver, who, however, did not answer her, driving off without a word.

After several minutes they were already in the Vatican itself; she looked through the car window at the crowds of people spilling out of St Peter's Square, saw a group of men and women holding cardboard sheets in their hands with the handwritten words:

Our Pope does not love us.

She lowered her gaze, silently contemplating all that was happening, and shuddered as they stopped in front of the gate – a Swiss Guard officer dressed in colourful historical attire with red, yellow and navy blue stripes stopped their car.

Her driver showed him his ID and the man nodded – the gate opened and they drove inside into a small courtyard that she saw for the first time in her life.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the figure of her uncle waiting for her in his full, opulent cardinal's robe, a cross on his chest of pure gold, adorned with rubies and diamonds.

He greeted her with a broad smile and joy, with a gesture of his hand inviting her inside – they ascended the baroque staircase to the corridor, the view of the interior of the entire complex took her breath away.

She was surrounded on all sides by paintings and sculptures by the great Italian masters of the Renaissance, Baroque and Classicism; she felt a solemn mood, though she did not know why, as if she had in fact entered the truest home of God himself on earth.

The guards as well as other men passing her looked at her intently – she thought with horror and shame that women, with the exception of nuns, were a rare visitor to this sanctuary and aroused curiosity mixed with distrust.

Here, what Eve did in paradise according to the Bible, because of whom sin possessed man, was never forgotten.

They climbed the stairs to the upper floor and then stood in front of a large white door, high up to the ceiling, with two men in the same colourful garments standing in front of them. Her uncle sighed heavily, as if stressed himself, and looked at her comfortingly.

"I'll do the talking, you keep quiet for now." He said lightly, surprising her completely – she had no time to reply as he nodded and one of the guards opened the door for him.

Her uncle moved ahead, so she moved behind him, entering a spacious, bright room with six windows overlooking St Peter's Square – to their right stood bookcases filled to the brim with books, and to their left a huge wooden desk.

Only after a moment did she notice someone standing by one of the windows; he was turned to them with his back, looking out at the crowds knowing they couldn't see him, a white cassock on his body, his short hair looking elegant and carefully styled, pulled back, almost white, glistening in the sunlight.

"Holy Father. As promised, I bring before you my niece, who I hope will allow us to come to an agreement." He said in a light, cheerful tone, as if addressing a friend, but they were answered by an uncomfortable silence.

She swallowed loudly when he finally turned to face them, her heart stopped for a moment when she saw how sharply shaped his face was – his cheeks and jaw were clearly outlined as if someone had carved them with a chisel, his mouth full, a pale scar running across the left side of his forehead to his cheek, his artificial eye completely white.

She felt that she was looking at him with her lips slightly parted and some sort of concern, so she lowered her gaze, reminding herself that she shouldn't do that.

"Hm." She heard him hum under his breath, as if he was thinking hard about something.

"Leave us alone, Cardinal." He said finally, turning his face towards the window again – she and her uncle looked at each other horrified, for this was not their plan.

She was only going to be an accessory, he was going to be the one doing all the talking.

"Your Holiness, I…"

"Get out."

Her uncle pressed his lips together and grunted, bowed his head and left, not even bestowing a glance on her despite the despair written on her face, leaving her to her fate.

She swallowed loudly as the door closed behind him and intertwined her hands in front of her, not knowing what to do, where to look, a cold sweat on her back.

"Do not be afraid, child. I know your uncle's nature. If I didn't let him bring you here he wouldn't let me alone." He began reluctantly, as if the very fact that he had to talk to her made him very tired; he moved with his hands entwined behind him ahead, walking along the windows, his profile illuminated by the sun.

She lowered her gaze, feeling a wave of shame surge through her, understanding that he knew perfectly well what her uncle wanted.

That it wasn't just about his image, but that he, as a cardinal, wanted his favour and the high position, money and comfort he could give him.

"What do you think of my decision not to show myself in public?" He asked finally; she raised her eyes at him, surprised, horrified that she had to answer. She swallowed loudly and licked her lips, dry of stress, thinking intensely about what she should say.

"Go on. You're supposed to know it, after all, it's an image issue." He growled and looked at her with an anger that sent a shiver through her; she stared at him in disbelief and fear trying to decide what kind of man he was.

She wasn't sure this was how a pope should behave.

"Driving here I saw people holding cardboard sheets saying: Our Pope does not love us. I felt sadness at the thought that many people feel rejected by your decision, Holy Father." She said at last, feeling that involuntarily her voice trembled and broke; she saw him tighten his lips, his nostrils moved nervously in accelerated breathing.

"Is love a perpetual vying for attention, standing in the centre? Is love only the deeds that can be shown, that anyone can see and name?" He asked frustrated, and she felt a squeeze in her throat, her lower lip quivered. She shook her head.

"People are afraid of what they do not know. You don't let them meet you, Holy Father." She whispered, and he snorted, turning back, going the other way, as if thinking over her words.

"So you think I should speak? Go out on the balcony and give them what they want?" He asked dryly. She let the air quietly out of her lungs, feeling her body tense all over – she had the feeling that she had adopted a defensive posture, as if ready for him to hit her.

"No. But I think it is necessary to find a way in which they can see you, Holy Father. To feel that you are in their lives physically as well. They need a guide, not another invisible God." She said finally and fell silent, lowering her gaze, feeling that her last sentence might have been too far-fetched.

She noticed with horror that he stopped hearing what she had said.

"You think I'm doing this out of vanity?" He asked in disbelief. She lifted her gaze to him, for some reason feeling that she was on the verge of crying.

"I don't know, Holy Father. I do not know you, nor do any of your faithful. We are sheeps who do not know where to go and where is their shepherd. Do you think we are too sinful? That we don't deserve to see you?" She asked finally in a trembling voice, his healthy eye fixed on her.

Our Pope does not love us.

She shuddered, feeling the rapid pounding of her heart as he moved towards her with a slow, lazy step, not taking his eyes off her, towering over her. She didn't know what she saw in his gaze, proud and cool; she felt heat in her lower abdomen as the pleasant scent of his masculine perfume filled her nostrils.

She thought he had approached her far too closely.

She froze and swallowed loudly as he lifted his hand; she thought for a moment in horror and disbelief that he would touch her breasts, however, he grasped her golden cross in his hand and turned it between his fingers, looking at it thoughtfully.

"I am not a hypocrite. There is no greater sinner in this world than me. I am vain. I am proud. I am cold. I am eternally, eternally thirsty." He murmured softly and looked into her eyes, her lips slightly parted in disbelief.

She felt panic begin to overtake her body as her insides throbbed wonderfully hard at his ambiguous, unsettling words.

Something about him she found disturbing, even though she was surrounded by whiteness and daylight it seemed to her that the room had gone dark.

She was only able to breathe and look at him, nothing more.

"Do you believe in God?" He asked, still playing with her necklace, however, he did so in such a way that once in a while his fingers rubbed against the material of her dress lying between her breasts, each time a wonderful shiver ran through her spine.

There was something evil, menacing, lewd in the way he asked the question, in the way he acted and the way he looked at her and she knew it, she was horrified by how strongly her body reacted to it.

"Yes." She whispered, as if she was admitting something she was ashamed of, something that was her secret.

He hummed again under his breath, as if accepting her words – his hand let go of her necklace and returned to the other, placed behind his back.

"I'm hiring you. You will be my image specialist. I expect you here tomorrow at 8am. That's all. You may go." He said indifferently, turning away as if nothing had happened; she sighed quietly, terrified, and nodded with a rapidly pounding heart.

"Holy Father." She mumbled, then turned and walked out.

Her uncle ran after her asking her what they were talking about and what had happened – he made the sign of the cross with some kind of relief on his face when she told him in horror that he had hired her.

"What did you say to him about me? I'm only in my second year of university, I don't have the right experience yet." She muttered in a trembling voice; her uncle sighed, correcting his glasses on his nose with his pointing finger.

"He doesn't care about your experience." He said amused, and she looked at him in disbelief.

It suddenly dawned on her what her uncle had been planning all along, and what she had gotten herself into because of her foolishness and naivety.

There is no greater sinner in this world than me.

I am eternally, eternally thirsty.

She felt a squeeze in her throat, tears filling her eyes again as she moved forward, covering her mouth with her hand, distraught, humiliated.

Her uncle didn't want her to be his worker.

Her uncle wanted her to be his lover.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla

[todofics]

Off The Market | 1/6 | Todoroki Shoto x Reader

♡ Summary: The Todoroki name had always borne a heavyweight amongst even society’s finest. When the family’s youngest son, and heir to the title, is forced into the marriage market, it’s no surprise that he quickly becomes the season’s most eligible bachelor—hoping to avoid marriage for at least one more season, who better than to circumvent the ton other than his long-time friend, you? 

♡ Content: regency au, fake-dating trope, aged-up characters, age gap (4 years), mutual pining, fem reader, fem pronouns, mature content in future chapters

♡  Author notes: I recently watched Bridgerton and fell in LOVE with it. Who can blame me though? Nicola Coughlan, you have my heart. Anyway, this is my little love letter to that obsession! 

♡ 1.6k words/est. 15k words (chapter ⅙)ˋ°•*⁀➷ Main Masterlist ♡  MHA Masterlist ♡ Story Masterlist ♡ Next

Crystal chandeliers hung like constellations in the night sky, their scattering prisms causing the ballroom to glitter softly in its wake. As the rhythmic thuds of dance and orchestra filled the air, chatter flitted in the background. 

“Did you hear?” the Viscountess Ashido asked in a hushed tone, cheeks flushed a brilliant pink as she swirled her glass of wine. Despite it only being the first ball of the season, gossip spread like wildfire. The attention of the small group turned towards her as she continued to speak, “I hear Lord Todoroki is finally seeking to make a match.”

As you sipped on your lemonade, your ears perked at the sound of your best friend’s name. Shoto? Married? The thought made you snort internally. He never mentioned the prospect of marriage in their years of friendship - let alone in the last few months. If they truly knew the man, they’d understand that Shoto had always disdained society and its many traditions - offering himself out on the marriage market was simply… out of character. Then again, these rumors had been circulating every season since the man turned 22 (the year of your debut). It was a piece of gossip that was always best to ignore lest the man announce it himself. 

Still, even though most knew that rumors spread amongst the ton were often baseless (especially at an event this early into the season), those words always held particular weight. Even at a young age, Lord Todoroki always possessed an alluring sort of charm. From his dual-toned hair to his mysterious demeanor, Shoto’s presence commanded attention far before he stepped into society. Now, at 26, he had long lost all of his boyish features, his physique sharp and gaze undeniably melting. Somehow, with time, the already attractive boy only grew impossibly more magnetic. This, paired with his future inheritance of the Duke title, seemed to establish Shoto as the most eligible bachelor of each season - even if he was never officially on the market. 

“The Lord’s been ‘searching’ for a wife for four seasons now,” Lady Uraraka mentioned, not so swayed by the conversation. Her intentions had already long been set on the green-haired baron anyway. 

“I’ve heard nothing on the matter either,” you added, causing a few of your fellow debutantes to groan. If anyone were to know if Shoto was searching for a wife, surely it’d be you. 

The two of you had always been a rather interesting pair in the tons’ eyes. Having been friends since your younger years, they had assumed the year of your debut would lead to a proper courting from the male. However, each passing season made it evident that such a thing was far from reality. You and Shoto simply possessed a strong bond of friendship - something that both confused and delighted the debutantes as you settled on the outskirts of their group.

“No! This time, I hear it from the Duchess herself. The Duke intends to make arrangements unless Lord Todoroki makes his match this season,” Mina defended, adding more fuel to the fire. Duchess Todoroki herself had been speaking about it? 

After many social seasons spent in the countryside due to a proclaimed illness, the Duchess had only recently reappeared in court last year. This, of course, reignited old gossip surrounding her disappearance. After all, her first year gone coincided with the mysterious appearance of Lord Shoto’s now-defining mark. Thus, it was well-known by now that the Duchess kept to herself, her demeanor proving itself too delicate to get involved in spreading falsehoods. 

A frown etched across your face as you listened to the cheery pink-skinned debutante. Duchess Todoroki would never speak about such a thing unless it were true. While you knew Shoto was probably against the idea himself, a feeling of hurt still sank in your stomach as you wondered why the boy hadn’t told you. You considered him your best friend - and honestly, you thought he considered you his. Secrets like this ought to be shared.

Like wolves smelling fresh meat, mothers encouraged their daughters to accentuate their best features, readjusting their clothes and hair to make a good impression. Some of the more eager debutantes forewent this step, keen to catch the eye of the young Lord. They would stop at nothing to gain the upper hand, longing to become the center of his prospects. 

Suddenly, the room felt much too small, the heat sweltering as you excused yourself from the desperate group. You’d speak to Shoto later about his soon-to-be marriage.  Gliding across the room briskly, you quickly found the balcony door, stepping out and admiring the fleeting beauty of the garden below. The fresh air felt nice against your skin, the cooling sensation calming down the warmth in your cheeks. For now, all you needed to do was gather your senses - relax. Fanning yourself with fervor, your thoughts settled under the pale gleam of moonlight; eyes glazed over with careful consideration.

The sentiments that swirled within you made for great confusion. Irritation and… envy? Sure, the feelings of irritation were a given, but not once had you ever felt actual jealousy towards the man. Although you had always known Shoto to be an attractive man who would eventually marry, the thought of that happening so soon bothered you. You had grown used to the man’s constant presence in your life for years. With marriage on the horizon, that familiarity would simply have to die off - no bride-to-be would allow the future Duke to have such a close friendship with another woman.

Honestly, the situation was quite unfair. At your debut, speculations surrounding your relationship with the man had just about killed off any potential interest. Now, four seasons into your venture into the marriage market, your prospects had only grown slimmer. It rattled you that Shoto was seemingly leaving you behind. You clicked your tongue, attempting to snap out of the annoyed daze you were in. Unfortunately, this was just the reality of society. You’d simply have to succumb to your fate of loneliness. Maybe being a spinster won’t be so bad. 

Your thoughts were soon interrupted as the balcony door swung open, your gaze shooting back to see who it could be. “Found you,” Shoto flashed you a soft smile, his posture slightly hunched as he approached. It was clear that the advances of the debutantes had worn him out. He let the door shut behind him, opting to stand directly next to you despite the plethora of room the spacious balcony offered. 

“Lord Todoroki,” you replied, turning your attention to the glittering night sky. It was strange - that name felt so foreign coming from your lips. 

He frowned, “you know better than to call me that.” Shoto had always insisted on you calling him by his first name, and for the last few years,  you had relented (something you regretted now as his expression conveyed one of hurt). Still, you powered on, steeling your resolve. It would be best to distance yourself from the man now. 

With a soft laugh, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I should get used to it - your future bride might not take so kindly to another woman calling your name.” His eyes widened briefly, hands clenched as he cleared his throat. Despite being outside, the air grew stiff, the tension so palpable you could cut it with a knife. 

 “That,” he paused, attempting to gather his thoughts, “is what I came out here to discuss.” Shoto’s social skills were mediocre at best, his awkward demeanor shining through the seriousness of his tone. You raised a brow, curious of what the man could possibly say.

“To discuss? You came out here to discuss your marriage prospects?” you asked with an incredulous tone, waiting for the man to get straight to the point. He shifted awkwardly, not used to receiving any sentiments of bitterness from your end. “You should have warned me.” 

Shoto shot you an apologetic look, “I… I was not aware myself until a fortnight ago,” he murmured. The situation pained him as well - despite his rapid approach to the average age of marriage, he still didn’t feel quite ready. “A fortnight? You should have written. That isn’t information you keep from your friends.” 

“I know,” Shoto acknowledged, taking a deep breath as he prepared himself for the spades of anger you were sure to cast. Instead, however, you surprised him. He should’ve known by now that he could never predict your actions.

“It’s fine.”

You had always been quite the firecracker -  your passion and zeal for life unmistakable. It was something Shoto had always admired about you; your enthusiasm balanced out his serious demeanor, allowing for a sort of yin-and-yang relationship. This relaxed response was unlike the you he had grown to know. 

“I am sorry,” Shoto said, mustering up every ounce of sincerity in his body. You sighed, unable to stay mad at the man for long, the years of friendship preparing you for his aloofness regarding social situations. “Really, I promise you it’s fine, let us move on from this topic,” you reassured. The thought of Shoto’s marriage prospects made you uncomfortable enough - it wasn’t something you particularly cared to converse about. 

Before he could let the topic change, Shoto turned to face you, his hands gently grasping your smaller ones as your jaw dropped in surprise. “Just… one more thing,” he started, voice wavering with nerves. 

“Allow me to court you.”

[meimi-haneoka]

Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card Special Chapter: Comments and Analysis

WELCOME BACK, CCS FAAAAAAAAAAAANSSS!!!!!

Oh my god 3 months went already by from that December 1st and chapter 80, didn't they?? Feels like yesterday 🙈But we're finally here, finally ready for the release of the definitive, last SPECIAL CHAPTER of Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card!!!! After this, no more CCS for at least a while!!

Why do you see me so euphoric?? WELL, THERE IS MORE THAN ONE VERY GOOD REASON 😂 But let's not jump the gun and let's introduce this post properly: this time around, I won't be posting pictures to "illustrate" the analysis/commentary, because this special chapter was treated differently from the other ones. It didn't get, in fact, a free release on CLAMP's Youtube channel, in any language, and wasn't even uploaded for digital purchase on Comic Days like all the rest of the chapters. The only way to obtain it was via the April issue of Nakayoshi, either with the physical or digital version. Since it is clear to me their intention to keep this gem of a special chapter away from the internet jungle, and since lately I used only the screenshots from Youtube to illustrate my analysis, this time around I won't be posting anything (aside from the color page, which was released by the official account themselves).

AND! I won't be mixing analysis and summary, because I have already conveniently prepared some screenshots with a detailed summary of the chapter for the people who were curious to know, but didn't get to see the chapter yet or did see it but couldn't read Japanese. I have already posted these screenshots on my Twitter account, and I'll put them here too under the cut (please don't repost them around or in other social media), so you can immediately get a broad view on the content of the chapter (I don't have to point out translation mistakes, haha 😅), and then, afterwards, I'll write my commentary. And there is SO MUCH to say!!

But before starting, we can't break the tradition right at the LAST ROUND of our chapter commentaries, right?? So off we go, with the GIF OF THE MONTH!!

Yes, I think this is the GIF that can represent this chapter the most. 😂

The Color Page

This special chapter is composed of 33 pages, and of course I can't avoid starting my commentary precisely from the color page!!

I admit it, I hoped for a color spread with the four main characters of Clear Card (hence, including Kaito and Akiho too), but since the other two appeared with their own color page just in chapter 79, we'll gladly take this single color page with SyaoSaku too!! ❤️ The JP text reads "We've been together till now, and we will always be! Featuring a long-awaited special chapter!!" Syaosaku look absolutely adorable....and so, so happy!! Looking at us, from a wreath made of cherry blossoms, of course dressed in their image colors pink and green, in a "pair look"...I think their shiny smiles conquered the hearts of the entire fandom (saw many comments about it) and it is certainly a perfect introduction to a chapter that is, indeed, completely made of this happy, leisurely, warm atmosphere. I feel like it tastes even better, after all the anxiety they made us go through, right? I'm pretty sure that was CLAMP's goal all along, giving us this little reward after all the hard situations they've put their characters through. This color page looks like Sakura and Syaoran are saying "goodbye" to us, holding their hands in a lover's hold, but seeing them so cute and happy definitely soothes the sad feeling 🥲 Until we meet again...hopefully!

Letters From Around The World

But it's when the chapter starts that we get our first surprise: the time skip is of one entire year!!! We left our little heroes at the end of the first year of Tomoeda Middle school, ready to go in spring break and then start the second year...here, Sakura says she's in her spring break of the next year, ready to become a 9th grader!!! I almost couldn't believe they actually went that far, I knew from CLAMP's podcast that there was a timeskip, but I expected just some months! Although....I have to say the characters don't look that different, Mokona said she made them a tiny bit older and she kept true to that, because it's barely visible! 🤭 But if you compare them with how they looked at the middle of the story, of course the difference is visible.

I was so happy to see that the chapter started right away with a letter from Akiho: a letter or a videocall was definitely among the type of content I wanted to see in this chapter, because of course I still was quite preoccupied about the difficult journey Akiho and Kaito embarked on, so I wanted to see how they were faring. The amount of letters Sakura accumulated over the span of this year tells me that they moved around quite a lot, and she had always something to share with her "long-distance sister" 🤭 Kero praising Akiho's skills and even feeling some sort of "reverence" for her insane talent to find all the crazy and rare books was so funny and nice!! 😂Sakura is adorable, feeling all proud about the talent of her "sister" 🤭 Loved that they actually mentioned the place where Akiho and Kaito are currently at!! (cause they didn't reveal where they'd go first, in chapter 80, and I guess we'll never know). I appreciated SO SO much that they let us see that Akiho didn't drop, but actually continued to practice her sewing skills like she was doing before everything went down the drain with the Alice in Clockland play: moreover, finding out later that this skill is also helping her greatly with the true ambition of her life made me incredibly satisfied. How cute of her to send outfits for Kero and Suppy, even from far away??

I was quite surprised to find out that Akiho sends all the rare books to Eriol, and then laughed my as* off at Kero saying he's selling them off (the way Kero phrases it in JP makes it look a QUITE shady activity 😂). This shows there's a continued collaboration between the "group" in England and YunaAki, and it's very nice. They're not only "taking" support from Eriol, Akiho also does return the favor, providing Eriol with the books he needs.

And then....got really emotional to know that Kaito wrote a letter to Sakura, back when they left one year ago 🥲 I DID feel like some kind of acknowledgement or apology from Kaito to Sakura was missing from chapter 80 (but honestly, with everything they had to explain, where they could fit that?) and so this little mention completely fixed that sense of "he made a mess and barely managed to apologize to Akiho before leaving". Kaito isn't an ass*ole so of course he would've done something like that, and a letter seems perfect for an introvert boy of few words like him. I imagine the letter wasn't really long either. The little moon on the sealing wax...❤️The fact that Sakura is storing that single letter together with Akiho's letters in a specific box makes me almost cry. She cares for those two so, so much! 😭 Sakura wishes to receive more letters from Kaito and I really hope he will open up to her along the way, because he could benefit ENORMOUSLY from her advices and perspective! Also THANK YOU CLAMP for giving us a little "still" of those two next to eachother from the moment when they were leaving Tomoeda, with the suitcases and all 🥲that last faraway shot of all four of them together in chapter 80 was so great, but I wanted to see them like this too!

The SyaoSaku Date

Aaaaaand then we get to the long awaited, craved, coveted SYAOSAKU DATE!!! 🤣 I can't count how many people I've seen wishing for this....to be honest I was going to be ok with any kind of sweet moment between the two, but gotta admit that a carefree afternoon watching a stage play and then taking refreshment at a café gives this sense of normal, complete fun that was missing a bit for them. They are dressed in a very fancy way (loved that Sakura isn't wearing her usual long one-pieces but something different, with puff shorts! A sign of her growing up?) and even though they're not exactly wearing a "pair look" (too corny, maybe?), they are well matching eachother's outfits. And of course we find out that Tomoyo made Sakura's cute outfit and even the decorations on Syaoran's collar! The fact she was the one asking Syaoran to wear them at the date is kinda funny, like some sort of guidance into looking like a couple, thanks to the matching decorations! Tomoyo really takes care of everything....yes....everything. 🥲 The mention of Sakura's wedding dress of course made me go "OH MY GOD" and made me realize that if Tomoyo is already mentioning that.......we aren't *that* far away from that day (I always imagined SyaoSaku marrying early, since they're soulmates and got together so young!! 😆). Truly an emotional, sweet moment that was reinforced by Tomoyo's tender expression in the flashback. Her resolution to devote herself to learn to design even normal everyday outfits, or date outfits, everything that could accompany her dear Sakura everyday, reminded me that Tomoyo found her very own way to be with Sakura, and she's perfectly content with that. Tomoyo's happiness is seeing Sakura happy, and she will do anything to achieve that. ✨

Syaoran and Kaito's Friendship

And then my blushy blushy Sakura changes topic and suddenly throws me on the floor in a fit of laughter, because seeing Syaoran's confused look while he was trying to make sense of the pictures Kaito sent him on his phone WAS HONESTLY PRICELESS. 😆 My god, how long have I wished to see them like this? Moving their timid steps into a friendship (since their girlfriends are like sisters and Sakura literally saved Kaito's derriere), being their awkward dorky selves...they surprisingly get along so well and Syaoran doesn't seem to hold resentment towards him, which is GREAT for me!! He's learning from Sakura to just let go of hard feelings, when you've found out the person who acted in an oppositive way was just in a very desperate situation and had actually no ill intentions. And that makes me incredibly happy. Kaito needs all the support he can get, to make the right decisions in his life, and I can totally see him finding a particular connection with Syaoran, due to how they're both moon boys, who would give their life for the person they love. I think precisely for this, precisely because Syaoran can understand to a degree Kaito's situation and behavior, he wouldn't feel judged and would feel more free to establish a connection with him. I was k*lled with laughter and endearment when I saw that Syaoran felt confused, but still tried to understand Kaito's peculiar way of communicating with him 😂 And guess what? I think he doesn't realize it, but he's totally starting to get it! 😂The way our wolfie boy snaps that picture IMMEDIATELY as the cat passes by, and how he only framed the ear, really shows how in the end he's speaking "the same language" as Kaito 😂 Seeing Sakura so excitedly think to herself that the two became such good friends made me scream "SAME SAKURA-CHAN, SAME!!!" 😂 All in all, seeing these two having such a relaxed, comfortable date talking about their friends and stuff that happened lately made me completely feel that one year that elapsed, and now they act totally like a couple that's been dating for quite some time. 😊 Ooooh thank you sensei, really. Thank you so much for this scene. 🙏

The Moon Is Really Beautiful, Right?

BUT! The real reason why CLAMP will always have my heart and my gratitude is hidden in the next scene. 😂

Oh my god, the screams I've belted out when I saw them. And when I've read THAT. But let's go in order, let's go in order and not jump the gun! We're in Germany, Akiho and Kaito now seem to be living in an apartment in a nice building! They're still talking in keigo, and still calling eachother "Akiho-san" and "Kaito-san". 😊

Kaito SMILES genuinely at the picture Syaoran sent him!! And answers, to an observant Akiho, that he's having fun!! 😭HIM! The one who couldn't understand what was fun in interacting with others!!! He looks honestly so radiant and happy, a sign that his mental recovery is going strong. And that he's slowly expanding his "trusted people" network. 🥲🙏Also, he looks younger than ever!!! 😂

It made me INCREDIBLY HAPPY to see that Akiho didn't drop the "hobby" she had started in chapter 26 (ages ago!!), remember this scene?

I remember how much I loved to know she had started learning how to do this, because together with my friends, at the time, we all thought this could easily become her aspiration in life......and guess what?? CLAMP confirmed she wants to take on a job revolving around books and book repairing!! This is all canon!! T___T oh my happy tears.... There's a sense of pride in seeing that this journey for Akiho isn't only revolving around finding the cure for Kaito's shortened lifespan (which hurt his body terribly) and restarting his "stopped time", or finding Momo and the Alice in Clockland book, but she's also got the mental resolution to do something for herself, for what she wants to do in life, something that is completely disconnected from Kaito. Again, I cannot reiterate enough how this girl doesn't have an unhealthy codependent relationship with Kaito, and she's completely capable of thinking about her own future, aspirations and wishes. She wants him with her, and she could never live happily without him, but the love of her life isn't the only thing that exists for her. It is incredibly satisfying to see her working hard for her own future, where she'll be able to contribute (especially financially) to their livelihood. I can see Kaito helping her and assisting her with that. The other day I was dreaming away with my friends about Kaito and Akiho managing a "book cafè" together somewhere, how impossibly sweet that would be?

Seeing this volitive, ambitious, strong-willed Akiho once again filled my heart immensely. And I wasn't the only one, apparently.....

Oh god, you have no idea of the SHRIEKS I belted out when I saw Kaito saying "the moon is really beautiful, right?" in full daylight. Like. It is absolutely unmistakable at this point what kind of love he feels for her, and while I always knew, I'm sure the character took his own sweet time and personal introspection to reach that conclusion. If you remember, I've always said it and reiterated it at the end of chapter 80: Kaito won't understand things overnight, it will take a long time. And one year, at that age, is enough of a long time to come to terms with one's feelings and understanding what exactly they mean. They lived all that time together as two "equals", no more butler/boss bullsh*t, so they had even more opportunities to see eachother's true colors. And Kaito couldn't help but fall even more in love with Akiho, to the point that seeing her working so excitedly for her future made him gently overflow with that feeling....and said that sweet quote of Natsume Soseki that we all know, by now, what it means. I think the mere fact that what made his heart explode was seeing her so independent and strong, is a good sign that Kaito's love for her is the healthy and supportive kind, too. He doesn't love her and feels attracted to her soul because she's a weaker, younger, malleable being that he can dominate (as a toxic relationship would portray), but at the contrary, because she's free and strong and wonderful on her own. The more he sees her shining, the more that feeling grows. Throughout this scene, he looks at her and talks to her in such an intensely sweet way, you can totally see he's smitten with her.

The most popular reply to someone who confesses with "the moon is beautiful" is the equivalent of "I could die for you/I can die happy now", in Japanese. And Kaito had been unconsciously replying that way, with his actions, the whole damn time during the serialization of Clear Card. But since he took it way too literally, things were really heading to tragedy. Nobody wanted him to die for real, and yet, subconsciously, that was the only way he had found to give outlet to an enormous amount of feels that he couldn't express (because it wasn't appropriate, and nobody would ever love him, and he only caused her pain, and he had to let go of Akiho anyway at the end of it).

So considering all of THAT, this "I love you very much" he said now (he added とても, "very", like Akiho did ❤️) in this way, makes me think even more "yes, you finally understood what was the best way to convey it!" and therefore, it represents another character development for our moon boy. 🥲

There's debate over whether he had already understood what Akiho had meant, in chapter 48. I stand firmly by my convinction that, even if he was informed of the Japanese folklore tale around it, he quickly dismissed it as "no, she's meaning it literally for the moon", since he couldn't really believe that anyone would ever take interest in him, and was sure he would've always been alone. Otherwise, if he really understood and believed that Akiho was in love with him, I don't think he could've ever said that "I thought you didn't need me to be happy". It doesn't make sense. But everything that happened at the fake moon, and all her angry tears, and all her resolution to find a way to cure him, made him finally see that she really meant it in that way. ❤️So his own acceptance and introspection could finally start, and....it brought to this. ❤️ If you want to know more about the popular phrase "the moon is beautiful, right?", I invite you to check my first Clear Card Trivia post, focused on the literary and musical references portrayed throughout this story!

And LOL, I couldn't help but noticing several things in how this scene played out: first, he immediately "runs away" blabbering about the breakfast being ready, a very similar way to how he "ran away" in chapter 52 when Akiho could see right through him and was trying to express her support and feelings to him. This is definitely an indication (taking into consideration also how he acted when he was little) that the reason why Kaito walked away back then, slamming the door, had a sprinkle of embarrassment embedded in it, too. Yeah. I mean, look at the face he's making here, just before he notices, puzzled, that his hand is shaking:

He's smiling so tenderly, among the pain he's feeling because of his poor health. He even laughs! He's happy he heard that! But he just couldn't stay hearing any longer, back then. Now, in this scene of the special chapter, he literally throws "the bomb" and runs away without hearing her answer or reaction 😂😂😂this is definitely embarrassment, and I'd like to think there's even a hint of teasing streak that I've always seen between the lines in his personality. It came out particularly with Syaoran and Momo, but Akiho isn't excluded from this dynamic! 😂

And excuse me, but Akiho's reaction literally made me roll on the floor laughing!! 😂The poor girl is probably so used to live abroad, and Japanese folklore isn't probably coming up immediately in her mind anymore, despite it's a phrase SHE used HERSELF back then! 😂Or maybe it's because she didn't really expect it from him, and so she took a moment to connect the dots. Either way, it was extremely funny! And I can't absolutely avoid pointing out how our girl isn't blushing like mad anymore, but just slightly.... I mean. It must have been quite clear to her too, by now, that her feelings were in some kind "reciprocated", be it for what Sakura said back at the fake moon, his decision to go back to her, and his decision to reveal his true name, hence giving her his most vulnerable part of himself... This isn't a shock for her, and she probably waited patiently, patiently, for him to finally say something like this. So maybe, more than embarrassed, she's surprised that the day finally came! 🥲 Goodness. This really puts all my worries to rest, Akiho will truly be happy. And it makes total sense that CLAMP made him say this now, and not at the end of chapter 80. As I said, more time was needed. This entire scene leaves me with a sweet, soft, comfortable feeling, and it's totally how I've always imagined their relationship to be. Also....no more of that "he loves her as a daughter/sister" crap, not canon-wise at least. 😊

One last thing I have to point out about this scene, which curiously reconnects everything together, is that recently CLAMP have announced the themes to which their upcoming exhibition will revolve around: among them, there's LOVE (of course!), and among the decorations surrounding the featured character on the key visual (Sakura, for now, but there's at least another one coming!) there are a couple of birds too. Birds are, in this sense, a symbol of love in CLAMP's language. I couldn't really help but noticing all the birds flying outside the window next to Akiho, the moment Kaito says that "the moon is really beautiful, right?". Basically, CLAMP were trying to scream it all over the place, however they could. 😂

"Momo-san?!"

It was so nice to see Yukito and Kero-chan gossiping about Touya right in his face, with the complete intention to tease him 😂in that sense, Yukito really seems like a sweet and harmless character, but don't be fooled! His teasing power is over 9000!! 😂Touya's killing glare made me crack up! He's so done for, now that both Kero and Yukito can tease him in the open! 😂😂😂

But please, please, let me scream about MOMO!!! Oh my god I would've never accepted a special chapter that didn't feature her!! Aaaaahhh I'm so glad to see that she's fine 🥲 The conversation between her and Sakura made clear to me that she isn't that free to move how I imagined her to be. Certainly, she decides where to go and who the book stays with (and when to leave), but the impartiality imposed on her role doesn't allow her to act freely like she wants, unless she pays a price. And she decided to pay a price, not to see Akiho and Kaito, but to go and thank Sakura herself first. Because, as her "those kids" suggests, she of course still feels some kind of maternal instinct towards them, and as any mother would do, she wants to thank Sakura from the bottom of her heart for having helped and saved those two. Even her body language (the position of her hands) portrays that. And excuse me, but I A B S O L U T E L Y loved how CLAMP clarified once and for all, addressing directly the complaints of their own fandom, that Sakura wasn't forcingly dragged into a matter that wasn't related to her. Everything she did, she decided to do it because she felt it touched her personally. From the moment she became Akiho's friend and came to care for her, everything that happened and everything that she was involved with was related to her too. This wasn't "somebody else's business" anymore. Because Akiho is one of her most beloved friends, no matter how "fast" that happened. Some relationships bloom almost immediately, because the connection is just that strong. And so, this turned into just another expression of "your happiness is my happiness", with Sakura acting according to what her heart suggested. As Kaito is Akiho's most beloved person, Sakura couldn't help but care for him too, because doing so would've made her friend happy, in a wonderful "circulation of love".

Special mention for the scene with pregnant Lilie, oh my god I didn't really expect this either. How long ago I wrote that Tumblr post about cosmos flowers and the origin of Akiho's name? A couple of weeks ago? It's like CLAMP answered my curiosity, with this scene. I still keep my interpretation in my heart, but I also love the logic "it is a flower that keeps the same name in many countries". Of course. "Wherever you'll go, you'll always be your unique self". (And now I want to cry, mama's heart is so big😭) The way Lilie keeps her hands over her womb made me tear up. The ring isn't there anymore, a sign that she probably already gave it to Momo (understandably, since once Akiho would be born, she wouldn't really have much time left). The baby bump isn't that noticeable, probably because she's at the beginning of her pregnancy. Who knows if she kept seeing little Kaito while she was pregnant. 🥲Who knows if in the scene where she's telling him about how wonderful it is to have something you love, especially a person, she was already pregnant with Akiho. 🥲

Momo and Sakura's final words made me understand that Momo cannot go back to Akiho and Kaito till the circumstances and the moment is right. Whether it depends on Akiho's wish, or the right cosmic arrangement, it's surely not in the short term. Especially considering the limited scope of Momo's agency. It cannot come from Momo (unless she pays a huge price), it needs to come from them, strongly enough. I also want to think that, again as an acquired mother figure, Momo wants those two to find their own way, identity and figure out their relationship on their own, without her interference. I'm sure she's keeping an eye on them from faraway, though. 🥲Even though this still feels bittersweet because I wanted to see them reuniting in canon so badly, it gave me lots of hope for the future. Momo is just waiting for the right moment, and she'll be ready to embrace them when the time is right. Maybe, who knows, we'll see that reunion in another series or in a special publication in the future?

The End

And then....the final scene 🥲NOW it is finally clear what Ohkawa meant in that one Twitter Space, when she mentioned that there was a reason why they never featured Sakura's birthday!!! THEY NEEDED TO KEEP THE EXCLUSIVITY FOR THIS!! 😂 I'm so glad they did, really...it's so sweet to see her reaching 14 years old (the "standard age" of many shoujo heroines! 😂) and seeing Syaoran giving her a present, with that strikingly sweet smile full of love...but most importantly....the breathtaking final double spread 🥲🥲🥲🥲 The way she pulls his hand close to her chest, to her heart, while saying that Syaoran will be forever and ever her most important and special person.....really, this chapter is meant to k*ll us all with feels!🥲and I love how CLAMP keep finding ways to portray their physical displays of affection without resorting to the classic, most wanted (but also probably considered not appropriate yet) "kiss". The very final page is a direct parallel of a page from chapter one, where Sakura was going to school alone and looked back down the street to admire the cherry blossoms in full bloom.

Now, she's not alone anymore, but actually hugging the love of her life on her special day! Really, what a wonderful and fulfilling way to give the final touch to this amazing story! 🥲 Her very last line also contributed to this. Sakura leaves us again, 24 years after the first ending, with words of positivity for the future, and love for her important people. This wraps everything up nicely, but it still keeps things quite "open-ended", hopefully in the eventuality to return to this wonderful series in the future. Sakura is growing up, as CLAMP wished, and it might be possible to see her dealing with more "grown-up" situations, magic and non-magic wise. But one thing is for sure, her relationship with her loved ones will always take top priority. ❤️

Well well well, we came to the end of this looooooong commentary for this special chapter too. I can't help but thank once again all of you who followed my posts all these years, and commented with your POVs on the story.

As I've said multiple times, Cardcaptor Sakura gave me so much ever since I was a kid, and this sequel was no exception. This special chapter, in particular, overflowed with things I wanted to see, and I'm sure I'm not the only one thinking so. I once again want to congratulate CLAMP for wrapping everything up nicely, and thank them from the bottom of my heart for these almost 8 years of emotional journey. 🙏

See you around with my other tumblr posts, and let's look forward to the release of volume 16 on April 1st, and hopefully, news about the anime sequel of Clear Card!!

[janeyseymour]

Two Families Become One- pt 4

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

Summary: the last addition to this little verse for now- you and Melissa get married.

WC: ~2.45k

With the upcoming wedding, which both you and Melissa had agreed to be a very small gathering of family and the Abbott clan (much to Ellie’s dismay), along with the paperwork for Ellie to become an official Schemmenti just mere days after you, life was more than a little crazy.

Both of you were wrapping up the school year with teaching, Ellie was as hyperactive and excitable as ever with everything coming up, and nothing seemed to calm the chaos that was constantly overtaking your life at this point. It was far and few between at this point that you took her to the park or even got a moment of peace and quiet with your fiancée. No, those days were gone and replaced with various planning meetings- both for school and for your upcoming wedding, because even a small wedding requires much attention- alongside various meetings with the family lawyer that you had hired to ensure that Melissa could adopt Ellie without any flukes.

But the school year wraps up, Barbara helps to assist the two of you with anything from ensuring that your marriage license would be ready by the wedding date a week after classes were done to taking Ellie off of your hands so the two of you could head down to the law firm to finalize paperwork to simply helping organize all of the materials that had been used between both of your rooms to help lessen the ‘organized chaos’.

You remember asking Janine if she would stand there with you- because you wouldn’t have been able to make it through a lot of this without her entertaining your little girl. And of course, Barbara was asked to stand right alongside your soon-to-be wife when the day comes. Both women cried tears of joy as they launched themselves into your arms. Ellie, not wanting to be left out of the hugs, makes her way in and giggles.

You also remember asking the custodian of the school to be the one who marries you. He too had cried tears of joy and promised that he would do the two of you good. Although he was curious as to why you would ask him.

“You’re a part of Abbott too,” you told him quietly, hugging him tightly. “You’re part of the story too.”

And now, here you are standing in front of your family, Melissa’s family, and the rest of the Abbott crew while Mr. Johnson of all people marries the two of you. For a small affair, Ellie had begged you to do as much of a traditional wedding as possible. So, Melissa is standing up at the makeshift alter with Mr. Johnson as you hover over by one of the trees planted in the backyard just out of sight. Ellie is given the silent signal from your fiancée to start walking, and she giggles with glee as she twirls around and throws white rose petals into the yard. When she makes her way to Melissa, the little girl all but grabs her in a hug, forcing her to bend down and return it. With the way that everyone lets out a small, ‘aw’, your daughter hams it up and kisses Melissa’s cheek for good measure before taking her seat next to your mother and Melissa’s grandmother. 

When Mr. Johnson hits play on his phone connected to the speaker and your music comes on, you turn away from the tree and make your way over to the ‘aisle’. Your breath catches in your chest as you glance at Melissa for the first time today. She looks… stunning. Her hair is perfectly curled, her makeup is done with precision and care, and she looks absolutely amazing in the white pantsuit that her and Barbara had slaved away at to make sure it fit just right. 

Melissa’s mouth quite literally drops open at the sight of you. Tears instantly well in her eyes as she sees how… how perfect you look. You had opted for a white satin dress that you had found on Amazon to cut the costs, and Nonna herself had altered it so that it sat on your shoulders beautifully, the slightest cowl neck hanging just low enough to show off a bit of cleavage. Your hair is down with the softest braided headband to keep the flyaways away, and you smile softly at her. She nods, and you begin walking down with your father, who is an absolute blubbering mess despite already having done this once for you. He gives you away before engulfing the redhead in a hug. He whispers something in her ear, and she just nods gently before kissing his cheek. Your flowers are taken from your hand and given to Ellie, who was delighted when she found out that she would have the duty of holding onto your little bouquet for the ceremony.

You don’t remember much of Mr. Johnson’s opening remarks because you’re too distracted holding onto Melissa’s shaking hands in your own and looking into eyes that match the grass beneath you. It doesn’t much matter though, because Gerald has been given the job of recording everything for the two of you as a wedding gift.

What breaks you out of your trance is the custodian announcing that the two of you have written your own vows. You nod, and Barbara hands you the paper that you gave her to hold onto. 

“I- wow,” you whisper as you take her hand again, the other holding the paper with your script on it. You turn to the small group gathered around. “For those of you who don’t know… Melissa and I didn’t actually meet at the school. No, we met after I flew across the country with nothing on my back but a backpack filled with clothes and toys for my daughter while we figured out what we were going to do away from Utah. A month into living with my parents, I was able to find an apartment that would be suitable for me and my little girl, and a week into living there… I met this one- or rather, I saw her. She was coming out of the apartment complex to get into her car, and I was trying to corral Ellie back into the bike trailer to get some dinner. Of course, little girl just had to throw a fit, one that Melissa witnessed.”

“Oopsies!” Ellie giggles, forcing a laugh from everyone in the audience.

“I was beyond embarrassed.” You turn to face your future wife again. “I probably looked like a terrible mother, stressed beyond all belief. And then… you came and knocked on my door, telling me that I looked real stressed and asking if I needed any help. Since then, you have been there for not only me, but for my little girl- soon-to-be our little girl. In the midst of all of my own drama and messiness, I gained a job, a friend, and then I fell for you, and I’m happy to say that I think you fell for me too?” That gets a chuckle out of everyone, including the woman standing in front of you. She nods warmly. “I could not be more grateful for the love and life that you have shown me; walks in the park, a warm home cooked meal on a good day or a bowl of soup when I’m down; flowers just to say ‘I love you’. You have always been there for me through the happy moments and also the moments of insecurity when it came to raising Ellie or a day at work, and I promise you that I will always be here for you- no matter what. Through the good times and the bad, thick and thin- and we’ve had plenty of both, I will spend the rest of my days proving to you that you, and Ellie, are all I could ever need. I will always be here… right by your side, loving you, even if it means that I have to be the one to rescue the stink bugs and take them out of the house.”

The redhead wipes her tears away from her face as she lets go of your hand to grab the paper that she had written on from her jacket pocket.

“Everyone here knows that I wasn’t too keen on getting married a second time,” she starts. “And I was hellbent on keeping that promise to myself, to keep my heart guarded and safe, until I met you and threw everything I knew out the window.”

Mr. Johnson nods his head in agreement, getting a laugh from those who were not standing on the little platform.

“I knew what I was getting into when I realized that I had feelings for you… that there would be times of uncertainty and doubt- times where things got messy, and surely they have,” she awkwardly chuckles. “But I also knew that I was always going to be second in your life… always trailing behind little miss Ellie girl.”

The little girl grins up at the two of you, with wide eyes.

“And second place is not a place that I would usually prefer, but I think I can handle it if it’s to the perfect daughter that you’ve raised and that I now get to help raise. I love you, and I love Ellie more than I ever thought I was capable of. I’ve cherished the good times, loved supporting you and loving you through the bad, and adored every other little moment in between. It has been my absolute honor getting to fall in love with you, and I only continue to fall more in love with you everyday. Everyday, you show me something new that not only surprises me, but gets me to fall that much deeper in love with you. And I know that you will only continue to surprise me and bring an abundance of life and love into my own life, and for that I am eternally grateful to you.”

She reaches up to gently wipe the tear that’s trailing down your face before smiling at you softly.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“I’m not done,” she smirks at you. She turns to Ellie and waves her up. The little girl looks confused, but she follows the order of her mother. You lift your daughter up to your hip and hold her there as you wait for Melissa to start again.

“I knew that marrying you also meant that I would be marrying into your little family, and I would have to step up and be a second parental figure to Ellie… so I want to make these vows to both of you.”

Ellie clutches at the necklace that the redhead gave to her when she asked if she could formally adopt her, tears already starting to pour down her face, with the biggest smile you think you’ve ever seen.

“I promise to love and support you both through thick and thin. I promise to make spaghetti when Ellie wants it, and to make you chicken noodle soup whenever you aren’t feeling well. I promise that I will always be here to help you through all of your doubts and fears, and I will always be there to celebrate the highs. We’ve been through it all at this point: from the start of our relationship, to celebrating birthdays and milestones at work, to right now. We’ve gotten through this much, and no matter what happens from here on out, I promise to be by your sides, loving you through it all. I promise you, that I will love the people that you become just as much as I love the people that you are today.”

You reach a hand up to wipe at the tears that are now hitting your chest in rapid succession from your little girl as she reaches for Melissa to hold her instead. The redhead of course takes Ellie into her arms, holding her tightly.

“I love you, little girl,” the second grade teacher whispers as she kisses your daughter’s cheeks.

“I love you too, Mommy,” Ellie chokes out.

Then her eyes meet your own. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Then you look to your little girl. “Alright, love bug. Go take your seat so Mom and I can officially get married.”

She squeezes Melissa tightly before letting her go. Then she squeezes you before rushing back to her seat in between your mother and Nonna.

Mr. Johnson says a few more things before he finally announces that the two of you are wife and wife, and then Melissa is dipping you and kissing you with passion. Your crowd hoots and hollers as they celebrate the fact that you’re now married and are a Schemmenti now.

The reception is really just a free for all at the Howard residence, everyone milling about and enjoying the various foods that the Schemmenti ladies had insisted on preparing for you all- their form of a wedding gift to the two of you. Kristen Marie even came and brought the cake from the bakery that she knows you absolutely adore. It’s beautiful, and it tastes even better than it looks.

“Know that if Mel was marrying anyone else,” the blonde tells you lowly. “I woulda brought a shit store-bought cake and laughed. But it’s you, and I know Ma and Nonna would kick my ass if I fucked up today for you and Ellie.”

You just laugh. “Kristen Marie, when are you going to just admit the fact that you love Mel.”

“Never.”

The party goes well into the night, but after a bit, Ellie is exhausted. The Howards have graciously told you that they would take your daughter in for the night, and once you get her settled in the guest room, you and your wife join the party again. It doesn’t last much longer, the older folk heading home for a decent night’s rest, and the younger finding their way out to allow you and your new wife to have a night together. 

After helping clean up (despite the Howard protests), you too head out for your own home with promises that you’ll be back to pick up your daughter in the morning.

As soon as you make your way to the threshold, Melissa sweeps you into your arms with a chuckle, and she carries you through the front door. You giggle the entire time, and the next thing you know, you’re in bed seeing stars.

As you’re laying down in bed that night, Melissa pulls you in close. “Goodnight, my beautiful wife… Mrs. Schemmenti.”

Yeah… that feels right.

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