#Blend notepad

[lastoneout]

Oo speaking of stationary...y'all wanna hear the actual best ADHD hack I've ever figured out??

You know these things?

Big fuck off pad of paper that's like the size of a small TV? They're usually intended for teachers and offices and such, but you can buy one for relatively cheap and then hang it up on your wall in a place where it's hard to ignore, and then write all your important shit on it. I used to use mine for writing down doctor's appointments and my shifts at work and my budget and things I needed to buy, whatever I needed to remember, and it was a life-saver.

It's also massive so it's harder for your brain to blend it into the background, you don't have to worry about something getting erased like you would with a dry erase board, and tbh it's just really fun to write on them. And you can put little doodles in or get some fun marker colors or stickers to cross things off, you don't have to find new sheets of paper and juggle pins like you would with a cork board, it makes remembering things fun instead of stressful, I genuinely cannot recommend it enough, this thing was the only reason I managed to survive despite having unmedicated and undiagnosed ADHD. I'm planning on buying another when my fiancé and I move and I'm going to put it in the living room by the door so we both can use it and remind each other of things.

They are a little pricey sometimes but the pages are big enough I rarely needed more than one a month, and some also function as giant sticky notes so if you do run out of writing space you can put the previous page on the wall next to the notepad, so imo they are so very worth the price tag. If you try it I hope it helps, they really were the only reason I got shit done when I was using it and I miss having one so bad. 100/10 cannot reccomend enough.

[fandomshenanigans]

I just had a thought. Imagine if Billy decides to attend a Justice League meeting as "Nobody" under the excuse that "Captain Marvel has a prior engagement that he cannot miss" and that he's here to take notes.

(He's trying to make "Nobody" known enough that he wouldn't be turn away as "some kid trying to play hero" again.)

They walk into the meeting room and find one (1) emo hero kid, curled in where Captain Marvel sits, sketching on a notepad meant for said notes.

Upon being approached, he simply holds up "a note from Marvel" that explains his absence while also vouching for Nobody.

He's very quiet (Billy is trying out the quiet approach. Maybe a bit too quiet), careful in the way he talks (he needs to be the perfect blend of smart yet aloof. Billy believes he's pulling it off) and simply polite where he needs to be (habit)

After the meeting is done and dealt with, he's just gone.

Not a sound, not a whoosh. Just, gone.

(Marvel is bombarded by the Justice League at the next meeting, a minute of both about where he was and about "Nobody".)

[moneypowerglorymiddleofmiami]

— trickentine જ⁀➴♡ ︎

pairing: luke castellan x aphrodite!reader

summary: when eros, the god of love, makes the annual valentine visit to camp half-blood, he conveniently unintentionally leaves his bow and arrow in the capable hands of his younger half-sister.

warnings: nothing i think, except for like one curse word (pls do tell me if i miss any though!)

genre: ...romcom?

part 2

─── ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . ───

The gods were many things: powerful at their core, benevolent to those who merit it, temperamental when goaded, and mysterious in their methods— but there was one trait that defined them most of all, incandescently littered in their tales and lores: they were tricksters.

You really should’ve known better than to pick up that stray quiver of arrows.

─── ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . ───

The Aphrodite Cabin consistently made it a point to celebrate Valentine’s Day with much fanfare. Everyone has been busy the entire week preceding it; there were fresh roses to harvest, pink and red deserts to be made, hundreds of paper hearts to be cut, ribbons to be tied and acres to decorate. As one of the older siblings, a huge chunk of the responsibility fell on your shoulders. Needless to say, you spent an entire extra hour in the bathroom trying to put your concealer to good use.

A mere 10 minutes after leaving your cabin on V-Day, you’d managed to snap and glare at nearly everyone who even thought of intercepting your path.

Nearly everyone because you knew better than to direct your ire at the god of love.

“You didn’t even blend.” Eros said, perusing your make-up judgmentally. “Consider your favorite demigod sister card revoked.”

In his current human form, his hair was a deep shade of black and coiffed to perfection, his eyes a brown hue that you could only describe as melodramatic, and his skin beautifully tanned from frolicking in the sunlight.

Gods, how you missed to frolick in the sunlight. These days, you had to slave in it.

“Lord Eros.” You bowed, desperately fighting the urge to roll your eyes and purse your lips.

“I adore what you’ve done with the place.” He waved his hand off dismissively. He trudges ahead of you, officially beginning his annual Valentine inspection. “Although I definitely think it could use a little more sparkle. Perhaps a little more pink, too.”

‘Pink? For Valentines? Groundbreaking.’ You drawled inside your head. “The Hephaestus cabin is tinkering with a smoke machine to make it emit glitter.”

“Wonderful.” He replied passively, his attention drawn towards the dining pavilion where hundreds of glowing hearts hung from mid-air. Eros turned towards you. “Fairy lights on the beams?”

“On it.” You nodded your head tiredly, scribbling messily onto a notepad. “Anything else?”

“Everything’s perfect, except…” He trailed off before raising an eyebrow at you. “Find yourself a boyfriend, maybe? You need to loosen up.”

“Oh my gods,” You muttered under your breath, fighting the urge to physically recoil.

─── ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . ───

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you slacking off on training.” Luke chastised with a tut, tugging your arm towards the training areas. Your feet were basically dragging against the dirt, soiling your sneakers and flicking particles of dust against your skirt, but you couldn’t care less.

“Luke, look around you. What do you see?” You asked, your tone too saccharine to be considered serious.

He decided to humor you anyway. “Hearts.”

“10 points to House Hermes. Now,” You leaned in conspiratorially, “Who do you think set this whole place up?”

Luke barely opened his mouth before you answered your own question.

“Me.” You jabbed a finger against your chest. You narrowed your eyes at him. “I set this whole place up. I planned it— the theme, the color scheme, the glitter, the ribbons, the dazzling pink fountain with mini-Cupids who sing at the hour!”

“It looks very pretty!” He said, panicked.

“Yes, I know it looks very pretty.” You kissed your teeth. “Don’t you think I deserve a little break because it looks very pretty?”

He shook his head.

“You are insufferable!” You groaned.

“Hey! In my defense,” He raised both of his arms in the air to plead innocence, “You’re the one who said you wanted to develop a skill by the end of the summer."

His voice was pitched higher by the end in a poor imitation of your’s. You scrunched your nose in distaste.

“Gods, why do I keep digging my own grave?” You mumbled. Luke shook his head in amusement.

He led you into the clearing of the archery field, a line of circle targets dotted around the edge of the forest. A quiver of arrows was hung against the branches, different from the ones in the armory but definitely familiar to you.

“You can use those. Guess one of the kids forgot to return them after practice.” He shrugged. Luke mustn’t have noticed the difference.

You reached up to grab the weapons, still incredulous but definitely not alarmed enough to hesitate. The material thrummed in your hands.

“Go shoot.” He grinned.

“Very helpful instructions.” You muttered.

“Well, it’s pretty straightforward, sweetheart.” He sauntered over to one of the targets, leaning against the wooden frame. “You’ve been taught the basics, you just need the application. Now, shoot.”

“I could literally hit you.” You said blankly as you mounted the arrow against your bow.

“Consider it your challenge to not hit me.” He raised a thumbs-up.

“You’re insane.” You responded, irked and stressed by his casualness. “I’m sleep-deprived!"

Again, Luke just shrugged his shoulders. You huff, but then follow his lead anyway. You close one eye as you raise your weapon to your line of vision, zeroing in on the target.

As soon as the arrow flicked away from your fingers, it changed its course. When it should’ve followed a curved arch towards the red target, it whizzed away and made a beeline straight for Luke. A pink trail of haze followed its path.

“Duck!” You yell.

The arrow pierced through his chest at nearly the same time Luke’s body collided with the ground.

“That’s where those went.” Eros snapped his fingers as he emerged behind you. His glinting eyes were looking intently at the bow and quiver on you, an imperciptible smile on his face.

Your eyes widened in surprise. Shit.

“Lord Eros! I sincerely apologize.” You immediately took off the weaponry, holding them in your hands then kneeling as if to offer them back. You definitely did not want a god to be at odds with you. The two of you might have the same mother, but that didn’t mean you were equal in Aphrodite’s eyes. “I wasn’t-”

“Nah, don’t worry about it, sis.” He said, tapping your shoulder. Was he actually consoling you? “I shouldn’t have left it out in the open anyways.”

He pulled you up by the arm gently, snapping his fingers and getting the remnants of grass off of your knees. He even picked off a stray leaf from your hair. What in Tartarus was this?

For as long as you’ve known Eros and he’s practically coerced you into a dysfunctional sibling relationship, this was the kindest thing he’s ever done. Yes, the bar was low.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“You didn’t use this on someone, did you?” Eros asked, cradling the quiver and bow against him like a child.

“I think I managed to hit Luke—”

“You didn’t!” He interrupted with a theatrical gasp, a hand covering his mouth. He was such a drama queen.

You narrowed your eyes. He planned this, didn't he?

He smirked wider when he noticed the change in your demeanor, the realization behind your gaze. You swore his pupils changed to hearts for a moment.

“Good luck with lover boy, little sis.” He turned around, showing you the back of his hand as he waved goodbye.

[vainvenus]

proofread possession. | op81 | prologue

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Oscar has always been in the background being a journalist and photographer but specifically he's always been in the background of your life and today he makes himself known.

Includings: Journalist! + Photographer!Oscar, mclaren driver!reader, playful comments from the reader, stalking, obsessive and delusional behavior from Oscar, this takes place during the 2025 season

An: This came to me in a dream ( my sleep deprived brain )

Oscar had always been fairly good at blending into the background. He wasn't the loudest journalist, usually having to speak up a bit more during press conferences when asking his questions and he definitely wasn't the most aggressively photographer, usually a bit off to where there was more room for him so that he wasn't practically being as invasive as paparazzi.

He was simple, plain, boring and he never expected to be invited to one of the hugest events in F1 History. The 75th anniversary of F1 and of course the best way to celebrate it was a livery launch with all of the drivers.

The red carpet buzzed with activity. Journalists scribbling down notes on their notepads, microphones echoing driver's words, chatter among the group as drivers continued to flood in, the sound of cameras flashing, heels clicking. It was a lot but Oscar managed to zone it all out, he wasn't worried about everyone else he was worried about one person.

His fingers tightened around his camera, eyes scanning around the crowd. He was waiting—no, searching for you. Then as if you had been placed there just for him you had appeared.

Y/n.

You had moved with such quiet poise, like you were made to glide, and yet there was nothing forced about it.

You wore a silk satin backless dress, sleek and effortlessly elegant, hugged your figure just right, with a thigh-high slit that revealed a flash of McLaren orange on the inside—a subtle yet bold detail that made his breath hitch.

Even after all these years of seeing you up close he never really knew how to take you in, it felt like every time he was in the same vicinity as you, you took his breath away.

He should have been used to your presence by now since he had been following you around since your karting days. Back when you were a rising star in the motorsport and he was a kid with a camera whose parents decided to let him indulge in his little fixation.

But back then, he had been invisible—just another kid with a camera, tucked away behind barriers, watching from the edges while you shone like the brightest star in the night sky.

He had memorized everything about you: the way you adjusted her gloves before every race, the flicker of frustration in your eyes when things didn’t go your way, how you messed with your nails when you were nervous, how he could tell when you was forcing a smile just for your PR teams stake.

But you never saw him. Not once.

That was fine. That was then.

But today, everything was different. He wasn't a little boy with a camera that his parents bought for him. He had carved a space for himself in your world and now at the F175 event right in eyeshot of you he wasn't going to allow himself to fade into the background.

Today, you were going to notice him.

"Y/n me! Me! Right here for me please!"

His voice cut through the chaos, a little too eager, a little too desperate. And for a moment he feared his voice would be swallowed up by the others attempting to catch your attention.

But then...you turned.

And your eyes landed on his, meeting his enamoured gaze and he saw your lips twitch into a smile of amusement.

"I like him." You mused as you tilted your head slightly but walked across the carpet so he could get a closer shot. "He's all like, Y/n for me please! Me, me! I love the energy."

Oscar felt like the air had been stolen from his lungs, his heart racing in his chest the way you spoke about him with such praise. His hands trembled as he adjusted the camera, struggling to steady his grip. Each shot he took of you felt like a small victory, his focus narrowing entirely on you, trying to capture the moment, trying to hold onto it—desperate not to miss a single detail.

You were perfect, in every sense. Oscar didn’t need to say a word; you turned toward him as if you could read his mind, knowing exactly what he wanted without him having to ask. Each time the camera flashed, you shifted your pose effortlessly, as if you were a professional model, giving him the exact shot he needed.

Your eyes never left the lens, and for a brief moment, it felt as though you were locking eyes with him, the connection between you two more intimate than he could have ever imagined. It felt like you existed in front of his lens, only to be seen by him.

And then you were whisked away by your manager, guiding you toward your teammate so he could have his turn in the spotlight.

Oscar didn’t lower his camera, keeping it focused on you as you looked over your shoulder, a soft smile on your lips as you waved goodbye to the crowd.

You blew a few kisses in their direction as you exited which of course caused another flash of cameras your way and of course Oscar was one of—if not the first to capture the effortlessly cute moment from you.

Later that night, as you were fielding a few questions from a Sky News reporter, he had somehow navigated through the crowd to be near you again. This time, he felt an undeniable closeness. He could pick up on the subtle details of your makeup, the lingering scent of your perfume, everything about you captivating him even more.

When you glanced over at him after finishing your response, he was hit with a rush of disbelief. There was a flicker of recognition in your eyes, a smile, and then you made your way toward him—careful to keep a safe distance from the boundary that separated you, likely out of concern for the rules.

If there were no consequences, he knew he would have kissed you then, as if you were the last thing on earth that could give him air to breathe.

"It's you again!" You chirped, your bright smile spreading across your face, and he could tell it was genuine. He had studied you long enough to know the difference between your real smile and the one you put on for the cameras. Your eyes held a subtle gleam, and you showed fewer teeth.

He nodded, inhaling softly as he held out the microphone to you and hoped that you wouldn't notice the slight shake in his hands. "Me again."

"Are you stalking me or are you just everywhere?" You joked, tilting your head at him and he chuckled, shaking his head. If only you knew.

No, no, I’m just doing my job,” Oscar hummed, his voice light but his eyes focused intently on you.

You raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the shift. “You’re a photographer and a journalist?”

Oscar nodded again, the faintest smile curling at the corners of his lips. “Why limit myself to one? Amazing pictures to go with an amazing interview.”

You chuckled softly, clearly amused by his confidence. “I see. So, what questions do you have for me? And please don't ask 'who are you wearing tonight' or 'what are your expectations for the year' I've heard it a million times."

"Alright, no clichés—how about this: With events as flashy as this and your fast-paced career, how do you keep yourself grounded?"

You stared at him for a small moment, a breathless laugh leaving your lips. "Wow. I wasn't expecting that."

"Hey, you wanted something different, didn't you?" Oscar replied, a playful glint in his eyes.

You leaned back slightly, your smile softening as you considered his question. "I guess it’s a mix of things," You began, the tone of your voice shifting to something more reflective. "I try to remember why I started in the first place. It’s never been about the fame or the spotlight—it’s always been about the track, the rush of racing. And when things get too loud or too overwhelming, I just take a step back and remind myself why I’m here."

Oscar nodded, his attention fully on you. "So, it’s about keeping that connection to where it all began?"

"Exactly," You said, your eyes meeting his. "And also, I have people around me who keep me grounded. My team, my family, my closest friends. They don’t treat me any differently just because I’m in this world. They remind me that I’m still the same person I was before all this."

Oscar's gaze lingered, captivated by your words. “That sounds like it helps a lot."

"It does," You said with a small, knowing smile. "It’s easy to get lost in it all, but staying true to who you are—that’s what keeps you centered."

Oscar’s gaze softened as he absorbed your words, the weight of your response settling in his chest. “That’s... really insightful,” He said, his voice quieter now, almost in awe. “It’s easy for people to lose themselves in the chaos of it all, but it sounds like you’ve found a way to stay anchored.”

You nodded, your expression calm but thoughtful. “I think it’s all about perspective. There are days when the spotlight feels too heavy, when everything seems out of control. But then I step back, focus on the basics, and remember that I’m here because of the love I have for the sport. That’s what keeps me balanced.”

Oscar chuckled softly, a little nervously. "I admire that. A lot of people would let the pressure consume them, but it seems like you've got a good handle on it."

You smiled, a small, genuine curve of your lips. “I’ve had to learn, honestly. It’s been a journey and a lot of PR training” You mumbled so that his microphone wouldn't pick it up and he couldn't help but laugh, nodding.

“But I wouldn’t trade it for anything. This is what I’ve worked for."

“Yeah, I can tell,” He said softly, his microphone almost forgotten as he gazed at you. “I think that's why people are so drawn to you. Not just for the racing, but because you’re...real. Even in all of this.”

You met his gaze, a quiet understanding between you two, and for a moment, there was no noise, no cameras, just the two of you and the raw connection of the conversation. You glanced away from him.

"Alright," You said, breaking the moment with a teasing tone. "I've answered your deep question, now answer a question of mine."

Oscar blinked, his mind snapping back to the present, and he raised his brows. “Alright, deal. What’s your question?”

You leaned in slightly, your voice lowering to a near-whisper. "I'll be seeing you again at the first race week of the season, right? You're fun."

Oscar’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t believe it. You, the person he’d idolized for years, not only engaging with him for pictures and an interview but now teasing him with the promise of seeing him again.

"I’ll...I'll be there," He managed, his voice shaky, almost in disbelief.

"I’ll be expecting you."

With that, you turned and walked away, leaving Oscar standing there, frozen in disbelief. His heart pounded in his chest, the weight of your words sinking in. She wants me. The thought echoed in his mind as he blinked, trying to ground himself in reality.

Suddenly, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had to get away, had to calm down. Oscar turned and walked briskly, almost stumbling over his own feet, desperate to put some space between him and everyone else.

His mind raced, your words repeating on a loop.

"I'll be expecting you."

He found a quiet corner, his back against the wall, and exhaled sharply. His hands were shaking and his breath was shaggy. He tilted his head back and shut his eyes with a wide smile.

She'll be expecting him.

Him.

[tuesdayiminlove]

happy disaster

rockstar!eddie x fem!waitress!reader (imperfect for you universe)

summary: how you two meet

author's note: an ask about how they met came earlier today and i couldn't help myself lol. not proofread sorry! also this could be read as a standalone! but u can read the og part here! hope u guys enjoy lmk what yall think xoxo

word count: 3.1k

You’ve had your fair share of jobs throughout the last few years, trying to make ends meet while also being a consumer of the various cute things you see when you’re at the mall with your friends. One time (and this may have been one of the more miserable experiences), you worked as a receptionist for an auto shop (get it now?)).

Needless to say, you were at the bottom of the hierarchy at that whole joint. When you weren’t answering calls and taking hyperspecific notes to not confuse the actual mechanics, you were practically shunned from the moment you stepped up from your seat and onto the street to eat your lunch at the bench outside. And whenever your lips did part to make even the simplest of comments, the men either laughed at you or made you feel stupid (“You guys hired me! Clearly I’m not a fucking idiot!” you dreamt of saying, but you were just never one for the dramatics and confrontation of it all).

And, the worst part, on days you couldn’t go into work, none of the other receptionists would switch with you.

(“Sorry, babe, I just can’t,” you remember Joey Warner staying after taking a drag of his cig, coughing mere seconds later from not exhaling immediately. You wanted to take the cigarette between your fingers, toss it down, and squish it with your shoes. You really needed to pick up your brother from school, and no one at the shop is ever up Joey’s ass since he’s a guy.

“Oh. It’s alright.” You curse yourself and your lack of ever wanting conflict, because you’re more than positive that this boy deserves a beating for not taking the reins for an hour just so that your poor baby brother won’t have to wait on the cold sidewalk for your mom, who is forty minutes late.

You walk back into the shop without another word.)

So. yeah, call this mechanic memory useless, but now it's clear that your jobs have been absolute dog shit in the past.

But being a waitress at Carly’s Diner, in comparison, takes the cake in the coworker camaraderie contest.

Like, now, you’re enjoying your break with Carrie, splitting half a cupcake that Jim managed to slip into your guys’ hands when he was pulling the fresh desserts from the oven. You two have turns at it, taking nimble bites from the vanilla confection and wiping rainbow sprinkles off your uniform in the process. Your nose blends in the smell of the cupcake and Carrie’s sweet perfume, leaving a little bubble where you can hardly tell what the boys in the kitchen are whipping up right now.

Judy passes through the doors in a haste, heaving before setting her eyes on you two. The notepad in her hands is crumpled up and her hair looks all over the place, eyes bewildered as she stalks towards you and Carrie, a complan ready to spill from her red lips. 

“This fucking couple on table three is driving me nuts! Nuts!” She slumps her back against the wall and swipes a piece of frosting off the cupcake before sticking it in her mouth, sighing in relief.

“Hey,” Carrie swats Judy’s hand, “watch the cupcake!” She places it behind her back possessively.

Carrie is nearly six months pregnant and craving every sweet treat Jim has to offer in between tables and shifts. It’s a miracle that she let you split the dessert with her just now, “And table three, you said?”

Judy ignores her earlier words and nods. “I swear to God, I don’t understand your goddamn generation and why you heaps are so fucking rude. I can't do this.”

“Don’t group us with those weirdos,” says Carrie. “And I’d like to see them be rude to a pregnant woman. Protect this,” she hands you the cupcake carefully, looking at you in the eyes with intent, “and I mean it.”

Her voice is so determined, you decide that you don’t want your fair share of bites anymore. You nod dutifully.

“I got this, Jude.” She swipes the notepad from the older woman’s hands.

And with that, Carrie is kicking herself off the wall and out of the kitchen, into the main part of the diner. You silently pray for the couple that now has to deal with a moody and pregnant Carrie. 

See? Now, this is what you mean! No mechanic or receptionist at Billy’s Auto Parts will ever be willing to face an alleged-annoying couple for their coworker. Sometimes, waitressing can take the light and happiness out of you once you’re clocked out, but at least you’re surrounded by the half-decent people in your town.

“You’re a lifesaver!” Judy calls out with a wicked laugh. “Gotta love that girl… hey can I have a bite?”

You frown, knowing you’re already unable to say no when Judy is stressed and you know for sure that the confection in your hand is enough to sweeten even the most stressed—Jim just has that magic to him. “Yeah, but don’t make the dent obvious.”

You think you’re gonna spend the rest of your break with Judy, hiding in between the two walls in the corner of the kitchen until Carrie comes back. You lick a small sprinkle off the cupcake, ready to ask the woman if her daughter won the spelling bee that she’s been freaking out over all week, when the office door swings open and Lenny’s head peeks out, eyes going to the first two waitresses that he can spot.

“Hey!” he shouts yours and Judy’s last names to steal the attention. “Can one of you guys go out and get Evan? Her daughter’s principal is on the phone.” He wipes his sweat-stained brow and doesn’t wait for a response. “Thanks,”

You and Judy look back at each other. And immediately you know that you’re not going to make Judy be the one.

“I got it,” you say with a soft smile. “... You’re gonna eat the rest of this are you?”

She laughs and swipes the cupcake. “For you, my love, I wouldn’t dream of it. Thank you.”

You blow her a kiss, already making your way to the double doors of the kitchen, straightening out your ponytail and getting your waitressing voice ready (patient and respectful, garnering the best tips you can try to get). Your eyes give one swipe across the diner, catching Carrie’s eye as she talks to the couple sitting down beneath her, holding her precious bump to make a show of it. She gives you a sly wink and you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing.

Afternoon rush makes it hard to spot Evan at first. His smaller stature makes it even harder to spot him in the crowd, but your eyes eventually zone in on him smiling at customer that is blocked by a family getting up to leave. You smile upon finding him and make your way to the table.

As you get closer, you finally notice who Evan is speaking two, and your brows pinch quizzically. The man is hunched, looking over the menu with sunglasses adorning his face despite his table not even facing the sun. His jet black curls curve around the lines of his face, making his features harder to notice. It almost reminds you of the movies you watch late at night when you’re munching on diner leftovers on your couch, the runaway criminal stopping for a bite to eat while trying to flee the state. 

“Evan,” you say softly, not wanting to draw attention to yourself but you know it's already bound to happen since you’re switching places with him. “Lenny’s got your daughter’s school on the phone. They’re asking for you.”

The man’s eyes widen. “Great,” he mutters, “What do you think it is this time?” “I hope she said ‘fuck you’ to that little pipsqueak again,” you joke, seeing the anxiety in Evan’s eyes at not knowing why he’s receiving a call during work. You remember the first time he got called to his daughter’s school from work due to her cursing out an older boy: the entire kitchen was laughing—Evan included—as they all wished him good luck with that meeting. “Can’t be worse than that.”

He sighed, turning back to the customer, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I’m going to hand you off to her for a bit.” He says your name to further introduce you two. "Thank you for your patience.”

And for the first time up close, you look at the sunglassed man and smile. Perfect teeth flash at you, mildly astonishing you at how cute he looked when he did so. It’s not abnormal for you to find a customer attractive (it’s human, we’re human), but you don’t think a smile has ever made you secretly stop you from breathing for a second. 

Flustered, you’re clumsy as you and Evan switch spots. He pats your shoulder one last time, muttering a thank you as he rushes to the back. You follow his movements and frown for a split second and forget your task at hand. You hope his daughter is okay. You hope the kitchen will be laughing in t-minus three minutes over the fact that little baby-Evan gained a new curse word under her belt.

“Sorry,” you say, looking back at the man. You find him looking directly at you, knowing only because of how his head is positioned. His sunglasses are too tinted to even see a little beneath. “Can I start you off with anything to drink?”

“Oh—uh, yeah,” he stammers, before clearing his throat and offering a crooked smile. “Coffee, please. Milk and two sugars.”

Your handwriting matches the pace as he speaks. You hold a smile on your face to keep up pleasantries. “And have you decided what you would like to eat?”

“Not yet,” he admits, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the menu. “Kind of hard to focus.” There’s a pause before he adds, a little quieter, “The menu’s got a lot of… options.”

You raise an eyebrow, tucking your notepad in the small pocket of your apron. You turn your head to see if anyone else is making coffee right now. You see Carrie there, and silently celebrate when she’s already staring at you. “All good. I’ll get your coffee ready and be right back–”

“—Wait.”

Your brows pinch, confused. “Yes?” His hand rubs the back of his neck, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “I was just, um… wondering if you had a favorite on the menu? Like… if there’s something you always recommend. Or—” He hesitates again, “Or like your favorite?”

You don’t know why he's so flustered. You don’t know why it makes you flustered. For a beat, you just look at him. Is he… trying to flirt with me? The thought isn’t unwelcome, but you certainly weren’t expecting it, or really believing it just yet. You tilt your head, trying your best to keep your expression neutral.

“Well,” you say eventually, “We have an all day breakfast, and that’s my favorite part of the menu, and I get it a lot. It’s on the next page.”

You wait for him to turn the menu, but he continues to stare back up at you, mouth agape.

“... Is that something you’re interested in?” you ask, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” he replies immediately. And then, more composed, “Yeah, I can be in the mood for breakfast.” He finally flips the page, and his head tilts up to yours fleetingly.

“Great! Our cook, Jim, makes the best strawberry and white chocolate pancakes, so that’s what I would recommend from the breakfast menu.”

His lips tug into a small, bashful smile. “Sounds perfect. I’ll take that.”

“Perfect!” you grin, scribbling his order onto your notepad. “I’ll take this to the kitchen, and have your coffee ready soon!” You flash him one more look before retreating back towards the kitchen. You finally get to look back at Carrie, who is still looking at you, this time arms crossed.

“How was the couple?” you ask when you’re about to pass her.

“Annoyed them enough to leave.” She grabs your wrist, and you just dodge the yelp that wants to escape your lips. “Do you know who you were just talking to?”

You freeze. Her grip is firm, her expression serious enough to make you hesitate. Your gaze darts briefly toward the dining area, but you stop yourself from looking back at him. The last thing you want to do is risk being caught gawking.

“I... no?” you whisper, unsure of how to answer. But even as you say it, you feel a subtle heat creeping up your neck. The weight of eyes on your back makes your skin prickle, as if the mystery man somehow knows he’s the topic of conversation.

“Why don’t you go check the newspaper in the locker room and get back to me, yeah?” she finally lets her grip go, smirking like she knows something you don’t.

Carrie's words linger repeatedly in your brain as you hesitantly allow yourself to drop off the man’s order, and then to go see whether or not you’re serving a serial killer. 

You slip the stripped paper from your notepad to Colin’s hands. “Table thirteen,” you say in passing as you make the rest of the way to the locker room, not even Judy’s cheerful wave as she smiles with a cupcake still in her hand can stop you from the mission you have decided to go on.

Upon entering the locker room, you gaze zeroes in newspaper lying flat on the bench, its closed pages teasing you with potential revelations about your current customer. You hesitantly flip it over as you come face-to-face with the front headline 

HIT AND DIP: ROCKSTAR EDDIE MUNSON LEAVES IN HASTE AFTER CHICAGO SHOW 

Your eyes widen as they lock onto the grainy photo accompanying the article. There’s no mistaking it. The guy at table thirteen. Eddie Munson. Rockstar. Your customer. 

For the first time, you finally see his eyes. But instead of him taking his sunglasses off to reveal his brown hues, you see them straight on in the form of a camera flashing and printing onto the paper right in front of you. He looks borderline pissed as he’s gripping his guitar and shooing the paparazzi in the background away, the picture managing to catch the split-second that his eyes meet with the camera.

“He’s hot.”

You jump, clutching the newspaper to your chest as you turn to meet eyes with Judy casually leaning over your shoulder with a grin.

“Judy!” you hiss, sighing in relief. 

“What?” she says plainly, “He is.”

“He is also currently Evan’s customer on table thirteen that I now have to serve.”

Judy’s pupil’s dilate. “Oh shit.”

You want to make a joking comment, calling Judy a cougar, but you’re interrupted by Carrie peeking her head in through the door. She looks down at the newspaper in your hands, and then back to your eyes. “Told you,” she says, her smirk from earlier still on her face.

Before you can respond annoyingly, Jim’s voice blares through the back. “Order up!” he shouts. “Waffles for thirteen!”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of its sockets.

“Jesus, do you ever slow down?” Carrie yells out the door.

They hear Jim’s “No!” and fan out back into the kitchen.

“Good luck, my love,” sings Judy.

“Can you ask for an autograph?” asks Carrie. She motions to her belly and gives it a soft pat. “She’ll think I’m real cool!” 

“Ha, ha,” you roll your eyes, already holding the order as you kick the double doors open, passing back into the diner. You try your best to calm your heart as you pour coffee into the kettle, taking sugar from the side of the counter and putting two teaspoons into the mug. You feel eyes on you the entire time, and you don’t need to look up to know whose covered eyes they belong to. 

It’s not every day that you get to serve a goddamn celebrity, so she thinks that everyone should give her a break (she’s specifically talking to her heart—it needs to stop beating so rapidly, making her brain think something is wrong).

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you hold the plate on one hand, and the mug on the other. “Just a customer,” you whisper under your breath, beginning to walk. “Just a ridiculously famous, incredibly good-looking customer who better leave a stunning tip.”

As you approach table thirteen, you notice that Eddie shifts slightly in his seat. One of his legs bounces under the table, and he drums his fingers lightly against the edge of the booth.

You \ set the plate and coffee down in front of him, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Waffles and coffee,” you announce, sliding the plate and mug onto the table with practiced ease. You’re proud that your voice doesn’t shake—too much, anyway.

Eddie leans back, grinning up at you. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Your heart stops. You couldn’t help but think his eyes hold a knowing look, like he knew exactly what went down and now knows that you know exactly who he is.

“Enjoy,” you grin back. 

Behind you, you hear him mutter something under his breath, followed by a quiet groan, and you can’t help but feel a small flutter in your chest that he enjoyed what you recommended to him. 

The rest of the rockstar’s stay goes smoothly. You don’t intend on saying anything to give away what you know, despite it probably already being known, and you're grateful by this normalcy. You refill his coffee, make light conversation (the weather is particularly sunny and pretty today, shining through the windows and letting pretty glow spread through the diner), and take his plate when he’s wiped it clean.

You don’t even think much of his stay, mind already going back to it being a regular customer that deserves no more or less attention than anyone else is supposed to.

(Sure, his smile lingers in your mind a little longer than you’d like to admit—so what if his smile is better than any that you’ve seen, anyway?)

It isn’t until Eddie’s up and left and you trail back to the table to wipe it off, a damp rag in hand, do you notice the wad of cash left in his wake that is definitely worth more than his bill.

Your jaw drops down, staring at it and contemplating what to do with that much of an amount of money in front of you.

Next to it, a folded napkin sits.

Your mind immediately goes to an autograph; that he’s one of those celebrities, and he just couldn’t resist leaving a little something to prove of his appearance.

You’re taken back when you unfold it to see his number scribbled messily onto the fabric. Your fingers shake as you move your thumb to fully read the note that he added at the bottom,

Call me. Please. :)

[theonottsbxtch]

BY THE WATER (MINE) | NH13

an: this is my first hockey fic and i forgot how much i loved writing about hockey players, anywhom this is apart of my 2k celly so enjoy a nico hischier fic - requested here.

wc: 3.4k

summary: she was just a uni student trying to outrun her past; nico was the rising rookie who never expected to fall. through late-night arguments, quiet mornings, and the ache of becoming, they built something neither of them had known they needed.

THE RESTURANT WAS HALF-EMPTY, the lull between dinner and late-night stragglers stretching into silence. She wiped down a table near the window, the hum of conversation from the bar blending into the low murmur of music overhead. Outside, rain misted against the glass, soft and unrelenting, coating the city in a dull sheen.

She had been here for six months now. Long enough to know which streets stayed busy after dark, which coffee shops opened earliest, which buses ran late. But not long enough to call it home. She wasn’t sure if she ever would.

The door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and the low rumble of male voices. She glanced up out of habit, barely paying attention. Just another group of customers, another few hours to get through before she could go home, curl up under her duvet, and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Except one of them stood out.

He was tall, lean but built like an athlete, his dark jacket doing little to hide the broad set of his shoulders. His hair was damp from the rain, pushed back in a way that made it look like he hadn’t thought about it at all. And maybe he hadn’t, there was an ease to him, the kind that came with knowing exactly who he was.

She recognised him. Not because she followed hockey, but because in a city like this, it was impossible not to hear his name. Nico Hischier. The Swiss rookie making waves in the NHL, the kid who had come from across the world and slotted into the team like he had been there forever. She had heard the customers talking about him, seen his face on TV screens when the matches played in the background of the bar. But up close, he didn’t look like the headlines made him sound, unstoppable, relentless, a rising star.

He just looked… young.

Like he was still getting used to all of this. Like the noise around him hadn’t quite settled into something real yet.

His friends took a booth near the back, but he hesitated, glancing around like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to sit or leave. His gaze landed on her for half a second, just long enough for a flicker of something, recognition, curiosity, before he looked away.

She straightened, gripping the damp cloth in her hand a little too tightly. It wasn’t the first time someone like him had walked through these doors. An athlete, someone who had already found their place in the world while she was still trying to carve out hers

It was the first time she had felt like it might matter.

She took her time approaching the table, tucking her notepad into her apron as she wove between empty chairs. The restaurant had emptied out even more, leaving only a few late-night diners scattered across the room. His friends were talking, their voices low and easy, but he wasn’t joining in. Instead, he was looking out of the window, watching the rain streak against the glass.

When she reached them, she pulled out her notepad. Professional. Detached. Just another table.

“What can I get you?”

His attention snapped back to her. Up close, his eyes were sharper than she’d expected, brown, but not the bright, striking kind. Deeper, more thoughtful. He didn’t speak straight away, letting his friends order first. Only when they turned to him did he glance back at her, the faintest trace of hesitation before he finally said, “Just a coffee.”

His accent was there, but not heavy. A mix of European influences, soft around the edges.

She nodded, jotting it down before disappearing behind the bar. When she returned, balancing a tray of drinks, his friends had fallen back into conversation, laughing at something she hadn’t heard. He was still quiet, fingers tapping idly against the edge of the table.

When she placed the coffee in front of him, his eyes flicked up again. “Thanks.”

She hummed in response, turning to go—

“You don’t follow hockey.”

It wasn’t a question. She paused, surprised, before looking back. He was watching her properly now, head tilted slightly like he was trying to figure something out.

“No,” she admitted. “I don’t.”

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. “Everyone in this city does.”

She lifted a shoulder, shifting her weight. “Guess I missed the memo.”

One of his friends called his name then, dragging his attention away. She used the moment to leave, returning to the counter where she could breathe again.

She had been right about him. He wasn’t like the others who walked in here, loud, arrogant, carrying themselves with the kind of swagger that came with knowing the whole city was watching.

He was something else. Something steadier, quieter.

And she wasn’t sure if that made him easier to ignore or more dangerous.

It became a habit.

He came in late after practice, sometimes alone, sometimes with teammates. Always sitting near the window, always ordering coffee. And somehow, without meaning to, she started sitting with him when her shift was slow, letting their conversations stretch longer each time.

He asked her about university, about the classes she hated and the ones she didn’t mind so much. She asked him about Switzerland, about what it was like to leave home behind. He never talked much about hockey, and she never asked.

One night, they walked out at the same time. The rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened under the glow of the streetlights. He fell into step beside her, hands shoved into his pockets, his body carrying the slightest stiffness, tired, maybe, after a game she hadn’t watched.

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

“Home.”

He nodded, like he had expected that. Then, after a pause “Come with me.”

She blinked. “Where?”

His gaze flicked ahead, towards the river that cut through the city. “Just for a bit.”

She should have said no. She always said no when someone asked her somewhere. But tonight, with the cold air crisp against her skin and the world stretched quiet around them, she found herself hesitating.

“Alright.”

And just like that, she followed.

They reached the water, leaning against the railing as the lights reflected in broken patterns across the surface. He exhaled, the sound barely audible, like he had been holding something in all night.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he admitted suddenly.

She turned to him. “The restaurant?”

His lips twitched again. That almost-smile. “No. Here. In this city. In this league.”

She frowned. “You don’t think you should be?”

A muscle in his jaw shifted, like he wasn’t used to saying these things out loud. “It happened too fast. One minute I was playing back home, the next I was here. People expect things now. Like I’m supposed to be…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“Unstoppable?” she guessed.

He huffed out a quiet laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Something like that.”

She didn’t know much about hockey, but she understood pressure. Understood what it felt like to carry expectations that weren’t yours to begin with.

“Maybe you’re just meant to be here,” she said finally.

He looked at her then, properly, like he was trying to believe it.

She didn’t look away.

And when he shifted slightly closer, when his arm brushed hers against the railing, she let him.

The weeks blurred into something familiar.

She saw him more often now. Sometimes at the restaurant, sometimes outside of it. Late-night walks along the river became routine, conversations stretching into the early hours until she could barely keep her eyes open in lectures the next day. She told herself it was nothing, that he was just someone to pass the time with, that it wasn’t real.

But then there was the first time she saw his place.

She hadn’t meant to go. Hadn’t planned on it. But it had been late, and they had both been exhausted, and when he had mumbled, Just stay for a bit, she hadn’t found the strength to argue.

It was a flat in a high-rise, modern and minimal, the kind of place that had been picked for him rather than one he had chosen himself. There wasn’t much personality to it. No photos, no clutter. Just a few unpacked boxes in the corner, like he hadn’t fully decided if this was home yet.

“You’ve been here for months,” she had said, nodding towards them.

He had shrugged. “Don’t need much.”

And maybe that was why, weeks later, when she found a drawer of her things in his bedroom, a spare hoodie she had left behind, a book she had fallen asleep reading, a bottle of perfume she had forgotten, something inside her shifted.

She hadn’t been looking for permanence. But somehow, without meaning to, she had found traces of herself in his world.

And then, just as easily, reality seeped in.

They had nothing figured out.

She was still balancing shifts at the restaurant with essays she could barely focus on. He was everywhere. On the ice, in the media, caught up in a world that never seemed to slow down. There were mornings when he was gone before she woke up, nights when he came back too late to do anything but press a tired kiss to her forehead before collapsing into bed.

She tried not to let it get to her.

But there were moments when it was hard.

Like the night she waited for him after a game, standing outside the arena long after the final whistle had blown. She wasn’t sure why she had come. She never did, but something had pulled her there, a need to see him when he was at his best, when the rest of the world was watching too.

But when he finally emerged, surrounded by teammates and flashing cameras, he barely saw her.

He was smiling, laughing at something someone had said, moving through the crowd with the kind of confidence that came with belonging.

And she didn’t.

She turned before he could notice her, before she could let herself feel stupid for thinking he might have been looking for her too.

Later, when he showed up at her door, breathless and still in his post-game suit, she didn’t mention it.

But the doubt had settled. And it was only a matter of time before it broke through.

The fight came out of nowhere.

It had started with something small, something neither of them would remember in the morning. But then it spiralled, long-held frustrations spilling over, words sharper than they should have been.

"You don’t get it,” she snapped, arms folded tight across her chest. “You have everything. You’re living the dream while I’m—” She cut herself off, biting back the rest.

His expression darkened. “While you’re what?”

She hesitated, jaw tight.

He took a step closer. “You think this is easy for me? That I don’t worry about losing it all? That I don’t—” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “I never know if I’m doing the right thing.”

She swallowed. “Neither do I.”

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy.

Then, barely above a whisper. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

His face shuttered, something flickering in his eyes before he looked away.

She turned first, stepping back, reaching for the door. If she left now, she could pretend none of this had happened. Pretend it hadn’t hurt.

But then—

"Nico, just—" Her voice wavered.

He caught her wrist before she could move. Not tightly. Just enough to make her stop.

When she turned, his expression had softened, the frustration slipping into something more raw. More desperate.

“I don’t want this to be a mistake,” he said.

Her breath caught.

His fingers loosened, but he didn’t let go completely. “Do you?”

She should have walked away.

She didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind her, but she barely heard it over the pounding in her chest.

She needed to leave.

Needed to get out before she said something she couldn’t take back, before she let herself believe that this, them, wasn’t already falling apart.

Then, before she could doubt herself once more. She pulled away from him and opened the door once more. Men like him never went chasing after women like her, she’ll go and cry, he’ll sit there and find another girl. Wasn’t that what she’d spent her whole life witnessing.

The city was cold, the air sharp against her skin as she walked blindly down the pavement. It was late enough that the streets were nearly empty, just the occasional car passing by, headlights slicing through the dark. She focused on the sound of her own footsteps, on the rhythmic scuff of her trainers against the wet concrete.

She didn’t hear him coming.

Didn’t realise he had followed until his voice cut through the quiet.

“Wait.”

She froze.

He was breathless when he reached her, like he had run the whole way. He hadn’t even grabbed a coat, standing there in just his hoodie and joggers, his hair still a mess from where he had run his hands through it.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice tight.

He stared at her like she had said something ridiculous. “Coming after you.”

She swallowed, turning away, but he stepped forward, cutting off her retreat.

“I love you.”

The words landed like a punch. She sucked in a sharp breath, her heart stumbling over itself.

He didn’t waver. Didn’t try to soften it. Just stood there, steady and unshaken, his hands curled into fists like he was willing to fight for this.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time. “And I don’t care how messy this gets, I don’t care if we have nothing figured out. I just—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I need you to know that.”

She closed her eyes. “Nico—”

“No,” he cut in, stepping closer. “You think I have everything, but I don’t. Not without you.”

Her throat tightened.

“I don’t know what I’m doing half the time,” he admitted. “I don’t know if I’m making the right choices, or if any of this will last. But you? Us? That’s the one thing I’m sure of.”

The fight drained out of her all at once, her shoulders slumping.

And before she could second-guess herself, she reached for him.

His arms wrapped around her instantly, like he had been waiting for it, holding her tight enough that she could feel the rapid thud of his heart against hers.

She didn’t know how long they stood there, tangled up in each other, letting the city move around them.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at her properly. “Come back inside.”

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she was scared. Scared that history would repeat itself, that love would always be something temporary. Liek her parents.

But when he laced their fingers together, warm and certain, she let him lead her back.

They sat on the floor of his flat, backs against the sofa, knees brushing.

Neither of them spoke for a while, the only sound the occasional drip of rain against the window.

Then, quietly, “My parents never got it right.”

Nico turned to her.

She stared ahead, picking at the hem of her sleeve. “They loved each other, I think. But they were never happy. They fought, left, came back. Over and over.” She swallowed. “I used to think love was just… something that slipped away. Something you couldn’t hold onto, no matter how hard you tried.”

Nico didn’t say anything, just reached for her hand, threading their fingers together.

She finally looked at him, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want us to be like them.”

He squeezed her hand. “We won’t be.”

She let out a shaky breath. “How do you know?”

“Because I love you,” he said simply. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

It should have scared her. Should have sent her running like it always had.

But with him, his steady hands, his steady heart, it didn’t feel like a risk.

It felt like something she could trust.

And when he leaned in, pressing the softest kiss to her temple, she let herself believe it.

She didn’t fall asleep that night.

Instead, they lay there side by side on the living room floor, his hoodie pulled around her shoulders, the weight of his arm draped across her waist like it was where it belonged.

It wasn’t glamorous. The flat still smelt faintly of take-away and damp rain, and her back ached from the hardwood. But there was something in the way he held her, like she was the one thing keeping him grounded, like this, the quiet, the closeness, was more important than anything else.

And for once, she let herself believe it could last.

The years didn’t pass without challenge, but they passed with meaning.

She graduated with a degree she had almost walked away from. The same week, Nico flew out to meet her, forgetting his media duties, having dropped everything just to be there in the front row, blurry-eyed and grinning like a boy who’d never been prouder of anything in his life.

They moved out of the flat six months later.

It had been time. Too many memories lingered there. Late-night fights, quiet make-ups, growing pains neither of them had known how to navigate. They found a smaller place in a quieter part of the city, where the windows let in warm morning light and the neighbours didn’t slam doors at 3AM.

She found work she loved. Something steady. Something hers. The kind of job that made her feel like she had finally stepped into her own life, not just existed on the edge of someone else’s.

And Nico?

He kept playing.

His name grew louder, his face on more screens, his jersey worn by kids who had never even heard of Swiss hockey before he arrived. He got that ‘C’ on his jersey like he’d dreamed as a boy. But no matter how far his world stretched, she remained the centre of it.

His grounding point. His girl.

There were days when he came home bruised and battered, eyes shadowed by exhaustion, shoulders heavy with pressure. She never asked him to explain it. She just curled into his side on the sofa, let his head drop to her lap, and ran her fingers through his hair until the tension melted away.

And when things felt too big. When the noise of the world threatened to drown him, he would whisper, Don’t let go, and she never did.

The proposal wasn’t a grand gesture.

There was no flash, no spotlight. Just the two of them, as it had always been.

It was autumn, the trees along the river burning gold, the same river they had walked beside that first night. He took her hand as they wandered beneath the leaves, the air crisp and the sky bleeding soft pinks into the horizon.

He was nervous. She could tell by the way he kept clearing his throat, fingers fidgeting slightly in his pocket.

She stopped, smiling faintly. “You alright?”

He nodded, then paused. “No.”

She raised an eyebrow. “No?”

He looked at her then, properly.

“You changed everything,” he said. “I came here thinking I had to prove something. That I needed to be someone I wasn’t ready to be. And then I met you. And suddenly, nothing else mattered.”

She felt her heart stutter.

“You’ve been my beginning,” he said, voice low, steady. “And I want you to be my always.”

And then, slowly, he pulled the ring from his coat pocket. Simple. Elegant. Her.

She didn’t cry. Not right away.

She laughed, because of course he’d be the one to say something that would undo her completely while standing in trainers and a hoodie that smelled faintly of his aftershave.

Then, she said yes.

Of course she did.

Because they hadn’t become her parents.

They had become them.

And when he slipped the ring onto her finger, she whispered something only he could hear, something about how he had been hers since that first cup of coffee, since that first moment he’d looked at her like he saw past everything she had tried to hide.

He kissed her like he remembered every second of it.

Because he had.

Because they were home.

the end.

taglist: @hzstry8 @isaadore

[hazelira]

tiny tempers

The meeting had been dragging on for a while, the steady hum of his coworkers’ voices blending with the rhythmic tapping of pens against notepads. Sunoo sat back in his chair, Suho still nestled in his arms, his tiny body comfortably curled into the crook of his father’s arm. His son’s soft, steady breaths had lulled him into a peaceful nap, his little hands relaxed by his side.

But then, without warning, one of the employees sneezed.

It started with a single, loud achoo, followed by another, and then another. The sneezing fit grew more intense until it seemed never to end. The employee’s apologies barely registered as Sunoo’s attention returned to Suho, who stirred slightly in his arms.

A little grunt escaped Suho’s lips as his eyelids fluttered open, his small face scrunching up in irritation. Sunoo watched in surprise as Suho’s tiny fists clenched, and the baby puffed out his chubby cheeks in a perfect imitation of a grumpy pout.

For a moment, Sunoo couldn’t help but stare at his son, utterly baffled by the sheer force of his son’s mood. How could someone so small be so very displeased?

Suho’s eyes blinked rapidly as if trying to make sense of the world around him. His gaze settled on the men, who were trying to stifle their laughter at the sight of the grumpy little face. Suho’s brows furrowed, his lips trembling as he let out a frustrated, high-pitched hmph and puffed his cheeks even more.

Sunoo’s lips twitched, though he quickly schooled his expression. He’s just a baby, he reminded himself. Just a baby...

But Suho wasn’t done. He puffed his cheeks again, his little body fidgeting in Sunoo’s arms, clearly agitated. The sneezes had done it—his peaceful nap was ruined, and he was letting everyone know it with the full force of his toddler-sized temper.

“Suho,” Sunoo muttered softly, though he wasn’t sure if his son could understand him. “What’s wrong, huh? You don’t like the sneezes?”

Suho’s little arms reached up to tug at Sunoo’s shirt, his tiny mouth making an adorable pout. No more sneezes, it seemed to say. His grumpy expression was so comically exaggerated that even the staff in the room, hardened as they were, couldn’t suppress their laughter.

The employee who had been sneezing earlier, still sniffling, shot an apologetic look toward Sunoo, but Sunoo just shook his head with a half-amused, half-exasperated smile.

“Sorry, sir,” the employee offered sheepishly, his voice breaking through the moment. “I didn’t mean to wake him up.”

Sunoo didn’t respond right away. Instead, he let his gaze soften as he looked down at Suho, who was still puffing out his cheeks, a tiny glare aimed at the employee who dared to disturb his nap.

“I’ll have to talk with you about your nap etiquette later, huh?” Sunoo murmured, his voice gentle, even though a hint of amusement coloured his tone.

As Suho’s grumpy face slowly softened, Sunoo adjusted his hold on him, bouncing his leg slightly to settle him back down. He didn’t want to disturb the meeting more than necessary, but his son’s mood had shifted from quiet frustration to a calm almost as abrupt as his previous tantrum.

The baby’s eyes drooped once more, his tiny body finally relaxing as the soft rocking motion and the hum of his staff's voices in the background began to lull him back into slumber.

“You’re a tough one, aren’t you?” Sunoo whispered, pressing his lips to the top of Suho’s head, his hand gently patting his son’s back. He let out a soft sigh, momentarily lost in the unexpected depth of the connection he felt with his son—despite the little grumpy fits, despite the sneezes, despite everything.

And just like that, the moment passed. Suho was asleep again, his tiny face peaceful as he rested in Sunoo’s arms, his earlier grumpiness forgotten as he sank into the warmth of his father’s embrace.

The men continued with their reports, though a few couldn’t help but glance at the father-son duo. Sunoo, usually so stoic and unflappable, gently holding his son and tending to him amid the meeting seemed to quiet the room. Sunoo was no longer the untouchable figure they all knew. In that moment, he was just a father—human, imperfect, but undeniably present for his son.

The meeting finally came to a close, Sunoo dismissing his men with a curt nod. They gathered their papers and laptops quickly, each one casting a subtle glance toward the squirmy little bundle in their boss's arms as they filed out. Sunoo didn’t move immediately, though.

Suho had begun to stir, his tiny body wriggling as he let out soft, sleepy babbles. His face scrunched in frustration, and Sunoo felt his son’s little fists clutching at his shirt again.

“Hmm,” Sunoo hummed softly, leaning back in his chair and shifting Suho slightly so he could see him better. “Still mad about the sneezes, huh?”

Suho let out a small, incoherent string of baby babbles, his lips trembling slightly as his sleepy pout deepened. He blinked up at his father, his big eyes glassy with lingering tiredness. Then, as if he suddenly remembered the offense, he puffed his cheeks out again, letting out an indignant little hmph.

Sunoo sighed, though the corners of his mouth quirked up in amusement. He bounced his leg gently, trying to soothe the squirmy toddler. “You’re really holding a grudge, aren’t you? It’s just sneezes, kid.”

But Suho was clearly not convinced. His tiny hands reached up, tugging at the fabric of Sunoo shirt as if to emphasize his displeasure. His little legs kicked half-heartedly, though he was still too tired to put much effort into it.

“Alright, alright,” Sunoo muttered, adjusting his hold on the grumpy toddler. He cupped Suho’s cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing lightly over the soft, pouty lips. “What do you want, hmm? More milk? A nap redo?”

Suho babbled again, his tone almost scolding, and Sunoo couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “You’re really something else,” he murmured. “So tiny, and already so full of opinions.”

He stood up, cradling Suho closer to his chest, and began pacing the room slowly. The rhythmic motion seemed to calm Suho a little, though he was still pouting fiercely, his cheeks puffed out like a miniature balloon.

As Sunoo walked, he found himself speaking softly to his son, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “You know, you’ve got to learn to let things go, Suho. Sneezes happen. Life happens. You can’t get mad at every little thing.”

Suho responded with a sleepy little grunt, burying his face in Sunoo’s chest as if to block out the rest of the world. His father sighed again, shaking his head in quiet exasperation.

“You’re going to drive me crazy, aren’t you?” Sunoo murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Suho’s head.

The toddler finally settled a little, his small body relaxing against his father’s chest, though his pout remained firmly in place. It was clear he wasn’t quite ready to forgive and forget, but the steady rhythm of Sunoo’s heartbeat seemed to soothe him enough to keep the tantrum at bay.

As Sunoo continued pacing, the room grew quiet, the earlier tension from the meeting dissipating entirely. In this moment, it was just the two of them—father and son, navigating the delicate dance of understanding each other’s needs.

“Alright,” Sunoo said softly, finally stopping near the door. “Let’s find mama. She always knows how to fix your mood better than I can.”

Suho let out another sleepy babble, his little hand clutching at Sunoo’s collar. His father chuckled quietly, adjusting his hold once more before stepping out of the room, carrying his grumpy, squirmy son with the kind of care that only a parent could give.

You had just finished tucking Suhwa into her crib, her soft coos fading into quiet as she drifted off to sleep. The nursery was calm now, the kind of peace you rarely got during the day. You sighed contentedly, smoothing the blanket over your youngest before stepping away.

As you turned to leave, you saw Sunoo standing in the doorway, holding Suho in his arms. The toddler’s chubby cheeks were puffed out in a grumpy frown, his brows furrowed in an expression so dramatic it almost made you laugh.

“He’s been like this since the meeting,” Sunoo began, his voice low but tinged with a hint of amusement. He adjusted his hold on Suho, who let out a soft huff and buried his face in his father’s chest, as if to block out the world.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you approached. “What happened? Did someone steal his pacifier or something?”

Sunoo shook his head, sighing. “No, but one of my men sneezed during the meeting. Woke him up from his nap. And apparently…” He gestured lightly to the grumpy toddler. “...he’s still not over it.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, reaching out to gently touch Suho’s back. “Oh, baby,” you cooed, your tone filled with affection. “Did the sneezes ruin your nap?”

Suho peeked up at you, his pout deepening as he let out a small, dramatic babble that sounded suspiciously like a complaint. His little hands reached for you, and you quickly took him from Sunoo’s arms, cradling him close.

“Come here, my grumpy baby,” you murmured, bouncing him lightly as you pressed a kiss to his temple. “I know it’s hard being woken up like that, isn’t it?”

Sunoo watched the two of you, his usual stoic expression softening as he saw how quickly Suho’s mood shifted in your arms. The little boy’s pout remained, but his body relaxed against you, his tiny hands clutching at your shirt.

“He’s got your dramatic streak, you know,” Sunoo commented dryly, though the faint curve of his lips betrayed his amusement.

You shot him a playful glare. “Excuse me? My dramatic streak? Have you met yourself?”

Sunoo huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair point.”

Suho let out a soft babble, his tiny voice catching both your attention. He looked up at you with his big, watery eyes, his little mouth forming an exaggerated pout that made your heart melt.

“I think someone just needs a little extra love today,” you said softly, kissing the tip of Suho’s nose. “And maybe a snack. Want a snack, baby?”

Suho babbled again, his tone slightly more cheerful now, though his pout lingered stubbornly. You glanced back at Sunoo, who was still watching the two of you with an unreadable expression.

“You should spend some one-on-one time with him,” you said gently, bouncing Suho slightly to keep him calm. “He needs to know his dada’s there for him, too.”

Sunoo gaze flickered, a brief moment of guilt flashing in his eyes before he nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You’re right.”

You smiled, reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ve been doing better,” you assured him softly. “It’ll take time, but you’re trying, and that matters.”

Sunoo’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but he simply nodded again. “I’ll take him downstairs for his snack,” he said, holding his arms out.

Suho hesitated for a moment, clutching at your shirt before finally letting Sunoo take him. The toddler’s pout softened slightly as he settled back into his father’s arms, though he still shot Sunoo a grumpy look as if to say, I’m not done being mad at you yet.

Sunoo chuckled under his breath, holding his son close as he started toward the kitchen. “Alright, kid,” he murmured. “Let’s see if a snack can fix that attitude of yours.”

And as you watched them go, a small smile played on your lips. Sunoo might not have it all figured out yet, but moments like this made it clear—he was trying. And that was enough. For now.

In the kitchen, Sunoo held Suho snugly against his chest, the toddler still occasionally puffing his cheeks in residual grumpiness. Sunoo opened the pantry door with one hand, his other securely supporting his son.

"Alright, Suho," he said, his voice unusually patient. "You pick. It's your snack, not mine."

Suho, still slightly pouty but curious now, blinked at the array of snacks before him. His chubby little hand reached out, pointing aimlessly at first before settling on something colorful.

"That one," he babbled, his voice still tinged with a hint of sleepiness.

Sunoo followed his son’s line of sight and saw a box of soft baby biscuits with a bright red label. He pulled it down from the shelf, holding it up for Suho to confirm.

"This one?" Sunoo asked, arching a brow.

Suho responded with an enthusiastic babble, his pudgy hand smacking the box lightly. Sunoo smirked faintly and set the box down on the counter.

"Good choice," he murmured, balancing Suho in one arm as he opened the box and retrieved a biscuit. He handed it to his son, who immediately grabbed it with both hands, his grumpiness melting away as he began to gnaw on the soft treat.

"You’re easy to please, huh?" Sunoo muttered, watching his son with a mix of amusement and quiet affection. Suho looked up at him, crumbs already forming around his mouth, and offered a muffled babble through a mouthful of biscuit.

Sunoo chuckled softly, using a napkin to wipe at the crumbs. "You’re a mess already, kid."

Suho ignored the comment, fully engrossed in his snack now, his earlier frustration over the sneeze completely forgotten. Sunoo leaned against the counter, still holding him securely, and allowed himself a rare moment of calm.

“Maybe I should let you pick more often,” Sunoo said quietly, more to himself than to Suho.

The toddler looked up briefly, offering a crumb-covered grin before returning his full attention to the biscuit. Sunoo shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips as he adjusted Suho in his arms.

It wasn’t much, but moments like this—letting his son choose a snack, holding him close—felt like a step in the right direction. And for someone like Sunoo, who wasn’t always the best at expressing his love, those small steps mattered.

“Alright, snack boss,” Sunoo murmured, brushing a crumb off Suho’s cheek. “Let’s finish this up before mama comes down and scolds me for the mess.”

Suho babbled happily in response, clearly pleased with his snack and the attention from his father. And for now, that was enough.

After finishing his biscuit, Suho let out a contented babble, his little body relaxing fully in Sunoo’s arms. He looked up at his father with a sleepy smile, his earlier grumpiness completely replaced by satisfaction.

Sunoo wiped the remaining crumbs from his son’s mouth, his movements gentle and unhurried. “Better now, huh?” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from Suho’s forehead.

The toddler responded with another babble, his hands reaching up to pat Sunoo’s face clumsily. Sunoo blinked, startled for a moment, before a small, genuine smile broke through his usually stoic expression.

“Alright,” he said softly, his tone unusually warm. “What now? Back to your toys, or do you want to sit with me for a bit?”

Suho simply leaned his head against Heeseung’s chest, his tiny hands clutching at his father’s shirt as if to say, This is fine. Sunoo chuckled under his breath, pressing a light kiss to the top of his son’s head.

“Guess we’ll stay here, then,” he murmured, settling into one of the kitchen chairs.

Just as he sat down, you appeared in the doorway, pausing for a moment when you saw the two of them together. A soft smile tugged at your lips as you stepped into the room.

“Looks like someone’s in a better mood,” you said, leaning against the counter.

Sunoo glanced up at you, his expression unreadable but his eyes soft. “He picked his snack,” he explained simply.

You laughed lightly, crossing the room to stand beside them. “Of course. Suho always knows what he wants, even if he can’t say it yet.”

Suho, hearing his name, looked up at you with a bright grin, his earlier grumpiness now completely forgotten. You reached out to gently pinch his cheek, earning a delighted giggle from the little boy.

“You’re such a little sunshine when you’re happy,” you cooed, kissing his forehead. Then, you looked at Sunoo, your gaze softening.

Sunoo nodded slightly, his hand resting protectively on Suho’s back. “I’ll try to spend more time with him,” he said quietly, his voice low but firm.

You smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing good, Sunoo. They both adore you, even if Suho and Suhwa can’t always say it.”

Sunoo’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile, and he glanced down at Suho, who was now babbling happily in his lap. For a moment, the weight of his responsibilities seemed to lift, leaving only the warmth of his son’s trust and your steady presence beside him.

“Alright, boss,” Sunoo said, looking back at Suho. “What’s next on your agenda?”

The toddler responded with a cheerful babble, his little hands clapping together. Sunoo chuckled, his earlier stoicism melting away completely in the presence of his son’s joy.

And as you watched them, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of hope. Slowly but surely, the walls around Sunoo’s heart were coming down—for you, for Suho and for Suhwa. Together, you were building something strong, something that could weather anything. And for now, that was more than enough.

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[burningembers91]

Awards Night - Park Min-Su x Fem!Reader

Follow up piece to:

The Secretary

Lunch Date

Synopsis: tasked with delivering a speech at the annual company awards night, Min-Su turns to you for help; but your body makes it so hard for him to concentrate.

A/N: this storyline is living rent free in my head right now.

The atmosphere in the office was electric, the excitement palpable as everyone readied themselves for a night of celebrations. Park Min-Su hated the annual company awards night, which was nothing more than an excuse for people to get shit faced and take advantage of an open bar.

Last year his father had insisted he make a speech, thanking the employees for their hard work. Min-Su was not a confident speaker, and ended up stammering through two sentences of what he’d prepared before backing into a magnum of champagne and shattering the bottle all over the stage. He’d hoped that his father would allow him to blend quietly into the background this year, but no such luck.

Min-Su knew what people said about them, could hear them whispering about him at lunch, making snide remarks as he stammered his way through meetings. His shenanigans at the awards night had been circulated for weeks over email and text, only ceasing when his father threatened to fire people. He was expecting this year to be as disastrous as last, but this time he had a secret weapon: he had you.

“Your dad wants me to help you with your speech,” you’d smiled to him one morning, perching on his desk in your tantalising tiny skirt. He wondered if you knew what you were doing, if you were aware of the effect you had on him. Min-Su had fallen head first into infatuated lust with you, spending his evenings picturing you in every possible position, imagining his name falling from your mouth in breathy moans. He wondered if it was obvious he had no experience with women, if you knew he’d only gotten so far as handholding. It embarrassed him that he was 28 and so inexperienced; you’d want a man who knew how to make you feel good, not a boy who didn’t know the first thing about unhooking a bra.

“Min-Su?” You were smiling at him, waiting patiently for him to answer you. He’d been so lost in his daydreams that he’d forgotten to respond to your words. His body had responded to you though, his stiffening cock aching against the fabric of his suit. He shifted his chair further under the desk, hoping you hadn’t noticed the effect you had on him.

“Yes. The speech,” he sighed. “I’m not great at public speaking.”

He’d grown more confident with you over the last 6 months, and had finally started opening up. You’d spent hours talking in his office, or over lunch, and Min-Su had tried his best to explain the rigid upbringing he’d had pressed upon him. You knew he didn’t want the family company, but you also knew he was too terrified of his father to ever say anything.

“Well, what did you say last year?” You asked, your pen tapping on your notepad. Min-Su could see up your skirt with the position you were sitting in, could see the briefest flash of the black lace underwear you wore. He shifted uncomfortably, the view doing nothing for his erection, but fuelling the fantasies that would play over in his head later.

“Last year I thanked everyone for coming and then knocked over an expensive bottle of champagne,” he admitted. You bit back a laugh, and seeing your reaction caused a smile to break across his face. You liked seeing Min-Su smile, enjoyed seeing him relax. He had a handsome face, and his smile made his eyes light up.

“Ok, well, we’ll start with thanking everyone again, and avoid smashing any alcohol.” You started scribbling on your notepad, your floral perfume enveloping Min-Su as he watched you work. “Oh, your dad also wants to know if you’re bringing a plus one tonight.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Can… can you not be my plus one?” He knew you were coming already, all the employees were invited, but he was hoping you’d stay with him tonight, help him with the nerves only you seemed able to quell.

“I’d never thought you’d ask,” you winked. You knew he didn’t have a plus one, and his dad hadn’t asked you to check. But you were hoping he’d get the courage up to ask you to go with him, to stay by his side. The more time you spent with Min-Su, the more you were desperate to teach him things he could only dream about.

The awards ceremony was being held at the some fancy hotel, and the dress code was strictly black tie. You arrived in a satin navy blue cocktail dress, ignoring the stares of the investment bankers around you. You only had eyes for Min-Su tonight. You found him seated behind a champagne fountain, a half full glass clutched in his hand. His eyes lit up as he saw you, and he stood to attention, slopping champagne onto his Versace brogues.

“Wow,” he whispered, taking in the dress that outlined your figure like it was made just for you. “You look…” he couldn’t finish his sentence, simply because the word to describe your beauty didn’t exist.

You smiled, opening your purse and pulling out his speech.

“It’s all typed and ready to go. Just remember, I’ll be at the front of the crowd. If you get nervous, just look at me and pretend I’m the only one in the room.”

Min-Su wouldn’t have trouble doing that; most of the time he didn’t notice anyone else when you were around. He swallowed hard, trying not to notice the way your breasts looked in the tight dress. Heading to the stage, he waited for his father to introduce him, and took to the microphone.

He could hear people laughing, could see cameras in the crowd waiting to capture the moment he fell flat on his face. His eyes scanned the crowd, finding you standing right near the stage, just where you said you’d be. He focused on your face, on your soft eyes and smile. You gave him a small thumbs up, and Min-Su started speaking. His voice wavered, but didn’t falter, and he thanked his father, grandfather and colleagues for another successful year. He laid out the yearly earnings and various company acquisitions, and for the first time in maybe his whole life, his father looked at him with a smidge of pride. Your speech was perfect, and yet Min-Su claimed all the credit.

He couldn’t find you after he stepped down from the stage, swarmed by the very people who used to make fun of him. Now they slapped him on the back, cracked jokes with him, offered him glasses of champagne. But Min-Su only wanted to be with you. His eyes searched the sea of people, spotting your blue dress by the door leading to the balcony. He picked his way through the crowd, finding you leaning against the railing as you took in the night sky.

“That was amazing,” you smiled, “you did such an incredible job.” You pulled him into a hug, your curves soft and warm against his body. He pulled away before you could feel his body react to you, smiling sheepishly as he swallowed the rest of his drink.

“It was all you,” he shrugged, unable to tear his eyes from your figure.

“I just wrote the words,” you told him. “You had the whole room in a trance.”

Min-Sun could hear the music start up inside, could hear the laughter of people as they joined the dance floor.

“Dance with me?” You asked him, holding out your hand for him to take. He’d never really danced before, too aware of all the things that could go wrong.

“I can’t dance,” he mumbled.

“Everyone can dance!” You exclaimed. “Come on, we’ll stay out here where no one can see.”

Min-Su slowly span you around, completely out of time to the music but neither of you seemed to care. You were lost in your own little world, Min-Su laughing as he became more confident. He wasn’t sure how long you were out there for, just the two of you under the star studded sky. He wanted to kiss you, wanted to feel your lips against his but he had no idea how to start, or if you even wanted to kiss him back.

“We should go back inside,” you eventually sighed. “You’re the man of the hour, and they’ll be missing you.”

Min-Su wanted to tell you that he didn’t want to go back inside, he wanted to dance all night with you under the stars. But he faltered yet again, smiling sadly as you led him inside.

He couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the night, wishing he was back outside with you. That night he pleasured himself as he imagined removing your blue satin dress, of kissing down your body while you moaned his name. He couldn’t look you in the eye the next day, the filthy things he’d imagined still ingrained in his brain.

He didn’t know you’d been thinking of him as well, that you’d pictured the two of you making love under the stars. You were so desperate to teach him things, to open him up to a world of pleasure he could only dream of.

All he had to do was ask.

[villainsapologist]

the interview

Summary: You’re the newest member of the band and you’re doing your first sit down interview with James – who is definitely in love with you.

Warnings/Tags: James Hetfield x Fem Reader, RPF, load era james, fluff, mutual pining, explicit language, sexually suggestive content, no smut though, still intended for 18+

Wordcount: 1.97K

PART TWO

“Tell us how you first got in contact with these guys.” The interviewer asked. You are sitting beside James on the couch with barely any space between the two of you. The interviewer faces you both, his recorder resting on the arm of the single seater with a pen and notepad in his hands.

“Well we actually connected through my friend Brandon who worked as an assistant producer on one of the records on the album.” You spoke calmly, acutely aware that everything you say, every movement and miniscule expression will probably be written about by the interviewer. And to add to that you could feel his eyes staring into the side of your face. James had his arm slung across the back of the couch, you could feel the heat radiating off his body. 

“Yeah it’s actually really interesting because our newest member here was only supposed to come in for one day.” James spoke up.

“Brandon and I had been friends for a long time and together we would make little things here and there for fun.” You had often spent your Saturdays with him playing and writing together. When he told you about the opportunity he had gotten to help produce a Metallica album you were so excited for him. 

“He has a studio in his house so we would hang out and just come up with stuff, you know.” You glance upwards in James’ direction, a tight lipped smile playing across your face. In response he gives you that familiar grin, the one where basically all his teeth are on display. 

“And one day we stumbled upon something that he thought the guys would really like and could get some inspiration from.” You answered, turning back towards the interviewer. “So I went in one morning and was basically only supposed to be there for a couple of hours. But before we knew it we had spent the entire day working together.” 

“By the end of the week we had completed one of the tracks and she was so ingrained in the whole thing that there was no way we could play it without her.” James explained.

“That’s the one you guys played during her debut right?” The interviewer questioned. Less than twenty-four hours ago you played your first show with them. An experience that you are still reeling from. You would never have believed anyone if just a year ago they would have told you that you would be onstage playing with one of the greatest bands of all time. 

“Yes, and wasn’t she amazing” James answers, never missing an opportunity to go on about how talented you are. “I mean the crowd loved her solo so much, I just knew they would.” He beamed, thinking back to the day before. You were beyond nervous, the entire thing almost a blur. The smoke machine, the crowd, the music, it all blended together. You only remember James saying your name over the mic and the wind between your fingers as you pulled at the strings of your guitar.

— — — 

“What about the dynamic between you all? How has it been working with these guys as not only the newest member but also the youngest.” The interviewer asked as he perched up in his seat, eyes glancing between the two of you. “Is it a sibling thing or are they more like your daddies?” 

Your head slowly turns to James who couldn’t help himself as he burst out laughing. “My daddies? What…” An air of confusion in your voice. 

“Right, huh?” James agrees with your confusion, his eyebrows furrowed with a smile on his face. Although to be totally honest he seemed more amused than confused.

“Definitely more of a sibling dynamic I would say. I mean they’re all really cool and have been very welcoming. We’ve also been hard at work so…”

“So who would you say is your favorite so far, if you would dare?” The interviewer cuts in, eyebrows raised, a smirk playing on his lips. 

“Definitely not Lars.” James cheekily admits. “I'm just kidding, she hates us all now.” You shake your head at James’ comments. 

“I wouldn’t say hate, but I definitely liked you guys more in the beginning.” you add, only half joking. “No, but seriously Kirk’s a sweetheart and we got some time to bond over our guitars. James and I both write and with the album I also got some vocals in, as you probably heard.”

“I know she seems like a sweet little thing, but she’s actually very strict.” James tells the interviewer. “What's the word you used again?” he turns back to you.

“Boundaries.”

“Yeah that. Boundaries. No touching without permission. And when those headphones go on, you would be an idiot to disturb her.” James tells the interviewer. 

“I know it seems odd but I promise if you spend almost every waking moment with these guys for months on end you would see that it’s necessary.” You added to your defense. Truthfully you weren't really bothered by them touching you. It was fun and you enjoyed being silly with them. You just had to come up with something to stop James specifically from touching you. Reason being well…the body does have a mind of its own and whenever he would so much as brush past you, your breath would begin to waver and your body would heat up in a flash.

Case in point that one late night at the studio when it was just you, James, and a few others from the tech team. He sat beside you holding a photo album he found with an assortment of early days Metallica photos, excitedly showing off and recounting stories from the time period.

He had seemingly… unknowingly snaked his free arm around your waist as he used his other hand to turn the pages of the album. At that point your mind became so fogged that you couldn't even comprehend anything he was saying. You were holding your breath so silently beside him. And then it got worse, you were wearing a thin fitted baby tee with nothing beneath it and of course your nipples had to start getting visibly hard. 

“Have some fucking self control.” You scolded yourself internally. It was so embarrassing, but if James had noticed he never said anything. You really didn't want to be that person. You wanted it to remain as friendly as possible with the guys. The thought of everything becoming awkward and the judgement you feared you would face if people found out that you were romantically involved with one of your bandmates, made you recoil.

You feared that you would not be taken seriously and that your hard work of getting into the band and creating such amazing art that meant so much to you would be summed up to you just fucking the guys and getting what you wanted. So you took the opportunity one day when the guys were being playful with each other and consequently you, to act increasingly annoyed with their antics. 

“Get off! New rule, no touching me without permission. Where are the boundaries in this group? Damn.” You didn’t mean it but you had to come up with something. 

— — — 

“You said that you guys have been hard at work. Is that all you guys have had time for – no bonding moments outside of that?” The interviewer continued. Considering that James only looked at him when he was asking him a question, coupled with the fact that he was staring holes into you – the interviewer was sure he had an idea of the dynamic budding between the two of you.

“Well James is a bit of a redneck, I’m not sure if a lot of people know that. So he took me fishing and hunting for the first time. It was definitely an experience…” You trailed off, recounting that day.

“More so fishing, there was very little hunting done. Someone started crying so we had to wrap that up quickly.” James remarks in a teasing tone. 

“I so didn't cry.” You rolled your eyes.

“You so did cry.” James rebutted, side-eyeing you with that grin.

“Maybe a little. If the animal also had a gun then I would feel much better and maybe then I would call it a sport. But on a brighter note I caught a really big fish! That was fun.” James couldn’t help the warm feeling in his chest as he watched you talk about the time you spent together – just the two of you. Honestly from the first moment he saw you he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since. Every minute of every hour, now consumed with you. 

When he suggested you two do an outdoorsy activity you were elated to finally be doing something other than music, just for a little while. Plus you would get to know another aspect of who James is. 

There is always more to James than meets the eye. It was something you had suspected before you really knew him but now you know for sure. His exterior suggested a more hardened individual but as you spent more time with him, you were met with this incredibly attentive and caring person. More times than not if you looked at James you would find his eyes already on you. At first it made you shift a bit nervously on the spot and made a certain shyness creep up on you. But now it brings you comfort. Now it feels like you have someone who sees you, and for the most part likes what they see.

— — —

“Nice. I’m sure your family, friends and partner are thrilled for you. Although now you probably won’t see them much. You’re going to be on the road for quite some time from now on. How have you been navigating this new change with them?” The motive for the interviewer's line of questioning wasn't lost on you. Both you and James had caught it, “partner”. You debated whether or not you would address that particular part or just ignore it. 

“Yeah they can’t believe it, honestly I’m still coming to terms with it myself. But they are very supportive, I’m lucky to have them.” You ignored it. But as it turns out the interviewer had no intention of letting you off the hook that easily.

“Ah so your boyfriend is very supportive then. That’s great considering how much time you have to now spend so closely with a group of men who aren’t him”. There it was, probably the first of many pushy press interactions to come. You chuckled nervously and as you were about to speak up, James did it for you.

“I don’t think I recall her saying anything about a boyfriend just now. Did I miss that?” His smile is gone as he turns to the interviewer, a puzzled look on his face. James knows he should pull it back, he shouldn’t be so negatively affected by this question but he really couldn’t contain it. He was an emotional and impulsive person to begin with, and when it came to you everything went into overdrive. 

“I didn’t, but it’s alright.” You assured James, acutely aware of his growing frustration. The interviewer on the other hand seemed to get exactly what he was hoping for. A barely audible “hmm” comes from him as he scribbles something in his notepad. 

“Well just a couple more questions.” He closes his notepad and looks between you and James. Thankfully the questions that followed were routine. Although you were only giving him half of your full attention. James had now moved his arm from the back of the couch to rest behind you. His fingers brushing your elbow.

He made up his mind, after this he had to let you know how he felt. No more subtle suggestions. He’ll do it tonight. 

A/N: first of all i need him and part two is posted.

PART TWO

Also please don't be shy, tell me what you think! my inbox is open :)

<3

[inkspiredwriting]

Finding love in the CIA

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Summary: Five's assistant y/n is a disaster, but eventually five sees more in her than chaos on two legs

Warnings: none

Working for the CIA wasn’t exactly the glamorous life Five Hargreeves had envisioned after saving the world countless times, losing his powers, and becoming just another guy in a suit. His siblings had scattered, each finding their own way to adjust to life without the superhuman abilities that had once defined them. For Five, though, adjusting wasn’t as simple. A genius assassin with the mind of a man who had lived lifetimes, stuck in a twenty-something’s body—how could he blend in with normal life?

That’s when the CIA had come knocking. After all, who better to solve mysteries than someone who had quite literally seen the end of the world?

But if there was one thing Five wasn’t prepared for, it was his assistant, Y/n.

The first time he met her, he had sized her up in mere seconds: messy hair, bright eyes full of curiosity, and an energy that felt out of place in the sterile, calculating world of government operations. She seemed like someone who had wandered in from a children’s birthday party, full of clumsy charm and endless, goofy optimism.

“Hi! I’m Y/n! I’ll be your assistant from now on,” she had said with a grin that was far too cheerful for the CIA offices. She held out her hand, knocking over a stack of files in the process. Papers scattered across the floor, but she just laughed. “Oops, sorry about that!”

Five had stared at her, unamused. “Great.”

For weeks, that was how it went. Y/n was always full of chatter, always telling the worst jokes imaginable. She was bright and bubbly, the complete opposite of Five’s dry, no-nonsense attitude. And she was clumsy. So clumsy. She would knock over coffee cups, trip on wires, and somehow always manage to create a small catastrophe wherever they went.

Five found it maddening at first. He was used to precision, to getting things done efficiently, and Y/n seemed like the embodiment of chaos.

“Why do you always have to talk?” Five had muttered one day after a particularly bad joke about two ghosts walking into a bar.

“To fill the silence,” she had replied with a shrug. “Otherwise, you’d just sit there all grumpy and brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” he had replied sharply.

Y/n had just smirked, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, you’re not.”

As time went on, though, something started to shift. Despite his initial annoyance, Five found himself strangely drawn to Y/n’s chaotic energy. She was a disaster, sure, but she was also… nice. She never let the stress of the job get to her, and no matter how tense things got, she always found a way to lighten the mood with a joke or a silly comment.

He didn’t know when it happened, but he realized that her presence—once so irritating—had become something he looked forward to. He found himself anticipating what ridiculous thing she would say next. And when she wasn’t around, he felt… restless.

One day, they were sent out to a crime scene—a routine investigation into a high-profile case. As they walked through the debris of a house that had clearly been the site of some kind of explosion, Five couldn’t help but notice Y/n fumbling around, looking completely out of place in her oversized CIA jacket.

“You look like a kid playing dress-up,” Five remarked, not even bothering to hide his smirk.

Y/n shot him a look, her hands holding a notepad in the most awkward way possible. “I’m taking notes, okay? You know, being helpful.”

“By tripping over every piece of evidence?” he teased, watching her almost stumble over a charred piece of debris.

“Hey, not everyone can be as cool and mysterious as you,” she shot back, sticking her tongue out playfully before crouching down to examine something on the ground. Five couldn’t help but chuckle. He didn’t know when it had started, but it was getting harder and harder to keep a straight face around her.

Y/n stood up suddenly, brushing dust off her pants and turning to face him. “Hey, Five, want to hear a joke?”

He sighed. “No.”

“Why did the scarecrow become a successful detective?”

Five rolled his eyes. “I don’t care.”

Y/n grinned, not deterred in the slightest. “Because he was outstanding in his field.”

There was a pause as the terrible joke hung in the air. Five stared at her, his expression deadpan. Y/n just grinned wider, clearly waiting for his reaction.

And then, despite himself, despite everything, he laughed. It wasn’t even that the joke was funny—it wasn’t. But something about the way Y/n delivered it, her sheer joy and enthusiasm, broke through the wall he had spent so long building up. The laugh was short, a low chuckle, but it was genuine.

Y/n’s eyes lit up, her face beaming with pride. “Did I just make Five Hargreeves laugh? I think I need to write this down somewhere—”

“Don’t get cocky,” Five interrupted, trying to regain his composure. But the smile playing at his lips refused to leave.

As they continued investigating the scene, Five found himself stealing glances at her. Jen had crouched down again, scribbling something in her notepad with a look of concentration that somehow made her even more endearing.

For a moment, Five paused. He didn’t understand what was happening. His heart was pounding in a way that felt… unfamiliar. Over the years, he had been through so much, lost so much, that he had convinced himself love was lost for him, not important to him. But here he was, staring at Y/n as she made ridiculous notes about evidence that probably didn’t matter, and all he could think was how much he liked having her around.

And then it hit him like a punch to the gut.

He had fallen for her.

Later, after the investigation had wrapped up, Five sat in his small, dimly lit office, staring at the files in front of him. But his mind wasn’t on the case. It was on Y/n.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way her eyes lit up when she told a bad joke, or the way she always found something to smile about, even in the most serious situations. She was clumsy, sure. She was goofy and disorganized and everything that Five was not. But she was also kind. Sweet. And he found himself drawn to her in a way he had never expected.

As he sat there, lost in thought, there was a knock on the door. It swung open, and there stood Y/n, holding two cups of coffee. She gave him a sheepish smile as she stepped inside. “I brought you coffee. Thought you could use a break.”

Five watched her as she set the cups down on his desk, her usual energy toned down for the evening, but still present in her warm smile.

“Thanks,” he muttered, taking the cup. He could feel his heart racing again, the realization of his feelings making everything feel more intense, more charged.

Y/n took a seat across from him, her eyes bright despite the late hour. “You okay? You’ve been quieter than usual today. I mean, you’re always kind of broody, but today it’s like… super broody.”

Five chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, looking around his office. “You know, for a guy who spends so much time in the field, your office is pretty boring. No posters, no decorations. It’s like… the office equivalent of oatmeal.”

Five raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Oatmeal?”

Y/n grinned. “Yeah. Bland, but functional.”

Five rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his chest wouldn’t go away. He couldn’t help but feel lighter around her, as if her presence made everything a little less serious, a little less heavy.

As they sat there in comfortable silence, sipping their coffee, Five knew one thing for certain: he had fallen for the clumsy, sweet, and utterly ridiculous woman sitting across from him. And as much as he tried to deny it, it was a feeling he didn’t want to let go of.

[otomes-and-tears]

If its ok, I wanna request a qiu x reader (step 2) where reader keeps doodling qiu subconciously and they end up dropping one of their doodles somewhere, and qiu finds it :0 sorry if this is formatted wrong, ive never requested something before aaa!!!!

♦ Qiu finds MC's drawing of them ♦

►tags and warnings: GN reader, Step 2

► words: 1696 words

► A/N: I AM ALIVE I SWEAR I promise I can still write more than just Shiloh brainrot!

► Masterlist

It wasn’t really on purpose.

MC was trapped in the clutches of a terrible art block. It had been weeks since they managed to draw something they were satisfied with, and the creative stagnation gnawed at them, leaving them restless. Then there was Qiu, sitting a few seats ahead, their messy hair carelessly tied into a crooked ponytail, soft features relaxed in quiet boredom. MC didn’t even realize they had started sketching Qiu until the drawing was done— their fingertips smudged with graphite as they blended the last of the rough shading into the pencil sketch.

It looked good. Far better than any of their recent, fruitless attempts at drawing. The creases on their baggy sweater and the small intricacies of their expression almost perfectly captured in their style.

Part of MC wanted to brag, to walk up to Qiu and show them the drawing as a triumphant declaration that their terrible, horrible art block was finally over. But as soon as Qiu’s gaze found theirs, those soft eyes blinking slowly, like a cat, and that small, smug smile appearing on their lips, far too pleased with having caught MC staring, MC knew they couldn’t give Qiu any more reason to tease them.

It’s bound to be just a one-time thing, anyway.

…

It wasn’t a one-time thing.

Drawing Qiu became muscle memory, in the same way that drawing hearts or five-point stars, the kind with lines in the middle, became after an eternity of doodling them on the edges of notebooks.

There was just something easy about it. 

MC knew their neighbour so well that they didn’t even need a reference to capture the nuances of Qiu’s smile—the way the right side of their lips lifted just a touch higher than the left, the arch of their brows, or the slight widening of their eyes when surprised. It was effortless.

It becomes a warm-up exercise before the artist’s other drawings and a quick way to break the slump off art blocks, or even something mindless MC does in the middle of a particularly dull classes both share— they do suspect Qiu knew about those but never bothered them with requests to see the drawings, leaving MC to their quiet obsession.

What was embarrassing was how often they’d find themselves obsessing over the perfect way to angle their wrists to capture the sharp swoop of Qiu’s dark bangs to imply just the right amount of movement, or the fact that they filled so many pages of their sketchbook with studies of Qiu during ballet class that they had to replace it with a fresh one.

Their anatomy skills had improved dramatically in the meantime. But was it worth it, trading artistic growth for Qiu’s obvious disappointment when MC stopped letting them flip through their sketchbook? Or having to learn to draw things quickly and discreetly?

“You dropped a page.” MC says, flatly. Qiu is rummaging though their gym bag in search of their  earphones, notepad hanging precariously in their coat pocket. “Again.”

By this point, Qiu had long given up on retrieving whatever papers they lost, but MC still informed them out of habit anyway. Despite their disinterest, Qiu’s eyes scanned the floor—until they paused, bending down to pick the page up. 

The action immediately catches MC’s attention. It would usually take a lot of insistence for Qiu to bother, if they did at all.

"Started caring about the environment again?" 

MC teased. Qiu just snickered, unfolding the page with a widening smile. A smile that grew into something MC could only describe as pure, unbridled glee. That’s when MC noticed the paper wasn’t the usual color, weight, or size. It was larger, thinner, and undeniably from MC’s sketchbook.

“I was wondering when you’d let me see these drawings,” Qiu said, turning the page to reveal one of MC’s most recent sketches—a detailed study of Qiu, brows furrowed in concentration as they scribbled in their notepad, done only a few hours ago, just before lunchtime. There were also smaller drawings on the margins done in a more simplified style, all of Qiu. "When did I become your muse?”

MC’s breath caught in their throat as Qiu held up the sketch, a wave of embarrassment hitting them so hard they felt they could drown in it. Their little habit was a badly-kept secret, but it doesn’t mean that MC was looking forward to being found out.

Regardless, the question hung in the air, and MC knew that there was no universe in which Qiu would let it go without satisfying answers

Each second MC passed without answering only made Qiu’s grin grow further, their warm brown eyes flickering between the sketch and the artist responsible for creating it, a glint of mischief dancing in them.

“You know,” they continued, voice light and playful, “if you wanted me to model for you, all you had to do was ask.”

“No! I wasn’t— It’s not like that!” 

MC could feel the heat crawling up the back of their neck as they stammard, mind racing as they frantically searched for an excuse that would be any less mortifying than the truth.

Qiu’s smile softened, feeling bad for their friend’s embarrassment, even if they were having fun with their flustered reaction. Despite how much their personality had changed throughout the years, that was a small aspect Qiu would never be able to grow out of— despite their incessant teasing, they deeply cared for their neighbour, and didn’t like taking things too far for the sake of their comfort.

“Is that so?” they asked, the teasing edge in their voice giving way to something a little softer. "Because it seems like you’ve been drawing me a lot."

MC felt the weight of their own silence, the silent, embarrassing admission that came with it. 

Drawing Qiu had become a part of their routine. A habit, an easy way to keep up with their goal of drawing every day.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” MC finally said, pushing through their mortification to grant Qiu their answer. They glanced down at their hands, fingers still smudged with graphite, as if the evidence of their fixation was written all over them, taunting them. “I just… you were easy to draw. You’re always around, and I—” They paused. I can’t stop thinking about you. The words linger, right on the tip of their tongue. “I guess it just… happened.”

The playful gleam in Qiu’s eyes is replaced by something tender, a warmth they knew all too well.

“You know,” Qiu said slowly, carefully, as if trying not to spook them “I don’t mind being your muse.”

MC blinked, caught off guard by Qiu’s sincerity. They looked up, meeting Qiu’s gaze fully, and for the first time in a long time, there was no playfulness or carefully feigned disinterest in their eyes. Just warmth.

“You don’t—” MC began, stammering, struggling to find the right words, “you don’t think it’s… weird?”

“Why would it be weird? You’re an artist. Artists need inspiration, right?” Qiu glanced down at the sketch again, running a finger gently over the paper, careful not to smudge it. “And I’m honored. I don’t think I’ve ever been someone’s inspiration before. Much less to my favorite artist”

Somehow, MC doubts that. Judging by Qiu’s popularity in town, having been the crush of at least half of Golden Grove’s kids within their age group, they have absolutely zero doubts that Qiu has been the source of many ‘a angsty poem scribbled in someone’s diary.

Regardless, they felt their chest tighten at Qiu’s words, eyes widening as their mind replays the dancer’s words, over and over. They were Qiu’s favorite artist? Qiu didn’t mind being drawn?

That fills them with much needed relief, the tension from their body slowly dissipating.

“I’m not sure how much of an inspiration you really are,” 

MC muttered, trying to deflect some of the intensity of the moment with humor, but the warmth in their voice betrayed them.

“Oh, come on. I’ve clearly been *very* inspirational.” Qiu gestured at the sketch in their hand, then raised a brow. “How many of these are there, anyway? Ten?”

“…More.”

“More? Seriously?”

MC couldn’t help but smile now, the absurdity of it all catching up with them as they shake their head, disappointed at themselves.

“Uh, like, a lot of my last sketchbook? It’s just… you’re always around, and you’ve got this…” They gestured vaguely at Qiu, trying to find the right words. “This vibe. You’re fun to draw.”

Qiu raised an eyebrow, leaning in, invading their personal space enough that they could smell the subtle scent of cinnamon from their shampoo, voice dropping to a playful murmur. 

“Easy, huh? So you *have* been staring at me a lot.”

MC rolled their eyes, shoving Qiu lightly, but there was no malice in it. It’s true, as much as they hated to admit it, they had observed the dancer so much as to be able to draw them from memory.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” 

But Qiu just smiled, softer again. 

“I’m flattered,” they said, their voice gentle. “Really.”

MC didn’t know what to say to that. There was a lump in their throat, an unspoken understanding passing between them that felt both overwhelming and comforting. They had known each other for years by that point, after all, but In that moment, something shifted. The awkwardness, the teasing, even the embarrassment—it all melted away like snow in spring time, leaving behind only the quiet connection between them. Their unbreakable bond. It was comfortable in the way few things are.

Qiu handed the sketch back to MC, their fingers brushing for just a second felt almost electrifying. Has it always felt like this?

“Keep drawing me,” they said, voice quiet but resolute. “If it helps you, keep doing it. No need to hide it.”

When their eyes meet again, and they can sense Qiu’s sincerity, their heart races once more. They accept the drawing, storing it safely inside their sketchbook before they continue on their way home.

Maybe they didn’t have the words for everything they felt just yet, but right now, this moment was enough.

[taintandviolent]

Rough ; Roman Godfrey x secretary!reader

summary: PART THREE TO LITTLE MOUTH! [PART ONE HERE] & [PART TWO HERE]! Roman's vague and horrible as always, but at least his instructions were clear; wear a dress. It's the night of the investor banquet for Godfrey Institute, and you're feeling out of place. You're on your period, so everything is getting under your skin. Unfortunately for you, Roman has a very specific appetite tonight.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 2.6K | female reader, smut, unprotected sex, kissing, choking, rough sex, manhandling, period sex, cunnilingus, blood consumption, bloodplay, blood drinking, mentions of tampons, mentions of alcohol, neck kissing.

a/n: AHEM. I've been asked for a part three to this for a looooooong time, so here we go. not beta-read, so any mistakes are... y'know. just ignore them. banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

Roman was a bizarre boss. Not just that, he was a manipulative, degrading asshole. So, why were you so interested in him? You’d fucked him twice and suddenly he had you under his thumb like some desperate floozy. Sickening to your intrinsic feminism.

You hurriedly sweep the brush over your lid, blending out the powder you’d just put there. The motivation behind Roman’s vague instructions might’ve been unknown, but at least he’d texted you early that morning, reminding you that it was the night of the investor visit and banquet. You’d been reminding him about it for weeks, and suddenly you were the one who had forgotten. You chalked it up to the fact that you hadn’t planned on going, because really, who brings their secretary to a weekend event? 

Leaning away from the mirror, you take a moment to survey yourself. You’d chosen a slinky white dress that hugged your curves as though it had been tailored to you. It hadn’t – you had impulse bought it online a few months back. Your hair fell in delicate waves around your shoulders. You swat away your nagging insecurities, knowing that your mind was playing tricks on you – you looked fine, and it didn’t matter, because Roman was going to be there any minute. 

He doesn’t even bother to knock – just texts you that he’s outside. You grab your purse, and rush down the stairs and out the door. It’s raining when you open your front door. 

There he is. Even from here, even with the rain spattered windshield, you can see his plump lips, eternally pouting. You can see the harsh angle of his jawline, and his piercing green eyes as they watch you, impatiently. Your purse hangs from the crook of your arm, swaying gently as you stride over to the passenger side, your heels clacking against the wet pavement. With a sigh, as though you’re prepping yourself, you open the door.

“Hi,” you say, settling in. You shift in your seat, reaching for the belt.  

He simply nods at you, and puts the car in reverse.  Great. There’s something so wretched about the way he fucks you one day, and treats like you nothing the next. You hate it. Anger roils in your stomach like an angry serpent trying to devour itself, and you ease back into the seat, crossing your arms over your chest. You know you’re sensitive right now, but it’s really doing wonders for your self-esteem that he is the way he is. 

The ride there is a quiet one (unsurprisingly), and Roman hardly says a word, though you catch him as he keeps stealing glances.

“You look good,” he says abruptly when you’re only a minute or two away. 

You turn your head, your eyes climbing from his hands on the wheel to his stoic face. “Thanks.” 

Once you arrive, the Institute is filled with suits and ties. You recognize a few faces, but not enough to make you comfortable. You aren’t sure what your purpose is here, and without your folders and notepad, you feel naked around these people. Not to mention, you’re dressed in a way that will inevitably give them a different opinion of you, because they never see you like this. 

Roman immediately is overtaken by people who want his attention, want his approval, and you’re almost thankful for the reprieve of his hot and cold attitude.

“I’ll take one of those,” you say politely, though determinately. Your fingers wrap around the delicate flute as the waiter breezes by, and you bring the effervescent liquid to your lips. God bless alcohol. Truly. 

You feel a particular and sudden gush between your legs and your eyes widen, pupils swallowing your iris. Shit. Had you really bled through your tampon already? 

Turning on your heel, you make a beeline for the bathrooms, which are from where you are, is a decent walk. You take each step carefully, praying and hoping that crimson hasn’t saturated your beautiful silk gown.

You make it to the bathroom and shove the door open hard. There’s no one inside, thank god, because you’re about to unleash a string of expletives if you’ve bled through your dress. After locking it behind you, you take a deep breath and step in front of the mirror, before turning around slowly. 

The dress remains pristine. You’ve caught it in time. 

You set the champagne flute on the counter top. Throwing yourself towards the toilet, you hike your dress up around your hips and sit down. You reach into your small purse, thankful that you brought an extra one, even though you hadn’t planned on using it so soon. Just as your fingers inch between your legs, you hear someone knock on the door. 

You wait. 

The knock doesn’t repeat, and your fingers twitch back to life, blindly searching for the string.

A few seconds later, his muffled voice comes from outside. 

Did he just tell you to open the door? 

“Just a second!” You shout. You can hear Roman’s impatience through the wood, but for God’s sake, you’re changing your tampon. 

“Open the fucking door! What, you think you can hide in there?” 

Now feeling rushed, you wrap the used tampon in tissue. Frustrated, you get to your feet, pull your underwear up around your hips and hurry to the door, opening it just a crack. You toss the tissue into the trash and peek through the slit. Roman stands there, in his stupidly attractive suit, with his pink, pouted lips and intense gaze, like he was trying to burn a hole through the door. 

“What are you doing?” 

You hesitate, drowning in the awkwardness of the situation. “....I’m dealing with something, if you don’t fucking mind.” 

“I do, actually.” His chest fills with air as he takes a deep breath. His nostrils flare and his eyes widen, looking animalistic. “I need you.” You furrow your brow as you watch him – what was he doing? The term need could refer to a multitude of things from him – you weren’t sure which it was. All of the options were terrifying, considering you were now free-bleeding into your panties.

A few seconds pass, and you get your answer. His fingers splay out on the wood as he pushes the bathroom door open, forcing you to take a few steps back. It happens quickly, but he crouches in front of you, just enough to hoist you up over his shoulder. Your feet leave the floor, and you can do little but flail in his grip, trying to reach for the door jam as he turns, striding out of the bathroom. 

“Roman! Roman, stop–!” 

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up. Be grateful that I didn’t wait for you to come back and make you suck my dick in front of everyone.” 

I kind of wish you would have. Your core twinges with heat at the idea of ruining your reputation in such a way. 

He carries you, your vision bouncing with his steps, until he comes to the large glass doors of the main conference room. He pushes his way through them, and takes long, determinate strides until he gets to the wooden table in the middle of the room. 

Your back meets the wood before you can protest again. 

His hand comes to your neck, gripping it softly. You whimper, stretching your neck away from his grasp, to which he hums, satisfied. You suck in a deep breath as his hand trails down further, along your decollete. 

“I can feel your heartbeat.” His palm ghosts over your chest, fingertips grazing the exposed skin between the fabric. “You’re nervous.” 

“Yeah, because I don’t know what you’re doing.”

Roman says nothing, only continues touching your body, trailing his hands along the slinky fabric of your gown. You look around the conference room passively. It’s a room that you’ve been outside of many times, holding the door for Mr. Godfrey while passing him a file folder of bullet points to talk about and things to address. You never join him in the room, so you’re never sure if he actually does go over them. You assume not.  

“You’re bleeding, aren’t you?” The question is asked as he’s gathering your dress up around your hips. You lift your hips up, and he pushes the fabric underneath your ass, into the small of your back. Thoughtful. Surprisingly. 

“I can smell it,” he adds.

You swallow, uncomfortable. “Y-yeah. I am. And you interrupted me from fixing that. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to put a tampon back in and go back downstairs.” 

“Hm…” Roman says, one hand on either knee, spreading your legs apart. “Why the fuck would I let you do something stupid like that?” 

You saw Roman guzzle blood straight out of a bag. That, somehow, didn’t come as a shock to you. What does come as a shock, is that he’s kneeling between your legs, his hot mouth nearing your even hotter center. He runs a single finger along your panties before hooking them around his index finger and yanking them down over your hips. 

“Ro– Roman… what… what are you doing? What if someone sees us? Are you insane?” 

He straightens up and his gaze bores into yours, iron-locked and deep.

“Shut up!” His hand snakes up between your legs and grips your jaw tightly, your expression tightening up into a wince. “Stop talking for once. Stop asking me stupid fucking questions.” 

That haze returns and you happily don’t say another word. The first time he did it to you, it frightened you, made you feel like you were losing grasp on reality. At this point though, you’re almost comfortable with that feeling. You’ve come to crave the feeling of relinquishing control, the way your limbs buzz with compulsion, the way your mind goes blank for a fleeting moment before you enact whatever he told you to do. It’s much easier than thinking.

A single drop of blood descends from his nostril, and he reaches back to wipe it away. 

His flattened tongue presses against your cunt and your eyes roll back in your head, lids fluttering desperately. It feels so good. So fucking good. You’d heard that sex on your period was incredible, because you were extra sensitive, but no one ever warned you about being eaten out on your period. Where did you even start with this? 

The fucking smell that fills his nostrils has his muscles tensing with hunger. You notice the change in him; the darkening of his eyes, the way he seems to loom between your legs and the way the muscles in his jaw flutter as he clenches it. Flattening a hand on your hips to keep you in place, to keep you from moving too much, he growls deeply against your folds before opening his mouth further on her, his tongue lapping at your clit. 

To you, it’s something to be discarded, something annoying. To him, it’s a sweet, heady nectar to be devoured and appreciated. Your head lolls back, heavy, and thuds against the wood as a shaky repetition of oh my god and fuck tumbles from your open mouth. Roman goes at your cunt, hungry. You can hear him sucking and slupring at your fluids and you spread your legs farther open, exposing everything to him. His large hands stroke up and down your thighs, kneading the flesh in some places, and you whine, arching your back. You’re a slave to his touch, even if deep down, you resent that. 

After a particularly loud gulp against your cunt, he inserts a single, long digit and curls it upwards to the spongy flesh within you. You cry out, feeling weak and heading straight to your first earth-shattering orgasm of the evening. He pulls his mouth away just before you come, and when he does, you lift your head. His lips and chin are covered in a glistening sheen of crimson. You experience a violent whiplash of arousal and disgust at the sight, unsure of which one you should pluck out and hold onto tight to. He pulls his finger out of you, and brings it up to his mouth. Making ferocious eye contact, he brings it to his mouth and swipes his tongue along it before dragging his palm upwards on his chin, bringing the rest of the blood and cum up into his waiting, hungry mouth. You find yourself clenching your teeth, watching him silently as he undoes his belt. 

Still, you say nothing. 

“Such a good little secretary.” He hums before hinging at the waist, bending over top of you. His hands are splayed out on either side of your head, locking you into his atmosphere. You’re shivering helpless, charmed. There’s nothing else to do besides dissolve into his gaze. “So good for me, keeping your little mouth shut and not asking questions.” 

His green eyes drop to your lips and he leans in. Filled with immeasurable disgust, you wrench your head away from his grip and scowl, unable to withhold the next words that claw their way out. “Don’t. Don’t kiss me. Please.” 

Roman breathes out a laugh and reaches in between your bodies to line his aching cock up with your entrance. “Fine,” he says. Your stomach ties itself in knots at the thought that follows. Was he trying to be tender? To be romantic? And was it so easy for him not to be? Most guys would feel offended, dejected. But Roman was seemingly happy to not have to bother with the frivolous foreplay of kissing. 

No warning. No preparation aside from the few seconds that his hot cockhead nudges your slit, finding its way. He bottoms out in one thrust, pressing his hips tight against yours. Your jaw drops at the feeling; muscles clench and relax and the added lubrication of your blood has him reaching a depth that makes your toes curl within your high heels. 

He jerks his hips hard once, the fat, leaking head hitting your cervix. Then, he pulls his blood soaked cock from you slowly… so slowly. It’s almost tender, like he’s trying not to hurt you – but you know hurt is the last thing on his mind. 

“I’m gonna’ fuck you now.”

“Yeah, Mr. Godfrey. I know you are.” 

His cock buries itself inside you again, twitching as he finds a bullying, cruel rhythm. He fucks every inch of you, watching you as he does. Above you, he’s grunting, his plump lips open, jaw hanging slack. His perfect hair is now shaggy, strands hanging in front of his face. His expression is blissed out, and you know that the blood feels just as good to him as it does to you, if not better. 

Your orgasm washes over you, waves of pleasure drowning you and leaving you gasping for breath. 

“You like that? Huh?”

You nod and reach your hand up to make a fist in his hair. Roman immediately responds by gripping both your hands and yanking them harshly above your head in an act of dominance. He presses them against the cool wood, using the position as leverage for his deep, harsh thrusts.

His cock doesn’t stop, fucking into you hard and fast, and it isn’t long before he tenses up above you. His breath rushes out through clenched teeth, and his grip tightens on your hands. 

“FUCK!” 

He pumps himself into you, rutting his hips hard against your center. Every last drop mixes with your own fluids, and Roman makes sure that none of it seeps out until he’s ready. He looms over you, chest heaving and green eyes scanning over your fucked out features. 

Eventually, he withdraws his cock with a slick, wet sound.  Back to the cold, cruel exterior. You roll your eyes.

“Clean yourself up. You’re a mess.” 

He tucks himself back into his slacks, hiding the bloody evidence within the fabric.

“And when you’re done, come find me. I have a few things you need to do.” 

You want to bite back, snark at him with something defiant. Write your own notes. Schedule your own shit. 

“Yes, sir.” 

[mangocustard16]

📁....Seventeen's reaction to having an actor/actress s/o₊˚🎬📼🎥✩｡

genre: fluff warnings: pet names, cursing lmk if i missed something w.c: 970 a/n: thank you! anon and I'm sorry i won't be covering another req that asked me to write about ghostface/scream cuz i already saw someone write about it<3 sorry anon!

#Seungcheol 

He is very supportive of your career and is proud of your accomplishments. He's clearing out his schedules to attend premieres, to silently cheer you on, and is not afraid to publicly express his admiration for your talent. Would casually appear during your shootings with your favorite flowers and snacks for everyone. "Babe! Aren't you supposed to be on the other side of the country?" "No, I'm supposed to be wherever you are."

#Jeonghan 

Oh boy! he's taking tips, no jokes. He's got his notepad out and is ready to jot down directions and suggestions. He is ready to polish his acting skills which will come in helpful when bluffing others during the mafia game.  Bonus: he shares the prizes he wins from "Going Seventeen Mafia Games" with you. "Hannie that's the third Dyson air wrap you've won this year!"

#Joshua 

Your supportive lil' boy. He helps you practice your lines and gives valuable advice. Everything flows smoothly until you reach a scene involving a kiss. joshua.exe has stopped functioning. He's momentarily frozen, and you can't help but wonder if he's even breathing. He had anticipated a kiss scene cuz you were the main lead, but it still bothered him a little to see you kiss someone else who is not him. But he's definitely not insecure or anything, just a peculiar sensation. And for the cure, just kiss the living daylights out of him so hard that he forgets the world except for you.

#Junhui 

Well....he's an actor himself, so it's quite obvious that he's exceptionally proud of you. He's shamelessly promoting your movie/drama every chance he gets. Dedicates an entire Weibo live suggesting your movies and dramas to carats while explaining the plot in great detail. "You know The Dreamcatcher's plot twist caught me so hard that I almost fell off my seat"

#Hoshi

He wants to accompany you everywhere – to set, to your trailer as you practice your lines, to premieres and other events. He adores the world you live in and wishes to learn more about it. He tried out acting(a period drama) and continued talking in that manner for days. "What an interesting food this is, 'twixt two buns lies a delicacy that-" "It's just a burger calm down."

#Wonwoo 

He would be so proud of you. He'll be your silent cheerleader. When the two of you are alone, he will lavishly compliment your acting and take you out to a lovely meal to celebrate the premiere. So, while it may not appear to others that he makes a big deal out of it, you'll know how proud he is.

#Woozi

Please DO NOT bring him to events – Woozi almost blends in with the numerous cameramen and women, his own phone in hand as he photographs picture after picture of you as you go into the premiere of your new film — he's a very proud boyfriend, after all. "Look here! babe. Damn you look so good"

#Seokmin

He is gonna hype you up so much omg. He like, Jun, won’t hesitate to promote your movie every chance he gets. His darling is building a name for themselves, and he'll be damned if he doesn't do everything he can to help them. He's always bugging Carats to go see the latest movie. Whenever you watch the movie alone, he will be more sincere and serious in his compliments. "No problem, carats! If you've already seen the film, you should go watch it two more times."

#Mingyu

He'd be captivated by your performance and would shove his face very close to the screen every time you appeared. And, while he may not shamelessly promote you as some of the other members do, he will certainly speak highly of you and your acting abilities to everyone he knows. That's all he talks about when he's out with his '97 liner buddies. Literally. "Y/n had to act like they had not found the killer while sitting right beside them. They are so cool!"

#Minghao 

Minghao is buying the CD regardless of whether he could simply ask you for a copy of the movie you're in or even if he's seen it hundreds of times. He is one of your biggest fans; he owns all of your movies, has seen all of your shows, and knows all of your interviews by heart.  "Are you watching y/n’s movies again? Aren’t you tired?" "Fuck off"

#Seungkwan

He actually got to know you during an event promoting your latest drama. He's your biggest fanboy, watching every drama/movie you've ever starred in, and bombarding you with compliments. Winces slightly whenever he sees you kiss a fellow actor on screen. "So your type is Song Jung" "Come on!! Stop sulking, we filmed that 6 years ago" 

#Vernon

Leaves 15-line reviews on your movies complimenting your acting skills. He is always pulling out your movies during movie night and doesn't understand why wouldn't wanna watch your own movie for the nth time again. "Babe, we have watched Wandering Dreams more than 20 times" "So, do you wanna watch 'Written in Sand'?" *dies* Bonus: All the movies you've starred in receive an obvious 5-star rating.

#Chan

He'd be so freaking excited! It wouldn't be strange to spend endless nights practicing your lines with him. Coffee would be essential for those nights, as the caffeine would keep you up as you practiced. And whenever someone pointed out how much the critics praised you, he'd say, "Yeah, of course, my love did amazing." It's as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

BONUS:: Sends coffee trucks to the set during shooting: Minghao, Seungkwan, Jeonghan, Joshua ♡

[propertyofkylar]

crawls in covered in blood

Harper 19 👀?

doctor's orders - m!harper x gn!pc

tags/warnings: 19. kidnapping, drugging, dubcon, medical kink, reader's genitalia left ambiguous

word count: 1810

note: wow....i hope THE harperfucker enjoys this...

“Mhm. And how has your mood been lately?”

You shifted slightly in your chair, sitting on your hands. Dr. Harper was a strange one. He was something of a therapist and psychiatrist. But he also treated injuries, and you had heard he’d even done gynecology work, so you still weren’t entirely sure what kind of doctor he even was. But the pills he prescribed worked well, so you came every Friday to see him. 

“Um,” you hedged a bit, but Harper’s encouraging smile urged you forward. “I mean, it’s not great. You know? Things kinda…suck.”

Harper nodded as you spoke, looking the perfect image of a doctor as he jotted down something on his notepad.  

“So I guess I’ve just been kind of…down. If that makes sense?” You offered. 

Harper nodded again. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Huh?” You hadn’t expected that. Harper offered you a warm smile. 

“I’m experimenting with more herbal remedies,” he explained. “I’ve purchased some tea leaves that claim to help with feelings of depression and anxiety. I thought you might like to try some. I know you like the pills, so this would just be a supplement of sorts. It may help lift your mood, even just a bit.”

Something made you feel a little uneasy. But your doctor had never steered you wrong before. And it was just a cup of herbal tea. What’s the worst thing that could happen? It would taste bad?

So, you nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”

Harper gave you another smile and stood up, busying himself with an electric kettle in the corner of the room. You watched idly from your seat. Maybe a warm cup of tea would be exactly what you needed. 

Several minutes later, Harper handed you a steaming mug. An herbal smell of chamomile, lavender, and something else you didn’t recognize wafted towards you. “If you like it, I’ll send it home with you along with your meds.”

You thanked the doctor and took a sip. It was warm with a mildly sweet taste. “It’s good,” you said, going back in for another sip. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Harper said. 

At the very least, a warm drink would make you feel better temporarily. The doctor made idle chitchat with you as you continued drinking. By the time you had emptied the mug, though, your head was feeling a little fuzzy. 

“Are you alright?” Harper asked, only seeming mildly concerned. “The herb blend does have a relaxing effect. It may be that it’s making you tired. 

“Mm…yeah…” you rubbed your eyes, suddenly feeling groggy. “Haven’t been sleeping well lately…”

“Don’t worry,” Harper was leaning forward in his chair, almost in anticipation. “Close your eyes. My next appointment isn’t for a while. You can sleep here for a bit, no worries.”

“‘Kay,” you murmured, your eyes shutting of their own accord. “Just a lil bit…”

You were out like a light. 

When you came to, you had no idea where you were. 

It didn’t feel like you were still in the hospital, though it still seemed like a doctor’s office of sorts. But the light was harsh and artificial, and you got the feeling this room wasn’t used too often. 

Also, your arms were bound to the bed, which wasn’t great. 

“Mm?” You were still quite groggy, so actual words didn’t come out of your mouth. You suddenly became aware of a figure looming over you, smiling. “D-doctor…?”

Harper undid your arm bindings, inviting you to sit up. “Sorry for that! I didn’t want you to move around or get violent in your sleep. The…tea effects are a little unpredictable.”

You rubbed at your sore wrists - how long had you been like this? - as you took in the surroundings. “Where did you take me?”

Harper rolled a chair next to the bed, stroking your hair in a rather unprofessional manner. “This is my private office. You need a more intensive therapy.”

You blinked. “I do?”

Harper nodded. “Yes. Your depression and anxiety is rather treatment resistant. I want to try some different things with you to help you get better,” he slid his hands to hold yours. They were cold and smooth. “Doesn’t that sound good?”

There was something wrong. Something was off. But your brain felt so, so fuzzy. “Yeah…that sounds nice.”

Harper beamed and clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Now, let’s begin,” he pulled his notepad out and studied it closely. “You say you’ve experienced rape and sexual assault. Is this right?” 

You shifted uncomfortably. “Uh…yeah.”

He nodded again and checked something off on the notepad. “Good. Then we are going to have sex.”

“What?!” Your ears were ringing. Did he just say that?

Harper set down the notepad and looked closely at you. “You say the assaults cause you trauma. Correct? I can show you how sex can be pleasurable and it will sort of rewire your brain.” He smiled placidly at you. “Don’t worry, you can trust me.”

It was weird. Something felt off. But…you trusted him. So you found yourself agreeing.

“Good!” Harper smiled warmly at you, standing up in front of you. Despite the smile, there was something oddly intimidating about him. But he was a doctor, and you weren’t. So it was probably okay. Right? 

The doctor sat next to you on the bed, moving closer then he’d ever been. “The first step is foreplay. This usually begins with kissing. Are you comfortable with that?” His breath was warm on your face. You nodded. 

And then the two of you were kissing, Harper’s mouth surprisingly cold, much like his hands were. “Very good,” he murmured. Harper practically tugged you into his lap and your patient gown rode up, making you suddenly very aware that there was nothing on underneath. Wait, weren’t you in a therapy session before? Where did your clothes go…?

Your thoughts were interrupted when you realized you could feel Harper’s cock rubbing against your most sensitive areas. The feeling drew a whimper out of you, which sparked Harper to reach under the gown and grab at your back. 

“P-please,” you whined, grinding down on Harper. 

But he did not relent. “Please what?” He asked. “You need to be specific.”

“Please…” you sucked in a deep breath. “Please, fuck me.”

“Very good,” Harper pulled away and beamed. “You’re a very good patient. You learn quickly.”

He reached into a nearby drawer and pulled out a small tube. As he squeezed the slimy fluid onto his fingers, you realized what it was - lube. “This may be cold,” Harper said before slipping two fingers into your hole. You bit down on your lip and groaned as the doctor scissored his fingers inside of you. It felt good, but it also felt methodical and practiced.

You pawed at the bulge in Harper’s pants, which he was not expecting judging by his sharp intake of breath. “T-that’s enough,” he stammered, momentarily losing his cool composure. “I think you’re ready now.”

Harper pulled his hand back and unzipped his pants. With one movement he tugged down his pants and boxers and you were suddenly staring directly at his thick cock. It was flushed and twitching, and the bead of precum on the tip gave you the sudden urge to lick it. 

But that wasn’t what was going to happen, at least not today, as Harper was stroking his dick with additional lube, and the way he was looking at you - no, leering - was decidedly unprofessional. You were too far gone at that point, though. The only thought in your head was how badly you needed that cock inside of you.

Your doctor grabbed you by the hips and, ever-so-slowly, lowered you down onto his cock. Harper practically hissed as you sunk further and further onto him, until your hips were flush with his. 

“V-very good,” Harper managed to get out, his face turning red. This was an act you were quite familiar with, and your instincts kicked in. You started moving up and down, Harper’s hands still gripping you tightly, and he began rocking his hips in unison.

Harper seemed practiced in every aspect, with his cock managing to hit every sensitive spot inside of you. He was consistent, too. Every thrust was almost rhythmic. It made the hospital bed creak and squeak, and if you weren’t almost entirely fucked out of your mind, you would’ve worried about its stability. But all you could focus on was riding Harper and how fucking amazing it felt. Maybe it was that tea you had, or maybe your doctor was just that good at fucking.

His grip on your hips only added to the pleasure and you quickly began feeling heat intensifying within you.

“I think,” you tried to start but were cut off by your own moan. “I’m gonna…” 

“Cum,” Harper said plainly, though clearly struggling to stay calm. “You can cum. It’ll - haa - be good for you and your…fffucking treatment.”

You didn’t need Harper to tell you twice, his hips slamming into you. You grabbed onto his shoulders and cried out as the orgasm wracked your entire body. You squeezed your eyes shut, but when you opened them, you noticed Harper was staring intently at you. It felt as though he was staring into your soul.

After several more thrusts, you could tell Harper was about to hit his limit as well. Never easing up on his grip, Harper held you down as he came, filling your insides with his hot cum. The two of you stayed connected for a few moments before he gently pulled you off, you letting out a whine at the loss of contact. Harper quietly studied his cum leaking out of your hole and dripping down your leg, then jotted down a few more notes in his notebook. You wondered what he was writing.

“Well,” Harper smiled at you, straightening his clothes out. “You did a great job. You’re a fast learner. I hope that was pleasurable.”

You could only nod in response.

“However,” Harper looked down at his notebook with a slight frown. “I’m afraid you still have a long way to go. This is only the beginning. I’ll need to keep you here at least for a few more days for further studying and treatment.”

“Oh…” you mumbled. In your post-orgasmic state, you struggled to understand what was going on. But maybe a longer stay wouldn’t be so bad.

Harper stood up, clutching his notebook to his chest, and gave you a few soft pats on the head. “No worries. I’ve already communicated with your guardian and school, so everything will be just fine.” He gave you another grin, one that felt a little less genuine, and made you feel a little uneasy. “Trust me. There is no better place for you to be right now than right here.”

And with that, he left the room.

[punkeropercyjackson]

You seem pretty adamant/confident in your perception of Percy as transfem, and seemed pretty against people “detransfeminizing” Percy. Where do you see transfeminity in Percy, and where does this come from in the text?

Not asking to be an ass or anything, just curious, cause it’s not a take I often see.

So disclaimer transfem Percy is approved by actual transfem Pjo fans.Literally every transfem Pjo fan i know says she's definitely an egg and at least a few of them personally relate to her.With that out of the way,i'll be listing points that back up Percy being a trans woman and give it a solid basis.Get ready for a long ass list btw

Dosen't perform masculinity for any reason other than to try to blend in and frequently expresses she feels obliged to do certain things because of being percieved as a man rather than out of desire to do to them on liking them

Her descriptions of and relathionships with other female characters give off she feels them as not only attractive but also a 'forbidden fruit' she's not allowed to equate herself to in 'vibes' or 'coolness status' since she's 'such an oblivious ugly boy who could never understand girls' and in the original series,she had more female friends than male ones,a common experience for eggs growing up.In contrast,she resents manhood not only as a patriarchal oppressive force she was brutalized by but also as something forced upon her like a burden and there's zero indication Percy has reclaimed it or wants to

Insists on being called a gender neutral nickname over her masculine fullname and hates fullnaming even when it's not malicious

Implied/shown to be punk but dosen't wear punk fashion and opts for 'normie' androgynous outfits on thinking herself as unable to pull it off

Looks like a mini version of Poseidon and eldest daughters irl frequently fall under this(including me).This may seem flimsy but i've got another part regarding Percy's looks:Piper's description of her.She said she's not the ultra hunky manly man people at Camp Half-Blood described her as and she borderline calls him feminine looking or 'well......unimpressive' compared to the actual positively masculine Jason.Percy canonically is seen as more masc than she actually is according to a canon butch sapphic.Percy is the butchest girl Pjo fans can handle before they started getting scared and Piper is the real butch girl who DID scare them by *checks glittery notepad* not finding the aggro white masc vision of Percy by fans attractive as a brown native woman

Blue is considered a boy color but Percy's special interest in it was passed down to her by her mom and Percy is also scared of turning into her father yet is the mom friend of all her groups throught the books and accidentally admits this in her narration at one point.The metaphor is almost too easy

Important aspect is she immediately follows it up with 'that wasn't a good sign' and in the same book,she says she dosen't know how to talk to girls.In a scene where she's with Grover,Thalia and Annabeth.Two girls she's been friends with for ages and a goat.Percy you fucking robin blue egg

The Titan's Curse is an accidental trans girl allegory.The Hunters of Artemis are a transfem inclusive woman exclusive group that in the original mythology and irl greek history were used as slang for 'lesbian' that work to protect women from men as a social class and Percy has to prove herself as unlike men to them to gain her hero punchcards in this one and she actually succeeds onpage with solid writing!She's contrasted again Thalia and buts heads with her explicitly because they're so similar they clash so often but work through their problems together to be simply bantering best friends.Thalia herself is transfem-coded but a stud unlike Percy who's femme and that only adds even more layers to their already toptier dynamic and Percy is punk too but punk rock to Thalia's pop punk.She was literally a teenage anarchist(/Against Me! ref)

Nico is introduced in the same installment and he's the one Percy admitted to acting motherly to in her head.It's textual they were only not super close over Nico's crush on 'unachivable older straight boy Percy' and the visceral internalized homophobia it gave him combined with his upbringing pre-Lotus Hotel and it's also textual Percy only was Nico's crush over him idealizing her as a man she never was but that he loves her better platonically and thinks she's cute.Nico's got that tboy swag so they're trans best friends and found siblings soulmates and we were ROBBED of Nico and Percy

In the second Hoo book,there's a moment where a little roman girl says she wants to be Percy Jackson when she grows up in that exact wording and Percy proves herself as unlike men to an ancient greek tfem accepting women only group in The Amazons.This kinda stuff is consistent with her like genuinely

Rachel is widely thought of as lesbian-coded by lesbian Pjo fans and trans women dating their afab lesbian friends back when they thought they were both cishet and their friendship growing stronger than ever after breaking up is a common thing irl too.Rachel is an og art hoe(as in 'black artsy woman',not the gentrified shit)and we love her and her support of her trans bestie

The sea carries a lot of femininity to it in motifs,symbolism,aesthetics and folklore and 'the sea does not like to be restrained' screams tgirl Percy core and this is just my headcanon but Percy feels very moon-coded and the moon also carries mythology around it including femininity mistaken for masculinity due to it's strength.Also she's giving shark so she's a half-blood blahaj gijinka

Streaked hair,loves burgers,read an obscure ass marvel comic before the Mcu adapted it and a gamer /silly(also refering to her 'Groot Speak' joke in Toa when by the timeline,the Gotg movies didn't exist yet and she referenced playing Animal Crossing a lot in Wottg)

And her cycle breaking just clicks into place and is more satisfying and logical from a transfeminine perspective.Good men are good but trans women are the ones in need of rep and they deserve Percy Jackson as it since she's so much like them,she just is one of them.Miss Jackson is for real and she shouldn't apologize for who she is anymore!!She should've never had to but she should've always had self-love and she still can and never look back again

[her-satanic-wiles]

Bejewelled

Papa Emeritus II x Reader

It’s Papa Secondo’s birthday, and after spending the whole day working, he just wants to relax. But how can he when his favourite Sister of Sin is being a bad girl in front of everyone?

Masterlist ⛧ Commissioned by @inkstainedrat

Words: 5.6k.

Reading Time: 22 min.

Warnings: anal play, begging, breeding degradation, cock warming, creampie, dubcon, fingering, frottage, free use, groping, hair pulling, mentions of cunnilingus, mentions of fellatio, pain kink, PIV sex, positive degradation, praise, rough sex, spanking, spit as lube, underprepared, unprotected sex (Embrace safety - enjoy it greatly), vaginal sex,

Taglist: @inkstainedrat @da-rulah @teenage-birt-dag @akayuki56 @socksandcr0cs @dio-niisio @duskspring @foxybouquet @likeloversentwined

Thank you to @da-rulah, @angellayercake and @tasty-ribz for workshopping some of these ideas with me and getting me on track!

🔞 MDNI 🔞

You settled into your space at the meeting table, notepad opened to the next available page and date written at the top of it in neat handwriting. You had taken on a more secretarial role for the Ministry, providing the reigning Papa with a helping hand as he went about his daily schedule. The other clergy members were already sat and settled like you, cardinal robes of black and red alternating the seats like chess pieces on a board, broken occasionally by the odd sibling of sin who’d, like you, joined to either take notes for their respective bosses, or provide insight on the general running of the Ministry where the upper clergy couldn’t assist. In short, everyone was ready and waiting, conversations slipping past your ears as certain cardinals spoke over you, not to you. But they soon silenced themselves when the door opened and Papa Emeritus II walked through the doors.

Papa Secondo, despite being a softhearted, kind man, oozed an intimidating aura that put men in their place just by his presence alone. Papa Secondo was not a man to be trifled with, played with, or undermined in any way. His word was law, even among his brothers, one of which outranked him in both age and experience. He took no shit, dished out as much as he could, and ultimately threw his weight around in a respectable, yet authoritative way. Just the mere look of his scowl would have your thighs clenching, and heat pooling between your legs - and you weren’t the only one affected by this.

Papa Secondo’s personality was much different to that of his brothers. Before he met you, he would almost never seek a woman out, he’d rarely approach her, rarely proposition her - in fear of making her uncomfortable mostly, but he also didn’t want to blend in with the other men in the Ministry, his younger brother included, who would approach and whine and beg for the ladies to spread their legs and invite him in willingly. Besides, there was something inside him that loved being chased rather than doing the chasing. The idea that a beautiful woman would want him so much, she’d run after him and coyly ask if he’d give her some company later on. That a beautiful woman would want him so much, that she’d face the fear of rejection in front of her friends and potentially embarrass herself, just to get the opportunity to hold him. He’d never approach a woman, but he’d also never reject one either. And, as he entered the room, your eyes darted to all the other sisters who were equally as squirmy as you, the mere proximity being too much for you all to handle.

It always made you feel smug knowing he had such an affect on the rest of the clergy, but would always come back to you no matter what.

Men feared him. Women wanted him. Somehow, the perfect man did exist, and he wore black, glitter paints and silenced a room just by opening a door.

“Buon pomeriggio.” He said, his deep voice quiet yet commanding. He kept his eyes straight in front of him as he entered the room, not bothering to spare a glance to his colleagues until he’d approached his seat at the head of the table and directly opposite you. You were the first person his mismatched eyes had landed on, reminding you that to him, you were the most important person in the room despite your low ranking among his peers. Once he’d registered your existence, he sat down and situated himself comfortably, gloved hands immediately opening his own folder to pull out the important documents for the meeting. Once he’d personally acknowledged everyone else in the room, he cleared his throat and began.

“Ora, we have many things on the agenda today, so I would like to start immediately, by Sathanas and the mother, Lilith, we thank and worship thee as we do ourselves. Nema.”

“Nema.” Came the chorus of the clergy.

“Cardinale Zhang,” he looked towards the man and you watched as Cardinal Zhang startled at the sudden attention. Papa Secondo noticed, and despite his face being emotionless and stoic, a flicker of amusement passed across his eyes, feeding on the Cardinal’s fear. “You have been visiting universities to de-stigmatise the Faith. Update me, how is that going?”

Cardinal Zhang swallowed and cleared his throat doing his best to hide his nerves. He failed, obviously. He began talking, detailing his efforts across the Atlantic in America and how he’d shown up for each of the universities along the East Coast, hoping to break through to the youth. But as a lot of that part of America were staunch ‘Red States’ and Christians, he was met with a lot of resistance.

Secondo, somewhat surprisingly, was understanding with his response. For once, he didn’t criticise the Cardinal’s failure, or what he deemed as such, rather the country’s unwillingness to be open to change. He quickly followed up that comment with another about Salem, and how they were always welcomed with open arms there thanks to the work of previous clergy members who’d moved to set up temples and places of worship.

He then moved on quickly to the next outreach programme, opening the Ministry doors once a month for visitors and tours of the historical building they all called home - another effort of de-stigmatisation that was under the watchful eyes of Cardinal Garcia. His tone softened when he spoke to her, his eyes never leaving hers as he listened intently to everything she had to say. “We get upwards of one thousand visitors per weekend, Papa.” She confirmed in an upbeat tone. “This is a 20% increase of last year. We’re still keeping our entrance fee at 20 Euros for now,” she handed a sheet of paper to one of the Ghouls standing behind her, who then brought it to Papa Secondo to browse at his leisure, which he did, “Last month alone we received approximately 20,080 Euros. Our finance specialists have worked closely with our social media team, and have worked out we may get roughly a further 500 guests next month, an additional 50% growth, which should tip us over the 20,500 Euro benchmark.”

“Can we quantify the impact of these tours on public perception and understanding of our beliefs and values?” Papa asked, not taking his eyes off the paper.

“I believe so, Papa. On average,” she handed another sheet of paper to a Ghoul, “30% of guests purchase a membership of the Satanic Church, and organise unholy baptisms. 10% actively apply to work and live here full time.”

“How many of these applications get accepted?”

“Recently, with all the moves and changes of our staff, around 50% got accepted last month. But usually, we only select from the most impressive, which is, as accurately as I can describe it, a handful.”

“Are any of our parishes around the world asking for more siblings?”

“I’m not sure, Papa. That’s Cardinal Smith’s jurisdiction.”

Papa’s eyes snapped to Cardinal Smith, another man who shivered beneath the weight of Papa’s gaze. “Well?” He snapped, expectantly, clearly annoyed by Cardinal Smith’s lack of initiative.

“W-we have had a few requests, Your Dark Eminence.” Cardinal Smith stammered.

“And how many siblings have been transferred?”

“Well, n-none.”

Papa’s eyebrows raised. “None? Questo è un cazzo di scherzo assoluto! Perché? Why are you not assisting our unholy siblings?”

“We couldn’t spare the people.”

“Sei stupido, Cardinale Smith?”

“N-no, Your Dark Eminence.”

“Then why do you not liaison with Cardinale Garcia and ask her to accept more applicants to send them overseas after their education?”

“I d-didn’t think.”

“Ah. Non mi sorprende, Cardinale. A brain as smooth as yours must be kept shiny and pristine, sì? Cannot be worried about trivial tasks such as thinking.” His tone softened again as he turned to - “Cardinale Garcia, work with Cardinale Stronzo in providing new applicants for our unholy siblings overseas, per favore.” He turned to another woman in the room. “Cardinale Kim, I would also like you to work on this with Cardinale Garcia and Smith to speed up our applicants education and send them out to their respective countries. When you have the time, of course.”

“Of course, Papa.” Cardinal Kim responded.

“I thank Lilith that there are two intelligent women on this job. Sathanas knows we’d fall apart if it was left only to the smooth brained of us in the room.” He cleared his throat. “Sorella ___,” he said addressing you, “are you getting all of this?”

You didn’t look up from your notebook, wrist aching from all the minutes you were taking. “It would help if you spoke slower, Papa.” You replied, insubordinately. You didn’t need to look at Papa to know he was looking at you furiously. “Either that or let me bring my laptop to these meetings.”

“Your laptop is too loud.” He protested through gritted teeth.

You finally looked at him, a small grin on your face. “Then speak slower. Please.”

He sighed and sat back in his seat, staring daggers into your soul. You were usually so sweet and polite to him - his little angioletta who respected him in front of everyone in the vicinity, who behaved so obediently behind closed doors and thanked him for all that he gave you. You were never bratty to your Papa, never rude or obnoxious. “You’re very audacious today, little one.” He commented, his tone commanding your obedience lest you face a punishment.

You persisted, the idea of dealing with your angry Papa later on too delectable to give up now. Papa would often take his frustrations out on you, an agreement between the both of you allowed him to take your consent and use you as he pleased, whenever he pleased. You would always spread your legs willingly for him, or bend yourself over and arch your back just as he liked without him uttering a single word, and depending on the kind of day he’d had, you’d either be worshipped, or bruised by his daily frustrations. You’d told him through bright red cheeks once that you thoroughly enjoyed him using you to deal with his anger, and so, he would have you whenever he felt even a little bit perturbed. But never were you the reason for his anger, not until today. And the way he looked at you now had your hole clenching around nothing, and a need to push him until he snapped and bubbled beneath your surface. You’d started now, you didn’t think you’d be able to stop until he put you back in your place.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be blamed for missing even a drop of your wisdom.”

The rest of the room shifted uncomfortably as the tension became so thick, you’d need a chainsaw to cut through it.

“I’d hold my tongue if I were you, angioletta.”

“But you’re not me, Papa.”

Papa dropped into a foul mood for the rest of the meeting, shooting you angry looks and constantly asking if he was being slow enough for you. But eventually, the meeting came to an end, and Papa pushed everyone out of the room, keeping you in your place. As soon as the door closed, in a harsh tone, he broke the silence. “Angioletta, what was that?”

“What was what, Papa?” You asked, feigning innocence.

“Don’t play dumb with me - you know what you did. Sathanas, ___. Since when do you have sass with your Papa, hm? Since when do you show your Papa such disrespect?” He sighed at your lack of answer. He stood and walked over to you, looking down on you as you remained seated in your chair. You weren’t looking up at him, instead keeping your gaze straight on the seat he was sat in before, and he didn’t appreciate this either. With his finger and his thumb, he gently pinched your chin and guided your face to look at him, forcing eye contact with you. “I expect you on your best behaviour tonight, angioletta. Capisce? No sass, no back talk. Just doting on your Papa on his birthday, sì?”

“Happy birthday, Papa.” You said, softly, a smile playing on your lips. Wholesome. Nonsuspect.

“Grazie, amore mio.” He bent down to kiss your forehead then left you alone in the room, seemingly unaware that you’d never actually agreed to anything.

That evening, you dressed in your finest for your Papa, choosing a dress gifted to you by him. It was just something simple, a body con black dress that hugged your curves in all the right ways, paired with a Satanic pentagram harness that he loved to see you in. It was really no effort at all, but your Papa would certainly enjoy you tonight. A feast for his eyes - at least you hoped.

You were one of Secondo’s earliest guests, besides his older brother Papa Primo, arriving at his quarters and knocking on the door before entering. Papa Primo greeted you warmly, and welcomed you in, placing a drink in your hand. You could already smell the dinner coming from Secondo’s private kitchen and felt your stomach growl in hunger. You were so ready for the feast to begin - and for your torture of your Papa to continue. You weren’t just ravenous for the food, especially when you saw him enter the dining room, not wearing his usual robes but still painted in his official paints. His suit was perfectly tailored, cut to each contour of his body, and made from a rich, cold, emerald green. Velvet. Accompanied by a deep green tie and his favourite black-painted fingernails. In his robes he was divine. In a suit? You were feral.

As soon he saw you, you watched as his glittery eyes darkened, and his chest reflected a deep sigh. The second he was beside you, his hands grasped onto your hips and pulled you into him, lips attaching to your neck. He didn’t care that he already had other guests - he didn’t care that he may be smudging his paints. He was too intoxicated by you to do anything other than dig his fingers into the meat of your flesh and inhale your seductive perfume, bewitching him beyond belief. He was ready to drop to his knees and worship you there and then, except you pushed him away.

“I haven’t forgotten how you spoke to me earlier, Papa.” You chided, keeping your voice as level as you could and holding back your giggles when his expression changed.

“Angioletta,” he practically whined, “you promised.”

“No,” you poked his chest, “you laid down the law. I never told you I’d follow it.”

“You want to make me suffer all night, hm? Embarrass me in front of everyone.”

“I never want to embarrass you, Papa. I’d like an apology.”

He frowned. “For what?”

You sighed. “Use that big, wrinkly brain of yours and think.” And with that, you walked away. In truth he had nothing to apologise for and you both knew it. But you enjoyed watching him stew away in his mind, greeting and welcoming guests and trying to maintain a semblance of composure. You were teetering on the line between enjoyment and cruelty, though. And you’d need to end this quickly so as not to actually spoil his birthday.

Secondo’s quarters had never been so lively, but even then, they were lively by Secondo’s standards. To celebrate his birthday, all of the people closest to him had gathered in his chambers, crowded around his long dining table (that he mostly used for work), and feasted on the delightful Italian delicacies hand crafted by the Ministry’s chefs, whom you’d paid extra to cook for everyone for the evening. Amidst the clinking of glasses filled with the Ministry’s own wine, and the aroma of garlic-infused dishes wafting through the air, the place was abuzz with laughter and conversation, but your attention was solely fixed on one man – Papa Secondo himself.

He sat beside you at the head of the table, his natural scowl creasing his glabella as he looked upon his guests and listened to their conversations, responding only when he needed to, but enjoying the atmosphere, nonetheless. His paints were perfectly worn, not a single line bent or crooked, or even smudged with the wine he’d drunk, or the food he’d so gracefully placed into his mouth as though he were the epitome of sophistication - which, to be fair, he was. His Roman nose making his profile so intoxicating, so powerful, you found yourself staring at him, drinking in the love of your life and appreciating him silently for the work of art he was.

Secondo cleared his throat, his gaze sweeping across the room as he prepared to address his guests. “My dear friends, I want to take this moment to express my gratitude for your presence here tonight,” he began, his voice carrying authority and warmth. “Your loyalty and support mean more to me than you can imagine.”

You couldn’t resist interjecting with a sassy remark. “Oh, how touching, Papa,” you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “I almost believe you mean it.”

The room fell into a momentary silence as everyone turned their attention to the unexpected exchange between you both. Secondo’s expression darkened, his jaw tensing as he turned to face you.

“Sorella,” he said through gritted teeth, his tone a warning.

But you refused to back down, your gaze challenging. “What, Papa? Can’t handle a little honesty?” You retorted, your voice edged with defiance. You squirmed in your seat under the heat of his gaze, the unbridled anger that oozed off him like peach juice dripping down one’s chin. Your heart beat rapidly in your chest as you watched him become more and more enraged at your attitude, and you tried so hard not to let your enjoyment show.

Secondo’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his features before he regained his composure. “I expect respect in my presence, Sorella,” he replied, his voice low and controlled.

You took a sip of your wine and set your glass down. “And yet, you don’t always deserve it.”

“My room. Now.” He all but hissed. His grip on his glass was choking, and you could almost see it shattering in his hand from the force. You’d done it. You got him. Now was the time to obey. You stood and made your way to his bedroom as instructed, hearing him excuse you both and urge his guests to continue without him. The part where he was announcing that he was going to scold you for your behaviour was missing, but certainly implied, and within a few seconds you heard him chase after you and the guests murmuring in the background, only to be blocked by him slamming the door shut.

“What the fuck was that, hm?” He growled, his hand coming up to your hair and pulling it at the roots, making you look into his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Papa!”

“Sorry? Amore mio, it’s a little late for that, do you not think? Embarrassing me in front of everyone.”

You laughed.

“Che cos’è questo? Laughing at your Papa?” He stopped, a realisation dawning on him. “Ah. I see how it is. My angioletta is giving into sin tonight? Becoming a whore to anger her Papa.” He released you and gestured to the bed. “Hands on the bed. Now, amore.” You obeyed him for the first time that day, resting your hands on the bed and bending at the waist, exposing your ass to him. You knew what was coming, your core clenching in anticipation of feeling his hand come down on you at full force. You arched your back as much as you could, allowing your ass to pop for him, and hearing him groan in appreciation when you did.

“You wanted to play with your Papa,” he said coming up behind you, “so let’s play, hm?”

His hand came down on your left ass cheek, the sting you enjoyed so much muffled by layer of fabric still (barely) covering your body. The first hit was gentle, barely stinging at all. As angry as Secondo was, he still took his time with you, making sure he didn’t hurt you too much and too quickly. He mirrored this on your right cheek, back to your left, back to your right. Each hit gradually landed harder and harder, and you needed to bury your face into his sheets to hide your cries lest his guests hear what was happening. With each slap, your body jumped in response, as if it was shocked to receive the hits your mind knew was coming. You knew you were getting redder with each slap, which would only egg Secondo on more when he saw it for himself.

He lifted your dress up, exposing your black panties fully and bunching the hem around your waist, and, as predicted, groaned at the sight of you. Secondo was an artist, and you were always his favourite canvas. He began to slap your bare cheeks, revelling in the deep red that was forming on your skin, relishing in the dampened moans coming from you. “This is no punishment for you at all, is it?” He commented, punctuating his sentence with more slaps, now using both of his hands. “You love it when your Papa hits you like this, don’t you?” He slapped you much harder when you didn’t answer. “Do not be rude, angioletta.”

“Yes, Papa!” You responded, your voice coming out as a moan. “I love it!”

“I bet you’ve soaked through these slutty little panties, haven’t you?” He moved his left hand to the gusset of your panties, using his four fingers to rub against your cunt and his thumb rested against your asshole as an anchor.

Usually, he’d be met with your soft flesh and twitching hole, and would tease it over your panties, too, just to drive you wild. But today, his thumb met with something hard, and him putting pressure there caused you to moan out loud. “Che cazzo?” He asked, rubbing his thumb over the ridges. His hand, damp from the juices that had soaked your panties, came up to the waistband and roughly pulled them off you, hissing at the sight of him. Buried deep inside your twitching hole, was a butt plug, with an emerald resin gem sitting atop the metal base. “Puttana.” Though his words were degrading, the tone in which he said them was appreciative. He loved this little surprise, his cock growing harder and harder beneath his velvet slacks and begging to bury itself into one of your holes. “How long have you been wearing this?”

“All da-ay!” Your voice hiccuped when you felt his fingers hook around the base and jiggle it.

“No wonder you’ve been acting like a bitch today, amore. You’ve been in heat all day, hm? Did you want me to bend you over the table in the meeting room? Is that why you’ve been provoking me all day?”

“Y-yes, Papa. Want… wanted you to f-fuck me all day! Shit.”

“Wanted your Papa to ruin your holes, hm?”

“Yesss!”

He landed another hard spank on your right cheek with his right hand, much harder than the others. That, coupled with the way he was still playing with the plug, caused a moan to escape your lips, much louder than the others.

You heard him play with his belt, unbuckling it and then the buttons of his slacks, before you finally heard the zipper undo. “Hands and knees, ass in the air.” He ordered. You climbed fully onto the mattress, feeling his hand come down on you more and more as you got situated for him. “Gonna put this fuckhole to good use.”

You felt his girth rub against your folds, getting wetter with your slick with each movement. When he stopped and pulled away, you chanced a glance behind you and watched what he was doing, cunt clenching when you saw his head bowed, a thick glob of spit falling from his mouth and landing on his cock. He pumped himself a few times, spreading the saliva over his entire length before spitting again and repeating until he deemed himself wet enough. He plunged two of his fingers inside you, pumping only a few times to get you stretched out a little more before lining himself up with your hole.

You heard him chuckle darkly behind you. “I’m gonna enjoy this - but you won’t.”

That was all the warning he gave you before he pushed inside you, his considerable thickness stretching you out beyond compare. Usually he’d prepare you more, make you cum for him all over his tongue before he even considered fucking you with his cock. But not tonight. He didn’t have the time nor the will to. This was meant to be a punishment, after all. Prepared or not, you adored the initial stretch every single time he slid into you. He always burned so deliciously, but sometimes there was a hint of pain that sent shivers down your spine and had your toes curling and fingers digging into whatever surface you were being fucked on.

Secondo took his time bottoming out, enjoying watching your body tense below him from the pain of it, and smiling at your cunt clenching down on him. “There we go.” He said, gripping onto your ass cheeks as he bottomed out inside you, fingers rubbing over your raw flesh and causing a bigger sting to wash over you. He used your body as leverage to help him slam into you, setting a rough pace right away and knocking the wind out of you. He pulled gutteral moans out of you, deep, animalistic grunts that you had no control over as he fucked into you like a madman finally getting his fix.

The sound of your cunt taking him back in over and over again was so loud, you were sure his guests could hear you from the other room. It made Secondo want to bite you, sink his teeth into you like an apple, and feel your juices coat his mouth while he licked and sucked at your core. But he was pretending that this was a punishment for you - he couldn’t consciously do something that would make you cum. Well, maybe a finger or so later on. For now, you were his to fuck around with, and he could hear and feel just how much you enjoyed it.

“You’re so fucked up for liking this, amore.” He taunted, releasing grunts and growls of his own. “A pain slut for her Papa. Cazzo!”

He pushed your hips down, making you lie flat on your stomach, legs dangling off the edge and making you feel helpless below him. He put his entire weight on your body as he railed you into the mattress, rough, quick thrusts making your body bounce and your ass ricochet off his own hips.

“I don’t like hurting you, angioletta.” A growl ripped from his throat. “But you need to learn how to respect your Papa. Apologise for making me do this to you.”

“I- I’m so…rry, Papa-ah!”

“Brava ragazza.”

Every time you made a sound, he landed another hit on your ass, making you redder and rawer. He loved it - but equally, so did you. Even on the days when he was taking his anger out on you, he wouldn’t often be this rough. He wouldn’t laugh at your cries, or push into you without taking his time with you first. Each thrust drove you more and more insane, degraded you more and more to the point where you felt like nothing but his own, personal fuck toy. His own whore who spread her legs so willingly, she became a desperate slut for her master.

He pulled at the plug again, laughing when you jumped. “So much tighter with this thing in your ass.”

“Papa - it… it’s t-too much!”

“You should have respected your Papa, then maybe he’d treat you delicately, hm?”

“Papa, please!”

“You can take it, can’t you?”

He was met with a loud moan.

“Can’t you, puttanella?”

“Y-yes!”

“Of course you can. Only sluts can take a cock this big.”

You forced your hand in between your body and the mattress and found your clit, rubbing at it while Secondo pounded into you. It was a struggle, and made Secondo laugh at you as you tried. He put more weight onto your body to make it more difficult for you, but you were able to get there eventually and furiously play with that bundle of nerves and work yourself to the edge.

“I love looking at you like this.” He said suddenly, watching your arm move as you rubbed faster and faster. You looked so desperate for him. So needy. “You gonna cum for me?” He asked as he felt you getting tighter for him, the telltale signs making themselves present. “You gonna cum all over Papa’s cock like a whore?”

“Yes, Pa-pa!”

“Merda! Beg for it.”

“I n-need to cum s-oh bad Papa! Please! Pl-please let me cum on your f-fat cock.”

“Oh, just like that, brava ragazza. It’s okay, you can let go.”

Secondo could feel you getting tighter for him, working yourself closer and closer to an orgasm as he took you for his own pleasure, and for some of yours. He should pull out soon, he knew he should, but you were so tight for him in this position, so wet and pliant. He couldn’t control himself. He couldn’t bring himself to pull out and cum on your body. One particularly rough thrust had you finally tumbling over the edge, face contorting in beautiful agony as you came over him, creaming on his cock and screaming silently into the mattress. He didn’t let up as you came, instead, he used your body tensing as an excuse to go just a little harder, making your orgasm more intense the longer it went on.

Your orgasm had Secondo teetering on the edge himself, staving off his own orgasm to ensure yours felt good. But once he was sure you’d finished, he began to pull out of you, finally working the courage to escape from your clutches. It wasn’t until he felt your heels in his ass, where your legs had bent backwards to keep him there, he realised you wanted his cum inside you just as much as he did.

“Please, Papa!” You begged quietly, lifting your head off the sheets and turning to look at him over your shoulder. “Give it to me. I want your cum inside me so fucking bad. Please!”

“Yeah, amore? You want me to knock you up, is that it? So desperate for her Papa’s cum she wants him to breed her like a bitch. Been in heat all day, still acting like a fucking animal.”

“Give it to me, Papa! Cum deep inside me, please!”

“Okay, angioletta. Papa will give you what you want.” He pushed himself deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each thrust. “Gonna fuck a baby into you, you ready?”

“Yes! Yes, Papa, like that!”

“Cazzo!” A string of expletives followed as you talked him through it, continuing to beg him for his seed while he pumped it deep inside you. He gripped hold of you, your skin and fat pinched tightly under his strong, masculine hands as he grasped onto you to keep him grounded while he reached nirvana. He bent forward more, his forehead rubbing against your shoulder blades and paints transferring onto the fabric of your dress, but you didn’t care about that, enjoying the feeling of his erratic thrusts as he fucked his cum into your sensitive heat until he eventually rolled to a stop, laboured breaths ringing in your ear despite his mouth being so far away.

“Sathanas, ___.” He groaned, keeping his full weight on your body, too exhausted to move. “Mi farai morire.” You felt his lips kiss your shoulder blades, the dull feeling bringing warmth and comfort to your adrenaline-filled body.

“Are you okay?” You asked, equally as exhausted as him.

“No.” He replied with a giggle, which you echoed. “I can’t move anymore.”

“That’s okay, we can wait here for as long as you need.”

“The guests, amore mio.”

“Fuck ‘em.”

He groaned. “I don’t have the strength.”

You laughed at his joke.

Somewhere inside him, he found the strength to pull out of you, both of you groaning at the loss of contact. He rolled off you, and lay on his back, allowing his body to flop into any position it deemed comfortable. You didn’t know how he did that, you could barely keep your eyes open.

He looked at you before rushing to the bathroom to get a damp cloth to clean you up, gently wiping at your sensitive centre to try and help you. “I didn’t hurt you too much, did I?”

“Nothing I didn’t want, Papa.”

“Are you sure?”

“I promise.”

He placed the washcloth on the bedside table and pulled you into his arms, finally kissing your lips for the first time.

“Happy birthday, Papa.” You whispered.

Before he could respond, a knock at the door sounded gently, pulling your attention to it. “Fratello?” Cardinal Terzo’s voice sounded from the other side. “Now that you two have finished fucking, we should let you know we’re all gonna go.”

You hid your face in embarrassment despite the fact the only person who could see you was Secondo, who was laughing at your reaction.

“See you later, fratellino.”

“Later, sluts!”

There was a silence for a little while before Secondo heard the sound of your breathing mellowing out, realising then you’d fallen asleep before you both had chance to clean up properly. But that was okay, he could treat you like a queen in the morning. For now, you both needed rest.

Translations:

Buon pomeriggio - Good afternoon.

Ora - Now.

Questo è un cazzo di scherzo assoluto! - This is an absolute fucking joke!

Perché? - Why?

Sei stupido, Cardinale Smith? - Are you stupid, Cardinal Smith?

Non mi sorprende, Cardinale. - That does not surprise me, Cardinal.

Angioletta - Little angel.

Capisce? - Do you understand?

Grazie, amore mio. - Thank you, my love.

Che cos’è questo? - What’s this?

Che cazzo? - What the fuck?

Puttana. - Whore.

Brava ragazza. - Good girl.

Mi farai morire. - You’re gonna kill me.

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