stil-lindigo · 1 day ago
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"Kamala Harris has earned an eleventh-hour show of support from Palestinian, Arab and Muslim community leaders."
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On October 24th, a collective statement titled "Arizona Palestinian, Arab, Muslim, and Progressive Democrats and Community Leaders Statement on Presidential Election" was published.
The 100+ signees include current or former leaders of Palestinian, Arab and Muslim organisations, the leader of Phoenix, AZ's largest mosque, Jewish activists and other elected officials. All of them have been listed at the bottom of this post.
You can read the whole statement here but I've also copy-pasted it's entire contents below.
Read. The Whole. Thing.
It is concise and will only take you a few minutes. While you read, recognise that these words are not representative of every single person belonging to these demographics. Palestinians, Arabs and Muslims are not a monolith, and have a right to feel any way they do about this election. To those who do not belong to these groups - refrain from adding your personal commentary in the tags, and understand how excruciating of a place this statement must have come from for both the authors, signees and the communities they represent.
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Arizona Palestinian, Arab, Muslim, and Progressive Democrats and Community Leaders Statement on Presidential Election
As Democrats and leaders in the Palestinian, Arab, Muslim and Progressive communities in Arizona, we the undersigned make the following statement, published on 10/24/2024:
This past year has been very difficult for all of us. With over 42,000 Palestinians killed by Israel using American-supplied weapons and no end in sight despite all our struggle for a ceasefire, we approach the presidential election heartbroken and outraged.
We know that many in our communities are resistant to vote for Kamala Harris because of the Biden administration’s complicity in the genocide. We understand this sentiment. Many of us have felt that way ourselves, even until very recently. Some of us have lost many family members in Gaza and Lebanon. We respect those who feel they simply can’t vote for a member of the administration that sent the bombs that may have killed their loved ones.
As we consider the full situation carefully, however, we conclude that voting for Kamala Harris is the best option for the Palestinian cause and all of our communities. We know that some will strongly disagree. We only ask that you consider our case with an open mind and heart, respecting that we are doing what we believe is right in an awful situation where only flawed choices are available.
In our view, it is crystal clear that allowing the fascist Donald Trump to become President again would be the worst possible outcome for the Palestinian people. A Trump win would be an extreme danger to Muslims in our country, all immigrants, and the American pro-Palestine movement. It would be an existential threat to our democracy and our whole planet.
When we think of Trump in power again, we recall that even a genocide can get much worse. Trump just said that Netanhahu must “go further” in Gaza while criticizing Biden for “trying to hold him back.” His biggest donor, Miriam Adelson, who demanded in 2016 that Trump move the US embassy to Jerusalem if elected –– which he then did –– is now telling Trump to allow Israel to annex the entire West Bank. Netanyahu, Ben Gvir, Smotrich, and the entire far right in Israel want Trump to win and grant Israel total free reign. We cannot give them what they want.
Trump must be defeated. The only way to defeat him is to elect Kamala Harris.
Voting for Harris is not a personal endorsement of her or of the policy decisions of the administration in which she served. It’s an assessment of the best possible option to continue fighting for an end to the genocide, a free Palestine, and all else that we hold dear.
We are deeply frustrated that Harris has not yet met our movement’s demand that she break with Biden, defy the powerful extremists enforcing the status quo, stand with the majority of Americans, and pledge to uphold US law and international law and condition aid to Israel. Still we believe there are clear reasons to hope that we can win positive policy change with a Harris administration and a Democratic Congress.
Multiple media reports state that Harris’s national security advisors are open to re-evaluating policy and conditioning aid to Israel. On October 13th, the same day the administration threatened to re-evaluate military support if Israel did not improve humanitarian conditions in Gaza and reduce civilian casualties in the next 30 days, Harris tweeted: “Israel must urgently do more to facilitate the flow of aid to those in need. Civilians must be protected and have access to food, water, and medicine. International humanitarian law must be respected.” In Michigan the other day, Harris expressed clear empathy for the suffering of the people of Palestine and Lebanon and the impact of this devastation on Arab Americans. She pledged to do “everything in her power” as President to end the war in Gaza, end the suffering of Palestinians there, and achieve “a future of security and dignity for all people in the region.”
Beyond Harris’s statements, we know that her decisions as President will be shaped by the larger Democratic Party coalition that includes a growing force pushing for Palestinian human rights. Our Arizona Democratic Party passed a resolution calling for a ceasefire in January. Every single member of Congress who has publicly called for a ceasefire in Gaza or for an arms embargo is a Democrat. The major national unions, civil rights groups, and progressive organizations that have called for a halt to military aid to Israel are all working to elect Harris.
On the other hand, the Republican Party coalition offers zero opposition to unconditional support for Israel and zero support for Palestinian human rights. Instead Republicans urge the US to join Israel in bombing Iran, call to “bounce the rubble in Gaza” and “kill ‘em all,” and would likely support the Israeli far right’s drive to annex Gaza and the West Bank.
What about a third party? Many in our communities believe this is our best option. Unfortunately, there is not a single third party member of Congress or even state legislator in America. In our electoral system, no third party candidate can win this election. But voting for them could make Trump president.
The polls show the presidential election is extremely close and that it will be decided by 7 swing states, including Arizona. While voting 3rd party may be strategic in non-swing states as a protest of the current US Israel/Palestine policy or as a step to qualifying the Green Party for public funding in future elections by winning at least 5% of the national vote, doing it in Arizona or other swing states in such a close election could bring disaster.
Some argue that if Palestinian, Arab, and Muslim voters and our allies vote for a 3rd party candidate and intentionally throw the election to Trump, taking credit for defeating Harris, it will prove our power to decide a close election and “punish Democrats” for complicity in genocide. Unfortunately, this is not how power, politics, or change works in our country. When Ralph Nader helped throw the election to Bush in 2000, he was rejected by millions for whom he was once a hero, banished ever since to the political margins. When Jill Stein helped throw the election to Trump in 2016, she remained relegated to the political fringe, becoming less powerful not more. If our communities ally with the Green Party to defeat Harris, we risk marginalizing ourselves as they did by alienating the tens of millions of voters who support the cause of Palestinian freedom and are fighting to defeat Trump by electing her.
Instead, by helping to elect Kamala Harris, we can say, “Despite it all, we gave you another chance and helped put you in office to defend democracy and uphold our highest American values. Now uphold them: end the genocide and secure Palestinian self-determination. We will fight every day to hold you to it.” If Harris and Democrats win, we will wage that fight with more allies among the American people, Congress, and the White House than ever before. If they don’t deliver, we will have a mandate and mass support to hold them accountable through every nonviolent tool of democracy, including protests, resignations, civil disobedience, primary election challenges, and even potential mass noncooperation. It’s a difficult path, but the one that offers the most hope.
The first step –– and our best choice in this horrible situation –– is defeating Trump by electing Harris. We urge you to join us.
Signers (affiliations listed for identification purposes only):
Maher Arekat, Founder, Palestine Community Center of Arizona
Usama Shami, President, Islamic Community Center of Phoenix
Fadi Zanayed, Vice President, American Federation of Ramallah, Palestine - Arizona
Shams AbdusSamad, Secretary, Maricopa County Dem Party; ADP Exec Cmte Mmbr - At Large & SCM
Samir Mufarreh, Palestinian American Christian Community Leader
Jordan Harb, Lebanese American Youth Leader
Stephen Mufarreh, Attorney, Palestinian American Christian Community Leader
Misaal Irfan, Pakistani American Community Leader
Samara Hamideh, Palestinian Youth Organizer
Mohamed El-Sharkawy, Palestinian American and a Muslim leader
Ala Rumah, Syrian American Activist
Dina Hamideh, Coordinator, Arizona Palestine Film Festival
Salauddin Choudhury, Bangladeshi Community Leader; DNC Delegate CD 5; LD 14 SCM
Hani Hani, President, American Federation of Ramallah, Palestine - Arizona
Dr. Navid Khan, Pakistani American Community Leader
Deena Mufarreh, Chair, American Federation of Ramallah, Palestine - Arizona
Syed Nasir Raza, Progressive Pakistani-American Community Leader; AZ Progressives
Ashraf Elgamal, President, Arab American Organization
Salina Imam, Charity Program Leader
Sawsan Tannous, Chair, American Federation of Ramallah, Palestine - Arizona
Saher Afzal, Pakistani American, Arizona Education Association member, and Exec board AEA local
Nathan Mufara, Chair, American Federation of Ramallah, Palestine - Arizona
Dr. Jaffrey Khazi, Community Leader
Hashim Hamid , Palestinian American Community Elder and Retired Businessman
​​Ameena Arekat, Palestinian American Health Care Worker
Mo Al Hwan Bahu, Palestinian American Christian
Deanna Dabbah, Former President, Arab American Anti-Discrimination Cmte, Fountain Hills, AZ
Dr. Hazem Jabr, Palestinian American Dentist
Jack Saba, Syrian American Entertainer & Democratic Voter
Ramzi Arikat, Palestinian American Business Owner in Phoenix
Shaikh F Shams, LD13 PC & State Cmte Member, Bangladeshi American Community Leader
Hussein Jabr, Palestinian American Doctor
Md Ibrahim Faisal, Bangladeshi American Progressive Democrats
Dean Dabbah, Community Activist, Fountain Hills, AZ
Mazen Arekat, Palestinian American Business Owner
Sujat Jamil, Bangladeshi American Progressive Democrats
Rocky Francis, Iraqi American Businessman
Hazem Arekat, Palestinian American Businessman
Arif Mahmud, Volunteer
Qumrul Ahsan, Precinct committee member LD13
Shahriar Anwar, LD13
Menassa Abinader, Lebanese American; Owner, Mejana Restaurant
Charlotte Hosseini, Sedona Resident ; Concerned citizen and voter
Tan Jakwani, Muslim Community Leader
William Havel, Iraqi Refugee
Jennifer Loewenstein, Jewish Voice for Peace - Tucson ; Arizona Palestine Network (AZ PAL)
Jessica Burke, Jewish Community Member & Progressive Activist
Bob Lord, Former Arizona Congressional Candidate, Jewish Community Member
Rachel Port, Jewish Voice for Peace -  Tucson
Laurie Melrood, Jewish Voice for Peace - Tucson; LD 20
Rep. Mariana Sandoval, LD 23
Rep. Quantá Crews, LD 26 ; State and Precinct Committee Person
Martín J. Quezada, Former State Senator
School Board Member Patti Serrano, PC and State Committee Member LD 13, 2020 Delegate
Kai Newkirk, Co-Chair, Arizona Democratic Party Progressive Council
Erika Andiola, Immigrant Rights Leader & Bernie 2016 Latino Outreach Press Secretary
Mikkel Jordahl, Attorney
Belén Sisa, Former Latino Press Secretary for Bernie 2020 and DACA Recipient
Salil Deshpande, LD18 State Committee Member; DNC Standing Committee Member
Dan O’Neal, Progressive Democrats of America - Arizona State Coordinator
Armonee D. Jackson, President, Young Democrats of Arizona
Eva Putzova, Former City of Flagstaff Councilmember
Emily Kirkland, PC LD 8; Former Executive Director, Progress Arizona
Melissa Galarza, Chair, LD12 Democrats
Cameron Bautista, Youth Organizer & School Board Coordinator, KeepAZBlue Student Coalition
Nick Collins, LD 12 State Cmte Member, Progressive Council Interim Steering Committee
Ken Kenegos, LD 18 PC, member Progressive Democrats of America
Michael Bradley, Arizona Palestine Network, LD 4 PC
David Higgins, Co-Founder, Arizona Palestine Network (AZ PAL)
Natacha Chavez, Precinct committee person LD 22
Sarah León, Community organizer
Elizabeth Hourican, CODEPINK Phoenix
Emily Verdugo, Community Leader
Kyle Nitschke, LD 6 State Committee Member
Barbara J. Taft, Leadership Team, WILPF US Middle East Peace and Justice Action Committee
Nicole Gutiérrez Miller, State and Precinct Committee Person, LD 12
Dianne Post, International Human Rights Attorney
Lindsay Love, Owner & therapist at TherapyLuv, PLLC ; former CUSD school board member
Joan Etude Arrow, Founder, Arizona Progressive Action Community (AZPAC)
Elizabeth Ogren, LD5 PC and State Committee Member
Jenise Porter, PC and State Committeeperson AZ LD18
Dave Wells, United Campus Workers of AZ, PC LD9
Andreas Clayton La Grow, Community Organizer
Robert Flamida, Palestine Community Center of Arizona, Member
Dr. Marannagan, Autistics for Peace
Bonnie L Lynn, State Committee Member
Frederic Artus, LD 5
Isabel O’Neal, State Committee, PC LD 14, CD 5 Immigration Advocate
Deborah Arekat, Democratic Voter
Asfandyar Khalid, Na
Kathy F. Yontz, PC LD12
Pardis Baradar, LD 12 PC
Grace Wagner Democrat LD8
Laiken Jordahl, Community organizer/advocate
Kathryn Soderquist, Constituent, AZ LD 9
Jana Rose Ochs, Progressive Democrats of America, Progressive Activist
Victoria Eloisa Ramos, Community Leader
Aaron J Essif, LD17 PC & SCM, PDA, Indivisibles
Judith Hilton Coburn, Member, CodePink Phoenix, PDA, Phoenix Anti War Coalition
Dev Gautam Dogra, Progressive social democratic student from The University of Arizona
Peggy Thomas, Progressive Democrats of America activist
Anne Khoury, Concerned citizen and voter 
Emily Williams, Democrat LD 12
Molly Donnelly, PC LD 12
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sugoroo · 23 hours ago
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ʚɞ warnings: fem!reader, reader plays volleyball, masturbation, oral (f receiving), obsessive behaviour, boobjob, penetration (p in v), 18+ minors dni.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who decides you're going to be his the very first time he sees you playing volleyball on the beach with your teammates wearing those pitiful scraps of material that can hardly be classified as a bikini.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who makes sure to pick up any and every extra shift he can just so he can figure out exactly what times you come down to the shore to practise.
pervy lifeguard!gojo whose new favourite pastime is just to sit in his lookout post, barely paying attention to the water to keep an eye on anybody who may be in potential danger — no, lately, his gaze always seems to be fixed squarely upon you.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who can't help but push his sunglasses up to rest in his hair so he can get a clearer view of you as you move around the sand, the way your scantily-clad body moves whenever you jump to hit the ball over the net just hypnotizing the poor man.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who has to disregard his duties completely to duck into a nearby beach hut when it becomes too much to just watch you, furiously fisting his leaking cock to the delicious mental image of your ass bouncing as you played.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who emerges from the hut looking like an utter mess, snowy locks dishevelled and swimming trunks hanging low on his hips as he stumbles back over to his lookout post. his strange behavior even grants him a few curious look from nearby beachgoers, but he couldn't care less.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who finds his hands clenching into tight fists by his sides when he observes one of the boys from the opposing volleyball team shaking your hand after a match. it's just a sign of mutual respect between players —  he knows that.
but that doesn't mean it irritates him any less.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who finally gathers the confidence to actually approach you later that afternoon while you're packing up your things, idly scratching the back of his undercut while he tries to think of a normal way to start a conversation.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who doesn't have to speak at all in the end, because you say the first words for him, greeting him with that pretty little smile of yours that he's only been able to see from afar up until now and outstretching a hand for him to shake.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who can't help but let a pleased grin spread across his lips while he returns the gesture, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction rising in his chest that his own touch on your palm has erased that previous guy's.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who falls even harder for you (if that's possible) during the few minutes he talks with you. it's nothing more than a friendly interaction between two regular beachgoers, but to him, it's one of many more to come.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who feels like he could do an embarrassing victory dance on the sand right then and there when you casually mention an upcoming volleyball competition that you'll be playing in. so you want him to be there, huh?
he nonchalantly responds that he might just be able pop by and watch some of it during his break — as if he isn't already planning on completely abandoning his post in favour of spectating the entire match instead.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who is so full of excitement during the week leading up to the tournament that he just can't keep quiet about it for even a single second. his poor bestfriend lifeguard!geto is beginning to feel like he's the one with the giant, pathetic crush on you at this point.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who would most likely be fired if his boss was to see him right now, sprawled across a bench and watching you compete at volleyball instead of looking out for drowning children in the waves.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who is sporting a not-so-subtle tent in his swimming trunks as he sits there, which he tries in vain to hide by crossing his legs over his lap. i mean, can you really blame him? just look at the way those doughy tits of yours jiggle in that downright sinful bikini top!
pervy lifeguard!gojo who has to clench his jaw to stop from snapping various profanities at the nearby beachgoers who have stopped in their tracks just to witness the match — he's not oblivious, he can see them checking you out just as he is.
but it's different when he does it. why? because you're going to be his soon enough. don't they understand that?
pervy lifeguard!gojo who isn't surprised in the slightest when your team easily triumphs over the other. after all, the opposing team doesn't have you on it. and although he knows little to nothing about volleyball, he can easily declare that you must be the best at it.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who would ideally like to run up to you and gush about how well you performed, but due to the very visible... problem in his trunks, ends up darting into the nearest beach hut for the second time this month to relieve himself because of you.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who is halfway through sloppily jerking his hips up into his closed fist when sunlight suddenly starts to flit through the gap in the door — shit, he was so worked up he forgot to even close it.
rookie mistake, satoru.
pervy lifeguard!gojo whose eyes widen to the size of saucers when he realizes it's you who just walked in through the doorway, shutting it gently behind you. he's about to start furiously apologizing for what you stumbled in on when he notices you don't seem nearly as shocked as you probably should be.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who can only watch in stunned silence as you slowly saunter closer to him, your hands hidden behind your back as they easily untie the strings of your bikini top before letting it fall to the floor.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who releases what can only be described as a pornographic moan at the sight of your freed breasts, his neglected cock twitching beneath his hand as he ogles you without shame. if he had any self-awareness left, he might've been embarrassed of the small trickle of drool oozing from his slackened mouth.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who feels his cheeks flush a shade of red brighter than the leaking tip of his bobbing cock when you purr to him... "do you really think i haven't noticed you checking me out for these past few weeks, mr lifeguard?"
pervy lifeguard!gojo who somehow finds himself living out a scenario lewder than the wildest of wet dreams he's had about you, his jittery hips thrusting erratically between your tits as you keep them pressed together for him with your hands.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who reaches what is undoubtably the fastest orgasm of his life, his sunglasses toppling from his head as it falls back in bliss, messy white locks stuck to his forehead with sweat as he releases a series of broken groans and whimpers.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who immediately joins you on your knees once he's come down from his euphoric high, long pink tongue lolling out to lap up every drop of sticky cum he split on your pretty tits, sucking and nipping at every inch of supple skin within reach.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who just can't stop yapping, going on and on about how perfect you are, how you've been on his mind for what feels like forever, how sexy you look when you're hitting around that volleyball.
it seems the only way to actually shut pervy lifeguard!gojo up is to shove his beautiful face between your legs, the only sounds leaving him now being mewls of enjoyment as he mouths at your saccharine taste through your bikini bottoms.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who is already too lost in you to properly remove the material keeping him from your pussy, instead lazily yanking it to the side with a single finger so he can dive nose-deep into your sweet cunt like he's been dreaming about doing for weeks.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who is just so messy with it, practically making out with your dripping hole as he rapidly delves his tongue in and out, moaning so shamelessly you'd think he was the one getting eaten out and not you.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who makes you cum using only his sloppy mouth so many times neither of you even know just how long you've been cooped up in this beach hut where there's a real possibility that someone could walk in at any given moment.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who can't hold himself back from fucking you anymore — he's waited long enough already, after all. so he's effortlessly manhandling you onto your back as he pushes in, eyes locked onto the sight of your tits still glistening with his saliva and cum from earlier.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who buries his face between the valley of your breasts as he ruts into you like a rabid animal, word after word of slurred praise failing from his lips as he looks up you with those wide, lovestruck cerulean eyes.
god, he's so fucking obsessed with you. getting to finally feel you like this was just the final nail in the coffin.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who somehow cums even harder than his previous climax, the overwhelming sensation of the tight, spongy walls of your cunt pulling him back in over and over again just unravelling his hazy mind with ease.
pervy lifeguard!gojo who has to psychically stop himself from letting out a choked whisper of 'i love you' as he spills his milky seed right into your womb where his cockhead is lodged, seemingly having enough awareness left to know that it's much too soon for that.
instead, pervy lifeguard!gojo settles for fixing you with a dopy grin so wide that both rows of his glinting pearly whites are on full display, murmuring a cheeky... "what do you say we make this a routine after every competition, pretty baby?"
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© 2024 SUGOROO. please don't copy or translate any of my works without my explicit permission. all rights are reserved to me.
LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!
pervy yoga instructor!geto <- PREVIOUS PART.
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hairmetal666 · 3 days ago
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Steve goes to a gay club for the first time alone. He and Robin, they'd talked about it since moving to Chicago, but every time they made plans he got cold feet.
But on a random, rainy Saturday with Robin back home in Hawkins, he decides fuck it, puts on his sluttiest jeans and polo, and goes to the damn club. He's sick of being nervous--he's going to make out with a guy for the first time tonight.
The club is crowded, loud, sweaty, the energy a pulsing wave. He's overwhelmed immediately, but it's invigorating. He pushes towards the bar, orders a beer, then cozies himself against the nearest wall.
He sips his drink and watches beautiful men dance and kiss and play, and he wants to be part of it, get out there, find his own person to get close to but--
What if none of this is for him? He feels out of place in his clothes, with his hairstyle, an old version of himself that doesn't belong in this world.
There's a swell of sound at the bar, and he glances over, expecting drunks or fighting. Instead, he sees a guy who makes his plans to leave slip straight from his mind.
He's unlike any other person there, even within his group. Long, curly hair, visible tattoos, ripped black jeans, a faded black t-shirt under a big leather jacket. He moves with purpose and grace, obviously uncaring about fitting in.
Steve can't stop watching him, transfixed. He buys another beer, settles back against his wall. He knows it's weird, but can't bring himself to care. Not when it's helping him feel more comfortable in his own skin.
The guy, he's vibrant, the brightest spot, his laughter reaching Steve even over the pounding music.
He's beautiful.
The lights flash, illuminating his face and recognition hits Steve like a fist. It's Eddie Munson, former freak of Hawkins High.
Steve's spine straightens, chest tightening. He can't believe--I mean there were rumors about Eddie in school, but he's here, right now, in Chicago, and Steve--Steve--
He abandons the remains of his beer, rushing out the door.
---
Steve goes back the next night.
He doesn't mean to; didn't have any plans to do it, but the clock turns to 9 and he pulls on the same slutty jeans, this time with an old blue t-shirt a size too small.
It's not because Eddie could be there again, he reassures himself as he shows the bouncer his ID. It's not like he wants to see him or has been thinking about him nonstop. No, it's because tonight's the night he finally makes a move. He needed a test run to find his footing, but now--
Eddie's at the bar. His hair is pulled up, loose tendrils around his face. No jacket this time; the rolled up sleeves of his black t-shirt showing off his wiry muscles, the swirling ink of his tattoos. Something low and hot clenches in Steve's stomach.
There's no way he's going to be preoccupied with Munson tonight. He came here to flirt and dance and maybe get lucky, and he'll ignore Eddie. He will.
Steve orders a beer, sits at the bar this time, his eyes lingering on black ink and pale skin. No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to tear his eyes away from the ease and assurance Eddie moves with. He's so unafraid to take up space, it's intoxicating.
He loses track of Munson when he orders a second drink, his face no longer immediately visible in the crowd. Disappointment sinks his stomach until a voice to his left says, "You better be planning to buy me a drink, pretty boy."
The voice is low, oddly melodic, and he turns to find Eddie Munson's sparkling brown eyes gazing down at him. He's surprised, hides it, says, "Sure. What are you having?"
Eddie's mouth opens, but his eyes narrow. "Wait--Steve Harrington??"
"Um." His mouth goes dry. "Munson. Hi?"
"I--uh--wouldn't think this was your scene." Eddie shifts back, puts distance between them, and Steve hates it. Hates that Munson thinks the space is necessary, hates that he used to a person that made people feel that way.
"Yeah, well. A lot has changed since high school."
"Is that right? Surely not this much."
"Wouldn't you like to know."
Eddie's eyebrow lifts, but his mouth is a tight line. "Have a cigarette with me."
Steve nods and follows him out a side door into a narrow alley. Eddie pulls out two cigarettes, hands one to Steve. There's something about the cold politeness that sends a fizzle of disappointment down his spine.
"What brings you here?" Eddie asks.
"To Chicago or to this club?"
"Don't be cute."
"Can't help it." He smirks and Eddie rolls his eyes. "I moved to Chicago three months ago with my best friend, Robin. I'm at this club trying to explore my bisexuality."
Eddie's in the middle of taking a drag, splutters on the smoke. "Holy Shit."
He shrugs, knows he's blushing. "What can I say? I've spent the last few years learning about myself."
"And one of the things was that you like dick?"
"Looks like it."
'Well, goddamn, Steve Harrington."
"Impressed?"
Eddie licks his lips, steps closer. "Maybe I am."
"I aim to please." Steve lets himself grin.
"I bet you do," Eddie's voice goes even lower, and heat dances deep in Steve's stomach. "Wanna dance?"
"Thought you'd never ask." Steve blinks up at Eddie from under his eyelashes.
They go inside and join the bodies packed on the dance floor. At first, they keep their distance, dancing and laughing with an arm's length between them, but it's not long before they're drawn together, arms twining, legs pressed together. Their eyes lock, Steve can't look away, wouldn't even if he wanted to. Eddie's hands go to his waist, pull him closer.
"You're gorgeous, Harrington," he says it with his lips pressed to Steve's ear, goosebumps spreading across his skin.
"Yeah?"
"Can I tell you a secret?"
"Of course."
Eddie's mouth presses closer. "I used to have the biggest crush on you in high school."
"Fuck, Eddie," he says. "That's so--"
"Weird?"
"Fucking hot, dude."
"Can I tell you another secret?" Eddie's voice is all rumble.
"Course,"
"I can't stop thinking about kissing you."
"You could do something about it."
Eddie smiles, eyes going darker, almost predatory. He leans in, their breath mingling, Steve's hitching.
"You sure you want me to?" Eddie asks, mouth barely brushing Steve's.
"Please," and it comes out like he's been punched.
He thinks the kiss will be hard, hot, but Eddie's hand is gentle as it cups the back of his head, slowly pulls him in. It's a soft meeting of mouths, almost tender. His head is swimming, blood thrumming low and hot and sweet. He parts his lips and then all he can feel, taste, sense is Eddie.
It cracks something inside him, and his fingers dig into the fabric of Eddie's shirt, eagerly licking into his mouth. It must crack something in Eddie too, because he's hauling Steve impossibly closer until his legs have to wrap around Eddie's waist, or they're falling.
They break apart with a breathless laugh, both red cheeked and bright eyed. They don't move apart, instead they dance and make out until the music stops and the lights come up.
Eddie twines their fingers together as they walk to the exit, Steve sweaty and elated and a little head over heels.
Out on the sidewalk, basking in the cool air, Eddie stops him. "Can I--uh, take you for a drink? Or back to my place? I don't--not to assume, but I--"
"Both. Anywhere," Steve laughs. "I don't want this night to end."
Eddie's smile is brilliant, heart stopping. "Your wish is my command."
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mephisto-reporting · 2 days ago
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Don’t Die on Me
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About: You’re hurt—badly—wounded while shielding him from danger. As he rushes to your side, there’s a shift in his demeanor; he seems different, more vulnerable beneath his usual bravado. Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are NOT in a relationship. but there is implied mutual attraction. My inbox is open for prompts and requests :) Content Warning: Angst, injuries, mentions of blood.
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SYLUS
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The sounds of gunfire had finally faded into silence, leaving only the shallow, ragged pull of your breath and the press of Sylus’s hand against your side, trying to stanch the bleeding. You had been hit during the ambush, shielding him from a blast intended for his head—an instinct you couldn't explain, or perhaps didn’t want to.
Sylus's expression was a mask of controlled fury, his jaw clenched as he knelt beside you, his usual cocky, unyielding demeanor giving way to something sharper, darker, and far more personal. He applied pressure to the wound with a fierce intensity, almost as if he could hold you together through sheer force of will alone. His fingers, usually steady and sure, shook faintly against your skin.
“You’re a damn fool,” he muttered, his tone laced with anger and something else—something deeper. “I didn’t need saving. Have you forgotten that I can heal quickly!?.”
You managed a small, pained smile. “Maybe I did it for the fun of watching you panic for once.”
His hand gripped your chin firmly, tilting your face to meet his intense, searching stare. "You really don’t know when to quit, do you, kitten?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it was laced with something raw, something unsteady.
“I thought… I had it under control.” you mumbled, trying for a smile, though even you knew how weak you sounded.
“Under control?” His laugh was short and sharp, a bitter edge in it. “Don’t be ridiculous!” Sylus hissed through gritted teeth, his usual cool facade crumbling. He never panicked—not him, not the man who’d handed you a gun to his own heart just to see if you’d pull the trigger. But right now, he was faltering, his steps uneven as he pulled you closer. His hand, normally so sure, so controlling, was shaking against your side. “You think I wanted you to jump in front of me like that? What were you thinking?”
You tried to catch your breath, his words slipping past you in a haze. You knew the risks of sticking by Sylus, knew that you’d inevitably end up in danger—but you couldn’t stand the thought of losing him. “Had to protect you,” you whispered, voice barely a thread. “I couldn’t... let anything happen to you.”
For a moment, he simply stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between anger and something far softer, something unspoken. “Protect me..?” he repeated, his voice lower, and you could feel the barely-contained fury laced with worry beneath it. He was trying to keep his grip on his composure, but his eyes betrayed him. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as he traced the edge of your cheek, the words slipping through clenched teeth. “You’re an idiot, Sweetie. A reckless, stubborn, damnably frustrating idiot.”
His expression twisted, the frustration in his eyes unmistakable, but there was something else too—something vulnerable, barely concealed beneath his usual scowl. You’d seen it before in the softer moments, those times when his hand would linger just a moment too long, or his voice would drop to that rare, gentle murmur. But this was different, more unguarded.
“Sylus…” you whispered, but he cut you off, pressing a hand to your wound. You stifled a gasp as his fingers met the raw injury, his jaw tightening in response, an unexpected flash of helplessness slipping through his mask.
“Quiet,” he muttered, his voice almost breaking. “You don’t get to talk right now.” He ripped off a piece of his sleeve, wrapping it tightly around your shoulder, though his touch was uncharacteristically tender. “This isn’t part of the plan, sweetie. You’re supposed to stay in one piece, just like I ordered.” The usual bite in his voice softened, desperation pooling in his dark gaze.
You chuckled weakly, trying to make light of the situation, but the pain pulled a groan from your lips instead. His expression grew even more intense, the hardness in his eyes melting into a quiet sort of anguish.
“Stop laughing. Stop… smiling like that.” His voice was fraying, edges cracking, a wavering panic he seemed unable to fully control. “You… you have no idea how hard it is not to tear this entire place apart for hurting you.”
The statement caught you off guard, and it must’ve shown in your expression because he let out a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that he’d never let you see before. It was strange to see him so unguarded, the man who played god in the N109 Zone suddenly grappling with the possibility of losing you.
The corner of his mouth twisted, and he tried for his usual smirk, but it faltered. “What would I do without you, hmm? My little hunter, so brave and foolish…” His words softened, and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, holding you securely against him as he continued on, urgency in every step. “You’re mine, kitten,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “And I don’t let go of what’s mine.”
You managed to laugh, the sound weak but genuine. “Then… don’t let go,” you whispered. “Sylus…” Your voice was weak, your head spinning, but you reached up, brushing your fingers along the sharp edge of his jaw. His expression softened, his lips pressing into a thin line as he leaned closer.
“You’re… more trouble than you’re worth, you know that?” he whispered, his voice breaking the slightest bit, but he forced a smirk, trying to hold onto his usual bravado.
“Guess I… picked it up from you,” you murmured, your vision growing hazy, but the warmth of his hand grounding you.
His grip tightened, and his lips brushed your temple, an unspoken promise lingering in the gesture. For once, Sylus seemed stripped of his dominance, his bravado washed away by the raw fear of watching you slip away. His hands shook as he held you, his mask cracking with every ragged breath you took. The man who’d taunted and tested you now held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable.
“Hold on, Sweetie… just a little longer.” he said fiercely, and in his voice, you heard something you never expected from him—fear. “I won’t let anything or anyone take you from me.”
XAVIER
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Xavier’s arm is tight around you, steady even as he fights his own injuries. The blood trails hot down your side, and you can barely see it through the blurred edges of your vision, a dark stain spreading across your suit. Xavier’s face, usually a mask of quiet calm, is set hard with a sharpness that you rarely see. Xavier's hands, usually steady and almost uncaring, were shaking as he tried to press down on the wound at your side. You'd taken the hit for him, jumping between him and that blasted Wanderer with a split-second of hesitation—or none at all. He hadn’t expected it. Neither had you.
Blood soaked through his fingers as he crouched beside you, his face tight with a look you’d never seen. Fear, maybe—though he wouldn’t admit it.
"Why... did you do that?" His voice was low, but it felt like he was questioning the universe itself. His usually calm tone was laced with an edge that made you dizzy or maybe it was the blood loss, hard to tell.
“Instinct…?” you murmured, managing a weak smirk despite the pain slicing through you. “I know, I was a bit reckless.”
“Reckless isn’t... you bleeding out on this floor,” he muttered, pressing harder against the wound, a little too hard, but you didn’t have the strength to complain. “You should have left me to handle it.” His gaze softened when you winced, and he pulled his hand back, immediately brushing away the edge of guilt. Yet the blood still glistened darkly on his fingertips, his gloves, on the floor where you lay.
“It would’ve been worse if it got you,” you mutter, trying to summon even a hint of humor, though the attempt falls flat against the pain.
Xavier doesn’t laugh. Instead, he looks at you, and the deep space void reflected in his eyes almost draws you in. That familiar aloofness fades, and for a brief moment, his concern seeps through, raw and achingly close. He shifts his weight to press you more securely against him, his free hand gently adjusting the strap of your gear as if every second counts in keeping you here, anchored.
“Look,” you managed, reaching up, even if it took everything in you to keep your voice steady, “you’d do the same for me.”
Xavier’s mouth set in a thin line. You’d hit a nerve, that much was clear. Despite the unspoken rule between you two—the sidelong glances, the unsaid things—he wouldn’t entertain the possibility that he would have let you get injured in this manner on his watch.
“You don’t know what I’d do,” he replied, his voice just above a whisper. His words held a weight you hadn’t expected, making you look at him closely even as the edges of your vision began to fade. “And you won’t have to, because I'm getting you out of here.”
He hoisted you up, careful, gentle, though he flinched when you sucked in a breath from the pain. He started forward, one arm cradling you as he moved you through the wreckage of the battle toward the shelter of the shuttle. It was strange, seeing Xavier so unguarded, every step almost too fast as though he feared stopping would break you.
“Stay with me,” he whispers, voice low. You feel his breath, close enough to count heartbeats, to wonder if his pulse is racing like yours. The space between you feels impossibly small, and the silence stretches, vulnerable, bare.
You manage a faint smile, fingers brushing his, a silent reassurance even as the sharp ache of your wounds thrums persistently in your bones. “You know, if I’d known I’d end up leaning on you like this, I’d have come up with something... cleverer to say.”
To your surprise, he huffs a small laugh, his gaze softening. “You always talk,” he murmurs, with a hint of that familiar, boyish charm, though it’s laced with worry now. “Save your strength. I’ll get us out of here.”
You felt yourself drifting, and his voice brought you back.
“Hey,” he said, tightening his hold. “Stay awake. I can’t have you falling asleep on me now—I'm the one who does that, remember?”
His humor was strained, like he was grasping at something familiar to keep himself steady. You let out a soft chuckle, the sound weaker than you meant it to be. “Guess we’re trading roles today.”
There was a moment, somewhere between one step and the next, where he stopped. He looked down at you, his gaze intense. For once, his expression was completely open—his worry and something warmer simmering just beneath.
“I can’t lose you,” he murmured, voice barely audible. “Not here. Not now. Not ever.”
You felt a wave of heat rise within, one that made the pain more bearable, somehow grounding. Before you could respond, he resumed his pace, carrying you as if you were the most precious thing in the galaxy.
The world swayed, darkness creeping at the edges of your vision, but you forced yourself to focus on him, on the boyish charm that hid beneath his cool exterior. “Xavier,” you rasped, “I��m not going anywhere. Not yet.”
“Just keep looking at me,” he replied, his voice steady. “We’ll get through this together. You and me.”
In the quiet of the shuttle, as he set you down and the medics began patching you up, you felt his hand graze your cheek, lingering just a little too long. You dared to meet his gaze, and for once, Xavier’s eyes didn’t look away. They softened, and the smallest hint of a smile touched his lips.
“Next time,” he said, voice warm with unspoken promise, “let me protect you.”
RAFAYEL
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The harsh winds of the remote village howled around you as Rafayel’s face loomed over you, more serious than you’d ever seen it. You hadn’t intended for things to get this bad, but the ambush from the Wanderer had been swift and brutal, and you’d thrown yourself between its claws and Rafayel without a second thought. A mistake, maybe—though you could hardly think of it as a mistake, even now, lying on the cold, unforgiving ground with blood soaking your side.
“Damn it, stop being so heavy,” Rafayel muttered, though his voice trembled, barely hiding the edge of panic. You glanced up, expecting his usual smirk, his smug teasing, something bratty, but his face was blank—frustrated, pale, and determined in a way you’d never seen.
“S-sorry to inconvenience you,” you managed through the haze of pain, trying to keep it light. “But I think I lost quite a bit of blood back there.”
Rafayel’s usual smug charm was gone. His carefree expression had twisted into something you couldn’t place—anger, worry, a flicker of panic as he knelt down beside you. He pressed his hands over the wound, and though it was uncharacteristic, there was no teasing, no insults, just an almost frightening intensity. “You… Why did you do that?” he demanded, his voice low and jagged, as though the question alone might tear him apart. “Do you think I’m some helpless damsel? You could have been killed.”
Your breath hitched, and you were grateful that it could just as easily be the pain causing it. Still, you shrugged, or tried to, but your body had other ideas, and you stumbled. Rafayel caught you, his arm firm around your waist as he steadied you. You managed a weak smirk, though the effort cost you. “Guess… I wanted to make myself useful as a bodyguard, for once,” you rasped, feeling the humor fall flat even as you said it.
“Useful?” His eyes, normally filled with a cocky gleam, were sharp with frustration. “Throwing yourself in harm’s way is your idea of useful?” He gave a dry, humorless laugh, his hands applying pressure that made you wince, though he didn’t seem to notice. “You’re dumber than I thought. The one time I actually need you to stay out of my way, and you—” He broke off, swallowing hard, his fingers trembling ever so slightly against you.
“Don’t… act like you care now, Rafayel,” you murmured, half-teasing, though the words came out weaker than you meant.
His face twisted, and you saw a flash of something in his eyes that you hadn’t expected—hurt, genuine and raw, like you’d struck a nerve. “Idiot,” he whispered, and his tone was so low it was almost drowned out by the wind. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get… what?” You were slipping a little, your vision swimming, but you caught his gaze, and for the first time, you saw past his bratty facade to something deeper. He took a breath, his jaw set in determination, and then he did something you never expected: he carefully scooped you into his arms, his hold gentle yet fiercely protective.
“Stay awake, all right? I can’t have you passing out on me,” he ordered, though his voice had lost its usual bite. His words were soft, desperate, as he moved through the bleak landscape, carrying you with a carefulness that belied everything he usually projected. For a long moment, you stared at him, the pain numbing under the intensity in his gaze. This wasn’t the bratty, arrogant god who’d dragged you into mess after mess. This was someone else—someone who, behind the charm and teasing, was scared. For you.
"Idiot," he muttered, his words a tangled mess of relief and frustration. “Why would you do that?” He repeated.
And you almost laughed, wincing through the pain, because wasn’t it obvious?
“Because… I care,” you murmured, voice barely a whisper. It was the closest you’d come to admitting the truth—to saying what had long hovered between the two of you, unspoken, stubbornly denied.
"Just shut up for once,” he whispered, his voice strained, almost a plea. “You don’t… you don’t know what it’s like.” His arms tightened around you, as if holding you close could somehow protect you from the damage already done. “You… throwing yourself in front of me like that—do you have any idea how reckless that was? I didn’t need you to… risk yourself.”
“Couldn’t let the prince of the art world get scratched up… on my watch,” you said, trying to maintain your humor.
Rafayel glanced down, his usual piercing eyes softening, his expression raw. “If you’d died, I wouldn’t…” He paused, his gaze slipping away, the words seemingly caught in his throat. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself,” he finished, barely audible.
You managed to brush a finger along his wrist, grounding yourself, anchoring him to you. “You’ll… still have the sea. And everyone to charm.”
For once, he didn’t laugh. Instead, he looked down at you, and his eyes were so intense, so filled with something you’d never seen before. “None of that matters,” he murmured, his voice raw. He shifted, his hand grazing your cheek, lingering there for a moment too long. “Stay awake,” he commanded, a note of urgency threading through his tone. “You can’t just pass out on me. Not like this.”
You blinked up at him, the sunlight filtering through the clouds casting a warm glow around his figure. “Not… gonna pass out,” you whispered, though it felt like a lie even to your own ears. You could see the worry etched across his handsome face, something raw and unfiltered. “You need me for your—”
“Stop it!” he snapped, but there was no bite in his voice, only a desperate plea. “You don’t get to joke around right now. Not when you’re bleeding out.”
“Rafayel…” you began, but he cut you off, a flicker of his old bravado returning.
“Save your strength,” he snapped, though the edge was softened by concern. “I’ll get you out of here, but you have to stay awake. Don’t you dare fall asleep on me!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you managed to murmur, your vision dimming as the waves of unconsciousness tugged at the edges of your mind. “Not without you.”
“Good,” he replied, and his voice was fierce and unyielding. “Stay alive,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, eyes dark with something he couldn’t bring himself to name. “For me.”
ZAYNE
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The world felt hazy around you, pain ebbing in and out of your awareness as Zayne held you steady, his hands pressing firmly yet gently against the wound on your side. Blood smeared across his fingertips, but he kept his touch steady, calculating, his focus a perfect picture of surgical precision.
“Stay with me,” he murmured, his voice level, his eyes fixed on you with a fierce intensity. “I need you to keep talking. Tell me if you’re feeling dizzy or lightheaded, alright?”
You managed a faint smile, ignoring the way your own breaths came shallow and broken. “You’re… really good at this,” you tried to joke, but Zayne only shook his head, lips pressing into a thin line. “You should become a doctor...”
“Don’t push yourself to talk. You’ve taken a nasty hit here.” His voice was calm, almost clinical, but you could see the strain in his jaw, the telltale flicker of worry in his eyes. His hands, however, were as steady as ever, working methodically as he inspected the wound, gauging the damage with the supplies he always seemed to have at hand.
“Think of it this way," he continued softly, his calm tone soothing despite the urgency of the situation. "The wound isn’t too bad—lucky hit. If we keep steady pressure on it, there shouldn’t be significant blood loss. You’ll be fine. But you have to focus on breathing for me, alright?”
He was explaining everything, his voice filling the air like a familiar, grounding hum. His hands, wrapped around the fabric of his jacket pressed to your side, were warm, almost protective. You could feel the faint tremor in his fingertips, but he moved with absolute control, unwilling to show even a hint of panic. His gaze flicked up to yours for a moment, his expression softening despite the tension in his features.
“I warned you about being reckless,” he muttered, his tone more of a gentle chide than anything else. “But it’s not the first time, is it?” The slight quirk of his lips, a half-hearted attempt at a smile, almost made you forget the pain. Almost.
“Couldn’t let you get hurt,” you whispered, fighting to keep your voice steady.
“Hold still,” he ordered softly, his voice low and steady as he worked to stop the bleeding. His fingers were meticulous, his hands steady, despite the fear you could feel radiating from him. He couldn’t afford to let it show, so he did what he knew best: he relied on the calm, clinical precision that had carried him through countless surgeries. "The wound's not fatal, but you’re going to need stitches. I’d say you’ve torn through the muscle here by… at least an inch or two.” He let out a breath through gritted teeth, looking pointedly into your eyes. “I can’t believe you tried to shield me from that Wanderer."
Despite his calm, you could see the fear in his eyes—the same fear that betrayed itself in the tension of his jaw, in the way his hands lingered just a moment too long against your skin, as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.
As he applied pressure to your wound, his tone softened, more to himself than to you. “You’re lucky you didn’t rupture an artery,” he said, hands deftly inspecting the injury with precise, practiced movements. “If this were any worse… I’d be looking at a very different situation right now.” His voice wavered on that last note, but his hands stayed steady, not allowing a single tremor to betray him.
“You’re going to be fine, I’m going to make sure of that.” He glanced down at you, his gaze holding an intensity that went beyond the practiced care of a surgeon. “You’re not allowed to play the hero, you know?. And if you’re trying to impress me… then I’d say you’re not required to be reckless for it.”
“Zayne…” you murmured, feeling the darkness pressing in at the edges of your vision.
“Keep those eyes open,” he whispered, his fingers gently brushing your cheek, grounding you in the warmth of his touch. “Stay with me. I’ll… I’ll get you out of here. But I need you to focus.” His thumb gently stroked your temple, his touch tender yet steady as he leaned close, his forehead resting lightly against yours, just for a second, as if grounding himself, too.
You managed a faint smile. “Didn’t know you were the boss of me, doc.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t look up. “Believe it or not, I have plenty of experience bossing you around.” He kept talking, his voice low and clinical, grounding you in the familiar, steady cadence
“You always said I was a terrible listener.” Your voice softened as you felt his hand linger, his thumb grazing your skin in a gesture far more affectionate than necessary.
“This isn’t funny.” He met your gaze then, a look so intense it stole the breath from your lungs. “Breathe,” he instructed, his voice calm and steady, despite the chaos swirling around you.
You could see the fear lurking in his dark eyes, a stark contrast to his composed demeanor. But it didn’t matter; his touch was methodical, reassuring, his fingers steady as they pressed against the injury.
“Zayne… the others—”
“Forget them.” His voice was firm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of panic as they darted around the shop, assessing the situation even as he tended to you. “I need you to focus on me. You’re the priority right now.”
You could feel the warmth of his hand against your side, but it was not enough to push away the chill creeping into your bones. “But—”
“Enough.” He pressed down harder, and you gasped, but he didn’t relent, his expression shifting to one of fierce determination. “You can’t help anyone if you bleed out here. So please, stay with me.”
The adrenaline coursing through your veins faltered, and all you could think about was how you had protected him—how you had jumped in front of the danger without a second thought. The sight of him, typically unflappable, now uncharacteristically tense, pulled at your heart.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely able to form the words.
He shook his head, an intensity burning in his gaze. “Don’t. You’re not allowed to apologize. Not when you’re the one lying here, bleeding out for me.” He brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead, his touch lingering. “I’m not letting you leave me. You hear me? We still have so much left to do together.”
You could feel the world slipping away, darkness creeping into your vision, but his voice anchored you. “Hey… Don’t let go.” he murmured, using the nickname he reserved for the most intimate moments. “I won’t let anything happen to you, not again.”
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AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!
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kooyabooya · 2 days ago
Text
SPECTRE
m reader x giselle // 32k words
part one of silken promises
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This astonishing thing about fate you realize - probably, is that it doesn’t have a solid line on the end of a paper for you to sign off on. And honestly, if that were to be the case, you’d wipe off the ink immediately after; call the offer off and hide under the flashing lights, waiting to reap you of your secrets. 
In pure and utter laziness, you’re saying: “Well, I just had a different vision of it in my head, of how all of this would play out.” 
Giselle twists her face to you with a raised eyebrow, clearly insulted. 
“Sure, the simple life of having a house outside of town and in the woods sounds nice and all, maybe some kids to fill the empty space between the rooms, but I just thought that we would have-” 
She flicks away her cigarette. “It’s an arranged marriage, you dumbass. They wouldn’t care how we thought it’d go either way.” 
The conclusions were already drawn up, and agreements were already in place. You have your reasons for stalling the talks. She tells you that the deal’s ludicrous; you consider it to be archaic - as a counterargument, you think, and holds your point there. 
“Now that you’ve signed the damn papers finally,” Giselle proposes, “How do you want to go about this?” She asks, already wondering what will make the two of you being ‘officially’ together. 
Your answer didn’t matter to your parents nor hers, but just with Giselle and Giselle only. She sees this forced entanglement to be a matter of principle; to appeal the masses, and suffer the flack in the latter later. You see it as your own life being sealed away, without fully grasping your head at the fact of what you’re getting yourself into. 
To address the armageddon of narratives bouncing around and between the headlines capped in bold fonts through the phone screen, this is what you know: 
You’ve got a stake in the family business - a rough, sizable percentage in the double digits if you want to consider it comfy but - no point in disputing the diluted shares over your father’s dead body. He’s overseen the company’s growth from when you were in diapers, blindly convincing you on a dare to work alongside him; law and business degree aside, you wished that you’d focused on writing, or architecture. You’re not so entirely sure yourself, but your luck in being born into a family that’s made themselves well off two to three decades away from retiring and enjoying the tempting pastures that life has to offer; it’ll happen soon, but needless to say: you’re rich, and pretty famous. 
There’s this new family merging into the family business group: the Uchinagas. At first glance, the family is like yours, probably placed on the other side of the coin. The father’s been a longtime friend with your father since college, starting up various start-up projects before eventually parting ways to build their own business to high degrees of success. The same could also be said for the mother: knee-deep in the fashion industry with connections and almost every top model that she could ever call in her contact list, and your mother’s got her nose in some brands that crossover with her mutuals. Then, there’s the daughter.
On another refresh and through a different outlet of news on your phone, you see this one website was claiming that the Uchinaga’s are a bright new addition to the family business, a cover photo capturing you and her standing side by side for a gala event that was hosted by her family. Her birthday party, as a matter of fact. 
Right off the bat, she looks amazing in the photo, there’s no denying that. It’s got everything within the lines of glitz and glamor, considering the amount of effort that they’ve put in towards the party held in their backyard, let alone the sizable guest list (that you had no idea of making it in, but it’s written in ink); Giselle Uchinaga’s shoulder brushes against yours - drinking in the moment - where all the eyes, cameras, and lights are solely on her, and you also arm your look of genuine admiration to her at the side. 
Her hair is in these embered, wavy locks, resting right beside the bust of her off-white dress, wrists and neck shining with the most expensive jewelry that could ever be gifted to her. More of the pictures from her birthday celebration actually make it into the article, building a profile for the hottest global ‘it girl’ that’s got nearly all the rich guys or guys with notable profiles fawning over her when she’s in close proximity. She seems very camera shy at times, and that’s apparent when your shoulder shields half of her face when you’re beaming the widest smirk that you could wear. In a way, this still serves as a clear foreshadowing that’s yet to be foreseen, since the posse that you two possess almost candidly appears that way: a wedding celebration, or a grand coronation of something bigger, like royalty. 
(It’s a pairing that the people realize that it’s the kind of pairing that wasn’t wanted, but needed.)
The pictures from the party continue to get swiped across the screen. And you can kind of see what everyone’s been talking about. 
Sure, there’s the shared history of attending the same law school together, taking the same classes, meeting in various events with the respective families in different showcases and brand engagements. Sharing a few words with each other but never really escalating above that imaginary barrier that you’ve falsely put up in your mind to make sure that you’re not thinking about the different kinds of ‘what if’s’ and ‘maybe’s’.
You and Giselle aren’t exactly friends, just mere acquaintances - to better the title between you two at best. 
(You’ve played it safe, however: away from the tabloids, not getting yourself into any kind of trouble whether it’s outside of office hours or in various business dealings that you were tasked with. Needless to say, you’ve got it easy; while the same can’t really be said for Giselle, who’s always getting herself into trouble. She’s no stranger to scandals, let alone having her name and face on the front page of a newspaper or the first thing you see starting up your computer in the mornings. Always involved in some form of drama that gets twisted by the journalists, some of them wanting to taint the image of not only her’s, but the family’s as well.
Aside from that infamous picture of you and her together at the birthday party, there’s also one other article from a shady news source that only focuses on the worst in celebrities. She’s managed to put herself right into the primed position - where she’s getting busy with someone she met from the nightclub on a whim, fingers twiddling with the belt buckle of said lucky contestant, while his hands are about to get busy, pressing deeper into the mix of fabric harboring the skin of her hips. Everyone within the first five seconds of seeing that picture can immediately put two and two together - write up different points of commentary and subtext between the lines; but the words, especially the ones that are created soon after - it sparks a supernova of sorts in the media.) 
But you switch to the original tab and scroll back up to the photo from the birthday party, just to get a good look at it. A double take with the provided optics. You can see why people are in awe between you two. It’s laughable that people online are calling for this waiting ship to sail. 
So much for saying that you and Giselle are just ‘mere acquaintances’ to each other, but you’ll let the rumors curdle in speculation. 
This merger, however, was supposed to be seen with a positive outlook in mind. 
It was supposed to be seen as a healthy, mutual relationship between the two parties of your family and Giselle’s family, along with the deeply rooted rapport lying underneath the professional connection. It was supposed to be a step towards something great; not only for the business, but the image of all companies involved to gain a massive boost in profits from the public. 
Doesn’t help with the fact that there were some ambitious individuals in the field of journalism who were willing to undermine this special moment, threatening to expose a scam that involved your father and Giselle’s father in a business venture gone bad years ago. Murky details aside, but we’ll just say that there’s blood on someone’s hands. No amount of money bribed could ever sway those guys to walk away from a story that will create shockwaves throughout the industry - if it did get out. 
Luckily, they agreed to the hush-money settlement, with some persuasive (and questionable methods, but you couldn’t care fuck all about their overall condition physically) methods from your family’s legal team, but that incident was just the sole catalyst for more people to start sniffing around the business. The questions keep coming in, and the news are always hungry for a story born out of blood. 
So.
There was an agreement that’s nearly set in stone. An agreement without you or Giselle knowing of the deal in the first place: to have you and her to be used by the family as trojan horses - as scapegoats - to veer the burning spotlight away from the anticipating merger and have it focus on the forced relationship fabricated between you two. 
The announcement has still yet to be made, the primary reason is because you were reluctant to show up to the three meetings prior with Giselle’s family to discuss terms and conditions, but she’s also done the same in not being in attendance. A form of protest that you didn’t even get in contact with her to do, but you’re also content that she’s on the same page as you. 
Albeit this was a clear non-verbal middle finger to both your parents and Giselle’s, you’d do everything you can to drag out the talks for as long as you could. This proved to be effective, until your father started to meddle with your personal stake of the company, intimidating you to reconsider the offer; or else your piece of the business, the one that you’ve created from the ground up, was absorbed back to his control. 
You’re fighting a battle that you cannot win. Not when you’re cornered and bottlenecked to the point where it feels like you’ve got no way out. 
At least you’re not alone on your side. 
“The Uchinaga’s are waiting,” someone says to you. Your eyes fixated on the monitor and the packet on your desk being skimmed through with a twirl to your pen, “Should I let them know that you’ll head over in a minute or two? Sir?” 
Then it hits you when you look up. The deadline. This arrangement was the last round of talks before the final decision could be drawn up, regardless if you put in your own word or not. It’s a little late in the morning, and you’ve got yourself knee-deep in paperwork. What’s even the point of showing up to the meeting if you haven’t been to them for the past couple weeks? 
“My bad, Winter,” you say to your secretary, dropping whatever you were doing at your desk to prepare yourself, listening to the clicks of heels along the floor as Winter helps you put on your jacket, following her out of your office, “I completely forgot that the meeting was today. I owe you for that.” 
“You can save it for after when you get out of your own little pickle,” Winter tuts, sitting back down at her desk right outside the main walkway. “May I remind you that you’re also the one that got into this mess in the first place?” 
“Do you really have to remind me with that question every time these meetings are about to happen?” 
“What? It's a good starting point in conversation.” Winter answers, looking over along with you to the increase of people pooling through the main entrance past the elevators. “Look at that,” she says, raising her eyebrows when you're doing the double take, “And so the hurricane comes crashing in.” 
Even from a distance, you can still single out Giselle and her parents as they walk more into the floor of your office. The visuals are still insane to see; not a flaw to be noticed from any of the three. It’s a little bit frightening. Giselle takes her place right behind her father and mother, as if they too, were her own line of defense, protecting her like some prize that was worth attaining, diverting some of the attention towards her in a different direction. The surrounding office workers take a pause to look, watch as they meet your parents, exchange greetings and the usual niceties since it’s second nature. Your mother looks at your father, assuming that the inquiry was about your presence, and your father actually flashes his eyes in your direction, telling you from afar: We’re expecting you to be here. Don’t be stupid and make us wait here all day. 
As much as you’d want to refuse with a simple turn the other cheek, you know that today was not that day to do that. Not anymore. With a simple nod, you comply with your father’s demands, and he nods too. He then motions your mother, along with Giselle and her family inside the assigned room set up for the gathering, looking back to ensure that you won’t be long behind. 
“Are you busy?” you ask Winter, surprising her with the sudden question that makes her tense up in her seat, “Normally you’re not busy since you’ve done the stuff that I’ve asked you to. So I’m just gonna assume that’s a yes.” 
“How’d ya know? What are you, some kind of mind reader?” She laughs, hands up to emphasize the sarcastic propositions, “Who do you think you are, me?” 
You shake your head, nicking it to the side to signal your request, “I’m not even gonna answer that. Just walk with me.” 
Winter obeys, immediately standing up and rounding her desk to be at your right hand side, bearing down the pathway to the main conference room where the meeting was happening. “I gotta ask: Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” 
“Haven’t had an idea in the slightest.” You answer, speeding up your pace by one or two bigger steps in your stride. “Remember that preliminary assessment we had on Giselle? Why don’t you run that by me–” 
Winter clicks her tongue, mind already fast enough to pick up on what you were asking: “Giselle is the only child of the Uchinaga family. She graduated top of her class with a degree in law at your alma mater, also has degrees in finance and business. She’s got praises from well-known individuals to be the poster child with her line of work. Oh hey, that really reminds me of someone else now that I think about it-” 
“You smartass.” you smirk at the hidden verbal jab thrown at you, walking past the cubicles and heading right up the walkway, “Keep going.” 
“She’s got herself in business and ambassador deals with brands that upped the stock prices for posters, billboards, social media posts, selfies with fans, daily engagements and appearances, etcetera etcetera-  you name it.” Winter continues with the mini info exposition dump, matching your stride. “Every picture or tag that has her face or name plastered and attached is never ignored. Not to mention she’s-” 
“I need to hear what matters, Wint.” 
“She’s also a bit cynical, blowhard, a pretty pick-me girl, uncrowned royalty, someone that’s a bit reckless and in for the thrill of trouble. A bit spoiled with her things, I think. Bratty might also be another term thrown up in the air. Presents the refined etiquette when it matters, but in most cases, she doesn’t really care.” Winter muses, listing all of the different characteristics with her dainty fingers, “Is that too much, or can I add more?” 
You stop at the door of the conference room. Behind it was your parents and Giselle’s, along with some considerable figures orchestrating the deal along with them, waiting for your arrival to commence the meeting. Right when you were about to enter, you bridge your eyebrows together towards Winter, nearly appalled at all the things she’s mentioned about the girl you’re being paired with, “Are you sure that’s what you assessed, or is what you’re saying about her just out of spite?” 
Winter cocks her head, rolls her eyes up to where the eyelids rest at the top, “If you wanted me to be nicer, why didn’t you say so?” 
(You know that Giselle’s got some good graces in her heart - but she’s not perfect, clearly - she’s on the same boat as you: a little problematic with a thing or two that’s worth hiding.) 
“Just wanted to see what was your personal angle about Giselle, that’s all. Nothing too deep.” 
“Among other things,” Winter breathes, stopping herself with a hand on her hip, “I think she’s amazing, aside from everything I just said about her,” she concedes soon after, sighing,  “Most people with a status would kill to be in your position right now, even if they knew what was happening behind the scenes or not.” 
“Are you telling me that there’s benefits to this?” 
“Giselle’s a heartthrob.” Winter puts it simply. “Play your cards right with this deal, and who knows what might happen.” 
Winter then walks away, walking backwards while maintaining eye contact with your widened eyes. There’s something in the back of your head that wants to admit some form of defeat, finding comfort that there’s a possible silver lining in a connection with Giselle. You don’t hate the girl. No. That would be too harsh - a spectre manifested deep within your mind out of uncertainties that would prove to be your own demise in the false name of love. 
Love. You’re thinking as your fingers grip the door handle. That’s a little bit out of your lineage anyway - but what’s the worst that could happen? 
Giselle, her parents, along with a few people that were comprised to be the additional handlers on the team are all seated around the table, binders and folders with various contracts - revised and refurbished - covering all the necessary details and crooks within the lines; you remember hearing the talks having orderly returns in terms of feedback, assuring that everything would cover the shady deal story from ever breaking out. You’re getting the proper representation, but still feel like you don’t have a say in this. 
(But like you realized earlier: you’re not the only one, remember? You’re content that there’s at least one more person, other than yourself, who can share your hidden levels of pent up frustration - and she’s sitting right across from you.) 
And even with the substantial profile, the aristocracy between these men and women wearing designer suits and pretty dresses, it still fills your mind with unease that there’s this tug-of-war, a dispute over control. You’ve got your own life to seize, and you definitely know that better than anyone else here sitting in this room with you. 
But the press will love this, Giselle’s parents are explaining, but you and Giselle both have your tongues tied to the top of your throats - publicists and others managing your loose ends jotting down notes to make sure nothing is left unkempt. Giselle sits on the opposite end of the table, in between her parents mirrored to your format. She’s emitting this sense of tiredness, laid back and disconnected, like she was dragged to be here. Her eyes make contact with yours before darting away to a corner up on the ceiling or towards the window, while you twiddle your fingers in circles. The sigh that leaves your lips only exemplifies the boredom evermore. 
“Is there a problem here?” Giselle's mother asks, laced with a tinge of annoyance - almost like you’re taking this as a complete joke, for what it’s worth. “I’d like to remind you of the fact that you and our daughter are the sole reason that there hasn’t been any motion moved forward with this plan in the first place.” 
This is where one of your core flaws come to light: the absolute sense of unbotheredness that you bear in your demeanor. It’s not that you’re far-removed from things that you have no control over, it’s the notion that when it does get out of your hands, there isn’t really any effort coming from you to do something about it. 
Your gaze returns to Giselle, who looks at you dead in the eyes, slightly pressed and on edge. She’s telling you with her irises that she would rather break that window five feet away from you, take a leap of faith, but instead she remains sitting still - looking over to her mother again who’s clearly unimpressed with your present attitude. 
“Not at all,” you answer, a wave of the hand to double down on the sly smirk spread across your face, “I just hope that we’re not here for long so that I can agree to your terms and sign the damn contract. Is that not what we’re here for?” 
Giselle’s father looks over to his wife, the people around the room also exchanging murmurs as to what just occurred. Your parents are also aren’t willing to even look at you for a second, shifting their attention to a hand or random page on the docket, discreetly sighing before your mother puts a hand on your shoulder to dial it back. Please, she’s telling you. Don’t make this any harder than it already is for us. 
But Giselle’s mother stifles a laugh, one filled with languor and regalness as she turns her cheek the other way to hide her visible amusement. To be fair, she’s not the one that’s getting shoved into the deep end playing a cover up story; she’s got other things to divert her focus on, no worries filling up her head because she knows the endgame already. You’ve dealt with people like her before - to no avail, putting up with their tangents of how people in a lower step than them can’t really see eye to eye with those who are in the upper realms of society. 
You’re wondering too, if Giselle is like that - god forbid if that’s the case, but only time will tell. 
“Alright,” Giselle’s father says, easing the tension with a cleared throat once the laughs subside. “I don’t see why we can’t get straight to the point then: Why haven’t you signed the marriage license agreement?” 
The answer has been pretty simple and straightforward up to this point, and you gave it to them the same way you’ve always had: “I still need time to think it through.”
“Think it through?” mocks Giselle’s mother, “What’s there for you to think through? You’ll marry our daughter while our family merges into your family’s business group. While that also takes care of the other ‘incident’, you’ll also get our unwavering support going forward.”
No doubt that you’ll get the benefits and the support, but if you’re really being honest with yourself: you’re just a simple guy when dancing with the idea of love. You’d rather tie the knot with someone that you have a genuine connection with that isn’t Giselle. It might be selfish for you to think that, but it’s the truth, nonetheless. 
“It’s not that I have some sort of connection with Giselle,” you say, flipping fast to the end of the page where the blank line is still waiting to be written in ink, “I just think that it’s not fair or right for you to force us into this position; to be married, but not in love.” 
“Love? You don’t think that you could be in love with my daughter?” 
“Mrs. Uchinaga, perhaps my words weren’t as-” 
Giselle’s mother grabs her daughter’s hands, delicate and precious as if she’s encased in marble. “Play your words carefully and wisely, young man,” coy smile armed and ready to fire, “I’ll have you know that she’s got more options in the list to choose other than you. I really hope you reconsider.” 
“If I sign this contract, will you be satisfied for us to submit to your archaic idea?” 
The question drops out of thin air, with silence filling up the room again. Giselle’s parents just stare in awe while you have the pen in your hand, putting your name down in cursive across separate documents. Your mother looks over your arm while your father raises his palm up to the ceiling, a smirk at the corner of his lip with an eyebrow raised. He’s probably saying, see? I told you guys that he’ll come around. Now we can discuss the other matters that need to be taken care of.
You exhale as the pen hits the desk. A relief of unnecessary stress lifted off your shoulders while Giselle and her parents look at you in genuine surprise. 
“Okay,” you sigh, scanning everyone’s faces on the opposite end of the conference table. “Do you mind if I get some fresh air while you guys sort out the rest of the deal?” 
Had it been any other meeting that you attended, you’d power yourself through and stay inside to discuss the final details and clauses, but your parents and Giselle’s parents both agreed that you could stand outside on the balcony while they shackle both of your names down to the legally binding contracts. 
A ‘cathartic’ experience could also be one word to describe the thirty to forty-five minutes sitting in that room, hand quick to the pocket of your pants where your nearly cleaned out pack of cigarettes were. There were more ideal ways to relieve your stress that doesn’t involve in deteriorating your overall health, but your ears close in on the rough click of the lighter- 
“Didn’t know that you were the smoking type of person.” 
That moment right there. That’s what gets your attention; right when you least expect it and with your guard down. 
At the turn of the head, there’s this flash of these bright, heavenly, light coffee brown locks. Her jewelry is also another point of interest, illuminating and highlighting the points in her neck and wrists where the sunlight will bounce right off of them. It’s like watching a firework pop up from two feet away, blinding you with this sort of simple elegance that compliments her cool, balmy expression. 
“Do you normally come out here during the day on your breaks?” She asks, approaching closer to you while you’re indulging the rolled up piece of small paper captured between your teeth. “I mean, your parents aren’t exactly responsible for you but-”
“It’s already a bad first impression right off the bat. I know,” you tell Giselle, handing over your half-burnt cigarette, to which she takes from you as a surprise when she turns her profile out to the skyline and huffs out the smoky curls trailing from her lips. “Though, who’s gonna judge what you and I do in our spare time?” 
“You have a fair point,” says Giselle, wrist slacked as she watches the embers at the end glow in a fading orange, “Can’t keep troublemakers like us in one place. And I still can’t believe that I had to be at this stupid meeting anyway. Like-” 
“I mean, what did you think was gonna happen?” you ask, scoffing as you lean the side of your body to the paned glass on the balcony, “I’m curious to hear your side of the story.” 
Giselle brings the cigarette to her pouty lips again. You watch as her eyelids flutter shut when she hollows her cheeks slightly for the inhale, tilt her head down a bit over the balcony where she has the streets of the city in her view. Her side profile is flawless, to say the least, until you notice a small string of hickey’s blooming on the bridge of her collarbone - it’s a mental note to keep to yourself - also not your place to ask, but you can assess early on what kind of girl she is. 
The exhale she lets out is exaggerated, then the stream of smoke follows through soon after. 
“Nothing but complete bullshit, if you ask me.” She answers, tapping the ends off the edge while examining, “What about you? Since it looks like you’re the one who’s holding the end of the deal for God knows why.” 
She’s right in that regard, and you’re not denying it. 
“Among other things, I just didn’t show up. And neither did you.” The hand behind your head softens the guilt - but not by much. 
“What’s your point?”
“Well, I just had a different vision of it in my head, of how all of this would play out.”
The remaining details and clauses along with the marriage are finally set, with a schedule also talked about once you and Giselle head back inside. 
But there’s nothing really significant that gets mentioned regarding who will be responsible for what, and the fact that you and her aren’t even giving a single fragment of attention to your parents, solidifies that. 
“The job’s simple as it is, isn’t it?” You’re rolling your eyes while asking, “All we have to do is just pose like a married couple and look pretty?” 
Giselle snorts, gratefully falling into the mere folly of the idea. “Didn’t think we’d be in this position, but I’m behind it.” 
Here’s the thing about the whole idea, anyway. It never goes according to the original plan. 
It’s out of your hands though, and it’s neither yours or Giselle’s fault to put the blame on the aspect of control and logistics:
“Mrs. Uchinaga. What can I do for you?” you greet Giselle’s mother at the desk of your secretary, interrupting their super-important gossip session in the opening hours of the usual workday. “I wasn’t expecting you to be back so soon, let alone have an opening for you in my schedule-”
“I’m just dropping by, don’t worry,” reassures Giselle’s mother, holding the button of her coat when you stop your bearings right in front of her and Winter. “I was just leaving, but not to inform you about your appointment.”
“Appointment? For what, exactly?” 
“Your marriage in court.” Giselle’s mother sighs, with a flash of your eyes towards Winter, who looked completely out of the loop as well with the sudden news being dropped like a fresh bomb in water. “I had the date moved up because of some personal reasons, which I hope you don’t mind. Giselle was supposed to tell you, but I caught her out late at night, so here I am.” 
“But-” 
“I’ve left the note with your secretary,” she continues, beginning to depart from the desk. “It’s not a good look for you to be late to your own wedding now, is it?” 
You only get the last flashes of her flowing hair as she reaches the other end of the walkway, mind still processing everything that just happened in the last minute or so. Turning to Winter, “Did you know about this? Or did she just-” 
“I’m just as shocked as you.” Winter responds, an outreached hand with a simple note in her fingers, taking it and opening up the contents which confirms your suspicions. She then leans forward with the tilt of her head, “Am I invited to your ceremony? Hm?” 
“I don’t need to answer that.” You tell Winter, crumpling up the court order redecorated into an invitation. “Just clear my schedule for lunch. I’ll be having it with Giselle today.”
“Hitting it off right from the jump, are we?” 
“I’m gonna fire you if you don’t shut up.” 
You’re hoping that this would be the first and only time you’d ever set a foot inside a courthouse. 
Luckily, it isn’t too busy for anyone to really notice as to why you’re here. Just fulfilling your civic duties as a law-abiding citizen as a plausible reason; with the company of your family, your soon-to-be wife, and along with her family, everything about today might go well for you - keep wiping the sweaty palm along your slacks, you’ll do great, just trust me. 
Right when the ceremony is about to start, your father walks up to you, doing some last minute checks along your outfit; patting down and fixing any loose crinkle or slant along your suit, goes a bit too tight on the necktie, making you pull the collar a bit so that you could breathe. 
“Do you have any idea what you’ve thrown me into?” You ask your father, watching him get one good look at you before nodding in content. 
“You know the story well enough, kid,” he answers, and you smirk at the subtle appreciation of honesty that your father has for himself. The no-nonsense type of deal, giving it to you straight - it’s how he made you the way you are, and you’re thankful for that. “I know that you can hold your own, so be proud.” 
He gives a thumbs up from his seat as the doors open at the end of the room, welcoming Giselle. Her dress was simple, a floral pattern scattered across the cloth that radiated in this off-white tone, hugging every curve of her body (and her legs are just- okay, really? At a time like this?) as she finally reached the makeshift archway. 
She locks eyes with you, light makeup and everything. Everything that’s framed on her face just leaks out perfection, it’s captivating. From the tilt of her lips, to how her long lashes bat towards you, the tilt of her chin when she slightly looks up to compensate for the height difference. It isn’t so bad after all: realizing how Giselle Uchinaga leaves quite the apprehension  on you, all five-five of her to be exact. 
“You look good,” you tell her in lieu of a hello, palms up to where her hands meet in the middle, taking yours as the small crowd of various family and team members take their seats, letting you two take the stage from this point on. 
“Why thank you,” says Giselle, hiding the small blush breaking through cheeks as her fingers cling onto yours, voice gentle as you’re smiling along with her too. “I didn’t have time to prepare, so-” 
“I didn’t have time either, so that makes us even.” 
Giselle giggles a bit, holding herself back with a turn of her head near the wall. You decide you like that about her, but she pulls her composure back once the officiant finally gets the procession going. Everything that’s done in a wedding ceremony, regardless if it’s traditional or in court, it just ends up with endless words being stretched out for miles and miles, preaching about the joy of unity between two people. The idea alone is a beautiful tale to tell, but when it comes to the whole experience itself, it doesn't really translate the same way. 
You remember upon arriving that Giselle was going to be the first in saying the vows. Not that you were complaining, of course, mostly because you were gazing into the universe hidden behind her eyes to not even hear your name from the officiant, but she answers I do, which doesn’t cause a hitch at all. 
And what feels like forever, finally turns to the moment that everyone in the room was waiting for:
“Do you take Giselle Uchinaga to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The officiant asks. 
“I do.” 
Here is where you’re having second thoughts - for just a brief moment, not too long - how Giselle’s eyes know exactly what your worry was in that instant, telling you that it’s okay. It’ll be something that gets talked about after, no doubt a good laugh to come out of it, but if you’re gonna jump down into this sort of new hell, it’s a relief that Giselle is the one to jump down with you. 
A close of the book: “You may kiss the bride.” The officiant says, and you do. 
The angle where you take your mouth into hers is something worth swooning over. A proper lock where you’re tugging Giselle’s bottom lip slightly, slipping a bit of your tongue into her mouth that makes her grip on the back of your neck a bit tighter. She helps along with a raise of her leg with your hand, leaning her back until she presses a fingernail down into your skin, signifying a pause, returning back to the roaring cheers and applause from your inner circle watching from the seats. 
You pull her back while her hands are loosely corralled to your collarbones, taking a note of how her perfect lips mesh with yours, how small her waist fits into your arms, nicking your forehead into hers, eliciting a laugh while looking left towards your parents. 
“Hopefully I wasn’t a terrible kisser,” you mumble, parting a wisp of hair away from Giselle’s eye. “That was good, right?” 
Giselle blinks again a few more times, watching your finger treat her cheekbone. “A bit of an impromptu, but we can practice that more if you want.” 
You’re not opposed to the proposition already. 
Another perk, or incentive - a benefit if you will, comes in the form of your living situation from your family estate to a proper loft settled into the heart of downtown. This also means that the commute to work won’t be much of a hassle - and you can most definitely dabble with the suggestion of sleeping in a little bit more, since you are your own boss, duh. 
Just when you think that the issue of how your personal belongings would be moved over to the new place, your parents and Giselle’s had already taken the liberty of sorting that out for you two. The only thing that’s the main priority now is filling up the fridge with some of the essential goods from the market, along with some of the utensils, all in one trip up the complex. 
“Do you think-” you’re huffing, fixing your grip on the paper bags brandished across your forearm, looking over as Giselle fiddles with the keypad of the lock, inputting the wrong passcode for the second time now, “-you can open a little bit faster? My arm is killing me.” 
“Shut your whining,” Giselle replies back, getting the passcode right and swinging the door open, welcoming you and her into the relatively new space that you’ve only had for five or six days since the court wedding. Life moves a bit fast, but you’ll have a laugh to yourself when everything gets settled. “There, just set the bags down on the counter, I’ll sort them once we take a breather.” 
The city lights shimmer in the open paned windows past the living area, given the fact that the clock on the wall adjacent to the glass tells you that it’s 8 pm, and taken into account of the two boxes brought in by your mom which had some of the last few things from your room - which you’ll get to later once the shoes are off and not on the walnut flooring. 
“So,” Giselle’s beginning to say, the paper ruffling on the marble of the counter, “Just so that we’re clear again, we’re-
“Living in our separate rooms, like you requested.” You answer, circling around the kitchen island as Giselle hops up on the countertop, dangling her legs while she treats herself with a bowl full of grapes. “When we have guests over, we’ll use your room as the shared one.” 
“Cool.” She happily bobs her head, popping a grape between her lips before sucking it in the second after. “And it’s not because my room is the bigger one.” 
“Of course not,” you say, assessing the open space again before you fish another grape for yourself. 
“Before we do our own things,” she starts again, fingers in her handbag, taking out a small box encased in leather. You could already tell what it is from the crimson shade protecting the contents inside - it could be anything inside you think, let the mind imagine all of the wonderful possibilities with the intention as a gift. “My mom wanted us to have this, for added insurance.” 
When she opens the box, it reveals a silver pair of couples rings. The rigid pattern molded across the metal in two different sizes - had that not been obvious enough for who’s going to wear them. 
You pull Giselle’s ring out first, take her left ring finger, and nestle that where it belongs. She does the same for your finger, watching as her eyes concentrate on her fingers grazing across the knuckle as she twists the ring a bit in place, to add some security in the placement. 
“Looks cute,” you assess, matching your left hand with Giselle’s, watching the ring shimmer below the overhanging light. “Didn’t think your mom would be good with jewelry, but I hold my doubts back.” 
Giselle stifles a chuckle, hitting your shoulder while hunching over, tapping your arm again before sitting upright. Her hair curtains a little more than half of your neck, a quick whiff of that oceanic scent from her body wash; but she pulls just a bit to where she has this glow emitting in her wicked smile. It’s almost worth falling for - the domesticity - you’ve got your keepsakes and Giselle’s got hers, in spaces big and small where it feels like they belong. There’s also that luck of moving things fast (maybe too fast, you’re also realizing, but given the circumstance, it’s for good reason) and the telltale of it all is something literally ripped out in multiple pages of a book. You and Giselle will occupy this space for as long as you need to, and who knows what that trail might lead to - it’ll be a bridge to cross once you get to it. 
“Gotta have the appearance before you act the part,” tuts Giselle, letting her left wrist go slack, lightly resting her chin on the top of her hand. “We’ve checked off one box already, but for the other?” 
“So you're saying that we should practice that more?” 
“If you’re willing, then yes.” 
It’s something you’re not willing to fight against, the way the balls of your feet elevate your heels off the floor, tilting your head and to the side when your lips lightly press against Giselle’s. She tastes sweet, how gentle she is when her hands wrap around your neck, pulling you, eyelashes fluttering in this twitching motion when you move up, deeper into her mouth, not ever wanting to part from them in the first place, but you yield for now. 
Giselle pulls herself away, fingertips lightly gripping on the felt of your cardigan, exhaling as you lick your lips, savoring the sense a bit longer. “How was that?” she asks, your hands resting to the sides of her thighs, “You still feel uncomfortable?” 
“That’s not exactly the word I would use,” you remark, but you might be falling apart already. 
Not long after the last meeting with the families - give it about two or three weeks, maybe more - you’re not entirely sure at this point, the announcement regarding the arranged marriage set between you and Giselle gets out into the open world. Confirming the supposed relationship while also steering the rumors about the fraud case between both of your families away from the spotlight, just as they wanted. 
The impressions and engagements from the various article posts say a bunch of good things in high regard between you two. Most of the comments you’re seeing and hearing are raving all over you and your new fiancė, claiming that there’s a lot to be expected in how your appearance in the public will change overall going forward. 
You’ve got yourself involved with various testimonials and meet-and-greets, preaching about the value of success, with the occasional questionnaire at the end of every one of them. Some people ask about you, which you have no issue answering. While others ask about your love life (for fanservice, you assume, and something that makes all the girls crazy), to which you share your praises about Giselle; spewing all the good parts about her while holding yourself back from spilling too much, forcing a gushy expression to sell the act, but everyone adores it apparently. 
(You never forget to give thanks for how people can be swayed into falsely believing anything that they read on paper or on their phones. A tragedy in itself, but when you’re high up on the pyramid of society- 
“If only they knew the truth,” you’re telling her over the phone in the car, shaking your head at the tinted window after noticing all the people who came to the event - waving and screaming as you’re being escorted off the premises, seeing a picture on your phone of yourself hiding your face when they put a picture of Giselle on the big screen, scoffing as you get a closer look at it. 
“Just be glad that they’re loving the news.” Giselle tells you, softly laughing on her end. “Because that shows proof that the whole idea of us is working.” 
You’re probably wondering how long you can keep this facade up with her as the car continues to roll away.) 
“I have a thing for you,” Winter declares in another way of saying ‘good morning’, looking up with a small scowl to her face as you closely approach her desk, “Your tie is also crooked, so unprofessional.” 
“Wow, thanks for noticing, Captain Obvious,” you reply, “I was just about to fix it.” 
“It’s called an observation, genius,” retorts Winter, twisting her chair left towards you resting your elbows on the desk, “Rough night?” 
“I guess you could say.” 
Winter chuckles, types a few words on the keyboard, hits enter. “Do I really want to know?” 
“You don’t.” 
“That I can accept. And oh- by the way, Giselle actually dropped by just ten minutes ago,” she adds on, placing an envelope next to your arm. “I think that’s the event happening tomorrow night.” 
“What event?” 
“Some party that both her and your parents are putting together. I don’t know, I’m just the messenger here.” 
You rip the seal open and flip up half of the paper, which turns out to be an invite - or notice - for the obligatory gathering. Meeting with the extended family past the in-laws, all together for one big dinner and mixer. The preliminary plan right off the bat was to stay and indulge a bit, get acquainted with some of the other figures that Giselle is familiar with, then eventually leave the place and never come back for the rest of the night.
(Part of you wants to tear up the paper and bolt straight to the nearest window.) 
“Our car’s already outside the lobby,” Giselle tells you the next day, a simple black gown with an opening to the side where some of her leg sticks out. “And I also have your watch if you’re still looking for it.” The bluntness is already enough as it continues to add in her paradigms of sayings. 
“I’ve been ready,” you muse, stopping short by Giselle as she treats a hand to the collar of your shirt, you yourself patting down the jacket until she steps away; the blinking doesn’t stop however - seeing the prettiest features of her face up close. From those sly eyes, feathery lashes, even the dead expression shifts something in your composure. 
She hands you back your watch which clicks around your wrist in no time. You raise it up after with your ring in view - it’s Checkov’s gun, a necessary tool for the appearance, a staple in the new look. Not to mention that it shines well along with the fanciness of your appearance and Giselle’s when she puts her hand up to match. “Look at us, hm?” 
“Ready for some madness?” you ask, elbow out for her to hook. “I already want to leave.”
“Leave as in leave our place or leave from the party?” 
Giselle gives you this look of genuine concern, causing you to look away with flared nostrils and a smirk painted across your lips. 
“I was hoping that you’d get the joke,” you sigh looking down, and open the front door on the way out. 
Once the sunset disappears into the horizon and the shroud of nightfall takes its place, you’re fighting every single urge in your body to look at the hands of your watch - strategizing the proper time frame to sweep Giselle from whatever conversation she’s got herself into with people that look like they’ve got enough money to hideaway on an island for the rest of their lives, a big circle in the sense of community, but also a really small bubble. 
Anyway, 
The rundown of the current party for you right now: everything’s relatively tame with the people that you’ve been talking to. Some of which you haven’t seen since grad school. You get pats on the shoulder, get a glass raised for your biggest score that you’ve ever hit in your life marrying Giselle. While you’ve got the feel-pretty-good face while nursing a mojito down, because you deserve it, it’s been a long week as it is. 
So you talk - and keep talking, get some more drinks (but just enough for your own alcohol tolerance), grab a few bites from the provided food thanks to the insane catering service brought in by your parents. A few members of the press got inside access to this event, with the agreement that nothing was to be overshared. Aside from all the bright lights and nicely fitted outfits everyone’s got going on across the pad, it’s almost like they’re a part of the group too. 
Word gets round the different pods of groups; your name getting bounced around with Giselle’s, but a lean of the ear and a side eye is all you give them. You’d assume that it’s in good faith, cocking your head back over to see Giselle at a bar on the other side - upper body leaned over the counter, sharing a laugh with someone, but her body language tells a different tale entirely. 
It’s something not worth thinking twice the way your feet move at their own volition. 
A closer look the more you maintain your heading: she’s got a hand stacked to his arm, the angle her body is facing appears to show more cleavage, leaning over to stick the round part of her ass some more, the wistful gaze she’s giving this person also puts a dirty look on your face. She’s gone way too far. 
“Hey,” you greet, nose buried into her hair before you pull yourself back, giving the guy a quick look then back at Giselle. “Everything okay?” 
Giselle nods, “Just conversing. Sorry.” She’s got her hand over yours, showing the glint of the rings towards the guy, and he gets the hint - walking away with a string of apologies spilling out of his mouth. “What the hell was that for?” 
“I think we can take this discussion inside.” you say, and you grab her hand instinctively. 
Aside from the liveliness happening right outside the doors, you’re sheltering yourself away deeper and deeper into the walls of this massive estate. Just down a few steps, into the hallway. You don’t even live here, not anymore at least. But anywhere far away until the crowd noise and music is nearly diminished. Giselle gets rid of your grip on her wrist, and the faint vibrations of the bass match with your heart, between your ears.
Her guard is slightly up, and she didn’t even have that much to drink: 
“Wanna tell me what the fuck was your problem back up there?” Giselle asks, backpedaling away until her posterior taps the wall. The overhanging dim light in the hall makes her smaller. “I didn’t even do anything wrong, I swear.” 
“You think?” 
“No!” She softly exclaims, letting her shoulders drop while she racks her head about. “I couldn’t stand being with those girls earlier when we walked in, talking about all of my-” Her breath gets trapped between her lips, frozen still, as if she completely lost her train of thought right then and there.
“Your problems?” 
She winces a bit, as if the word was a rough tear on an old wound. “Yes.” 
“You could’ve,” you’re trying to say, stepping closer with a hand to the side of her head, looking up to the staircase where there’s an influx of laughter at the top steps, “Said something earlier, to me.”
The next revelation that follows hits you right on the nail, to the top of your head.
“I wanted to come to you.” 
It’s a sinking ship; a capsize happening in full effect.
“So why didn’t you?”
In the low highlights of fluorescent purple mixed with darkness, you meet her eyes when they shine every few seconds. A thought is there, you can tell from her gaze alone. But this was just a part to play; you remember suddenly too, why was this going to be an instance where you’re worked up over nothing? 
Deafening silence builds between the space of your bodies. A momentary time to reflect. 
“I just didn’t,” is all she answers with, and her eyes go wide, hand to your tie, fiddling away. “I should’ve, but-” 
“You didn’t.” 
It could’ve been anyone else to be with her. It could’ve been someone other than you standing where you are right now. But you’re holding your breath, endlessly wondering why if at all- 
“I’m glad that you did anyway.” 
Everything gets thrown off the table when you have Giselle’s face in your hands, kissing away to your heart’s content. You ask questions later; the only thing that matters now is how you’re bruising up her face with yours, press into her lips, her cheeks, her nose, tilt her chin up with one wrist meshed into the wall, she’s twisting and tensing, returning the pressure and indirectly asking for more, her grip is getting greedy, greedier. 
You’ve got a hold, and she’s got one on you. Her arms corral you, her leg hiked up by your hand, running upwards on her thigh. A small pocket forms between your lips and hers, and she inhales, nearly floating on air. 
(This is a litmus test, a dry run, an improv - you don’t know how far the limit is but this is essentially a leap of faith. How far can you fall from grace in the short span of time spent with someone like her?) 
But you hold back; not in nervousness, no, though her lidded eyes are in view while your breath weighs heavy. She’s not entirely sure what she’s doing, what she’s feeling. You’re also in the same boat as her; a finger to her jaw, her bottom lip, a potential claim waiting to be traced by you. It’s only natural for your hands to shift their way down to her hips, anchoring her in place with the wall, twisting her body as she patches a hot kiss to your cheek, the line of your chin, whimpering mindlessly as her dress rumples up between your fingertips- 
“Watch yourself,” you mumble in her lips, get a quick hiccup out that makes her giggle - catching her open mouth again to keep her quiet, the hands also aren’t helping when they sift down lower to her ass, a grasp where she accepts it wholeheartedly, nodding away like yes, this is good, love it when you touch me like this, I know you want more. 
The shared stumbles you and her take scaffold into this gentle slope, hobbling down the walkway as she figuratively and literally can’t keep her hands off of you, keeping herself close to where any second apart would pretty much kill her. An arm from you keeps her in check while the other is searching for an opening, a passage, a temporary asylum where you and her can harbor for a bit, away from the noise.
“Come on,” Giselle grits, her breath shaky and stuttery. “Don’t keep me waiting. I swear to fucking god. Don’t you dare make me wait.” 
That ups the ante a bit, kissing as it’s the equivalent to drinking water. You and her are shuffling down the hallway, playing a little lottery game of opening doors that lead to somewhere safe, and a stroke of luck strikes after two or three attempts. It's a bit murky with all the alcohol in your system, but the tolerance is still there. 
“What do you want?” you ask, the line coming off as a mere mutter when you take the space broadened by the tilt of her neck upwards, a lick as she burrows herself into your collarbone, seething at the teeth. “Tell me. Please, I’ll do it. I promise. Anything you want.” 
“You,” she says, biting the sensitive skin of your throat that only makes the grasp of her waist even tighter. “I just want you. Nothing more.” 
Giselle pleads, and she begs. Even when her back is against the closed door of one of the guest rooms. You’re not worried if someone will come looking for you. This shouldn’t take long, but it should also last forever. 
“I’ll treat you right,” you tell her, and it’s an act you’ll double down on. She knows how good you’ve been. You can see it in the way her body relaxes, letting you have free reign for as long as she lets you. Even as you’re kissing her again, her hand’s already quick on the gun, bringing it down to her hiked dress, past lace she’s hidden under your nose cast aside for your fingers to dip down into her slick, and her mouth goes slack suddenly, spreading her apart, chest fluttering to the peak. “That’s my job, isn’t it?” 
You can feel her, yeah. There’s no point in denying, if at all. 
“-s’more than that, remember?” she barely spits, voice tethered, and the gratitude she has in the way her hand is literally a death grip on yours, inching your digits as far as you could take them; it also doesn’t help how your thumb it lightly pressed into her clit, and she just falters on the wall, completely fucked out in tandem with some of the drinks too. “God, I can’t believe-” 
You let her have this: the way that she’s fucking herself onto your fingers, the yelp of pain into a sound of relief when your teeth mold into her skin along the line of her collarbone and neck. She’s got a little bit more of her dress higher now, watching her eyes go from sweet - to something more primal, the want infecting every inch of her body and mind as she shakes herself down again. In a split-second, you’ve got her on the nearby vanity, leaning down to keep her quiet with your mouth, a handful of her dress in one of your hands; she’s shutting her legs together with a hand stuck, fingers fully covered in her slippery cunt, yelping out loud to the point where the palm has to come in play as another muzzle, her eyes are welling up in tears and her cheeks are in this perfect rose shade, pumping your fingertips well past her breaking point. A part of you gets worried, but the soothing smacks of your lips across her exposed chest and marked up neck serve as an act of amnesty for her poor body, and she’s still asking for more. 
“Shh,” you whisper in comfort, and Giselle calms down for just a bit - but she stills every muscle and bone in her body when you find that one spot that drops her whole mouth wide open, holding her breath right in her chest and throat. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. I bet it feels amazing: having you like this.” 
She bears no answer to your merciless teasing, and the only thing that you’re fixed on is the feeling of her sopping pussy stretching out around your fingers. You almost laugh at how her hips slightly buckle upwards, and the irregular breathing as she looks down to witness the damage. 
“Please, please, please,” says Giselle. “You know what I want right now. Don’t fucking-” 
You’re reminded again at how well she can leave quite the impression. A bit unbelievable that all five-five of her small fame set on the vanity still functions properly after you’ve fucked the daylights out of her for the time being: her hands quick to undo the belt buckle and button and zipper, palming your cock that sends all synapses and impulses towards one action, and the both of you know that it’s something that you need. Her dress gets removed off little by little and- 
She wasn’t wearing a fucking bra underneath that dress. You’ll come back to that later. 
The jacket goes, then the collared shirt gets unbuttoned. Giselle’s got her legs spread out wide along with her folds, a thick tip as the first point of contact, throbbing at how the fucking clamp gets you off guard, sliding more into the proper groove. Giselle eyes lose focus, fluttering shut with a delayed movement to them, blinking. Her cunt embracing you fully, warm and inviting; it’s a lifeline, a burning one, you’ve got yourself buried deep where breaking her down comes a lot more easier. 
Her cries get through your ear canals, muttering nonsense even when you’ve got your lips on her again to shut her up. Fuck, she’s telling you, and you’ve got half the frame of mind to be with her on that. 
“Holy s-” you huff, no point in stopping now, “Yeah, okay, you-you’re so, fuck.” 
And when you do reach the base, sheathe yourself right at the hilt, this could be a culmination long awaited, but it’s right here, in this moment, where no one else is watching - let alone noticing where you two have gone, the strokes pick up a bit with Giselle’s breath in these staccatos with the thrusts you’re giving her, her head hits the mirror a bit, and a heel falls onto the floor. 
“Fuck,” she groans again. “So-so fucking deep, ugh-” 
“Oh you fucking know it,” you mutter again at the fine line of her throat, leaving another claim to the row of marks blossoming, unsure if this was what she wanted (but in truth, it’s exactly what it is.) “Relax baby, I know. Just be good for me, that’s all you have to do.” 
She begs again. A quick please that gets silence with another harsh snap of your hips into her. You’ll take her. Tear her apart until the crimson is visible everywhere on her body. She’s got a hand to a singular tit, the rebound of these endless ripples on her hips and into the curves of her body. Looking at her will do damage to your brain, and listening was already bad enough as it is - the hisses, her moans, the praises showering you at how well your cock carves into her volcanic cunt- 
You’re pulling yourself into this sort of flow state, kind of like zeroing in on a singular thing. Nothing else really mattered what was happening past this door, or what you’re thinking of doing come the next day. Giselle’s creaming cunt keeps you focused as she reaches out to lean your body forward again, lips forcing you to stay the course. As if the mere possibility of getting lost with her body was almost a one-hundred percent certainty. 
“Christ,” says Giselle, back sliding down onto the counter as your fingers find a new hold into the crease where her hips and thighs meet, yanking her back as you meet her in the middle driving forward. It sends a shock up her spine, along with a forced yelp from her lips, gasping soon after you groan while steadying yourself again back into the consistent rhythm you’ve built. “So good, so-so good.” 
“Wanted me to knock some sense into you huh?” You’re grinning as Giselle’s eyes roll back, borderline sobbing; the fucking too much to bear that she’ll give you an earful about it once all of this is done. But when her eyes look up it’s an expression that’ll be something worthy of a taunt or pretense for the next time: determination, and you might be done for. Her glint in those watered-brown eyes of hers are filled with satisfaction as they disappear underneath the eyelid again. “Was that the problem all along? What other issues do you fucking have as baggage, hm?”
“Not your business right now,” she shrieks a bit when your cock carves a bit deeper into her. “Jesus,” her ankle gets taut around the small of your back, pussy clamping hard around your cock, pausing your strokes in line with the heavy breathing. “It’s just- your cock, I can’t bel- ugh, it’s too- mmm, god.” 
When you’ve got her past the edge, it’s a beautiful sight to see, watching her orgasm front and center. It’s in the rolled back eyes, the bright flush of pink spread across her face. 
“There we go, Gis,” you say to her as her walls respond to the bodily reflex of your cock twitching inside of her. “Good girl, breathe for me. You naughty little-” 
She grabs onto your hand while her teeth hold themselves captive in her mouth, muscles along her waist tensing until she leaks out a clear yell, “Fuck, fuck, fuck you, fuck your mouth, your fucking co- God, I hate how good you are at this, it’s infuri-” 
You muffle her with the necktie, and a pinch of her clit while your cock bottoms out in her momentarily sedates the screaming. 
“Too fucking loud,” you spit, watching her whimper away with the article trapped on top of her mouth: “Is my cock not enough for you to shut up?” 
She couldn’t give any care for the questions - granted that they are rhetorical. But her pussy is still unbelievably tight around your cock still. She’s got some of her lower back rolled up, the slick spread across your hips and onto the vanity counter as well. Her heat is already addicting enough to where you only want more. 
“Please, honey. Please keep going,” her voice is close to a siren’s call, laced with the begging, but your hands are a little faster than your mind, pulling her into you again, leaning down for another desperate kiss. You take and give, and you’ll let her have it. She’s gonna feel the soreness come tomorrow morning when you’ve carried her up the stairs and into her bed, watch her cling onto your arm or waist or the nape of your neck; get the grip of her in your fingers to a point where you’re pressing down so fucking hard that she’s gonna need a massage gun to better service her hands when she’s rubbing those hard-earned and sorry bruises across her hip bones and legs. A selfish thought consumes your brain; long-manifested from watching her at a distance with someone else that isn’t you- 
“You’re mine,” you grit, biting into her skin. You simply can’t stop. “You’re all mine, oh god, baby, just-” 
There’s really no other explanation to put in: filling her pussy endlessly as the back of her head hits the mirror, letting the clench of her walls around your shaft hold so tight to the point where you’ve got your fingers holding you true; in that dripping mess that keeps on leaking - hooking on one of her folds where she’s twitching again. Her entire body goes slack, a firm slap of her hand on the counter as her back arches upwards while you flinch at the pocket of air created in her cunt. 
“No one else,” she says with a bit of a hitch, a winced noise followed by the crinkle across the bridge of her eyebrows, “you’ve always wondered why.” It’s a spontaneous confession, she’s too unsure if it’s her talking or the alcohol. “It’s just you.” 
You get a bit sloppy with the snaps, fix her legs up to where the balls of her feet are pointing up to the ceiling - you kiss her calf and ankle, toss her other heel in a dark corner of the room. No surprise that you’re unsure too about the toss, but it’s worth going with the flow. 
“Don’t do this to me,” you’re telling her, pleading, the sigh leaving your lips is almost pathetic. You’ve got your fingers right at her underboob, the dress rolled up to her waist where you hold yourself down with every motion, watching her uncovered tits ripple on the upstroke, putting your cock deep into her to the point she might go slack in her body. She gasps, an exhale of relief - and you could feel the meat of her calf tense along your shoulder; pressing her legs closer together - to wrap her around your cock tight. Tighter. The weight of your is unbearable for her as her back flushes across the table- 
You get one good thrust in her again. Bottoming out, watching her keen at the thickness of it. Hold her there for a bit, listening to her steady stream of dry air, reveling in the slight throb your cock pulsates inside her cunt; you needed to take a quick breather, it’ll be too much if you get ahead of yourself- 
She doesn’t seem to bother about your quick desire to stop, saying: “Go,” and, “Move for me.” Fucking hell, this front of her is going to be a nuisance. Her eyes roll back forward with the slimmest smile, slowly, cautiously- 
“Do you always fuck your girls like this? Or am I just the lucky one who gets to see you this way?” 
The grasp to her neck proves to be the sufficient answer you could give her. 
Let alone the sound of the harsh crack of your hips slamming into the underside of her thighs. 
“Oh god- baby, yes.” Even when her throat is wrapped around your fingers, the noise she makes and the words mold all around your digits. “Just like that.” 
Another drag out of her wetness, and the pin drop inside her is a lot more forceful than the last. You’re pretty sure you could pick up the slight squelch her pussy makes around your cock. 
“Jesus.” You’re saying, the simplicity alone is enough to not elaborate any further. “Giselle, your cunt, my goodness.”
Giselle nods, plummeting your mind deeper into her madness. 
It won’t be any long now for her drink in the sight of you filling her up, your body bent over forward and buried between her tits, unwilling to look up at her small grin of satisfaction. And even when you do, just out of curiosity, she whimpers again once you’ve decided that the pace needed to be upped a bit faster; feel her quivering cunt collapsing around the length, watch her eyes go wide, match her parted lips and groans in the same volume as you hold her down - right where she belongs. A small intermission. A pause - spreading her wider, closing in the space between her legs again with your hips, and you pick up right where you left off into fucking her. 
You’re being pulled in close again, a mandatory kiss where Giselle’s got her fingers into the line of your neck, slipping your tongue into the corner of your mouth. She laughs through her nose when you brush the tip of yours across her cheek, let her feel the crease in your eyebrows that gets tangled with her platinum shade hairs. Her lips taste like this mix of cider, with some additional drinks that she’s had in the past hour and a half or so, tongue licking away of all the sweat and slick spread across, hips moving on their own accord as you’re rebounding her back after every thrust. 
“You feel so good.” That’s an admission that you’ll come back to every given time, slipping inside of Giselle’s pussy so easily. Consuming you. Safe to say that you’ve had your fair share of sexual experiences and escapades up till this point - some of which are more worthy of remembering than others, but for some reason this time is different, and you’re not so entirely sure as to why. “This fucking- ugh, your pussy is amazing.” 
“Uh huh.” She simply nods, grazing her lips across your cheek and lips, lost in the movements, her throat bobbing down a swallow. Your grip loosens up a bit, tenderly, slowly dragging your cock out of her well-fucked pussy and watching the small slings of her slick form on her thighs and your hips. Her whole appearance is a battlefield personified: clean porcelain now tattered and stained with marks in a darker, rosy shade, her lipstick smeared at the corners, the fringes in her hair falling forward - curtaining her forehead just a bit, the glint in her eyes still shining in all of its glory, hiding behind her heavy eyelids in every languid blink as she rests her head on the mirror again for what might be the last time. “You’re-you’re gonna, you’re gonna make fucking cum.”
The reflexive clamp she has on your throbbing cock, brings you back to reality, drawing yourself back and pummeling deep into her creaming hole as you see the first hints of white splotches resting at the base when you coax the rhythm for a few seconds. It’s in the devil’s details, watching Giselle fall apart again right before your eyes, hands grasping and letting go bundles of your shirt as she spreads her legs even wider, holding her right at the divot of her hips and top of her legs; swollen pink pussy folds well wrapped around your shaft. She’s like a nice bundle of rope: unraveled, tattered, used. 
“You’re getting so close,” she assesses, a teasing finger along the firm muscle of your stomach, clutching onto your shirt after. “I can feel you shaking.” 
“Fuck-” 
It comes in a shudder, when you’ve finally reached that high apex you’ve been working towards with her body, her cunt, her lips - sliding out of her with a hand fast around your shaft, fingers slipping a bit across the length as you leak out hot cum all over her hips. She’s gritting her teeth when you press her leg up a bit too high, the stretch of muscle a little bit too much as she’s shuddering at the feeling of your thick load hitting her flushed pink yet porcelain skin. A sigh of relief leaves her lips, loving everything about it; a bit shocked as you continue to pump out of your hand. 
“Holy shit,” she mumbles, humming as her chest heaves in a decreasing pace, coming down, “You really just- wow, what a fucking mess you’ve made. Dirty boy.” 
You pay half-attention to the taunt, doing everything in your power to lower your heart rate back to normal. The grip you have on your cock is a bit too tight, slapping the head on her clit, gets a soft ‘ah’ out of her, then she coos; grateful, satisfied. 
“Can’t call me that with all the shit you said just now,” you tell her, thumb to her cheek, her bottom lip. She gives in so easily, a small peek into the neverending black hole she possesses with that look on her face, especially in her eyes, the way that your thumb slips into those plush lips of hers, sucking greedily, like she wants more out of you. The way the plane of her tongue brushes across the pad, how her cheeks hollow and suck as if it were your cock - oh, about that, that’s already a can of worms you’ll open up and uncover as a practicing theory, what will become of her after tonight - the different possibilities opening up as her eyelids flutter at your loving touch; the way she leans- 
“Mmm,” she gives you, and her doe eyes give you this expression of neediness, the sparkles of lust still apparent in them, her tongue swirling as you try to fight the urge of catching your teeth with your bottom lip, wanting to do something about her slutty attitude. And the idea pops up in your head more quickly than expected. 
Your hand retreats from her face, trails down to those perky breasts of hers, her sweaty abs, a quick hook onto the top of her thighs to pull her closer to you as she tries to sit up. Giselle laughs a bit as your cock lightly taps her pussy lips, making her suddenly tense up at the contact, humming after as she watches two of your fingers scoop up some of the filthy mess you’ve left all over her waist, rub it between your tips like it’s some sort of substance that’s unfamiliar, tap it against her lips as she opens up her mouth, following along to what you’re doing. She can be like this, which might be a good thing, and you’ll treat herself to the reward. 
It’s in the way her cheeks flush again in the low light of the vanity. Your fingers in her mouth, holding, rubbing, cleaning off the sticky mess between your digits. Those plump, half open lips, you could see a bit of your cum on her tongue. 
“Swallow,” you’re telling her, mind still trying to process the sight of her licking your load in between your fingers and knuckles. “All of it, Giselle. Swallow it all.” 
She doesn’t say anything else after that, just being obedient to what you demanded of her to do. 
Part of this feels right, but then at the same time it doesn’t. 
Your hand trails the same pathway down, only this time stopping right at the side of her left breast, staying there. She offers up a hand for you to take, sitting her upright, lets her knees hang off the edge as you’re standing in between the pair of them still, stroking her thighs while you smother yourself back into her chest. This could be a moment of realization or regret, or that could just be your own mind playing the game of worrying too much over something that’s too little to be that big of a deal. 
Giselle licks her lips, offers them to you, which you take - kissing her again. You could feel her jaw clench when you pull her by the side of her face, tongue slipping unconsciously back into her mouth, pressing and clashing with hers, inhaling the sweet stench of sex emitting from her body and yours too. 
“You’re a mess,” she whispers, leaving a few strings of kisses across the lower half or your cheek, winces a bit when you pinch the side of her waist a bit too tightly, soreness still present. “How long have you been wanting to do that to me, mm?” 
“Think we could save that for another time?” And you just happily play along to what she’s inquiring, voice low and inviting. “I’d rather worry about getting out of here first.” 
You give Giselle a bit of space for her to rearrange her dress a bit, looking over your shoulder for that discarded heel in one of the dark corners; hand quick to her waist to lick and clean up the leaking mess while you swipe a piece of the bedsheets nearby to wipe down the mess on your waist and all over her cunt- 
“Lend me your jacket.” She asks politely, finally standing up with a bit of a wobble in her legs. “It did get a little bit chilly when we walked on the way in.” 
You see, nobody bats an eye or raises a brow in suspicion when you’ve managed to leave your family estate in record time. 
As for those who did take notice, you simply told them that going home early was always the plan in the end. The valet who took care of your car at the front foyer also gave a look to you holding the door for Giselle; well, he could easily tell judging at the way your jacket was on her - heels in your hand as he could only assume one thing and one thing only. Kudos to him for keeping it on the low, in addition to the considerable tip you handed before driving away. 
“Should’ve left a whole lot sooner,” she tells you, a bit of a harsh press on the brakes when you then stop at a t-junction. 
She’s got the seat almost all the way back, her legs bunched up with your jacket now covering her front, fiddling with a finger between her lips as you alternate glances from her and the intersection. “That’s what I told you before we walked in earlier.” 
To be fair, it isn’t your fault in the first place. All honesty aside, it was nice to spend some quality time with some old friends, play catchup and all. You could’ve stayed as long as you would’ve liked, stayed over for the night and just go back to your new home the next morning. Giselle would’ve been on board with the idea had you told her, but instead she had other things to set in motion. 
“It’s events like these,” she breathes, “They’re always boring. So boring. It’s been that way with me since I was little.” The jacket falls a little below the shoulders, exposing her clavicles, and runs a hand over them as if she was doing some heavy lifting. Doesn’t help that her hair falls along with the piece, showing more of her pale, yet marked up neck. 
“We’ve always crossed paths,” you say, slowly steering the car left and down the road. “I mean- I was literally with you at your birthday party, so of course I can relate to what you’re feeling.” 
She looks left, then down at your hand resting on the gear shift, remembering the not-so-distant memory. “Yeah, I guess you can.” 
“Hm?” 
“Nobody else was appealing, when my parents were searching for someone that could be best suited to be my ‘husband’. All of the other considerable candidates never really made a case to be a worthy suitor in this absolute shitstorm.” 
“Don’t you know it?” 
Giselle chuckles again, the bright glow of the arrow signs reflecting off of the headlights, then fading away into the eventual darkness. Most of the ride has been filled with silence, with the low growl of the tires rolling against the pavement and the constant ambient whirring that the engine was emitting. 
“So why me?” you ask, darting your eyes back from Giselle onto the road. “You could’ve gone with anyone else, but why choose me?” 
“It was a simple decision,” she answers, shifting her body to the side with the seat belt loosening as you move through a few sequences of winding turns. “Most people aren’t very easy going when they warm up to me; but since I’ve known you for quite a bit, I thought it would feel just as natural since we’ve had that sort of-”
“Connection, huh?” you chuckle, putting the car in a lower gear when you reach a decline on the road. You give another look at her face shimmered in yellow, low eyelids and slightly parted lips as you and her examine each other’s features, nodding in agreement when nothing else is said. 
Giselle then moves your hand over to her exposed thigh, letting it rest there as your thumb runs across the plush surface. 
“I want another,” she says, clasping your hand on her leg, nails slightly digging into the skin of your wrist. 
You snort in response, almost thrown off at the sudden request. “What do you mean, another?” 
“You should know exactly what I mean.” 
“I’m not entirely sure I’m following you on this.” 
“Do you want me to put it in a way that makes you understand?” She asks, her voice teetering into a small smile, the blatant innuendo splayed across her face. The grip of your wrist in her hand grows a bit stiff, and yours holds steady on the underside of her thigh. 
“How do you suppose that’ll go?” you ask, sliding your hand up into her more. “I can pick up on things pretty fast.”
“Pull the car over and I’ll give you the explanation.”
(Like you needed the necessary explanation. 
All it took was a hand to your hardening crotch beneath your pants and before you know it, you’ve got the car off to the side of the road, not exactly secluded and discreet about the way that she’s bent over on the side of the car, hot breath fogging up the metal across the hood as she’s got other things to worry about in your cock filling her up again. Her dress is already back up to her waist as your slacks are slipping off the rim of your thighs. There’s also the occasional presence of some crickets sheltered away in the patches of grass, the slaps of your hips fucking into Giselle’s, turning your head in reflex when you hear an audible snap somewhere in the darkness - probably a fallen branch, or something like that. 
It’s a bit hard to keep yourself composed when she’s cumming all over your cock again. 
Her body goes limp, a hand is splayed on the headlight. You’re holding her by the breast, cream-slicked cock slipping inside her once more, ripping her open. She can’t even look back over her shoulder, the strained noises coming out of her keeps on filling your ears, throwing her lower half back into yours to make the blowback just as brutal. Every passing second underneath your pressure, she crumbles - well-worked and carnally raw. 
“-s’deep. Fucking- bitch. Oh, darling - ah” 
Your hands hold firm at her waist, driving in, watching as her ass perform this hypnotic ripple against your legs. She loves this, adores the fun of having a rough-fuck; unwilling to get enough of your cock sliding through her throbbing nerves when your shaft makes contact along the slick surface. The motion itself gets you lost endlessly, cupping her ass, pressing and grasping at the supple skin, leaning over when her back arches a bit, getting your face buried in the back of her head, flushing your hips into hers like it’s some long lost art piece. Like you realized just moments ago: she just can’t get enough, and neither can you. “Giselle,” you’re breathing, soft and gentle. She hushes you, lets the sopping wetness of her pussy speak for itself, grinding an angle at the hilt that makes your breath hitch.
Every plea, utterance, and worry that’s said after her exaggerated gasps when your cock slows its drag inside her walls, the declining rubs inside her cunt make her body convulse. 
“You’re the fucking worst,” you tell her, and she nods with a smirk at the corner of her lip - an admission. 
“Sounds just like me.” she says, all fucked out and gratified.) 
The weekend passes, and the weekday rolls around again to take its place. 
On most days, it’s a rinse and repeat: walk in, settle some deals, make some calls, sit through these boring ass meetings, toss the post-it notes stuck on your monitor by Winter in the trash can before your occasional smoke break, treat yourself to the catered lunch provided for the team members by the company. It’s relatively tame for the most part, and Giselle pops in the building every now and then in her family’s stead, making sure that the transition period in the merging process is going as smoothly as possible. 
“She looks like she’s in good spirits,” Winter tells you when she sees you and Giselle wave goodbye to each other one afternoon outside your office, pen tapping on her pursed lips as you stop at the corner of her desk. “I’m surprised that she’s doing some work for her parents around here as well. Didn’t expect that.” 
“Keeping me in check,” you say, closely observing the curve of her ass peeking around the fabric of her dress as it goes out of view past the corner and near the elevators. “It’s a transactional thing: ensuring that I’m doing my job just as much as she’s doing hers.” 
“So, is it clicking between the two of you?” Winter asks, not even facing you. 
“What do you mean?” 
“I guess I meant that you’re holding up well after the whole arrangement?” Winter adds on, turning again fully invested, “Being forced into an arranged marriage. A loveless marriage would be a better term to coin it.” 
“Well,” you try to answer, but your train of thought gets lost in your own head. “I feel like it’s a little bit out of convenience - letting my parents take advantage of a huge part of my life that I wanted to have control over. But we’re willing to make it work, I think.” 
“Huh?” 
“We have history, Winter.” The shake of your head makes your secretary laugh a bit, almost baffled at the declaration. “Who knows what happens from here on out. Besides, I might have a change of heart at some point, so have some hope.” 
“If you’re happy, then I’m happy,” says Winter, tapping your hand resting on the railing of the cubicle. “You’ve got the ring on your finger to prove it, partially, but I’ll always love and support you in whatever you do with her.” 
You wave a hand at her as you move away from her desk, a bit annoyed - still smiling. 
“Do you wanna grab lunch with us whenever she drops by the floor again?” you ask, walking back to the open door of your office. “Offer stands on the table for the time being.” 
Winter muses. Me? Third-wheeling? Pfft- low blow, boss. The mutter could be heard under your low chuckle. She raises a fist up in the air to celebrate, hides it away when you tell her to get back to work. 
Giselle sends you a text two hours later in between breaks: Pick me up? 
You’ve got roughly until five until you could clock out, but this report needs to be sent to your father before you leave. I could make a detour before we get some food later, but yeah. I can make that happen. 
A smiling emoji. She sends. A bit vague, but you could tell that she’s ditzy on her end of the phone screen. 
Almost done? 
Some last minute submissions. 
Nice. 
Dinner somewhere? 
You ask, you buy. 
What about after? 
I’ll pay you back when we get home. 
(No point in asking how, she knows exactly how to go about that.) 
It takes about one missed call followed up with a few more rings at the second time calling to the return, but Giselle answers with a whole-hearted laugh on her end. 
“Sorry,” she greets after saying hello, “There’s been a change of plans. I’ll see you at home. Someone came to see me on my way out of the office and-” 
There’s another laugh in the background. Sounds familiar, nearly cat-like and sly. A clear contrast to the gleaming tone Giselle has, radiating like the glare of the sun bouncing off the overhanging windows from the neighboring towers across the three-building campus.
“Darn,” you say, “And here I was actually getting excited to come see you.” 
“We can move it to tomorrow, I should probably have you meet-” then the phone picks up a little shuffle of handlers, Giselle complaining a bit and suddenly, another feminine voice takes over the call - Sorry not sorry for stealing your girl. She’s been putting me off, but now she’s on my time. Hope you don’t mind. 
“Wait,” you’re telling her again, confused, “Who’s your little girlfriend? She sounds cute as well.” 
“You’ll see soon,” says Giselle, a bit airy. “A real dazzler, she’s absolutely perfect, a fucking bitch, but the complete package.” You’re thinking twice when there’s an audible smack of a pair of lips on her neck that makes her mewl on the microphone. 
You’re rolling your eyes as you nestle in the backseat of the car, and say, “better play nice. I’ll see you later,” and then you end the call. 
But you never really figure out this mystery woman is, who poached your wife right outside her office building. At least you’re thankful for the wonderful gentleman on Giselle’s detail bringing her back - in one piece, despite the disheveled appearance from the smeared lipstick to the waves of messy hair that would need to be tended to on her own terms. So, uh. You’ll ask for the debrief sometime in the morning. 
Coffee grounds are getting brewed, and nothing fills up the apartment more than some homey jazz softly blasting from the speakers on the record player. 
It’s an exceptionally slow kind of morning: the kind where you look at the alarm of your phone screen and just toss it off to the nightstand while muttering to yourself to stay in bed for five more minutes, and to be fair, maybe for the rest of the day. 
While you’re waiting for the food on the cast iron to cool down, you indulge yourself to an article that covered a past press event that had you and Giselle both in attendance. Granted that it was one of her close friend’s fashion line releases in the form of a pop-up event Giselle insisted that you’d tag along just for the testy thrill. To get out of the office and breathe a little bit. C’mon, it’ll be fun. 
There’s a thread of pictures you scroll by on your tablet of you and her taking in the moment of presentation; people absolutely losing their shit just by being and breathing the same air as you and her, nothing short of the love well received for the two of you. It’s seen in the details: you look up to the four levels above of people cheering both of your names, the next slide looking outward to a distant camera capturing the image. A few more following images show you laying your eyes on Giselle, from the embracing smile, her hand up in bright surprise, with another still showing her returning the same look she always does earnestly. But what the people don’t realize is that just before this showing, you and her had a small heated argument in the elevator minutes before stepping on stage; she came out of it clean while you’re the one with damage control - fixing up your collar and smearing some of the lipstick left on the single corner of your lip. The confused beam on your face sells the whole thing entirely. 
The feed’s comments are still raving and fawning about this whole pairing, too. And it seems that isn’t going away anytime soon; even when the most liked comment says: “i bet they smile at each other when they fuck. God they’re so hot.” 
<“you think their parents high-five each other whenever they see them together?”>
The list goes on, and one says: <“it’s still unbelievable that they’re actually together and omg i just can’t get over them!”>
Various comments are just filled with exclamation points and lovely emojis. 
Another person also says a few swipes down: <“doesn’t seem convincing to me. almost as if they’re just showing for the title/label rather than out of genuine affection.”>
<“you’re right. also, where tf are their wedding pics?”>
See? It’s worth the subtle nod and the raise of impressive eyebrows to know that not everyone is fully onboard with the whole situation. You think, people can’t be easily swayed by what the media portrays, considering the fact that any shrivel of credibility is either legit or nothing but smoke. 
Giselle then walks in from the hallway; encased in a linen robe, messy bedhead and with a lazy yawn. “You’re up early.”
“It’s almost ten.” You tell her. “I’m getting a late start to the morning.” 
“Busy day?” asks Giselle, one eye open still when she rounds the kitchen island, puts her cheek against your shoulder, looking over to see your daily spontaneous read. “I was supposed to see someone later today.” 
“Is it ‘your dazzler’ date from last night?” you address, towering over the top of Giselle’s head when she leans into you to see the assorted breakfast. “Looks to me like you had a little too much fun with her.” 
“Not your business,” she replies, stealing a blueberry from your stack of pancakes. Not the ideal response from her - especially since she’s usually open and practically blunt with sharing bits of her life and adventures. “I saw those comments on that article you were looking at from our outing a while back and let me tell you: they’re right.” 
“You think?” 
“I know.” Her answer alone should serve all the truth as to what things are between you and her. The label of ‘husband and wife’ isn’t all extravagant fireworks and worth pulling the aged wines to swirl big glasses around over - let alone fooling nearly every person that follows your daily life into one big, misleading lie. When she settles into the high chair with a knee up, her sweater that isn’t exactly her’s and you know it, her pensive expression is far ahead of your thought process already. 
“Do you think this whole marriage is out of convenience?” 
She looks at you clearly baffled, eyes wide. “I- well, I was gonna ask you the same thing. What do you think?” 
“I think your thoughts are more important than mine at the moment.” 
Giselle leans forward with an elbow on the table, chin dipping low and heavy. “There’s something for our parents to gain from this. Some cover up; more money, more pull - blah blah blah blah blah. I think they just wanted us to get involved in some way, they’ve had the idea of us being set up since we were teenagers. The picture is one big fucking mess to me.” 
“Well if you look at the comments, then-” 
“We’ve already commensurated on that note, don’t you forget.” Giselle smirks, a faint fingertip tracing the inner part of her bottom lip. “A marriage out of convenience could also mean that we’re sex partners out of convenience. You’re not slick for ogling at me either, but what are you gonna do?” 
“I’m gonna head to work,” you say with the shake of your head, “We can have a chat about this later.” 
Giselle looks at you in a firm victory; the corner of her lip quirks when you pass by her while clearing your throat, avoiding her question for the time being. 
Yet the question bounces around your mind all day while in the office later, trailing off in spaced daydreams of all the things Giselle as you sit at your desk. 
(She has completely fucked you up.) 
You’d expect for an easy walk-in past the door once the long day’s already passed. Nothing too exhausting: a few business calls here, an outing with a client from your father’s agenda, and just staying chained to your office chair for a majority of the time isn’t very grand, but it’s the usual work flow. 
But to your surprise, somebody’s already made themselves at home. 
A quick dig into the heels of your loafers next to the pair of heels and you settle your bearings towards the living room - lights on and everything, safe to assume that Giselle’s only been here for no longer than a few minutes (hinted by handbag resting on one of the high-rising seats next to the kitchen island). Exhaustion fills up your mind, weighed down by the assortment of your keys and watch in hand, which you toss into the designated bowl signifying your arrival and growing presence that gives off this small echo down the hallways (since you also know that Giselle likes to keep her door propped open for better airflow). 
Entering to your right, you hear: “Hey, home already?” She meets you in the middle as you stop short before the couch, turning to see Giselle in her casual one piece dress, half of her hair present as she combs it down with her fingers, blinking dutifully. “I thought you’d be back later.” 
“Well yeah. But I figured that I could use some of the downtime now,” you’re saying, fishing a pen out of your pocket, then your phone; both of which get tossed to the center portion of the furniture. You unbutton your cufflinks with a tilt in your head as Giselle slips out of her cropped coat, “I don’t have anything for the rest of the evening.” 
“Really,” she replies, and the prose isn’t necessarily a question nor proposition when she says that single word - hands already working to the zipper on the back of her attire. “I was hoping that you did.” 
The first few buttons on your shirt start to part, and Giselle carries forward out of her dress, the black lace underneath presented to you in all of its glory. 
“And what would you do with your alone time had I not come home at all?” you ask, closing the distance between you and her. “I suppose you would’ve had another problem on your lap for me to deal with.” 
“You still have to answer my question from this morning.” 
When she gets both hands deep into the space of your collarbones, hopping up from the floor as you catch the underside of her thighs, holding her in place at the hip when you lightly press her into the nearby pillar of your foyer, it’s a bit laughable in your head as to how easy it is for her to fall into this sense of rhythm - much like a waltz even, lips fast to yours with the dirtiest and most insatiable smile she could ever pull on you. These habits, her issues, the livelihood that she lives by, it’s a tattering case to your own personal code in which you have no complaint or refute to bring up- 
“Sex partners out of convenience?” You say to her as she’s left breathless under your pressing touch, warm mouth and hands claiming familiar territory. “Now what makes you think that’s the overall gist of what we’re doing here?” 
Giselle raises an eyebrow, hides away as she leans down to kiss you again, wanting to let her current appearance and actions do the talking for her. She plays you like it’s some game; pushing your buttons in all the ways that she knows and likes - for you to treat her like an exploit and an advantage to get her point across. And maybe you realize again: that’s all that she’s ever good for. 
You run a finger through the fabric of her panties: “Baby, you’re soaking wet.” 
“Now you’re talking about my kind of discussion.” 
With that said discussion, there’s a few laws of honesty drawn up in your head: 
The first law: it’s the rush of dopamine to blame when you have Giselle’s slick soak your face and fingertips - how she groans and writhes into the mattress as your tongue licks up the mess left out of her cunt; the shade goes to a hotter pink as she grinds her hips against you, eyes opening wide and fluttering shut, clenching in the same way her teeth scrape together. Another implication could be seen in the way that your hands hold firm on her plush, thick, marked up ass; how she let you have control as you turn her head and bend her limbs in all the ways to get you off, hushing out these profane sayings and words to her as you work up to her second orgasm - or third (who’s really keeping track at this point, huh?) You like it when she asks to take a breather, have you walk away for a bit before she gets in this pouty fit, a mood that needs to be sated in cumming again, choke her moans out on the couch for a change of scenery. When she reluctantly admits - as three of your fingers slide into her tightness while your other hand is to the small of her back and your head is at the side of her face, buried in her hair and keeping her arched up, digging deeper. 
The second law: you wouldn’t have to do anything to Giselle and she’d immediately pick up on what you want, the way her eyes would tell you to ‘just come fuck me already, you know you want to’ and the sheer glint beneath her irises sparkle a bit more when you’re teasing the clit as you settle into the seat. 
“Y’know, I always wondered what your other fuckbuddies would think: if they saw you with me and how I’m handling you,” you start to say, eyes focusing and unfocusing in the valley of her breasts - red lines visible along the pale skin as your fingers slip along her thighs a bit - still covered in Giselle’s juices. 
“Hmm,” she sighs out, lowering herself onto your lap and the hitch of breath apparent as she expected for you to get right down to business; but you’re not, and clearly that’s driving her up the wall. Listless words whispered out with little to no meaning. It’s in the wet blanket of her pussy, the stickiness dragging a torrid heat all over your bare cock. 
“Too bad they don’t have that kind of luxury anymore.” you continue on your senseless rambling. “Considering that I’m the lucky one now, which to be honest, is kind of one of the best things I have against you.” 
“What are you even saying?” Giselle questions, losing her train of thought with a good thrust upward, letting her grind down on your hips; holding her down at the top of her thighs as her hands find their place around the crook of your neck. “Just because I let my past flirts use me as- as some fucktoy? You have that as the idea against one of my many points of leverage, baby. God, you-” 
“I get what they mean, if that’s what you’re selling,” you assume. 
She swears. 
“Imagine that, Giselle - with a body like yours, only used to be fucked. Sounds like a pretty damn good deal to me.” 
She elevates her hips for a slight second, hovering over your cockhead. The first few inches following your tip dips up into her cunt, the drenched, most prettiest pair of lips. You tilt your head back - watch the reaction on her face when you dial it back - the twitch in her shoulders and neck muscles as if she already was at that high again, the look on her face in nothing but positives and unbounded; and somewhere in her cerebral cortex, she should know that the moment you thrust up, she’d be a goner - that’s the effect your cock has on her, how she’d mindlessly fuck herself into using it, every opportunity presents a new suggestion, the intent of making her into a messy puddle of mush, a blithering wreck. 
And it’s a form of entertainment in itself when the propositions are thrown up. In a rough write-up in paper and in the sketchbook in your head, the way that she looks in bed: her glistening pussy, dripping, and in a fucked-out mess. You keep dragging your cock through her swollen folds, stagnant, lethargic. You press on with the inquiries - asking, taunting - they’re never meant to be taken literally: “don’t you know that you can think of better ways to convince someone about something without putting your body and attitude to the equation?” 
Her eyes open carefully, her grin tilts a bit, cheeks blushing, and the voice carrying the lump of air past her mouth gets winded: “wouldn’t have the slightest idea, honey.” 
You could feel the warmth growing from her forearms as it nestled over your shoulders, fingers twitching for a proper hold, the press up of her thumbs raises your head to look up at her. She also tossed the idea to you when she visited your office earlier this week, the tempting proposition of just fucking her right then and there across your desk. 
(It didn’t help in the way she presented it too: 
“What would your other team members think?” she probes, the shiniest twinkle in her doe-eyes with the falsest naivety, “Hearing me getting fucked by you with the door wide open? Raise my skirt up for the easiest access you could ever have. Leave a few lipstick prints over your shirt so that everyone knows who you belong to?” 
Blindsided or not, it sends a few synapses in your brain firing.) 
So you’re playing the hard way, a clear contrast to how things unfolded last time, honestly - watching her do this little wiggle over your lap, eyes brimming with light. Her hips, and the little gut-punch movement of her stomach are slow, then pick up suddenly a second later, searching for something close to a rest but coming up empty. Your head dips back a bit to the crown of the couch when the sound of her whines hold steady, breathing cautiously when she fills the open space of your chest, panting into it. 
Your grip on her waist when you bring your head forward again to kiss her left breast - catch a nipple between your teeth, nibbling, biting. 
“Ow, ah-” she blurts, a pitiful chuckle following soon after. Maybe it’s in the double jeopardy - the way she gasps from the shackled chamber of her chest in this stuttering fashion and goes a little more frantically than normal when your thick tip rubs against the outright nub of her clit. She’s sensitive, and very fucking responsive. “Wow. Jesus.” 
Giselle’s hot, pink, satin lips of her pretty, puffy little cunt, hovers right over it: dripping onto your hardened length as you dip your cockhead back in again, nearly there, the heavy weight of her sitting on your dick - but not quite yet, almost. She’s indecisive between grinding her bottom half on your cock, or getting more of your lips and fingers, could be both, anything would suffice for her. She isn’t really begging, per se, but you can just tell: all of the pretty little things that she wants, but can’t admit; the quiet please, I swear to God, why don’t you just stick it in me- or, the incoherent ‘more, baby, I can’t wait any longer, don’t make me- it’s so good - and you already know, you’ve heard it before, how badly she wants it when you let the pads of your fingertips deeper into the spots she loves and likes. 
“You would lose it, so fast,” you start, a sigh of relief into the canal of Giselle’s ear, holding the bottom of her spine steady as your cock starts to stretch the drenched walls of her cunt and let her fall slowly - you could feel the tension in her thighs, her toes curl into the cushions. The sharp, high-pitched whine sounds broken. 
She mutters a ‘please’ - and it rings so prettily, too. 
“I really could let you just slide your perfect, sloppy cunt all over my cock. Be good for me. You wouldn’t even stop for a second, getting yourself off in an instant.” 
Giselle’s eyes squeeze shut, nodding profusely, lips parted. 
And in a way, christ, she could switch that look in her eyes from a flickering promise to a dwindling vortex instantaneously; the wide pupils she has that are near impossible to examine, the pretty mouth hung low a little past halfway, this magenta shade she emits and her head’s lolling. She’s getting more restless, hips moving shallow and not in the way that she wants them to. She knocks a bit of your forehead to your crown, a mix of a whimper and whisper of your name, and it’s a tempting beck and call to her.  
It’s a little overdue for dinner and she’s fucking lost it, hips grinding with yours; the smooth, practied moves of her working cunt, hard, like she means it, like the need to cum for her has to be around something in the most vile ways - her whole face and neck and chest are flushed in this new shade of color and her eyes are hidden behind her eyelids, cock grinding hot between the space of her thighs. She’s squirming - coming apart and pleasing when she’s so out of control, only reduced to her barren sense. To the feeling, the fulfillment of your fingers - or the fine, hard line of your cock dragging along her wetness and thighs, at an angle that you’ve managed to hit a few times before. 
“Just by thinking about it - it’s making you even more antsy,” you say delicately. 
Giselle just blinks. 
“You’ve managed to get me like this, using me to get yourself off whenever you fucking feel like it, right? Imagine. Anytime you just need it - in your office, in the kitchen, get a quick one out before we have a testimonial or showcase, don’t give any care for other people watching you get your pussy railed- stop, I know that look, fuck- it’s not gonna work on me.” 
“Pretty good idea, right?” Giselle sputters out, panting, because you’re working deeper into that spot, you can tell - you can feel it. Her hands are clawing on your shoulders. “Just lift up my pretty dress or skirt and make a mess of me right there.” 
“-be the problematic little bitch that everyone always talks about and has no other sensible thought because you enjoy it as it is.” 
Giselle’s cunt tightens around your cock. You’re also pretty sure that there’s a hint of her squirting. Quite a bit. Dripping and molten- 
“You-” 
“Mhm?” 
“Just- God, please. Want it - you, so fucking bad. Let me ride, I swear-” Giselle tells you, desperately - fucking sit there. She sounds so tenacious. Her hair a nice shade of brown, curtaining at the front of her cheek and a bit stuck to the side of her face. 
There’s like this sheer sense of inevitability - you can see it in the way her body gives, the imaginary cloth around her body coming down. It’s in everything, the stimulation, the teasing - then there’s nothing, a clean slate. As if someone had all her thoughts on a small piece of paper: her arms go slack, a breath wriggles out of her esophagus. Her weight, yielding and bearable, easing herself down on top of you and the heatwave of her cunt snugs around your cock so perfectly, like it was meant to be there, where it always belongs. It also wouldn’t take long for her first fully-fledged orgasm to come in the form of a mixed gasped and whine: ugh, god, thank you - like the effort couldn't have been any easier. 
Her head tilts back, and a smile slips out into something straight out of a lucid dream: falling, calling, chasing - until you realize it wasn't a dream at all. 
And she’s keeping her upper body up with her dainty fingers, pulling herself back into you as her lips drag up into yours, thrusting up, slow and controlled. You feel it as Giselle clamps down again; that throbbing, quivering sensation before that tsunami of warmth captures you. 
So you let her ride, in the way that she is. Her face is tucked to the top where your forehead and hairline meets, moaning for pretty much the entire time. “J’so fucking big, your cock inside me, fuck. I just move and it- god, it just rubs itself in every part of my pussy - yeah, okay, you did it again, so deep. Ugh. How do you do it?” Giselle sounds a bit on edge, frantic, talking complete gibberish - the heavy weight of her hips and ass presses onto your body and her nails mark up on your shoulders and sides as she keeps on riding through one orgasm onto the next, eyes rolling up to the ceiling and letting a series of sighs and slips out of her throat. These sweet, desperate, shameless cries and begs as she drops down, sucks you into her warmth. 
“Honey, honey- so thick- like that, holy shit,” her pitch lines up to the tempo of her slaps. 
“Look at that,” you mumble underneath her praises and heavy pants, the fast, jagged sounds - head nodding and shaking side to side furiously. She can’t even think straight to talk properly. “You’re so fucking wet.” 
“God yes. Fuck yes, s’good-” Giselle moans, totally unchasted and debauched. 
“And your pussy’s soaking up my cock again.” 
“Shut the fuck up,” and most of her sentences are muddled in curses, the phonemes of her sounds morphing into one. Her eyelids are dropping low again, mouth curving to a close shape of an ‘o’ as your cock drives up against every sensitive part inside her, rubbing against the velvety folds. Digging, taking more. 
Your voice comes as a hush following a groan. “Stretching out so well for me, taking it all in - isn’t that wonderful? Your needy little pussy, sliding up and down all over?” 
Giselle’s trembling picks up where it left off, the noises curdle from the bottom of her throat, low and just flat out desperate. It’s in the responsiveness of her body, every single part of her thrust into chaos. 
You could consider this to be a beneficiary: you being inside her. Giselle’s moaning out your name as she holds you close to your chest, burying your nose in between her tits like an offering, her body goes weak. She’s got her hair netted to the lines of her neck and chin; the pistoning of your cock upwards as the hinge in of her hips roll so she can cum all over your waist. 
Giselle cums just like that. Again and again, totally impenitent.
The reaction on her face is one of pure bliss, full of relaxation; where everything working between the muscles and nerves go down for a second - her lips molding into a tiny fuck, holy fuck; the small uptick of her eyebrows as the aftershocks ripple through her hot cunt. An incredible sight, this thing. 
“I guess that’s why you and I clicked so fast,” you note, a hand to the swell of her ass, the other on her hip. Every free curve of her figure invites the touch, how rough you can go, how far you could wreck her. It’s without any sense of remorse. You kiss the words right between her tits: “knowing that a special someone could ever make you feel like this, give wonders to you right where it’s needed, as if nothing else matters.” 
“Stop- shut the fuck up,” and Giselle does the worst thing here, letting her upper half fall back outward, slips a hand behind and under to where your balls are, cradling them, the slightest cup of her fingers, it tenses up your thighs and the bottom of your spine and the grip in your fingernails creates this new line of light red across her hips. 
“Gis-” you yelp on impulse, “holy shit, I-” 
The angle is too much for her as she barely manages to keep herself upright, and then, “-fucker, that’s so deep. Do it again-” 
“You’re something, baby. I can’t believe-” 
She’s got a hand to the back of your head, thumb between your lips, moving her hips upward at the hilt that makes your cock twitch inside her. The giggle passing through your ears allures you towards a primal motive, a raw uncut want. 
“Shh,” she coos. 
“You-” 
“This right here,” she says, “Could be our little secret. My little secret.” 
“Giselle-” 
“Hush, darling. And keep it that way.” 
You grind, lift her up, and smack her back down. It’s the slap. The fucking moan. Her arms coil around your neck once more. 
Taking in the makeshift taut of her waist. Growling, “fucking test me again, I dare you,” and Giselle gives nothing but an evil grin in good nature when she cups the side of your jaw to lift your gaze. 
Her head knocks into yours and she cards her fingers through your hair, tugging away as you increase the pumps a little faster, harder. She’s trying to hold herself together with what little common sense she has left; in a bit of a disbelief, she tells you, off-the-cuff in the nook of her head, how you’ve put yourself far ahead than the past guys she’s fucked around with, the simplicity in her causalness as a royal gesture in itself. 
“I guess you could say that,” you tell her, in the figures of semantics where you could take her literally. 
A way to repay that said loyalty to her, would be fucking her tight little pussy until you’re dumping your cum inside her sopping cunt or painting all over her fucking waist, her ass, her face - an art piece curated by you out of ruination that wants to be flaunted and presented like it’s something that the people want. This woman with such grandness; this idol, showcased in the fanciest dresses and bows, to be showered in diamonds, to have anything she ever wanted worth purchasing be done with a wave of her finger. 
Your cause is a bit different, lest not forget, but you’re complicit nonetheless - satisfying both parties of families to ensure that no one is left holding the bag in the event that they’re caught. But at least you can have a fill with an aching cunt between your legs, leaking all over your groin once the rush eventually dies down. Yeah, maybe you are right in this situation. “I’m the last one you’ll ever need.” 
That cuts both ways, she tells you. A wicked smile is all she gives; she’s won. 
You eventually snap, however, fucking Giselle on her hands and knees, flip her back around with her tits facing you again. You carry her back onto the pillar behind the couch for some more before moving to the bedroom, a little over a minute spent letting her reach that peak. Some fun gets thrown into the mix, pressing her front to the window as you carve your cock back up into her cunt. Your name keeps falling out of her mouth, obscene and maffled, over and over and over and over: fuck, you feel so good inside me, taking me so well, god, don’t stop, that feels so fucking good for you, doesn’t it? - she slams her ass back into you, face pressed against the glass, her breath fogging up a small portion of the pane. You take it back to the edge of her mattress where her ankles hook around your thighs and manage to dig her nails into the skin of your back. She acknowledges the small act of generosity, when you cum a little bit inside her pussy (to which you could admit that it’s one of the hottest things you can do to her, honestly), knowing that your cock fits so nice and snug into her cunt and fucks out all these dirty sounds that are some of the cutest things that she can sing out of her mouth; this little pussy messing you up as you tug yourself out of her properly-fucked cunt and leave the mess right where it stays. Where it should stay. That’s how this thing goes. 
Giselle presses a nail into your hip, another bruise along with the scratches and bite marks that’ll show up tomorrow. You’ll look at it in the mirror at work sometime, just to think back. 
Though she’s created an opportunity for herself where you have to answer whenever she’s around. No matter what the excuse may be, she’ll slither her way inside your office or at home, talk about something about the day, and you’ll try to stay on task or topic until the option to eat her out or fuck her till she can’t walk straight or maybe even both doesn’t seem too far off to pass time. 
(She’ll ask: you mind doing a favor for me? Of course you have to say yes. 
And it’s practically impossible to refuse anyway, since it’s not worth telling no when there’s advantages.) 
Giselle is not perfect; despite what the media presents and what the people say portraying her to be. 
She’s got a past, one of which she's not proud of. She has her shortcomings, her flaws, but she’s still human. You’ve assumed at first that there’s things about her to be accepting even with the stuff she’s got herself into. Giselle’s impetuous and a bit dense, but she’s also a strong thorn in points you hate to admit that she could have an upper hand on. 
But even so- 
Even so- 
Despite her imperfections, she’s aware of them. She’s turned them into strengths that very few people can break down without effort backed behind it. You get one good look at her and it’s simple. Her grin with closed lips is wicked and unbeatable, and now that you’re with her in this mess of a marriage you can’t find anything that’s worth swaying you to think otherwise. 
“What is it that you want from your family’s company?” she asks, her body melded one with the sheets as she lays on her stomach, feet sticking up with ankles crossed, face still fading from the hot blush of pink. “I mean, there isn’t really an incentive for us exclusively while they’re trying to make this story go away unnoticed.” 
“If I knew everything. And I mean, everything, then I’d tell you. But I don’t.” 
“So what, you don’t know what happens despite us being protected?” 
“It may look like we’re safe,” you say, looking down and out the window again, holding yourself back from rambling even further. “But it’s only a matter of time until people start sniffing around places that they’re not supposed to.” 
“They’re not gonna stop searching, hun.” Giselle presumes, “Not until they really figure out what’s going on behind the scenes. But where’s the exposure in that?” 
“What makes this whole thing dangerous is that all it took for people to find this relationship believable was a good lie and a lot of money to twist the words in the press into reality.” 
“Isn’t that a shame,” her voice trails off, head falling left to the nearby pillow resting on her arm. She keeps her eyes on you, rubbing up your shoulder from the amount of scratches and bite marks she’s left all over it, the skin still red to the touch. “Watching yourself settle as bits and pieces of your life start to wither away. No risk taken for the reward or consequence to follow. You’re so boring, but your cock, and the way that you fuck me deflates the whole argument entirely.” 
“Amazing,” you deadpan, “That’s probably one of the nicest compliments you’ve ever given to me.” 
Giselle rolls her eyes, holds back a laugh between her lips. “You’re so into me and you don’t even want to admit it. Where else would you get the ring on your finger from, hm? Let alone who?” The squint in your eyes proves that she’s winning this dispute. “Still got no answer for me, babe? Hmph. I guess you just solidified my thoughts just now.” 
“You really are the worst pick for guys like me, aren’t you?” you ask, approaching closer to the bed as your kneecaps make contact to the edge, bending them until you’re crawling across the mattress.
She has an outreached hand to you; taking, pulling, inviting. “Who said I was a bad choice for you? Someone’s got to keep your mind off the deal for the time being.” 
Before you even say anything else, you kiss her twice, and then some more. It’s a thing remotely close to yielding yourself to her - you pull the sheets from underneath her over, get your lips back on her neck again, and fuck her deep into the bed. 
Some pressure is relieved off of your shoulders and head, and you wonder if she’s the one responsible for that. 
Everything resumes as normal. Business stays busy, public engagements and appearances are still a regular occurrence every other day or so, and you’re ensuring that the tracks get covered up before anyone in the press starts to take notice. You’re not a bad person - and neither are your parents in this case, the needs of this cause will pay off in protecting your own life. Being a workaholic isn’t the healthiest way to go by, but in all fairness, you’re just doing your job. 
Giselle also holds her end of the bargain; while you’re married to your work, she’s married to her blessing of wealth. When you’re swamped with paperworks and projects compounded with usual check-ins with her parents and yours about the investment failure cover-up, she seeks her own adventures elsewhere: getting herself into these entanglements with other guys at high-profile events, reining them in with her flirty charms and in return gets their dick stuck up inside her. She may be terrible at keeping faith in you when she does go out with her friends, but you know that she’ll always come back to you in the end. 
“Are you sure you want to go ahead with the meeting?” Winter asks you one afternoon, sitting on the edge of your desk as she looks over one of your client’s portfolios to see if the numbers add up, “cause this does look finished, but I can set some time aside to run a final check before you send it over.” 
For some reason, and only God really knows why, but you feel this sudden chill run down your neck as Giselle makes her way past the door into your office; her stride a little more pushy today than usual, and that spells only one thing: she’s aggravated. 
“Sorry Winter, do you mind giving us the room?” she tells her, and it’s not a request. You nod your head as Winter immediately picks up on the sudden shift of tension in the air, swapping places as Giselle drops her handbag on the chair while darting a quick glance at Winter.
“The door, please. And you know what to say.” Winter closes the door on her way out while Giselle rounds the desk and settles herself into your lap. You remember her barging in when you had a meeting with one of your early acquisitions in the business, sitting in the same way that she is now for the entirety of that appointment. 
“Cancel your meeting.” Giselle commands, fingers quick to the middle of your necktie. 
“I can’t. It’s the new person my father just brought in yesterday.” 
“I wasn’t asking. You promised.” 
Her lips proved to be a suitable truth-serum to your inhibitions; and suddenly you completely forget what she was even complaining about earlier. 
So you make good on your promise. You had to. 
Giselle’s hand shoots up to her mouth, not doing much with the moans that leak out from the bottom of her wrist. 
“Baby,” she coos, and you draw yourself back from between her thighs to swallow a bit, drink in the sight of how her face writhes in pleasure. You hate how pretty she is when she looks like this, eyes closed elegantly and mouth dropped in pure awe. She literally had her pussy eaten out by you in the morning, but it’s clear that she can’t get enough, and you’ll definitely do it again. 
The pager on your desk starts to beep, and you don’t answer it; instead, you dip your tongue back into her leaking entrance. Her breath starts to stutter as the sides of her thighs start to press against your head. A spread of her lips between your fingers, and you slash up your tongue inside her walls again, hips bucking forward off the woodwork. 
“You taste so fucking good, honey,” you praise, holding her down with the flex of your wrists and press of your fingers. Giselle shudders a bit as you shove your nose right up against her clit, let the vibration of your hums send shockwaves up her waist from within. Her hand tangled into your hair serves all the signs of her wanting, begging for more. When you ask, and it’s just out of plain fun when you do: “Wanna cum so badly on my face, don’t you? Soak your shit into my mouth and all over my chin? Tell me what you want. You haven’t had enough cock this week, haven’t you? Fucking filthy ass slut.” 
Giselle, in the current state that she’s in, just sighs. If there’s anything that you’ve learned from all the times you’ve spent exploring her body, imploding her senses from within, she loves to be held down and fucked ruthlessly - but more than anything, she loves to be teased, to be degraded.
That stupid pager is still fucking ringing. 
But you inhale the sweet aroma of her pussy, slide your tongue up those slutty, puffy folds, stop right at the clit, and you suck. 
“Yes, yes- fuck, God yes, just like that,” she breathes out, pulling your head deeper into her cunt. She wants you to be cruel, to rip off that pencil skirt of hers, raise that dress shirt she stole from your wardrobe and put your cock inside her like she so undeservedly owes. Giselle’s eyebrows twist along with the lines of her face, squeezing your hand as she soaks more of herself onto your lips, the taste of her slick flowing down like water, lapping her up clean. 
“Close,” she tells you, breaths becoming irregular as her voice goes up in familiar, ascending octaves. “God- keep going, yes, baby, I’m g- I’m gonna-” 
You just hum, let the sweet venom of her release coat your taste buds - a delicacy that you’ll indulge in every time. You fail to let her go from your grasp, meeting her dreamy gaze, lashes gliding up and down gracefully, trying to conjure up some sort of thought. “Your cock,” she says, chest heaving. “Give it to me.” 
It’s not worth denying the demand; and besides: you were never going to make it to that meeting anyway.
The workflow chokes up the rest of the week so much to the point where the days and nights start to blend together. You’re doing some nightly readings midway out on the couch until Giselle walks in with a robe encasing her nice figure - dropping the piece in front of you which makes you toss the tablet off to the side. 
“A gift for you,” she says, a towel tending to her damp hair that wets the front of her shirt while you’re fixing up a quick meal of eggs on the stove, following you cumming inside of her and on her face not too long after that ends up staining her sheets. “For the race this upcoming weekend.” 
You’re paying zero attention, focused on not letting the scrambled bits stick to the pan as she slithers a hand through the open space of your hand-to-hip, stealing a bite of the waffles you also made off to the side for more variety, watch as she fills up her cheeks with the food. The simplest of actions, she does with ease. But then you say: Race? You didn’t tell me you were into cars like that. If at all. 
“Had I told you that I had a stake in a racing team, and you would’ve been instantly hard,” she deadpans, her stare flickering with a shake of her head. “Like I’ve told you before: I have my own interests.” 
“Prove it.” you taunt. 
Giselle then walks over to her handbag resting on one of the seats where she always leaves it for a quick grab of whatever, pulls out two special passes; the red lanyard with your picture and hers highlighted at the center with a barcode below it as well as the details of the event. The raise in your eyebrows indicate a hint of impressiveness and Giselle just tilts her head in victory, because she knows you’re not hard to convince. 
“F1 passes, huh?” you muse, taking the one from her hand to further examine it, “Now how in the hell did you score these?” 
“Courtesy of a friend,” replies Giselle, taking your pass back and into her handbag. “You probably know her, but if you don’t, I’d love for you to meet her.” 
“Aren’t you excited.” 
“What’s with that tone?” 
“Tone?” 
She sighs, chin lifted up as her hum rises in amusement, “It’s not like you to have my attitude suddenly, it actually fits you well.” 
“I’m always like this,” you tell her. 
“Right.” 
“I’d be happy to pitch you as to why if you’re interested.” 
“Save it,” Giselle tsks, flipping her towel forward from her shoulders. “Besides, it’s gonna be a fun weekend either way. And oh- happy birthday.” 
Much like other events you’ve attended in the past, this one is certainly no exception. Stepping out of the car to be greeted with endless amounts of people stretched across the barriers outside the track, screaming your name and Giselle’s to offer a variety of things to sign: a hat, a bottle, a racing jersey, and some random person’s arm; a nice gesture to show, and it’s all in good fun. 
The photo op’s are having a fucking field day with your appearance, cameras nearly floating across towards you walking to get their many mandatory snaps of the day. Hey, over here! Click! Click! Click! You and Giselle keep it casual in answering the questions also like how’s the morning going? Who do you think is gonna win the race today? Are you the special person that’s going to be waving the checkered flag or present the trophies to the top three racers later?
Click! And someone greets Giselle off to the side - probably someone running social media from one of the racing teams, you think. Her hair flows so coolly in the wind, walking in a fashion that pretty much trumps every other hot model you’ve seen at shows; the curves of her body sloping along her clothes. Her sunglasses only punctuate her cunty expression when she takes them off, earning a few gasps from other surrounding VIP members, which isn’t fair, but it serves you exactly right when her face lights up greeting the provider for your special passes. 
She smiles so effortlessly. Her energy is infectious the more she steps into the paddock. 
Everything is pretty much major brain overload, astounded at how everything is sleek inside the garage; tools hidden away in perfectly-fit drawers that literally look straight out of a sci-fi movie. The car alone is a sight to behold too; sure, the wheels aren’t on and they’re still doing some minor tweaks across the chassis, but the race engineer who bumps your shoulder puts you in a momentary conversation about how insane everything looks. 
It wasn’t long until Giselle disappears from your view, only to return with a plus-one that irks your curiosity - laughing and sounding clearly in awe and excitement. 
“I’m sure you’ve seen this charmer before,” Giselle introduces, hand tugging on your jacket so casually, pulling you closer. “Has a thing for cars, if that isn’t news to you already.” 
“Looks familiar, but never up close.” Her mouth peers into this wide grin, lips coated with a light sanguine shade, the gloss almost shimmering. Your ears perch up to the tone of her voice, a sleek and piercing characteristic to notice, considering how dangerously familiar it sounded. She’s got a racing shirt on, despite her bottoms being baggy jeans. The temperature around the track was forecasted to be hot, and she’s wearing a simple dad cap to pool those flowing locks over her shoulders. Judging from the hoops hanging from her ears, you assume that she and Giselle are in the same lineage - since they’ve got so much money deep in their pockets to afford everything and all that jazz. 
Yu Jimin takes your hand in hers, and asks something along the lines of: you’re into cars? Is this your first time in an F1 garage?
You laugh, and answer: I’ve dabbled here and there. Giselle didn’t tell me that she had a minority stake in something like this.
“She’s the one who gifted the passes,” Giselle supplies immediately, because apparently Karina should already have this as common knowledge. 
“Never got to hear you two say thanks.” She blinks and smiles. You blank out for a second. Though it’s also interesting how her face is so molded in the right angles like she’d been carved to perfection in one take. Her figure is undoubtedly amazing, with a long waist and these wide hips. It’s a bit of seeing to actual believing - where you think that all women like Giselle had similar traits. You’re still unsure, however, but maybe that’s just the simple commonality women have when they’ve either got money or a status. 
“Your wife here funds the team’s success,” Karina adds - looking over to see a handful of mechanics having a laugh about something with her racing teammate. “She’s the reason why I’m winning.” 
“That so?” You fire back with pursed lips. “Hopefully her money’s put in good use.” 
Karina laughs. “It has, believe me.” 
Giselle, in this situation at least, the last person who takes charge of calling your shots. Or reading the room. You’re just keeping it casual, though, getting acquainted with someone new like it’s nothing wrong. 
“How else could we have swayed you into signing that new deal?” Giselle presses her tongue up to the inside of her cheek - throws a side-eye at you. She’s reminiscing over a certain reference that you clearly have no idea of understanding. 
“Didn’t think the figures would be that much,” ponders Karina. 
“Need I mention you’re little ‘incident’ with the other-” 
“Are you fucking crazy? I almost got crucified with the press if that story got out.” She leans closer to Giselle with her fingers covering her mouth. Her hair moves in these calm waves - laughing like there’s no care in the world for her actions. 
So the two of them go at it a bit, trading moments and memories between them. Giselle’s attempt of pressing herself back onto your crotch serves as some sort of provocation rather than a distraction. You play it off with a hand to her midriff, pinching it slightly as a rebuttal, and a promise.  
Aside from the ice breaking topics, you look over to see Karina’s personal performance coach, notifying her of the preparations of the race ahead. She hasn’t got much time, so she leaves the both of you off with this: 
“Think I can find you guys once this race is finished?” A mechanical drill sounds off on the far end of the garage. Then, she glances in this devilish way that means she knows everything, Karina says: “I can have my guy grab you two back to the trailer.” 
“You can make that work,” Giselle answers, rolling her head into the upper profile of your chest and smiling. “We’re your special guests for the day, so I expect the best hospitality.” 
And, about the race later as you’re watching, Karina blows everyone else out of the competition. Her winning first place is an absolute certainty. 
Once the champagne showers have died down and everything logistically in the press gets recorded and logged in after another successful race weekend, it didn’t take Karina that much longer to find you and Giselle hanging around the complementary areas, prompting that the celebrations outside the track can start a little bit later. Since the party was well going to be deep into the night somewhere in the city, the three of you actually never make it there on time. 
Probably because your back to the door with a hand to the lock is preventing you from ever getting out; the two bodies of Karina and Giselle pinning you down the middle between the pair, a hand to your waist while the other is well worked around your cock. It also didn’t help that the lights were off, to give the impression that no one was inside - the worrying thought of someone knocking would suddenly be washed away when Giselle lowers her wet mouth all over you; a hand through her hair and a small shuffle of your feet as Karina smoothens your shirt, humming gleefully into your chest as the same feeling happens further down south. 
“You love her mouth so much, hm?” Karina asks, the brim of her cap hitting your nose, tilting it upward to slide her tongue back between your lips. “She’s been telling me how much her jaw aches when it comes to blowing you.” 
You try to look down, but Karina had other ideas. Ah ah ah, pretty boy. Keep your eyes only on me. If Karina’s lips were meant to spill out all of these subtle projections of sex, you’re able to deduce the fact that Giselle likes to be all talk - though she prefers to let her mouth serve a different purpose. She lets out a small gargle in her throat when her plump lips reach the base, the tip of her tongue swipes the point perpendicular where your length stems out from the root, feeling that twitch of your cock head hit the top of her mouth. All to play for when you’re losing focus, and then- 
“Karina, your hat,” you stumble in your words, watch her flip the cap back around, “Shit, baby. The door too-“
“Shhh, relax,” she coos, hand ghosting over your face, the broad line of your shoulders. She kisses you with the cap facing backward. “Bet that feels really good for you, doesn’t it?” 
“Fuck,” you barely manage. It’s a bit early for your voice to be this raked through the mud; though, the light depression of your lungs serves as an emphasis. ”She’s perfect.” 
Giselle gently laughs, slightly hollowing out her cheeks some more. Slapping her plum, bottom lip with your tip, she flashes an innocent smile, sticking her tongue out just to push your urge further. “That isn’t news for anyone,” she yields, sliding her palm up the length. “Take my other boy-toys in the past. Ask them about anything, really. They’d all say the same thing: how I keep a hidden talent for sucking dick a personal secret of mine.” Karina provides a nod and a laugh, knowing that her saying goes both ways. 
“Consider me shocked, then. You two are absolute freaks.” 
“Okay,” Karina deadpans, and her expression goes calm, a lifted eyebrow in suspicion. She gets her hand to the back of Giselle’s head, pushing her back between your legs. Giselle takes you right back into the well of her mouth and picks up right where she left off, this smooth flow - in tandem with the friction of her fingers, as her lips take in the soaked inch or two of your cock, gagging a bit, fuck. Her eyes go wide, and then they close, braces herself with her hands on your thighs, pushing herself deeper until her lips finally reach the base; the head, and the rest of your shaft, into the velvety opening of her throat, willing to hang you for as long as you or her could possibly take. 
Your palm slides down against the sliding door, and the impulsive shift of your hips forward comes as an act of desperation into that addicting rub in the big of her mouth. 
Karina doubles down her efforts, kissing up your neck, your jaw; carrying your face with her dainty finger to the right to graze the tip of her nose against yours, feeling her hot breath touch your chin as she’s telling you all the right praises of how amazing you two look. She’s got a handful of Giselle’s hair in her hand, pulling her up and driving her back in, the subtle sighs and staggered breaths that gets overpowered by Giselle’s endless gagging, hands braced to your thighs as your hips work a bit to meet in the middle of her effort. This engulfing heat, rising up from waist, much like diving feet first into a bottomless hot spring - nerves going haywire from your spine, the muscles along your lower half constantly tensing as Giselle bottoms you out again, slathering your cock in her saliva as she chokes. 
“Fuck her mouth again. I know you want to,” Karina says, pressing up her tits to the side of your chest, another lick of the end of your collarbone, it earns her another shallow ‘christ’ from you. “She’ll let you do anything,” and in a way, she isn’t wrong: “‘Cause I know that you’ll give her the promise of fucking her brains out after.” 
So, all you had to do at this point: was follow and listen.
The constant deepthroating would make anyone go mad, really; have their balls burst in a matter of minutes. Karina takes this emphatic role of judge, jury, and executioner to a whole different implication, her hands and mouth an extension of the many things you want Giselle to be ruined by, and you’ll shower her some form of thanks for that.
And when Giselle does slide you out of her mouth, a trail of spit forming around the crown, twisting her hand languidly around you as she clears her throat. Right around that time, the three of you hear a knock on the door - probably Karina’s security detail, or someone else, there’s really no point in knowing. You and Karina look at each other to hear whatever the hell the guy outside was saying, but Karina has a finger between your lips as Giselle continues where she left off, giving your brain a dilemma on what - or who - to focus on. 
“We should’ve left thirty minutes ago,” you confess - the honesty alone an antithesis to your level-headedness; a moment to reflect, at how pathetic you are - “how long are-” 
Karina giggles, a cheeky grin to add: “we gonna take? Hopefully we’ll wrap you up soon, sweetie.” 
You’re hoping to unravel in the next few minutes or so. Giselle’s mouth is not worth throwing up the curtain of ignorance, as she continues bob her head up and down the length - each knock of your cockhead to her uvula is flawless. 
Karina on the other hand, does the least merciful act she could possibly do, considering how she’s a walking devil in broad daylight: sliding her hands across your chest as she sinks down to her knees at Giselle’s level, nose buried in the cuff of her ear as she grasps her boob while the motion of her head starts to match with Giselle’s tempo of gags. She pulls back, the cap nearly falling off the top of her head, draws her hair over her ears as she settles in with those quick licks at the base where Giselle struggled to reach and well - crap. Giselle drags the tip of her tongue over your head, Karina treating the underside before meeting her lips with hers. They both giggle at the first kiss - hot air over your cock right smack in the middle of that space. Indulging a bit more with their clashing tongue, wanting to get more of a savoring taste of cock. Of you. The inner cavity of your chest broadens up, drawing in a sharp inhale, and the heat of the trailer gets a bit sweltering. Okay, you might be sweating more than usual. 
As if they’d rehearsed this before, the pair at your hips take turns with your cock, licking up the slick spit, your precum, all these wet kisses and heavy moans across the surface; they pull half of your shaft back into their mouths, drag your head to the inner part of their cheeks, slowly and gracefully taking you in, treating the areas where they’re not touched. “Mmm.” and “Hmph.” Karina is still laughing - fingers now tethered around the root of you and your balls while Giselle slacks her jaw a bit more, letting you fill the space of her throat as you’re holding yourself steady against the wall. The chinch of her shut eyes and eagerness to go past her personal threshold of taking you deep; and Karina has a hand to the back of her head, caressing her throat whispering these praises into her ear. Good girl, all the way into your throat. You know that he likes it so much. There there, keep choking on his cock - because it’s yours.
And when she does pull herself up and out, she’s coughing, eyelashes fluttering and eyes shimmering. They both look at you with their jaws hung, a small tug of a smile at the corners of their lips, tilting their heads up as you impulsively move your hips forward and back - slathering the belly of your cock with the pads of their tongues. 
“You girls look so good like that,” you barely manage to say. Their swollen and plump mouths already serve as this new vehicle of addiction. “The sluttiest kinds are always the ones where you least expect it.” 
Giselle breathes out this hearty laugh, shields her face with the back of her hand. Karina’s mouth then takes over for a bit, and you could feel her fingers start to press deeper into the skin of your thighs. “She’s a messy bitch. Believe me when I say this: she’s been dying to have a taste of you.” 
“Not true,” Karina butts in, a trail of spit forming from her bottom lip when she kisses your soaked tip. “At least, that’s what she was trying to say, when I had her stuttering in her words with my mouth and fingers all up inside her. Came on my face a bit after - she’s the one who’s more dirty than me.” 
“Didn’t you make a bet that you can make him cum faster than me?” Giselle inquires, doe eyes and with a hint of a taunt mixed in with her tone. “I could’ve sworn that you did.” 
While she asks, Karina doubles down her efforts, taking you well into the column of her throat. You’ve got a hand through her hair, gripping to a point where the need for these two girls to fuck you senseless in the trailer takes over. The sense of control and liberation courses through like a reflex - a fight or flight response - you can’t let them have their way for too long, and it’s way too early to yield from their oral assault. 
“He’ll be good for us, I’m sure.” Karina says, a bit quizzical at that too. Her hand is jerking around the base while Giselle takes the hint and slides her hand across the upper half of your shaft.  “I’m sure this isn’t his first rodeo of letting two girls drop to their knees and have a little bit of fun for themselves, right?” 
Yeah, the groan you give punctuates the point clearly: they broke you. 
It didn’t take much long after that, when the both of them have an alternating cycle of hand to mouth and mouth to hand, working you up through these harsh sucks, the fierce licks across your slit, engulfing your balls and colliding their lips - trading off stares as they could tell in the way that your legs are shaking. They see this. They feel this. All this hard work was about to be paid off soon. Your hands are reaching out in desperation - the inevitability of it, the pulses and wires in your body already at the limit, pushing your buttons with the ever-concluding contraction of your muscles- 
“Cum for us, baby,” Giselle murmurs. With her hand and Karina's wrapped true along with her desperate hums and moans across your shaft proves as the lethal combination, “all over our pretty little faces, okay? All over. Just let go and let us taste you, that’s all we want.” 
They both look up at you, the image seared into your optics: your cock is practically magma in their hands, releasing in harsh jolts and jerks, every thread of your cum landing on their foreheads and on the slopes of their cheeks - blissed out and and job done. Giselle tilts her head back while Karina’s hand finds the bottom of her chin, lapping up the mess below her lip as you press your cock in between their faces again, the sounds of satisfaction humming low in their throats, and their congratulatory kiss comes as a celebration. Your head feels dizzy, chest cavity staggering with the inhales and exhales; you’re not even sure how you’re still standing at this point-
“Fucking look at that,” Karina sneers, fingers pressing into the skin of Giselle’s cheek - the other digging down her unbuttoned pants, assessing the damage as she kisses up along the side of her face, “She’s so wet for you, like the perfect girl she is, lapping up your hot mess to make up for being the filthiest, fucking, fine whore-” 
“Mmmm- fuck,” Giselle just says, sucking harshly on your sensitive cockhead, retreating with a loud ‘pop’ as Karina scoops up the dribbles of cum on her fingertips, cleaning them up as the both of them soothe the fading ache in your thighs. 
“You guys are the worst,” you breathe, head hitting the door to the closet as you’re fighting every urge to not melt right into the floor. 
“He doesn’t mean that, right?” Karina asks, eyes pleading. 
“Don’t worry,” Giselle adds, “He owes us more when we get back home.” 
“Should we get out of here?” Karina prompts, wiggling her head back as Giselle matches the look from below. “Oh- and Giselle honey, you can’t clean yourself up.” 
“What?! That was the deal? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Giselle asks in shock.
“It was better to see your reaction if you didn’t know; but now that you know, the forfeit still stands.” 
These two are basically asking to get themselves trending on the headlines first thing tomorrow morning. 
It’ll probably be ignored as you’re doing the daily checks of your meetings, reminders, or emails on your phone, but there’s a surfaced picture of you and Giselle seated together in one of the booths at the club you were initially going to. Karina managed to tag herself along despite not being on the exclusive guest list - though, she thanked Giselle for pulling some strings to get inside.
There isn’t much to recall from last night, however, aside from letting yourself unwind from the stresses and pressure of work. Karina and Giselle keep the conversation going over a few drinks - toying with the idea of leaving so that they could pick up on the fun you three did back at her trailer. A few laughs are shared here and there, you’re not so entirely sure, until you make the judgment call to leave and Karina manages to get her lips on you in the hall walking out.
“I’ve got the-” you say on your way into the bedroom when a pair of lacy panties latches onto your shoulder, looking up in confusion. “-coffee you asked for.” 
Giselle’s laying on of the mattress, head at the edge, her tits just left barren and facing up to the open air. A ruffle in the sheets next to her occurs, and the person underneath does this mix of a yawn and giggle as the typical fringe of her messy bed head rests along the front of her chest. You’ve had your fair share of having a few triad’s in your lifetime, but it’s safe to say that this current lineup takes the cake. 
“He’s cheating by the way,” Karina says, sitting upright as her breasts are revealed to you above the sheets; all marked up and tattered from last night’s fuckfest that move in this heavy and hypnotic way as she does this little wiggle with her upper body - like she’s pouting for an apology after committing a scandalous act. “Why does he get to put his underwear on?” 
“I’m not walking around the house naked,” you rebuke, “It’s just weird.” 
“But I do it all the time and he doesn’t complain,” Giselle says to her, flashing a look back at you as she watches you take a sip from her cup of coffee. “Breakfast still on the cards?” 
“What do you have in mind?” you ask, walking up to the two fine girls taking refuge in your bed. “I can go out of my way and set an arrangement.” 
Karina scoots up next to Giselle, laying in the same fashion as she’s doing, traces a line along the elastic of your boxers. Giselle bites her lip as she starts to palm the growing bulge pulsing between your legs. She asked for a cup of coffee, but it’s always better to chow down on something while she drinks; her personal preference, really. 
“I think your coffee needs a little creamer, no?” Karina proposes, testing with a swift lick on the underside of your cock, snorting soon after. 
“You’re really fucking weird,” Giselle tells her, and pulls the waistband down, springing your cock forward. “But I fucking love it” 
Life, in every passing day and night amongst you two, starts to make sense. Giselle at first used to do things separately: the contrast of staying in different rooms, the deliverables and press engagements of her brands and investments, keeping the scheduling consistent without any changes unless she saw fit or just by feel. Her presence was an oddity let alone a fast flurry of complications falling onto your lap. 
Now: 
There’s a growing flow of comfort between the two of you. Always has been. With all the dates and hangouts and impromptu office visits, it would be basically impossible to not get acclimated in the short span of time. She’s gone from her bed to yours, her toothbrush in the same cup on the bathroom sink, there’s far less dishes to wash meal to meal, watches you work or even get some work done herself - leading to a familiar end of the night that becomes all the regular. 
“You’re staying in tonight?” you ask, noticing a woozy Giselle bunched up in one of your shirts, leaning against your arm on the couch one late evening, a split-screen of a portfolio and the typical news articles that you have little to no care of skimming through on your laptop. “I thought you had something planned.” 
“I did,” she admits in reply; her tone is lazy, dry, sleepy. As if this was the first time in a while where her social battery was depleted to zero. 
You sigh, tilt your head over to the right side, and kiss the crown of her head. “Guess I should call it also a night, then.” 
Giselle nods, eyelids slowly falling shut as you toss your laptop off to the side, pick her up in your arms, and start to make your way to settle back into your bed - playing the role perfectly and as authentically as you could create it. 
Later that morning after, she plays the part so well: 
“For me?” she asks, arms well wrapped around your waist as you’re tending to the first batch of pancakes. Her nose is buried into your shirt, never wanting to let the scent of you go to waste. “You might be the best husband ever, I fear.” 
Your nose scrunches as she giggles, leaning your head down with a chaste kiss to her lips - pulling away with a hum, “Sweetie, I’d be terrified.” 
“Your father’s calling,” Winter tells you while hanging her head along the door frame of your office, “He’s on line one.” 
The lift of your eyebrows signifies that you got the message, and he doesn’t sound pleased when you pick up the phone saying: look, I’m all for the idea of getting all nice and cute and cozy with Giselle, but we need a little push from the both of you. I’ve got some figures in our board and investors that are catching wind of our past case. People like them aren’t easily swayed by the media, they’re smarter than that. 
You knew what you were doing when you first made the company, dad.
And I know that you’re aware of Giselle’s previous activities? Do I need to remind you of who made the file for you to look at when we first set up this whole damn thing?
(Goes without saying, she was problematic. Keyword: was.) 
What’s your point?
Don’t bullshit me with filling the blanks and details. You know. I’ve pitched you to her parents for a reason. You didn’t like the idea of sleeping with someone you aren’t familiar with; but now look at you, doing exactly that. 
Creative writing can only serve so much purpose to the public. 
All the more reason to use some money to twist a few words about you and that whore. 
Dad- 
Do the right thing, son. We’ve got you in a good position, now take advantage of it. 
Staring out your window serves as a second viable option partial to marooning yourself on the  balcony; taking some time aside to personally reflect on the state of your life, figure out what your next move is, etcetera etcetera. To be fair, you’ve got a good track record of not getting into trouble whatsoever. You’re clean - and sure, there’s a few hiccups here and there, but nothing too monumental to really derail your career and success. 
All of this has been public from the start, you and Giselle. Ever since you two tied the knot, it’s been nothing short of coverage for the both of you, the usual freakouts people have when they see you or her doing the usual events or activities like everyone else. It’s in the recognition, the exposure. You’d honestly hoped that carrying on with your duties in the family business would be sufficient enough to satisfy the needs of the higher ups - all the while trying to keep what’s going on in the inner circle a secret. 
Too bad that secret isn’t nicely kept under wraps, and you’re aware of this; you understand so much of the extent because there’s everything to lose since the microscope is so close. Even when you’ve parted Giselle’s legs and slid your hands up the sides of her waist, it’s the beauty in that risk - like the suggestion was already guaranteed from the start. 
“What’d I tell you?” Giselle says to you, lounging on your couch in the office, rucking down her dress and combing her slightly tattered hair to the front, her toes in the pantyhose curled and spread soon after, the portion of the clothing at her inner thighs are torn through, looking out the window to see if anyone had noticed (but they heard it all already,) “They gave us a hand to play.” 
“And you want us to play their game? It’s basically letting them call the shots if you ask me.” 
“Hey,” she leans back to the head of the couch, lounges her legs a bit further out, “That’s my line.” 
You scowl at her as she looks down with a subtle lip bite. 
So there’s two incidents that follow: 
The first one was out on a regular nightclub outing. Of all places, you let Giselle get the best of you in the bathroom stall, keeping your cock warm inside her as she’s itching for the filthy feeling at your hips. Doesn’t help the fact that other guys were coming in the restroom at a regular pace, not paying any sort of attention to the indecency they’re witnessing. They all look at you for a second, identify your face, and shake their head soon after. 
“You two really couldn’t help each other to get a room, huh?” Someone asks, but you don’t bother answering other than a nod. He then turns his head to face the wall as he’s relieving himself with the urinal. 
The second time, unsurprisingly, happens at work. Giselle was the first one out of the printing room, a stray hand trailing behind her with one of the associates in your team, with you following behind them. Some of the worker’s eyes fall between one of you three, and when you’re settling around Winter’s desk: 
“Did you and Giselle just-” 
“Winter,” you sigh, fixing the knot of your tie. “Just don’t.” 
But there’s also the third time, where she calls you out of the blue when your father’s in the office for the day, debating: “Emerald green or Scarlet rose?” 
Naively, you answer: “Just say green, sweetie.” Right after, Winter swoops in to pick you up before the meeting and Giselle ends the phone call, leaving you a bit confused as to what color scheme she was putting together for her outfit. 
The vibrations of your phone thirty minutes into the meeting throws the overpassing voice into white noise as you get a closer look. 
Green. Green. Green. It’s all you see. She’s wearing a lingerie set, there’s these pretty little bows tied up around her hair, and the unfortunate dress shirt stolen from your closet seals the whole look. A vixen is what she is. The plethora of photos and selfies sent show her laying across the bed, aiming at the mirror, her legs canvassing the comforter - one of them reveals her panties, and the fact there’s nothing in the fucking middle- 
“You like?” She texts, but she adds on, “You come home in forty-five and you can take it off with your hands, any later than that and you’re doing it with your teeth.” 
“You should take a break.” Giselle calls out to you one night, watching as you’re settled into your personal study, reading multiple screens of different reports about you and her. “It’s late anyway.” 
You look up from your glasses, notice as Giselle’s standing on the doorframe, swirling a wine glass in her hand. And the thin layer of lace isn’t doing her any justice covering her figure. She’s got nothing underneath. 
“Who are you to stop me?” you ask, the tablet in your hand falling onto the desk as you stretch in your seat, eyes focused on her as she starts to make her way towards you. The tongue captured between your teeth already starts a spur of ideas of how you’ll twist and bend her fragile body, rip the robe off of her shoulders as she’s light on her tiptoes. There’s also the effortless flow of her hair rising and falling with every step, and the bounce of her tits is too casual for someone like her. “Besides, I just felt like reading the assurance that we’re doing our job.” 
She keeps swirling the wine, downs the last bits of it. The glass gets thrown somewhere across the room, and hits a random bookcase. There’s shards everywhere. Being mad at her right now is one thing, but you’re playing the long game as you swivel your chair towards her when she sets herself up on your desk, crosses her ankles together as she leans back and fiddles with the outlines of her robe. 
“Are you drunk?” you ask her again, the fingers resting along your thigh starting to curl up in a short flare of anger. “We’ve only had that glass set for a week.” 
“That should be the least of your problems.” Giselle refutes, shifting herself across the smooth woodwork. Until she’s rested over your thighs, a coy smile spreading across her lips. Her eyes stay trained on you as her forearms land on the bridge of your collarbones, fingers carding through the hair on the back of your head. You give a sign of impulse when you tug the underside of her knees closer to you, lean further back on the chair until she’s properly straddled, tilting herself down as the press of her lips start to fall across your neck. “Why’d you think I came to you in the first place?” 
“You told me that you were going to bed early.” 
“I was,” her voice trails off when she tilts your head up by the chin, gently leaving a peck of your lips once, twice, thrice. A thumb rubs the side of your cheek, and she pulls you back in again, the sharp inhale from your nose only boosts the confidence further. You could feel yourself sinking deeper into the seat, your stomach plummeting further down as your mind is trying to play defense and put up a response. But you’ve got your hands and lips full of her, and decide to plunge into that need she’s got you tethered to. 
So you pull back, for a momentary second, and Giselle sees an opening where she fixes the sudden crookedness in your glasses, holding your face gently as she examines the slopes and lines of your expression. You’re still sitting there, breathless, gaze almost in this form of wonder as she admires from the high ground. “What changed your mind?” 
“That’s for you to figure out.” 
“Doesn’t really help my case in any way, if at all.” you concede, and Giselle starts to laugh a bit, knocking her head against yours which earns a soft ‘ow’ from your lips. “Okay, what is it that you want?” 
“A lot of things, actually.” 
“Like what?” 
“I’m not telling you.” 
“I’ve got a few ideas so far,” you say, blinking with a skeptical arch in your eyebrows. Giselle sighs a bit when your hands snake to her ass, fingertips pressing down as your hips produce the lightest, and slightest grind against your pants. The quick exhale and dip of her head proves as a sign of satisfaction. You’re on the right path. “Maybe my hands are thinking ahead of the curve here?” 
Giselle tugs her hips forward, her fingers curl around your nape a little more desperately. The whine bubbling in her throat starts to collapse her whole facade, the pressure of your hands gripping tighter around the swell of her ass while your mouth canvasses her chest and collarbones, letting her take you deeper into her arms. “You’re brilliant when you’re speechless.” 
She nods through it, knowing the whole truth. 
“Want you-” she attempts to say, the breathiness of her words leaving her lips coming off as an uncertainty, “want you to tell me-” you’ve got her so close where the cornerstone of your hips holds her down, the inside of her thighs pressing on the outside of yours. There’s a clear wire being cut, the curtain raiser, the green light clicking in her head. She’s whittled down so fast and you’ve barely laid a finger on her sensitive parts. “What should I do?” 
You push her back, watch as her eyes flick up in confusion, but her lips hang in limbo for a second before the next set of words leaving your mouth serves as the proper instruction: Move your hand down. She does. Slowly. Her right hand trails down her midsection so painstakingly slow - until she shifts her legs wider in the seat of your knees. You’re no help too; sliding your hand up her inner thigh as she finally reaches the region just above her clit, her finger taking the first move when she starts touching herself. Look at you, so needy. The wince she does lower your eyelids, that wave of lust consuming her little by little. Your thumbs rest nicely in the divot of her hips, grinding her back as you lean forward to rest your head right right where her heart is. 
“Need a little help there?” You prompt, hand shifting over to where hers is between her legs, pushing her fingers along the glide of her leaking folds. Giselle’s breath is seeping out of the gritty cage of her teeth, driving herself insane with the way that you’re teasing her by her own hand. “It’s pretty how wet you are for me, I like that.” 
Giselle’s eyes are hooded, the light in her irises fading as if there’s another entity taking control of her. “Want you to grab me. Fuck me. Make me yours.” 
(She always wants a challenge, and you’re not getting it twisted here. But hey, when the opportunity persists-) 
It’s a bit of a swift move when you lift her up from the chair and onto the chair. Different articles of pens and papers and other various amenities hit the floor, and there’s nobody else in this home besides you too. “When you put it like that, it already looks like that I’ve won.” 
Giselle keeps on nodding, trying to keep her focus away from how your fingers slide into her aching cunt, laying her delicately across the smooth surface once she slips out of her thin robe. The anticipation. The thrill. All roads with her end in the same way of sorts. She tries to go on the offensive when she pulls you in for another desperate kiss, guiding her leg around the bend of your hip as the seat of your pants grinds against her aching heat. 
Your hands are fast on the buckle, she’s playing the supporting role with the curls of her fingers abducting the waistband of your pants, sliding them down. A lick of your thumb is the apparent preamble, swiping up her pussy as it draws out a hushed gasp from her, the strain in your cock firing up all nerve impulses. Her eye contact with you goes away, as she anticipates the inevitable outcome; the way that your cockhead presses up against her entrance, the euphoric rush of her clamp when she softly chirps, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-” 
She goes limp over your weight pressing down on her. That motion repeated, over and over: embedding your cock right into the heat of her lovely cunt. Her nails scrape along the skin of your arm, the length easing as you move deeper, sinking. 
“-ere we go. Look at you, all dicked out of enjoyment, huh?” You rasp, the two senses of your sight and hearing focused on the way she writhes underneath you, her voice fading in and out of your ear canals. “Couldn’t have a proper good night’s sleep until I fucked you properly-” 
“Hate it. I hate how hot you sound when you talk to me like that.” 
You snap your hips, and the rebound of her tits wiggle across her chest. 
“You’re gonna cum so fast. I can feel it,” you tell her, pushing yourself deeper into her cunt with these practiced strokes. “Fill you up so well that you’ll come back for more. Or maybe, I can take that away, and have you squirting all over my face to have the real deal later-” 
“Please-” 
“Hmm?” you coax, dragging yourself out and meticulously sliding back in, throwing her off of the typical rhythm that you always give her. “Use your words, honey. I didn’t quite hear you there.” 
Her body jitters at your touch. She manages to get an elbow on the desk, the fringe of her hair falls forward onto her face - a sight that you’re so used to seeing no matter what time of the day it is. The words are a bit incoherent, barely mouthing them. You slap your hips up against the underside of her thighs to knock some sense into her, and her head bobbles back, waking her up. 
“-take-” 
She looks amazing. She feels amazing. 
“Come take what’s yours,” she orders, huffing. The glint in her eyes makes the whole command an absolute guarantee; because she knows, and she’s programmed you long enough for you to cement that resolve in your head. 
So it’s just like this: you’ll give it to her. Hard. 
Because you’ve learned early on how easy it is to fuck Giselle like this - picking up on her little habits and through countless times before - you’ve got her wrapped so well around your cock, and she’s got you well wrapped around your finger. It’s a clear trade off, transactional. Your arm hooks under the small of her back as she digs her ankles around your waist, pumping into her at a fast pace to where she’s constantly leaking all over your cock with every passing second. 
“God,” she giggles, and there’s the little slip-up of a sob falling soon after. It’s the bait and switch - how she finally got what she wanted, but the burying of your dick inside her baptizes that quick relief, only to be swept across the desk and find a new angle to put down, “fuck.” 
“A little speechless, are ya?” You ask. The pressure closing in, enveloping. It’s in the length, your weight, the stretch, finally settling your fill. You’ll siphon the air right out of her lungs, leave her with the rest. 
Her head falls slack: the beginning of her downfall; or yours, it’s all the same. 
“Mhm.” 
“Like this?” you ask again, arm teetering to her side, hand to the back of her neck. “A little more of what you can take?” 
“S’good-” 
“Again, baby.” 
“You’re s’good, I love riling you up like this, irritating you to the point where you just have to fuck me. Please, ugh- keep going, god-” she tells you, her hand flies up when one of the strokes into her was a bit too much, and your monitor is one of the things that falls off the desk. You’ll worry about damage control later, all the while you’re using Giselle’s sopping cunt. 
“See what happens when a pretty girl like you has nothing but issues? They don’t know how to handle themselves unless someone tells or shows them the right way,” you pant, grinding yourself down to the hilt, and you give her the generosity of gyrating her hips for her in circles. 
Giselle closes her eyes, breathes in, and realizes. 
You’re aware. Her brain is split up in two halves: frizzled and rapture, her tits are hypnotic in the way that they move with every piston your cock makes inside her. She isn’t moving her head much now, she looks up to the ceiling for something to keep her gaze on, but to no avail. Her hands don’t really know where they’re going at this point as it goes to your arms, then the desk, then wherever she could grab for a proper hold. She’s helpless; blowing her pussy out to smithereens where all of the obscene phrases and noises she’s letting out can be captured into these books on the shelves, a post-it note on your desk to have her play the beck and call to relieve your stresses with the simple clutch of her cunt. Her spine is basically ground zero at this point, tearing her apart nerve by nerve until she finally cums all over your waist. 
You’ve got no right to be gentle with her. Not anymore. 
Not when she’s inviting you in the way that she is. She’s glistening in sweat, smothering your cock in her cream, the slickness making the simple push in and pull out motion all the easier. You’ve reduced her well enough to just mere sounds and nods, bottoming her quivering cunt out as you rest your cheek well above the plush of her breast- 
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you whisper, snapping your hips forward with the little bend of your lower back. “I’ll let you have me. I know how bad you need it. God, baby. You’re beautiful. Whining nothing but nonsense just to get me to use this body. This pussy, fuck-” 
“Uh huh,” she says, since the single utterances and mantras of ‘yeah’s’ can only say so much. She’s fogged up your mind, but also clears it in a sense. You have to fuck her. You’ve got to. “Don’t-” she sputters again, but the message was already registered in your head, voice cracking, “Don’t-”
Her hands slide up to the sides of your ribs, some part of hips aren’t even touching the desk anymore, and the angle where your cock carves it’s pathway into a deeper spot that she couldn’t even imagine you hitting - she fucking wails. 
You don’t say anything. Hell, you can’t even afford to say anything. Giselle is so fucking shameless, it’s a bit pathetic. Every passing thrash her body makes against yours is like a panic mode - similar to a state of shock where the mind and muscles are in this disconnect, fighting each other over what is the best course of action. She keeps taking your cock so well, the shake in her thighs, it’s no different. The symphonic tone of her voice rising up in these octaves as the pace gets faster, erratic. 
“Like that. Please, just like that- like that, like that, like that, oh fuck!” She’s shattered, much like the blowback from an explosion or shockwave. The yank you give her to her legs is nasty and mean. All bets are off the table, she’ll seal the deal in any way that you like. You’ve ruined her. She’s completely fucked - all these sharp noises and mewls and moans earning a rite of passage past those pretty lips of hers; fucking and pounding her sorry cunt as a means of shutting her up, which has worked countless times before, and it isn’t any different now. 
“Baby, you’re amazing,” you praise, and the heat of your forehead meets hers. And you swear there’s a sudden shock happening between when you rock your cock down into her cunt at the same time during the contact. 
Her brows collapse above her closed eyelids, and her stomach is so sucked in where you could see the bottom of her ribcage. You’ve got your fingers rested into the divots of her back, rutting your hips as your cock is well rested into her cunt clenched at the base, rubbing her clit - and she fucking keens. “Gonna cum all over your fucking cock,” she mutters, lip wobbling, “Keep going, I swear to-” 
There’s no reproach. It’s got pleasure written all over your body and hers. The grip of her cunt over your cock, that vice - she puts your frame of mind on a pedestal that not a lot of people were able to put you on, so you do the next logical thing to fill that bucket of ego in your head: drive that aching cock so deep into her fucking cunt, fuck her hard and fast until she shrieks, keep pumping and pumping and pumping until that sopping cunt is nothing but mush. And when you do, you hold her down at the crease where her hips and legs meet, fucking your pusling load into that tight hole of hers. She screams at the spill, cooing soon after once her mind registers past the wreckage. 
“So much. It’s so much. God, it’s so fucking much.” 
Yeah. You know. 
Giselle’s gravity has you so low, where you’ve rested well inside her, so close to where you can take it, feel it, that fucking suck of wetness where your cock shapes perfectly into her cunt. Marking the spot as yours. The soreness of it is downright disgusting. She thrives in the ache - the fine line met in the middle with your hips; maybe in a place deep within that no one else really sees, besides her. She can’t stop babbling the nonsense; so you just keep- you keep fucking into her. Until you finally stay as the pace fades. 
When the thrums of your beating heart start to subside. 
The ragged breathing you two profess is the only constant as your cock softens up inside her, pulling out as a few remnants of your cum leaks out of her thighs, dripping onto the desk, staining the stray paperworks caught in the crossfire. 
She keeps on whimpering, even when you’re running your fingertips and lips over the valley of her figure. Her chest carries on with the rise and fall as you’re pulling the messy strands away from her face, lock your gaze onto hers; the mere intimacy of it not your typical craving or cup of tea, but the lazy and sweet smile she pulls earns a tilt of your head, and you keep on admiring. 
“Umngh,” she finally says, worn-out and pliant. 
“Tired?” 
Giselle raises those lazy, doe eyes of hers, the flush of her cheeks still fresh to the image - almost feverish. Her mouth wobbles a bit, jaw dangling as she tries to find the right ways to move them like she normally does. But she nods. She nods and nods and nods. 
You kiss her forehead, and tell her, “alright, I’ll carry you to bed.” 
“Maybe if,” she’s telling you later, snuggled up against your side, finger tracing along your bare chest as you continue to let your eyes wander around the ceiling, “We could throw in the idea of leaving everything behind. Light the match. Elope. Get away from this circle so that it can just be us, only us.” 
You shift a bit in your crater of the mattress, the low hum rumbling in pensiveness, “For once, I actually think we agree on something.” 
Giselle moves up to leave a kiss to your chin, nestles her head back into the dip of your collarbone. “You just get me. It’s one of the few things I love about you.” She doesn’t say anything after that, drifting away into her eventual slumber. 
(It gets you thinking, though. The potency to do exactly what she suggested: to create a whirlpool of shit that tanks the whole cover story plan into oblivion. You’re not feeling any sense of regret whatsoever, for the very few things that were handed to you while you worked hard to capture the rest. 
You’ve always believed that things happen for a reason. And even as you’re aware of all the details and facts, you can’t help but feel left in the dark despite knowing that there’s a inkling of light to be seen at the end of the tunnel. All it takes for the tinderbox to ignite, is for someone to start the fire. 
If Giselle was willing to start it, then you would be willing to also.) 
To describe the current state of this whole situation with a single word, you’d draw it up to be content; comfortable felt too safe, and with that said notion of security it’s right there in the meaning, but falling short just a bit. 
Chatter surrounding the family mergers does die down for a bit, and the media cycle’s attention goes towards other things. In layman’s terms: it’s a nice refreshing breath of fresh air. You’ve held your end of the deal for your parents, running the fake play much to the point that the chief editors got fed up with having their lens too close to you. They can’t scan nor decode from the stills and written reports alone, at least for now. 
Giselle’s lounging on your couch in the office as per usual, heels off and legs folded nicely after coming from a breakfast outing with one of her tight-knit business partners, filling you in on the various discussions they had over a few cups of expensive espressos. 
“You’ve got anything on your agenda still?” Giselle asks, rubbing over the touched-up polish on her nails, waiting for an answer. 
“Just stepping out to get a drink for Winter,” you say, walking over to her with a hand in your pocket, the same head tilt you always give her to keep you grounded, “since I owe her.” 
“Long?” 
You shake your head, take her hand in yours and place a kiss to the three knuckles of her fingers, “No, it’s a quick run to the place right at the corner.” 
Giselle nods soon after, “Okay, I’ll be here. I just have to make a quick phone call to someone.” 
The swivel on your neck stays on her as the rest of your body is moving towards the door. She gives a longing look, one with a slight of visible confusion as she presses her phone to her ear, waiting for the line to connect at the other end. The arch of her eyebrows says ‘What?’ and you’re smirking like a carefree idiot, mouthing the old expressive phrase that sounds too cliché to even say aloud, but she tips her head down, sighing out an airy laugh to let you know she got the message. 
“You idiot, I know. Now go.” 
No bother in refusing, because that wavelength was already established from the start, and you move forward.
What happens next, will be a moment in time where the world stands still; for just a moment. It leaves everyone in shock as to the how’s and why’s, and some are rather more piqued at the aftermath than the cause. 
(The cause itself is harmless at first, until the twist of time and circumstance finds some sinister way to turn it against you.) 
You’re following the usual routine as always getting the occasional drink once in a while: walk out the main entrance of the building, get into your car, weave into traffic for about five or so minutes until your driver pulls over to the curb with the hazard lights on as you’re putting in the typical order of Winter’s go-to beverage: a simple iced americano with two packs of sugar to give the test a little more tackiness and bite that somehow does the trick in her productivity. She could’ve picked something more simpler, but it helps her get the job done. 
The thing is, you never actually make it to the car in the first place. Rather, you’re stopping yourself right out the front door when a peculiar figure stands right at the bottom steps next to one of the neighboring railings. A girl; someone that you give a quick glance to and go on with your day. She’s got a small Versace handbag in her left hand, her right with a cigarette as she looks about done with the roll anyway, but holds it up once her eyes are dead set through her shades, examining. 
Here’s where the disarm happens, and it’s so easy to fall into - because whether she’s five feet close or two hundred feet away, she’s got you right where she wants. “Funny. I was starting to think that your phone was broken.” 
You look dead set at her face, confused. The voice alone pulls you in like a flood. No. No, there’s possibly no fucking way- 
So you test: “Yiz?" You're pretty sure entirely, it's her. "Oh god, don’t tell me.” 
Yizuho laughs softly, pulling her sunglasses away from her face, and the hair flip she does is subtle, but one where she’s done countless times, and every instance has the same effect on you. It’s lethal, captivating, attractive, downright beautiful - exuding all of the things that push the boundaries of traditional classiness. She looks down, flashes her eyes back up to yours; an inquisitive expression is painted across her face, “You know how much I hate that name. Jesus, you’re the worst.” 
You’re not helping yourself, leaning a bit to the right with a hand in your pocket, lowering your guard. “Sorry. It’s a bad habit of mine, you know this. Ningning.” 
Ningning concedes, accepting your poor apology, looking off into the distance again - almost as if she was being followed like in those thriller movies where she would be the damsel in distress, coming to you for a sense of protection. She picks up fast after the niceties, “You got a minute to talk?” 
“Not really. I’m on a schedule here.” 
Getting sidetracked wasn’t in the cards for today, and you’re doing a decent job of neutralizing the conversation when you’re about to walk away. Only to be sucked in by Ningning’s voice again, a poor move on your behalf. “That’s the thing. It’s urgent.” 
“Think we can arrange something for later this week?” 
“I was hoping that you can talk now.” 
Your feet freeze at the right time as two guys come up behind your flank, grabbing your arm and wrist as the metal grind almost sounds like the rip of a sheet of paper. Next thing you know, you’re handcuffed; and the only thing that your mind at that second was: shit, this is not good. 
“Ning, what the fuck-” 
“Retribution, sweetie,” she sneers, “It looks perfect on you.”
And it’s almost as if the universe decided to spin the wheel on you today, of all days, to take another turn in your fate; undermining nearly all of the good deeds you’ve done in your life up to this point. But that’s not the worst part, people take notice of the commotion, and start to close in on you four. They’ve got their phones out, recording, taking pictures; documenting the whole thing. 
Ningning’s got her phone to her ear, most likely confirming with the person on the other end that the deal’s been done, and her screen is faced towards you as soon as she ends the call. 
Make no fucking mistake, you’ll fight the world bare-handed to get to the bottom of this. Even if the first person you'd go for would be the contact on Ningning's phone whose name starts with the letter ‘G’. 
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pucksandpower · 1 day ago
Text
Meant to be His
Day 30 → Innocence Kink 💋 CEO!Lando Norris
Warnings: 18+ content, dubious consent, breeding, and manipulation
Kinktober Masterlist
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Lando leans back in his sleek, black leather chair, eyes glued to the door of his office. It’s been like this for months now. You waltz in every morning, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside of him, completely unaware that he’s one wrong word away from losing it.
He tightens his grip on his Montblanc pen, watching you through the glass wall as you flutter about the office, bow in your hair, soft pink dress neatly pressed, kitten heels clicking softly against the marble floors. Innocent. Always so damn innocent.
He’s sure it’s an act. It has to be.
“Mr. Norris, do you need anything else before your meeting at two?” Your voice cuts through his thoughts like it’s nothing, and the soft, sweet tone of it only aggravates him further.
Lando exhales sharply, spinning his chair back to face his computer, pretending to check an email that he isn’t actually reading. “No. I’m fine.”
There’s a pause. You’re still standing there, he can feel it. His jaw tightens. She’s waiting for something, but what? An opportunity to toy with him again, no doubt. He glances up, catching your eyes.
“You sure? You seem tense,” you ask, that genuine concern on your face so perfectly played. You look so innocent. But Lando doesn’t buy it. Not anymore.
“I’m sure,” he says flatly, forcing his voice to stay calm. You smile, nodding before heading out of his office, your perfume trailing behind like some kind of torture. Sweet, light, impossible to ignore.
His eyes follow you as you return to your desk, and for the life of him, Lando can’t figure out how you do it. How you manage to walk around here, day after day, pretending like none of it affects you. The looks, the way he tenses up every time you’re near, the way his pulse races when you lean over his desk just a little too close to hand him a file.
You. Must. Know.
But you carry on, head buried in textbooks between calls, your fingers skimming through pages of what looks like accounting formulas while you answer emails. How the hell does someone focus on their studies while managing the workload he throws at you? And always with that ridiculous little bow in your hair. It drives him insane.
His phone buzzes, snapping him out of his thoughts. He glances down.
Max: Dinner tonight?
Lando ignores the text. He can’t think about dinner right now. His attention is on you, watching the way your lips move when you hum softly to yourself, tapping away at your keyboard. Do you know what you’re doing? Do you have any idea?
No, of course you do. You’ve got him right where you want him — second-guessing everything. Lando feels his frustration simmering, the tight knot of control he keeps around his emotions starting to fray. He’s built his career on maintaining composure, being the one who’s always a step ahead, but this — you — are throwing him off balance.
He hates that.
“Hey.” His voice cuts through the stillness, sharp. He doesn’t know what he’s about to say, but he’s tired of staying silent. “Can you come in here for a second?”
You look up, slightly startled, and he watches as you smooth down your dress before stepping into his office. The door closes with a soft click behind you.
“Yes, Mr. Norris?”
He doesn’t respond immediately, eyes narrowing as he watches you. His thumb taps rhythmically on the arm of his chair, thoughts racing. Your tone is so polite, so professional, as if you’re not in the slightest aware of the mess you’ve made of him.
“That report — did you finish it?”
Your head tilts slightly, confused. “Yes, I emailed it to you this morning. Did you need something else added?”
“No.” Lando pauses, his eyes lingering on the bow in your hair. It's small, white, and so out of place in this cold, polished world of corporate dominance. Yet you wear it like it belongs. It makes him irrationally angry, but he can’t say why. “I got it. You can go.”
There’s that pause again, your eyes searching his face for something, but you don’t push. You never push. Instead, you nod politely and turn to leave, but something inside him snaps.
“Why do you do that?” His voice is harsher than he intends, but he doesn’t care.
You turn slowly, brows furrowed. “Do what?”
“That.” He gestures vaguely toward you, frustration bubbling over. “You walk around here like nothing bothers you. Always … smiling. Always so damn-” He stops himself, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He doesn’t want to say it, but it’s on the tip of his tongue. Innocent. Always so damn innocent. He grits his teeth instead. “Forget it.”
You blink, clearly taken aback. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?”
The sincerity in your voice almost makes him feel guilty. Almost. But no, this is part of it, isn’t it? You play this innocent card so well, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to him. He stands abruptly, crossing the room in two quick strides until he’s standing in front of you.
“Wrong?” His voice lowers, eyes burning into yours. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
You look up at him, wide-eyed, still confused. “Then what-”
“You can go.” He cuts you off, voice tight, jaw clenched. “Get back to work.”
Your lips part as if to say something, but you close them again, giving him one last glance before nodding and stepping out of his office. The second the door closes, Lando exhales sharply, running both hands through his hair.
He’s losing control. He never loses control. Not like this. He doesn’t lose sleep over things he can’t have. That’s not who he is. But you — you’re making him unravel.
He moves back to his desk, his eyes once again finding you through the glass. You’ve already gone back to work like nothing happened, typing away, completely oblivious to the storm raging inside him. How can you be so unaware?
Lando clenches his fists, determination settling in his chest. No, you’re not unaware. You can’t be. You’ve been playing this game for months, testing him, pushing him to the edge, making him question everything he’s built. But if this is a game, it’s one he’s determined to win.
This ends soon.
Whatever you’re doing — whether you’re aware of it or not — Lando is done letting it get to him. He’s done letting you have the upper hand.
It’s time to do something about it.
***
The morning sun filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lando’s office as he sits behind his desk, trying to drown himself in spreadsheets and stock analyses. But his focus wavers every few minutes, his eyes drifting toward your desk, watching you chew absentmindedly on the end of a pen while scrolling through emails. The quiet hum of the office is nothing more than white noise, and no matter how hard he tries, you’re there. In his head. In his line of sight.
He rubs the bridge of his nose, frustrated, trying to get a grip. Yesterday’s conversation replays in his mind, your wide-eyed confusion, the softness of your voice, the bow in your hair. He told himself he’d put an end to it, but now, here you are again, all cute dresses and innocence, as if you haven’t been driving him insane for months.
Then, he sees it.
You’ve unwrapped a lollipop, the plastic crackling softly as you slide it into your mouth, your lips closing around the candy in a way that feels intentional. Lando’s stomach tightens. His jaw clenches as he watches the slow swirl of your tongue around the stick. He knows he should look away, that he’s letting himself spiral, but his eyes stay locked on you. You’re concentrating on your screen, tapping at the keyboard, entirely oblivious to the effect you’re having on him.
He shifts in his chair, feeling the sudden constriction in his pants, the tightness unbearable. His breath comes harder, shallow. He balls his fists on the desk, eyes narrowing. That’s it. He’s had enough.
He stands abruptly, the chair scraping behind him. His body moves before his mind catches up, the determination settling into his steps as he crosses the office in long, forceful strides. He doesn’t even bother knocking. He doesn’t need to. He owns this place.
“Come into my office,” he says, voice low, tight.
You look up, startled, your lips still wrapped around the lollipop. “Now?”
“Now.”
You blink, eyes wide as you quickly nod, pulling the candy from your mouth and holding it awkwardly between your fingers. You stand, smoothing out your dress as you follow him, heels clicking softly behind him.
The second you step inside, he closes the door with a deliberate, heavy thud. His office feels smaller today, the air thick, charged. He doesn’t even look at you as he walks to his desk, his movements sharp, controlled, as if he’s barely holding onto the last threads of his restraint.
“Did I — did I do something wrong?” Your voice is soft, confused, and that only makes it worse. How could you be so unaware? How could you stand there, looking at him like that, when he’s been on edge for weeks?
Lando’s silence hangs heavy between you, and you shift nervously, fidgeting with the hem of your dress. That innocent little dress that clings to your waist just enough to remind him of every single curve.
“If I’ve made a mistake-”
He cuts you off with a sharp movement, his arm sweeping across the desk, sending papers, pens, and his phone crashing to the floor in one swift motion. The noise echoes through the office, loud, final.
You jump, eyes wide, taking a step back. “Mr. Norris-”
“Enough.” His voice is deep, guttural, and he steps toward you, crowding your space, forcing you backward until your thighs bump against the edge of the now-cleared desk. “You think you can keep teasing me, walking around here like this?”
Your eyes widen, genuine confusion etched on your face. “I-I’m not — I didn’t-”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.” His hands find your hips, fingers digging in just hard enough to keep you there, to stop you from retreating. You’re trapped, and he knows it. He’s planned it. His frustration, his anger — it’s all coming to a head, and there’s no going back now. “With your little dresses, your bows, that sweet little act. All of it.”
Your breath hitches, and for a second, Lando thinks he sees it — something flicker in your eyes. But then your voice, soft and trembling, breaks the moment. “I haven’t-”
“Innocent,” he spits the word like it’s a curse, fingers tightening on your waist. “Always so innocent. But if you’re going to act like that, you better be ready to pay for it.”
Your eyes dart to the door, panic creeping into your expression. “Mr. Norris, I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear, I-”
Before you can finish, he pushes you down onto the desk, the cool surface pressing against your back. His hands slide up your thighs, bunching the fabric of your dress as he leans over you, breath hot against your ear.
“You really think I believe that? You’ve been teasing me for months. The way you look at me, the way you walk around in those outfits like you don’t know what it does to me.” He’s practically growling now, his control slipping further with every word. “You’re not fooling anyone.”
“I haven’t-” You shake your head, breath coming faster, your voice breaking. “I swear, I didn’t mean to-”
He cuts you off with a hand on your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress higher, exposing the soft skin of your legs. His breath catches in his throat as he finally sees it — the tiny bows decorating the edges of your underwear. Innocent, delicate, just like everything else about you.
“Of course,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, his voice dark with disbelief. “Even your underwear has bows.”
You look up at him, eyes wide, lips trembling as you try to form words, but nothing comes out. You’re confused, scared even, but Lando’s mind is too clouded with months of frustration to see it clearly. All he knows is that you’ve pushed him too far, and now he’s about to push back.
Lando’s fingers toy with the delicate bows on your underwear, his grip tightening, anger laced with disbelief. Every detail of you, from your soft lips to the innocent little things you wear — it all feels designed to torment him. And now, this. The proof in the form of those bows only furthers his conviction that it’s all some calculated game. You have to be messing with him.
“Why would you wear something like this?” His voice is low, dark, as he tugs at the fabric just enough to make you gasp, your body trembling under his. “It’s pathetic. Like you’re trying to act sweet and untouched, but we both know the truth.”
Your eyes are wide, pleading, but you don’t say anything. Lando’s face hardens as he looks down at you. He doesn’t believe a word you’ve said — how could he? He knows the games women play, knows how they can hide behind innocent faces while pulling the strings behind the scenes. You’re no different. You can’t be.
But he needs to be sure.
Lando leans over you, his body pressing down on yours as his hands slide higher, pulling your underwear aside. The fabric moves easily, but what he finds next stops him cold.
His fingers pause, eyes narrowing as he pushes a little further, a soft pressure meeting his touch. His pulse quickens. For a second, his brain can’t quite process what he’s feeling. There’s no way. Not you.
He pushes a little harder, confirming what his mind refuses to accept. You tense beneath him, your breath shaky, and that’s when it hits him like a truck.
You’re a virgin.
A wave of shock floods through him, wiping away the rage that had been bubbling up inside. His mind races, trying to reconcile the idea of you — the teasing, innocent act he thought you’d been playing — with the reality of what he’s just discovered. You’ve never been touched. Not by him. Not by anyone.
He pulls back slightly, staring down at you in disbelief. “You're serious.” His voice comes out harsher than intended, but it’s the only thing that manages to escape his mouth. His breath hitches as the realization fully settles.
Your lips part, trembling. “I-I told you,” you whisper, barely able to meet his eyes. “I wasn’t … I didn’t …”
Lando stares at you, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together in his mind. The shy looks, the blushing, the fidgeting. It wasn’t an act. You really are innocent. You’re untouched. Pure. And all this time, he’d been imagining the worst. Misreading every single thing about you.
A flood of possessiveness surges through him, stronger than anything he’s ever felt. He’s the first. He’s going to be the only one. His hands slide up your body, slower this time, deliberate. You’re his now. Completely. You’ve always been his, but now it’s clear. He’ll make sure of it.
“You're mine,” he murmurs, voice low and commanding. His eyes burn into yours as he leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Do you understand that?”
You swallow hard, nodding slightly, though your face is still a mix of fear and confusion. He doesn’t care. You’ll understand soon enough.
He reaches for the lollipop laying abandoned on the desk, the one you had been sucking on earlier. Without breaking eye contact, he brings it to his mouth, licking the candy slowly, his tongue swirling around it just as he’d imagined watching you do the same. It’s sweet, just like you.
Then, without warning, he presses the lollipop back to your lips, his eyes darkening. “Open your mouth,” he orders softly.
You hesitate for a second, but his gaze is unrelenting, powerful, and you obey. Your lips part slowly, and he slips the lollipop into your mouth, watching with satisfaction as you close your lips around it. There’s something primal in the way he watches you now, the way your innocence only fuels the possessiveness raging inside him.
He leans down, his mouth dangerously close to your ear. “Don’t leave after work today,” he whispers, the words rough and commanding. “You’re coming home with me.”
You let out a shaky breath, eyes wide, but you don’t protest. You don’t argue. You just look up at him, the lollipop still between your lips, and nod. He smirks, brushing a thumb across your cheek before pulling back, taking in the sight of you sprawled on his desk, dress bunched around your thighs, your lips wrapped around the candy he gave you.
His.
All of you.
***
The hours after Lando’s quiet command crawl by at a pace that feels like torture. He watches you from his office, stealing glances through the glass partition. You’re fidgety, distracted, clearly unsettled by what transpired. Your fingers keep brushing the spot on your lips where his lollipop had been, your gaze downcast, stealing anxious looks toward his office door. He finds it hard to focus on anything else, his mind swirling with the anticipation of what’s coming.
Finally, the workday ends. The usual shuffle of employees packing up to leave passes in a blur for him, and when he sees you stand to collect your things, his heart kicks into overdrive. This is it.
You look hesitant as you walk toward the door, but Lando meets you in the hallway before you can even reach for your coat. His voice is quiet, commanding, as he speaks. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”
You don’t say a word, just nod and follow him. It’s all you can do. You’re out of your element, swept up in a current you don’t understand, but something about his presence makes resistance feel impossible.
The elevator ride down to the underground parking lot is thick with tension. He can feel your anxiety radiating off you in waves, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. His hand rests on the small of your back as you step out, guiding you to his sleek McLaren. The doors unlock with a soft click, and he gestures for you to get in.
Once inside, the car roars to life with a low, throaty hum as Lando pulls out of the parking garage, the city lights blurring into streaks of color as they hit the road. For a while, the drive is silent, save for the soft purr of the engine and the occasional sound of your nervous breath.
Lando’s grip on the steering wheel is tight, but he allows one hand to drift away, resting on the center console. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. You’re staring out the window, fingers twisting in your lap, the tension in your shoulders palpable. His gaze lowers, following the line of your thighs beneath your dress, and something in him snaps.
Slowly, deliberately, he lets his hand fall to your knee, his fingers brushing against your bare skin. The effect is immediate — you stiffen, your breath catching in your throat, but you don’t move. You don’t push him away.
His hand stays there, warm and firm, his thumb tracing slow circles on your thigh as he drives. He doesn’t speak, but the weight of his touch says more than words could. It’s a reminder, a promise. You’re his now, and tonight, he’s going to make sure you know it.
The tension between you both is electric, humming in the space between his hand on your leg and your racing pulse. You bite your lip, a futile attempt to steady your breath, but Lando can sense it — the nervous anticipation that’s eating at you, the mix of fear and something else, something you’re not quite ready to acknowledge.
The drive is short, the distance between his office and his penthouse a blur. Before you know it, he’s pulling into the private garage beneath his building. The McLaren comes to a smooth stop, and Lando kills the engine, the silence that follows heavy and oppressive.
“Let’s go,” he says quietly, stepping out of the car and coming around to your side before you can even unbuckle your seatbelt. He opens the door for you, his hand outstretched. You hesitate for only a second before placing your hand in his, allowing him to help you out.
His grip tightens as he leads you toward the private elevator. The doors close behind you with a soft hiss, and the moment you’re sealed inside the confined space, you feel his presence even more intensely. His hand slides up your back, fingers pressing into the curve of your spine as the elevator ascends.
When the doors slide open again, you’re in his penthouse — a sprawling space of glass and steel, modern and minimalist, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city below. But you don’t have time to take it in. Lando’s hand is still on your back, guiding you through the entryway, through the open living space, until you’re standing in the middle of his bedroom.
The door clicks shut behind you, the sound echoing through the large, empty space. You can hear your own breath, shallow and quick, the thud of your pulse loud in your ears. But Lando is calm, methodical, as he steps in front of you, his gaze never leaving your face.
“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice soft but commanding.
Your legs feel weak, but you take a step forward. His hands find your waist immediately, pulling you closer, his breath warm against your temple as he presses a kiss to your hairline.
“Do you know what happens now?” His voice is low, a quiet rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. You shake your head, barely able to think, let alone respond. Lando pulls back just enough to look down at you, his expression unreadable. “You’re mine. I told you that.”
You nod, swallowing hard, unable to speak. You can feel his hands moving again, tugging at the hem of your dress, pulling it up slowly, exposing more and more of your skin until it’s bunched around your waist. You gasp softly, feeling his hands on your bare thighs again, the same spot he’d touched in the car, but now his touch is more urgent, more possessive.
He pushes you gently onto the bed, your back sinking into the plush mattress as he leans over you, his eyes dark and focused. “I’m going to make sure of it,” he murmurs, his hands slipping beneath your thighs, spreading them apart as he positions himself between your legs.
Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers find the barrier again, that small, fragile proof of your innocence. He pauses, his eyes narrowing as he looks down at you.
“You really were telling the truth.” His voice is low, almost disbelieving, as if the idea of you being untouched still doesn’t fully compute in his mind. He’s quiet for a moment, and then his expression shifts, a dark, possessive gleam entering his eyes. “You’re mine,” he whispers again, and this time, there’s no doubt in his voice.
You let out a shaky breath, your eyes filling with tears, overwhelmed by everything — the intensity of his gaze, the feel of his hands on you, the weight of what’s happening. A tear slips down your cheek, and Lando’s lips are on you immediately, kissing it away, his breath warm and soft against your skin.
“Shh,” he coos, his voice soft now, almost tender as he kisses your tears. “Don’t cry. You’re all mine now, and I’m going to take care of you. I promise.”
His hands are gentle as he pushes through the barrier, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. You let out a soft, broken gasp, and Lando leans down to kiss you, swallowing the sound as he moves deeper. His lips trail over your cheek, your jaw, your neck, kissing away every tear, every bit of hesitation.
Lando’s grip on your hips tightens, his breath coming in slow, deliberate waves as he watches your every move. There’s a fierce, possessive satisfaction in his eyes as he presses further into you, feeling the way your body reacts, the soft gasps escaping your lips, the way your fingers curl into the sheets. He’s in complete control, and that’s exactly how he wants it.
You’re his now. Completely. And he’s going to be the first — the only one — to take you over the edge. That thought alone sends a surge of pride through him, dark and possessive. The world has never touched you the way he’s about to. You’re untainted, and he’s going to keep it that way.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice low and rough as his hand finds your chin, tilting your face toward him. Your eyes flutter open, wide and unsure, still glistening from the tears he kissed away moments ago. There’s an innocence in your gaze, a vulnerability that cuts through the sharp edge of his dominance for a moment, but he pushes that aside. He wants you to look at him — not in fear, but in understanding.
“This is how it’s going to be,” Lando murmurs, his fingers brushing against your cheek as he holds your gaze. “I’m the only one who gets to do this. No one else. Ever. Do you understand?”
You nod, your breath catching in your throat, and he smirks. “Say it,” he demands, his thumb brushing over your lips. “Say that you’re mine.”
“I-I’m yours,” you whisper, your voice shaking, but there’s something else in it now. A tremor of something more than fear — something closer to surrender.
“That’s right.” He leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear as his voice drops to a whisper. “You belong to me. And I’m going to show you exactly what that means.”
He moves deliberately, his hands sliding down your body, claiming every inch of you as he goes. His touch is firm, authoritative, yet maddeningly slow, building a tension between you that leaves you trembling beneath him. Lando can feel the way your body reacts to him, the way you instinctively arch into his touch, even though you try to hold back. It makes him smile, dark and knowing. You might be innocent, but your body is learning quickly. It’s beginning to respond to him, just like he knew it would.
“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs, his hand sliding between your thighs, teasing, as his fingers brush lightly against your skin. “You want this. I can feel it.”
You make a soft sound in the back of your throat, a shaky, half-swallowed whimper, but you don’t pull away. You don’t deny it. Because deep down, even if you don’t want to admit it, you do want this. You want him. He knows it.
Lando’s lips curve into a satisfied smirk as he continues his slow, torturous movements, his fingers moving in perfect rhythm with the soft gasps that escape your lips. He watches every flicker of emotion on your face, every shiver that runs through you as he pushes you closer to the edge. You’re so close — he can feel it.
“I can feel you trembling,” he whispers, his voice dark and seductive as he leans down, his lips brushing against your collarbone. “You’re almost there, aren’t you? You’ve never felt this before, have you?”
You shake your head, your breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps now, and Lando feels a rush of satisfaction. He’s right. No one else has ever brought you this close. No one else has ever touched you like this. And no one else ever will.
“I’m going to be the first,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your neck as his hand moves with agonizing precision, his fingers coaxing soft, breathless sounds from you. “The only one to make you feel this way. Do you know how good it’s going to feel, baby? How good I’m going to make you feel?”
Your only response is a soft whimper, your body arching beneath him as you inch closer to that tipping point. Lando can feel it in the way your body moves, the way your fingers clutch at the sheets, desperate for something to hold on to. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin, his voice barely a whisper.
“Don’t hold back,” he coos, his voice dark and commanding. “I want to see you fall apart for me.”
His words send a shiver through you, and Lando can feel the way you’re teetering on the edge, the way your body is trembling, so close, so painfully close. But he doesn’t let up. He won’t let you slip away from this.
And then, with a deliberate, calculated move, he pushes you over the edge.
The gasp that leaves your lips is soft, broken, and Lando watches with dark satisfaction as your body tenses, your eyes squeezing shut as you finally fall. He keeps his touch steady, guiding you through it, his voice low and soothing as he coaxes you through the overwhelming rush of sensations.
“There it is,” he murmurs, his hand still moving in that same, steady rhythm. “Let it happen. Let me see you.”
Your breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps as your body trembles beneath him, and Lando can’t help the satisfied smirk that tugs at his lips. He’s the first to do this to you. He’s the only one who ever will.
As you come down from the high, your body slowly relaxing, Lando’s hand moves to cradle your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. He leans down, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, his voice soft but firm. “And I’ll never let you forget that.”
You don’t respond, your breath still shaky as you lie beneath him, your body completely spent. But Lando doesn’t need a response. He knows you understand. You belong to him now, in every way that matters.
***
Lando wakes early, the soft light of dawn filtering through the sheer curtains in his penthouse bedroom. The city outside is still and quiet, a far cry from the chaos of the day that is yet to begin. He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the gentle light, and then his gaze falls on you, lying beside him, still asleep.
The sight of you — curled up under the covers, your breathing slow and peaceful — does something to him. It’s as if, in sleep, you’ve become even more vulnerable, even more innocent. Your face is relaxed, lips slightly parted, your hair falling messily across the pillow. There’s a softness to you now, a contrast to the tension that had filled the air between you both the night before.
Lando’s chest tightens as he watches you, his mind racing. How could someone like you, with your wide-eyed innocence and shy demeanor, have this kind of effect on him? He’d never wanted anyone like this before, never felt this need to possess, to claim. But with you, it’s different. It’s all-consuming.
You stir slightly, shifting beneath the covers, and Lando feels his pulse quicken. Even in sleep, you’re irresistible to him. He can’t stop looking at you, drinking in every detail — your soft skin, the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks as you dream.
He feels the pull again, that deep, primal urge to claim you in every possible way. He wants to feel you, fully, like he never has before. The thought sends a wave of heat through him, and before he can stop himself, his hand is moving, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your face. His fingers trail softly down your cheek, barely touching, but even that small contact ignites something inside him.
You don’t stir, still lost in sleep, and Lando’s gaze darkens. He’s always in control, always dominant — but there’s something about the idea of taking you like this, of being the first to truly have you, that sends his desire spiraling out of control.
Slowly, deliberately, Lando shifts closer to you, careful not to wake you. His hand moves down your body, sliding under the covers, fingers grazing your skin. He inhales deeply, his breath catching in his throat as he feels your warmth, your softness. You shift slightly again, a soft sigh escaping your lips, but you don’t wake.
“Shh,” Lando whispers under his breath, his voice barely audible. “Just stay like that, baby.”
His hand moves lower, slipping beneath the fabric of your underwear, and he feels you tremble slightly in your sleep. He’s gentle, careful not to startle you, but he can’t deny the hunger building inside him, the way his body aches to be closer to you.
You stir again, your body instinctively shifting toward his touch, and Lando bites back a groan. The feel of you — soft, warm, so completely vulnerable — drives him to the edge. He leans down, pressing his lips to your neck, kissing the delicate skin just beneath your ear.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice dark and low. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
He pulls back, just enough to see your face again. You’re still asleep, still completely unaware of the effect you have on him, and something about that only spurs him on. He slides his hand down further, positioning himself between your legs, his breath coming in slow, deliberate breaths as he moves.
He’s careful, so careful, not to wake you. This is his moment, the one he’s been waiting for. He pushes forward slowly, his body tense with anticipation, his heart pounding in his chest. You let out a soft, barely audible whimper in your sleep, but you don’t wake.
Lando’s jaw tightens as he feels the first resistance, the proof of your innocence, and he closes his eyes for a brief moment, letting the satisfaction wash over him. You’re really his. No one else has ever been this close to you, no one else has ever taken this from you. And now, it’s his.
He moves slowly, savoring every second, every soft sound that escapes your lips. You shift beneath him, your body instinctively reacting to his touch, and Lando’s grip tightens on your hip, holding you still.
“That’s it,” he whispers, his voice thick with need. “Just relax, baby. Let me take care of you.”
You stir slightly, a soft whimper escaping your lips as he moves deeper, but your eyes stay closed. Lando watches your face intently, his breath shallow, his entire focus on you. You’re so tight, so perfect, and the way your body responds to him only fuels his desire.
He moves carefully, slowly, not wanting to hurt you, but the heat between you both is undeniable. His control is slipping, and he knows it. But he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. Not until he’s completely inside you, not until he’s claimed you fully.
Your body tenses as he pushes further, a soft moan escaping your lips, and Lando bites down on his bottom lip, trying to stay focused, trying to hold back. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you — not yet. But the feel of you around him, the way your body tightens and trembles beneath his touch, drives him wild.
You make another soft sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and your eyes flutter open, just barely. You’re still half-asleep, your gaze unfocused, but you feel him now. You feel what he’s doing.
“L-Lando?” You whisper, your voice barely audible, thick with sleep and confusion.
“Shh,” Lando soothes, his lips brushing against your ear. “Just relax, baby. I’ve got you.”
You shift slightly beneath him, your brows furrowing in confusion, but you don’t pull away. Lando watches your face carefully, his breath hot against your skin as he moves deeper, taking his time, savoring every inch of you.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “Just let me in. Let me have all of you.”
You let out a soft whimper, your body instinctively arching toward him, and Lando feels a surge of pride. You might not fully understand what’s happening, but your body is responding to him in exactly the way he wants.
“That’s it,” he breathes, his hand moving to your cheek, brushing his thumb over your lips. “You’re mine, remember? All mine.”
Your eyes flutter closed again, a soft sigh escaping your lips as Lando finally pushes all the way in, feeling the last bit of resistance give way. He’s inside you now, fully, completely, and the satisfaction that rushes through him is almost overwhelming.
For a moment, he stays still, just savoring the feel of you, the way your body trembles beneath him, the way your breath comes in soft, uneven gasps. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand cradling your face.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “So perfect.”
You make a soft, breathless sound, your hands instinctively reaching for him, your fingers brushing against his chest. Lando smiles, dark and satisfied, as he begins to move, slow and deliberate, his body pressing against yours with every thrust.
Lando watches the way you shift beneath him, the way you tense and relax with every movement. You’re unraveling, slowly, in his hands, and there’s something so intensely gratifying about it that he can’t help the dark, satisfied smirk that pulls at his lips.
He moves deliberately, controlling the rhythm, controlling you. Every thrust is measured, precise, pushing you closer to the edge while keeping you right where he wants you. He can feel it — feel the way you’re struggling to hold on, feel the way your breathing becomes more erratic, the way your fingers clutch at him, desperate, uncertain.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” Lando murmurs, his voice rough and commanding as he watches your face. Your eyes flutter open, wide and unfocused, your lips parting as you try to catch your breath. But you don’t answer, can’t answer — your body is too consumed by the sensations he’s drawing out of you.
He leans down, his breath hot against your ear. “I want to hear you say it,” he growls softly, his hand gripping your hip as he presses deeper into you. “Tell me how close you are. Tell me how badly you want this.”
“I — Lando-” Your voice is a shaky whisper, breathless and uncertain, and Lando smirks again. You can barely speak, barely string two words together, but that’s exactly how he wants you. He wants you undone, unraveling in his hands, unable to think of anything but him.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down your side, his touch firm and possessive. “I know you’re close. I can feel it.”
He moves faster now, his hips grinding into yours as he keeps the rhythm steady, watching your every reaction. You’re trembling beneath him, your body responding to him in ways that make his chest swell with pride. Every soft whimper, every sharp intake of breath — it’s all because of him. And he loves it.
“You feel that?” Lando murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. “That’s me. I’m the only one who’ll ever make you feel this way.”
Your body arches beneath him, and Lando can see the way you’re fighting to hold on, the way you’re trying to keep control. But he won’t let you. He’s not done with you yet.
He slows his movements slightly, just enough to keep you teetering on the edge but not enough to push you over. You let out a frustrated whimper, your fingers digging into his arms as you try to pull him closer, but Lando just smirks, keeping you right where he wants you.
“Not yet,” he whispers, his hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “You’ll come when I say you can.”
Your eyes flutter shut again, and Lando can see the tension building inside you. He watches the way your chest rises and falls, the way your lips part in desperate, breathless gasps, and he knows you’re on the verge of falling apart.
But he holds you there, just on the brink, savoring the way your body reacts to him, the way you’re completely at his mercy. It’s intoxicating, the power he holds over you.
“I can feel how badly you want it,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl as he moves his hand between your legs, teasing you with soft, deliberate touches. “But you’re going to wait. You’re going to wait for me.”
You make a soft, pleading sound, your body trembling beneath him, and Lando’s grip tightens on your hip, holding you steady as he starts to move again, his pace slow and deliberate. He watches every flicker of emotion on your face, the way your brow furrows, the way your lips part as you struggle to breathe through the overwhelming sensations.
“You can take it,” he whispers, his voice dark and commanding. “You can take everything I give you.”
You’re so close now, so impossibly close, and Lando can feel it — the way your body tightens around him, the way your breath catches in your throat as you inch closer to the edge. But he’s not letting you fall yet. Not until he’s ready.
“I’m the only one who gets to see you like this,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. “The only one who gets to take you apart like this.”
His words send a shiver through you, and Lando can feel the way your body responds to him, the way you arch into his touch, desperate for release. He’s holding you on the edge, keeping you there, and the power rushes through him like a drug.
“Please,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, breathless and pleading. “Lando, please-”
He smirks, dark and satisfied. That’s what he wanted. He wanted you begging for it, wanting it as badly as he does.
“You want to come?” He growls softly, his grip tightening on your hip as he moves faster, his thrusts deeper, harder. “You want me to let you come?”
You nod, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as you try to hold on, your body trembling beneath him.
“Say it,” Lando demands, his voice rough and commanding. “Tell me how much you want it.”
“I-I want it,” you whisper, your voice shaking as you clutch at him, your fingers digging into his arms. “Please, Lando — please let me come.”
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with pride as he watches you unravel beneath him. “Come for me. Let me see you fall apart.”
And with that, he pushes you over the edge.
Your body tenses, your eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure crashes over you in waves. Lando watches every second, his grip firm on your hips as you arch beneath him, your breath coming in soft, broken gasps. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t slow his movements as he guides you through it, his breath coming in slow, deliberate waves as he watches you fall apart in his hands.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing as he keeps moving, keeps pushing you. “You’re doing so well. Just let it happen.”
You make a soft, broken sound, your body trembling beneath him as the pleasure washes over you, and Lando feels a rush of satisfaction. You’re his. Completely, utterly his.
But he’s not done.
As you come down from the high, your body slowly relaxing, Lando’s grip tightens on your hips again. He’s close now — so close he can feel it building inside him, the tension coiling in his muscles as he moves faster, harder, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.
“Look at me,” he growls, his hand moving to cup your jaw, forcing your gaze up to meet his. “I want to see your face when I take you.”
Your eyes flutter open, wide and unfocused, and Lando groans at the sight of you — flushed, trembling, completely undone. He’s never seen anything more beautiful.
“I’m going to come inside you,” he murmurs, his voice rough as he moves faster, his body tensing as the pleasure builds. “You’re going to take all of me. Do you understand?”
You nod, your breath shaky, your fingers clutching at his arms as you try to keep up with him.
“Good girl,” he growls, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re mine. All mine.”
With one final, deep thrust, Lando feels the tension snap, the pleasure crashing over him as he finally lets go. He groans, his grip tightening on your hips as he comes inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it.
For a moment, he stays still, his breath coming in heavy, uneven bursts as he comes down from the high. He watches you, your body still trembling beneath him, your breath coming in soft, uneven gasps.
And then, slowly, carefully, he pulls back, his hand sliding up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek.
“You were meant to be mine,” he whispers again, his voice soft but firm. “And I’m never letting you go.”
You don’t respond, your body completely spent, but Lando knows you understand. You belong to him now, in every way that matters.
***
Lando lies beside you, his chest pressed against your back, a comforting warmth in the quiet aftermath. The soft sheets cling to both of you, and he can feel your heartbeat gradually slowing, returning to a steady rhythm as you begin to relax in his arms. His fingers lightly trace the curve of your lips, a subtle smirk playing at his own.
There's something so innocent about the way you look right now — your eyelashes fluttering gently as if you’re dreaming, the soft rise and fall of your chest. He wants to savor it, the moment of peace after everything, but he’s far from done.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough from the lingering remnants of passion. You blink slowly, your gaze focusing on him, a small smile tugging at your lips. The look you give him is so tender, so trusting, it makes his chest tighten in a way he’s not used to. Vulnerability looks good on you, he thinks.
“You’re still awake,” Lando continues, his fingers brushing over your lips before moving to caress your jaw. He shifts his body closer to yours, resting his head on his hand as he looks down at you. “What were you thinking about?”
You blink again, your lips parting to speak, but before you can answer, he tilts his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “What are you studying at university, again?”
There’s a brief pause, and he watches as you seem to collect your thoughts. “Business economics,” you say softly, almost shyly. “I’m in my second year.”
He raises an eyebrow, his hand still trailing lazily across your skin. “Business economics?” There’s a note of surprise in his voice, but more than that, there’s something else — something almost dismissive.
You nod, your eyes flicking to his, unsure of what he’s thinking. “Yeah, I mean … it’s interesting. And it’s practical. I thought-”
“Why?” Lando interrupts, his voice cutting through the air like a knife, making you pause mid-sentence. His tone is calm, controlled, but there’s an underlying tension there, something that makes you hesitate.
“What do you mean?” You ask, confused, your brow furrowing slightly.
“Why are you wasting your time on that?” Lando’s fingers stop their gentle tracing and move to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes locked on yours. “You don’t need a degree.”
You stare at him for a moment, the words sinking in. There’s a silence that stretches between you, and Lando can feel the subtle shift in your energy, the way your body tenses just slightly, like you’re gearing up for some sort of protest. But before you can speak, he continues.
“I’ll take care of you,” he says, his voice softer now but still firm. “You don’t need to worry about school, or work, or any of that. I’ve got more than enough for the both of us.” He pauses, watching your reaction, waiting for the inevitable pushback. “Why would you bother with a degree when you have me?”
There’s a flicker of something in your eyes — uncertainty, maybe even hesitation. You open your mouth to say something, but the words die on your tongue. Lando’s hand moves to rest on your thigh, his fingers brushing against your skin, a silent reminder of the control he holds.
“I … I don’t know, I just …”
“You don’t need to worry about it,” Lando interrupts, his voice smooth, reassuring, yet unyielding. “I’ve got everything handled. I’ll take care of you. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”
You swallow hard, trying to process his words, trying to reconcile the offer of security with the dream you’ve been working toward. “But I like studying …”
Lando’s hand moves down your thigh, his grip tightening slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to make a point. “Do you?” He murmurs, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “Or are you just doing it because you think you need to?”
You blink, caught off guard by the question, and he takes advantage of the moment. His hand slips further down, his fingers brushing between your legs, a slow, deliberate movement that leaves no room for argument.
“Lando-”
“Hush,” he murmurs, his lips curling into a faint smile as he leans down, his mouth hovering just over yours. “I don’t want to hear any excuses. You don’t need that degree. You’ve got me now.”
His fingers move with practiced ease, and you gasp, your body betraying you as you react to his touch. Any coherent thought slips away as he works you over, your head falling back against the pillow, your body arching into him.
“You’re going to quit,” Lando says, his voice calm but firm, a quiet command that brooks no argument. “You’re not going back to school.”
You shake your head, or maybe you don’t — it’s hard to tell anymore, everything feels hazy, your mind clouded by the sensations coursing through you. But Lando doesn’t care. He’s already decided.
“Say it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear as his fingers press harder, drawing another breathless moan from your lips. “You’re going to quit.”
“I … I don’t …” Your voice is weak, shaky, barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing.
Lando’s grip tightens, and he moves his body over yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you, reminding you of who’s in control.
“Say it,” he repeats, his tone sharper now, more insistent. “You’re going to quit.”
Your breath hitches, your body trembling beneath him as you struggle to form a coherent response. But he doesn’t let up. His touch is relentless, pushing you closer and closer to the edge, until you can’t think of anything but the way he’s making you feel.
“Lando … please …”
“Say it,” he demands again, his voice a low growl. “Tell me you’re quitting. Tell me you don’t need that degree.”
Your body arches beneath him, your mind a blur of confusion and pleasure, and finally, finally, the words tumble from your lips, broken and breathless.
“I … I’ll quit. I’ll quit.”
Lando smirks, satisfied, as he watches you unravel beneath him, your body trembling with the force of your release. He doesn’t stop, not yet, not until he’s sure you’re completely spent, until there’s nothing left of you but the quiet, trembling aftermath.
When it’s over, he pulls back slightly, his hand moving to cup your jaw as he looks down at you, his eyes dark and possessive. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your lips. “That’s what I like to hear.”
You don’t respond, too exhausted, too overwhelmed to speak, and Lando chuckles softly, his hand slipping from your jaw to rest on your chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of your breath.
“You’ll get used to it,” he says quietly, his voice low and soothing now, as if he’s trying to comfort you. “You don’t need to worry about anything anymore. I’ve got you.”
There’s a part of you that still wants to argue, still wants to push back against his words, but it’s a small, quiet part, drowned out by the overwhelming sense of relief and security that Lando offers.
And maybe, just maybe, he’s right.
Maybe you don’t need that degree. Maybe you don’t need to worry about your future, because Lando is your future now.
He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace, the steady, reassuring presence of him beside you.
“I’ll take care of you,” Lando whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. “Always.”
And in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you, it’s easy to believe him.
***
Lando’s fingers drum impatiently on the steering wheel of his McLaren as he pulls into the parking lot of your university. It’s a cloudy morning, the kind of gray that matches his mood.
He doesn’t want to be here — certainly doesn’t want to waste time with the formalities of this. But he knows it has to be done. He glances at you from the corner of his eye as the car comes to a smooth stop, his grip tightening for a moment.
You’ve been quiet since you left the penthouse, a subtle tension hanging in the air between the two of you. Lando notices the way your hands fidget in your lap, the way your gaze flicks nervously towards the university buildings. He doesn’t like it. You’ve already agreed to this; you’d already said you’d quit. This is just tying up loose ends, nothing more.
He shuts off the engine and leans back, turning his full attention to you. “You ready?”
You hesitate, and he doesn’t miss it. A small nod, your lips pressed together in uncertainty. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Good,” Lando says firmly, not giving any room for further discussion. He unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car, coming around to open your door for you. His hand slides possessively to the small of your back as he guides you toward the administration building. “Let’s get this over with.”
The university halls feel cold, sterile, as the two of you walk through them. It’s early, and the place hasn’t fully come alive yet. But the walls are lined with student posters, the smell of textbooks, and the quiet hum of academia that fills the space feels completely foreign to Lando. This world doesn’t fit you, he thinks. Not anymore. You belong with him.
The Dean’s office is tucked away in the corner of the building, and when you reach it, Lando notices how your steps slow slightly. His grip tightens on your waist, pulling you closer. “You’re sure about this, yes?”
You glance up at him, uncertainty flickering in your eyes for the briefest second. But then you nod. “I … yes. I’m sure.”
Lando smirks, satisfied. You’re just nervous, that’s all. He’s not worried. Not really.
The secretary outside the office lets you both in with a nod, and the Dean, a man in his early fifties with glasses perched on his nose, looks up from behind a stack of papers. He smiles at you as you enter, but his expression quickly shifts when he notices Lando standing beside you, his arm firmly around your waist.
“Miss Y/L/N,” the Dean says, his voice carrying a note of pleasant surprise. “What brings you here today?”
You shift awkwardly, glancing at Lando for a moment before speaking. “I … I’ve decided to withdraw from my program.”
The Dean’s brow furrows in confusion. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands on his desk. “Withdraw? Are you sure? You’re one of our most promising students. Your work in economics has been exemplary.”
Lando feels the slight tremor in your body, senses the moment of hesitation as you start to open your mouth, your gaze flicking back to the Dean. The man’s words clearly have an effect on you, and Lando doesn’t like it. His jaw clenches.
“I … I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” you start, your voice quiet. “I’m just not sure if this is the right path for me anymore.”
“Nonsense,” the Dean says, shaking his head. “You’ve made such incredible progress. You have a natural talent, and it would be a waste to throw it all away. You’re capable of so much more than just-”
“She’s not wasting anything,” Lando cuts in, his voice sharp and cold. He glares at the Dean, daring him to continue. The room falls silent for a moment, the tension palpable. “She’s made her decision.”
The Dean’s eyes flicker between the two of you, clearly noting the way Lando’s grip tightens around your waist, the way his presence dominates the space. He frowns, clearly displeased but unwilling to press further. “Miss Y/L/N,” he says carefully, “are you certain this is what you want?”
You hesitate, biting your lip, and Lando feels his frustration bubble up. He leans down, his lips close to your ear, his voice a quiet command. “Tell him you’ve already decided.”
You swallow hard, your body stiffening slightly before you nod again. “I’ve already decided.”
The Dean sighs, clearly reluctant, but he reaches for the necessary paperwork nonetheless. “If you’re sure,” he mutters, sliding the forms across the desk toward you. “You’ll need to sign here, and I’ll need a statement of withdrawal.”
As you reach for the pen, Lando keeps his arm firmly around your waist, watching carefully. He can still feel your unease, the way your hand trembles slightly as you begin to sign your name. But he knows this is the right decision. You don’t need this place. You need him.
The Dean watches silently, his lips pressed into a thin line, clearly displeased. “It’s a shame,” he says after a moment, his eyes lingering on you. “You had such a bright future ahead of you. I hope you’re not making a mistake.”
Lando’s jaw tightens. He can see the way your fingers falter over the paper, the way the Dean’s words make you second-guess yourself. Before you can say anything, Lando steps in again, his voice cutting through the tension.
“She’s not,” Lando says firmly, his eyes locked on the Dean with a warning edge. “She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.”
The Dean doesn’t reply, only nods curtly as he gathers the signed forms. Lando watches as you hand them back, your face a mix of emotions — confusion, doubt, and something else he can’t quite place.
As soon as the paperwork is done, Lando wastes no time. He pulls you close to him, practically ushering you out of the office. You cast one last glance at the Dean, but Lando’s hand tightens on your waist, his fingers pressing into your side in a way that leaves no room for lingering thoughts.
Once you’re out in the hallway, Lando’s tone softens slightly, though the control in his voice remains. “It’s done. No turning back now.”
You nod, but he can tell your thoughts are still drifting, still caught up in what the Dean said. That won’t do. Lando knows he needs to distract you, shift your focus back where it belongs — on him.
“There’s an Hermès store nearby,” Lando says casually as the two of you walk toward the parking lot. His tone is light, almost conversational, but there’s an underlying purpose behind his words. “I’ve been thinking … you’d look adorable with one of their twilly scarves tied in your hair. Maybe even a matching Birkin.” He glances down at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What do you think?”
You blink, momentarily thrown by the abrupt change in topic. “I … I don’t know.”
Lando’s grip on your waist loosens slightly as he moves his hand up to brush your hair back from your face. “Trust me. You’d love it. And I’d love seeing you with a cute little bow tied in your hair. It would suit you.”
You can’t help but smile, though it’s small and unsure. The shift in conversation, the mention of luxury, seems to distract you enough, pulling your thoughts away from the earlier doubt. That’s exactly what Lando wants. He needs you focused on him, not on whatever misplaced ambitions the Dean tried to stir up.
“I’ll take you shopping,” Lando continues smoothly as he opens the passenger door of his car for you. “We’ll find something perfect. After all, you deserve it.”
He watches as you slide into the seat, your expression still tinged with uncertainty but softened by the promise of something new, something exciting. Lando can feel the satisfaction curling inside him. He’s got you exactly where he wants you.
As he rounds the car and slides into the driver’s seat, he shoots you a quick glance, his hand already moving to rest on your thigh, a silent reminder of his control. “You won’t regret any of this,” he says quietly, his voice filled with certainty. “You’re mine now. I’ll make sure you have everything you need.”
You don’t respond, but the way you lean into his touch tells him all he needs to know. He starts the engine, the roar of the McLaren filling the air as he pulls out of the university parking lot.
***
Each day seems to fall into a rhythm. Lando likes control, and now he’s exerting it over your life, molding it to fit his own. You’re no longer rushing to university or working long hours at his company. Instead, you’re left to fill your days with something else, though Lando never lets it be anything without him at the center of it.
It didn’t take long for you to find a new routine. It started the first day after you withdrew from school. You spent the morning pacing around Lando’s penthouse, the sprawling space eerily quiet without him there. His presence filled the place even when he wasn’t around, but it still felt empty without him.
By noon, you found yourself in the kitchen, your hands moving on instinct, putting together a lunch that reminded you of simpler times. You thought about surprising him at work, the idea sparking a tiny thrill in you. Maybe he’d like the surprise.
You had no idea how much he would love it.
Now, you’re in his office every day without fail. Each morning is spent in careful preparation — choosing the perfect outfit, something that Lando would appreciate. You know how much he loves your bows, so you always make sure to tie one into your hair. Your dresses are carefully selected from the expansive closet he’s stocked for you, all designer, all perfectly tailored to accentuate your innocence, your softness. It’s what he likes. It’s what keeps him satisfied.
Today is no different. You step off the elevator into his building, a picnic basket swinging delicately in your hand. The security guard already knows you by name, offering a polite nod as you pass by, though you can’t miss the curious glance he throws at the basket.
When you reach Lando’s office, his assistant greets you with a knowing smile. “He’s in a meeting,” she tells you, her voice pleasant. “But you can go in. He always makes time for you.”
You smile back, nodding your thanks, and push open the door to his private office. The space is immaculate, modern, with sleek lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city. It screams power, control, everything that Lando is.
He’s seated at his desk, deep in conversation with a group of executives who are standing across from him, discussing something about market shares. But the moment you step inside, his eyes flick up to meet yours, and everything else in the room seems to fall away.
“Gentlemen,” Lando interrupts smoothly, not bothering to hide the way his gaze lingers on you. “That’ll be all for now.”
There’s a moment of hesitation from the executives, confusion flashing across their faces at the abrupt end to the meeting. But Lando’s tone leaves no room for debate. They gather their papers, nodding respectfully as they file out, each of them casting curious glances your way as they leave.
Once the door clicks shut, Lando leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes you in. The picnic basket, the way your dress hugs your figure, the bow in your hair — it’s all exactly as he likes it.
“Come here,” he orders, his voice low but commanding. You don’t hesitate, crossing the room toward him, your heels clicking softly against the marble floor.
Lando doesn’t say anything as you set the basket down on the edge of his desk, but you can feel the intensity of his gaze as he watches every move you make. He doesn’t even look at the food; his focus is entirely on you.
He reaches out, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling you closer until you’re standing between his legs, his chair swiveling slightly as he turns toward you. His other hand moves to the hem of your dress, his fingers brushing lightly against the fabric.
“You always know just how to dress for me, don’t you?” His voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it, a possessive undertone that sends a shiver down your spine.
You nod, swallowing hard. “I thought you might be hungry,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
Lando’s smirk widens, his hand sliding higher up your thigh, under the skirt of your dress. “Oh, I am,” he murmurs, his fingers grazing the lace of your underwear. “But I’m not interested in whatever you’ve brought in that basket.”
You bite your lip, your heart racing as his touch becomes more insistent. This is the routine now, the unspoken agreement. You bring him lunch, and he makes sure to have his appetizer first. His hands are all over you before you’ve even had a chance to set the table.
His thumb presses against the lace, and you gasp, your body instinctively arching toward him. “Lando …”
He chuckles, pulling you down onto his lap, positioning you so that you’re straddling him, your dress riding up as his hands find your hips. “You know what I want,” he says, his lips brushing against your ear. “And you’re going to give it to me, aren’t you?”
You nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps as his hands roam over your body, tugging at the fabric of your dress, pulling it up higher. His fingers find the bow tied around your waist, and he tugs at it, loosening it until the dress falls open slightly.
“You look so innocent,” Lando whispers, his voice dark with desire. “But you’re mine, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” you breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders as his lips find your neck, kissing and biting softly.
Lando growls softly in satisfaction, his hands moving with practiced ease as he takes what he wants, as he always does. You’re used to this by now, the way he demands control, the way he always takes his fill of you before anything else. And part of you craves it — craves the way he makes you feel, like you’re the only thing that matters in his world.
After he’s had his way with you, his hands still lingering possessively on your hips, Lando finally leans back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Now,” he says, his voice still husky, “what did you bring me for lunch?”
You’re still breathless, your body trembling slightly as you try to regain your composure. You reach for the picnic basket, opening it to reveal the meal you’d spent the morning preparing — a simple but elegant spread of sandwiches, fruit, and pastries.
Lando watches you, his smirk never fading as you set everything up on his desk. “You spoil me,” he murmurs, reaching for one of the sandwiches.
You smile, trying to steady your breathing as you watch him take a bite, his eyes still fixed on you. “I just thought you might like something different,” you say softly.
He chuckles, swallowing his food before leaning back in his chair, his gaze predatory. “Oh, I do. I like it very much.”
As he eats, you sit across from him, watching as he devours the food you’ve made. There’s something intimate about it, the way he looks at you, the way his hand casually rests on your thigh as if he can’t go a moment without touching you.
When he’s finished, Lando leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies you. “I want you to keep doing this,” he says after a moment. “Bringing me lunch every day.”
You blink, surprised. “Every day?”
He nods, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your thigh. “I like having you here. I like knowing you’re close.” His gaze darkens slightly. “And I like having you as an appetizer before the main meal.”
Your cheeks flush at his words, and Lando’s smirk widens. He leans forward, his hand moving to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “You’re mine, remember? And I always get what I want.”
You nod, your heart racing as you meet his intense gaze. “Yes, Lando.”
His smirk softens into something more tender, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Good girl.”
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. You stay with him, lingering in his office as he works, your presence a constant distraction for him. Every now and then, he glances up from his papers to watch you, his eyes filled with a dark, possessive hunger that never seems to fade.
And when the workday finally ends, Lando takes you back to the penthouse, where the cycle begins again.
***
Lando is lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, his body pressed close to yours, his hand idly tracing circles on your bare skin. The mid-morning sunlight filters through the curtains of his penthouse bedroom, casting a soft glow over the room. It's quiet, peaceful, the kind of quiet that only comes with mornings like this — when the world outside is busy, but inside, it's just the two of you.
His lips are on your neck, warm and gentle, brushing against your skin with lazy affection. You can feel the way his breath hitches slightly, how his hand drifts lower, over the curve of your waist, until it comes to rest on your stomach. His fingers spread out across your skin, his touch firm yet tender.
“Baby,” Lando murmurs, his voice deep and hushed, as if he’s talking to himself as much as to you. He lets the word linger in the air, the possessiveness in his tone unmistakable. “You’d look so pretty with a baby.”
The words catch you off guard. You feel your heart skip a beat, a rush of warmth spreading through you, but there’s also confusion, a flicker of uncertainty. “Lando,” you breathe, turning your head slightly to look at him.
He doesn’t stop. His hand stays on your stomach, gently pressing against the flatness there, as if imagining it full, imagining you carrying his child. His lips find your jawline, kissing softly, his voice a low rumble against your skin. “You’d look perfect. So beautiful.”
You blink, trying to process what he’s saying. The tenderness in his voice is at odds with the intensity of his words. “A baby?” You ask quietly, unsure of what to say.
Lando’s eyes flick up to meet yours, his expression serious, though there’s a softness in his gaze. “Yeah,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “My baby with my baby.”
There’s a pause, the weight of his words hanging between you, and you feel a tightening in your chest. You’ve never really talked about this — about the future, about where this relationship is headed. You’ve been so caught up in the present, in the way Lando makes you feel, in the way he consumes every part of your life, that you haven’t allowed yourself to think too far ahead.
But now, he’s thinking for both of you. His mind is already made up.
“Lando, I-” You start to speak, but he cuts you off with a gentle kiss, his lips capturing yours in a way that steals your breath, that makes it impossible to think straight.
He pulls back, just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “Don’t think too much about it,” he whispers, his tone coaxing, soothing. “Just imagine it. You, with a little bump, carrying our baby. Doesn’t that sound good?”
You swallow hard, your mind racing. It’s overwhelming, the way he’s speaking, like he’s already decided this for you. His hand is still on your stomach, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, and it’s as if he’s trying to imprint the idea onto you — his baby, your body, his future.
“Lando, that’s … that’s a big decision,” you manage to say, though your voice is soft, tentative.
He smiles at you, that confident, easy smile that always makes your heart flutter. “I know,” he says, his voice calm, unhurried. “But it’s the right one. I want this. I want you to have my baby. I want you to be mine completely.”
His words send a shiver through you, both thrilling and terrifying at the same time. He’s never been shy about claiming you, about making it clear that you belong to him in every way. But this feels different. This feels permanent.
“I …” You try again, but once more, Lando silences you, his mouth moving against yours, his kiss more insistent this time, more possessive.
His hand slips down, over your thigh, pulling you closer to him as he deepens the kiss, his body pressing against yours. He’s making it hard to think, hard to focus on anything other than the feel of him, the way he takes control with such ease.
“You trust me, don’t you?” He murmurs against your lips, his hand cupping your cheek as he pulls back slightly to look at you, his eyes dark and intense.
You nod without thinking, your heart racing. Of course you trust him. He’s always been there, always known exactly what to do, what you need. But this … this is different.
“I do,” you whisper, your voice shaky, unsure of where this is going.
Lando’s smile softens, his hand sliding back to your stomach, pressing there again, more firmly this time. “Then trust me with this, baby. You’d be perfect. You know that, right? You were made for this — for me.”
The possessiveness in his voice is unmistakable, and it sends a jolt through you. He’s always been dominant, always in control, but this feels deeper, more intense. It’s not just about the moment — it’s about the future he’s already planned out for you, the future he’s pulling you into without hesitation.
“Imagine it,” he says again, his voice dropping lower, his lips brushing against your ear. “You, carrying my child. Everyone would see it, would know you’re mine. You’d be so beautiful. So perfect.”
Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the weight of his words settling over you, wrapping around you like a tight embrace. The idea is both terrifying and intoxicating, and you don’t know how to respond.
Lando doesn’t give you the chance to. His hand moves again, this time slipping lower, between your thighs, his fingers pressing against you in a way that makes your mind go blank, your body responding instinctively to his touch.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispers, his voice soothing as his fingers tease you, his touch both gentle and firm. “I’ll take care of everything. You don’t need to think about it. Just let me take care of you, like I always do.”
You gasp softly, your body arching toward him, and Lando’s smirk widens as he watches you unravel under his touch, his hand working expertly to drive you closer and closer to the edge.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his lips pressing against your neck, his voice a low growl. “That’s my girl. So good for me.”
Your mind is spinning, overwhelmed by the intensity of his words, his touch, the way he’s controlling the entire moment. And yet, there’s a part of you that wants to give in, to let him take control, to let him decide everything, because it feels safe, it feels right.
Lando’s grip tightens slightly on your stomach, his thumb brushing over your skin in a possessive way. “You’re going to be perfect, baby. You’ll be mine completely. You already are.”
His words sink deep into you, the finality of them making your heart race. He’s not asking. He’s telling you. This is what he wants, what he’s decided for both of you. And in this moment, with his body pressed against yours, his hand between your thighs, his lips on your skin, it’s impossible to argue.
You’re his, and you always will be.
***
Lando's eyes are fixed on you, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, bathed in the late afternoon sunlight. The golden light hits your skin, casting you in a soft glow, but all he can focus on is the slight curve of your stomach, the undeniable proof of the life growing inside you.
His child.
You’re wearing one of those dresses he loves, the fabric soft and flowing, cinched just below your breasts to accommodate the growing bump. It’s a subtle change for now, but Lando notices it like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. The way you move, the way your hands instinctively rest on your stomach sometimes, like you’re protecting what belongs to him. He can’t take his eyes off you.
You turn slightly, catching him watching you from across the room, and your lips curve into a soft, shy smile. “What?” You ask, voice light, but there’s a hint of nervousness in your tone, like you’re not sure what he’s thinking.
Lando doesn't answer right away. Instead, he walks toward you, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving your bump. When he finally reaches you, his hand moves to rest on your stomach, the warmth of your skin radiating through the fabric of your dress. He feels it under his palm — the slight roundness, the beginning of the change, the proof of his claim on you.
“My baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and possessive, the words more for himself than for you.
You look up at him, a flicker of emotion in your eyes. There’s still that innocence, that soft vulnerability that Lando can’t get enough of. Less than a year ago, you were untouched, unclaimed by any man, and now — now, you’re carrying his child. The thought makes something primal stir deep inside him, a fierce sense of ownership and pride.
Lando’s thumb brushes lightly over your stomach, tracing the curve as if memorizing the way your body is changing. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he says, his voice rough around the edges. His eyes flick back to yours, intense, as he continues, “I always knew you’d look perfect with my baby growing inside you.”
A flush spreads across your cheeks, your lips parting slightly, but you don’t say anything. Lando knows this is overwhelming for you — everything about him, about this relationship, about how quickly everything has changed. But that’s exactly how he wanted it. He wasn’t going to give you time to second-guess anything. You belong to him now, and there’s no going back.
He kneels in front of you without warning, one hand still resting on your stomach while the other grips your hip, pulling you slightly closer. His breath hitches as his eyes level with the slight swell, and he presses his lips softly to your stomach, placing slow, deliberate kisses on the fabric of your dress. His baby, inside you. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.
Lando looks up at you from where he’s kneeling, his eyes dark with intensity. “I still can’t believe it,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “Less than a year ago, you hadn’t even been touched by a man. And now …” He trails off, his hand moving to press against the bump again. “Now, you’re full with my child.”
The words hang heavy in the air, and you swallow hard, clearly unsure of how to respond. Lando’s always been intense, always so certain, so in control of everything between you. But this — this is something different. This is forever.
He stands back up, his hands sliding up your sides, holding you close as he towers over you. His thumb brushes along your jawline, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “Do you even understand what this means?” He asks quietly, his tone firm but not unkind. “You’re mine. Completely. No one else will ever have you like this.”
You nod, a bit shakily, and Lando smirks. He knows it’s a lot for you to take in, but that’s exactly how he wants it. He wants you overwhelmed, completely consumed by him, by the life he’s building for you both.
“I’m proud of you,” he says, and there’s a softness in his voice now, a gentleness that he only shows you in these quiet moments. “You’re doing so well. Carrying my child, making our future.”
His hand moves back to your stomach, rubbing small circles as he continues, “I always knew you’d be perfect like this. My baby with my baby.” He chuckles softly, leaning down to kiss you on the forehead. “You’re going to be the most beautiful mother.”
You lean into him, letting out a soft sigh, and Lando feels something warm unfurl in his chest. He likes seeing you like this — soft, pliant, completely under his control. He likes knowing that every part of you belongs to him, from your mind to your body to the life growing inside of you.
“I want you to rest more,” he says suddenly, his tone taking on that commanding edge again. “No more worrying about anything. I’ll take care of everything.”
You blink up at him, a slight frown crossing your face. “I don’t worry, Lando,” you say softly, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.
“You do,” he insists, his hand tightening just a bit on your hip. “You don’t have to, though. That’s not your job anymore. Your only job is to take care of our baby. Got it?”
There’s a pause, and you nod again, this time more slowly, like you’re trying to process what he’s saying. Lando watches your expression carefully, knowing that you’re still adjusting to this life with him. But he also knows that he’s not giving you a choice. This is your life now — his life.
Lando leans down again, pressing another kiss to your stomach before straightening up. “I want you to rest now,” he says, his voice softening. “Come on, let’s go lie down.”
You hesitate for a moment, but then you let him guide you to the bedroom, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back as you walk. When you reach the bed, he helps you lie down, pulling the covers over you with a tenderness that contrasts with the intensity of his words.
He sits on the edge of the bed, watching you as you settle in, his hand resting lightly on your stomach again. “I’ll stay here for a bit,” he murmurs, his eyes dark and unreadable. “I just want to be close to you. To our baby.”
You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to. Lando knows that you’re still processing everything, still adjusting to the life he’s created for you. But he’s patient. He’ll wait. Because he knows, deep down, that you’re his. Completely and utterly his. And soon, there will be no part of your life that isn’t touched by him, controlled by him.
He smiles to himself, brushing his thumb lightly over your skin as he leans down to kiss your forehead once more. “Rest now,” he whispers. “You’re doing so well.”
And as you close your eyes, Lando stays there, watching over you, his hand never leaving your stomach, his thoughts already spinning with plans for the future. You and him, and the life you’re building together. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.
And it’s only just beginning.
***
The lecture hall buzzes with quiet anticipation, students shifting in their seats, eyes on the door as they wait for the keynote speaker. Lando strides through the entrance with effortless authority, his tailored suit emphasizing his power. Every step he takes commands attention, but his focus isn't on the sea of students. It's on you.
He keeps you close to his side, his arm protectively wrapped around your waist, guiding you through the lecture hall. You're heavily pregnant now, your rounded belly making it harder to move with the same ease as before. Lando notices every wince, every slight shift in your weight, and his grip tightens, steadying you.
“You alright?” He murmurs, leaning down slightly, his voice low but firm. He stops walking as you pause, his thumb brushing against your side in a rare gesture of tenderness.
You nod, offering him a small smile, but Lando isn’t convinced. He’s always watching, always reading you, making sure you’re taken care of. He doesn’t want you out of his sight, especially not now, not when you’re carrying his child — his future. It’s why he insisted you come with him to this keynote speech, even if it meant pulling you away from the quiet of home.
“I don’t want you far from me, baby,” he’d said that morning, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You stay by my side today.”
And now, as he guides you to the front row of the lecture hall, he’s making sure you’re positioned just right. The front seat, where he can keep an eye on you, where no one else can intrude. Lando gestures for you to sit, his eyes dark and serious as you lower yourself into the chair, careful of your bump. He crouches down in front of you, smoothing a hand over your knee before leaning in, his lips close to your ear.
“If you need anything,” he says, his voice quiet but commanding, “you call me. I’m right here. Don’t even think about getting up on your own.”
You nod again, feeling his intensity radiating off him, and he gives your knee one last squeeze before standing up, adjusting his suit jacket with precision. He takes the stage with ease, the shift from boyfriend to powerful CEO seamless.
Lando begins speaking, his voice steady and commanding, captivating the room effortlessly. The students sit up straighter, hanging on every word, as he talks about leadership, success, and the ruthlessness it takes to survive in the world of business. But every now and then, his eyes flicker to you, checking, ensuring you’re still there, still safe.
You sit quietly, watching him, one hand resting on your bump, and the baby kicks softly against your palm. The speech is engaging, and you’re proud of him, but there’s a slight discomfort creeping in — the weight of your pregnancy, the strange sensation of being back here, in your old university, surrounded by classmates who wouldn’t recognize the person you are now.
After Lando finishes his speech, the applause echoes through the hall, loud and appreciative, but it barely reaches you. You’re too caught up in your thoughts, in the reality of how much has changed. Less than a year ago, you were sitting in one of these very seats, studying, dreaming about a future you thought would be on your own terms. Now, here you are, with Lando's baby growing inside you, a future that looks nothing like what you imagined.
As the students begin filing out, Lando steps down from the stage, immediately walking over to you. His hand is on your shoulder before you can say anything, and his presence instantly makes you feel safe, grounded.
“Let’s get you home, baby,” he says softly, his tone gentle but firm. “I don’t want you out for too long. You need to rest.”
But just as you start to stand, you overhear a conversation behind you, voices you vaguely recognize — former classmates, their tones incredulous, like they can’t believe what they’re seeing.
“Is that Y/N?” One of them asks, the disbelief clear in her voice.
“Yeah, but … wow. She’s changed so much,” another replies. “I mean, look at her. She’s pregnant — and with Lando Norris? How did that even happen?”
You freeze for a moment, uncertainty creeping in as their words sink in. Of course, you knew people would notice, would talk, but hearing it said out loud — how different you are now — makes your heart race a little. They don’t know the half of it. They don’t know how your life shifted so drastically, how Lando swept you into his world and never let go.
Lando’s eyes harden as he catches the exchange. He glares at the group of students, his expression darkening. The possessiveness that always simmers under the surface rises to the forefront. He tightens his arm around your waist as if to make a statement — one that’s loud and clear.
Without breaking his gaze from the group, he speaks, voice low and controlled. “We should stop by Burberry after this,” he says, leaning close to you, his hand pressing against your back, anchoring you to him. “I’ve been thinking we need more clothes for the baby. Maybe some cute outfits with little matching accessories. What do you think, baby?”
His words are meant to distract you, to pull you away from any lingering doubts those comments might have sparked. You look up at him, meeting his intense gaze, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you should feel reassured or overwhelmed by how much control Lando always has over every situation.
The students fall silent, quickly averting their gaze as Lando’s attention stays fixed on you. There’s no mistaking his message — Lando is in control. Of you. Of your life. Of everything. And no one else’s opinion matters.
You swallow hard, nodding softly as you lean into him. “Yeah, that sounds nice,” you murmur, your voice quiet, unsure.
Lando's eyes soften slightly as he looks down at you, clearly pleased with your response. He cups your cheek briefly before turning to lead you out of the hall, his arm still firmly around your waist.
As you walk together through the corridors of your old university, you can’t help but feel a strange mix of emotions — nostalgia, confusion, but also a deep, almost unsettling sense of belonging. It’s as if you no longer fit into the life you once had here, and the only place you truly belong is at Lando’s side, under his protection, within his world.
Once outside, Lando stops, glancing down at you as you lean against him. “You alright, baby?” He asks, his voice softer now, more intimate.
You nod, though the tightness in your chest lingers. “Yeah,” you whisper, but your mind drifts back to the students, to their words. How much you’ve changed.
Lando studies you for a moment before brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You don’t need to worry about what anyone thinks,” he says, his voice firm but gentle. “Your life is here, with me. That’s all that matters.”
He kisses your forehead, the gesture unexpectedly tender, and pulls you closer. “Let’s go to Burberry. We’ll pick out something nice for our baby.” His hand moves down to brush lightly over your bump, possessive and affectionate all at once. “And maybe something for you too.”
You lean into him as he guides you toward his car, trying to shake the strange unease that’s settled in your chest. It’s true — you’ve changed so much in such a short time. But with Lando by your side, there’s no room for second-guessing.
Your life, your future, your identity — it’s all wrapped up in him now. And there’s no turning back.
***
Lando sits behind his massive desk, the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office casting a warm glow across the room. He glances at his watch, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. It’s almost time. Every day around this hour, like clockwork, you arrive at his office with a homemade lunch, dressed in one of your designer dresses and kitten heels, looking as perfect as ever. But lately, there’s an extra reason for his anticipation. A tiny reason.
He hears the familiar knock on the door before it creaks open. His heart, normally steady and guarded, stirs a little, as it always does when you walk into the room. And there you are, with that ever-present bow in your hair, a smaller version of it perched atop your baby daughter’s head as you hold her close.
“There are my girls,” Lando says, his voice low, but with a warmth reserved only for you and your daughter. He stands from his desk, smoothing out his suit as he crosses the room in long, confident strides.
Your daughter, barely a year old, gurgles happily as Lando approaches. He reaches out and takes her from your arms with ease, holding her in one arm while his other hand reaches out to rest possessively on your lower back. His thumb brushes against the silk of your dress, the simple touch staking his claim over you, over everything you are.
“Daddy’s been waiting,” he says softly, his gaze flicking down to the baby in his arms before he turns his attention back to you. “And what did my girls bring me today?”
You smile up at him, a little breathless, always affected by the sheer presence of him. “Your favorite,” you say, lifting the picnic basket a bit. “And something new I wanted to try.”
Lando’s dark eyes sparkle with something unreadable, though you’re sure it’s a mix of amusement and affection. He loves these moments. These tiny, perfect slices of domesticity. He’d once filled his life with the best of everything — lavish lunches from Michelin-starred restaurants, anything he wanted at the snap of his fingers. But none of it compares to this. To you, his beautiful wife-to-be, and the child you both created together.
Without a word, Lando steps away from you just long enough to sit down on the edge of his massive desk, setting your daughter on his lap. She immediately grabs for the bow on his tie, her tiny fingers tugging at it while she babbles incoherently. Lando laughs — a sound so rare that even you pause to savor it.
“She’s got good taste,” he comments, adjusting her tiny hand so she doesn’t pull the knot loose. His eyes meet yours again, and you know that he’s shifting the focus back to you. He always does. “You two make quite the pair, you know that?”
You blush a little, smoothing the front of your dress as you walk over, the baby’s gaze following you. “I think she takes after her daddy,” you tease softly, though there’s truth in your words. Your daughter’s eyes are the same shade of bright green as Lando’s, her expressions sometimes eerily similar to his — calm, calculating, but always with a spark of something mischievous beneath the surface.
Lando’s expression softens, though the control, the dominance that defines him, never wavers. He slides off the desk and takes your hand, pulling you toward him until you’re standing between his legs, his chest close enough to brush against yours.
“Do you know how perfect this is?” He asks quietly, the words intimate, meant just for you. His hand, the one not balancing the baby, comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the outline of your lips. “You. Her. This …everything.”
You tilt your head slightly, leaning into his touch, feeling the familiar tug of his pull on your entire being. There’s something in the way he looks at you, something that both grounds you and makes you feel like you’re floating.
“I couldn’t ask for more,” you whisper, meaning every word.
Lando’s eyes narrow slightly, that smirk you know all too well tugging at the corner of his lips. “Oh, but I can. And I will.”
You blink, confused for a moment, but then you see the glint of metal as his hand slips into his pocket. He pulls out a small, black velvet box and opens it in one smooth motion. The ring inside is enormous, the diamond catching the sunlight streaming in from the windows and casting shimmering reflections across the room.
Lando doesn’t ask. He doesn’t get down on one knee. That’s not his style. There’s no question in his mind, and there won’t be in yours, either.
“We’re getting married,” he says, his tone leaving no room for discussion, no space for hesitation. His eyes are locked on yours, the weight of his words sinking in slowly, like gravity pulling you deeper into his orbit. He’s not making a suggestion. He’s making a decision. For both of you. Just like everything else in your life together.
Your breath catches as he takes your left hand, sliding the ring onto your finger. It’s heavy, almost too heavy, but then again, isn’t everything with Lando like that? His presence, his control, his love. All of it weighs on you in ways that sometimes feel overwhelming, but at the same time, you wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Lando, I …” Your words falter as you stare down at the ring, a mixture of emotions swirling inside you. Excitement, disbelief, love. “I wasn’t expecting …”
“You don’t have to expect anything,” Lando interrupts smoothly, his hand still wrapped around yours, anchoring you to him. “I make the decisions for us. And I’ve decided it’s time. I want you as my wife.”
Your heart races at the finality in his voice, at the way he always seems to know exactly what you need before you even realize it yourself.
You look up at him, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something — vulnerability, maybe — in your expression. But Lando catches it, and his hand moves to the back of your neck, pulling you close until your foreheads are almost touching.
“Trust me,” he murmurs, his voice low, intimate. “This is right. We’re right.”
You nod, the words catching in your throat as emotion wells up inside you. “Yes,” you finally whisper, your voice shaky but certain.
Lando’s smirk deepens as he presses a kiss to your forehead, then to your lips, a soft, possessive brush of his mouth against yours.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, the praise making your heart flutter.
Your daughter gurgles in Lando’s lap, her tiny fingers still clutching his tie, and he chuckles softly, pulling back just enough to glance down at her.
“See that, little one?” He says, his voice shifting into something softer, more playful as he speaks to your daughter. “Mummy’s going to be Mrs. Norris soon. Isn’t that right, baby?”
You can’t help but laugh, the sound light and filled with happiness, as you reach out to stroke your daughter’s cheek. She coos at you both, completely oblivious to the monumental moment that just unfolded.
Lando shifts his grip on her, settling her more comfortably in his arms before his eyes meet yours again. There’s a heat in his gaze now, something deeper, more possessive. “We’ll have a celebration soon,” he says, his tone firm. “But today, I want you all to myself. No distractions. Just us.”
Your pulse quickens at the implication behind his words, and you feel a familiar warmth spread through you as you lean into him, your fingers curling around the front of his shirt.
Lando tilts your chin up, pressing another soft kiss to your lips, and for a moment, the world outside disappears. It’s just you, Lando, and your daughter — the family you never imagined, but the one you wouldn’t trade for anything.
“Let’s have lunch,” you finally say, breaking the silence with a soft smile. “I made all your favorites.”
Lando’s eyes darken with something unspoken, but he nods, the smirk still playing at the corner of his lips. “After,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “Right now, I want to spend time with my girls.”
And with that, he pulls you even closer, the weight of his presence wrapping around you like the most precious gift of all.
***
Lando lies in bed with you curled up against his side, his arm draped possessively around your waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. The room is dark and quiet, save for the soft hum of the city outside the penthouse windows and the occasional faint sound from the baby monitor on the nightstand, signaling your daughter’s peaceful sleep in the nursery next door. It’s a rare moment of calm, one of the few times when Lando’s dominant presence seems softer, more intimate.
But even in moments like these, where his touch is gentle and his voice low, that control is never far beneath the surface. It’s in the way his arm tightens slightly around you, holding you close as if he can’t bear to let you go, not even for a moment. It’s in the way his eyes, though closed, seem always watchful, always aware of you, of every movement you make.
You let out a soft sigh, your body fully relaxed against his. It’s been a long day, but a good one, filled with moments that have become your new normal — bringing Lando lunch at the office, watching him melt when he sees you and your daughter, his two girls, as he always calls you. The rhythm of your life has shifted since you became a family, but Lando remains the constant anchor, the force that drives everything forward.
As you settle deeper into the warmth of his embrace, Lando’s hand moves from your waist to rest gently on your stomach, his palm warm against your skin. The gesture seems innocent at first, a continuation of the tender touches you’ve shared all evening, but then his hand lingers, his fingers spreading out slightly as if to claim more of you.
His voice breaks the silence, soft but unmistakably deliberate. “You know,” he begins, his tone casual, yet carrying that undercurrent of intent that always makes your heart race, “I’ve been thinking.”
You open your eyes, tilting your head slightly to glance up at him. “Thinking about what?”
Lando’s eyes are still closed, but there’s a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, the kind that tells you he’s about to say something that will change everything. “About us,” he says, his hand pressing a little more firmly against your stomach. “And about how perfect you looked carrying our little girl.”
Your breath hitches slightly at his words, a flush rising to your cheeks as the meaning behind them begins to sink in. “Lando …” you start, but your voice falters, unsure of what to say.
He opens his eyes then, looking down at you with that piercing gaze that always makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. “You’ve been perfect, baby,” he says, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register. “More than I ever imagined. But now …” His thumb strokes your skin, just beneath the swell of your stomach, and his eyes darken with that familiar possessiveness. “It’s time for the next one.”
You blink up at him, your mind racing to catch up with his words. “The next one?”
Lando nods, his expression entirely serious, but with a hint of excitement beneath the surface, as if he’s been thinking about this for longer than he’s letting on. “It’s time we started working on our next baby,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I want to see you pregnant again. And this time …” His hand tightens just slightly on your stomach, his voice taking on a more commanding edge. “I want you to be pregnant when we get married. Walking down the aisle with my ring on your finger and a little bump under your dress. Doesn’t that sound perfect?”
Your heart skips a beat at the image he paints, the idea of walking down the aisle, your hand in his, your body already showing signs of the new life you’d created together. It’s overwhelming and thrilling all at once, the way everything with Lando always is.
“Lando,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper as you try to process what he’s saying. “We just had our daughter …”
He chuckles softly, the sound low and filled with that familiar confidence that always sets you on edge. “And she’s perfect,” he agrees, his fingers trailing up to brush the side of your face. “But why stop there? We’re just getting started, baby. I want a family. A big one. And I want you to be the one who gives it to me.”
His words settle over you like a blanket, heavy and warm, filled with expectation. There’s no question in his tone, no room for hesitation. Lando has already decided, just as he always does. And as much as the thought takes your breath away, there’s a part of you that already knows you’ll give him what he wants. You always do.
You bite your lip, your mind racing as you try to form a coherent response. “But … what if I’m not ready?”
Lando’s eyes darken at your hesitation, his hand moving from your stomach to tilt your chin up so that you’re forced to meet his gaze. “You are ready,” he says firmly, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “I know you are.” He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “You were made for this, baby. For me. For our family. And you’ll give me what I want, won’t you?”
Your heart pounds in your chest, your body already responding to the commanding tone of his voice, the way his words wrap around you like a vice, pulling you deeper into his world, his desires. You nod slowly, unable to do anything else. “Yes, Lando,” you whisper, your voice trembling with both anticipation and submission. “I’ll give you what you want.”
A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face as he pulls back to look at you, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, a reward for your obedience.
He doesn’t waste any more time. His hand moves lower, slipping beneath the sheets, his touch firm and deliberate as he begins to remind you exactly who you belong to. Your breath hitches, your body arching toward him instinctively, already pliant under his control.
“You’re going to look so beautiful, baby,” he whispers against your skin as his hand moves with expert precision. “Walking down the aisle with my child growing inside you. Everyone will see. Everyone will know.”
His words send a shiver down your spine, a mixture of desire and awe flooding through you. He’s not just talking about a wedding. He’s talking about a future, one that’s already been mapped out in his mind, one that you’re destined to follow. And as overwhelming as it is, there’s something undeniably thrilling about being part of his plan, of knowing that you’re the center of his world, the one who will give him everything he wants.
Lando’s movements become more insistent, his lips trailing down your neck as he presses you further into the mattress, his body radiating heat and control. You can feel the weight of his expectations, the force of his desire, and it’s enough to make your head spin.
“Lando,” you gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders as your body trembles beneath him.
“Shh, baby,” he soothes, his voice dark and commanding as his hand continues its relentless pace. “Just let go. Let me take care of you.”
And you do. You always do.
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misstycloud · 1 day ago
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What about a yandere playboy x revenge-driven reader?
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Yandere! Playboy is the guy on campus. How can he not be? He has everything a person could ever want. He is wealthy, handsome and has many friends. Best of all qualities; he’s great in bed.
Yandere! Playboy has been hitting beds for years now. He is young and has a right to live life to the fullest, so why shouldn’t he enjoy himself while he still can? His parents doesn’t approve of this behaviour but what can they do to stop him? Besides, he’s already told his father that he’ll find someone to settle down with when he’s older and fit to take over the company. He doesn’t want to lose the privileged life he has so it’s in his best favour to just do what his dad tells him to and find someone to marry later.
It wouldn’t reflect well on the company if its leader is a scandalous, immature playboy after all.
Yandere! Playboy who has been with most of the people on campus. The only exception are the ones he and his friends consider ‘too ugly’ or ‘just not up to standards’- which can be due to anything. It’s basically become a game by this point; who in the friend group can be the college’s number one player.
Yandere! Playboy who almost let his friend surpass him in that department. It was a close call. Good luck he found a cute girl in time so he could drive up his score just above his friend’s. He noticed her at a party. He hadn’t seen her around before so he guessed she was new. The girl looked very out-of-place, standing in a corner while everyone else were letting loose. Did she come alone? Whatever, it didn’t matter. Quickly he snatched her up. She definitely wasn’t the best he’s had, nowhere near it in fact. She was an average fuck at best. It was only after he’d brought her home and fucked her until she cried, that he realised his mistake. After the deed was done she was awfully clingy. She wrapped her arms around him and tried to nuzzle his neck, much to his dismay.
Yandere! Playboy hastily pushed her off and asked her what she thought she was doing. Confused, she responded that she just wanted to cuddle since what they did was so special. Oh no, he thought. She was one of those girls who thought hooking up once meant ‘relationship’. How could he be so stupid? He knew better than to take ‘sweet’ girls with him, they always ended up deluding themselves they were a couple. Sternly, he told her to get out. This made her confused and she wondered if she’d done something wrong.
“Yes, you’ve done something wrong.”
“What was it? Please tell me.” She whispered in a small voice.
He sneered at her. “You think we’re a couple now or some shit. Sorry to burst your bubble but we’re not together.”
The girl bit her lip, tears welling up in her eyes. “We’re…not? Then why would you-“
“-don’t think you’re special. I just didn’t want my pal’s fuck-score to get higher than mine and you were the first decent thing I could find.”
Afterward he kicked her out. He didn’t give a shit that she was crying. Her feelings didn’t matter to him. No one’s feelings mattered to him besides his own. It was her own fault for getting her hopes up. She was cute, don’t get him wrong. But she seemed way too much of a goody two-shoes for him.
Yandere! Playboy who went about life normally after that. Occasionally he did see his latest lay around campus but she never approached him, instead she chose to send him a sad glance now and then. Pathetic.
Yandere! Playboy had been so caught up with a bunch of school work, he swore the professors had it out for him. After all that tediousness he deserved a break. He needed to relax and there was only one way to do that correctly. Unfortunately his regular ‘buddies’ were unavaliable, he’ll have to find someone else tonight.
Yandere! Playboy who searched the room filled with dancing, intoxicated people. The constantly colour-switching lights made him dizzy. No matter how much he searched he could not see anyone who’d caught his interest. He was about to give up when someone finally got his attention. It was you. Gosh you were just gorgeous. Wow, he thought. He hadn’t seen anyone like you before. Luckily you appeared to notice him too. He seductivle licked his lips while staring into your eyes and was happy when you showed equal interest.
Yandere! Playboy who didn’t waste a minute and went right up to you. You were been hotter up close. This was going to be fun, he thought as he led you upstairs.
Yandere! Playboy was in shock. What the hell just happened? The morning light shone directly in his face but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. After he’d brought you to his room for what he’d imagined to be a usual fun night, he’d been fully surprised. You were nothing short of amazing. He couldn’t recall a moment when he’d ever felt so good. Usually he was the one to lead but you took over as if for was the most natural thing in the world. Never in his life had he been so thoroughly explored. The bruises on his body still ached when he moved.
He needed more.
Yandere! Playboy became obsessed afterwards. He had to see you again. All those years of sleeping around could never amount to the pleasure he felt that night with you and he desperately wanted to feel it again. Sadly, it was like you vanished. Did you not go to the same college? He asked around but no one knew you. Strange, he thought. Weeks passed and there was still no sign of you. He was incredibly pent up now. He had been focused on finding you that he hadn’t taken anyone home since. His friends thought he was acting way to obsessed with his random person and needed to calm down. Perhaps if he spent time with someone he’d cool off. They see him up to meet one of his regular ‘buddies’ who was more than happy to see him again.
Yandere! Playboy tried to recreate the experience with them but it didn’t work. They were all clumsy and didn’t know how to make anything feel good. He couldn’t even finish that time. Frustrated, he threw them out and told them he wanted to be alone. Why wasn’t it working? What went wrong? And why the hell could he stop thinking about you? It made him want to tear his hair out.
While he was deeply grumbling about his newfound problem, he was interrupted by a knock on his door. He shouted at the person to leave him alone but the knocking didn’t stop. He ripped the door open and was prepared to scream at the other person when his eyes widened in surprise. He was speechless.
There in the doorway stood you. You gave him a wicked smile, “Can I come in?”
Yandere! Playboy practically became your dog after that. He knows your name now, (Y/n). He shudders just thinking about it. Turns out you do go to another college and you’re not the most social person which explains why no one had heard of you. Not only are you fantastic on the outside, he finds you to be a wonderful person too. The more you’ve hung out, the more he’s gotten to know about you. He currently knows these five things: you always have a way to make him laugh, you share many hobbies(some which he can’t talk about even with his closest friends), you value his opinion, never talk down to him, and he absolutely loves you.
Yandere! Playboy who immediately cuts off his previous hook ups. You’re the only one for him. There isn’t a soul out there who can be your match. All of his friends have become so annoying. All they say is about how much he’s changed and it’s crazy how he’s doing a complete 180 for one single person. He ignores them. If they can’t see how perfect you are then that’s their loss, and he can’t be friends with them anymore. The only ones happy about this change are his parents.
He recalls his father saying, “So you’ve finally decided to be a real man and stop with your foolishness.”
“Yes. I have found my one and only love, the person I’m going to marry.”
His father nodded. Yandere! Playboy smiled. He had all intention to follow up with his statement. He loved you and based of your reactions around him, he’d say you loved him too.
Yandere! Playboy who was all giddy as he waited for you at the restaurant you’d decided to meet in. You had been hanging out for months now and he thought it was time to ask you to be his official partner(future-spouse). It was a perfect setting. He has brought a bouquet of flowers and put on nice clothes. The ambiance was just right.
He waited.
You weren’t there yet, but sometimes you ran a little late.
He waited some more.
You still weren’t there. That’s all right! He’ll sit there until you arrive.
He sat in his chair long enough to see the staff send him pitiful looks. Where were you? It had been far too long for you to simply be ‘running a little late’. Did you get into an accident? He prayed nothing had happened to you. Quickly he pulled out his phone and sent you a text. Or well, he tried to.
‘Unable to send message’
What? He didn’t understand. Why wasn’t his text getting through? Did you…block him? No that wasn’t possible. There was no reason you would do that. You loved him. He loved you. You wouldn’t block him. All of his attempts to contact you went into the garbage. When he called; direct to voicemail. He tried looking for you, although that proved to be a lot harder than he thought. It was then he realised he had no idea where you lived. You were always at his place and he never questioned it. He went to your college and asked if anyone had seen you but they all said they didn’t know anyone by the name of (Y/n) who went there. Did you lie about where you went to school?
Yandere! Playboy who became depressed. He couldn’t find you anywhere. You had vanished, just like before. Except this time you never come back. His head was filled with questions. Where were you? Are you safe? Why did you leave him? Didn’t you love him too? He fell into despair. His parents wanted to help him and so did the friends he abandoned for you (they came back, he couldn’t understand why), but nothing they did helped. They weren’t you.
Please come back to him, he needs you.
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sexxyasia · 3 days ago
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side to side [nicholas chavez x !fem!reader]
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about: nicholas finds himself becoming infatuated with the girl he's been training and helping workout after months of hanging out and exercising together and decides to act on his feelings and thoughts.
warnings: p in v, language, oral sex (male receiving), public sex, rough sex, degrading, face fucking, use of daddy, unprotected sex, creampie, mentions of porn, nicholas having an extremely high sperm count, kinda bdsm (he's hurting her on purpose and making sure shes in pain) anal fingering, peeping tom type behavior, mentions of self pleasuring, size kink, praise kink and y/n can be any race/ethnicity (theres nothing in this story that ties her down to one thing)
(btw this is loosely inspired by side to side by ariana grande)
"do you think you could handle a few more inches?" nicholas asked as you squatted down.
"uhh yeah maybe like 3-4 but i don't know." you replied bending you knees a few more inches as you worked your thigh muscles.
"oh your doing so well y/n, you hardly even need me at this point" he chuckled quietly to you, you turned your head slightly to look back at him seeing his perfectly white smile and his gaze set on your legs.
a slight groan left your lips on your last rep causing your eyes to shut and nicholas' hands to fly to your hips to help support you, slowly his hands pushed you up.
"slower y/n... slower. you don't wanna hurt yourself in a warm up now do you?" embarrassed you smiled and looked away "oh my gosh i'm fine!" you looked up at him and said.
"you know what... you should work your core today. because it seems like every time we get together all you end up doing is glutes and i'm stuck begging you to work something else!" he remarked in a friendly tone
you nodded and followed him as he walked over to the weights rack. "today i want you to start off with a 20." you rolled your eyes in annoyance "i wanna do something easier." he smiled and handed you a 20 instead of your usual 10.
you sat on the mats that'd been set out and put your knees up. you began doing your usual set of russian twists. slightly moaning between each twist as you feel your ab muscles tighten and burn.
in a hushed tone you heard him let out a light laugh, you looked up at him as he laughed and asked him what was so funny.
"you just kinda sound like someone i used to be obsessed with" he said with a smile.
you moaned a little as you twisted slightly faster. "who? tell me" your face twisting and eyes shutting tightly.
"some pornstar i used to watch and i- nevermind it's kind of embarrassing to talk about." he awkwardly stated as he fiddled with some cleaner and a rag.
your face dropped in confusion. "not what i expected but okay..." you said. he chuckled and looked away.
in all the time he's been your personal trainer he's never gotten so... personal. you felt as if you should say something so that he didn't feel so awkward and embarrassed about it all.
"well when i get bored or can't sleep i use my vibrator... its pink."
he looked down at you and smiled before quickly clearing his throat and looking back away from you.
he obviously didn't feel anymore comfortable after you shared that. you could tell from the way he slightly held his breath anytime you made that moaning sound again.
a noticeable silence filled the space between you as you finished up your set placed the weights on the ground and stood up. he handed you the cleaner and rag to wipe off your weights. "heh, thanks, i was just gonna ask... but you... gave it to me... first" you awkwardly replied in a hushed tone.
he sighed loudly before stating "you know, you should just do glutes again today... right?" nicholas chuckled in an embarrassed fashion. "oh of course," you smiled "that's much easier than core for me." you agreed.
༄𓇼🪩𓇼༄𓇼🪩𓇼༄
after you finished your workout you were completely parched and famished, which you made clear to nicholas throughout the entire day. you toweled off and picked up your weights which you took the weights rack after toweling off.
once you'd finished you walked back to the locker room and showered. since no one else was in the locked room you had no issues being fully nude out in the open. then the door swung open, your hand flew to your towel to cover up your breasts and you backed into a corner trying to hide from whoever just came in. until they spoke you had no idea who it was.
loud footsteps inched closer and closer to your hiding spot before finally, "uhh y/n you left your water bottle on the leg press i thought i'd- whoa where are your clothes?" he said once he'd seen you.
"holy shit nicholas, what if this whole room was filled with naked ladies!" you annoyingly remarked to him. "then i guess i'd have a much harder time keeping my eyes on just you... right?" he giggled back. "and besides, it's 10pm on a saturday. no ones fucking here except teenage boys in pajamas and lonely old men going through a mid life crisis."
you rolled your eyes in response. "i've worked with people here for years. you think i don't understand how this shit works... c'mon baby."
"i thought i'd give it back because you're so thirsty. but it appears theres nothing in here anymore. right?" you shook your head and snatched the bottle out of his hands.
nicholas turned his back and walked toward the bench across from you. once he sat he began to stare at the parts of your body the towel hadn't covered, which was pretty much everywhere since you'd done such a shoddy job covering as much as you needed to, due to the unusual positioning of the towel on your tits. "stop staring freak..." you whispered to yourself while staring back at him.
"i can't help it you're just so fucking sexy... sorry if that was out of line. but what i want to say is 10 times worse." he whispered while getting up and inching closer to you. "then say it, i can handle it... i'm a big girl." you snarkily replied while looking up at him.
by the time he'd started his next sentence he'd been towering over you and lightly stroking your arm. "i've jerked off to the thought of this moment more times than i've ever watched that internet bitch and wished it was you." your breath hitched and heart beat quickened at his sexually vulgar words.
you began backing up until your back hit the wall. "we're in a gym for fucks sake." he chuckled
"what... you scared to get caught, bitch?" he whispered. his intense eyes stared at yours, it felt like a knife to the heart. his piercing gaze left you feeling extremely horny. a feeling you'd never felt for nicholas... ever!
"no i'm not scared... it's just not the right place." you said trying to push further into the wall, practically praying a hole opened up and swallowed you.
"so then you must be a virgin... a really horny virgin. you ever play with your pussy and think of me?" he said while raising his hand up and over your head so
"no" you quickly replied.
"well that's okay, because by tomorrow you're gonna want to." he whispered in your ear.
he ripped the towel you closely held to your chest and threw it behind him onto the ground. your breasts lightly jumped with his quick movement. and your erect nipples stuck up into the air as the cool air hit them.
he brought his thick long pointer finger up to your temple and slowly rubbed it.
the water droplets on your forehead dripped down onto the floor as he lightly stroked your face. "how about this. you suck my cock until i cum in your mouth. then i make you cum so hard you can't feel your legs."
you slowly nodded, his hand traveled from your cheek to the back of your head. he slowly scratched the back of your head as he pushed you down onto your knees. his gray sweatpants were beginning to bulge out of place with his erection. you stared at his slowly growing member in his pants.
"fuck are you waiting for, go ahead and do it already." you pulled down his waistband and calvin klein underwear in one swift movement, placing it under his balls and watching as his cock bounced out and hit just above his belly button.
slowly you placed your hand on the base of his cock. stroking up and down his shaft, causing him to slowly exhale as your small hand rubbed up and down his length. he smiled as you licked the thick and prominent veins on his dick and practically made out with his pink and leaky tip.
his big hand rubbed the back of your head and pushed you down onto his cock, making you gag with the movement. but shortly he allowed you to slowly suck up and down. you teased him as you lightly sucked and hardly moved, making him groan and whimper.
then his hand came grasping your head as hard as possible before he pushed your head up and down his length at a medium tempo. causing him to groan even louder and grip even harder. his thick cock shoved into your throat at once made you choke and breathe heavy. your spit trickled down your chin and onto the brown tile floor of the locker room.
he pulled his length out from your mouth and placed it on your check, allowing you to feel the throbbing on your skin.
a string of saliva from your mouth to the tip of his cock stayed put as he slapped his cock all over your left cheek, leaving them wet from your saliva and his pre-cum.
you looked at his cock, leaky, red, throbbing, and huge where the only things in your mind at the moment. his once light pink tip was a flashy lighter red and his balls were hardened.
he placed his cock back into your mouth. this time both hands on either side of your head and he slowly began to thrust his cock back and forth into your mouth. your eyes lightly watered as you looked up at him.
he paused for a second before talking. "baby, i need you to take my cock. because i wanna cum so bad. can you do that f'me?" he asked. you fluttered your eyes as a response and he smiled down at you.
he began again. this time he pace quickened and his breathing got faster. his cock slammed into the back of your throat causing you to gag and whimper on it. your hands wandered to his lower back as support. as he fucked your throat harder and harder your choking became louder and louder which only made him hornier.
then he pulled his cock out of your mouth. "you nasty little slut, i wanna cum inside that pussy. not that mouth. get the fuck up on that bench so i can rail you how i want." he whispered to you, causing your pussy to become an even wetter mess than before.
you headed to his instruction and got on the bench, bending over it so that he could get a nice view of your ass. "nick, i don't think a bench is the right place, what if it hurts?" you questioned.
"then you fucking ignore it, you shouldn't be thinking about anything but my cock getting all the cream out of that cunt."
you nodded in response.
he hovered behind you and rubbed your ass. his hands spanked you and his nails dug into your soft skin. he groaned at the sight of you flinching under his heavy touch.
slowly, he placed his finger inside of your tight asshole. he pumped it in and out causing you to gasp at the new sensation and got your pussy even wetter. his long thick finger slightly stretched out your virgin asshole.
as your body left a white ring of cream around the base of his finger he groaned and praised you. "good fucking god baby, just how daddy likes it. nice and creamy... good girl."
he pulled his finger out of you and aligned his cock with your dripping cunt. he quickly slid his length into your pussy causing your eyes to cross and back to arch at the feeling.
"yes daddy, mhm fuck me." his length hit your g-spot perfectly, making you squirm around and groan. the way it curved just right made your legs shake and head spin.
when his cock hit deep inside of you it scratched your cervix and caused you to flinch as he thrusted quickly into you. the grip of your pussy around his cock made him whimper and gasp.
"you are such a bad girl baby, such a bad little slut, such a dirty little whore." his way of degrading you rocketed you closer and closer to your orgasm.
his fingernails gripped into your ass even harder and made you flinch, although he told you to ignore the pain, it was all too much. "nick... fuck that hurts, stop!" his nails slowly pulled out of the supple skin on your backside, leaving you relieved from the pain. then he spanked you.
"shut the fuck up you slut. if you can't take a little pain you can't take daddy's fucking cock... isn't that right? you can't take my cock? is it too big for this little virgin pussy?" he taunted.
"no daddy it's not." you disregarded the fact he continuously referred to you as a virgin, even though you hadn't been for years.
his cock felt like a punch in the cervix with how deep and fast he was going. "mhm daddy yes." you moaned out, even though it'd been causing you pain you couldn't help but moan; it felt so good.
his movements quickened and his hips hit against your causing your ass and his lower stomach to turn red from the friction, your breath hitched and his whimpers and groans grew louder and louder.
"fuck yea, im gonna cum inside of you baby... you want that? you wanna be a little cum slut?" although you wanted to answer you know it was a rhetorical question. no matter your answer he was still planning on ejaculating inside of your glistening, needy, wet, tight cunt.
his fingernails dug deeper causing you to squeal and convulse and you got closer to your long awaited orgasm.
then his cum came out in hot heavy spurts inside of your pussy, all over your back, and on the floors. the feeling of his warm seed filling you up forced you to cum just seconds later. the way your pussy contracted afterward pushed almost all of his hot sticky juices to come gushing out of you like a waterfall.
༄𓇼🪩𓇼༄𓇼🪩𓇼༄
he sat down next to you, out of breath and practically still at his climax as little beads of his semen dripped out of his tip causing him to whimper and sigh as it all came out.
"fuck this happens everytime. i cum so much that when i think im done i still gotta jerk some of it out." he joked, he brought his hand to his now half erect penis and stroked it a few times more before more spurts of cum flew out.
"shit i gotta clean that up..." he chuckled to himself
you smiled and sat down next to him. "that was kinda fun..." you whispered in his ear. "that was really fun." he counteracted. "then maybe we should do it again. but next time at my house." you suggested.
he smiled and nodded.
"well thanks nick, now i'm gonna be walking side to side." you joked to ease the tension that was still there.
"i'm sorry it just felt too good." he responded.
after a light silence you finally added. "well after we clean this up, i guess i'll see you in 3 days."
he chuckled and began cleaning up the mess you two had made.
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also i was too lazy to proofread soooo mb :o
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casuallyanidiot · 3 days ago
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More Yandere Nerd thoughts...
Dead Dove Do Not Eat! MDNI ! NSFW !
Tw. Dubcon/ Noncon, stalking, yandere, mansplainer supreme, voyeurism, dumbification
Yandere Nerd who stares at you every single day in class. He thinks you're so pretty and cute, and he fucks his fist to the thought of you multiple times a day. He thinks you're far too dumb to truly be on par with him, but he likes that you're just smart enough to understand the same things he does.
Yandere Nerd who loves the confused little face you make when he goes off about some niche, hard to comprehend topic that he spends far too much time researching outside of class. You're not a ditz, but he likes being the one to put you in the same place as all the other brainless, pretty faced sluts he sees prance around on campus. No, no see you've got substance, don't you? That's probably the only thing more alluring that that adorable little hole he knows you have hidden so unfairly underneath all of your clothes.
Yandere Nerd who seethes with jealousy every time you get a shred of attention from anyone else. He hopes you're not fucking someone else behind his back. If you are, he loses his mind. How could you go for someone so lackluster in comparison to him? He'd lavish you with gifts, praise and attention if you would just look his way. In fact, he'd give you a lot more than that. He'd pound into you until you were babbling, speechless, and all you had to worry about was how stuffed full of cum you were going to be by the time he was done with you.
Yandere Nerd who is so damn insufferable when he gets his hands on you. He loves the fact that he has a little cutie like you in his life, and sometimes online he'll post photos of your gaping, stretched out entrance onto some obscure forum just so he can brag about how his little fucktoy is the best one there is.
Yandere Nerd who wants to see you wearing shit from his favorite hentai. Microkinis with stockings, cat ears, bunny outfits, maid costumes, virgin killer sweaters: you name it, and he's slapping his card on the table just so he can pound you silly in it. He loves taking photos of you from lewd angles. He makes you sit down and compare the ones he takes of you now that you're "dating" versus the more rushed, unflattering ones he got while sneaking cameras into your old room. He also makes you masturbate to your own pictures. His little darling has got to practice self love, you know?
Yandere nerd who tries to get you into every fandom and interest he has. He'll strap you down and keep you tied to a fucking machine for hours if you get the lore wrong for his favorite video game or book series, so you better pay attention if you don't want to get any dumber.
Yandere Nerd who makes you come up with new ways to reward him every time he accomplishes something academically.
"If I get a 98 or above on this exam, you have to cock warm me with your mouth for at least three hours while you sit on a dildo as a treat. You will do it, right? For me? Don't I deserve a treat for once?"
He doesn't even have to try all that hard to score that high, he just likes seeing you hope that he fails even though you know it's no use. Yandere Nerd is an asshole, and he totally deserved to be rejected by you before you got kidnapped, but how're you going to tell him that when you're stuck sucking on his balls?
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fastandcarlos · 2 days ago
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Is Leo Number One? : ̗̀➛ Charles LeClerc
summary: you shouldn't be jealous of a dog, right? but somehow charles just can't help it
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A sigh came from Charles as he walked into the living room to find you laid out across the sofa. He slowly stepped in, eyes landing on the space that was just beside where you were, only to find that space taken as he got closer towards you. 
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Charles told you as your head craned round, hand stroking against the top of Leo’s head who laid beside you. “I was thinking about making the most of this hot weather and going for a walk.” 
“Yeah?” You smiled, “make sure if you’re going out that you put sun cream on, it’s too hot.” 
“Oh, I thought maybe we could go out together.” 
You smiled weakly across at Charles, nodding down at Leo who was fast asleep beside you, tucked in nice and close. You didn’t have the heart to move and disturb him, with him snuggled so tight Charles couldn’t even see him when he first walked into the room. 
“We can always wait until this evening when it’s cooler, then we can take him too,” Charles spoke. 
“Charles,” you called out, watching as he spun on his heels to walk back out of the room, “where are you going? I’ve barely even seen you at all today.” 
Charles stopped where he was and turned back around, “you look like you’re just as sleepy as Charles is, I’ll come and talk to you later when there’s a space for me.” 
There was a hint of disappointment in Charles’ voice, having got himself excited that he could lay down beside you just a few minutes earlier, Charles couldn’t help but get a little upset that the space was in fact taken by Leo, enjoying your company as he got some sleep. 
Charles couldn’t deny that he loved seeing how well you and Leo got along, but if he was honest, sometimes the two of you got along too well for his liking. The spots that Charles used to occupy were taken by Leo, the games you used to play with Charles were replaced by games with Leo instead. 
You slowly tried to push yourself up from where Leo laid, trying your best not to disturb him. Charles watched you carefully as you managed to sit up, swinging one leg over and then the other, watching as Leo stayed perfectly still, completely unaware that you had left him.  
“There’s always space for you,” you told him, smiling across at Charles, only for his expression to remain blank as he watched you too. 
“Not if you ask someone else,” Charles murmured, his eyes turning to look at Leo still snoring away to himself. 
The more you watched Charles, the more you noticed the way his eyes narrowed on Leo. There was almost a frustration there towards Leo, who had no idea that with his needy behaviour he was somehow managing to make his dad feel very jealous towards him. 
“Leo is harmless,” you reminded Charles, picking up on exactly how he was feeling. 
“I know,” Charles sighed, slowly walking back into the room. “It’s just annoying how he always wants to spend his time with you, like I’m no one to him.” 
“He adores you, that’s not true at all Charles.” 
Charles moved across and sat beside where you were, the two of you shuffling close and creating a little bit of distance between you and Leo. “He doesn’t cuddle up to me like he does to you love.” 
“Sometimes I think he’s still getting to know you Charles,” you admitted, “sometimes you’re here, sometimes you’re not, he’s still learning about who you are.” 
“I guess that’s true, I’ve not always been here for him to get familiar with me.” 
Whilst Charles was off and racing, you were the one at home most weekends taking care of Leo. He was familiar with you now, he knew you were always going to be there whenever he wanted a little human companionship, whereas with Charles he never quite knew whether he was here or not. 
“It’s all still very exciting for him too,” you reminded Charles, “he’s still young and figuring out everything, he’ll probably have a new favourite next week.” 
“Clearly you just give better cuddles than I do,” Charles shrugged, nudging against your side, “he’s not exactly wrong, you’re a good cuddler.” 
You both were drawn to Leo as he rolled over and stretched out, his eyes searching around to try and find where you had gone, noticing that the space beside him was now empty.  
Leo slowly steadied himself on his feet, walking across the sofa and taking a seat again, but rather than climb over you both and sit where you were, he tucked himself just beside Charles against the top of his thigh. 
“See, he just loves humans,” you chimed. 
Charles reached out and stroked over Leo, encouraging him to fall back to sleep. He couldn’t hide the smile that was on his face at the distance that was between him and Leo, silently reassuring himself that Leo really did love the two of you equally. 
“Still want to go out on that walk?” You teased, chuckling as Charles’ head shook in reply to you, not wanting to move and risk seeing Leo move away from him. 
“I think he might hate me again if I dare move now.” 
You understood sometimes why Charles felt so pushed out, with you and Leo at home together most of the time, he missed out on a lot, particularly as you were dedicating so much of your time to training Leo too. 
He wanted to get involved as much as he could, but undeniably Leo had the better relationship with you, the one who was always there with you and taking care of him. 
“I bet during the off season he won’t leave your side,” you told Charles, “he’s clingy just like you, you’ll be glued to one another’s side.” 
“Thank you,” Charles whispered across to you, pecking against your cheek. “I know it sounds stupid to be jealous of a dog, but you’ve made me feel a lot better, and a little less bitter about the fact that Leo always gets your attention instead of me.” 
“It’s not silly,” you assured, squeezing against his hand, “although it is a tad funny looking at those envious eyes trying to stare Leo out.” 
Charles couldn’t help but let his smile turn up, “he’s hardly going to understand me if I tell him to stop stealing my girlfriend from me, is he?” 
You couldn’t help but laugh at Charles, surprised by just how jealous he was. You knew equally just how much he loved having Leo too, even if he did try and steal you away from him, creeping up when Charles least expected him to be by your side. 
“There’s plenty of me that can be shared between you and Leo,” you tried to Charles, but his head shook back at you, wrapping his arms around you. 
“As far as I’m concerned you’re all mine,” he warned, “I can guarantee that I love you so much more than Leo does anyway.” 
“If he could, I think he’d argue otherwise.” 
˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗
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spicy-apple-pie · 2 days ago
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Can someone PLEASE write a Cass joins the Batfam early fic???
She and Jason are the same age and this is kinda the first time she meets someone her age. When he reaches out a hand to shake, she fucking Judo flips him and pins him to the ground.
Bruce quickly gets Cassandra off and gently explains to her that Jason is a friend and we don’t hurt friends. Jason wants to be mad, but she looked absolutely petrified when Bruce raised his voice and actually really ashamed that she hurt him. So he forgives her pretty quickly.
Jason also loves reading to her. They start with picture books, as they allow her to connect the images with words and such. But she’s a quick learner and soon can read books without pictures.
All according to Jason’s plan.
He quickly introduces her to his favourite books and he can babble on and on about them. He makes sure to ask Cass open ended questions so she feels encouraged to talk with him.
Dick comes for a visit and absolutely freaks out on Bruce. Like what do you MEAN you got another one? Why? I thought we talked about this?
Cass takes a while to warm up to Dick. But decides he’s her favourite after he bribes her with ice cream.
Bruce doesn’t know if it’s because Jason doesn’t like to be touched a whole lot, but he swears children are not as clingy as Cass. Bruce gave her a hug one time, and Cass has been on that dopamine rush ever since. All sense of personal space went right out the window when she experienced touch that wasn’t meant to hurt her. If Bruce is working in his office, Cassandra will come in, not address Bruce in anyway, and squirm her way onto his lap and just sit there.
She does this to like, everyone. She’ll lay next to Jason as he reads. She holds Alfred’s hand while he cleans. Once she straight up climbed Dick to sit on his shoulders because he held her up there one time and she just made herself at home.
This helps Jason become more comfortable with physical affection too. Jason will wake up from a nightmare to Cass staring at him.
“Agh! What the fuck, Cass!?”
“Scared.”
“What?”
“You are scared. Frightmare.”
“Yeah. I had a nightmare.”
“Nightmare.” Cass corrects herself.
“Yeah, am alright now though.” Jason goes to roll over and Cass stops him.
“Liar.”
“What? I’m not lying!” Okay, maybe it would take him a good hour to finally calm down enough to sleep, but he’s fine.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire.” Cassandra teased him.
“Seriously, Cass I’m fi-“ Cass drags him out of bed and marches him to Bruce’s room.
Bruce sleepily questions what two bodies are doing his bed instead of the usually single body (again, Cass has no concept of personal space so often sleeps with Bruce).
“Jason had a nightmare.” Cass says as she forcibly tucks Jason in beside him.
“Oh, Jaylad.” Bruce rolls over. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah but…” Jason thinks about going to his bedroom, but Cass is already cuddled up beside him. “Is it okay if I sleep in here for tonight?”
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amazinglyashy · 2 days ago
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Hi hi I just found your blog like an hour ago and I’ve been scrolling and am obsessed with the way you write for the l&ds!! ❤️❤️ if you don’t mind I love a little angst and was wondering if you could write the boys reacting to MC showing up at their doorstep heavily injured from like a fight with a wanderer.
Oh my gosh thank you!!! And I don't mind at all, my friends make fun of me for how much I enjoy hurt/comfort and angst :'D Thank you for the request!
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LaDS men react to you appearing on their doorstep, injured and bleeding
Xavier -
If you end up at his door, it's more than likely because your unconscious decided to hit the button for his floor rather than your own. You just wanted to get home, not bother anyone, but he's stood right there. Having just come home from grabbing a late night snack from a nearby convenience store, you stumbled out of the elevator right as he's unlocking his front door.
He drops his keys and his bag.
It's a good thing too, because your legs gave out right then, so it's much better for him to catch you if his arms are free.
He's calling your name, and while you're still conscious, you're not really processing anything anymore. You're in too much shock, and you've lost too much blood by now.
He'll get the door unlocked and rush you inside his apartment, setting you down on his couch as he runs for a first aid kit, calling the association for emergency services while he does so.
"You're going to be okay. I promise. Just continue to breathe, alright?"
Xavier doesn't know if he's saying that to comfort you or himself, but he also isn't stopping to think about it, as he rapidly administers first aid to your wounds to at least slow the bleeding until help can arrive.
It's three in the morning but he's wide awake sitting next to your bed at the hospital, something unnatural for someone so sleep deprived usually.
He can't bring himself to shut his eyes though.
It's not work the risk.
Not until you wake up first.
Zayne -
It's like his brain splits into two the moment that he sees you standing there.
One side is his medical knowledge rushing forward as he moves to catch you as your feet stumble beneath you, trying to impossibly assess the extent of the damage before even getting to see it all. It's the half that's taking you to his kitchen table, because it's the easiest workspace for him right now. The one that's pulling out his doctor's bag from the closet in the hall, and the first aid kit from the cupboard in the kitchen as he cuts your shirt open.
The other side?
Oh honey, his heart is breaking.
If you think there's a day at work where he doesn't pray to any existent or nonexistent god that he doesn't see you today, spread out on a gurney or operating table without warning due to your unconscious state, then you'd be painfully wrong.
It's amazing how well he works while panicking on the inside, his skilled hands patching your wounds after meticulous sterilization, any sutures needed placed perfectly even through your pained groans tugging at his heart.
He knows he needs to get you to the hospital, even though he's taken good care of you in his own home. But he needs to sink to the floor for a minute, his back dragging against the wall as he heaves a deep sigh. It's a heavy toll feeling the stick of the dried blood on his hands- your blood on his hands.
With all his knowledge, he knows you'll be okay. He knows he himself will be okay. But right now-
He's not.
Sylus -
The N109 zone is beyond dangerous, mostly due to the criminals and leeches lurking in the dark shadows, but there's also no shortage of Wanderers, including ones that have been genetically altered to be even worse than they normally were.
So when Sylus sees you stumbling at his doorstep, bloodied hand reaching for the knob as he glances at the camera feed, he's not sure he could say he's ever moved so fast in his life otherwise. "Sweetie-" He breathes, as he catches you, scooping you up and rushing you inside as quickly as he possibly can without aggravating your already extensive injuries.
Luke is already running for first aid, and Kieran is already contacting the doctor. Mephisto is shrieking in the hall as he follows Sylus to his bedroom, protesting the fact that Sylus had needed him for surveillance of a target today instead of watching you.
Sylus knows.
He knows this is his fault.
If he had had someone keeping an eye on you, this wouldn't have happened.
His eyes are glued to your barely conscious form in his arms, the guilt in the recesses of his heart digging deeper with every slather of red that painted your skin.
Sorry to say, you're going to have your work cut out for you when you wake up. It's going to take a lot of heavy lifting on your part to convince him that he's not at fault for what happened to you.
And you will be waking up.
Sylus will make sure of that.
Rafayel -
Don't make his nightmares a reality.
Not again.
He's catching you before you can even begin to sway, and he'll be lucky if he remembers to shut the door behind him, his body melding against yours as he picks you up and runs down to his car.
"No, no no no. You stay awake, cutie."
He's definitely breaking at least a dozen laws just trying to get you to Akso hospital as quickly as he can. His mind is racing as fast as his car is moving down the streets, wondering what could have happened to you, what he should be doing right now, if he should have administered first aid to you before taking off-
But he's there so fast, it would have been nearly identical on the clock regardless of him still choosing to rush you to the hospital, or run to get and administer first aid for you from within his home.
He's there until you wake up- wide awake no matter how long it takes. It could be minutes, hours, days- he can't sleep. The image of you dying before him- the image of you standing on his doorstep as well- etched on the back of his eyelids every time he tried to close his eyes.
He talks to you even when you're not awake, stroking your hand, your cheek, the side of your neck- trying to make sure you're as comfortable as he can make you.
When you wake up again, he has to hold himself back with everything in him from squeezing you too tightly. He doesn't want to burst your stitches or harm you, but his body and arms are all-encompassing on you as he hugs you firmly, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
He really doesn't need you to see him cry.
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ellecdc · 2 days ago
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a marauders guide to siblings
Sirius Black x Potter!reader + moonwater + jily [1.4k words]
CW: fem!reader, reader is James' twin, siblings
James loved love. Like, if someone were to ask James what his favourite thing was, first he would say quidditch, then he would say pranking, then he’d probably say his beautiful girlfriend Lily, and then he would absolutely without a doubt say love.
Oh, and maybe also he’d say ABBA, but the order wasn’t important, alright? The point was: James loved love.
So, once the rest of his mates found partners of their own (save Peter), he immediately began begging them for a triple date. But for as mischievous as his friends were, they were equally (if not painfully more) stubborn.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
“Please!?”
“I said no, James.” Remus sighed as he rubbed harshly at his eyes; and sure, perhaps cornering him in the hospital wing following a full moon when he had nowhere to run nor hide from James’ pestering wasn’t very couth of James, but in James’ defence, he-
“POTTER.” Regulus barked from the door to the hospital wing that he just burst through, completely ignoring the reproachful shushing from the matron. “I swear to Salazar if you do not step away from my boyfriend, I-”
Except James never got to hear what Regulus planned on doing if he did not step away from his boyfriend because James - a smart man - chose that moment to shout “promise me you’ll think about it, moons!” before fleeing from the room. 
It had gone just about the same with Sirius. 
“No can do, Prongsie boy.” Sirius drawled without looking up from his study notes.
“And just why not?” James spat, obviously having had it up to here with his sodding no good best friends anyone could ever ask for. 
Sirius hummed as he looked off into the distance like he was giving this question actual thought. “Oh, right. Because I don’t want to.” He deadpanned.
“Why not.”
“James.” Sirius hissed as he sat up straighter, eyeing the librarian who was eyeing the two infamous marauders right back. “I have no interest in sitting at a table with my brother as he makes googly eyes at my best friend, nor-” he paused as he held his hand up when James went to interject, “do I want to sit at a table with my girlfriends brother as I make googly eyes at her.” 
“Then just don’t make googly eyes at my sister.” James hissed back, earning him a scoff.
“Have you seen your sister? That’s impossible.”
“Eugh.”
“See.” Sirius accused, raising a knowing eyebrow at him. “I’m not doing it.” 
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But if there was one thing James hated in equal measure as he loved love, it was quitting.
And in case that wasn’t clear; James hated quitting. 
“Oh good, you’re all here.” You announced robotically as you approached Remus, Regulus, Lily, and Sirius at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.
“You alright, Potter?” Regulus questioned slowly, looking between Sirius and Remus concernedly as they both let out a groan.
“What now?” Sirius muttered as he pinched the space between his brows.
“I’m supposed to say…” you continued, pausing to pull a cue card from your pocket and reading directly from it. “As you all know, the wonderful and momentous anniversary of James Fleamont Potter’s birth is approaching-”
You hardly spared a breath for the unimpressed snort from Remus at the fact that you and James shared a sodding birthday.
“-and his one wish - in place of any gifts - is for all of us to accompany him to one triple date at The Three Broomsticks on the next Hogsmeade weekend.” You finished, only looking up at the group when you finished reciting your script before pocketing it again. 
“What exactly do you get out of this arrangement?” Lily asked as she leaned back in her chair.
“A triple date?” You answered in the form of a question.
“What do you really get out of this?” Remus asked with a laugh.
“James promised me an unlimited amount of jelly slugs for the rest of the school year.” You offered bashfully.
“Oh.” Sirius groaned theatrically before pulling you into his lap. “My poor sweet girl, being coerced by means of sweets.” He cooed pathetically into your hair. 
“Does that mean you’ll do it?!” James shrieked excitedly as he appeared out of bloody fucking no where. 
“Circe’s fucking tits.” Regulus hissed as he clutched at his chest. 
Sirius scoffed as he removed one arm from around your waist to gesture at his brother. “Look what you’ve done now, James; you’ve reduced my baby brother to swears and blasphemy. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Please?” James asked quietly; puppy dog eyes darting nervously between his best friends, his girlfriend, his best friend’s boyfriend, and his sister.
And finally, after months of begging and badgering and whining and pestering, James finally got his triple date. 
Except…except something was bothering James��
Which was weird, because it was perfect. 
James got to see Regulus smile for quite possibly the first time ever when Remus offered him a bite of his meal from his own fork and then immediately stole a kiss when Regulus wasn’t paying attention. 
For as wound up and fidgety you’d been on the walk down to Hogsmeade, James watched any and all tension melt from your body the second Sirius pulled a chair out for you, situated himself in the spot next to it and threw his arm over you like that’s where it was simply meant to be. 
And the sound of Lily’s bubbling laughter echoed somewhere deep in James’ rib cage every time Sirius or Remus took the piss at James’ expense. 
“Oh, James, you’d really like this.” You insisted then, interrupting James from his musings as you held your plate out for him to take a helping for his own plate. 
“Awe, you guys are sweet.” Lily commented before she accepted a bite from James who had, indeed, really liked what you had ordered. 
“Remus is already feeding you enough over there, don’t even think about it.” Sirius called over to Regulus who was actually not thinking about it at all, thank you very much, earning him a glare from his brother. 
And that’s when it hit James.
“Wait a second.” He commented, causing everyone to look at him warily. “Sirius is dating my sister,” he started, ignoring Sirius’ groan and Remus’ quiet ‘here we go’, “and Remus is dating Sirius’ brother…then what about me?”
Regulus let out an inelegant snort as Lily scoffed in offence. “What do you mean ‘what about me’!?” She shrilled. 
“Prongs, listen,” Sirius whispered conspiratorially, “I don’t want to alarm you, but you’re very close to losing the girl you spent six long years trying to snag.”
But before James could blanche (or beg for Lily’s forgiveness), Remus chuckled. “Don’t worry, James. I’ll claim Lily as a sibling and then you can be dating my sister.”
“What the fuck?” Regulus muttered at the same time Lily murmured “you’ll what?” and James cheered “that’s brilliant!”. 
“Why on earth would that matter?” Regulus asked, though the end of his sentence trailed off when you started shaking your head. 
“It’s best not to question it, Reg.” You offered him knowingly. 
“Fine.” Lily muttered, nodding her chin over at Remus. “Then you have to share your chips.” 
In response, Remus lobbed one across the table, hitting her right in the forehead which started a petty sibling squabble right there in the middle of The Three Broomsticks.
“Yes.” James whispered reverently. “This is perfect.” 
“Were the jelly slugs worth it then?” Sirius murmured into your cheek as James cackled at the pettiness between the pseudo-siblings and Regulus threatened to bring them all back to the castle with no dessert if they didn’t smarten up. 
You smirked as you turned your face towards his, though he made no effort to create space for you which left the two of you basically nose to nose. “At least I got something out of this.”
“I got something out of this.” Sirius said easily, continuing when you raised an eyebrow at him. “I got to spend an evening with my girl. That’s worth any nonsense.” 
You smiled before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, reciprocating quickly when he greedily demanded more. “Well then, happy birthday to James Potter, I guess.”
Happy birthday to James, indeed.
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jinwoosbabyboo · 2 days ago
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Sweet Like Honey Buns
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Tara had convinced you to buy some lingerie to wear for your man as a little ‘just because’ gift, but he walked in on you trying it on. Is he getting his gift early? A/N: ‼️MDNI‼️I'd give all of them their gift early no questions asked.
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𝚉𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎
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[SFW]
utterly captivated seeing you in lingerie
shocked stock still doesn’t move an inch until you yell at him “Zayne!” ”Im sorry I-i’ll be out here”
is completely flustered when you stop him and ask him how you look “Well … what do you think?”
speechless at how good you look
“this was supposed to be a surprise, but you already saw it now” “…..” still speechless with hearts in his eyes
so stunned that he starts talking about irrelevant matters “You should lock your door its safer” “I noticed you have a few dishes still in your sink” “Your carpet could use a good vacuuming”
“Do you think I look weird?” “You look perfect my love”
once you can get him to focus he’s flustered showering you in compliments
although you're dressed in little to nothing he still focuses on your face while he praises you “You look ravishing my love” “You look stunning in anything that you wear”
kisses your knuckles before giving you another once over
subtly offers to buy you more
[NSFW]
his composure was already hanging on by a thread so when you kissed him as a thank you his mind went blank
picks you up by the waist and has a seat on the bed; settling you onto his lap so you’re straddling him
he’s gropping your tits immediately
“No no keep it on” when you try to take your bra off
pops one tit out so he can suck on it while he squeezes and gropes the other
reaches down to pull your panties to the side and is shocked to find them crotchless immediately slips in with ease
lays back and pistons his hips up into you while never taking his mouth off your titty
insatiable seeing you in this set that the only time he takes his mouth off your chest is to watch your pussy drip down his dick all while you lazily ride him with shaky legs
𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚕
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[SFW]
“Is this what you invited me over for?” “You weren’t supposed to see this yet”
stands in the doorway and just admires you from afar
asks you to give him a little twirl once to the left another to the right and one more so he can see it from the back again
is jealous that Tara is the one who talked you into buying it instead of him
“will you buy more if I convince you?”
wants to go shopping with you next time to pick out more of course he'll pay for them
[NSFW]
has you give him one more twirl and stops you when youre backwards so he can slap your ass
“I'd let you do whatever you wanted to me dressed like this” “You already do that no matter what I wear” “yea but the difference is you’d be wearing this”
wants you to dominate him in this outfit
can’t help, but pull your body close to him as he grips your ass
wants you to keep it on the whole time “sit on my face”
“make me beg for it” as he eats it through the panties
lets you think you have all the power until he gets the first orgasm out of you then he’s flipping you on your back so he can see you sprawled out under him with this outfit on
“Raf I have to take these off if you want to put it in” “no you dont”
rips a hole in your panties just so he can slip in with ease
pussydrunk and is feral having you under him dressed like this
buys you crotchless lingerie sets afterwards
not stopping until you’re a double stuffed Twinkie and double iced toaster strudel that needs help walking to the bathroom
𝚇𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛
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[SFW]
“Did I intrude on you?” keeps his eyes cast downward
is a blushing mess when you tell him to look
“this was supposed to be a surprise” “trust me I'm incredibly surprised"
grabs your hand and spins you to see the full set
“you look gorgeous baby”
can’t help but run his hands up and down your waist
“did you only get one?”
asks what other sets you saw that you wanted so he can go buy them
can’t stop complimenting you to the point he’s rambling
[NSFW]
on his knees for you literally
my boy is trailing kisses down your chest and stomach until he is on his knees kissing and licking your pussy through the panties
once your knees start buckling he tells you to get against the wall, pulls your panties to the side and throws one leg over his shoulder
stares up at you while you cum in his mouth
picks you up and throws you on the bed
has to pop a titty out to suck on while he buries two fingers in you and gropes your other boob
“please let me buy you more of these” he pants as he fumbles with his zipper
ends up accidentally ripping your panties and proceeds to literally tear the entire set off of you “Xav this was expensive!” “I’ll reimburse you and buy you more now lay back”
𝚂𝚢𝚕𝚞𝚜
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[SFW]
“and here I thought you couldn’t get anymore tempting”
not only stares, but circles you as he relishes in the sight before him
“was this the only one you wanted?” “everything was really expensive”
finds your bag and slips his black card in your wallet “shop to your hearts desire next time Princess”
showers you in praises
can’t help but fiddle with the lace “nice”
“you like it? it was supposed to be a surprise gift” he turns you toward a full body mirror and stands behind you hugging your waist “you’re stunning sweetie”
definitely taking you shopping to get more REAL SOON
wants to watch you model multiple sets now
[NSFW]
just looking at you already has his blood racing south you can feel his hard on pressing into your butt
“sweetie may I have my gift early?” he buries his face in your neck kissing and taking soft nips
rubs your pussy as he watches your reactions in the mirror, not letting his lips leave your neck
wants you to watch yourself in the mirror while he fingers you “look at how gorgeous you are”
wraps his other hand around your throat tilting your head back as your back arches making your tits look even better
has you cream (or squirt) on his fingers and sucks your juices off
grabs your wrist when you go to pull your soaked panties off “no keep it on, all of it”
pins you to the wall and hoist you up on his shoulders to eat you out
definitely gonna bend you over in front of the mirror; holding your arms behind your back telling you to keep your eyes on him in the mirror
peels you out of it once it’s significantly covered in his nut and your cream/juices
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queenpiranhadon · 3 days ago
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╰┈➤ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ✿ .ᐟ: While you're making dinner, you make a small offhand complaint about your husband's forgetfulness- however your children overestimate the seriousness of your tone and jump to conclusions, thinking you don't love their father anymore.
✿ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Fluffff, Satoru being a loving husband, you two are married, crack, kisses <33, you and Satoru have a daughter and a son, f!reader
✿ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Satoru Gojo x Reader
𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: ✿
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You're more than a little sleepy, having just woke up, but besides their looks, if there was anything your kids inherited from their father, it was their appetite.
And thus, when they got hungry, they got hungry - which was why you were being dragged out of bed at the ungodly hour of 5am on your day off, your daughter and son whining that they wanted pancakes for breakfast.
Yawning, you make your way to the kitchen, your kids impatiently asking you to hurry up and you chuckle tiredly, groaning under your breath as you eye the stack of dishes in the sink that you definitely knew weren't there when you last checked.
"What's wrong Mommy?" your son asks, bright blue eyes staring at you with such an intensity you can't help but wonder is your husband asexually reproduced because his children are carbon copies of himself.
You roll you eyes playfully, adopting a faux grumpy face. "Weeelll.. your father forgot to do the dishes last night being the lazy potato he is...so Mommy's just a little annoyed." You say, being sarcastic obviously - Satoru had came home exhausted from a late night at work, and so being the loving wife that you were, you set out dinner for him, knowing he'd be too tired to wash the plate right after.
However, your kids don't detect the evident sarcasm in your voice, the two instead adopted identical frowns on their faces.
"Do you not love Daddy anymore?!" Your daughter asks, aghast.
"What-"
Your son takes his sister's hand in his with a comical amount of urgency.
"We gotta warn Daddy!" he says, and your daughter nods with the same urgency- the two children now bolting to your bedroom.
You groan - what was the point of dragging you out of bed if they were going to your room anyways?!
Sighing, you decide to continue making breakfast, knowing that with the appetite of your husband and children combined, you could probably feed an entire classroom.
You're just about done, adding the last pancake to the sizable stack you created when you feel two muscles arms wrap around your waist.
You chuckle softly, feeling fluffy locks of white hair tickle the skin of your neck as your husband peppers a few sleepy kisses to your shoulder, reveling in your warmth.
"Mmm...morning baby..." he murmurs and you hum, rubbing gentle circles into his forearm.
"Morning 'Toru... did you sleep okay?" you ask and Satoru nods, his answer a little muffled from his face still nuzzling into the crook of your neck.
"Yeah...wish I could've cuddled with you more though..." he whines, and you can feel his dramatic pout against your skin.
"Aww...poor baby...is there anything I can do to make you feel better?" You say teasingly.
Satoru grins."Well...there is one thing...maybe a kiss from my gorgeous wife..?" " he suggests, and you laugh, turning your head to press you lips against his, only for two pairs of little hand push your clingy husband away from you.
"No! Daddy's ours now!" Your daughter says adamantly, and you gape at her in mock offense.
"What?!" you say incredulously, and your son nods solemnly.
"You said that you didn't like Daddy because he doesn't wash the dishes!" he says, and Satoru raises a teasing eyebrow at you.
"You said what?" he asks teasingly and you cross your arms.
"I said nothing of the sort!" you say, but your kids are unfortunately extremely stubborn. "All I want is a little kiss, is that so bad?"
Your daughter exchanges a glance with her brother before running straight at you.
"Run! And take Daddy with you! I'll hold her off!" she yells, grabbing some random whisk off the counter and jabbing it playfully in your direction, acting like a sword.
However- you knew that there was no point in fighting back, there was no need.
Because if there was one thing that could beat your children's stubbornness, it was your husband's love for you, and his constant need to shower his pretty wife in endless affection.
Your point was proven the moment your husband and son barrel into the kitchen once more, the latter trying in a futile attempt to slow him down by clinging to his father's legs - a small "I couldn't stop him!" being cried out as your daughter sends him a dirty look. However, before she can do anything, the little girl in scooped up into her father's arms, trapped in his embrace, and squirming profusely and Satoru finally smashes his lips against yours in victory.
When he finally breaks apart, he's grinning at you with a cheesy grin, watching your breathless state with those gorgeous blue eyes you fell in love with. (Your kids are groaning in the background)
Satoru: 1
Kids: 0
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A/N: LMAO they're all so silly - lord forbid they're all competing for your attention one day 😭
𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝: @tootiecakes234 @gina239 @its-liberty-frazblair @lilyadora @callmeanythingyouwant00
@milkm4nz @lightsgore @skaiblu-e @that-one-lightskin @hahajsphaha
@mcgriddleggs @beaniesayshi @abinformyobsessions @sharycatx3 @riririr11
@ladygojooo
684 notes · View notes
theonottsbxtch · 2 days ago
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EL COQUETO | FC43
an: welcome back as we write about my n.1 pookie, i've got some more works planned for him BUT i've just gotten to france so imma be very busy rip, based off of this request
summary: when franco catches feelings for a journalist who is persuaded he doesn't really want her.
wc: 7.6k
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The paddock was alive with energy, buzzing with the hum of engines and the chatter of the press as they swarmed around the new driver. She watched him move through the crowd with ease, a slight swagger in his step and a dazzling smile that had already made him the focus of every camera. He was the story of the weekend: Franco Colapinto, the unexpected mid-season replacement, here to shake up the grid with his flashy driving style—and, evidently, his unapologetic charm.
He caught sight of her, raised an eyebrow in recognition, and made a beeline toward her with the confidence of someone who knew he’d be welcome, even if he hadn’t been invited.
“Hola,” he greeted, his voice carrying a thick, rolling Spanish accent that seemed to coat every word in warmth. “You must be my next question of the day. They warned me about the best journalist here—of course, I was told to behave.”
She gave him a practised smile, cool but polite. “Franco, welcome to the team. How are you feeling about joining mid-season?”
His eyes sparkled, unfazed by the businesslike tone. “How am I feeling?” He leaned in just slightly, as though sharing a secret. “Well, right now, very lucky. They said I’d get tough questions, but they didn’t say the interviewer would be… distracting.”
She fought the urge to look away, just barely managing to keep her composure. “So you feel ready for the pressure, then?” she asked, refocusing, though the tiniest hint of a blush warmed her cheeks.
“For the track? Yes, I am prepared to race anyone.” He paused, letting his gaze linger on her a beat too long. “For the interviews? That remains to be seen. Perhaps you can teach me how to handle that part, sí?”
She could sense her colleagues nearby, some watching with open amusement as they caught his flirtatious energy. Franco was as smooth as they came, that much was certain. But she wouldn’t be the one to crack first.
“I’m sure you’ll learn quickly,” she said, tilting her head, her voice steady, though her heart raced. “Now, back to the race. What are your goals for this weekend?”
His grin broadened, but he played along. “Goals for the weekend,” he echoed thoughtfully, shifting back into the question. “Win a few hearts, break a few records—no particular order.” He winked, and she felt a laugh bubble up before she stifled it, opting instead for a brisk nod.
“Right. Well, I hope you’re ready for the competition,” she managed.
He shrugged, eyes glinting with mischief. “With you here, qué competencia?”
She gave him a pointed look, resisting the smile tugging at her lips. “You know, charm doesn’t score you points on the track.”
“Ah, no?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Then I suppose I’ll have to win the hard way.”
Just then, a flash of cameras went off around them, the media eating up every angle of Franco’s arrival. He seemed entirely unfazed, even performing slightly for the flashes. The crowd around them surged with questions about his plans, about what his first practice would look like, about his last season in Formula 2. But Franco’s attention was still locked on her, and he hadn’t missed a beat.
“So,” he said, with that soft smile of his, “do you think I’ll be able to charm Formula One, or will they be immune to my Argentian ways?”
She gave him a dry smile. “You might have your work cut out for you. It’s not a stroll through Argentina, after all.”
He laughed at that, clearly enjoying her wit. “You’re tough,” he said, a touch of admiration sneaking into his voice. “I can see why you’re the best.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t distract me from the questions, Franco.”
“No? Not even if I try very, very hard?” he asked, drawing out the words with a grin. It was ridiculous, really—the way he leaned into every word, the way he seemed to shine in the spotlight. But there was something endearing about it too, something that felt… unexpectedly genuine.
“Not even then,” she replied, her tone light but steady. “Let’s talk strategy. What’s your focus for your first race?”
He sighed, shifting slightly but keeping that glint in his eye. “Fine, I’ll behave,” he said with a sigh, straightening up to answer. “My focus is simple: get the car under me, push it to its limits, and aim for a strong finish. Maybe even a few surprise overtakes. I’ve been itching to get back on the track.”
It was the most serious answer he’d given yet, and she noted the shift in his voice—a hint of intensity breaking through the smooth, easy charm.
“And your teammate?” she pressed, sensing she’d found the thread to pull him out of his flirtatious veneer. “Are you prepared for the rivalry?”
Franco’s expression turned thoughtful for a moment, a flicker of something sharper in his eyes. “My teammate…” He paused, glancing away briefly before meeting her gaze again. “He’s William’s best. I’ll learn from him, give him the respect he deserves. But I didn’t come here to play second.”
She watched as someone next to her scribbled down his answer, though her mind wandered slightly, wondering at the complexity beneath his charm.
“Good to hear,” she said, offering a small nod. “We’ll all be watching to see if you live up to that confidence.”
“I live up to my promises,” he replied smoothly. Then he leaned in one last time, lowering his voice just for her. “One of them being to get at least one smile from you by the end of the weekend. I’ll start with that goal.”
Before she could reply, he gave a casual wave to the crowd, moving on to the next journalist as though he hadn’t just made her heart skip a beat with his easy, disarming confidence. She watched him go, flustered despite herself.
One thing was certain: Franco Colapinto was going to be a story.
When the time came, the race had barely begun, but her eyes were already glued to the screen, following the sleek white-and-blue car with Franco’s number emblazoned on the front. Despite her best efforts to stay neutral, to approach this like any other weekend, there was something magnetic about watching him. Franco Colapinto, the audacious rookie, who’d barely spent a week with the team and had taken to the grid without a single day of training in an F1 car.
From the start, it was clear he was playing it differently. He didn’t charge forward recklessly like other rookies might have, eager to prove themselves. Instead, Franco took a few cautious laps, feeling out the car, testing its responses. She noticed how his style evolved lap by lap, each one more aggressive, his moves sharper. He was adapting, learning the car right there in the thick of the race.
As the race progressed, he began to gain ground. Corner after corner, he squeezed every ounce of performance from his machine, edging closer to the pack with each lap. By mid-race, he was overtaking the backmarkers, slipping past seasoned drivers who had years on him, and the commentators were buzzing.
She caught herself smiling, feeling a strange, almost foolish pride as she watched. The memory of his easy, arrogant grin flashed in her mind, his voice low and teasing: “Do you think I’ll charm Formula One?” She’d laughed it off, but he had something special, didn’t he? That hunger for the track, the sheer nerve to go head-to-head with anyone in his way.
Then, as if her thoughts had summoned trouble, the camera cut to his car—a close-up on his visor as he fought for P12. Her heart caught as he made a daring move, threading his car through a razor-thin gap into the next turn. It was reckless, and yet somehow—somehow—he made it stick.
“P12!” The radio crackled through his team radio, their voice as surprised as she felt. For a rookie with zero F1 experience, it was practically a victory.
She exhaled, releasing a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The chequered flag fell, and Franco’s car slowed down, his voice breaking through the team radio with a triumphant laugh, half-sighing, half-cheering in disbelief at his own result.
When she saw him back in the paddock, she managed to slip past the swarm of journalists waiting to pounce, positioning herself where he’d inevitably cross her path. She didn’t want to admit how much she wanted to hear his version of the race firsthand, to see if the adrenaline still sparkled in his eyes the way it had behind the visor.
When he finally caught sight of her, his face lit up. “Ah, my toughest questioner returns,” he said, the grin wide as he raked a hand through his hair, still tousled from the helmet. “So? Impressed?”
She raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her expression composed. “Not bad for a first race,” she said, voice calm but betraying the slightest hint of a smile. “Though I have to say, you took some pretty risky moves out there.”
Franco laughed, that low, familiar chuckle that could disarm anyone. “You sound like my engineer. But I had to make it interesting, didn’t I?” His gaze softened slightly, the playfulness ebbing for a moment. “I did better than you expected, maybe?”
“Maybe,” she admitted, leaning in just a bit. “I wouldn’t let it go to your head, though.”
He feigned a wince. “Ah, so I’ll have to work harder to impress you, then.”
With that, she couldn’t hold back the smile any longer. “Perhaps,” she said, voice softer. “But you’ve made a start.”
She followed the rest of the press corps into the media pen, her notebook in hand, watching as Franco slipped into his role with practised ease. The other drivers, still catching their breath, answered questions in measured tones, clearly exhausted. But Franco was… well, Franco. He leaned back against the barrier, relaxed, a half-smile playing on his lips as he answered questions, some about his lack of training, others about his shockingly high finish.
She hung back at first, observing him as he effortlessly charmed each journalist in turn, flashing that disarming grin and making even the toughest questions seem like casual conversation. But when his eyes caught hers across the small crowd, he subtly waved her forward, his grin widening.
“Ah, finally,” he said, his tone playful as she approached. “I was starting to think you were hiding from me.” The other journalists shot her curious glances, some smirking at Franco’s obvious interest.
She managed to keep her expression neutral, clearing her throat and lifting her voice to a professional tone. “Franco, congratulations on P12. Quite a debut.”
“Gracias, cariño,” he replied, eyes sparkling. “For a moment, I thought you didn’t think I could do it.”
“Well, you didn’t exactly take the most traditional route,” she shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You had us all on the edge of our seats with those overtakes.”
He leaned in a little, lowering his voice to just above a murmur, his gaze fixed on hers. “I thought about what you said. ‘Charm doesn’t score points.’ So I had to give you something else to smile about.”
She could feel her cheeks warm under his steady gaze, and she fought to keep her expression cool. “Don’t flatter yourself, Franco. I’m just here to report the facts.”
“Hmm,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, the fact is, I went from P20 to P12 on my first day. But somehow, I think I still haven’t impressed the person who matters most.”
“The person who—?” She trailed off, exasperated. “Franco, you were the story today.”
“Was I?” he asked, the innocent tone entirely ruined by the mischief in his eyes. “Because if I’m the story, you’re the reason it’s a good one.”
Before she could protest, he glanced over her shoulder at the next journalist, nodding politely. Then, in a flash, he was back to her, clearly undeterred. “When can we continue our interview?”
She forced herself to keep her composure. “I think you’ve given me more than enough material for one day.”
“A pity.” He shook his head, though his grin was unmistakable. “Then maybe next time, you’ll be a little more impressed.”
She watched him walk away, shoulders loose and steps casual as he moved from one group of reporters to the next, answering their questions with the same easy confidence he’d shown with her. She could still feel the heat of his gaze, the lingering effect of his words making her pulse quicken.
“Wow.” The journalist next to her, a seasoned reporter with a wry smile, gave her a knowing look. “You okay there? He has that effect, doesn’t he?”
She blinked, quickly snapping out of her daze, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. “I—yeah, I don’t know what’s going on,” she muttered, shaking her head, trying to compose herself. But she could still hear his words ringing in her ears, his playful teasing, the warmth in his gaze. “The person who matters most.”
“Oh, I think I do.” The other journalist smirked, nodding in Franco’s direction as he laughed and clapped a fellow driver on the shoulder. “It seems Franco over here has a slight crush.”
She scoffed, though it came out more flustered than she’d intended. “Franco has a crush on every woman he talks to. It’s his… thing since he got here.”
The journalist raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Maybe so, but I’ve watched him all day and that was different.”
Her colleague’s words only made her cheeks grow warmer. Was it that obvious? She was used to managing tough interviews, unflappable under pressure, and here she was, thrown off by a driver who hadn’t even been in Formula 1 for a full week. But somehow, Franco’s charm wasn’t just some casual game to him; it felt more… intense. And he’d directed every bit of that intensity straight at her.
The journalist chuckled. “Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the attention—it’s not every day a rookie looks at you like you’re the finish line.”
She glanced away, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. She didn’t want to admit it, not to her colleague, and definitely not to herself, but there was something in the way he’d looked at her, like she was more than just another journalist, more than just one of the many people crowding his spotlight.
“Well, let’s hope he stays focused on the real finish line,” she replied, aiming for a casual tone that didn’t quite land. But she couldn’t deny it—Franco Colapinto was becoming more than just the story of the weekend. He was starting to feel like her story, too.
Later that evening, she sat in her hotel room, trying to unwind from the chaos of race day. The lights of the city glimmered outside her window, but her mind was still caught on Franco—his effortless charm, that maddening smirk, the way he’d singled her out, even with half the media pen watching. It was absurd, really. She’d covered far bigger stories, spoken with veteran champions, and yet one rookie had managed to leave her feeling more flustered than she’d care to admit.
With a sigh, she scrolled through her phone, halfheartedly catching up on messages, until a notification popped up that made her heart skip.
Francolpainto has sent you a message.
She hesitated, a mix of curiosity and nerves swirling in her stomach as she opened it. The message was simple, casual—like he hadn’t already spent the whole day keeping her off balance.
Franco: Hola! Are you at the hotel?
Before she could talk herself out of it, she typed a quick reply.
Her: Yes, I am.
The response came almost immediately.
Franco: Perfect! I’m downstairs in the lounge. Come have dinner with me?
She stared at the screen, her mind racing. It was tempting—she’d be lying to herself if she said it wasn’t. But she knew his type all too well, didn’t she? The charming new driver who flirted with every journalist, every fan, anyone who would listen. She could already imagine him saying the exact same things to another reporter tomorrow.
No, she couldn’t let herself get pulled in. Not by someone who was probably just looking for a bit of attention.
Her: Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Long day.
She set the phone down, hoping that would be the end of it, but a new message came through almost instantly.
Franco: Too bad. I was hoping I’d finally get a smile out of you without a hundred cameras around.
She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t deny the small flutter his words sent through her. He was persistent, that was for sure.
Her: You’re very determined, Franco. But I have to ask—do you make this invitation to all the journalists?
A pause, just a few seconds longer than his usual quick responses. Then, his reply appeared, simple and direct.
Franco: No, just the one who keeps me on my toes.
Her: Pity, this one isn’t intrested.
She set her phone down after typing that, ignoring the little thrill that shot through her when he messaged her again almost immediately. Franco’s charm was undeniably effective, but she wasn’t about to let herself become just another name on his roster of admirers. He’d have to do a lot more than offer a casual dinner invite if he wanted her attention.
Franco: Really? You’re going to turn me down just like that?
She smirked at the screen. Of course he wasn’t used to hearing “no.”
Her: Really. I’ve seen you in action today, Franco. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to keep you company.
A longer pause this time, as if her words had taken him off-guard. When he replied, his tone was more thoughtful.
Franco: That’s not what I meant. Today was… different. I don’t want to go to dinner with just anyone. I want to go with you.
Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to stay firm. She typed a quick reply, keeping it casual.
Her: Nice try. But I’ve seen the way you charm everyone you talk to. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you want me to believe that.
A few minutes passed, and she wondered if maybe he’d let it go. But just as she was about to put her phone down, another message appeared.
Franco: Okay. Fair enough. How about this: tomorrow, after practice, let me show you what a real date looks like. No crowds, no cameras. Just you and me.
She hesitated, feeling the pull of curiosity mingled with doubt. She knew he could be as persistent as he was charming, and there was something intriguing about his willingness to push past her refusal.
Her: Why should I believe this isn’t just a game to you?
His response came quickly this time, almost earnest.
Franco: Because no one else makes me want to try this hard. I’m not playing around here, cariño. Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.
She smiled, a little thrill rushing through her. For the first time, he seemed genuinely off-balance, unsure, and she couldn’t help but enjoy it.
Her: We’ll see if you mean that. Good luck tomorrow, Franco.
Franco: Gracias. And just so you know… I’m not giving up that easily.
The following week, she found herself in the bustling paddock of the Baku, her eyes catching sight of Franco’s car parked in the paddock. She had to admit, he’d stayed true to his word since their last exchange, staying out of her messages—though his lingering glances and smiles across the paddock hadn’t exactly disappeared. If anything, he seemed more determined, more focused. It was all part of his act, she reminded herself. And yet, there was something undeniably thrilling about it.
She was busy gathering notes when she felt a familiar presence beside her. Franco had sidled up, hands tucked into the pockets of his team jacket, his easygoing grin making her pulse quicken in spite of herself.
“Back to cheer me on, sí?” he asked, eyes bright with that familiar mischief.
She held back a smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “I’m here to cover the race, Franco. Your cheering section is back there.” She nodded to the growing crowd of fans waving his name on signs with Argentinan flags just a few metres away.
He laughed, the sound warm and rich. “They’re great, sure, but I was looking for one particular fan. The one who told me I’d have to work harder if I wanted to impress her.”
She raised an eyebrow, stepping out of earshot of the nearest camera. “Oh, you remember that, do you?”
“Every word,” he said, his gaze steady. “I thought about it all week.”
A small thrill ran through her, though she kept her voice steady and her tone cool. “Well, if you’re serious, you’ll have to do better than last week’s P12. Otherwise, it just looks like more talk.”
His expression shifted, his easy grin giving way to a flash of determination. “If it’s a higher position you want,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “then I’ll get it. Just keep watching.”
She crossed her arms, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll be watching, Colapinto. Don’t disappoint me.”
He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes flickering with something that felt genuine, earnest. “I don’t plan to,” he murmured, stepping back with a wink before heading toward his car.
As he disappeared into the garage, her heart raced. Franco Colapinto, the rookie charmer, was setting out to prove himself to her. And, as much as she hated to admit it, she was looking forward to seeing if he could keep his promise.
She sat in the media centre, eyes locked on the screen as the race unfolded. Franco’s car was easy to spot, weaving its way through the pack with a precision she hadn’t expected. He was starting further up this time, P18, but it was still a long shot to even think he’d break into the top ten. Yet as the laps ticked by, he held his ground, pushing, clawing his way forward with a tenacity that had everyone watching in awe.
“Impressive for a rookie,” she overheard another journalist mutter, and she felt a strange pang of pride.
Halfway through the race, Franco made a daring overtake, squeezing past two midfield drivers into P10. She sat forward, barely breathing. He wasn’t just hanging on—he was gaining, going after every single opportunity on the track with a fierceness she hadn’t seen before.
He’d promised her he’d finish higher than last week, and she’d thought it was just talk, maybe a little playful charm. But here he was, proving her wrong lap by lap.
By the time he made it to P9, she was leaning forward in her seat, clutching her notebook tightly. And then, with a bold move on the final few laps, he passed another driver, slipping into P8. Her heart raced as she watched him hold his ground, fending off the competition, determined to keep the position he’d fought so hard for. The chequered flag dropped, and Franco crossed the line in P8.
She exhaled, a rush of surprise and admiration flooding through her. She’d known he was talented, of course—he wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise. But this? Climbing ten positions in a single race, all for a chance to prove himself to her? It was more than she’d expected.
As the race ended, she moved through the paddock, her mind whirling. Franco Colapinto, the charming rookie who flirted with everyone, had just delivered one of the most impressive drives of the day. For her. And she wasn’t sure if she was more impressed with his skill or his determination to keep his word.
She barely had a chance to catch her breath before she was back in the paddock, microphone in hand, ready to take on the post-race interviews. As she waited for Franco, she replayed his climb through the ranks in her mind—his nerve, his timing, the way he’d handled himself on the track. It wasn’t just impressive; it was astonishing. And as much as she tried to shake it off, she couldn’t ignore the small thrill that ran through her at the thought that he’d done it, in part, for her.
Finally, Franco appeared, still in his race suit his face glistening with the sheen of hard work. There was a slight glimmer of triumph in his eyes as he spotted her, a grin spreading across his face. He walked over, ignoring the other cameras and reporters, his gaze focused squarely on her.
She raised her microphone, keeping her expression as neutral as she could. “Franco Colapinto, P8—your second race in Formula 1, and already a massive improvement from last week. Can you walk us through it?”
He took a quick breath, then leaned in, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Well, you know, someone told me I had to get higher than P12 if I wanted to impress them,” he said, his tone light but his gaze steady on hers. “So I did it for them. Great motivation.”
Heat crept up her neck, and she forced herself to stay focused. She could feel the eyes of the other journalists and team members on them, her colleagues probably smirking at his obvious attempt to fluster her, but she managed to hold her ground.
“Impressive,” she said, keeping her voice level. “And this ‘motivation’—I assume it’s the same one who’s kept you on your toes all week?”
Franco’s grin grew wider, unabashed. “Absolutely. Turns out, when someone challenges me, I take it seriously.” He shifted his stance, his gaze softening just a fraction. “And if they ask, I’ll do it again.”
A few people around them chuckled, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. This wasn’t the usual post-race banter, and he didn’t seem interested in giving anyone the typical driver answers. He was speaking to her as if they were alone, and for a brief moment, she almost forgot the cameras.
“Well, whatever you’re doing,” she replied, finally letting a small smile slip, “it seems to be working. P8 is no small feat.”
He tilted his head, as if studying her. “Then maybe next week, you’ll set the bar even higher for me?” His voice was low, just enough for her to hear.
She felt her resolve waver slightly, but managed to maintain her professionalism. “We’ll see, Colapinto. For now, let’s just focus on how you plan to keep this up.”
He chuckled, shifting his grip on his helmet. “Oh, I think I have all the motivation I need right here.” With one last grin and a wink, he turned to greet the other journalists, leaving her to process what was easily the most disarming post-race interview she’d ever conducted.
Later that night, she was back in her hotel room, unwinding with a cup of tea, trying to shake off the lingering thrill of Franco’s performance—and his audacity in the post-race interview. She still couldn’t believe how he’d shamelessly directed half of his answers at her, leaving her just as off-balance as he had on the track. But as much as she tried to dismiss it, her thoughts kept circling back to his determination, his promise that he’d push harder just because she’d challenged him.
Her phone buzzed with a message, and she glanced down to see it was from the William’s Instagram Account.
Team Rep: Hey, what’s your room number?
She frowned for a moment, surprised by the casualness of the message. But teams occasionally followed up with journalists for clarifications or comments, especially after high-profile performances like Franco’s. Assuming they needed to drop off some post-race press notes or team statements, she quickly typed back her room number.
Her: Room 914.
Team Rep: Perfect. Thanks.
Not even a minute later, she heard a quiet knock on her door. She glanced at the time, wondering if the team rep had come by himself. But when she opened the door, the hallway was empty. Instead, resting on the floor in front of her was a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers—vibrant, unruly, and charmingly imperfect, wrapped with a small card slipped between the stems.
Her pulse quickened. She didn’t have to check the note to know exactly who had left them.
Still, curiosity got the best of her, and she crouched down, carefully lifting the bouquet to pull the card free.
“To my motivation: thank you for the push. Let’s raise the stakes again soon. — F.
A soft, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She felt the warmth creeping up her cheeks, aware that Franco Colapinto had managed to surprise her again. It was a move so bold, so unexpected—and, somehow, more genuine than any casual dinner invitation could have been.
She sighed, shaking her head but unable to fight the smile any longer. As she placed the flowers on the table, their vibrant petals catching the soft light, she couldn’t help but wonder what Franco would pull next to prove himself. Because one thing was certain: he wasn’t giving up. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want him to.
She couldn’t resist. Picking up her phone, she sent a quick message, keeping it light, casual.
Her: Cute.
It didn’t take long for his response to pop up.
Franco: Oh? You find me cute?
She rolled her eyes, though her heart skipped a beat as she typed back.
Her: No, the flowers were a cute move.
A beat passed, and then came his reply, playful but edged with a hint of something more.
Franco: Well, then… would you let the guy behind the cute move take you out for dinner?
She hesitated, fingers hovering over her phone. She knew what this looked like—a line blurred between work and something personal, maybe too personal. And for him, a rookie who’d just broken into the sport, one misstep could easily become a distraction he couldn’t afford. It wasn’t just her reputation, but his too, and the stakes felt higher than either of them probably realised.
Her: I don’t know, Franco. There’s too much on the line.
A pause, longer than his usual quick responses, and for a moment she thought maybe he’d let it go. Then his reply came through, brief and simple.
Franco: Okay.
She stared at the word, an unexpected pang of disappointment catching her off guard. Franco, usually so persistent, so bold, had accepted her hesitation without a fight. But as much as she wanted to push away her own reservations, she knew she was right. Still, the thought of him backing off now left her feeling… unbalanced.
Setting the phone down, she let out a sigh, glancing over at the flowers resting on her table. A small part of her wondered if maybe, just maybe, she’d made the wrong choice.
Four weeks later, they were back at the track, Austin, the usual energy humming through the paddock as teams and drivers prepared for the weekend ahead. She found herself scanning the garages, a little spark of nerves in her chest that had nothing to do with work. Franco had kept his distance over the past few weeks—well, as much distance as someone like him could manage. He was still his playful, charismatic self with the press, charming everyone in sight, but there was something different. He hadn’t followed up on his dinner invitation, hadn’t tried to push beyond her boundaries. She told herself it was for the best. Still, a small part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been too cautious.
Just then, she spotted him near the team’s garage, leaning against the wall in his race suit around his hips, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up, a grin breaking across his face as if no time had passed. She felt a little of that old thrill in her chest as he walked over.
“Hola, stranger,” he greeted, hands tucked into his pockets of his team jacket, his voice as warm and casual as ever. “Miss me?”
She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “You were just here four weeks ago, Colapinto. Don’t flatter yourself.”
He chuckled, giving her that familiar, playful look. “Four weeks is a long time, don’t you think?”
She shook her head, feeling a bit of the tension from the past month melt away. Whatever her own doubts, Franco hadn’t let her brush-off change him—he was still here, as charming and persistent as ever. And somehow, that lifted a weight off her shoulders.
“Have you been behaving?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or should I be prepared for more unexpected flower deliveries?”
Franco’s grin grew wider, his eyes flashing with that spark she was growing dangerously used to. “Depends. You miss them?”
She laughed softly, looking down to avoid letting him see her smile. “I’d hardly admit that if I did.”
He leaned in just slightly, his voice lowering. “Good thing I’m a patient man, then. Because I’m not done yet.” There was a softness to his tone, a hint of something genuine beneath his usual confidence, and it made her heart skip a beat.
Despite herself, she found comfort in his persistence, in his way of toeing the line between serious and playful without putting any pressure on her. For all his charm, he hadn’t crossed any lines. He was waiting, leaving the door open if she ever wanted to step through.
As he turned to head back toward his car, he glanced over his shoulder, giving her a wink. “You know where to find me if you change your mind, cariño. I’ll be around.”
And with that, he disappeared into the garage, leaving her standing there with a soft smile, feeling just a little lighter, a little braver.
She found herself glued to the screen as the race unfolded, Franco’s car darting through the pack with all the finesse and raw determination she’d come to recognise in him. Starting from P17, he had a long climb ahead of him, and as the laps ticked down, he kept gaining ground, his timing sharp, his decisions bold. He was relentless, working his way through the grid with an intensity that kept her at the edge of her seat.
By the halfway mark, he was already up to P12, and she could feel the anticipation building among the journalists and crew around her. Franco wasn’t just driving; he was fighting for every single position, taking advantage of each moment with an almost calculated risk. And he was doing it with the confidence that had both frustrated and charmed her from the start.
Then, in the final laps, with a daring overtake on the inside line, he claimed P10. A top ten finish. It was almost too perfect—his words from the last race echoing in her mind as he crossed the line: “If they ask, I’ll do it again.”
The paddock was buzzing with excitement as she made her way toward the media pen, preparing herself for the post-race interview. She tried to tamp down the flutter of nerves, reminding herself that he’d been charming his way through interviews with her for weeks now. But there was something different this time, a spark of pride mingled with her excitement, and she couldn’t wait to see him walk in.
When he finally appeared, the smile on his face was brighter than she’d ever seen. Still in his race suit, a towel on his head, he strode over to her with that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. She raised her microphone, struggling to keep her voice steady.
“Franco Colapinto,” she began, her own smile betraying just a hint of the thrill she felt. “P10 from P17—congratulations. Tell us, how did you manage such an impressive climb?”
He grinned, leaning casually into the microphone. “Well, you know me. I like a good challenge,” he said, his gaze holding hers for a second longer than necessary. “And I couldn’t let down the one person who told me I had to keep improving.”
The implication wasn’t lost on anyone listening, and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She rolled her eyes slightly, playing it off as best she could. “Seems like you’re making a habit of climbing positions to impress,” she replied, keeping her tone light.
Franco’s smile softened, turning almost genuine. “For some things,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “it’s worth the effort.”
She swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words, but managed to pull herself together, keeping the interview rolling. “Well, you’ve certainly earned that P10. What’s the plan for next time? Any more surprise performances in store?”
“Oh, definitely,” he replied, flashing her a grin. “But let’s say I’ll aim higher than P10 next time. If someone out there is willing to set a new challenge for me, I’ll be ready.” His words hung in the air, a subtle invitation that made her heart skip a beat.
She couldn’t hold back her smile as she wrapped up the interview, his gaze lingering on her with that same unspoken promise. And as she watched him walk away, her heart raced with the thrill of what might come next, realising that maybe—just maybe—she was ready to see where this challenge would lead.
As Franco walked away, she felt the lingering warmth of his gaze, that same thrill coursing through her that she’d tried so hard to brush off. But now, it seemed, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to. The interview had felt like more than just a casual exchange; his words, his look—there was something real beneath the flirtation, something she found herself wanting to chase.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of post-race coverage and media duties, but her thoughts kept drifting back to him, to the way his eyes had held hers, steady and genuine, as he’d promised to aim even higher. It was only when she caught herself looking around the paddock, almost instinctively, that she realised she was seeking him out. By then, her professional caution had faded, replaced by something far less reasonable but far more enticing.
She knew she was violating so many unspoken rules as she made her way around the paddock, ducking out of the more crowded paths and slipping past the occasional lingering crew member. A pang of guilt buzzed at the back of her mind, but it was no match for the magnetic pull drawing her toward his driver’s room.
She stopped outside the door, exhaling a shaky breath as her pulse raced with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The hallway was quiet, the sounds of the bustling paddock fading away. Before she could second-guess herself, she raised her hand and knocked softly.
The door opened, and there he was, in a grey tracksuit and plain black top, his expression shifting from surprise to that warm, familiar smile that had always managed to disarm her.
“Well,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “I didn’t expect my motivation to show up in person.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding her smile. “I figured I’d come to make sure you’re planning to keep your word. That climb to P10 wasn’t exactly a small feat.”
His smile softened, and he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting her in. As the door clicked shut behind them, the noise and pressures of the paddock slipped away, leaving just the two of them. The look he gave her—warm, unguarded, and almost vulnerable—made her heart skip a beat.
She’d broken so many of her own rules just to get here, but in this moment, she couldn’t bring herself to regret a single one.
Taking a moment to look around, she noticed his bags were packed and ready for the triple header and that there was nowhere to sit.
She sat on the edge of his bed, trying to look at ease despite the heat rising in her cheeks. Franco stood in front of her, close enough that her knees brushed his legs. The room felt charged with his presence, the quiet intensity in his gaze making it impossible to look away.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he murmured, leaning down a bit. The way his dark eyes lingered on her, sweeping over her face and holding her gaze, sent a rush of warmth through her.
She felt a smile tugging at her lips, trying to keep her voice steady. “Figured I’d make sure you’re holding up after all that hard work.”
He chuckled, his voice low, with just a hint of playfulness. “Oh, I’m holding up just fine.” He reached out, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek, letting his thumb linger just a moment too long against her skin. “In fact, I think I’m doing better than fine.”
Her cheeks flushed even deeper, but she held his gaze, determined not to let him throw her off-balance—at least not completely. “You know,” she said, trying to match his tone, “you don’t have to turn everything into a line, Colapinto.”
Franco tilted his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Only with you, cariño.”
She let out a soft laugh, her heartbeat picking up as he moved closer, until he was standing right between her legs. She felt his fingers trace gently along her jawline, his thumb tilting her chin up so she was looking directly into his eyes.
“Not used to being flirted with, cariño?” he asked softly, his voice smooth and teasing.
She swallowed, feeling her blush deepen as her usual composure slipped. “No… not like this.”
“Shame,” he murmured, his thumb grazing her cheek as his eyes searched hers, warm and intent. His voice softened, and the playfulness gave way to something more genuine. “Because I’m just getting started.”
She felt her breath hitch, her pulse racing as his words sank in, leaving her both disarmed and impossibly drawn in. And in that moment, she realised that every wall she’d put up around him was slipping away, piece by piece.
For a moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, the air between them thick with anticipation. Then, she noticed the small silver chain dangling from his neck, glinting faintly against the fabric of his black top, and without thinking, she reached up, wrapping her fingers around it gently.
Franco’s gaze flickered in surprise, his breath catching as she tugged on the chain, pulling him just close enough that their faces were inches apart. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, and the intensity of his gaze sent a thrill through her that made her heart pound. His hands settled on either side of her hips as he leaned in, their breaths mingling in the charged silence.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she closed the space between them, pressing her lips to his. The kiss was tentative at first, soft and exploratory, but the warmth in his response was immediate. His hand slid up her back, pulling her closer, and she felt his fingers tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss, his touch gentle yet confident.
She didn’t realise how tightly she was gripping his chain until she felt his hand cover hers, his thumb tracing lightly over her knuckles as if to say, I’m here.
When they finally parted, both of them slightly breathless, Franco looked at her, hand caressing her cheek, his smile soft and real, devoid of his usual playfulness. He looked at her with a quiet intensity that made her stomach flip.
“You know," he started, his voice dipping into that smooth, charming tone, “I thought I never had a chance with you. You made me work for every single look, every smile…” He shook his head, his hand still resting against her cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath her jaw. “I was convinced you’d never actually let me get this close.”
She felt a warm, amused smile tugging at her lips as she listened to him, his words genuine but tinged with that familiar, playful charm. Watching him, her heart surged with an undeniable impulse, one she didn’t want to ignore any longer. In one fluid motion, she slid her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down, pressing her lips to his again with a fierce, unrestrained intensity that sent sparks through her.
Franco’s surprise melted instantly, his hands slipping from her cheek to either side of her hips, matching her passion. The kiss deepened, turning slower, almost reverent, as if neither of them wanted the moment to end. She could feel his pulse racing under her hands, his warmth overwhelming in the most exhilarating way.
Without breaking the kiss, she leaned back, drawing him down with her onto the bed. She felt his weight settle gently over her, his hands bracing on either side of her as he kissed her with a hunger that felt both new and inevitable. When he finally pulled back just slightly, his lips hovering over hers, his voice was breathless, a bit dazed.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his fingers tracing down her arm as he held her gaze, a vulnerable softness there she hadn’t seen before.
“Good,” she whispered back, her own voice unsteady, feeling as though her walls were completely gone now. “Because I don’t plan on making it easy for you.”
A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he leaned down, his mouth finding hers again with an eagerness that left them both completely lost in each other, as if the rest of the world had faded away.
Maybe he was worth the wait.
the end.
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