#christian pick up lines

[virginwithasthma]

The Bible says that life and death are in the power of the tongue, but you should come over so we can find out what else my tongue can do

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Vegas Baby | MV1

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: After winning his fourth world championship, Max Verstappen stuns the world with a live radio proposal.

A/N: This was inspired by this post by @altxanna idea so good it made me get over my writer's block and write this 4.2k monstrosity.

MAX VERSTAPPEN MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

Max Verstappen crossed the finish line in fifth place, but that didn’t matter. The entire world was fixated on the fact that he had just won his fourth World Championship.

“AND MAX VERSTAPPEN DOES IT AGAIN! FOUR WORLD TITLES!” David Croft shouted, his voice teetering on the edge of hysteria. The Las Vegas skyline lit up like a fireworks display on overdrive, the crowd roaring in approval.

“Forget where he finished—he’s a four-time world champion!” Martin Brundle yelled, equally excited. “This is history!”

Max, however, barely seemed to notice he’d crossed the line in fifth. He was just… Max. Calm. Collected. His voice came through the radio, steady as always, but with a hint of amusement.

“Thanks, guys. It’s been an incredible season. I’m so proud of the team. Huge thanks to GP, Christian, everyone.”

“You’ve done it, Max! Four-time champion, man!” GP screamed, clearly unable to keep the excitement in. “This is massive, mate! You’ve earned this!”

“Yeah, I know,” Max said, his voice deadpan. “But listen, there’s one more thing.”

The radio went quiet for a second.

“Uh… What’s that, Max?” GP asked, his tone suddenly cautious.

Max didn’t respond right away. Then, he casually dropped the bomb.

“Y/n, a bet’s a bet. We’re getting married tonight.”

“WHAT?!” GP exploded. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST SAY?”

Max’s tone didn’t change. “We’re getting married. Vegas chapel. Tonight.”

The entire Red Bull garage froze. Even the other engineers looked around in total confusion.

Max continued, his voice as if he were discussing the weather. “It’s been planned. I won the fourth title, she agreed to the bet, so… wedding time.”

GP sputtered. “Max, you—WHAT? No, no, no. You can’t just say that on the radio! You can’t just—”

“I’m doing it,” Max said, already tired of the conversation. “It’s happening. Vegas. Tonight.”

The radio was dead silent for a long moment, then GP finally spoke, his voice laced with a mixture of disbelief and dread. “Max, I—What in the world did I just hear? Are you seriously making your wedding announcement over the team radio?”

“Of course, I’m serious,” Max replied. “She said if I won my fourth title in Vegas, I could pick the wedding date. So, I picked tonight.”

“Max, you can’t—you—what the hell is wrong with you?!” GP spluttered.

Back in the commentary booth, David Croft could barely hold it together. “Did Max Verstappen just announce his wedding on live radio after winning his fourth world championship? Is that what I just heard?!”

“I think that’s exactly what you heard, Crofty,” Martin Brundle said, voice dripping with astonishment. “This is pure, unfiltered Verstappen.”

David Crofty just stared at the screen, blinking in disbelief. “Honestly, I can’t even process this. We’ve seen some wild moments in F1, but this... this might just take the cake.”

“Yeah,” Brundle said with a chuckle. “You can’t script this stuff. Not even in Vegas.”

Meanwhile, in Red Bull’s hospitality area, Y/n was standing stock-still, her eyes wide as she stared at the screen. The radio call still blaring in her ears.

“Did—did he just announce our wedding? Like… right now?!” she hissed, her hand gripping the counter in disbelief.

A Red Bull mechanic standing nearby looked just as stunned. “Uh, I think he did, yeah.”

“He’s lost it,” one engineer muttered under his breath, his face pale.

“I don’t even know what’s happening anymore,” another whispered.

The others weren’t any better off, most of them looking like they might faint. A PR rep came over, trying to maintain professionalism but clearly in shock. “Y/n, um… Max just… did he just announce your wedding?”

“Don’t look at me,” Y/n groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I can’t even… He’s the worst.”

“Vegas, baby!” another joked, only to get smacked in the arm by Y/n as she stormed past.

Back on the track, Max, utterly relaxed, parked his car in parc fermé and stepped out, throwing his helmet in the air before catching it like it was no big deal.

“So, yeah,” Max said, grinning at the cameras. “Got my fourth title, and now I get to marry my girl. Vegas chapel, let’s go!”

The reporters and photographers surrounding him stared at him in utter confusion.

“Wait, what? You’re—what?!” one reporter stammered.

Max smirked. “Yep, Vegas. I won, she lost, and now we’re getting married.”

He tossed a thumbs-up to the camera as if it were a completely normal thing to say.

“Max,” one reporter finally managed, “you’re serious about this, right? You’re really getting married in Vegas?”

Max’s grin widened. “I’m serious. A bet’s a bet. No turning back.”

Back in the Red Bull garage, chaos had officially set in. Christian Horner, who had been pacing for the last five minutes, finally stopped and glared at a nearby mechanic. “What am I supposed to do with this now?!”

“I don’t know, Christian,” the mechanic said, holding up his hands in defeat. “Maybe we start picking out flowers?”

“Someone get me a drink,” Christian muttered, walking off, leaving a sea of confusion behind him.

Y/n stormed through the paddock like a woman possessed, her face a mix of disbelief, panic, and barely contained rage.

She spotted Max leaning casually against a barrier in parc fermé, looking like he had no care in the world—despite having just announced their impending Vegas wedding to the entire world. He was surrounded by Lewis, Fernando, George, and Carlos, who were all still there congratulating him and clearly trying to comprehend what had just happened.

“MAX!” Y/n screeched as she closed the distance.

Max turned, his smug grin stretching even wider. “Oh, there she is! The future Mrs. Verstappen. Took you long enough.”

Y/n planted herself directly in front of him, glaring. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

Max blinked, his expression far too innocent. “What? I kept my promise.”

“Your promise?” Y/n echoed, incredulous. “You hijacked the championship celebration to announce a fake wedding! On LIVE TELEVISION!”

“It’s not fake,” Max said matter-of-factly. “A bet is a bet.”

Carlos, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow. “Wait, wait, wait. You bet your wedding on the championship?”

“Of course,” Max said with a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m a man of my word.”

George choked on air. “You’re a menace.”

“Exactly,” Y/n said, throwing her hands in the air. “Max, this is insane! You can’t just—”

“Relax, schatje,” Max interrupted, his tone annoyingly casual. “It’s Vegas. This is what people do here.”

“Not normal people!” Y/n snapped.

Lewis, still dabbing at his face with a towel, gave a bewildered laugh. “I’m sorry, are we actually talking about a real wedding right now?”

“Yes,” Max said confidently. “Tonight.”

“No,” Y/n shot back.

“Yes.”

“MAX!”

“Yes, Y/n,” Max said, leaning forward slightly. “We are getting married tonight, and that’s final.”

“Final?!” she spluttered. “How is this final? There’s no plan, no venue, no—”

“Vegas has plenty of chapels,” Max interrupted smoothly.

“I don’t have a dress!”

“You’ll look great in anything,” Max countered.

Y/n groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t even have someone to walk me down the aisle!”

Max tilted his head, clearly unbothered. “Oh, that’s easy.” He turned to his left, where Lewis stood mid-sip from his water bottle. “Lewis! Can you walk Y/n down the aisle tonight?”

Lewis froze, the bottle halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Can you walk her down the aisle?” Max repeated, as if this were a completely reasonable request.

“I—” Lewis blinked, looking between Max and Y/n. “Uh… sure?”

“What?! No!” Y/n shouted.

“Why me?” Lewis asked, baffled.

Max shrugged. “You’re a world champion. She deserves someone of high status.”

Before Y/n could combust, Fernando Alonso stepped forward, a sly grin on his face. “Hold on,” he said, raising a hand. “If anyone is walking her down the aisle, it should be me. I’m the most appropriate for the role.”

Lewis turned to him, visibly confused. “How do you figure that?”

Fernando gave a dramatic shrug. “Experience. I’m wiser, more distinguished. A father figure, if you will.”

Y/n groaned, “Oh my God, Fernando—”

Lewis snorted. “Father figure? Please. More like grandfather figure.”

The group exploded into laughter. George doubled over, wheezing, while Carlos clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his own cackles.

“You wound me, Hamilton,” Fernando said, his tone mock-offended.

“Yeah, but I’m not wrong,” Lewis quipped, smirking.

“This is not happening,” Y/n muttered, covering her face with her hands.

Max leaned closer to her, his grin pure mischief. “See? Problem solved. You have two excellent candidates to walk you down the aisle.”

“This is NOT solved!” Y/n screeched.

George finally spoke up, still chuckling. “You know, for the record, this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen”

“Agreed,” Carlos said, shaking his head with a grin. “But I can’t look away.”

Max clapped his hands together. “Alright, then. We’re all set! Lewis or Fernando—it’s Y/n’s choice.”

“I CHOOSE NEITHER!” she yelled, clearly on the verge of a breakdown.

Max leaned back, entirely unfazed. “Suit yourself. But one way or another, schatje, we’re getting married tonight.”

Y/n turned to the other drivers, her eyes pleading. “Can someone PLEASE talk some sense into him?”

Lewis shrugged. “I don’t know, Y/n. He seems pretty set on it. You might just have to roll with it.”

Fernando smirked. “And let me know when you decide. I’ll be practicing my ‘giving away the bride’ speech.”

George buried his face in his hands again, mumbling, “This is a fever dream.”

Y/n, meanwhile, was contemplating her life choices as Max grinned at her, utterly pleased with himself. This was going to be a nightmare—and she was the star attraction.

Suddenly, Lando came sprinting out of nowhere, practically skidding to a stop in front of Max. His curls were a chaotic mess, and his face was split into an ear-to-ear grin that made him look like an overexcited puppy.

“MAX!” Lando yelled, throwing his arms up. “FOUR-TIME WORLD CHAMPION! YOU LEGEND! Also mate, what the hell?! Are you really getting married?!” 

Max turned, his ever-present grin widening. “Obviously.”

“I thought it was just a rumor!” Lando said, flinging his helmet onto a nearby table. “I mean, come on, you say insane stuff on the radio all the time! I figured this was one of those things.”

“Nope.” Max popped the “p” for emphasis. “It’s happening. Tonight.”

Y/n, who had been pacing nearby in a futile attempt to process her life choices, groaned audibly. “I hate all of you. All of you.”

Lando glanced at her, then back at Max. “Wait, so this is real? Like… actually real?”

“As real as it gets,” Max replied, clapping Lando on the shoulder. “And since you’re here…”

Lando squinted. “Since I’m here, what?”

Max’s grin turned sly, his hand still on Lando’s shoulder. “How do you feel about being my best man tonight?”

Lando froze, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” Max said, still looking far too pleased with himself.

“Me?!” Lando gestured wildly at himself, his voice rising an octave. “Why me?!”

“Why not you?” Max countered smoothly.

“I don’t know!” Lando threw up his hands. “You could ask your trainer, your engineer—anyone! We’ve been rivals this entire year!”

Max tilted his head, his expression softening slightly. “Exactly. We’ve had a lot of ups and downs this year, yeah? Fighting for the championship and everything. But at the end of the day…” He paused, his grin shifting to something more genuine. “You’re a good friend, Lando. One of the best. And I’d like us to bury the hatchet. Tonight.”

The sudden sincerity hit Lando like a truck. His eyes widened, his lip quivering just a little as he stared at Max. “Max…”

The group went quiet—well, as quiet as it could be with the chaos of the paddock swirling around them. Even Y/n stopped pacing to stare, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You really mean that?” Lando asked, his voice thick with emotion.

“Of course,” Max said, giving Lando a firm pat on the back. “You’ve been there through all of it, mate. Who else would I want standing next to me tonight?”

Lando’s hand flew to his face, his bottom lip wobbling. “Oh my God. I think I’m gonna cry.”

“Don’t cry,” George mumbled, clearly trying to stifle a laugh. “This is ridiculous enough already.”

“Shut up, George!” Lando snapped, though it lacked any real venom. He sniffled, blinking rapidly. “Max, you big idiot. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Max smirked. “Well, don’t get used to it.”

Y/n, watching this entire exchange with her arms crossed, muttered under her breath, “I cannot believe this is my life right now.”

Carlos, standing nearby, leaned over to George and whispered, “Do you think Lando will actually cry at the altar?”

“Oh, 100%,” George replied without hesitation.

“I’M NOT CRYING!” Lando shouted, wiping furiously at his eyes.

“Sure, mate,” Carlos said, grinning.

“Shut up!” Lando whirled back to Max, pointing a slightly wobbly finger at him. “Fine! I’ll do it. I’ll be your best man. But only because that was the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Good.” Max nodded approvingly. “We’re gonna have a great time. Bring tissues, though. You’ll need them.”

Lando groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re emotional,” Max teased, clapping him on the back again.

“Can I leave now?” Y/n interjected, looking thoroughly exasperated.

“Nope,” Max said cheerfully. “We’ve still got wedding planning to do. And Lando needs to rehearse his speech.”

“Speech?!” Lando exclaimed, his face paling. “No one said anything about a speech!”

“Oh, come on,” Carlos said, grinning. “Just wing it.”

“This is a nightmare,” Y/n muttered.

“See, schatje?” Max said, turning to her with a mischievous smile. “Everything’s settled”

“Kill me now,” she groaned, dragging her hands down her face.

“Not before the wedding,” Max quipped. “I need my bride alive, schatje.”

Carlos, grinning, nudged George. “Do you think she’ll kill him before they even make it to the altar?”

“I actually might” Y/n snapped, making everyone laugh—except her.

Max clapped his hands together, cutting through the lingering laughter. “Alright, boys, fun’s over. See you after the podium, yeah?”

Carlos snorted, throwing an arm around George. “Come on, hombre. Let’s get out of here before they decide to do something crazier.”

Max turned to Carlos, his grin turning devious. “Speaking of you, Carlos, I need another groomsman. What do you say?”

Carlos blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Me? Really?”

“Obviously,” Max said, rolling his eyes. “You’re good at standing around looking pretty. Perfect for the job.”

“I’m honored,” Carlos said, puffing out his chest dramatically.

Y/n, standing a few feet away, raised her hand. “Dibs on George for my side, then.”

George’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, what?”

“I called dibs,” Y/n said firmly, crossing her arms.

“That’s not how this works!” Max exclaimed, glaring at her.

“It is now,” she shot back, grinning.

Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You are impossible.”

“You’re marrying me,” she said sweetly. “This is your problem now.”

Before Max could argue further, he grabbed her hand, tugging her away from the group. “We need to pick more people. Properly.”

As they walked through the paddock, Max started listing names under his breath. “Alright, I want Charles on my side.”

“No way,” Y/n said immediately.

Max frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I’m picking him,” Y/n declared, speeding up her pace as soon as she spotted Charles standing by his car.

Max groaned. “You can’t just steal all the good ones!”

“Watch me.”

By the time they reached Charles, Y/n was already stepping in front of Max, her grin wicked. “Charles! You’re going to be my maid of honor.”

Charles looked up, his face blank with confusion. “Wait, what?”

Max shoved Y/n aside, scowling. “Ignore her, Charles. You’re going to be one of my groomsmen.”

“No, he’s not!” Y/n snapped, stepping back in front of Max.

“Yes, he is!” Max shot back, sidestepping her.

Charles blinked between them, his brows furrowing. “What is happening right now?”

“You’re gonna help me with my wedding,” Y/n said, grinning like she’d just won the lottery. “It’s happening tonight.”

Charles just stared at her, still not sure if he was in a dream or being pranked. “Uh… are you serious?”

“Charles, listen to me,” Y/n said, grabbing his hands dramatically. “I need you on my side. You’re the only one who understands how insane Max is.”

Max pulled her back by the shoulder. “He does not understand that! He’s my friend, not yours.”

Charles raised a hand. “Guys, what—”

“Do you really want to stand next to Max?” Y/n asked, cutting him off.

Max glared at her. “Do you really want to be stuck with her?”

“I feel like I don’t want to be stuck with either of you,” Charles said cautiously, his confusion growing.

“Charles,” Y/n pleaded, gripping his arm. “Please. You’ll get to wear something cool”

Charles blinked, still completely befuddled. “I… I don’t know what’s happening. Am I even invited to this wedding? Because you’re asking me to do a lot without any context.”

“Don’t listen to her!” Max interjected, gesturing wildly. “You’ll have more fun on my side. I’ll let you hold the rings.”

“No we’re letting Yuki hold the rings!” Y/n shouted.

Charles blinked again, looking between them like they’d both lost their minds. “Are you two seriously fighting over me right now?”

“Yes!” they yelled in unison.

Charles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Say yes to me, Charles,” Y/n said, batting her eyelashes.

“No, say yes to me,” Max countered, practically growling.

Charles threw his hands up. “Fine! I’ll be on Y/n’s side. But only because she asked first.”

Y/n cheered, sticking her tongue out at Max. “Suck it!”

“I feel like I should be insulted,” Max muttered as Charles smirked at him.

The wedding was somehow happening. In the span of a few hours—thanks to an intense series of last-minute phone calls, frantic text messages, and a team of Red Bull employees being worked to the bone—the ceremony was set to begin. And despite the fact that no one really knew how they’d gotten here, the whole thing had turned into the weirdest Formula 1 event in history.

Y/n stood in the back, adjusting her dress, eyeing the people around her in disbelief. Max had somehow managed to throw together an entire wedding in record time, which was somehow both impressive and terrifying. She was walking down the aisle with Lewis and Fernando—two of the most iconic figures in F1. She couldn’t decide between them, so she’d invited both to walk her down the aisle. Because, why not?

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Lewis asked, smoothing out his jacket. His suit was impeccable, of course. He was an icon of style, so a last-minute wedding wasn’t going to stop him from looking good.

“I’m just trying to survive this,” Y/n muttered

“We’re in Vegas. Anything goes,” Fernando quipped, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. “At least the wedding's got personality."

“You both know I’ll never live this down, right?” Y/n said, shaking her head. "This whole thing is so Max, I feel like I should apologize to everyone for being part of it."

“You’ll be fine,” Fernando added with a smile, adjusting his cufflinks. “It’s Max. You know he doesn’t do anything half-heartedly. He’s probably already planned the honeymoon.”

Y/n laughed nervously. “I’m pretty sure he has. You’ve both seen what happens when Max gets an idea in his head. And somehow... this is actually happening.”

“You’ve got this,” Lewis said. “We’re here for you.”

Before Y/n could respond, the doors swung open, signaling that it was time. The aisle was a bit too short for a proper procession, and the whole thing had a sense of hurried chaos as they started walking down toward the altar.

At the front, Max stood there waiting, looking like he was about to burst with excitement. His best man, Lando, had been fighting tears all night and was now sniffling into a tissue. "I swear this is the happiest day of my life," Lando muttered to Carlos, wiping his eyes.

Carlos, looking slightly concerned, just shook his head. “It’s their wedding Lando, not even your own. stop bawling.”

“Yeah, but it’s their wedding,” Lando said, eyes still damp. “There’s too much love in the air.”

Max had his hands tucked in his pockets, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. When he spotted Y/n, he gave her an exaggerated wink, as if to say, “We made it.”

“You good?” Fernando asked, glancing at Y/n as they reached the front.

“I’m questioning every life choice I’ve made,” Y/n muttered under her breath, feeling the full weight of the absurdity of the situation.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Max said, grinning.

At the back of the room, Oscar and Franco stood with baskets of flowers, both looking thoroughly confused in their roles as flower boys. Oscar had been dragged into this because of his unwillingness to protest. Franco, on the other hand, was too amused to care about the situation and just went along with it.

“Oscar, why are we doing this again?” Franco whispered, furrowing his brows as he sprinkled petals on the floor.

“Because Yuki said we had to. And I’m not arguing with him,” Oscar muttered, holding his basket as if it were a grenade about to go off.

“Who cares? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience! Attending Max Vertsappen’s wedding?,” Franco said with stars in his eyes, “I’ll tell my grandkids about this.”

Yuki, holding the rings, couldn’t contain his excitement as he gave them instructions. “Guys, you’re doing great. Just, uh, try not to look confused. I need this to look professional. Oscar throw the petals properly! more passion! more energy! more footwork!”

“I’m already questioning my entire existence,” Oscar said, looking at Franco for solidarity. Franco just smiled and threw a handful of petals into the air.

The Elvis officiating the wedding was already in full swing, not entirely sure of the gravity of the moment but having a blast nonetheless.

"Y’all ready to get hitched?" Elvis said, his voice more vibrant than Y/n could’ve imagined.

Max, barely containing his excitement, looked over at Y/n. “Ready for this, love?” he asked, his voice low, though it carried a hint of playfulness.

Y/n smiled, glancing at him for a moment. “More than ever.”

Then, in front of everyone, they exchanged their vows.

Max spoke first, his voice unwavering, but there was an undeniable tenderness in his words. “Y/n, you’ve turned my world upside down. You’ve made every race, every moment, better just by being there. I promise to keep being the person you’ve decided to stand at an altar with, the person you love—even when I’m an absolute nightmare. I’ll always fight for us, for this. I love you.”

Y/n could feel her heart in her throat as she spoke. “Max, you’ve always been… Max. But you’ve shown me that you are a person with the biggest heart. You’ve made me laugh, cry, and love harder than I thought I could. You’re my best friend, and I can’t wait for the next chapter of this crazy life with you. I love you.”

There were no grand gestures or over-the-top theatrics; instead, it was just them—raw, honest, and completely present in this moment.

Max smiled at her, the kind of smile that made everything feel right, before turning to the officiant.

“Elvis, hit me with that ‘you may kiss the bride’ line,” Max said, giving a wink.

And so, amidst the madness, they kissed, sealing their vows with a moment that felt right in all its simplicity. The crowd cheered, some clapping and others, like Lando, wiping away happy tears. It wasn’t the wedding anyone had expected, but it was exactly what Max and Y/n had needed.

As they pulled away, Y/n’s gaze met Max’s, and for a brief moment, it was just the two of them, everything else fading away.

As the ceremony ended and the newlyweds turned to leave, the crowd of friends and teammates erupted into applause, some of them still trying to process what had just happened.

Lando was grinning, wiping his eyes. “This is so perfect. I’m still not sure how we managed to get here in two hours, but it’s amazing.”

Charles was smiling too, giving Y/n a thumbs up. “Congrats, both of you. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Max is married now.”

Lewis patted Max on the back. “She’s got you now. Good luck with that.”

Y/n smiled at him, a little breathless. “So, are you planning to annoy me for the rest of our lives?”

Max grinned back, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Absolutely. You’ve signed up for it, so no turning back now.”

Everyone laughed, but there was a deep sincerity in the air. This was their moment—imperfect and hurried, but beautiful in its own way.

[ahopefulbromantic]

LET'S GOOOOOO 🤩🤩🤩

HOLY EUCHARIST IN YOUR AREA LOOKING FOR CONSUMPTION

Jesus Christ (2025 yrs)

• ONLINE NOW

📞📞📞📞📞

[phosphorusab]

Remmick is so interesting to me (as a White American who’s ancestors were not considered White until they lost their culture to the Great White Nothing) because he knows how to manipulate his proximity to Whiteness for his benefit, but is simultaneously so racially clueless in 1930’s Mississippi, the Juke Joint members looked at him at first glance and thought that he was Genuinely Insane.

He knows that he can manipulate his proximity to Whiteness by concealing his Irish heritage, and that worked like a charm, because Joan and Burt would not have let him into their house if they thought that he was some ‘drunken, violent, poor, lazy, shady Black Irish Catholic immigrant’.

I agree with Ryan Coogler and Jack O’Connell that Remmick is not a racist - meaning that Remmick himself does not hold racist beliefs or intentions. But he is incapable of communicating that, and his racist actions were done out of complete ignorance rather than malice - and in my experience, people who hurt you out of ignorance hurts more than when they hurt you out of malice.

It’s his racial ignorance that prevents him from getting what he actually wanted, which was community and access to his ancestors. He is genuinely offended when Smoke asks if he’s a Klansmen, sputtering on about “we believe in equality”, as if there weren’t two former Klansmen behind him - with no sense of irony or self awareness. Smoke had a good reason for not letting them in (because Smoke is actually aware of what year it is, and wanted to prioritize the safety of his Black and Asian customers), but Remmick Genuinely Does Not Understand why he’s not allowed in their space because he’s an “I don’t see color” kind of guy.

After the jig is up and his actions have caused the deaths of Mary, Stack, Cornbread, Bo and several others, he’s like “Actually, I just wanted Sammie this whole time, if you give me him I’ll leave y’all alone” as if Sammie’s family and the other remaining survivors would have let him take his pick of the litter, after killing several of their friends and family. (Which makes me wonder how he’d have behaved had he been allowed inside if he only wanted Sammie, how long was hunting Sammie going to go on for? Was he determined to pounce on him that night or would he have waited? And according to Annie’s dialogue, vampirism cuts off a soul from their ancestors, meaning that Sammie would have lost his gift had he been turned, meaning that all of this was for fucking nothing. Is Remmick just Stupid??)

This is when he chooses to drop the fact that the Klan lied to the twins and were going to kill them all in the morning, when he could have told them this sooner and earned their trust. He could have even made a deal with them, be open about his vampirism instead of being deceptive - he takes care of the Klan in the Delta for them and he in return gets actual friends that he didn’t strongarm into his BORG collective who won’t turn him over to the Choctaw. He and Annie could’ve gone Interview with a Vampire and document their shared histories. Sammie might have actually been willing to share his music with him, if Remmick didn’t Insist on ‘saving’ everyone through vampirism.

Which is where his racist actions (unrelated to his belief that he is Entitled to Sammie’s music and healing powers because of his own racial trauma and centuries of solitude) come into play - Remmick unironically believes that he is Post Racial Vampire Jesus. I don’t think he’s ancient enough to experience when Christianity first came to Ireland - when he prayed with Sammie and said he hated the man who taught him the Lord’s Prayer, they were praying in English. He might have already been Christian but originally spoke Gaeilge until the English took his family’s land.

It’s his forceful baptism of Sammie and one thing he says in his Irish accent that makes me believe that he was always a Christian - he says something along the lines of “that there would be no difference between man and woman” in his vampire hivemind. Paul in Galatians 3:28 says, “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus”.

Remmick also creates his vampire hivemind, starting with Joan and Burt (his Adam and Eve) in his own image like in Genesis 1:27, “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them."

Because he believes he’s Post Racial Vampire Jesus, he has created a social hierarchy among the primarily Black people he has forcefully converted to Vampirism - which means his spiels on equality were always bullshit, and he is Completely Unaware of his Hypocrisy. He has No Idea he’s acting like the English who stole his land and forced him to speak a foreign language. He has No Idea he’s behaving like Sammie’s father, quoting prayers and alluding to Bible verses to force Sammie to submit to his point of view.

He has no sense of self awareness, his racial blindness is his fatal flaw - that is why he’s an effective villain.

[ladymarvel27]

A minor incident | Max Verstappen

Max Verstappen x journalist!Reader

Description: You lost your precious necklace.

Word Count: 700+

f1 masterlist

She rushed to the Red Bull garage with a thick bundle of papers in her hand only to strongly bump into one and only, du-du-du-ru, Max Verstappen. “I am sorry,” he chuckles as he helps her pick up the paper

“No, I am sorry,” she says as she hastily collects all the papers from the ground. His eyes landed on her necklace, “Your necklace is pretty.” Her fingers lightly brush the small necklace as she says a small “thank you,” and both of them leaves in rush.

In fact, the whole paddock was in rush. Thursdays are busy for the drivers, the PRs and her, the media.

Drivers had lined up for their interviews for each channel one by one. She had papers filled up with questions to ask for each of the drivers.

By the time the last driver, Max Verstappen arrived, she was exhausted, and so was he, asking and answering all these questions, mostly repetitive or silly.

She sighed in relief when the camera turned off and she could breathe. She was about to leave when Max brushed her shoulders lightly, making her turn around. “You’re not wearing you necklace?” He asks, pointing to his neck. She placed her hand on her collarbones to check for her necklace but didn’t felt it’s presence.

“It must have fell off when I bumped-” “Me,” he completed her sentence, “I am so sorry.”

“No-no-no, it’s clasp was already so loose,” she waves her hand, giving him assurance, “must have slipped off. I should go and check there.”

“I should help you search for it,” “You don’t have to, really,” “Oh, please let me help, you probably lost it in the red bull garage.” She shook her head, “You have a point.”

“Gosh, can’t find it!” She groaned, stepping up on the curb when she disbalanced, twisting her ankle. She was about to hit the ground when Max rushes to her side, “Whoa,” he immediately caught her and scooped her up his arms. She winced in pain.

“Are you fine?” She gritted her teeth, nodding slowly. “You’re not walking on that,” “Wait— you don’t have to—” she argues but Max tightened his grip around her. “I know I don’t have to,” he smirked. A wave of crimson washed over her face. She didn’t knew if it was from embarrassment or the way his arms felt around her.

Ten minutes later, she was sitting on a chair with leg propped on a chair, ice wrapped around her ankle. Yuki was hearing her talk through the sequence of events. “Are you fine now?” He asked.

“Yeah. But I lost my necklace.”

“Oh,” he says, giving, “Don’t worry, it was just a necklace. The important thing is you are fine.”

Her shoulders slumped, “It’s just…it was given by my mom.” Just then, Max entered.

“Hey Max,” Yuki spoke to him. Max waves at him and stands awkwardly. He rubs the back of his neck and spoke, “Yuki? Umm… Christian was looking for you.” "Take care," Yuki says to you and leaves.

“Where were you?” She asked. Max puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out her necklace. “Went looking for this.”

“Omg Max, you found it!” She exclaimed with a bright smile on her face. Seeing her happiness, Max chuckles and hand her the necklace.

“Thank you so much,” she chimed and take it from him. “You’re welcome. By the way, how’s your ankle?” “Much better than before.” They both look down on her ankle which was a little swollen from the sprain.

“Can you walk?” He asks. She nods slowly and tries standing up, limping lightly as she walks. He immediately rushes to her side. “I should drop you to hotel.”

“No Max, I can-” “No, you’re not going alone. I will make sure to drop you by entrance.”

“But-” “No buts, you aren’t going by yourself like this, not on my watch.”

He stops his car in front of her hotel. “How is it now?” He asks pointing to her ankle. “It’s a lot better than before. Thanks Max, you helped me so much,” she spoke unbuckling her seatbelt. “Take care,” he says. She comes out of his car and closes the door, “good night, Max.” He greets her ‘good night.’

Just when she is walking away, Max calls her name. She turns to see him rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks flushed, “I was wondering if…” he hesitates, the crimson washing over his cheeks, “you want to grab coffee tomorrow morning.” She smiles brightly, “Of course Max.” “Great then. See you tomorrow morning, good night.” She waves him, “See you, good night!” She chimes brightly as she slowly walks into hotel. Max drives away, with a big smile on his face.

Taglist: @ice-man-goes-bwoah @itsjustvs4

Seperators credits: @saradika-graphics

[gamesetart]

sweet 'n easy

Art thought dating you would be enough. He's content to have your heart, wait until marriage to have your body, too. But it's proving really difficult when you look like that.

tags: art donaldson x fem! reader, open relationship, guided masterbation, reader's kind of messy in this one (corruption), religious themes/corruption of religious themes. nsfw. minors DNI.

a/n: this is part of what im referring to as the open relationship au and im more than expecting to write more about this dynamic! im also very open to suggestions about it

Art Donaldson is a Good Christian Boy. He's a good, smart young man. He wears his thin silver purity ring on his left ring finger. He wears a delicate silver cross on a chain around his neck. He used to sing in the church choir, and now he spends his Sundays volunteering with the children's sector and frequenting church picnics. If it wasn't for tennis, he'd probably be a priest.

You're not right for him, and he knows it. Guys like him aren't made to marry girls like you - girls with low-cut tops that show off the top hem of your lacy electric purple bra. Girls who wear low, low-cut jeans with your matching purple thong hanging out the back. Girls with butterfly-shaped tattoos hovering on your lower back. Girls who spend weekends drinking and clubbing and dancing with absolutely no room for Jesus.

But there's just something about you. Maybe it's your attitude, the way your hand flies up in class whenever you know the answer to a question, the way you speak, with such clarity, such conviction. Maybe it's the way you walk with your friends across campus, beautiful and assertive, a pack of wild hounds. You're terrifying to him. A force of nature, a thunderstorm. Art's managed to get caught up in your jet stream, but it doesn't mean he's any less scared of falling out. You and all your hot, brash, party-girl friends. You and the 'bitch pack', as some of his friends have taken to calling you and yours. The sorority girl, frat party, dim clubs, bitch pack. Girls like you don't give guys like him the time of day: you're too pretty, too powerful, far too high up on an entirely different social ladder.

But you're different. You're sweet. He's watched you stop to pet stray kittens. He's seen you volunteering to donate blood at the campus blood drives. He's seen you stop to help a girl pick up her books even though you were already late to class. He's seen your notes in his biology lecture, your cute, bubbled handwriting and your array of gel pens. He's seen you buy an extra coffee at the campus cafe for a friend. People contain multitudes, or whatever, right?

So maybe it's no surprise when you end up paired up on an assignment and you bring him back to your dorm room. Maybe he shouldn't have been so stunned by the boy band posters and the stacks of fantasy novels and the stuffed bear sitting on your bed. Maybe he shouldn't have been thrown off by your framed pictures - family, friends - and your collection of Beatles CDs. Just a girl. A normal, nice girl. Who lays out all her notes for him, glances up with a sweet smile, and asks,

"Where d'you wanna start?"

He didn't mean for it to go any further than that. For the study visits to start happening at night, after dinner. For you to start blowing off club nights to curl up on your plush blue shag carpet next to art, pointing out lines of text and highlighting things with a bright pink marker. For you to start eating with him at lunch, talking about your lecture, laughing over some stupid thing your professor said or did. For him to start seeing you, really seeing you, and liking that you saw him, too. It happened before he even registered it. Somewhere, somehow, Art Donaldson fell in love.

It's different than how he felt with Tashi. This isn't that painful, all-consuming desire to please, to have her notice him, the obsession with the idea of her and her tennis. This feels sweeter, kinder. This feels like what he used to read about: fireworks in his heartbeat, butterflies in his stomach, the giddy thrill of First Love. A slower, ennobling sort of love.

If he had it his way, he'd date you. Flowers. Expensive dinners by candlelight. Picnics. The works. Court you for the four years you were at Stanford together, then propose once you graduated. Spend a few years engaged so he could do his tennis, make a good amount of his own money. Save until he could plan a dream wedding. Honeymoon somewhere pretty and exotic, like Bali or Punta Cana. Then the country house and the kids, the white picket fence. Except, Art doesn't really ever get things his way, does he?

"I... I don't know," you say slowly, digging your heels into your carpet. You can't meet his sad blue eyes. You can't bear to. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. It feels alien, even in your head.

He stares at you, crestfallen. Your heart plummets and you race for an explanation, for some way to explain this without blaming him. Because it's not Art at fault, it's his Faith.

"It's not that I don't like you!" you scramble. "I do, really, Art, I do. I just... a girl has... needs, you know? There are things I'd want that I can't ask you to give me. Things I can't take from you."

You both know what it is. You'd never ask him to give up on or waver in his faith for you. Never. You like Art how he is. But you know you'd be wanting. You know you can't wait until your wedding night.

"I... I'm just not the dating type, Art," you explain mournfully. "And you don't want to date a girl like me, anyway, trust me. You deserve someone nice."

"But... you are nice," Art says, and he really does look like you've just torn his heart out and stomped on it. It's horrible. It's awful. And you feel like a monster for doing it, but what can you do?

He doesn't have a solution until a full week later. He pretends (to you, and himself) that he came up with it all on his own, when in reality it was Patrick's idea. Patrick's suggestion, murmured over the phone in cloying low tones, luring him in like sailor to siren, bee to honey, moth to flame. Art, for all his cleverness, for all his ability to read Patrick like a book, could not see it. He trusted Patrick. He should have, he's sent Patrick some of your pictures, talked about you endlessly. But Patrick was on tour, far, far away, where he could do no harm. And Patrick was taken, as he was so keen to remind Art all the time.

"She doesn't have to fuck you, man," Patrick muses. "Date her. Be her good boy, be her fuckin' sweetheart. She can get dicked down with someone else."

"You're suggesting my girlfriend cheat on me?" Art laughs, and even saying it, my girlfriend, even in hypothetical, makes his heart do a flip.

He can practically picture Patrick's face, screwed up with a mixture of pity and disdain. Poor Art. "Nah, man. I'm suggesting an open relationship, you know? Let her fuck who she wants, she's gonna come home to you."

The conviction in Patrick's voice makes Art's heart somersault. Because there's something about that idea that makes his pulse quicken. Patrick's right. You'll come home to him, your heart - the thing that really matters - will be his. He doesn't like the possessive thing that curls up in his chest and purrs at the idea. But he doesn't fight it.

"What if you didn't have to wait with me?" Art asks.

He's twirling a highlighter over his fingers. Cross-legged on your plush duvet, working at a piece of spearmint chewing gum. Gum you'd offered him, gum that you now kept a small stash of in your desk drawer for evenings just like this. The project you'd been paired up on was long over, the proud 96% sitting in your Stanford grading inbox. Now you're just regular homework buddies. Art sought you out for homework he missed because he was at practice and lecture notes he didn't get. You don't mind. You enjoy it, actually. You just wish you could give him more. Hate that you couldn't be what he deserved. It almost feels like leading him on, when he sits with you until the wee hours, sharing diagrams and passing your textbook back and forth. When he brings you your morning coffee before class, or you bring sandwiches and Gatorade to his practices.

Except now, apparently, he has a solution.

"What?" you ask, blinking at him. "What d'you mean?"

Art flushes. Soft pink. Mostly around the ears, you've noticed, red against the gentle gold of his curls. Evening rose.

"I mean, what if..." he looks away. "You know. You went out with me. Dated me. But you could... 'hook up' with other people when you needed to."

You stare at him. Dumbfounded. Art Donaldson. Is sitting on your bed, asking you for an open relationship? Are you dreaming? Has the world suddenly gone mad? Did you go to bed last night and wake up in an alternate dimesion?

"You... are you suggesting... what I think you're suggesting?" you ask faintly.

He nods, ears burning a truly impressive shade of crimson. You suppose you should be flattered, really, the lengths he's going to date you. Most guys would have given up by now, egos bruised, feelings hurt, hearts shattered. And with most guys, you would have been firmer, clearer, colder. Meaner. But Art isn't most guys. Art is sweet.

"I-- shit, Art, wouldn't you rather just date some other girl like you?" you say helplessly.

"I don't want another girl, I want you," he replies plainly. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like there's no other answer.

And that's all it takes for you to agree. It's impossible to say no to those baby doll eyes. The two of you set ground rules - you don't tell him who or where or how, just that it happened. He doesn't ask you any questions. No one leaves you any marks. Immediate friends, such as Art's tennis circle and his church friends, are off limits. And that's that. He's your boyfriend now.

Art thought it would suffice. He likes being with you. Holding your hand while you walk to class. Seeing you in the stands when he plays a match. Chaste little pecks here and there. But you're like a pit of quicksand, a hurricane. You draw him in quicker than he thought possible, and now he can't breathe, can't think, can't move. The corruption is slow, certain, and inescapable.

He starts to find himself wanting more.

A kiss in his dorm room that deepens instead of stops, one hand cupping your jaw, the other floating to rest on the small of your back, above the waist of your low jeans, on the warm, bare skin there. A glance that feels more than affectionate, his eyes roving over your collarbone, the glint of your skin in the sun, the line of your bra beneath your sheer, tight shirt. He sees you smile at another guy and a hot flash of jealousy surges through him as he wonders if this is one of the guys you're fucking, if that guy, that random piece of shit, gets to touch you, see you, feel you. He tamps it down, and it feels too little, too late.

You'd be a fool not to notice. Stupid, not to feel the press of his hard-on when he hugs you from behind. Not to sense the shift in the way he kisses you, tongue slipping past your lips, hands sliding down further than they usually do. He plays it off, always. An accident. The heat of the moment. But you know. And because you're weak, because you're a terrible person, because ruining Art Donaldson is the most beautiful thing to ever happen to you, you let him.

"Art, do you ever touch yourself?"

He falls off his chair in his hurry to spin around and look at you. From the floor of your dorm, he stares with wide blue eyes and pink cheeks. "Wha--"

You shrug. "You know. Do you ever..." you make a crude gesture with your hand, and he buries his face up to his nose in his collar.

"No," he says, muffled into his tee shirt. "It's sinful."

It takes every fibre of your being not to laugh. He's so precious, so pure, sometimes you wonder why a guy like him could ever be interested in you at all. Your looks are one thing - you know you're hot. But Art likes you. He likes you even when he can't fuck you. He liked you even when you told him you wouldn't date him. He likes you because you're you. Which makes you feel a little shitty about what you do next, but you can't help it.

"So, what, when you're hard, what do you do?" you press casually. "Send up a Hail Mary and wait?"

Art's ears, which peek out over his shirt collar, are so red they could have been on fire. He shakes his head, a little frantically. He flushes easily, you notice, blood flowing quickly whenever he's even mildly embarrassed. It conjures images of his cock, whatever it might look like, red and aching with need. And you feel a lot less bad, the mental image of Art's dick fuelling the way you lean over, sliding off your chair to join him on the floor. You kneel, hands resting on your knees, and you know he's getting an eyeful of your tits. You keep your eyes on his face.

"Show me," you murmur. "I won't touch you. I won't even touch myself. I just wanna see."

He stares at you like you've asked him for his social security number and all his credit card info. Which, honestly, he probably would have given up a little easier. And you're an awful person, because you know the effect you've had on him, especially these days, you know that Art will probably do anything you ask of him, just for the pleasure of pleasing you.

"Please?" you wheedle, cocking your head to one side lightly, staring up at him through your lashes.

And, really, how could he say no to that?

"I-- okay," he says, and he tries to pretend like he's relenting a lot more than he actually is. Pretends like he's doing you a huge favour, as if his cock isn't straining at the mere idea.

Art doesn't jerk off often. He's only ever used his hand once - the single time Patrick showed him. After that, he'd cried in the bathroom and washed his hands so many times he got a contact allergy. But he's figured out an alternative. One that doesn't involve him touching himself at all. So he slides off his sweats, all too aware of your steady eyes on him. You look at him like you've never seen legs before, as if you haven't seen him at a thousand practices. You look at him like you want to eat him.

He tries to tell himself that's not what's making his cock throb in his boxers. He keeps those on, more for his sake than yours.

"You can lie on my bed," you offer innocently.

Art almost moans. Because it's your bed. Because it's yours, and when he lies down it's almost like lying with you. When he buries his face in the pillow, he can smell you, your vanilla and roses body wash, and, beneath it, the gentle smell of you. It's your sheets he starts to cant into, hips rolling in a familiar motion as he starts to work away the desperate pressure in his cock. It's your pillow he bites in a futile attempt to muffle his moans. And when he looks up, eyes half-lidded, he can see you watching him. You're biting your lip, looking flustered, and it's the cutest he's ever seen you, and he moans your name without meaning you.

You keep your promise, hands folded neatly in you lap as you watch Art rut into your bed like a wild animal, like he's in fucking heat, like your sheets are a person and he's fucking it. Like your sheets are you, you realise, as his eyes meet yours and he whines your name. He's pretending he's fucking you. It's hard not to give up and shove one hand into your panties, but for his sake, you try. Art's moans are almost musical, and with a sharp slap of embarrassment, you're reminded of the sounds he makes when he hits the ball at practice. The same whining grunts of exertion, except now they're fuelled by pleasure, spurred on by the desperate grind of his hips into your sheets, not a fucking tennis ball.

"Oh, oh, fuck," Art's voice gets a little higher. "Oh, fuck, it's so good--"

You can feel yourself soaking through your panties, and you shift slightly. His movements grow a little more erratic, hands balling up into white-knuckled fists into the soft fabric of your sheets. You drink it all in while you can - his ears are red, his cheeks are pink. You follow the curve of his ass in his boxers. You stare at the muscles in his thighs. The bones of his hips.

Art gets breathy when he's about to cum. Breathy, very whiny, almost crying if you're being honest. You file that information away for later.

"Please, please, can I?" he gasps, staring up at you with pupils blown wide with lust. "Can I cum, please, fuck, need it, need it-- you-- fuck, please?"

It's surprising he can even string together a full sentence. "Of course, baby," you murmur, already resolved to not changing your sheets until after you've cum in them too.

Another nugget of information: Art favours a deep grind when he cums, like he's looking for a place to put it, to bury it, looking to breed, to mark, to keep. The sight of him pushing his hips as far into your mattress as he can before he cums, a cry of your name and a shuddering breath slipping from his lips, will probably fuel your nighttime ventures for the next few weeks. You'll use it when you find your next hook up, it'll probably send you right over the edge.

You don't know when you started thinking of Art while you fucked other guys. You just know that now, it's tricky to get off without it. It's hard enough biting your tongue so you avoid saying his name. Now, you'll have the image of his face when he cums locked in your brain forever.

"Shit," Art curses, still breathless, sitting up to examine the sticky mess soaking from the front of his gingham boxers, all the way into your sheets. "Sorry."

You just shake your head. "Don't worry about it. That was... really hot. That's actually how you get yourself off?"

He nods, embarrassed. When he shuffles off to shower, borrowing your shower caddy and a towel, you wait until your door click, and then you practically rip open your nightstand. It takes less than ten minutes with a vibrator and the memory of Art's voice moaning your name for you to add your cum to his. You imagine his hips fucking into you, not your sheets. You imagine pulling his stupid fucking purity ring off and wearing it like some fucked-up engagement ring. His hands are so big, you'd probably have to wear it on your thumb. His hands. You imagine them grabbing you, holding you, sliding up your skin. You wonder what it would be like to have him revere you, not his God. Worship you. You want him to, you think. The idea of him shattering every promise he's ever made, just to be inside you? It sends you over the edge with a muffled cry of his name.

It's that feeling, that messy need for him, that drives you to that frat party. You told him, obviously, and while he seemed sort of put-off when you mentioned you were probably going to sleep with someone, he told you it was okay. Told you to be safe.

You wish you could tell him, but you're worried it'll scare him off. Don't worry, Art, every guy I fuck, I pretend he's you. And now I'll have the knowledge of exactly what you look and sound like when you cum to help me out! Not exactly girlfriend material.

Still, you're thinking of Art when your eyes land on a boy playing beer pong. He's tall, all messy black curls and tanned skin. Handsome, too, if you're being honest, in a messy, frat boy-y kind of way. Hook up hot. You're thinking of Art when he waves you over, holding up a beer like it's a peace offering. You're thinking of Art when you give him your name and ask for his.

"Patrick," he tells you easily. "Patrick Zweig."

[aroaceleovaldez]

i need more of chb doing just average summer camp activities so here are a couple of thoughts:

Water balloon toss. the real thrill is whenever one of the water balloons break the campers have to scramble to pick up all the little bits of balloon before the nymphs turn up to kick their butts about it.

Perler beads! Give me campers just chilling while like Jake or Nyssa or one of the other older Hephaestus kids chaperoning and being in charge of the iron. Will is on stand-by in case somebody burns themself but he's just chillin' too. Nico has claimed the cup of glow-in-the-dark beads. Leo is trying to make a 3D figure by melting the sides of the beads together with his bare hands.

They canonically hand-paint the camp beads every year! I wanna know what that's like! Is it an everybody thing or just the counselors? Do people end up with really wonky beads. Do some campers just go rogue and end up with completely different beads. These are the questions i need answered.

Do you think they had to learn line dancing. or square dancing. Seriously just take your pick of one of the cabin counselors having to teach everybody a line dance of your choice. Entire Ares cabin very seriously doing the cha-cha slide.

Various games. We know they have basketball and volleyball. Do they play cornhole? Pickleball? Dodgeball?

Any water/swimming games. Marco polo must be wild when there are the lake nymphs around.

CAMP SONGS. i know this one is canon but we don't talk about it enough. They have their own silly songs. We know the titles of a couple from the books, Nico revealed a whole verse of one in CHB:C, and the musical of course gave us two. We should come up with more. My vote is Going On A Bear Monster Hunt is one.

Honorary mention to the fact that CHB is directly inspired by a real catholic summer camp Rick used to work at (Camp Capers) and they would play a game called Romans versus Christians and i think CHB should have something similar. The cabin counselors should absolutely get the opportunity to wail on their siblings with pool noodles. This is standard sibling practice regardless, give them a good opportunity for it.

Also on the topic of wailing each other with pool noodles: Paint war. Just buckets of paint and pool noodles as weapons. Dip the pool noodle in paint and wail on each other and you get a cool custom t-shirt out of it (from the paint stains from being wailed on). Whoever's in charge of the paint buckets sometimes just upends them over people. It's great. How many people have chb t-shirts covered in paint splatters and handprints. This is the type of stuff I wanna see.

[stargirlygirl]

a vampire's heart

vampire!zayne x f!reader

⭑.ᐟ collab with @heartyluv

summary: zayne chose to exist for eternity so he could research the death of his beloved bride. but what happens when his bride is reincarnated 600 years later and shows up as his new medical intern?

contains: nsfw, mostly historically accurate (1840s), gore (anatomical dissections + surgery), zayne's having a religious crisis (christianity), reader doesn't remember zayne, swearing, zayne (kinda) loses control, reader vomits once, 14.5k words

moodboard ⟶ fic

Coming up...

“Is there some affliction you are experiencing, Zayne? If so, you don’t have to keep it from me,” you respond, your voice delicate and attempting to calm the raging storm you sense brewing beneath the surface.

He scoffs, “Keep it from you?” Shifting to face you now, he glares down at you and mutters, “What is there to hide when you are my affliction?” The vampire inches closer, his eyes shining; it appears unnatural.

You shudder as he continues, “Is our reunion by God’s hand? Does He intend to salt the wound He inflicted on me centuries ago?”

But first...

Welcome to the 1840s. I’m your host, Star Girl, and allow me to orientate you in this world. Please fasten your seatbelts as we journey back to the time of no sewage systems, cramped urban living, and poor hygiene.

Key attractions of our destination include:

operating theatres were called ‘theatres’ because an audience watched the surgery

in the 1840s, anaesthetics were introduced in two forms: ether and chloroform, the latter of which became widespread in the following decades

miasma theory had not been disproved yet ⟶ by miasma theory, the cause of disease was from ‘bad air’ (miasma) sent by God to punish humans for their misbehaviour

surgeries, before anaesthetics, prioritised minimising patient suffering over precision

surgeons did not wash their hands or change their clothes before or between surgeries

operating theatres were never cleaned

bloodletting was widely practised from ancient times until the late 19th century

the average mortality rate of surgery was 80% ⟶ Robert Liston once amputated a leg in less than 2.5 minutes; the procedure killed the patient and Liston’s assistant from infection, and a witness died from shock

cemeteries were popular for strolls and picnics in the 19th century, functioning as a public park does nowadays

This fic embraces most of these characteristics, while suggesting that our lead, Dr Li, has some knowledge of future scientific advancements. For the surgery, I used the operating theatre setting and pulled the rest out of my ass😁

Zayne dips his hands into a bowl of chlorinated lime. Cupping his palm, he sloshes it up to his forearm and repeats the process on his other arm. He stares out the window, overlooking the medical school’s cemetery.

The sun is distilled by fluffy clouds, painting the landscape white. There’s frost lining the windowsill, a testament to the snow sticking to the headstones. Pure flecks drift from the heavens, leftovers from last night’s blizzard.

Those hazel eyes—their shine long extinguished—see, but they don’t see. What is another day when you will exist for eternity?

The solution splashes over the rims of the bowl, and Zayne’s head immediately snaps down to his submerged forearms. Taking them out, he dries himself off and turns around. He’s alone in the examination room, except for the body lying on his table, that is.

An unwilling cadaver, how unfortunate yet common for criminals. The doctor picks up the crumpled piece of paper that came with his specimen.

Name: Mr Walter Clark Born: 1809 Crime: Stole four sheep

Zayne sets the paper on the bench behind him before grabbing a scalpel. He drives the sharp blade into the centre of the deceased’s chest and drags it down to the navel. The stench of blood is overwhelming, yet the doctor’s thirst is kept on a tight leash.

He may no longer be human, but he is not so beastly as to drink from his specimens.

Mr Clark’s eyes—bloodshot and very much open—seemingly gaze up at Zayne as he leans over and rips the criminal’s skin back with his bare hands. Pale skin is tainted by crimson blood; a familiar sight.

The doctor grabs his chained hooks and hooks back the cadaver’s hanging skin and muscles. He then takes a hammer to Mr Clark’s sternum and shatters the ribcage—it’s in his way. What Zayne is most interested in lies beneath.

The heart.

Zayne couldn’t care less for the afflictions of man if they did not bring him closer to you. You who were fated to pass from some ailment the night before your wedding all those years ago. The coroner had deemed that your death was by miasma.

Ah, yes, miasma. The infamous, brutal killer of millions throughout history until the work of John Snow and Louis Pasteur proved otherwise in the 1850s. Only… a few years from now.

If there is one thing Zayne couldn’t believe in—besides God—it was the concept of miasma. Perhaps because it was divined. Perhaps because it didn’t make practical sense in hindsight. Likely both.

The doctor closes his eyes, the world going black as his hands soak up his specimen’s blood. Zayne casts his mind back to those fateful few weeks before your demise, when you had claimed you were experiencing frequent chest discomfort and nausea. You had even vomited from it at times.

He was sceptical but remained calm for you. He was your support until the very end, and held you when an affliction of the heart struck. What affliction? That’s why Zayne is here. He’s determined to discover the cause of your death, even if it will never bring you back. That’s why he agreed to this… condition.

It was a simple trade. His humanity for inhumanity. Without his beloved bride, how could Zayne live on? He couldn’t. So he chose to exist instead.

The vampire sighs, his nostrils flaring as blood curls the short hairs. His eyes snap open, and he returns to examining Mr Clark’s chest cavity. The criminal’s heart looks the same as many other hearts Zayne has seen. No scarring, ruptures, or enlargement. Perfectly normal.

What a waste.

Greyson, his second-in-command, often reprimands the doctor for not spending more time dissecting the cadavers. Zayne is leading the advancement of Europe’s scientific understanding. The vampire did initially, and still does sometimes. But Zayne also isn’t going to let another minute of his prolonged existence slip by if it is filled with useless productivity.

He heads back to the chlorinated lime and washes himself off again. Greyson will be disappointed that he’s already finished up with this cadaver, especially since a new intern is starting today. Zayne was briefed on their arrival last night, long after office hours. Just another young medical student hoping to save lives.

A slight smile tugs at the vampire’s lips—his eyes as lifeless as the snowy cemetery outside. Many aspiring doctors’ dreams have been crushed under his watchful eye and careful instruction. So too shall this new intern’s be.

It’s for the best, really. Demand for cadavers is high enough already. Preventing new anatomists prevents the monarchy from introducing new hangings for minor crimes. And Europe has Zayne and other surgeons to bring about the Enlightenment.

Crushing dreams is the ethical thing to do in this situation, right?

Zayne catches Greyson’s familiar scent and hears his steady heartbeat thrumming down the hall. His footsteps echo, accompanied by a lighter pair. His accomplice’s scent is… Jasmine? And their heart beats rather quickly. Nerves? Or something else?

Zayne’s still stuck on who-must-be-the-new-intern’s smell. Fresh jasmine, fragrant and soft. It reminds him of the jasmines he laid you to rest with centuries ago. He sniffs the air like some dog, his senses piqued in ways they haven’t been in years.

The door bursts open at the same time Zayne removes his clean hands from the chlorinated lime and wipes them off on a nearby rag.

Greyson announces, “Dr Li, this is Miss L/n. She is your new medical assistant.” Zayne sets the damp cloth on the bench and slowly pivots.

For the first time in over 600 years, Zayne’s green eyes brighten as they trail over you. Perfect. Completely, utterly perfect. Maybe God does exist, because in some cruel card He’s dealt Zayne, you’ve been returned to him.

Your cheeks are filled with that rosy liveliness, and you’re playing with your necklace—the one he made for you as a wedding gift, Zayne notices—out of nervous habit. You gnaw on your lower lip, anxious under his scrutinising gaze as the doctor commits you to memory and weighs you up against his past bride.

“Uh, well, I will leave you two to become acquainted,” Greyson says, desperate to leave this awkward atmosphere behind. He darts to the door, but before he can exit, Zayne calls his name. Greyson rounds on his heel, waiting for his superior’s instruction.

The head doctor gestures to the cadaver and says boredly, “I’m finished. Have the next brought in.”

“Yes, Dr Li,” the second in-charge agrees before heading off.

You stand there, staring at this man you swear you’ve met before. But that’s silly. Of course, you haven’t met before! You’re not even from these urban parts. But his voice is like a distant dream, and those eyes have peered at you in the dark, you’re sure of it.

Zayne turns his attention to you and addresses you coldly, “Wash your hands.” Your eyes widen, a million thoughts racing in your head as you grapple with his three simple words.

“Sorry?” You ask while shaking your head, trying to calm your buzzing mind.

Fuck. You sound exactly the same, too. If Zayne were in another universe—a universe where you remembered him—then he would have run to you and twirled you around his arms and kissed you until you begged for mercy. His sweet woman walks this Earth once more, and as of this moment, the vampire resolves to keep you here by any means necessary.

“I said, wash your hands. You will not examine a body with me if you do not do so,” he states as if it’s the norm.

You challenge him without a second thought, “Why? No one washes their hands to examine cadavers. Surgeons don’t even wash their hands before performing surgery.”

He mumbles, so quick and quiet you barely register that he spoke at all, “Mouthy as always.” It dawns upon you, seeing the rapid movement of his lips, that you may have just lost your position before you even began

“I mean—”

Zayne cuts you off, “If you are to work under me, then you must follow my instructions. And I instruct you to wash your hands before and after any dissections or procedures. Is that clear?” His voice is reminiscent of the bone-chilling winds outside. You nod and quickly move around the table, not even looking at the open body as you come up to the doctor.

He slides the bowl over to you, the blood-ridden water oscillating as you stare at it.

You ask, confused, “Will this not make things worse?”

Zayne counters, “How many times must I ask you to wash your hands, Miss L/n?” His jaw tenses as you gaze at him for a moment too long.

You hastily apologise, “Right, okay, sorry. Sorry, Dr Li. I’m washing my hands now.” You push up your sleeves and seemingly struggle with such a simple task.

The vampire backs away from you as you fuss with the cuffs of your newly given coat. It’s been worn by almost every intern Zayne’s had since joining Oxford’s most prestigious medical school. It reeks of bleach—Zayne’s special touch to the washing load—and your sweet scent.

He nearly smiles upon observing how big it is on you. The shoulders are far too prominent, and the hem hangs by your clothed calves. How cute. Desire overcomes him to roll up the sleeves for you, but you’re a big girl, and you get it eventually. He watches as you dunk your hands in the bloodied water and frantically rub your hands together.

Your heart is beating even faster; it pounds in Zayne’s ears. His sharp eyes pick up on sweat rolling down the side of your neck, right near your hairline, to below the collar. He’s so ravenous for you, he could lap it up and be satisfied.

But satisfaction is an interesting concept, especially for a man who is doomed to exist for eternity. Sure, his thirst can be tamed. But quenched? That’s something entirely different.

The vampire revises his statement: he’s so ravenous for you, he could lap it up and be momentarily content.

You remove your hands from the water and reach over to grab the cloth next to Zayne. He flinches on instinct, your body far too warm and close.

“Sorry,” you mutter as you wipe your palms.

The doctor shakes his head slightly and sighs, “No. You must wash your hands properly. Have you never been taught how to wash your hands?” Your eyes go wide, your brows lift, and your lips part from your shock.

You stutter, “O-of course—”

“Then wash them again, to the elbow this time,” he demands. A small, exasperated ‘ah’ escapes your lips as you stare at him.

Zayne clarifies, “That was not in jest.”

“I… I didn’t say it was,” you huff frustratedly while chucking the rag down and scrubbing your forearms in the solution. A micro smile ghosts his lips for a split second, unnoticed by your human eyes.

The vampire murmurs, “But you thought it.” He doesn’t need to read minds to know what you were thinking. And from the way you scoff and grumble to yourself, he knows he was right. How couldn’t he be right? Zayne is the man who loves you with every fibre of his being. Who defied death to spend forever investigating yours.

However, now that you’re back, that does complicate things.

As you’re wiping your hands for the second time, the door slams open. An assistant wheels in a fresh body for you two to examine. Zayne removes his hooks and other tools from Mr Clark’s corpse before approving the dissected body’s removal. The doctor helps the assistant set up the next specimen on the table; a 28-year-old Mrs Sarah Baker, who was hanged for robbing a brothel.

Once the door shuts, you pad over and ask, “So, what do you want me to do, Dr Li?” Placing down his freshly cleaned tools, Zayne glances at you over his shoulder.

“First, don’t come so close to me. Second, move to the other side of the table. I will delegate as we proceed with the dissection,” he orders sternly. Is it some cosmic force drawing you two together, or do you still lack the concept of spatial awareness? At least when it comes to your vampiric lover. Zayne chalks it up to a third option: jitters.

The doctor slices through the deceased’s chest and abdomen with the same, controlled, brute force as he usually does. You wince as blood pools out. Dear Lord, she’s fresh.

You breathe out, “Jesus Christ,” as Zayne rips back the skin. His hazel eyes flicker to you, burning like an emerald flame as he hands you his set of chained hooks.

“Right,” you say while accepting them from him. It’s taking everything within you not to hurl your breakfast up as you help Zayne hook the cadaver’s flesh back.

You’re not very good with blood. And organs. Especially not when they’re threatening to spill out of a corpse who likely died not even a day ago. Zayne examines the colour draining from your face as you examine the red staining your hands.

Being a medical student from a rural town, you’ve never done anything of this magnitude before. The furthest you’ve gotten is some rats, seeing as how valuable sheep are. And even then, they were dead dead before you cracked ‘em open.

The doctor asks, “Why were you selected for this role?” You look up at him and find his shrewd gaze trained on you.

Coherency flies out the window as you sputter, “O-oh, me?” He averts his eyes and shakes his head lightly, amused by your sudden cluelessness. Still the same, he tells himself.

“Who else would I be asking, Miss Intern? Surely not the deceased.” You scream at yourself to get a fucking grip. It’s been how long, and you’ve already made how many mistakes?

As Zayne grabs his hammer, you ramble, “Well, uh, the Oxford team was looking for diversity, and I’m, uh, the only female candidate who applied so…” Bang! Bang! Mrs Baker’s ribcage shatters into tiny, blood-soaked fragments.

“I see,” the doctor replies as he begins removing the larger fragments. You start picking up the pieces as well, careful not to injure yourself as you drop the bones in a nearby bowl. The deceased’s lungs and heart are bare and oh-so-gooey. You take shallower breaths as the smell of blood licks tendrils up your nose.

You’re feeling a bit light-headed as you observe the doctor use a smaller scalpel and cut the pulmonary artery. This queasy feeling rises in your tummy, bile bubbling up your oesophagus, but you will it to go down. You beg it to go down.

Zayne’s halfway through slicing the pulmonary vein when he removes his blade and gazes at you. His eyes narrow.

He announces, “You’re about to vomit.” You shake your head and go to put your hand on your mouth, but it’s covered in blood. Blood that 1) isn’t yours and 2) is terribly pungent. The time you have left until you throw up just decreased by approximately 43 seconds.

“I’m not,” you say, your voice strained as you look away from the oozing body in front of you. Zayne grabs an empty bowl for holding organs and passes it to you.

“I’m—” Fine. You close your mouth immediately and take the bowl. Stepping away from the table, you start walking to the corner of the room. But you don’t make it that far before you’re doubling over and drawing on the power of prayer to not vomit in front of the only surgeon in Europe with a 60% mortality rate.

Behind you, Zayne cleans off his hands and grabs a chair. He sets it down beside you and guides you to sit down. If it weren’t for the ongoing war between your tummy and your brain, you would have noticed how freezing his hand is; the temperature is comparable to the powder blanketing the town.

The vampire is grateful that you don’t flinch. But he’s not enthralled about the reason why. You’ve only just reunited, and this is how the first hour goes down. With him by your side as you inevitably bring up and pour forth the contents of your stomach.

Your hair is tied up, which means Zayne doesn’t have to get closer and hold your hair back. But it also means that he has no real business being this near to you at all, except to watch you throw up with a stoic expression on his face.

On the inside, he’s torn between tallying up enduring similarities of his bride, and empathising with the current you.

Vampires aren’t very good at human emotions, the doctor has come to learn. Vampiric emotions are very intense and driven by instinct (bloodlust). Yet, he has heard rumours of the undead who feel love and stay with their soulmate for a lifetime.

Is this what Zayne feels, then? Overwhelming love and relief that, in light of your spew, you are indeed the woman he’s been surviving for all of these years? That must be it.

In a rare display of affection–an inappropriate one, perhaps given how he’s a mere boss to you–he pats your back as you spit out the last little chunks.

“Ugh,” you groan, about to wipe your mouth when Zayne grabs your arm. Now, you feel his searingly icy touch. You sigh, the cold a relief from the heat bursting all over your body. He pulls out a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wipes up your swollen lips. You turn your head and gaze at him as he does, your glassy eyes fracturing his smooth, angular features.

Blinking, tears roll down your cheeks as you reckon he’s been carved from stone; he looks so ethereal. Zayne folds his handkerchief and pats your tears dry. Then, he takes the befouled bowl from your sweaty palms and places the little cloth in your hands.

He orders you to, “Go clean up. Washroom is at the end of the hall on the left, and there’s fresh water at the nurse’s station. Don’t return here. Instead, see Greyson for our new orders.”

“Dr Li,” you croak out, spiritually prepared to challenge him, but physically exhausted from what just happened.

He nods firmly, “Go now.” Pressing your lips together, you hum in agreement and reluctantly leave the examination room. You do as you’re told and find Greyson with the medical assistants once you’re feeling better. He informs you’ll be staying with the nurses for the remainder of your shift, as per Dr Li’s instructions.

You accept your new duties (not like you could refuse), feeling embarrassed and disheartened. Greyson pats your shoulder upon seeing how they slump and reassures you that it happens to everyone.

For the rest of the day, you help the nurses with sweeping the floor and cleaning the dining areas. It’s domestic labour—a reminder that you’re a woman and this is the 19th century.

Leaving for the day, you walk down the snowy drive, hoping to be of greater use to Dr Li tomorrow.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

For the first month of your three-month placement, you’re stuck with the nurses. Every time you catch a glimpse of Dr Li, he’s rounding a corner, seemingly going about his day.

You try to visit him after your shifts, but you’re always sent on your merry way by Greyson. He says that you need to rest, direct orders from his superior, of course. But instead of professional concern, it sounds like Dr Li is avoiding you.

Just last week, you had entered the staff dining room for lunch when the stoic doctor was sitting at the back, by the window. Before you could approach him, however, he stood up abruptly and stalked past you, meeting your eyes for a mere moment. And at that moment, his gaze was harsh. It sent chills running up your spine, paired with the gust of cold air that whipped you as he passed by.

Since then, you’ve seen him even less. He’s like a ghost roaming these halls, existing in the examination room you’re barred from entering without special permission.

When you ask Greyson if Dr Li’s behaviour is… typical, the kind second-in-command tells you that his superior has been terribly busy, given a recent local disease outbreak. Greyson reminds you to be wary and keep yourself safe when going out into town, seeing how easily sickness spreads during winter.

Today, you walk into the medical school feeling apathetic about another day of dish washing and snow shovelling awaiting you. Imagine your surprise when Greyson greets you with urgent news.

“Dr Li’s surgical assistant has contracted the illness spreading around. He’s requested your aid in today’s surgeries.” Your heart skips an anxious beat.

You sputter, “S-sorry? Dr Li requested me?”

Greyson nods, “Yes. Surgeries will take place in the school’s operating theatre on the ground floor. The first is an arm amputation.” He tilts his head and gestures for you to follow him.

With rushed footsteps and quick breaths, you pace down the hall with Greyson as he continues explaining, “You’ll be responsible for managing the surgical tools. In other words, if Dr Li needs a scalpel, promptly hand him a scalpel.” He leads you into the dressing room and tells you to take off the bulky coat you’ve been wearing since day one, as it’ll get in the way.

Tying a blood-stained apron around your waist, you admit, “I’ve never been in an operating theatre before.” Greyson whirls around and stares at you with wide eyes. His parted lips soon fade into a nervous laugh.

Drawing closer, he squeezes your shoulder and says, “I didn’t think so. Your application stated you work well under pressure. Dr Li will be interested to see how well you tolerate noise and copious amounts of blood as well.” He breezes past you and starts down the hall, leaving you momentarily shocked and confused before your senses catch up and you run after him.

Tolerating blood? You’re expecting that. But why would you need to tolerate noise, too? Surely, it’s going to be an orderly affair. You’re not expecting tense silence, but there should be relatively little chatter, seeing as a surgery will be taking place, right?

You wish.

Approaching the theatre, it sounds like you’re approaching a town fair rather than a surgical room. Greyson pushes the door open and gestures for you to enter first. Bunching up your apron and skirt anxiously, you slip past Greyson into the theatre.

Holy hell, if this wasn’t the devil’s kingdom. The operating theatre is huge, with multiple terraces and primarily men in suits crowding around the arch’s edges. Medical students and members of the public chat jovially, some rowdy youngsters shoving each other for a better view while older men burst out into aristocratic laughter.

Excitement is palpable in the stifling air, almost electrical as Greyson lightly nudges your shoulder. You gaze up at him with wild eyes, a primal fear residing there as it dawns upon you just what you’ve gotten yourself into. He wraps his fingers around your upper arm and leads you over to the operating table.

On it lies the patient—a young man around your age—clearly nervous as he waits for his amputation. Greyson lets go of you and joins Dr Li in setting up for the surgery. The man meets your gaze, and understanding passes through your eyes about your collective fear for what’s to come. He fears for his life, and you fear not only for his life, but for throwing up on him and passing out as he potentially bleeds out beneath you.

“Miss L/n, how long do you intend to make eyes with the patient?” That familiar, cold voice. Your head snaps up. Dr Li is staring down at you, his sharp, hazel eyes piercing through your minimal confidence. It feels like he’s stepping down on your ribcage, each rung creaking beneath his weight as you try to inhale.

You stutter, “I-I—”

“Wash your hands and prepare the tools,” he orders you. Snowy fingers dance gracefully over clean cloths. You watch as they encircle the patient’s wrist and position his arm distal to the torso. Your hands shake as you push up your sleeves and dip your hands in the nearby bowl of chlorinated lime. You scrub your skin more meticulously than on your first day. After drying your arms, you start unpacking the surgical tools kit according to your training.

Sweat drips down the back of your neck and slicks up your palms. You flinch as nearby students holler at their peer that just entered. The theatre’s cacophony ramps up your nerves, a current flowing through your body as you almost cut yourself on a sharp blade.

Dr Li and Greyson are speaking in hushed tones when you suddenly retort, “We weren’t making eyes.” Zayne shifts to look at you, his harsh gaze draining your strength like a leech slurping up your blood.

Maybe too much time had passed, and now you seem like a fool, attempting to regain a shred of dignity but losing whatever was left in the process.

You press on while avoiding the doctor’s stare, “He’s scared. And with all of these people here, I would be, too.” You hear Zayne sigh; the sound of disappointment laced with exhaustion.

“Whatever self-doubt you have, expel it now. You will not operate with fear,” the vampire mutters. You continue laying out the tools while breathing in for four, holding for two, and exhaling for another four.

It’s a trick someone taught you whenever your heart was beating too rapidly (so most of the time), but you can’t remember who or when. You just remember always counting your breaths whenever you become overwhelmed.

Usual effectiveness is around 30% calmer, but due to the menagerie surrounding you, effectiveness has dropped to approximately 4%.

Dr Li gives you a stern look, his vibrant hazel eyes holding yours for a moment before he addresses the patient.

“We will begin shortly.”

Turning to you, Zayne instructs, “Administer the belt.” He notices the trembling of your hands as you pick up the leather strap, fold it, and place it between the patient’s teeth.

Zayne exchanges a nod with Greyson before announcing to the crowd, “Take your seats, gentlemen. The surgery shall begin now.” His voice echoes throughout the room, commanding an authority that makes you shiver. The buzz dims for a few seconds, dropping to a constant hum that’s no less anxiety-inducing.

Pivoting around, the doctor says to you, “Saw.” You blink at him for a second, your mind whirring with a million questions. Are you really about to do this? Is Dr Li really about to cut this man’s arm off? Can you manage to not throw up during this procedure and subsequent procedures? Will these spectators shut up? Only the Lord knows.

You thrust the saw by its handle into Zayne’s outstretched hand. Tiny scars litter his silky skin and trail up his veiny forearms. Horror creeps into your features as Greyson holds the patient’s right arm down and Zayne positions the serrated blade just above the patient’s elbow.

Nothing can prepare you for what happens next.

Dr Li saws through flesh and bone in seconds until the patient’s forearm comes clean off. Blood gushes and splatters, marring the white cloths draped over the patient. His scream is muffled by the leather strap. Ivory, jagged bone amid a sea of crimson and ligaments hangs limply. Acid claws up your throat, burning your tongue as you taste the churn of your stomach and force it back down.

“Needle and thread,” Dr Li utters calmly, with his hand waiting. You’re shaking as you pick up the needle that has luckily been threaded up securely. The doctor takes it from your sweaty fingers brusquely.

Greyson staunches the blood, but it keeps on pouring. Like rain pattering on the window, drops colliding into others to carve new paths down the glass, so does the patient’s very essence drip onto the table. It conquers the wood and tips over the edge, rapidly pooling at Greyson’s feet; the sawdust is insufficient.

He steps back to allow Dr Li to stitch up the wound. You press a perspiring hand to your mouth, forcing back bile as you watch the doctor suture major blood vessels with nimble fingers. Like he’s done this over a hundred times for hundreds of years. His speed is almost inhuman, a blur before your eyes, yet the red has not ceased.

“Pass me the scalpel and chisel, L/n,” Greyson asks. You do so frantically, and your attention shifts to him cutting a rectangle in the boy’s former forearm like he’s shaping clay. With a chisel, Greyson forms something magnificent: a strip of slippery flesh.

You reach over and take the bloodied tools from him. Out of your periphery, you see Greyson wrap the detached skin and muscle around the site of the wound. You stumble on your feet after placing the chisel and scalpel on another bloodied cloth. The sound of Dr Li’s needle piercing the patient’s flesh reaches your ears, barely audible over the incessant chatter of the theatre’s audience. Their comments reverberate off the walls.

“Wow. Look at Dr Li’s skill. He might up Liston, don’t you think?”

“Did you see that? He cleaved that boy’s arm off like a pig’s tail!”

“Always puts on a good show, Dr Li does.”

You clutch your chest, soiling your apron with foreign blood. Your heart is beating rather fast, and your half-digested breakfast won’t stop pushing against the boundaries of your lips. Metal consumes your senses, swirling with your spew and making your head spin.

Everywhere you look is red. It’s as though the theatre has been bathed in it.

“Time,” Dr Li directs at a nearby medical student. He’s all jittery and elated, like his lover just accepted his proposal, as he flicks his wrist and studies his watch. But there is no lover. No love. There are only blades, bloodshed, and nightmares waiting to be dreamt when the world is plunged into darkness once more.

“Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds, Doc,” the student chirps.

“Clean cloth,” the doctor demands, his dark-rimmed gaze pinpointing every bead of sweat trailing down your forehead. You try to give him one, but it’s already stained once it reaches his hands. He wipes them as Greyson bandages the patient’s amputated arm. The man’s mutilated forearm just sits there, lifeless and bleeding out on a separate small table.

Dr Li shoves the cloth into your unsuspecting hands and murmurs for your ears only, “You will not faint or vomit in this theatre, Miss L/n.” Your head turns sharply. He’s close to you, a chill radiating from his pristine skin.

Swallowing down dry chunks, you start, “I can’t help it—”

“You must,” he interrupts before leaning back and pulling the blood-soaked sheets off of the patient’s body. Dr Li informs the patient on surgical aftercare while Greyson helps him to sit up. Realising you have a job to do, you take the leather belt from the patient’s mouth. He’s got tears streaming down his cheeks, and his clothes are as stained as everything else from the surgery.

Your heart thumps in your ears as the young man stands on uneasy feet. A choked-out sob escapes his trembling lips, and a middle-aged woman comes over. You assume she’s his mother, seeing how she speaks quietly with Dr Li and guides the boy out of the theatre once finished. And just like that, you’re instructed to prepare for the next surgery.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

You spend the next few hours in a daze as more blood is spilt, screams are hushed, and audience members laugh and gossip about the agony before their eyes. Dr Li orders you to get cleaned up once the final surgery has been completed. You nod, feeling too nauseous and defeated to insist otherwise.

The medical school has bathing facilities for staff on the third floor. Taking the nurses’ uniform from the head nurse (and now friend), Mary-Anne, you trudge off to the bathing room. You peel off your apron and dress; your skin is soaked in diseased blood. Sinking into the barely warm barrel, it turns red in seconds.

You clean yourself to the best of your abilities before drying off and pulling on the borrowed dress and apron. You make a mental note to bring a change of clothes tomorrow and keep them in the storage room just in case Dr Li requests your presence again. After emptying the water, you head back to the nurses’ station and hand your dripping clothes to Mary-Anne.

“I think I made a mess all the way from the ladies’ room to here,” you sigh as she takes the garments from you. Mary-Anne has become your anchor in this chaotic place, considering how much time you two spend together. She’s married and has four children at the ripe age of 30. How she manages to work and care for her household often baffles you.

“Ah, well. George’ll mop it up later,” she replies cheerily. In your short time here, George, the gardener, has become another friend you can rely on. Usually, you two clear snow from the drive and cemetery in the final hours of your shift. His wife passed a few years back, and he lives on the outskirts of town by himself.

Coming back over to you, Mary-Anne suggests, “Why don’t you go take a stroll in the graveyard? Everything has been taken care of here, and the snow’s melted.”

You shake your head and attempt to refuse, “I can’t, Mary—”

“Go on,” she cuts you off.

The nurse leans over and whispers, “Everyone’s first surgery is tough. Don’t be too hard on yourself, dear.” When she pulls back, tears sting at your waterline.

You nod once, “Yes, ma’am.” Sniffling, you avoid the trail of red on the floor, grab your coat, and head down to the ground floor. Slipping past the doors, the cool breeze blows straight through you. You pull your coat tighter around your shoulders and press ahead.

The cemetery arches stand tall and menacing, guards of the souls at rest. You walk beneath them and enter the graveyard. It’s eerily quiet, a welcome contrast to the few hours of spectators gnawing your ear off with their noise. The beetle hum and rustling branches are inviting; an unspoken approval of your presence.

You wonder if those buried here died during surgery, or if they were esteemed doctors inseparable from their trade. Maybe the inhabitants of these graves are poor individuals whose families couldn’t afford a plot. Maybe they’re centuries’ worth of cadavers.

Gazing at the intricate headstones, you assume George has made the rounds already. They’re clear of snow and shining in the white sun’s light filtered by thick clouds. A particularly chilly gust whips your hair about your face, though your breath remains invisible.

Your mind drifts to your life a month prior. You’ve traded your safe little life for something grand, the chance to change history. To change history, doing what, though? You never got that far. You thought perhaps surgery was for you, but today’s experience in the theatre has disproved that theory.

It replays in your mind, Dr Li sawing through limbs like he was chopping carrots. His quiet strength is frightening, as is the speed and stoicism he works with. In the times he looked at you, barely a sliver of emotion resided there. Only when he was scolding you did you see something lingering in his heart.

You shiver as oozing blood and discarded flesh come to the forefront. It pulls a whimper from your lips, intangible as the wind snatches it up and carries it off to the heavens.

You had also entertained the idea of nursing, but that didn’t seem right either. At some point, you must get married, so why would you want to do domestic labour at work when you will already do it at home? That didn’t make sense to you.

But then, what else do you do? Have these few years of studying medicine been for naught? The ridicule you’ve endured over the years for being a woman and desiring to be more than a mother. Was it all for nothing? All for your disillusionment?

A cold voice from behind has you jumping out of your skin.

“Fancy seeing you here.” You whip around, eyes frantic as they land on the tall doctor a little ways off. He’s changed into a fresh suit, no sight of his usual coat. You gulp. Were his shoulders always this broad?

“Cat got your tongue?” He prompts while slowly closing the distance between you. The grass is mushy, dampening his footsteps.

You laugh awkwardly, “No, I… I was just taking a walk. Clearing my head after today’s happenings. And you, Dr Li?” He gazes off to the side, his interest captured by a headstone glinting in the cool afternoon rays.

“I could say the same,” he remarks. His eyes flicker back to yours, devoid of warmth as per usual. You force a smile and look down at your feet. Your leather boots are splattered with dried blood and mud.

Zayne clears his throat and praises you, “You didn’t faint or vomit. I commend you.” However, it feels more like mockery than praise. You glance up at him. He’s leaning on a grave only a metre away, archaic rings encircling his slender fingers, which grasp the stone’s edge. Those same fingers that had fleeted across mangled flesh, causing destruction and aiming to heal it at the same time.

Your voice is small as you call his name, “Dr Li—”

“Outside of office hours, you may address me as Zayne,” he interjects. You stare at him blankly, your jaw slack and brows slightly raised. Zayne. Where have you heard that name before? And why is your superior asking you to call him by his first name? You two were not on particularly friendly terms. Perhaps he’s trying to ‘break the ice’.

“O-okay,” you stutter, your heart hammering in your chest so loud it pierces your eardrums. Amid the hundred things that don’t sit right with you about today’s surgeries, one specifically nags at your mind like a maggot feasting on a fresh brain.

You ask tentatively, “Zayne, don’t you think this is performative?” He releases the tombstone and straightens up. Under the sun’s glow, he looks even paler than before, a shade all ladies strive for with pearl powder. The doctor ponders your question, his index finger and thumb coming to his chin, and hazel eyes roving over the cemetery beyond.

“Perhaps. But aren’t all niceties performative?” He answers while returning his attention to you. You shake your head.

“Not that, Zayne. The surgery. Don’t you think it’s wrong to perform surgeries in front of a crowd?” His hand falls to his side and brushes his coat.

The doctor shrugs slightly, “Regardless of my opinion, most surgeries are performed in front of a crowd. It’s expected.”

“But it’s wrong!” You exclaim, the stress of the day bubbling to the surface and spilling over. Zayne stares at you, observing carefully the colour that’s risen to your cheeks. He can hear your short breaths and pounding heart. It’s what brought him here in the first place. Your racing heart. Your sweet scent, albeit marred by hours of bloodshed.

You scoff and shake your head a bit, opting to gaze off to the side at the doctor’s lack of response.

“Nevermind,” you mutter and begin stalking deeper into the graveyard. Anything to put some distance between yourself and your embarrassment. Of course, he doesn’t care. It’s what he does for a living. How could you have—

“Why did you come to Oxford?” You stop in your tracks and whip around. Your eyes widen. He’s been silently following you the entire time.

“Didn’t you already ask me that?” You spit out and take a couple of steps back, seeing how close he is–the same man who told you to stay away from him. There’s a chill accompanying your superior, you’re certain of it. This frosty nip at your skin cannot merely be the result of a winter’s noon.

He replies composed, as if your frustration was beneath consideration, “I asked why you were selected, not why you came here, Y/n.”

You gasp, “I didn’t give you permission to address me by my first name.”

“My apologies then. I thought it was a mutual exchange,” the doctor quips. You release a clipped hmph! and cross your arms beneath your chest.

You mumble while staring off into the distance, “I suppose it’s acceptable, Zayne.” Every time you utter his name, the centuries-old vampire could purr and wrap his tail around your calf like a stray cat does when it’s fed scraps. Insect chirping fills the silence between you. You can feel his judgmental gaze on you, unravelling the skin and muscle clinging to your bones for a glimpse into your heart.

You sigh, “I came to Oxford because I wanted to study under you.”

“Me?” He clarifies, disbelief lacing his otherwise dead tone.

You nod, “Almost everyone knows about the great doctor who is less likely to kill you than others on the operating table. I’ve felt called to medicine ever since I was young, and I applied here for a chance to learn from the best.” He seems to consider your explanation.

But in his mind, Zayne is deliberating on them like the holy truth. You, his precious bride, have been dreaming of meeting him? All this time, you’ve been yearning for him as he’s been yearning for you—Well, no. You’ve been yearning to learn from him, not for the man himself. And what has he taught you? To remain conscious and useful during surgery despite it being the embodiment of your worst nightmares?

He replies offhandedly, “You could barely endure today’s surgeries as an assistant. What makes you think you can become a doctor?” He might as well take a hammer to your ribcage with how his words sting and shatter any hope hidden in the crevices of your soul.

You admit defeatedly, “I don’t think I can become a doctor. I can’t do what you do, Zayne. And I refuse to after today.” His heart thunks against his diaphragm, sunk like a ship to the ocean’s depths.

You deal the finishing blow pensively, “My aspirations have been crushed. But I am grateful. What if I had not faced reality sooner and continued on this trajectory? That would be a much crueller fate, no?”

Something twists within the vampire, a knot in his stomach; malicious hands wring the bile from it. Had he been too harsh? For now, the woman he loves is without direction in her life. Zayne had intended to show you the future awaiting you, not to vapourise your dreams. But wasn’t that his intention from the start? Hasn’t that always been his intention? To destroy hopes so that only the strongest remain?

You, the woman he’s traded his humanity for, are strong. Undeniably so. What has he done then, to burn your aspirations till they’re ash and toss them away like the corpses he couldn’t possibly care less for?

“Zayne.” He blinks, your hand waving in his face coming into focus. Oh, how he wants to catch it and press an eternity’s worth of kisses to your soft skin.

Changing the subject, you ask curiously, “Have we met before?” If Zayne’s heart could beat, it would have skipped one hearing your question. His eyes widen, a vibrancy to them you swear wasn’t there previously.

He counters coldly, “Has the exhaustion gotten to you already?” Your lips purse as you roll your eyes.

“No. I just… You seem familiar, that’s all.” Your voice becomes quieter at the end.

The vampire’s faux breathing stalls. He wants to hurl a million questions at you. What do you mean familiar? Do you remember him? Do you remember your life together before it was tragically cut short? Or is it intuition?

He settles on, “I see.” Pause. You step back, accidentally having crossed an unseen boundary when trying to capture his attention while his thoughts carried him away. A boundary, Zayne wordlessly welcomes you to cross any time.

“Well…” He breaks the amounting silence. “Do you intend to stay on until your internship is complete?”

You nod and insist, “Yes, of course. I am very fortunate to be working under you, even if the work isn’t pleasant.”

“Then, I won’t let you off the hook so easily,” Zayne says. There’s a finality in his choice that you wouldn’t dare dispute, even if it meant assisting in future surgeries (Dear Lord, you hope not).

With that, the doctor takes one last sweeping look over you before turning around and walking swiftly out of the cemetery. As his figure is consumed by the landscape, a lightness springs in your chest. Your heart can rest at last.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

Could Zayne be hung for his behaviour right now? Everyone in England knows just how vital sheep are to society’s welfare. However, Zayne has sunk his pearly fangs into a shrieking sheep. It flails in his strong grip. A sickening crunch. The animal goes still.

Blood coats the vampire’s lips and runs down his chin, staining the collar of his button-up shirt. The sheep’s fur is dyed crimson as more of its life force is slurped up.

Stealing sheep is a crime punishable by hanging. Buuuuuuuttt, drinking sheep's blood straight from the source isn’t. Therefore, the vampire cannot be hung for his current meal.

Reeling back, Zayne’s now-red tongue darts across his lips to lap up the excess blood. He’s usually not such a messy eater. But as of late, he’s been insatiable.

Why? All because of his medical intern, that’s why.

Since your stroll in the cemetery, Zayne has reinstated you as his assistant. On that day, he told you he wouldn’t absolve you of your duties. But he hasn’t been enforcing them with the same objectivity as he has with previous interns.

Often, he’ll let you hover in the corner as he completes dissection after dissection for ‘observation purposes’, of course. It almost makes him grin when he asks you a question and you spend the next half hour responding. So, he continues asking questions, and suddenly the sun is kissing the horizon, and it’s time to return home.

But even when the doctor returns home, you haunt him. Not only with the memories you two created years ago, but also the memories you continue to create in the present. The fact that you exist and are not some figment of his imagination is beyond his comprehension. You consume every nook and cranny untainted by base desire in his body.

The vampire wipes his bloodied mouth on his sleeve before throwing the sheep over his shoulder. He drops it into a makeshift grave–several other blood-drained sheep are already in the pit–before he grabs a shovel and buries his kills.

Zayne’s figure is immersed in darkness, dawn still hours away. There’s nothing but farms this far out from the town’s centre. Fortunately, the residents of this property hadn’t awoken during the vampire’s feeding, otherwise things would have gotten even messier.

After burying the sheep, Zayne returns the shovel to its place in the shed and leaves a medium-sized bag filled with shillings—sufficient coverage for the farmer’s loss.

It’s as though Zayne flies when he runs, gliding over dirt trails and cobbled streets back to his humble home on the outskirts of Oxford. Stepping in, he sheds his layers and bathes. Small scars trail across his pale skin; some are from his human life, while others are the result of countless almost deaths the doctor has narrowly avoided with his condition.

The vampire nearly grimaces upon staring at his hands. Those hands that are near permanently soaked in blood, despite how many times he’s washed them off.

After drying himself, the doctor tugs on another suit and sits by the fireplace. The heat of the orange flames licks up his cheeks and nips at his nose. However, he will never be warmed. How can you embrace warmth when you’re dead? Undead, perhaps I should say.

Zayne entertains himself by recording his observations in the medical journal he’s had for centuries. It’s a log of your symptoms and anything drawing him closer to answering the question of why they exist.

He notes:

Reincarnation’s heart rate rapidly spiked, coinciding with near fainting today. She claimed it was from ‘excitement’. Resting heart rate remains above average.

Cadaver 159834 experienced nausea and sudden chest pain in months leading up to hanging. Left coronary artery showed signs of rupture. Scarring on vena cava.

A cloud of dust puffs in the air as he snaps the journal shut. The longest part of eternity must be the night, when no creatures dare approach such a powerful predator. Zayne is left to his own devices. To mourn, to learn, to contemplate. There is no way out of his own mind, which perhaps is more fearsome than the monster he has willingly become.

He settles on some new medical paper to pass the time, so dull that it could send him to sleep. How he wishes it would. Verbose and 1/58th interesting. It’ll do. His mind inevitably wanders to the situation at hand.

Maybe he should have chosen to die alongside you instead of clinging to his grief. Either way, his heart ceased to beat. However, since you’ve come back into his orbit, he disagrees. If it weren’t for his determination, then you two may have never crossed paths in the living world again.

The day breaks; there are no rays of golden light streaming into his windows, but a gradual lightness awakening the world through unspoken promises of snowfall.

Zayne sighs and tosses the papers on the low mahogany table at his feet. Then, he prepares himself for another cruel day of enduring your angelic presence without being able to hold you close and shower you in his long-held affection.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

Your beating heart rings in his ears. It has become the background melody Zayne works best to.

Peeling back layers of skin and muscle, he observes the femur of a 20-something-year-old man. Normal. You laugh from your usual spot close to the examination table, but not too close to it.

“Mhmm,” Zayne hums while grabbing his scalpel and extending the incision down the leg to the ankle. A minute goes by. Your heart rate has picked up.

“Nervous?” The doctor prompts. In his periphery, he can see you shaking your head.

You chirp, “No, just wondering.”

“Mhmm.” The cadaver’s skin is bruised near the ankle, so Zayne takes a chisel and begins removing it to inspect the underlying muscle. No words escape your lips, but your heart pounds even faster. If it were another human’s, the vampire would have a raging headache by now.

You admit quietly, “You ask me many questions, Dr Li. Don’t you think it’s time I ask you a question?” His nostrils flare as he exhales.

“Go on then,” he encourages you. Those skilled hands place the removed skin in a dedicated bowl, the plap echoing throughout the chilly examination room.

You ask hesitantly, “Are you… married?” His tired eyes widen and gaze up. They zero in on you, noting the pink in your cheeks and awkward smile you bear whenever you’re feeling unsure of yourself. 600 years haven’t changed much.

Zayne glances back at the corpse as he mumbles, “No.”

The tension in your shoulders eases (he just knows) and you release a relieved sigh, “Oh, thank goodness. I mean! Uh, are you engaged?” The muscle looks the way it should, given the severe bruising of the cadaver. Using his scalpel, the doctor slices through the meat to reveal a dull bone.

“Zay—Dr Li?” How he wishes you wouldn’t call his name so sweetly, like a siren luring him in with your song. But you’re the innocent one. A lamb coaxing a lion into a deadly trap.

Returning his gaze to you again, the vampire clarifies, “I am not courting anyone, if that is what you mean to ask.” You avert your eyes to your fidgeting hands in your lap.

“Oh.” Silence. Zayne continues examining the cadaver.

You ask curiously, “Have you courted anyone before?” The doctor’s fringe falls over his hazel eyes. His head is tilted down, so you can’t see the micro smile stretching across his plump lips.

He teases offhandedly, “Out of all the things you must wonder about me, Miss L/n, you choose to ask if I’ve courted anyone before?”

You huff, part annoyed, part insecure, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I get it. Talking about past lovers can be hard.” Straightening up, he nearly chuckles at the sight of you. Brows pinched together, lips pouty, and your arms crossed. Something pulls at Zayne’s chest, an emotion he hasn’t felt in a long time.

He can’t name it. But he feels driven to bundle you up in his arms and squish your cheeks because of how cute you are at this moment.

“Do you have any past lovers in mind?” He counters while fetching his forceps.

You grumble, “Don’t humour me, Dr Li. Now, are you going to answer my question or not?” Perfect. Exactly what the doctor wanted—no, needed—to hear.

Zayne uses his forceps to pick minuscule bone fragments out of the deceased’s lower leg. The shards are far too small to be seen with the human eye. He plucks one out and drops it in a separate bowl, yet it makes no sound upon landing against the metal.

The vampire begins, “A long time ago, there was a woman I was—” He pauses. Was? ‘Am’ is the correct word here, but you don’t need to know that.

He continues, “In love with. We were to be married. But she suddenly passed away the night before our wedding.” Zayne taps his forceps against the rim of the bowl. Ivory flies. A clank.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. He shakes his head.

“You need not apologise for that which isn’t your fault,” the doctor scolds you gently. He glances up at you. Your shoulders are drooped, and sorrow shadows your sublime features.

You offer your condolences, “I know. But her death must have been painful for you. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

He shrugs off your comment with, “The past cannot be changed. We must look ahead to the future.” More fragments fill the bowl as the doctor works away during the lull in your conversation.

After a few minutes, you pry, “What was she like? If you don’t mind me asking.” This time, you catch the ghost of a grin on Zayne’s face. His eyes almost twinkle as he casts his mind back to those times.

He reminisces, “She was radiant like a bright summer’s day. But she had quite the listening problem. Feisty and stubborn. Clingy and affectionate like a calf.”

“You must miss her,” you say quietly. Zayne’s eyes flicker to you. There’s something ignited within them, some otherworldly desire. But the curl of his lips suggests amusement. Like there’s a private joke you two have shared, but only he’s in on it.

His voice is deeper as he confirms, “I do.” You nod, uncertain of how else to respond. His attention returns to the cadaver.

Focusing on removing the final few bone shards, Zayne informs you stoically, “The Medical Association will be hosting an annual ball at the end of the month. Coincidentally, you’ll be finishing up with us in the same week. You should attend to celebrate.”

“A ball? I’ve never been to a ball. What’s it like?” You ask excitedly, the doom and gloom of Zayne’s past banished from your mind. Or concealed beneath the surface. That seems more like it.

The doctor responds in monotone, “Exhilarating. If you enjoy socialising.”

You giggle and say cheekily, “Let me guess, you’re not attending.” Zayne places his forceps down and gazes at you. Your heart thumps rhythmically beneath his intense stare.

“If you’ll be in attendance, then I’ll consider it.” Meaning, if you’re in attendance, then I wouldn’t dare miss it.

He continues, “Now go. I am permitting you to leave early.”

You attempt to protest, “But—”

“Your work is finished for today, Miss L/n. You are dismissed,” he cuts you off. The doctor observes the cadaver’s intact ankle bones as you rise from your seat. You move around the examination table at an arm’s distance and glide past Zayne to the designated chlorinated lime bowl.

Even though you didn’t touch anything, you’ve developed a fondness for washing your hands. It seems to appease Dr Li, which is a bonus. For some unknown reason, you yearn to be close to him. Like a moth drawn to flame, you’re entranced by his ethereal nature. He reels you in as a fisherman does a net filled with flailing fish—involuntarily.

Something within drives you toward him. Maybe you’ve been alone for too long and have since become dependent on the attention he gives you. Or perhaps because he’s an incredibly attractive, single young man. One you hope your future husband will take after.

But deep in your heart, it feels like more. It feels like the cosmos is pulling you two together. Like God has divined your meeting and won’t rest until the anxious itch in your brain is scratched.

You’ve never understood why you wanted to study medicine, or why you felt compelled to study beneath Zayne, apart from his esteemed reputation. Could this be the reason why? So you two could meet and—

Wiping your forearms on a damp cloth, you shake your head. Clarity descends upon you. Oh, how foolish and lovesick your thoughts sound! The audacity to even think that a man of Zayne’s calibre would be interested in you.

After all, he did say that such pleasantries were false. But this was real, wasn’t it? The conversations you two have shared. The fact that he goes easy on you when no other surgeon would.

Clearing your throat, you bid him a farewell, “I’ll be leaving now, then. Until tomorrow, Dr Li.” You slip past him, your eyes glued to those milky forearms flexing as he makes an incision down the centre of the corpse’s other leg.

You gaze at him for a few seconds more, waiting for a response that never comes. You’re in dire need of assistance. Perhaps a nice stay at an asylum should do the trick.

However, as you stride out of the examination room, you miss how Zayne stares at your back with a tenderness in his eyes. You also miss how he stands by the window and watches you pass the cemetery on your way to the medical school’s gates. He observes you from afar until a building obscures his view.

The doctor sighs and thinks over the ways he could gift you a dress for the ball without crossing professional boundaries. Unless you desire to cross those boundaries.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

Your gloved hands soothe down your baby blue bodice, trembling slightly from your nerves. The night air is crisp, and the shawl draped over your exposed shoulders is ineffective in mitigating your chills. You’re walking along the road, alone and late to the ball. How dangerous. Your footsteps hurry as the mansion of the Medical Association’s founder comes into view.

You join the queue by the door and admire the glitz and glamour of tonight’s attendees. The couple in front of you must be wealthy, given the opulence of their attire. The lady is in white, the colour of nobility. Under golden lamp light, her silky skirt shines.

You gaze down at your own dress and smile. Even if you had all the riches in the world, you wouldn’t change your gown for the world. Not when it was given to you by a very special someone. He claimed it was merely a send-off gift for his intern, but you’d like to think it meant more than that.

The couple disappears past the open double doors; it’s your turn. You step up to the doorman.

He greets you, “Good evening, fair maiden. What’s your name?” You tell him, and he skims through the party list.

“Here you are. You may enter, Miss L/n.” You nod and step past him. Slipping through the doors, your heart rate spikes and air is stolen from your lungs. The main foyer is decadent. Honeyed chandeliers, velvety lounges, and marbled floors. Old acquaintances chat in small groups across the room. You lift your bell-shaped skirt and step down the stairs. Another attendant greets you and leads you to the ballroom.

You suck a sharp breath in, painfully aware of how out of your league you are at this moment. Some peasant, all dressed up in a sea of aristocrats. Gulping, you head inside.

The orchestra plays a lively song, and skirts swoosh as partners dance to it. More chandeliers illuminate the space, the made-up faces of young and old a blur as you stumble through the crowd surrounding the dance floor.

You hear your name being called. Whirling around, you see a familiar figure rushing toward you.

Mary-Anne crashes into you and squeezes you in a tight hug. You laugh and pat her back. She feels so warm against you, or maybe it’s the heat from all of the guests shuffling around you two.

Pulling back, she holds your upper arms and grins, “I’m so glad you could make it tonight! No send-off could rival this, hmm?” You shake your head and wrap your hands around her forearms.

“Of course not. I’m so glad you could make it tonight. What about your children?” You ask. She throws her arm around your shoulders and guides you through the hordes of attendees to a table at the back.

Your flouncy skirts squish together as she informs you, “Their father’s taking care of them for once. I never miss the Medical Association’s ball. I mean, look at the extravagance! And it’s all for free.” You giggle, anxiety morphing into joy and then back into anxiety when you catch sight of a certain dark-haired doctor.

“He’s here,” you breathe out. Mary-Anne casts you a knowing look, a cheeky smile on her thin lips as she pinches your shoulder.

You exclaim, “Hey! What was that for?” She halts abruptly, causing you to do the same a few feet from the medical school’s designated table.

Leaning in close, she says quietly, “If you two don’t kiss tonight, I’m going to haunt you for eternity.” Your lips part, stuttered sounds seeping past as blood scampers to your cheeks.

“Now, come on. He’s dying to see you,” the nurse smirks and practically drags you those last few steps to the table. Zayne’s sleep-deprived eyes are on you in an instant, feasting hungrily on your beauty in the gown he picked out for you. He looks at you in awe and surprise, as if he couldn’t smell your fragrance the moment you stepped into the foyer, or hum to your erratically beating heart.

Speaking of which, your heart thumps harder as you gaze at him, equally as shocked at how well he’s cleaned up for tonight. His black tail coat clings to his broad shoulders and muscular arms just right, and his waistcoat highlights his slim waist; envy sparks within you at his triangle proportions.

Greyson interrupts your longing gaze seemingly innocently, “Ah, Miss L/n. So glad you could join us. It’s such a shame your time with us has come to an end.”

It takes every shred of strength to tear your eyes from Zayne and nod to his second-in-command, “Yes. I couldn’t agree more.”

Gesturing to the few empty chairs around the table, Greyson offers, “Why don’t you sit?”

“Okay—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Zayne speaks at the same time you do. Your gaze snaps to him, wide and confused.

Though his expression remains stoic, you can hear amusement in his voice as he announces, “We’re going to dance.” Your eyes almost pop out of your skull as you stare at him, striding toward you confidently. He extends his hand out to you, his pale skin hidden beneath a white glove. You can feel the table’s eyes on you, beyond perplexed by the cold doctor’s offer and anxious for your response.

Never before has Dr Li attended the Medical Association’s ball. Each year, he claims he’s simply too busy with additional research or preparations to go. And never before has Dr Li demonstrated romantic interest in anyone before you wandered into his life.

Mary-Anne wants to grab your hand and put it on top of the doctor’s while Greyson blinks dumbly at the scene before him. Other nurses whisper to each other. The moment draws on.

Zayne doesn’t falter. He waits patiently for you to lift your shaking hand and clasp his through fabric. Sighing gratefully, he leads you to the centre of the dance floor. The orchestra transitions into a slower, romantic song. Heavenly strings accompany the doctor who releases your hand and steps back. He bows low, and you curtsey in response.

Straightening up, he moves toward you. Those eyes, so alive–how could you ever think they were dead–watch your every reaction as he slowly brings one of your hands to his shoulder and holds your other. The chill of his touch oozes through the thin gloves and material of your dress. His body ghosts yours as he starts to move to the melody.

“Do you know how to waltz?” Zayne asks, a warmth underpinning his tone.

You shake your head and admit, “I was never taught.” Some things never change, the vampire thinks. In this lifetime, he’ll still be your first dance.

“Follow me,” he instructs. You nod and look down. Staring at his black dress shoes, you copy his footsteps, but your rhythm is clunky.

“Look at me.” You tip your head back and do just that. Beneath his intense gaze, you feel terribly self-conscious. He steps forward, and you stumble backward. The hand on your waist slides to your back and pulls you in reflexively. Your chest presses against his, the tops of your breasts spilling slightly over the delicate lace of your low neckline. Your heart thumps wildly at your proximity.

He bends down slightly and tells you that, “It’s supposed to feel natural. If copying me is too difficult, then move with me.”

A small “Mhmm” is all you manage as he draws back. You two continue dancing with your bodies snug against one another. Zayne can’t stop staring at you. Your beauty has encapsulated him, taken hold of his soul. Whatever is left anyway. A light smile spreads on his lips as he notes the rosiness of your cheeks.

You avert your eyes and mumble, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” He asks, his grip tightening on you imperceptibly. Your doe eyes dart up to his, and your chest rises as you take a deep breath in.

“You won't look away.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but with Zayne’s vampiric abilities, it’s the only sound he cares to hear. Now it’s his turn to avoid your eyes. He gazes at the back table and notices Greyson and a fellow surgeon engaged in a lively conversation.

Zayne exhales, “I’m entranced. No man deserves to gaze upon such beauty.” He returns his eyes to you, the sweet smile on your face thawing his frozen heart.

His insides turn all mushy when you giggle, “Come now, Zayne. I’m hardly the prettiest girl here.”

He shakes his head sternly and counters, “You clearly haven’t looked in the mirror then.” You beam up at him, your bodies subconsciously inching closer together. Without even realising it, your hand has slid down from his shoulder to his chest and rests over his stone heart. He grabs your wrist, but it’s too late. Your brow furrows, and your eyes flit from your gloved hand to his face back down to your hand.

“Zayne—”

“Why don’t we get some fresh air?” The vampire suggests. He removes your hand from his chest and holds it firmly while leading you out of the ballroom. You trail behind him in silence, up the grand staircase and through the second floor’s halls. He pushes open one of the many doors and guides you into a moonlit bedroom. Snowy curtains billow in the cold breeze. He heads over to another set of doors and pushes them open, gesturing for you to follow him.

You step out onto the balcony, your blood rustling in your veins and heart beating like some wild animal is trying to claw out of your ribcage. The chilly air distils your nerves. You know what you had felt. Or rather, what you hadn’t felt. You tell yourself that maybe his heartbeat was slow. But your hand was there for at least 10 seconds. You should have felt something, a little pulse beneath your fingertips at least. But his chest was still. Like he had forgotten to breathe, but he wasn’t holding his breath. Like he didn’t need to breathe.

“Zayne,” you call his name, your soft voice carried by the soothing breeze to the doctor. His back faces you, and his hands grip the balcony’s railing. The moon casts a cool glow on him; there’s something so perfect about his sharp features in the pale light.

Stepping beside him, you ask gently, “Is everything okay?” At his side, you nearly shiver. No heat emanates from his body. This, you know. You’ve known for some time. But the evidence isn’t aligning. You’re puzzled more than anything else.

Zayne says so quietly, you strain to hear it, “If I told you I was fine, would you believe me?” Your eyes roam over his tense jaw and bright eyes that seem determined to avoid you.

Sighing, you turn to gaze at the scenery below. The mansion backs onto woodland. A critter buzz. The night air sets your lungs aflame, it’s so cold.

“Do you believe in God?” He asks abruptly. Your head turns to him, but he continues to look off into the distance. You ponder his question and just where this conversation might lead you. Was there something exceptionally holy about the mystery of a man beside you? Perhaps given how he appears to be carved by the Lord’s hand.

You shrug, “Well, of course. Tis it not the Lord who is responsible for our lives?”

“And what of the cruelties? Is God the explanation for the afflictions we are plagued with?” Zayne prompts. You breathe out heavily, unprepared for a theological discussion with the man you’ve been dreaming about since you two crossed paths.

“Is there some affliction you are experiencing, Zayne? If so, you don’t have to keep it from me,” you respond, your voice delicate and attempting to calm the raging storm you sense brewing beneath the surface.

He scoffs, “Keep it from you?” Shifting to face you now, he glares down at you and mutters, “What is there to hide when you are my affliction?” The vampire inches closer, his eyes shining; it appears unnatural.

You shudder as he continues, “Is our reunion by God’s hand? Does He intend to salt the wound He inflicted on me centuries ago?” Zayne reaches out and grasps your waist. He pulls you into him, making you cry out as your soft body crashes into his much harder one. Those gloved hands squeeze your waist through your bodice, ravenous to tear it off. He must quell these thoughts if you are to survive the night.

The dryness in his throat is unbearable. A divine punishment, then, given he only fed last night.

“Zayne, I don’t… I don’t understand. Have I done something wrong?” You pout. Your brows are drawn together, and your eyes are gooey and round as they stare up at him. He drops the act, his chest unmoving while he palms your hips through the icy blue ruffles of your skirt.

Leaning down, he whispers, “There is no salvation for demons such as myself. Stop trying to trick me.” He squeezes your hips near crushingly, silent strength lurking in his fingers. You yelp, your noses brushing now. His gaze is narrowed, terrifying as it drifts down your face to your heaving bosom and back up. You pulse so perfectly in his grasp, so warm and pliant. His fangs elongate and nudge at his lower lip.

Fuck, this cannot be happening. Zayne cannot lose control like this. But you’re so soft. Your jasmine scent is nostalgic and inviting. Your bodies fit together like this was the Lord’s doing.

In a second, he could claim you. He could bestow upon you the ultimate gift: eternal life. He groans quietly as your hands grip his white button-up.

You murmur his name. The vampire’s resolve wavers. Curiosity and fear intertwine in your eyes.

“Am I scaring you?” He asks in a low voice. Moonlight glints off his fangs. Your heart stammers. This cannot—is not real.

“I’m scared that I am trapped in slumber, about to awake all alone. Is this truly happening?” He chuckles cruelly, the sound sending chills sparking across your skin.

“I wish it were merely a dream, my love,” he replies, voice dripping with desperation as your foreheads press together. You’re burning up, your skin akin to Hell’s flames as his fingers trail up your arms. His hands cup the back of your neck, his gloves soaking up some of your sweat. Caressing your jaw, his pink tongue darts out across his lips. You whine softly, your eyes following the movement shamelessly.

Zayne rasps out, “Will you permit me a kiss? Or am I to steal it from you?” Your confidence is admirable as you snake your arms around his neck and lean up. On your toes, you press your lips to his. The vampire simply cannot resist any longer.

Against your mouth, he whispers, “Forgive me.” You whimper as he kisses you harshly. His lips move against yours in an insatiable rhythm, starving for more and unable to conceal it. You clutch his collar, trying to steady yourself in the tidal wave of his unrelenting affection. His hands slide over your shoulders and return to your waist.

Circling his arms around you, he lifts you effortlessly. You squeal into his mouth, providing the perfect opportunity for his tongue to slip in. Those razor-sharp fangs brush against your delicate lower lip, catching and eliciting a cry from you.

Zayne places you back on the ground and breaks your kiss regretfully. Saliva drips from the corners of your mouth and connects your parted lips. The ball downstairs has long since been forgotten.

In the blink of an eye, he’s bending down and picking you up bridal style. He carries you back inside and drops you onto the bed. You bounce against the mattress in a flurry of blue.

The vampire climbs over you. Biting the tip of his middle finger, he slides his hand out of the glove and tosses it aside. You squeal as that same hand grabs the centre of your bodice, freezing fingers against hot, soft flesh. He yanks you up to him and ensnares you in another depraved kiss.

600 years' worth of yearning lies behind every swipe of his tongue across your inner cheeks. You whine as he nips at your lower lip roughly, but not rough enough to draw blood. If there is one vow Zayne must fulfil tonight, it is not to taste your blood.

Your hands tangle in his locks and tug them, a need to have him impossibly closer blazing within. The celestial moon bathes your heated exchange in the purest light. In your lustful daze, you swear his skin glimmers, the milkiness radiant like an opal.

“Zayne,” you moan into the kiss. Kiss? Such a simple word, it cannot begin to cover what is taking place between you two. His bare hand releases your bodice and slides up. He grabs the pendant of your necklace—an intricately detailed cross.

Tearing his lips from yours, he asks breathily, “Who gave this to you?” Your mind is fuzzy.

You pant, “What?” He pulls on it, testing the durability of the clasp, surely. The motion sends you jolting up to him. His nights of slaving away on this symbol of your love and faith were not wasted.

The vampire grits out, “Who gave this to you?”

“M-mother,” you stutter, your eyes the size of saucers as you stare at him. Your rapidly rising and falling chest presses against his still one. Your swift heartbeat resounds in his ears.

“Wrong.” He tugs on the pendant again, making you yelp.

“Try again,” he says, softer this time. Zayne knows you don’t remember the life you two shared all those years ago. And you likely never will, despite how much he craves for you to.

Seeing the set of his jaw and possessiveness in his eyes, you whisper, “Was it you?”

He nods and explains breathily, “That’s right. This necklace was my gift to you for our wedding.” Your hands slither down to his shoulders and squeeze them.

“Our wedding?” You ask curiously. Letting go of the necklace, Zayne strokes your cheek with the back of his hand. His head dips. A soft kiss to each of your eyelids.

He promises, “I won’t allow you to slip through my fingers again, regardless of God’s Plan.” The kiss he draws you into is comparably gentler. In it, you feel the weight of his enduring love. You sigh into his mouth, needing this short reprieve.

Zayne’s lips shift to your jaw and kiss along it. His breath is like icicles as it fans across your skin. The scent of your blood is saccharine. Your arteries pulse in your neck; the sweat sticking to your skin is intoxicating.

The vampire places a shaky kiss just below your ear, causing your breath to catch in your throat. The tip of his nose roams the column of your neck, chaste pecks pressed against searing flesh when he can find the will. His fangs puncture his lower lip now, even sharper. He’s salivating, spit mixing with dark blood, which he swallows down.

This was a bad idea. Your body is flush against his, far too many layers separating your skin. One heart pounding. Your fingers curl around the back of his head.

What was Zayne thinking? Oh, wait! He wasn’t! Instinct drove him to the position he’s in now, fangs hovering above your delicate flesh, ready to strike should you give the word.

“Zayne,” you coo. He closes his mouth and starts pulling back, but your hands press him into your warm body. With ease, he could resist your faint strength. But out of respect, he obeys your wordless command.

Your fingers twirl the short locks near his nape as you ask nervously, “Are you going to bite me?”

Into your neck, he confesses, “If I do, I won’t be able to stop. You could be dead or the undead when I manage to pull away.” You giggle. You. Giggle.

“This is no laughing matter, my dear,” Zayne scolds you lovingly. He can’t help but lick a stripe up from your collarbone to your jaw. Your sweat tastes even better than he thought it would. Anything to be close to you. This love, all-consuming. He groans at the thought of how delicious your blood will taste.

You whisper, “I know. But I’m willing to take a chance, if you are.” The vampire’s eyes widen. He pushes himself up to get a glimpse of your face. Serious. You’re being serious.

“Do you know what you’re asking for?” He snaps.

You nod and say so gently, “Forever. With you. Please.” Zayne shakes his head, already preparing his 15-page rebuttal when you cup his jaw.

Staring into his narrowed eyes, you insist, “Please, Zayne. I don’t think I can go on without you.”

He retorts, “Foolish girl—”

“You want this just as much as I do, no?” His lips purse. No response.

You press on, “So please. Give me—give us the chance of eternity together.” He averts his gaze to the light cast upon the thick blankets; metallic embroidery shimmers. The vampire gulps, attempting to soothe his thirst, only to breathe you in and make it infinitely worse.

“And if I fail?” He asks, voice almost cracking as he dares to gaze upon you once more. Your next words would have him falling to his knees, worshipping the ground you walk on if he were standing.

“I trust you.” The one thing you shouldn’t do is place your trust in a vampire. You mewl pathetically, the sound raw and sumptuous as his gloved hand covers your neck. With his thumb pressing into your jaw, he tilts your head to the side, exposing your delicate neck to him.

Zayne nearly pants like some dog as he laps at your skin. His tongue traces your veins and arteries, mapping them out like the constellations. Then, his onslaught of sloppy kisses and hesitant nips.

Your back arches as he pulls at your flesh, leaving red marks across your smooth skin. He releases a shaky breath as you pull on his hair, small moans tumbling from your kiss-swollen lips.

Finding the perfect spot on your neck, he swirls his tongue over it in a daze. Venom fills his mouth, the acid tingling on his tastebuds. His fangs ache with the need to puncture your flesh, like he’s had one too many sweets.

Against your skin, he whispers a phrase he hasn’t said since his rebirth: “Bless me, Heavenly Father, for I have sinned.” Your scream is muffled by his bare hand as his fangs sink into your neck. Blood, scorching hot and mind-numbingly delicious, pours into the vampire’s awaiting mouth.

He groans loudly, your taste crafted to his liking. His fingers slip into your mouth, muffling your cries. Unknowingly, his hips rut into your leg, this final unity driving him to madness.

With everything he is, Zayne needs to be tethered to you. Being your creator simply isn’t enough. He must show you his undying love and pledge it to you every night for the rest of your immortal lives.

Your screams turn into moans around his spit-soaked fingers, and you tug on his hair as he bites down harder.

Zayne’s a doctor. He knows just how much blood a human can lose before it’s fatal. And you haven’t lost that much blood yet. He tells himself that he’s still got another minute in heaven before having to release you, assuming he has the strength to.

The vampire reasons that perhaps he should start pulling away now. Give himself a bit of extra time should things fall through. But he can’t. The ecstasy coursing through his veins spurs him on.

Unlike his messy eating lately, Zayne doesn’t spill a single drop of your coveted blood. Every last gulp flows down his throat and slushes around in his stomach.

His hunger is not satisfied. Far from it, actually. All he desires is to drink more and more of your blood. Forget an eternity by your side. If he could just have another sip—

His minute is up.

His minute is up.

Hisminuteisuphisminuteisuphisminuteisuphisminuteisup.

You’re mewling his name. Your body is growing colder, your limbs weaker. Not vampirism, but death. That is what he shall bring you if he cannot stop himself.

With a grunt, Zayne tears his fangs from your neck. He’s breathing heavily, licking his lips and diving down to clean your wound with his tongue should your blood go to waste. Pulling back, he removes his fingers from your mouth. They’re red, with teeth marks indicating where you bit him for support. He didn’t even feel it.

Seeing your pallor, dry lips and your eyes low-lidded from exhaustion, not lust, Zayne whimpers. What has he done? An unseen knife slashes his abdomen open, intestines pouring out in a suicide fit for an ancient Samurai. If you die again, by his hands again, he cannot go on.

Perhaps the Lord has been merciful this time around, but He will not give the vampire a second chance. Zayne knows it. With one hand, he cradles the back of your head. His other arm wraps around your waist and pulls you into him.

He murmurs, “My love.”

You cry out, “It hurts!”

“Where? Where does it hurt?” The vampire asks panically. Tears smear against his cold neck; you’re sobbing.

“E-everywhere.” He sighs, recalling what his transformation was like. Painful? Agonising? Those words don’t even begin to cover it. Zayne muses that the pain is akin to Prometheus’s, when his liver is feasted upon every day by an eagle. It’s vivid and feels never-ending, until you emerge from the depths as a monster.

A monster. What Zayne is. And now, what Zayne has brought to life. Some twisted Frankenstein, did he pause to consider your pain? Only after the fact does he realise the hellish creature he has condemned mankind to.

Zayne might be a monster. But you won’t be. In no lifetime does there exist a monster that is you. You might be a vampire, but your lover refuses to believe that you are not holy. He refuses to believe you will be abandoned by the divine.

Zayne cradles you, his hand stroking your dishevelled hair as you bite down on his collar to stifle your cries of agony. He whispers praises into your forehead, half-heard by a soon-to-be thrashing you. You’re held steady, tender kisses peppered across your hairline as you walk the tightrope between life, death, and damnation.

The room falls completely silent. Your heart stops beating, and no breath ghosts your upper lip.

When you open your eyes, the world is… clearer. And it smells like bloodied jasmines.

You croak out, “Zayne.” He lies you back down. The woman staring up at him is his immortal bride. Not quite you. But undeniably you. Your cool fingertips trail across his cheekbone. He leans into your touch, love accumulating in his chest until it overflows.

“Zayne.” He leans down and rests his forehead against yours, now the same temperature.

Your vampire murmurs, “I’m here, my love. For eternity.”

masterlist

star girl's final words: thank you for taking this journey with me! and a big thank you to jay for doing this collab with me! it's been super fun and has pushed me out of my writing comfort zone. i'm so grateful that we're mutuals, and i hope we can make even cooler fics in the future!

additional resources

the study of anatomy in england from 1700s to 20th century britain health timeline 1840-1920 mourning in the victorian era 19th century surgeries in the uk post-mortem instruments 19th century 1840s fashion history robert liston inside the operating theatre 19th century nursing uniforms brief history of cemetery in america mental health treatment reforms in the us punishments from late 18th to early 20th centuries history of bloodletting

[saywhat-politics]

The Huffington Post reports:

Senate Republicans handed Trump a win on Tuesday with confirmation of one his first judicial nominees, Joshua Divine.

Divine, 35, will now hold a lifetime seat on a U.S. district court in Missouri. He drew strong opposition from Democrats and civil rights groups over his long record of litigation against women’s reproductive rights, including leading a major challenge to the FDA’s decades-long approval of mifepristone, better known as the abortion pill. In 2010, he also argued in favor of bringing back literacy tests for voting, a practice banned in the 1960s for being racially discriminatory.

Divine was expected to be confirmed along party lines, but he picked up an unexpected supporter: Sen. Angus King (I-Maine), who joined Republicans in voting for him. It’s not clear why he did, as King caucuses with Democrats and supports abortion rights and voting rights.

Read the full article. As I reported last month, Divine has compared LGBTQ rights to pedophilia and bestiality. According to Divine, Christians are “obliged ethically to impose their beliefs on others.”

[bunny-jpeg]

wolves & lambs

toto wolff

tags: smut/pwp, mob au, mob boss!toto, age gap (20s/50s), tattoos, established relationship/marriage, missionary position, intimacy & love

a/n: happy birthday toto wolff - sexy for fifty-three beautiful years <3

"i'm curious." christian horner leaned further up against the bar and eyed you up and down, "members of the wolff family all have a similiar wolf tattoo. but, not you? but, yet you came in tonight with the head boss himself..."

you looked over at him, you wished you weren't speaking to him right now. you looked at the fresh tattoo on your arm, it was of a lamb. you replied, "there are many things you don't know about the family, mister horner..." your voice tense as you went back to your sweet alcoholic drink. you had no time for men like him.

"liebling." you looked over and saw toto approaching. he stood a good head over most. he noticed you were next to horner. he raised his eyebrows and got himself next to you. he draped an arm around your waist. he said flatly, "horner."

"curious little girl you got there. what is she, a call girl for the weekend?" horner laughed before the took a sip of his drink.

"no, christian." toto replied, "that's my wife."

toto did his best to keep you out of his line of work. he didn't need his wife getting her hands dirty. most didn't even know that you and toto had gotten married over the holidays. with everyone busy at the end of the year, it was the perfect time for him to take you back to his home country and have a private ceremony.

the wolf of monaco was a dangerous man, and maybe it would've been smarter to have run away when you found out about his line of work. but it was the money or the power that drew you in. you fondly remember when you went on your first date with him. and when he came to pick you up from your tiny apartment, he had brought you yellow flowers.

"they are not sunflowers, sadly they are out of season. but i did the best i could." he chuckled as he placed a hand on your thigh when you got into the luxury car, "but i will make sure when we get married, you'll get your sunflowers." and that left your stomach in knots. talking about marriage during a first date was a no-no at best, but yet. you liked it.

no wonder you were married within a year of dating. everything he owned was now yours. you were mrs. toto wolff. which meant you had to get the family's tattoo. a black wolf inked across your skin. but, before you could get it on your skin. toto had other plans.

thus, you ended up with a sweet lamb on your skin. he simply told you, "something gentle, for the most gentle woman i have ever met." he said as he kissed your hand before you sat in the tattooing chair.

back home from the bar, toto's lips grazed your neck as he took your jacket off your shoulders, "i'm sorry that horner was bothering you." he patted your cheek lovingly, "a yapping terrier like him needs to not bother my wife." he then kissed you on the lips.

toto was an assertive man, he didn't mince his words. straight-forward and near clinical. but, when it came to you. he was all sweet words and gentle caresses. he was your husband first and a mafia boss second. it was your world and he was just living in it.

flowers on special occasions, he held open doors for you and pulled out chairs. he even hung up your coat before he took you by the small of your back and led you through your lavish home. you padded through it with bare feet with your heels at the door.

you were his little lamb and instead of having your neck between his teeth. he was delicate with you, not letting your fleece grow stained with blood. protected little lamb, saved by the wolf. and with his hands on the back of your dress as he unzipped it, you felt more protected than ever.

he kissed you gently as the dress began to be taken off your body. you felt a shiver of excitement race through you as his hands dragged across your warmed skin. you felt the sexual want course through you. he sighed close to you, "my lamb. no one else has captured my heart the way you have. you have no idea what you do to me, how you have changed me. you make me feel more man than monster." he kissed across your jaw and neck, he crowded your space. you felt your stomach do flips as he held you by the small of you back with his much larger hand.

your protective husband, the man you loved. you kissed him on the lips once more before you stepped out of the dress on the floor. your hands the found his button up shirt and started to carefully undo the buttons. your core felt wet as he tended to you so delicately. he made you feel well loved and respected. admired in a way that made your heart sing as you got his belt off. he kissed you once more before he worked the rest of his clothes off.

soon you were both in bed, naked and eager to explore each other's bodies. you moaned against his kiss before you ended up straddling his waist. your hands roamed his body, you touched the dark hair across his chest as you admired his dark eyes. you rubbed your needy sex up against him for a moment.

this was the scariest man of monaco, the wolf. he was just a cute puppy. the thought made you giggle and toto raised his eyebrows at you. you just smiled at him, "don't worry. it's not bad." before you kissed him once more.

he smiled against the kiss and said when it soon broke, "your laugh pulls me in like a siren song. i remember when i first heard it. i knew i had to speak to you soon after. i wanted to hear it again and again." he captured your lips for another kiss and you two moved against one another before he properly laid you out on your shared bed.

"toto."

"my angel." he said lowly as he splayed a hand across your stomach for a moment, "my little lamb." he chuckled lightly, "every day i think you're becoming less like a lamb and more like a wolf."

you felt more heat rise in your face, "i guess you have that kind of effect on me." and let out a small yelp as he pressed his achy cock up against you. you held onto the covers and propped yourself up a little. you tensed for a moment but toto captured your lips into a heated kiss as he sank his cock into you.

even with all the money he had, all that power at his fingertips. there was nothing quite like making love to his wife. sweeter than any pastry, more luxurious than the finest wine, and all belonging to toto. you were his wife, symbolized by the tattoo on your skin and the ring on your finger. everything he did, he did for you.

it was only fair, you were the one who made him feel human. something he felt like he lost a long time ago. you let out a sweet moan and it was music to toto's ears. you had this way with him, your sweet core. the fiber of your being, so compassionate and kind. you left a cold, old man like toto feel renewed like flowers bloom after a cold winter. when he kissed you he felt alive, when he got to be in your space, he felt like a good man. despite everything he had done and what he was capable of. you were the angel who stayed by his side.

you were good with george and kimi, almost like a second mother to the younger man. maybe that was why toto was so protective of you, shuffle you out of harm's way. he needed to protect his lamb. his wife.

he planted his hands on either side of you and moved against you. you remained rested on your elbows while the two of you kissed deeply. the angle didn't allow for him to go as deep as he'd like. but he'd take anything if it meant being close to you. close in a way that only he could be.

the way a husband and wife are close. wrapped up in one another as the two of you heavily kissed. the pleasure moved through body of you, the sounds from your moans got more needy just as his breathing grew heavy.

he felt a slight pain in his hip, but brushed it off. when he was fucking you, any minor aches and pains could be ignored. he had to make you feel good and he wasn't going to let the wear and tear from years of the business ruin his evening. you reached out fro him and draped your arms over his shoulders. you were chest to chest in your intimate position.

he could almost feel your rabid heartbeat. he would say it was like feeling the wings of a hummingbird as he rutted against you. the pace he kept was consistent, his movements short but powerful. he was so much larger than you, and up close it only became more apparent. you were so small, no wonder you were known as his lamb. but toto wasn't that kind of wolf to you. he wasn't going to devour you, but rather protect as you stood on shaky legs. love you with every inch of his heart and every ounce of blood that pumped through it.

you held onto him as he moved against you. his hands on your hips as he eyed you. you could see so much in those dark eyes, they lured you in like a forest in the nighttime. you knew your husband inside and out, you knew the story to every scar, every line in his face and every piece of ink on his skin. everything he had done, while it was dangerous, you loved him.

he gazed into your eyes with more than just lust. his want for you was below surface level. it would be easy to find a young woman of the evening to sink his cock into. but toto wanted you, only you. he wouldn't have made such a commitment to you had he wanted simple sex.

"fuck." you whined as you held him a little tighter. and even with such love for one another, the sex was still enthusiastic and left toto with a wife who could only finish thanks to him. you laid fully out on the bed, your back on the mattress. toto used it as leverage to hike your hips up and move against your quicker. you let out a sharp noise as the pleasure really picked up in your body.

your hands grasped the covers, but soon toto loomed over you further and clutched your hands in his own. he kept you pinned to the bed while his hips worked against you. despite the pain and despite his age, he could keep up with you.

so it was no surprise that soon your noises got higher in pitch and your heart hammered in your chest. your squeezed your eyes shut as you came around his cock. toto kept his pace up as you climaxed. you squirmed under him in the height of your pleasure.

"honey."

"i've got you, little lamb. you look beautiful." he purred as he could taste the pleasure on his tongue. he wasn't going to last much longer not while you were under him, beautiful as ever. he captured your lips once more and you near melted into his touch. you held onto one another as toto gave it a few more thrusts before he finished inside of you.

you whimpered and toto shuddered from the pleasure. you continued to rock against one another until the energy left your body and you were both pleased yet tired. he made sure to lie next to you so he didn't squish his precious lamb under him.

you got under the covers as a slight chill on your sweaty skin made your nipples hard. toto joined you and happily took you in his arms. he kissed you once more, this time less heated.

he rubbed your arm gently as you laid in his embrace. his kisses along your warm skin made your core warm. you felt comfortable in his hold.

"honey."

"yes, my treasure." he said lovingly.

"i think it's time that i make an addition to my tattoo... i want to add a wolf."

toto looked at you for a moment before he broke into a smile, "of course. but you'll still be my lamb?"

you held his face and rubbed your thumb across his cheek. you replied with a smile, "of course, i'll always be your little lamb." <3

[theshiniestgemstone]

I really love the concept of Jesse having a soft spot for his daughter in law that didn’t have her parents show up.

I have an idea if you’re interested.

What about the parents showing up after the wedding or whenever they announce their pregnancy and the they start to say really mean things about reader and the Gemstones get protective(like when they pulled their guns out in season 3).

I love this storyline sm y'all. I find a breadcrumb and figure out how to make it into an entire plot.

The halls were lined with dozens of other churchgoers, their voices echoing softly in the after-service hum. You shook hands with a few, familiar faces offering warm smiles and the occasional tight hug. Compliments came freely. How radiant you looked, how motherhood suited you, how you were absolutely glowing. And despite wearing a pair of shoes a size bigger than you usual size, a support band around your stomach, and heartburn that made you nearly leave in the middle of Judy's song, you were beginning to believe the compliments. You fielded each one with practiced grace, hand instinctively settling on the swell of your belly. Thirty-four weeks along and still trucking.

You lingered off to the side, just out of the main flow of foot traffic, letting the others pass while you waited for Gideon and the rest of the family to gather for lunch. Mrs. Imari, in her usual sharp lavender suit and sensible heels, stood beside you like a quiet guardian, throwing polite but unmistakable glances at anyone who lingered too close.

As the hallway began to clear and the voices faded to a gentler hum, she turned toward you with a familiar maternal softness in her eyes. “Have you and Gideon settled on a name yet?”

“Well, we were thinkin’ of a few names,” you said, brushing a slow hand over your belly. “After finding out we’re havin’ a girl, that cut our list in half. He wants something from the family. I want something new. Not like… new-new, but unique. And still findable on knickknacks.”

Mrs. Imari’s face lit up with genuine delight. “Whatever you pick, I’m sure it will be beautiful. May I feel?”

You nodded, gently guiding her hand to the place just beneath your ribs. Almost right on cue, a solid little thump nudged against her palm.

“She’s always kicking during church,” you said with a soft laugh. “I think she’ll be a soccer player. Or a kick boxer.”

“She’s strong,” Mrs. Imari said warmly, her hand lingering for a moment longer before letting go. “Children are such a precious gift, aren’t they?”

Before you could reply, cold and uninvited, another hand pressed against your bump. “Only when they actually come visit.”

The voice coiled around your spine before you even looked up. Instinctively, you wrapped your fingers around the intruding wrist and pulled it away from your body with sharp precision.

“Mother,” you said flatly.

“Daughter,” she snapped back.

“Mrs. Imari, would you excuse us?” you asked, steadying your voice as you patted her arm.

“Of course,” she said, shooting a tight-lipped look at your mother before turning to leave. “I’ll see you at lunch, dear.”

You waited until she was out of earshot before turning back with a comically exaggerated frown. “Mom, you’re late,” you whined in mock disappointment. “The wedding was, I don’t know, over a year ago. I think the bar’s been tapped out by now.”

“Don’t sass me,” she snapped, grabbing your jaw with those sharp fingers of hers, the way she always used to when she thought she was being affectionate. “You always had a smart mouth.”

You pushed her hand off with a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “What are you doing here?”

She scoffed like it should’ve been obvious, crossing her arms and scanning the hallway as if waiting for someone else to jump in on her behalf. “You think I liked finding out my only daughter is pregnant through Christian Times? You could send an announcement to a journalist. Your father's convinced it was lost in the mail."

You shrugged, unfazed. “You found out about your first three grandbabies through Facebook chains. I’d say you’re takin’ a step up in the world.” You looked around for your dad. "He didn't even bother to make it, did he?"

She let out a short, bitter laugh. “You think this is funny? Parading around like some kind of preacher’s wife? You always were a liar.”

You tilted your head, expression flattening. “You came all this way to pick a fight in a church hallway?”

“If that’s what it takes to finally get your attention,” she hissed. “You won’t answer my calls. You won’t even send a photo.”

You stopped fighting for a potential relationship the day of the wedding. After Jesse walked you down the aisle, after the day was done and you were settled into the honeymoon suite at the Four Seasons, you removed her and the other guests who refused to attend from your social medias and contacts.

You rolled your eyes, letting out a sigh as you adjusted the collar of your dress. “This isn’t worth my time.”

“I am your mother!” she barked, grabbing for your arm again.

You shook her off with a final, clipped glance. “And I’m busy.”

With that, you turned your back and walked, not caring who might be watching. Your heels clicked against the tile as you moved with purpose, weaving through the last of the stragglers toward the lobby, where the family was gathered near the double doors. They all looked away when you glanced over at them, obviously having witnessed the conversation, but unsure of what to say.

Gideon noticed the tension in your shoulders and the change in your expression immediately.

“Hey,” he said gently, stepping forward. “Who was that?”

You gripped his hand tight, not slowing down. “My mother,” you muttered, tugging him with you toward the front door, away from the hallway, away from her. “Come on.”

He didn’t ask again. He just followed, matching your pace as the doors swung open behind you both and the sun hit your face like a quiet relief.

After a few hormonal tears in the parking lot of Jason’s, you and Gideon made your way up to the second-floor dining room. You usually greeted everyone individually, joked with the family about the baby making it hard to climb the stares, but today you couldn’t find it in yourself to entertain. Instead, you settled into your usual seat beside Gideon and focused on the food in front of you. You picked at the meal, forcing a smile when you made eye contact with anyone.

The clink of your fork hitting your plate as you noticed her at the top of the stairs was barely audible over the insults hurled between Judy and Kelvin. The noise of lunch blurred for a moment as everything inside you went still.

Your mother stood there like she belonged. Chin high, lips pressed in a tight, self-satisfied line.

“What the fuck do you want?” you snapped, loud enough to cut through the noise. Every head turned. "Can't I get a minute of fucking peace.

Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Jesse froze where he was reaching for another dinner roll. Judy’s jaw dropped open mid-comeback, and even Kelvin blinked like he wasn't sure he heard right. Gideon slowly reached for your hand under the table, squeezing once, your name passing through his lips quietly.

Your mother ascended the last few steps slowly, theatrically. “I came to meet the family,” she said, eyes scanning the table with fake curiosity. “Isn’t that what good mothers do?”

“You had three years to call,” you bit back, standing now, chair legs scraping loudly against the hardwood. “Three years to care.”

She smiled, cold and wrong. “Well. I’m here now.”

“Not for long,” you said, heart pounding.

Eli cleared his throat at the head of the table, already rising. “Ma’am, this is a private gathering.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” she said with a dry laugh, eyes landing on him. “You’re the one who made her think she’s better than where she came from.”

You moved before you could think. You went around the table, past the stunned faces of your in-laws, Gideon shadowing your every step after scrambling out of his chair. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re trash! You always have been. You come from a slum, not silver spoons and gold necklaces.” She teetered on her feet, jabbing a finger in your direction. “You’re not good enough for this.”

You blinked, stunned. Not because it was new. She had said worse, been worse. But something about hearing it now, after everything… it cut differently.

“This family is fixing you to be what they want you to be. Barefoot and pregnant and… and some spectacle.”

Three years of distance. A wedding she was invited to and never showed up. A baby that stirred beneath your ribs like a reminder of everything you’d built. Everything she hadn’t touched.

You didn’t respond right away. You just stood there, jaw locked, throat burning, one hand braced against the curve of your belly. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out her words. And even standing where you are today, with everything you built for yourself, you suddenly felt like you were fifteen asking for ten dollars to see a movie only to be reminded of your ungratefulness. And in that silence, before you could find the words, your family did it for you.

“Hey,” Jesse said, standing up so fast his chair nearly toppled behind him. “You don’t talk to her like that. Not in here.”

“Not ever,” Judy added, eyes wild, fork clutched in her hand like she might throw it. “I don’t care who you are.”

Kelvin crossed his arms, stepping around the table with a furrowed brow. “That’s a Gemstone you’re talkin’ to,” he said, nodding toward you. “You don’t get to come in here and act like you matter more than she does. Not anymore.”

Even Eli rose, slow and deliberate, napkin folded beside his plate. “Ma’am,” he said calmly, but with steel in his voice, “I think you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

Your mother looked around, eyes darting from face to face, realizing for the first time that she was not the center of the room. Not the authority. Not feared. She looked back at you, like maybe you’d call them off. Like you’d play the peacemaker.

But you didn’t.

You just stood still, the quiet between heartbeats louder than anything you could’ve said. A scratch on the floor caught your focus, just like the crack in the coffee table did when you were ten and she'd given you a lecture after you asked if you could get a new bike for Christmas.

Jesse scoffed, throwing his napkin on the table. You’d opened up one night about your mother and how she treated you. He’d found you crying over a sonogram during the early weeks when he’d come over to drop off some of Gideon’s trophies he’d left behind. No one besides Gideon knew you were pregnant. You opened up about the doubts and feelings she’d instilled in you, the fear you’d do the same to your own baby.

“You don’t get to walk in here and act like you matter just ‘cause you gave birth to her,” Jesse said, voice rising. “You sure as hell didn’t raise her. And you sure as shit didn’t love her right.”

Your mother blinked, taken aback.

“You were a shitty mother,” he went on, standing up, “and you’re being an even worse grandmother before that baby’s even born. You don’t deserve to be here.”

“Jesse,” Amber said from her seat, soft but clear. Her tone asked him to calm down, but the look on her face, steady and sharp, told him to go ahead. To finish.

He glanced at her, then back at your mother.

“You know what the difference is between you and her?” he asked, jerking his thumb toward you. “She learned from the pain you gave her. She's not gonna pass it on. She broke the cycle. She’s gonna raise that little girl to know love. You can’t even say the word without choking on it. And I hope you do!"

A heavy silence settled over the room. Your mother’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Jesse shook his head once and sat back down.“She’s got us now,” he said simply, settling in his chair once again. “Doesn’t need any of whatever the fuck you’re offerin’.”

Kelvin nodded solemnly, then looked around before throwing up his hands like a referee at a wrestling match. “Boo, Y/N’s mom,” he declared.

Judy didn’t miss a beat. “Boo, your dusty-ass energy,” she added, waving her fork in the air. “Goodbye, bitch.”

A chorus of boos erupted around the table like a bad halftime show had just taken the stage. Even Eli let out a quiet, amused hum as he sat back in his seat, doing nothing to hide the smirk on his lips.

Your mother blinked back tears. Real tears. Not the kind she forced during arguments to make you feel guilty. She gave you one last look before stomping down the stairs.

Amber clapped once, like that settled it. “Well,” she said, slicing into her chicken, “that’s the end of that chapter."

Gideon squeezed your hand, his other hand wrapping around your shoulders. “You good?”

You nodded, teary-eyed but smiling because somehow, through the chaos and ridiculousness, through the mess of emotion and interruption, you felt safe.

“I’ve suddenly gotten my appetite back," you admitted, letting Gideon lead you to your chair. He pulled it out, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before sitting in his own chair.

Jesse slid the basket of rolls over, a knowing smile on his face.

This family was loud, dysfunctional, and completely unfiltered.

But they were yours.

And they had your back.

[formulakracing]

"just one dance" - t.w.

pairing: horner's daughter!reader x toto wolff

word count: 1.9k

warnings: toto lusting after a woman thirty years younger than him (what's new on this blog lmfao), sexual references, maybe some cursing (idrk), mentions of drug use, alcohol use, flirting, banter, yadayadayada

a/n: i played "here" by alessia cara like 20x on repeat while writing this fic. so we could say that this fic is veryyyyy loosely inspired by that song. also! this was a request by an anon! i hope y'all enjoy! <3

"come on," the words as slurred as he rolls his eyes, "come dance with us!"

bringing your hand to your mouth, you stifle a giggle, "max, for the last time, i am not joining the horny middle school grind circle you guys have going on over there."

"it's not a grind circle," he puts his hands on his hips, "i would say it's more like a mosh pit."

which, given the occasion, was not quite appropriate either.

at the moment, you were perched at one of the many elegant banquet tables, the rigid surfaced draped with a thick, cream-colored tablecloth. adorning the table were numerous vases, filled to the brim with floral arrangements, their fragrance oh so sickeningly sweet.

the plates, utensils, and other various dining ware were now cleared, only leaving numerous wine glasses, their crystalline stems glimmering in the dim light, swathed by the golden hue of the chandeliers as they sparkle above.

this was the annual fia prize gala, one of the most coveted events of the season. it was the showcasing and peacocking of sheer and utter wealth, as the drivers got to pull up to in their luxury vehicles, their keys handed off to the valets. every individual was dressed head to toe in designer clothing from nearly every brand possible, from christian dior to saint laurent.

you lost track of the amount of rolex watches, cartier jewelry, and hermès bags you noticed throughout the course of the evening.

the main event wrapped up hours ago, leaving the rest of the night for the drivers, crew members, mechanics, engineers, executives, and team principals to mingle and dance. and well, consume copious amounts of alcohol.

and well, perhaps do a few lines in the restroom. or light a joint outside. maybe even pop a few pills.

with the exuberant amounts of cash involved with events like this, there were surely some illicit affairs. ones that the fia ignored, simply turning their heads.

if they didn't see it, it didn't happen.

after all, you were in monaco. it was like las vegas in a way.

what happened in monaco, stayed in monaco.

and here max verstappen was, three-time world champion, standing before you, so drunk he could barely walk, begging for you to come join him on the dance floor.

too bad your phone was almost dead.

this would have been a prime opportunity to record what was unfolding before you. it would have fed the max girlies all over instagram and tik tok for months.

glancing over max's shoulder, you pick out lando, oscar, charles, and carlos. they were apart of the large formation, jumping up and down, barreling into one another. alexandra, rebecca, and lily linger around the group, their gowns swishing as they laugh, their cheeks dusted with a bubblegum pink glow.

a drunken mosh pit with a bunch of sweaty men? no thank you.

but gossiping with the girls? that was more your speed.

"my dad would have a stroke if he caught me with you guys," you simply shrug, sipping on your wine, "and what if something happened to my dress? we have to return this, you know."

"ugh," the dutch driver groans, "you're no fun."

"hallo, max," a new voice cuts in, thick with an accent you can't quite place your finger on, "congratulations on your accomplishment this year!"

shifting in your chair is none other than torger christian wolff, better known as toto wolff, team prinicipal of mercedes.

your heart skips a beat as your eyes drink in the sight of him, the way his crisp tuxedo fit him effortlessly. his dark brunette hair was messy, more than likely from the events of the evening. his bowtie was untied, hanging loosely around his neck. the first few buttons of the snowy white dress shirt were undone, exposing his skin.

fuck, was he a gorgeous man.

with sharp cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and wide, beautiful coffee brown eyes, he knew that he was attractive, his aura brimmed with nothing but sexiness and dominance.

his hands land on the chair beside you, pulling it out as max rambles, the words drowning out in your ears.

you were more focused on his stature as he sits to your right, his thighs spread in the chair, a hand running through his hair.

"is there a reason why i haven't seen you on the dance floor?"

due to the excessive volume of the music, his mouth hovers by your ear. a shiver runs down your spine as his eyes lock with yours, lips forming a radiant smile, flashing his perfect pearlescent teeth.

"cat got your tongue? or are you just as intoxicated as maxie boy over there?"

"neither," you counter, straightening in your chair, "just not really interested, that's all."

"did daddy not give his precious diamond any dance lessons growing up?"

your father was none other than christian horner, team principal of red bull racing, sworn enemy of toto wolff.

quickly, your eyes scan your surroundings, in an attempt to pick out your father among the throng of people. to your dismay, you cannot find him.

which, in this case, could be a good thing.

if he saw toto speaking to you? oh fuck. it would be game over. you'd probably be grounded at your big age of twenty-four years old. could parents even do that when you were an adult?

you didn't really want to find out.

yet, you couldn't turn down a few moments with the team principal.

after all, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

why not seize it?

for most of your life, you obeyed every single one of your father's wishes. you maintained your distance from the red bull drivers, careful not to get too close. you stayed out of the spotlight, ensuring that no negative publicity ever came his way. as much as you yearned to get to know members of the mercedes team or crew, you shied away, maintaining the promise that you would never befriend a rival.

so, for this one night, you could be a little selfish.

just this once.

even if it involved your father's biggest foe. the bane of his existence. the man he spoked about so bitterly for years on end.

"i was offered dance lessons, actually," your voice is melodic, like an angel's from the heavens above, "i turned them down. opted for horseback riding instead."

"so you know how to ride?" the team principal runs a tongue along his lower lip, his brow slightly raised, "well, i have an offer for you. one dance with me, and then later you can show me how well you can ride."

"and what am i going to be riding?" you inquire, folding your arms across your chest.

the corners of his lips curl into a devious smirk, an emotion glinting within the mocha depths as he leans in, "my cock."

heat flourishes into your cheeks, seeping all throughout your body. as your mind scrambles, struggling to formulate some sort of witty response, the team principal nods, "not expecting that, were you? i like seeing you like this, all flustered. it's cute."

"y-you're ridiculous," you manage to sputter out, hands instinctively shielding your face.

"not as ridiculous as any of those fools," his head motions towards the group of rambunctious drivers, "tell me, why aren't you with any of them? i'm sure maxie boy would love to take you on a date. lando too."

"just not interested," you shrug, regaining your confidence a tad, "don't get me wrong, they've asked. but i've always just turned them down."

toto cocks his head, his voice laced with a tease, "why? scared daddy is going to ground you for dating a driver?"

"i just rather wouldn't be involved with anyone of them romantically," you wave a hand, "it'd be too awkward if things didn't end up working out. could you imagine having to spend so much time at the paddock with someone who your dad could fire at any given moment? it'd be like walking on eggshells. i'd feel bad for any poor soul who wants to court me. they'd constantly be seeking my father's approval, on and off the track."

"well it's a good thing that i already know where i stand," toto shoots you a wink, your heart thudding against your rib-cage as he offers you his hand, "come on, just one dance. that's all i ask of you, gorgeous girl. one dance and then you can come right back over here, spending the rest of your night sulking in the corner."

"i haven't been sulking," you snort, accepting the gesture, "i've just been bored."

"how about you accept the other half of my offer then?" his accent is prominent, lingering in every word, "i've just been flirting, you don't really have to ride me. unless you know, you want to-"

"are you forgetting that we're in a very public space?" you hiss, elbow interlocked with his as you make your way to the dance floor, "people can probably hear you."

"good thing we're all drunk," he responds, the casual delivery sending you spiraling, "here, place your hand on my shoulder. i'll take this hand. the other will go on your waist."

as you follow his lead, you can't help but feel the pairs of eyes fixate on the two of you, murmurs rising above the music. yet, toto's focus is honed in on you, and only you.

"don't worry about them," he takes a step forward, your feet following in suit, "they're probably just envious that i'm with the most coveted woman in all of formula one."

"you don't mean that."

"oh schatzi," a chuckle rumbles in his chest, flowing from his lips, "do you not hear the things they say about you among the paddocks?"

"enlighten me then," your heart swells as his thumb tenderly kneads into your waist, fingers interlocking with yours.

his mouth is merely centimeters away from yours now, dimples apparent as his eyes glitter like the chandeliers above, "there's whispers that you are the most breathtaking woman in the world. the drivers talk about you all of the time, debating who would look the best by your side. you're a hot commodity. a prize to be won."

"people say those things about me?"

"would i ever lie to you?" toto arched a brow, "i have no reason to."

"that is true."

there's a twinge of resentment that bubbles up in your stomach as the song ends. oh how this moment ended too soon.

way too soon.

"still no sign of your father," toto's voice is hushed, barely audible over the music, "you think i could have you for just one more song? after that, i promise i'll leave you be."

"i think so," you feel a smile form the moment he pulls you in closer, the space between you crumbling away, "careful, mr. wolff. you need to maintain some sort of distance between us, remember?"

he shakes his head, fingers squeezing your waist, "right now, i could give any fucks what your father would think. he's lucky that i have some sort of self-control."

"and why is that?" you press, blood roaring in your ears as his head lowers, situated by your ear.

"because it is taking everything within me to keep myself from getting on my knees right this instant and lifting up that gown of yours."

[xylatox]

꒰⋆.˚ 𝕱𝖆𝖛𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝕱𝖎𝖈𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝕬𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖑 𖹭.ᐟ.ᐟ꒱

adeline's ✉ 〃hello (❁´◡`❁) I have decided to now just pick out my overall favourite fics of the month instead of including ever piece I've read! Anyways, please support the authors and their work (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

Half-Smoked Cigarettes // @faeyun

pairing // lee heeseung x f!reader

synopsis // the last thing you were expecting when taking a smoke outside was to see someone trying to sneakily cut flowers off your mom’s bushes in the front of your house in the middle of the night—nor were you expecting to become so enamored by him, either. and it seemed that the feeling was completely mutual.

✉︎ // Kipo's fic back on tumblr :) it was honestly so nice to read her work again and it was such a good and funny read

Chemtrails // @heechwe

pairing // jung wonwoo x f!reader

synopsis // Wonwoo is the last person you expect to find at a grief support group, but he may just be the peace that you need to weather all of your storms.

✉︎ // I ugly cried from begin to end reading this. I loved the mc in particular as she really reminded me of myself at the beginning of my grieving period

blurring the lines // @amourcheol

pairing // joshua hong x f!reader

synopsis // you think you know everything about your best friend, dashing bachelor joshua hong. when you stumble upon his suggestive literature from his recent travels, however, reading even an extract is enough to make you question everything. unsure of your newfound feelings, you turn to your confidante, unaware of just how much knowledge—and experience—he has to offer.

✉︎ // the start of fia's bridgerton series. I literally love her work so much and since I finished Bridgerton earlier in the year, this just brought me so much joy.

To: Someone From A Warm Climate // @hyukascampfire

pairing // faerie!taehyun, faerie!yeonjun x f!reader

synopsis // In which 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗓𝗓𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾. "𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝖺𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖾, 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎?" 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗉. "𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍," 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗌. "say what i am."

✉︎ // Will love this series till the day i die. Ashlynn updated and it was literally the best day ever then to read this.

Nine and Three Quarters // @just-nc-tea

pairing // park sunghoon x f!reader

synopsis // Somehow, in the middle of your semester break, you ended up with a new roommate. Your landlord rented out the second room in your flat without telling you, and now you’re living with Sunghoon. At first, your paths barely cross – you’re buried in work, and he’s always at the rink. But slowly, he slips into your routine in ways you never expected. Then one night, everything shifts. A blurred memory, a moment of fear—and Sunghoon catching you before you can fall. Suddenly, it’s not awkward anymore. You start looking forward to him coming home. Maybe—just maybe—home isn’t a place. Maybe it’s a person

✉︎ // Patty's Sunghoon fic :((( I swear I literally screamed when they finally started being more than roommates/friends. The slow-burn did in fact slow burn (I loved it so much)

things i know that i can't have // @zreamy

pairing // jake sim x f!reader

synopsis // jake's life was hard enough before he fell for you—balancing uni, football, and being a good christian son. in some cruel twist of fate, sleeping with you has only made things harder—and, according to sunghoon (and scripture), damned him to hell the first time he thought about it.

✉︎ // I will literally always love fics where christianity plays a role, its super duper comforting to me and i feel like jake is the perfect choice for this kind of thing

Invisible String // @heesmiles

pairing // soulmate!sunghoon x f!reader

synopsis // They say when someone you love dies it takes a piece of who you were and a piece of who you were going to be. You met the love of your life the day you died; and it took something from you. It changed who you were and you don’t know if you’d ever want it back. Sunghoon was tied to you, two tangled souls connected by one invisible red string but you didn’t know it, until it was too late.

✉︎ // this fic sent me to hell and back emotionally. I kid you not the angst was so unreal but i loved every minute of this fic.

Criminal Conscience // @beomiracles

pairing // criminal!beomgyu x detective!reader

synopsis // Moving rapidly through your career as one of the leading female investigators, you never once encountered a case you couldn't crack. Though you never expected for your past mistakes to come back and haunt you in the form of an ex lover, accused of murder.

✉︎ // cc sundays ヾ(≧▽≦*)o I always look forward to when serene updates this series, it literally brings me life. It also heavily reminds me of my true crime media that I consumed 100% of the time before i started reading fics more

no doubt - the series //@jakesimfromstatefarm

pairing // no doubt!jake x no doubt!reader

synopsis // a series of drabbles that look into the first year of jake & y/n's relationship after she decides to give him a second chance...aka jake being an absolute total whipped simp for her but in the most endearing way possible <3

✉︎ // literally anytime addie publishes a drabble I'm so giddy because of just how downbad jake is. hes literally the cutest, they are the cutest.

Checking You Out // @jakedustry

pairing // hockey captain!Jake x f!reader

synopsis // In which Jake Sim loves hockey, he loves it so much he is willing to spend his every free minute on the ice skating, but he also finds himself falling in love with you—the only girl his coach doesn't want him to date. But with the way you look at him, can he stay far enough to keep his position as the captain?

✉︎ // I loved every single minute of this. mc'd dad was stressing me out so bad ngl but god i love simp!jake so much

Daffodils // @yunverie

pairing // best friend!Choi Soobin x f!reader

synopsis // To you, the bond of soulmates was as sacred and divine as a delicate flower. Growing up, you had watched your parents bask in a love so grand, drawn together by the cruel yet beautiful trial of flowers and ink. You dreamed of your own bond one day awakening, of finding the one destined for you.

Until you didn’t.

One vicious prank was all it took to crush the seedlings of your young heart. The idea of soulmates began to sicken you—no longer a dream, but a wound.

Soobin had always gathered your broken pieces, helping you reassemble what was torn apart. The time you spent closing your heart to love, he spent his trying to cup the love that only grew for you with both hands—trying to keep it from spilling over. And one day, that love blossomed into soft, bright daffodils, nestling deep within his chest.

✉︎ // Yun's rewritten Soobin fic :( I had the pleasure of reading the first version but I absolutely loved the things she added to the plot. I really do love a good soulmate au.

Secrets // @theothernads

pairing // Boxer!Jungwon x f!rich!reader

synopsis // After making it to university, you found yourself finding comfort in a cat café worker not too far from your lectures. The cute worker seemed to have a knack for making you fall for his charm. And, how could you not? Your chemistry was perfect- but you never thought that he had secrets and that Jungwon was your secret as well. As much as you two tried to keep everything behind the scenes, things don't always work out the way they should

✉︎ // I truly loved this :( it was so emotional, intense and just downright amazing. The angst and class differences really had me going through it.

What Remains The Same // @dawngyu

pairing // choi beomgyu x single-parent!reader

synopsis // On the hardest, most terrifying day of your life, when your body is tearing open and everything feels like it’s coming undone, his name is the only one your heart remembers to call for.

✉︎ // Another fic that had me absolutely ugly-sob. I went in thinking one thing and left with a heart full (of tears) and what I believed was a plot twist I didn expect. I truly loved this.

Frostbite // @heesmiles

pairing // hockey player!sunghoon x figure skater!reader

synopsis // Sunghoon’s injury was comparable to the end of the world, at least for him it was. Having not been cleared in time to start practice with his team, Sunghoon is stuck practicing alone after hours, except he's not alone. Forced to share the rink with the practicing figure skaters was his version of hell, especially when one of them couldn't shut up about the fact that the world was their oyster and taking a positive look on life was the only way to live? How could he be positive when the only thing that made him happy was taken away from him. She had felt like frostbite sinking into his skin. Frostbite was quick, it stung and then it killed before you could even see it coming.

✉︎ // I love when some part of me can relate to fics, whether is the mc or how anyone else is written, it always feels extra special to me then. This took a part of me as I loved how realistic Sunghoon's feelings toward his injury was portrayed. I just also really love the whole grumpy x sunshine dynamic

adeline's ending ✉ 〃and these were my fav fics! a mix of laughs and cries, but each and every one was a piece that got my through the month. Again, please always show your love and share your thoughts with the authors, it means alot to them. Till next time! (❁´◡`❁)

[cookinguptales]

oh my god, I might literally throw a party. I might literally buy myself a cake tonight. thank you, thank you, thank you, Pete Buttigieg.

things that have happened to me specifically while flying american:

being asked to stand in a very long line to check my bag before they'd let me have access to a wheelchair

not being picked up by an attendant in time to get to my flight despite arriving over two hours early

being loaded into a broken accessible bathroom. the door wouldn't close all the way so my naked body was visible to people in the terminal.

being refused restroom access at all, sometimes for hours at a time. I'd say that this one happens about 80% of the time when I fly, especially when getting off the plane.

being denied stops for food at the airport as well

being left outside a restroom for over an hour because the attendant straight-up left. I had to TWEET AT THE AIRPORT FOR HELP because I knew being public was the only thing that would work.

being left on plane for over 45 minutes for the same exact reason. once off the plane, I was left at the gate for an additional hour. my parents, waiting for me at baggage, were frantic. a gate agent got into a screaming match with a wheelchair attendant. it was wild.

having a wheelchair attendant harass me about my homosexuality the entire time they took me through the airport; I'd just come from pride and had an identifying t-shirt. I couldn't get away from them or their lectures about being a good christian.

never being collected for a connecting flight, forcing me to walk or miss the flight. I dislocated my shoulder trying to get there.

once I was loaded onto a shuttle but no one bothered UNloading me, so I had to bang on the glass to get passersby's attention

not being preboarded a solid... I'd say 20% of the time. this is important because preboarding means I don't need to stand for an extended period in a narrow aisle behind people putting their things away, and also provides me with additional space to put away my accessibility devices.

once this happened because the wheelchair attendant was late (as usual) and the gate attendant assured me they'd hold the line so the aisle would be clear. once I got down there, they refused to do this and wanted me to stand for 15 minutes, which would have been incredibly painful while holding my bags. I refused to board until the aisle was clear, so they started directing passengers around my wheelchair. it was only after a passenger straight up refused to board and blocked everyone else that the aisle was cleared and I was allowed to board.

I have also had passengers break rules to take me to the bathroom when I was literally weeping at the gate from how badly I needed to pee and how much I did not want to publicly wet myself. thank you to those passengers. (and the ones that yell that I need to be preboarded when they "forget" to do so.)

I've been told to get off the plane because my wheelchair was there, but got off the plane to find out that it wasn't -- and they wouldn't let me back on the plane. they wanted me to walk to baggage, but I couldn't. I sat down on the filthy floor of the bridge and wouldn't move until they brought a wheelchair, no matter how much they yelled at me and threatened me with security. what a fucking mess.

they have given away my seat near the front of the plane before and forced me to walk to the back of the plane. I was openly sobbing from the pain by the time I made it back there.

things that have happened while flying in general (TSA, other airlines, etc.):

(trigger warning for sexual assault)

TSA giving you the most invasive pat-downs you can imagine. if you remain in your wheelchair, often they will run their hands under your thighs, bottom, and genitalia. the weight of your own body means that I have had fingers part my outer labia through my pants. one I started crying during a pat-down because I am a survivor of CSA and they yelled at me then restarted the pat-down from the top.

I have had attendants refuse to help me with my belongings during security, instead insisting that I get out of the chair and do it myself

I have had security make me get out of the chair, then lose the chair until my legs gave out and I sat on the floor, which also got me yelled at

broken accessible bathrooms have happened at MULTIPLE airports.

delta has broken not one but TWO of my personal wheelchairs

once while boarding an attendant (who was already mad at me because I'd refused to walk up the steep tarmac ramp without wheelchair assistance) grabbed my cane while I was using it and I almost fell. I was never notified that this would be a tarmac boarding to begin with.

once, during a different tarmac boarding, they expected us to go down a flight of stairs, despite me being loaded onto the plane via wheelchair. I would not go down the stairs and they had to call for the lift to be brought. it took about a half hour, and the entire time the attendants kept asking me if I really needed it and wouldn't I just go down the stairs? like I was just being a recalcitrant child and not someone who's broken her ankle stepping off a curb before.

honestly the refusal to let me eat and pee is pretty universal, as is wheelchair attendants ghosting me, refusing to talk to me, acting like they're transporting luggage instead of a person, etc.

believe it or not, that is not an exhaustive list. they're just the first examples that come to mind. whenever I fly and it goes completely smoothly, that's more of a shock.

and like... it's dehumanizing. it really is. not being allowed to go to the restroom? having people refuse to talk to you? being abandoned in random hallways?

I'm always in so much pain after I fly, a fact that is generally worsened by poor treatment at the airport, and even the literal dislocations have hurt less than being treated like I'm less of a human person than my fellow passengers.

so uh. rock on, Buttigieg. fine them into fucking oblivion. I'll be cheering you on the whole way.

[uluvjay]

Hiiii

I absolutelyfucking love your Max Verstappen x innocent Horner! reader fic so please m here for another

What if reader had a purity ring and after they do it he slides it off her finger and makes it a necklace for himself. Horner would be mad. But glad that it was him than anyone else

Sending positive vibes

Max Verstappen x Horner daughter!

Warnings?; mentions to sex, cursing, kissing, probably some errors

Au masterlist!

“Darling where’s your ring?” You father asks picking up your hand to analyze the tanned finger with a pale line showcasing where the small band usually sits.

“My ring?” You question looking down the your hand as well.

“Shit, where’s my ring?” You panic trying to think about where it could have gone.

“Why would you take it off? Have you been seeing someone?” He questions you, bright eyes searching your face for answers to his questions.

“Of course not” you lie straight through your teeth, you had been seeming someone but your father didn’t need to know that it was his star driver that was fucking you silly every night.

“Then what happened to it?”

The question has you thinking back to the night before, Max had been teasing you about it stating there was no reason for you to keep the purity ring on when he’d already defiled you multiple times.

Your chest heaved up and down as you tried to catch your breath after coming down from yet another orgasm. Max had laid beside you, one of his large hands holding your left hand in it as he spun the small golden band around.

“Why do you still wear this?” He questioned quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“Well it signifies purity right? Like you were supposed to wear it till marriage and when you lost your virginity?” He continued

“Yeah so?”

“So? Schat I took your virginity a long time ago, your far from pure now” he laughed looking at you with bright eyes.

A bright blush took over your cheeks at his words but part of you was to tired to get into the full details about why you chose to still wear it and just settled with a simple “It was a gift from my father and he’d lose his mind if he saw me without it” before sleep overtook and you were out cold while cuddled into Max’s side.

However what you didn’t see or feel was max slipping the delicate band off your finger and onto his chain that rested on the nightstand next to him.

You thought back to this morning and how you over slept leaving you with little time to get dressed and be at the track in time for qualifying, the busy morning not allowing you to notice your missing ring.

“I-i’m not sure, I guess I took it off before bed?” You stated but it sounded more like a question.

Your father opened his mouth to speak but he was cut off by the sight of Max’s car being brought back into the garage not having realized qualifying had ended and Max has once again securing pole position.

You watched as the Dutchman exited the car, pulling off his helmet and black balaclava revealing his messy and damp locks.

His eyes met yours and he shot you a sneaky wink before making way to your father for a small hug and congratulations.

You blushed at the closeness of his large body beside yours, watching as he undid the Velcro of his racing suit and pulled it down to hang around his waist.

However once his dark fireproof was revealed you couldn’t help but notice the outline of something underneath.

The imprint of his chain was there as it should be however you saw something attached to it but before you could connect the dots, the voice of your stepmother cut you off.

“Max did you get a charm for your chain?” Geri questioned causing all eyes to turn to the blonde man; including your fathers.

“Oh yes, beautiful isn’t it?” He smirked as he pulled the chain from underneath his top.

You felt the world stop as you saw your ring resting on the chain, the ring you had just told your father that you couldn’t place, the ring that was meant to signify purity, the ring that should not have been around Max Verstappen’s neck.

Christians eyes shot from the band hanging around the chain to your face that was now covered by shaky hands and the blank and unbothered face of his star driver.

“My office now. Both of you.” He demanded

Shutting the door behind himself Christian paced back and forth, he wasn’t sure what exactly it was that he was feeling.

Anger? Check, confusion? Check, shock? Double check.

“What the hell is going on between you two? And why in the fuck does max have your ring around a chain?” He asked, hands taking place on his hips.

“I-uh, we” you started but the man beside you cut you off.

“We’ve been seeing each other for awhile now, just a little under a year” max spoke in a soft tone.

“I’m sorry a year?” Your father exclaimed at the confession.

“Yes” you and max both answered at the same time.

“And I can assume you were the one to deflower my child?”

“Dad!”

“No you don’t get to ‘dad’ me right now young lady, answer the question max”

“Uh yes” max blushed at Christian’s words.

“God, fuck at least it was Max and not some college guy” he spoke in relief.

“So your okay with us being together?” You asked quietly, unconsciously moving closer to Max.

“I am but no snogging or anything gross around me” he shivered at the thought.

“I promise, thank you” you smiled as you made your way to him and pulled him into a hug.

“As long as you’re happy, I’m happy darling” he replied as he placed a sweet kiss to your head.

With a sweet smile you made your way back towards max, taking a hand in his and pulling him out of the room.

But before you could fully exit your father’s voice stopped max in his tracks.

“Take care of my little girl max!”

“Always sir” he smiled at his boss before following behind your bouncing frame, a content smile on his face at the feeling of your hand in his and the sight of your pretty bow he’d gotten that sat perfectly in your hair.

Finally making it into his drivers room he pulled you in for a breathtaking kiss, the feeling of his warm lips so familiar and comforting.

His hands sank down to rest on your ass while yours slipped into his still damp hair, tugging on it when he slipped his tongue into your mouth-immediately taking dominance.

Pulling away for air his face held a smirk at the sight of your already blown out eyes and flushed face.

“I love you” he spoke running a finger over your cheek.

“I love you to” you smiled, pulling the blonde back down for another hot kiss.

-

[whorekneecentral]

Your Pick

Fernando Alonso x Fem!Reader

Warnings: pr!reader, a bit of an age gap (reader is mid twenties) randomness from nando's end, unspoken feelings until now, thigh riding, penetrative sex (p in v), a bit of teasing, praise kink go burrrr, creampie.

Word Count: 2,358

Author's Note: I literally only picked the middle pic for @oconso, it was for her. you’re welcome.

merry smutmas series

--

Fernando enlists the help of a certain someone to get his Christmas shopping done but the list is oddly familiar.

A charity event that Fernando attended every year, some sort of mission for children and their dream of being a driver. Fernando gave them an afternoon of his time, indulging them in all of their questions and stories, sharing some of his own as well.

You were, of course, right there with him. You weren't needed for this event exactly but as his press officer, you followed him. Sebastian often joked when he saw you that you were to Fernando what Britta is to him; except for the fact that you are much younger and hadn't been with Fernando for as long.

The idea was the same, you did everything for him. From making sure he gets there on time to meeting fans and signing everything he can.

At some point during the long event, Fernando asks you if you can do him a favour, handing you a piece of paper.

"I need to pick up some stuff, you can take my car. Oh and my card." He tells you, fishing the keys and his card out of his pocket to hand it over to you.

The keys to his Aston in your hand, along with the card and a list with some words scribbled along the lines, both in English and Spanish. You'd just have to figure it out along the way.

"You don't need me to stay?" You asked, looking between the list and the man. Fernando shook his head, "I'm good here. You should be done by the time I'm done here, no?"

"Probably."

"Come back when you're done, I'll wait for you."

You nodded, telling him you'd text him when you're done before you head out. The car beeps when you press the unlock button, a slick, shiny grey DBX 707 sat in the parking lot. You smiled to yourself, getting into the car and shutting the door.

The list sat on your lap, you looked over the things on the list and the places you'd get to go.

First stop on the list was Chanel; a Chanel classic with the double flap in Tiffany blue. It was stunning, Fernando had dotted down that he wanted it in the medium size. You were surprised he even knew what that meant.

His card beeped on the machine, the woman smiles as she hands the bag over to you. You carry it as you walk down the street to Christian Louboutin.

Purses, clothes and shows lined the walls, you felt like you were underdressed but the massive Chanel bag you were carrying fit you right in with the other rich people in the store.

You asked the woman for the shoes that he had written down; so Kate 120 in black, size 8.

You waited for her to bring them back. "Would you like to try them on, miss?" The woman asks, the slick box in her hands. You shook your head, "that's alright, thank you."

"Is this all?" She smiles, and you nod. The woman leads you to the front, doubling checking the sizes of the shoes and packaging it up into the brown bag.

There's one more place on the list that you've got to stop; Dior.

It's a few minutes drive from where you were, you leave the other bags in the car and head into the store. Fernando has listed that he was looking for the Miss Dior perfume. You look around a bit, stopping at the back to look at the wall of fragrances they had set up. You look closely and carefully and still you don't see the one that Fernando had wanted.

You reach for your phone, texting the man.

To Fernando: Hey, they don't have the perfume you wanted.

From Fernando: Which one was that again?

To Fernando: Miss Dior.

From Fernando: Just pick another one.

To Fernando: Any one?

From Fernando: Yeah, you have good taste. I trust your judgement.

You reply with a thumbs up and decide to look for something that you liked. It was a bit odd that Fernando sent you out like this, he did it often but never like this. He was never one to have you shop for someone who was clearly a woman. She must be important to him if he's spending so much on her.

You ended up picking out Dior Addict in place of Miss Dior. This one had the same jasmine scent with more of a vanilla undertone. You pay and take the bag from the man at the counter with a smile.

Getting back into the car, you reach over and set the bag with the others. You texted Fernando to let him know that you were on your way back, to which he replied with a thumbs up emoji.

It was a 20 minutes drive back to where he was, and once you arrived, you waited in the car for him. You were scrolling through your phone when a tap on the window startled you.

Looking over, you see Fernando. You wind down the window, "uber for Fernando ?" He asks, a cheeky grin on his face.

You roll your eyes. "Haha," you say flatly. "Do you want to drive?" You look over at him and he shakes his head, walking around to get into the passenger seat. Fernando lifts your purse, setting it on his lap carefully.

"Where to then?" You look over at him, yet again. "Home?

"Yours," he says, looking through your purse.

"Stop that," you smack his arms, turning the key to start the engine. The car purrs in response, a sound only luxury cars have.

"Do you have gum?" He asks, still looking.

"Front pocket," you inform him, heading towards your place. It didn't strike you as odd to be heading to yours. Fernando often picked you up so you just assumed you'd get home and then he'd head out to his place.

What did strike you as odd was Fernando taking the bags out of the car and following you up the stairs to your front door. "What are you doing?" You turned, clearly confused.

"Go on, I need to come in."

"What if I don't want you to come in?" Your question made him laugh, the man shaking his head. "Just go," he tells you, knowing you're just being difficult.

You unlock the door and walk in, Fernando sets the bags in the living room and makes himself comfortable on the couch. He had been to your place before it wasn't like it was awkward or anything. You just weren't sure why he wanted to come in.

"Want some coffee?" You called from the kitchen, filling the kettle. "Tea would be nice," he calls back.

You shake your head, setting two mugs on the counter. "I didn't offer any tea."

"I'm suggesting it then." He leans over the back of the couch, smiling at you. You roll your eyes, dropping the teabag in the cup while you wait for the kettle to boil.

Finding your way over to the living room, you sit on the floor by the couch. Fernando sets the bags on the floor next to you and you assumed that he was making space for you on the couch but instead spoke; "show me what you got."

The statement left you a bit confused, he had given you a list, of course he knew what was on it but you indulged, taking the stuff out of the bags.

You have them set on the floor in front of you, Fernando watches as you show him each thing carefully, not wanting to scuff or damage them.

"Do you like them?" He asks and you nod, "I do. Just a bit confused though," you look up at the man.

"Why's that?"

"Well.. you've always been the type of guy who shops for their women themselves so it just struck me as odd that you asked me to shop and pick up.. this."

Fernando smiles, "well I was busy and she's an important person to me, perhaps the most important."

You raise an eyebrow, looking at the driver. "Ohhhh okay.. so you have a girlfriend? C'mon, tell me, tell meeeee!" You nudged his knee, propping your elbow up on the couch as you turned your attention to him.

He doesn't say anything, he just smiles at you. This time was different; it wasn't playfully or teasing, there was something sincere about the way he looked at you.

It takes you a moment but you finally speak, "what? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"The stuff is for you." He says and you look at him, clearly confused.

"You made me shop for my own Christmas gift? Fernando, that's.." It hits you at once, all the things he had listed were things you had mentioned to him that you liked over the last year or so.

Your hands covered your mouth, looking at him in shock. "Fernando, oh my god.. no." You shook your head, "this is too much."

"It's not," he rests his hand on yours, "you've been by my side for as long as I can remember, you do everything for me. You're the only person I trust and well.. love. You deserve this and so much more."

"It's a lot," you whisper and the man hushes you, letting you pull him into a hug. "Thank you." You whisper yet again, unsure how to repay him for his kindness; you knew you didn't have too, seeing that it was a Christmas gift but still.

Fernando's hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your skin softly. He smiles at you, wondering how he got so lucky. Not everyone gets to have someone they love in their life and he was lucky enough to find that in you.

You can't help it, it was like instinct. Shifting onto your knees when you reach up, your hand wrapping around his wrist to pull him closer, your lips on his.

A part of you thinks he's not gonna react and pretend it never happened and the other part of you expected him to push you away but he did neither.

Instead, he kissed you back.

He helps you up off the floor and onto his lap, having you settle on his lap. "Let me take care of you," he says, his hand cupping your face, finally pulling away from the kiss.

"Yeah," you lean into him once again. You stay in his lap, Fernando pushes the skirt you had on up a bit, shifting you onto his thigh.

His hands rest on your hips, rocking you on his thigh; back and forth very slowly. His head leaned back and he lifted his leg slightly. The sudden change caused you to slide forward, clit rubbing against the denim fabric under you.

The sound that left your mouth was like heaven on earth to him.

“So beautiful,” he coos, pushing your hair back off your shoulders. “So good for me.”

You nod, pushing down on his thigh a little harder. “Let me hear all those pretty sounds, you don’t have to be quiet, mi vida.”

Little by little, your top and bra ended up on the floor along with Fernando's shirt. Your hands ran over his shoulders, down his biceps to his forearms.

His fingers creeped up under the hem of your skirt, "I've been waiting to have you to myself."

"Why's that?" You shift a bit to look at him, an arm over his shoulders as you look at him.

“Because I’m gonna ruin all that pretty makeup," he whispers to you, pulling you for a kiss.

It only spiralled from there; hands all over each other, clothes being tugged and pulled on. You’re both impatient, wanting more than you can get too at the moment. 

Fernando scoots you back on his lap, undoing his pants as your skirt gets pushed up on your hips, panties pulled to the side before you sink down onto his cock.

He bucks his hips and your nails drop down from his shoulders to the scratches along his back. He lets out a groan, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

"Oh god," you mumble, thighs on either side of the man as you roll your hips, arms over his shoulders. One of your hands tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, giving it a solid tug.

Fernando tilts his head back, a soft groan slipping from his lips when he feels your own lips meet his skin.

“Fuck, do that again.” He mumbles, feeling you clench around him. Soon enough he can feel your hands on his shoulders, letting you set your own pace, bouncing on his cock as your nails dug into the back of his shoulders; surely leaving behind red marks. 

His own hands digging into your hips hard enough to leave behind their own marks but that was the least of your concern right now. 

“Fernando,” you whimper, forehead pressed to his.

He feels you clench around him, your hips stuttering and he knows you’re close. His hand moving from your mouth to between the two of you, fingers rubbing circles over your clit and your head falls onto his shoulder, biting down to muffle the sounds slipping past your lips. 

He rests a hand behind your neck, pulling you back slightly.  “Look at me,” he tells you, kissing you softly. You both knew the other was equally as close, orgasm on the verge of happening. His hand shifted to grab your chin, pulling your focus back to him. “Look at me when you cum.” 

His words were enough to push you over the edge, Fernando following quickly after you. 

You fall flat against him and Fernando lets you sit on top of him for a bit, his hand rubbing around your back softly, fingers tracing random patterns into your skin.

"You okay?" He whispers and you nod, sitting up a bit to look at him. "What?" He asks, seeing the look on your face.

"How did you know my sizes? You know.. for the gifts."

He smiles, kissing your shoulder. "I pay attention, you know."

---

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