Hiii !! Just Read Like ,, A BUNCH Of Ur Lumen Au Stuff ,,,, Truly I Am Brainrotted Now Because I'm Just
hiii !! just read like ,, a BUNCH of ur lumen au stuff ,,,, truly i am brainrotted now because i'm just thinking of so many different scenarios involving the lumens and i am just . EXCITED !!! its SUCHHHH a good concept im a big big sucker for soulmate stuff ,,,,
i was just wondering how you feel about jayvik x reader ,,,, TWO lumens ,,,,,,,, idk if you write for anything poly or not, but id love to hear your thoughts on it !!! either through headcanons or a ficlet, whichever you feel like :]
my first viktor x reader x jayce piece i’ve ever written… wait is this my first poly drabble?? it might be actually! i hope it’s fun to read ♥️
warnings: fem!reader, slight negative feelings of not being good enough, but overall fluff!!!
The scientific jargon that came with having not one but both of your fated being inventors was overwhelming. The words they tossed around became an entire other language since you’d all gotten closer. It left you feeling unbearably empty-headed, wondering why the universe would bond you to such intelligent men.
They were already changing an entire city with their ideas, and you would bet the world would soon bear their mark as well. In comparison, you were a meager artist making ends meet at festivals and street corners. Sure, maybe your work could be seen on a few shop signs or covering a wall or two in a cafe, but that was as famous as you’d ever be—a stranger to the passing eye.
“We need to widen the cylindrical chamber, maybe add an exhaust pipe to help with the cooldown.”
Jayce’s voice slipped through your head, smooth and confident and making no sense. You’d gotten rather good and tuning out the meat of the conversations, only recognizing the tones and emotions.
The heavy, warm accent of Viktor’s replied, swirling in the back of your mind as your pencil swiped over the heavy parchment against your thighs.
Recently, they’d begun inviting you to their lab to spend your free time in their company. There were two desks to choose from, though they were usually piled high with blueprints or notes. Jayce had moved a couch into the space for your comfort, placed in the corner and under a window, well away from any dangerous work they had their hands on, though they usually took anything too precarious into another portion of the building.
Their assistant, Sky, was in and out, always double-checking if you needed anything. She was a kind young woman, curly hair and glasses and a smile that made anyone feel at home. She brought you your own coffee and snacks, promising it was no trouble since she was already bringing them to Viktor and Jayce, anyway.
“You actually eat them,” she chuckled. “Jayce will if he notices they’re there, but it’s a long shot most days.”
You understood what she meant, seeing how focused the men became on their gadgets and studies. You’re sure if you got up and left they wouldn’t notice for a good, long while.
Today was one of those days, though there was peace in your private little corner as you sketched away. You squinted over the top of your sketchbook, skimming the outline of Viktor’s goggles pressed into his thick, winding hair and quickly adding the little licks of tresses to the paper before he was moving again.
You switched targets, taking in Jayce’s side profile and adding a bit more depth to his eyebrow and under eye.
Taking a moment to look between both drawings, you were hit with their beauty once more.
Jayce was deemed the academy’s “pretty boy,” with his strong jaw and perfect smile. He was a clean cut handsome, peak health and built with broad shoulders. He knew how to use those looks to his advantage.
On the other end was Viktor. He was a haunting beauty, sleek and angular. If he had the same charisma with speaking to the masses as Jayce did, that accent would gain him more than a fair share of admirers, but his confidence and skills lied elsewhere. He had a sharp eye and wore his emotions rather loudly on his face.
Where Jayce had faint lines from how much he smiled, Viktor had a feather soft crease between his brows from how often he furrowed them. Where the golden boy’s hands were always warm, his partner’s was cold. They made such gorgeous opposites, yet they held so many comparisons in mannerisms when it came to their shared hobbies and passions.
It was safe to say you adored them and their intricacies.
Taking a slow, deep breath you checked both shoulders before moving the tuft of black in your periphery into your hand. Gold shimmered between the dark mass that made up Jayce’s lumen, settling deeper into your palm as you raised your arms and stretched.
When you moved your drawing pad to the side, you spotted Viktor’s wedged between the apex of your thighs. Swallowing your gasp, you scooped it up, praying it hadn’t been smushed the entire time.
“When did you get there?” you whispered, rubbing your pointer finger into the tawny fuzz of his light. His lumen had always had a bit more give to it, leaving it to wedge itself under your leg or your shirt collar. Viktor’s preferred to be as close as possible to you, even if it left his lumen squished.
Jayce’s lumen was firmer, still soft but in a velveteen sort of sensation. It was bigger, taking up a good portion of your palm. Now your second month with it, you’d learned if it wasn’t on one of your shoulders, it was likely circling your head. His never went far either.
You wondered if you’d received Jayce’s lumen first, if it would have more of an attachment to you. As it stood, you’d had Viktor’s since you were young while he’d held Jayce’s and Jayce yours. The three of you being tied together had become quite the story as there went many outward poly fateds in Piltover, but luckily the gawking had passed after the first handful of weeks.
It was only a few days ago that Viktor confessed he’d been rather confused when he’d met Jayce and the lumens had flashed against one another.
“There were no similarities,” he’d explained, holding up one long, thin finger for your lumen to rest on as it hovered in front of him. The three of you were cozied up in your lackluster apartment—a studio more than a bedroom but it had a nice pullout couch and plenty of blankets to rest on in front of your heater. “Jayce was ecstatic, of course, but I was ruminating over your lumen when we first met.”
“I thought he hated me,” Jayce had murmured, breath warm against your ear as you laughed.
“I did not hate you,” huffed Viktor on your other side, rolling his eyes as he dropped his hand, your lumen resting within. “I wasn’t aware we had a third, yet—it was puzzling.”
“I had to explain it to him,” Jayce chuckled. “One of my old friends was in a poly.”
“And, then, he was even more ecstatic,” Viktor sighed but there was affection in it. “I thought you’d follow him home some nights.”
“And leave you all by yourself?” You laid your head on his shoulder, grinning as his eyes fled. It was still so early into the relationship, and he grew flustered with physical affection whereas Jayce sought it every chance. “I’d never.”
“It’s better now, we’re all together,” Jayce hummed, lowering to lay his head in your lap. You brushed your hand through his hair, smiling as his lumen lit up in Viktor’s lap.
“Yes,” Viktor had agreed, careful as he laid his head against yours. “It all feels…complete.”
Your chest warmed at the memory as you held both of their lumens in your hands, giving a fleeting kiss to each. Viktor’s snuggled happily into your palm while Jayce’s pulsed a happy gold before flying off, likely to check in with Viktor.
As your eyes lifted to follow its journey, you jumped when you found Jayce smiling from a few feet away by his desk. He seemed to be shuffling through some papers. Your lumen floated just nice his head, twinkling in the sunlight that shone through the windows behind you.
“Didn’t see you there,” you said, stretching your legs out before standing. Viktor’s lumen left your hand, keeping close to your neck.
“I hope you’re not bored.” He opened an arm up and you approached. You still grew giddy with any chance to be wrapped in his embrace, quick to accept the invitation.
“I like spending time here with you both,” you assured, giggling as he bent down to kiss your forehead. “Gives me plenty of practice.”
His eyes lit up, one of those dark eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”
“I know what you’re about to ask—”
“Please?” His arm wrapped tighter around your waist. “I wanna see.”
“They’re just rough sketches!” you laughed, pushing against his chest.
“C’mon, I bet they’re great! I’m sure Viktor wants to see them, too.”
You shook your head, a mess of giggles as he wrapped both arms around you and slowly edged his way towards the couch.
“Did someone call my name?” asked Viktor, turning from the machine he was working on. A torch was in his hand but luckily still off for the time being. Jayce’s lumen was sitting on his knee.
“Viktor tell her you want to see her art!” Jayce goaded.
“Tell him he needs to wait for a real piece,” you threw back, wrinkling your nose at him as he stuck his tongue out.
“You’ve been drawing us?” Viktor’s voice seeped with awe and innocent curiosity. “May we see?”
Jayce bounced his eyebrows at you, all too smug. “Told you.”
“Fine—fine!” you sighed, throwing your hands up and wiggling out of his hold as you went to grab your canvas notebook. “Don’t gripe when you see your half-finished faces.”
The tap of Viktor’s crutch intermingled with Jayce’s footsteps as they met you by the couch. As you handed over your work, Viktor was the one to accept it as Jace stood over him. Both their eyes went wide at the current page and your hand went straight to your arm as you shuffled in place.
“Those are just warmups, so…”
“Warmups?” Jayce breathed, looking up from the notebook. “These are amazing!”
“I have to agree, the detail is astounding,” Viktor hummed, looking to turn back a page. He caught your eyes before he did. “Is this all right? Tell us if we’re overstepping.”
“No, it’s okay! I’m used to people watching me draw on the street, it’s just… I don’t know.” You shrugged, bringing a hand up as Viktor’s lumen rubbed against your neck. Jayce’s was just settling on your shoulder again. “I care about what you guys think. It’s not anything big like you do, but…”
“Big?” Jayce echoed, both of their sights set on you.
“Well, it’s not as important as what you both do is what I mean.”
“Of course it’s important,” Viktor argued, expression stern.
“But it’s art!” you laughed, waving off the sudden seriousness growing from them. “It’s helping a bunch of people like your creations do. That’s much more important.”
“Art is just as, if not more, important,” he continued, passing the notebook to Jayce. “We are helping people in different ways, but do not do yourself the disservice and think what you create is anything less than what we do.”
“He’s right,” Jayce agreed, holding up your work. “This? This speaks to people. Your work can bring life to a room and lets people save a special moment in time.”
“Okay, don’t butter me up so much or I’ll melt!” you squeaked, too embarrassed to look at them as they chuckled and continued flipping through your sketches. It wasn’t long before the three of you were on the couch, both of them pointing out their favorites.
“Is my hair truly that messy?” Viktor grumbled, raising a hand to it. “Perhaps I should cut it.”
“No, I like it,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “You twirl it when you’re thinking! It’s so sweet.”
He blinked at you. “I do?”
Jayce whistled and you turned and gasped, completely forgetting the drawing you’d done of him in the forge. It was more from memory so your imagination had left it a bit more detailed than the rest.
“Okay, that’s enough!”
You swiped for the book, shutting it as Jayce laughed. Viktor rolled his eyes, smirking as he nudged your shoulder.
“Should I be worried of any scandalous pieces of me in there?”
You pouted, holding the notebook tighter to your chest.
“Oh?” Jayce breathed. “She didn’t say no!”
“You two are the worst!” you groaned, unable to help yourself from smiling as they both laughed in tandem.
More Posts from Dazecrea and Others
A song of broken skin and fated lovers: part V
— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)
— 7.1k words.
— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V —
Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙
TW!! There’s some description of wounds and if you squint some dub con. Proceed daintily loves-
It seemed your dreams were the only place you could reliably escape too. The only plain you’d find any peace.
You picture the hill before your home. Every night away from home you dreamt you’d be walking up it. Feeling the dappled shade of olive trees curling above on your skin. Passing along your back in freckles. Dotted light, spots of shade interspersed.
Your soft skirt swishing around bare calves. The creak of your sandals meeting the dusty road. The one that kinks and bends and shows you that endless glimpse of searing ocean waiting just beyond. Aegean water. Sage fields. Boundless heavens.
You remember these fields. You played in them as a child. The ones that thrash with soft grasses. Ruffled by salty sea air. You can hear your sisters laughter brushing along to you like sweet blossom petals garnished on the wind. Sweet and calming. Crushed honeycomb and milk.
A sound as familiar and as comforting to you as their calls and voices that make the shape of your name.
Every night in your dreams you walk up this hill.
Every night you come home.
You can see them - your sisters - on the winding ribbon of the road ahead. Running out the front door of the house. Tullia with her dress flying behind her. Ever decorous eldest. Calling to Diana, with her hair falling in waves and telling her younger sister that ladies don’t run. Diana isn’t listening she’s too joyous. Too forthright to pay attention.
And Ceres. Sweet little Ceres sprints for your arms. Gap toothed grin. Clutching her cloth doll. Skirts held past her knees, she runs for you.
You can see mother in her dark plum linen stola. Gold jewellery on her neck and dangling from her ears. She lingers in the shade of the the hallway. Her dark wavy hair shot through with a fierce bolt of silver - lightning struck - at her temples. Radiant. As she watched from the door with a smile at their graceless display.
Her smile wide and brilliant, you always thought so, exactly as you remember it, as crows feet sit by her eyes. Emboldened and etched deep with her mirth. Hers is a face that has seen years of sun and sea spray. Made serene as placid waters by it. She is tanned and weathered elegantly by decades of watching sunshine bouncing like rows of diamonds off the sea. Salt and sea foam as hemmed in her blood as it is in yours.
You run to them - crying and wailing - feet slapping the dirt and dust, and you’re aching, legs burning, lungs aflame and you won’t stop. Calling their names til your throat is as dry as the dust below your feet.
Then the sun is too bright. It’s too far and you can’t see them. They can’t hear you. Swallowed from your grasp.
There’s just blinding light engulfing them just out of reach of your scraping fingertips. It’s like brushing grains of sand. It tumbles away before it grows into actuality. Your fingers brush empty air as your whole being lurches and mourns.
You jolt awake, body clammy and sheened in sweat. Eyes snapping open as you jerk upwards in the cover of fine smooth sheets. You feel your hair slip over your naked shoulders. Jewels and gold still around your neck. Sunshine blares harshly at your crusted eyes.
Aches and pains come swimming back to you in sharp degrees. Bruises on your neck and your hips. Fading to ugly yellow black already. Bite marks ring your collarbones and the meat of your shoulders.
Out the window you can hear a bustling city. The clamour of crowds. Hot sun baked dirt and filth. Bells peeling from temples. Servants scurrying in the courtyards below and beyond. Horses baying in the streets.
You smear sleep from your eyes, twisting over in the huge slab of a bed to see the sheets behind you are still filled.
Geta slumbers on golden pillows under the same sheets as you. On his back with bis face turned to the sun. Arm slung over his belly. The thin sheets stick to the climes and outlines of his body. His stomach. Thighs. Hips. The heavy bulge between his legs.
His expression seems almost gentle in his rest. Pillowy lips and dark lashes kissing onto his cheeks. Kohl still smeared on his eyes from yesterday. Naked same as you, save for golden decorations, jewelled rings…
A wedding ring. Matching bands. That’s the weight that comes crashing down on you so fiercely.
Acid bile claws it way up your throat when you shift your legs. Finding the edge of the bed with a breathy sigh. The stickiness between your legs and dried around your cunt doesn’t bear thinking about. You screw your eyes shut so as not to think about it.
Stirring silk. Rustles from behind you.
“Where do you think you’re going wife?” Comes a sleepy drawl across the pillows and sheets. Slithering across to you. Husky from his slumber.
You swallow and twist your head over your shoulder. Hair matted and twined close from sleep. Bite marks wedged deep in your back and neck throb as you move.
His eyes are lidded heavy but their burning gaze rests on you. Branding like a hot knife. White hot from the fire. You’re beginning to think that gaze of his always will.
“I’m not used to having my bed filled in the mornings. The kind of company I’m used to promptly leaves after the pleasuring is done.” He explains. Inflection of lust in his tone. He smirks with it. Wide and filthy.
Now he has a little plaything to trap into his bed whenever he feels like it. An ornament he can use and decorate his already gilded arm, and bring out to inspire envy in all peoples of Rome.
You pause where you sit on the bed. Caught.
“I wanted to fetch some water.” You grovel. Voice scraping raw. Throat feeling full of sharp rocks when you speak.
His eyes harden. Laychromose, but deepening with his anger. The way he slips into intimidation if he doesn’t immediately get what he wants. The way he snaps his fingers and has this world uncurl and offer itself up to his desires. That too must apply to you. Your role now was obedience in all things.
Bend and break and mould yourself for your husband, little nymph.
“You may… when your emperor is finished with you.” He plays and toys with your emotions at his whims. Eyes intently gazing at you. His words come with a bladed meaning.
“Come here-“ He orders. Voice softer but the command cuts straight to your spine. Arrowhead sharp. Studs deep.
You curl back into the bed. Back stiff. Trying not to wince at the cuts which burn and tear at your skin. You feel the pull and tug of barely closed wounds. His teeth had drawn blood. You feel the congealing wound at your back shift. The scab lifting. A bead of blood rolls over down your shoulder blade.
He notices. Shifts on his side behind you. Curls a hand to the hill of your hip. Catches that drip of blood with his lips. Savours it. Sea foam flavour of you bedded on his tongue.
The warm stinging path of his tongue on your back takes your mind back to what happened in these sheets hours previous.
How he’d pushed your thighs, widened your legs, opened the bowl of your pelvis and drunk from you. Showed you the various ways a man can please his lover with tongue, lips and hungry teeth.
He’d done it til you shivered and begged. Tried to writhe away. He meanly tugged you back where you belonged, bullied you, recaptured in the cradle of his hands, and did it again. Smirked when you asked for clemency.
“I warned you I was without mercy, Salacia.” He’d leered. His smirking lips and sharp teeth shining with you as he smeared his warm nose against your thigh. Slaked in the taste of you from chin to cheek. Makeup running under his Umbrian eyes. Panting like a beast to your skin and because of the scent he finds synonymous with you. Lemons and salt.
He hovers behind you now. Hands sliding for your waist. Chin on your shoulder. Breath tainted copper. Pressing his lips to bruises and tender spots. You were right. He had to achieve to sting of pain in order to feel something.
He dips his mouth to your neck again. Lapping and nursing a new bruise near an already painful one. Layering pain on pain.
His hand slips lower for your thigh. Warm stones in each of his fingers foreign and hard as he slips his hand between the soft of your legs again.
He’d moaned when you’d grabbed his hair or left nail marks in his large arms and shoulders. He liked that he could draw an emotion out of you. Even if it was overstimulation or desire. He’ll match and meet you in either. As he so wishes.
He’s pleased to find you tacky with the remnants of him from the previous evening. “A fine fruitful offering for your beautiful cunt my wife.” He purrs. Fingers delving deeper to your sex. Rings nearly an unwelcome sensation. “In time mayhaps the gods will bless us.”
Hallowed Saint. Hallowed fate. Bestowed by the gods, he says.
You’d say it was more akin to downfall. Curses and ill fate. Tantalus and his fruit. Medusa and her coiled snakes. Actaeons fateful stag.
He noses onto your jawbone. Fascinated by the scent of you still. Smothered all over these sheets. It grew stronger the longer he was near you. In his sleep it smothered his mind, his every second. Lemons, salt, and you-
He loses himself, mouthing to your neck and into the wild nest of your hair. He inhaled you. Drank the essence of you like a starving peasant. Hungry greedy hands.
“What is about that scent of yours that drives me wild? What is it?” He seeks. Almost angry in his demands.
“Lemon oil. For my hair.” You explain weakly as he plucks and grabs at you.
Descending into lustful madness. He catches the ripe berry of your clit with his rings and it makes you gasp. Bucking back to his chest. He likes that. When a little of your feral reaction to his touch makes you buck and lose your usually placid control. The man is taunting the seas and welcoming in a storm.
“Use it. Always.” He ordered huskily, Huffing as your hair sticks to his lips. Melding with the salt of ocean that he now understands beats through your skin and veins.
He would order ten thousand lemon trees to be bought here just for your use.So he can kiss your shoulders and your skin and always find it brimming with the bright note of that yellow fruit.
A small surrendering of your body as you arch back to him. Having pleased him brings something forth in you: something that eases. His pleasure allows you to relax the stiffness of your spine. Lower your guard.
He tugs your hair out the path of his lips. Delights in the evidence he found of his teeth all over your neck. His claim was skin deep. And he soon hoped it would be even deeper.
You are tugged back to the bed so his hands can wander all over you again. Your back curled to his chest as he lays you on your side. His hand sliding for your thigh to widen you open for him. Behind your hips you feel the hard length of him. He guides himself to you and your breath gets punched out of you as he pushes inside.
He pushes your leg open further to move to you deeper. He delights in finding evidence of your restless wedding night squelching deep inside your cunt. Throws his head back and groans with it.
He moulds his body to yours. Tacky skin. Warm cotton sheets kicked down the bed. Ringed metal and sharp jewels on every finger gripping the fat of your leg tight until he’s sure he’d left marks. Holding you open so he can plunge inside.
Your hand finds his where he crushed one breast in a grip so tight it makes tears spring to your eyes. Melding with the pleasure you cannot deny coming forth as he moves his hips to you so fiercely, your skin smacks where you meet.
Despite the sting of pain from being so overused, to way his fingers reach down to knowingly pinch and caress your clit where you’re spread open around him, makes wordless cries come out your throat. You clutch into the sheets and grit your teeth. His breath muggy hot against your neck. His hair a mess. Golden and fiery. Like stomped down wheat stalks at sunset. A lazy Bacchusian god.
“Let your husband hear you.” He encourages. Your moans and sweet as rare wine. Inbetween sucking and biting your neck. Asking for your sounds of ecstasy like he deserves them. A holy offering that praises him and washes away all sin.
“I don’t think you are goddess of the sea my love. With a cunt this sweet and tight? I think you must be a fertility goddess instead.” He proposes into your ear through harsh chuffs for breath.
“So tight. So fucking Intoxicating” he huffs. Cupping your tits and still moving to you as harshly and deep as he’s able.
He makes sure your breath cannot come as you steal his. A warm sweaty palm on your chin twists your head back to his. He anoints your lips with a messy kiss that echoes with the ghost of last nights wine and the tang of salt from between your legs. His tongue licks over your teeth. He drags every part of you up for devouring.
A commotion over by the door takes your mortified eyes over.
You see Aeliana and some of her maids coming in. When they see you both naked in the bed with Geta thrusting into you like a madman, you watch her eyes blow wide with shame. Head bowing. Arms laden with todays gown for you to wear. She halts the girls by her side.
Geta doesn’t even spare them a look. They are below his divine notice. He manages to lever his mouth off yours for a mere few seconds, to bark his orders and send them scurrying.
“Get out.” He shrieks. Voice ringing through you with the harshness of the sudden shout.
You twist your head into the sweat slicked pillow. Ashamed that they’d even just glimpsed you being used so.
His spit drying on your chin. His hand possessively cupping your cunt again as he fucked you so deeply, something tender within your pelvis had you nearly wailing.
His mouth goes to your neck again. His pace growing faster and faster. Sloppier. Noises of your sex only increasing. His hold on you is so intense it’s an ache. His fingers trailing through your curls and your folds to find that spot that will surrender you entirely to him.
He rears up behind you. Skin glued with heat to yours. He grabs you close as if you’ll fade under his fingertips like smoke. Hips hammering as he reached his pleasure. Yours came snapping down on him not long after.
That telltale tip and then the surge of ecstasy that broke through you. Cunt snapping down right around his cock as you came in shudders. Pulsing through you as his spend burst deep into you. Exactly where he wanted it. Wave after wave of pleasure. You let it take you. Little else you could do. Your strength to fight had turned stone cold.
You laid against him in cooling sheets. Listening to his chasing breath behind you. Feeling the wet and heat between your legs twofold. His sweat drips onto your back. Smeared as he laps at your neck. Fresh bruises and teeth indents are more raw than before.
You can barely notice. You’re more taken with the way your pussy squishes as he pulls free. The hot rush of his spend.
Hot breath comes over your ear again. You shudder and you’re not entirely sure it’s of pleasure. His lips kiss to your jaw and cheek. All this sweat and sex soaked skin. and still he finds lemons in your taste when he kisses you.
“Shall I have the maid fetch you water?” He seeks.
“I shall do it.” You shrink down with sex flushed cheeks. Pushing away from the bed with a wince. Hair draping down your back as you take a smooth sheet from the bed with you. Padding to the side. Hips swaying under the cotton. Your pelvis and thighs feel tender and aching - low and bone deep like sun burn - as you move to the amphora and goblets you’d used last night.
He sits on his elbows to watch you. Uncovered, cock laying soft against his thigh. His thighs and groin sticky-wet with evidence of your joining. Unabashed as to his naked state.
His eyes are hungry and you certainly give him a feast to watch. Clad in sunshine from the great maw of the window. Skin littered with violent red and purple marks in odes to his ownership of you. The smeared blood from bites at your back that he’d licked away.
You stand at the side. Laying your hands flat to the table where the jug stood. You found you didn’t reach for it right away. You looked at the very unfamiliar sight of the wedding band in your finger. The gold surrounded by the two dog heads fighting over the sapphire. A helpless jewel caught in between rabid teeth. How fitting.
Your shaking hands pour clear water into a cup and you drink it all quickly. The taste of metal and sleep fading from your tongue.
Bare feet padding the floor come behind you. The rustle of a fine robe. The red and gold one. He’s barely bothered to tie it closed around his chest.
“I must go and ready for the day. Loathe as I am to depart your blissful company.” He says. His hand slipping round the back of your neck. Bringing you in. Tasting the new wetness on your tongue as he kisses you. You muffle a moan to his lips as he possesses you in a kiss again. Squeak a little as he pulls away.
You don’t know what else there is to say.
Enjoy your gilded cage, little nymph. It’s all you’ll know from now on.
“Wear jewels and something pretty. I’ll come find you later. Wife.” He promises with a salacious smirk. Eyes you up and down like he wants to tear that sheet off and bend you over the lectus here and now. Smack the fat of your ass and claim you again.
A dark smile aimed your way. A thumb on your chin to bring you in for one more lippy kiss. And he’s off - stalking toward the doors. A lascivious look shot your way as he turns away.
You say nothing. You feel nothing. Nothing except for empty hollow rage that shakes through you. Pounds at the bony trap your ribs. Enough for you to shiver even in the warm morning air.
You feel scraped through. Brittle like fraying rope. He’s taken you from your home. Exiled your father. Forced shame upon your family. Killed your brother. Pushed his twisted lust upon you, and now expects you to react as if it’s dressed up in love.
You floated into his life like a midsummer’s night breeze. And he found you breathtaking, enchanting. Now he had you he wanted to cup you close. Seal you to his skin with his nose buried in the crown of your head whilst crowing mine mine mine.
He was in two minds of what to do with you. Cherish you, love you, pour crimson rose petals before your steps. On the other hand, he only knew violence when it came to love and to lust. He wanted to break you apart piece-by-piece like dry clay. Tear at you like those tigers in the coliseum and see what’s left.
He’s never known what to do with his things when it comes to love. Maybe he didn’t even know it at all. Only knew how to demand and take. Never to please or to give. He’s never had too.
And now he expects mightily. For you to sit pretty and wear jewels, rings, gold, and fine stolas. Support his every shrieked command. You must learn to sew your mouth shut and keep your opinions tamed back behind that same silent closure of thread.
An Empresses role was silence. How your soul quakes with that new pain.
The huge doors rattle again. The exit of the Emperor meant the maids were safe to come tend you.
Aeliana walks towards you. You raise your eyes to hers. Wet and wide. Tears on the quivering brink of your lashes.
She is unable to hide the noticeable switch of shock in her expression, when she sees the wounds you’d been saddled with. Teeth marks and bruises. Like you’re a slab of meat and not a cherished spouse.
She cannot fathom how you have more cuts for her to soothe balm on after your wedding night.
“Let’s get you to the baths, Empress.” She soothes. Opens her arm. Encouraged you to follow. She tries a bolstering smile but you both know it’s fragile. Her husky voice is the only kind thing you fear you’ll ever hear in this rotten place.
You nod. Swallow. Stand tall and let her manoeuvre you.
You can allow some tears to slip free when you’re in the water. Then you must banish your feelings. The maids must strap finery and silks onto your body again and truss you up in this farce. You steel every last splitting nerve whilst you can. Tamp them down. Gather the ragged ends up and soothe them. Clutch tight.
Naked, you wade down the steps and sink under the surface of the huge bath.
You’re tempted to not come up for air again. The water lulling you in its cradling warmth like an old familiar companion. As if a siren that you let drag you down. Plunge headlong into waves and succumb.
Unlike Odysseus, you don’t have the strength to fight its pull.
The bite on your shoulder turns the water clouded and rusty.
One salient thought gives you solace as the world around you grows numbs to your ears.
Atleast he drank deeply from the lies you’d fed.
~
Many sun and moons had set since your wedding night. Time marches its onward parade in the beautifully rotten imperial palace.
Geta and Caracalla were summoned to a Imperial Consul with the senators. To discuss the matters of their particular wish to expand the Roman empire to Persia and India. And possibly beyond that. They held Rome and all her starving subjects in a gold fisted vice. Refused to relent like a bratty child clutching a beloved toy. One that they would rather break to splinters in their grasp than see it enjoyed by someone else.
That was not the way of the gods, after all. It was their damn birthright.
They both slouch in their sloping marble carved chairs, in front of the rows of Senators, as the magistrate drones through the Verba fecit. Then they would read the protocols to address problems within the city.
Geta is not attempting to look amused or even mildly interested.
He slurps at a golden goblet of dark wine. A scowl like rolling thunder on his face. Dark eyes smouldering at any old senator who dares contest his gaze. Garbed in gold with rings on every finger. His black and gold silken robes folded in his lap, spilling to the ground.
Caracalla appears more interested in feeding grapes to Dondus. His manic grin shining. Gold tooth glittering in the half dim as he laughs. His creatures chirps and shrieks accompany the low drone of the voices rolling around the great marble room. Bounding off the pillars and echoing back.
Geta ground his jaw tight as he flickered a look to the side and caught sight of the very thing that had begun to vex him from the second he stepped into these chambers. Set far back behind him. Amongst the senators seats.
Your cushioned lectus remained vacant.
He grips his wine goblet too tight. fingers strangling the stem. His attention was brought back to the room as Senator Thraex cleared his throat. Summoning back his attention.
“… I would also like to wish you joy on your recent union. Caesar…. You have bestowed a fine and fair Empress onto Rome and her peoples…”
Geta narrows his eyes at the man. Coaxing out the rest sharply. Or else.
“Yet I cannot help but notice It has been four moons now since the Empress graced us with her presence here at counsel…. I do wonder if all is well. As Rome does deserve the full compliments of its masters here to guide us.”
Geta ground his teeth around an answer. The room throbs in the heady silence as he glares. Punctuated only by the monkeys chitters and the shuffling of Senators gazing at each other in arch amusement as to the meaning of the levied comment.
“The Empress is occupied elsewhere at present. I should hope you are not suggesting me and my brother are lacking in our duties in any way. Senator.” He replies curtly. Eyes thunder heavy and dragging over the dry old man. Umbrian danger.
“Of course not. Sire.” Thraex replied. Seeming unimpressed with the answer. “If you’ll permit me I should like to discuss the issue within the city of what is to be done of taxes within the Porta Capena quarter…”
Geta sunk into his cup again as the Senators droned on. His mood plunged below foul. Jaw tight. He turned to look at the lectus again. Venom in his blood at your absence.
When counsel finished. He stormed from his seat without another word. Robes sweeping the ground as he raced from the room. Sandals meeting the floor like slaps. Rage evident in his stride. He summons the nearest Praetoria. Who promptly comes to his side.
“Where is the Empress?” He snarls. A snake in coil about to strike. Bad enough he had to suffer the thinly veiled barbs of Senators asking why you were absent. Even worse was that you made him look a fool without even being here. They were casting foul allusions as to your marriage.
The guard hesitates before giving an answer. “She has left the Palace, Caesar.” He answers.
Geta’s anger comes sharp and packed in poison. A hiss. He asks so curtly it echoes to the ceiling. “And precisely where has she gone?”
~
At first, the noise and bustle of Rome was repugnant to you. Rancid and dirt and heat. Too much noise and not enough air.
Made putrid by stale sweat en masse bodies, horse manure, and smoke from fires mingling with roasting meat or oily charred fish from street vendors.
There was always shouting, someone selling wine, someone selling exotic wares, and bartering filling the air. Music bleeding from some side alley. Jugglers and slight of hands weaving through the crowds of servants and nobles and peasants, ready to part people from their coin.
You watch and just listen to it all from where you’re seated. A palla folded around your head and neck to block the otherwise fierce sun, also to obscure your features, give you shade wherein to hide your golden jewellery and rich dress.
Though you doubt anyone in this riotous city knows or even cares who you are. To a glance? You are just another rich merchants wife. Or noble woman. Unseen. Unremarkable. You do admire Rome for that small mercy atleast. To make you invisible in a crowd of thousands.
You’re seated at the edge of the fountain. The marble lip cold under your dress. Your hand dangling down into the clean waters. Trailing your fingertips through the cool of it. Water shimmers off the blue stones and pearls of your rings. If you squint, they are treasures cast on the shore. You can imagine you see specs of sand. Golden shells. Milky pearls waiting to be picked - tucked cosily in cream oyster shells.
You try to pretend. You fail.
Your personal praetorian guard lingers not far away. Varro. A perpetual huge shadow to you since your wedding.
Geta told you the morning after that you were to have him watch over you at all times. The man has been hulking after your every footstep since. It’s cloying, but nowhere as much as that palace is.
Varro boasts a huge figure and not one to be easily missed in a crowd. A warriors build. A scowl that could curdle milk. He’s solid. Brawny thick chest, stocky as a barrel, thighs thick as tree trunks, large arms and immense shoulders even without his plates of armour.
He had a proud chiselled face, dark hazel eyes and a prominent nose that had been broken before. Evidence of a pinking scar bumping at the bridge of it. Also a small nick dissecting his lower lip. His life had known pain. You can tell. Typical soldiers life. A body cut from the cloth of war. From polishing armour, baying for unease, and stepping to commands.
It’s hewn in the way he carries himself in crowds. Darting eyes and not feeling at ease, or any kind of sane, unless he can see all four clear corners around himself - and you. And convinced danger lurks behind every brick corner and down every side street. Huge hand permanently slung over the pommel of his sword. A warning.
He stands a little way across from you now. Looming proud as an old oak in the shade of a building and a market stall slung with rich cloth for sale. Shirking the sun and scowling at everyone. Basalt black hair falls like long thorns over, down his brow. Down the nape of his neck and collar, beaded in sweat.
Children scarper around him. Street urchins that clamour like flies on rot at his appearance. He gives no inch and tells them to move along with a curt nod. Steel stiff spine standing to attention. A merchant tries to sell him a cup of wine - red or white - they are silenced by his frown. He won’t touch a drop whilst on duty. Truth be told, You don’t think he knows how to be off duty. He’s not capable.
He’s an austere reminder of your station. Almost literally, in his dark black plate armour and wisteria purple cape swinging from his wide shoulders. A storm cloud eternally perched on the horizon of your day. His words come few and far between. You don’t think you’ve heard him string two full sentences together once. Except possibly in daggered warning;
You draw too much attention. Empress. It is bound to invite trouble.
You wanted to scoff at that irony.
You? In your hooded palla, draw attention?
When it is he, the man who guards you - like a grizzled dog - who is a thick immovable column of uniform widely recognised as imperial praetoria, wherever you turn in these streets? Unfathomable.
I am going to temple to pray. You may either escort me. Or explain to my husband why I have gone into the capital, alone.
His answer was a gruff glare. Acceptance and frustration entwined.
You have caused him to furrow his dark brows at you several times with a “Yes, Empress.” That came dragged through a displeased drone. A hound showing you his teeth before the jaws snap. Having to escort you into the city each day was laying contrary to his regulations to not have you in harms way.
You insisted. He obeyed. With little choice in the matter.
Every day you came here. One corner of the beating, shouting heart of Rome. You went to the Temple of Vesta and you prayed. And you went to a public fountain and let real life ebb in upon you once again. To find some peace away from the rabid emperors, who blaze at the palace with all the ferocity of fiery twin suns. They encompass all. Left little room for anything else. All life revolved around them. You float off in distant orbit.
You wave your fingers through the cool water. Tethered to one small piece of home again. Cool tides that brought you comfort. Reminded you of the sun soaked shores of home. Sunlight fracturing in diamonds off clear blue waters.
Feeling the sun beat down now on your neck through layers of cloth. You cast your eyes over the monuments to Neptune sat in this ornamental fountain. Sea gods and goddesses and creatures of sea foam. The other side where you are, women are washing clothes, or chatting over baskets fetched from market. You can smell perfumed oils, dried flower petals, and the sweet plump of ripe fruits tucked safe in the shade of their baskets.
How wild it is that until four weeks ago, that too had been your life. You didn’t sleep on silken sheets, get trussed in gold, and have servants poised so you never had to even lift a finger.
You knew comforts - of course. You had fine clothes and didn’t have to toil the fields. But you weren’t beyond spinning cloth or running errands. Helping clean and tidy your home. Fetching food or helping prepare meals. Coming home from market in the small town with oiled fish, scorpion fish, or boar, fresh chestnuts or olives. Dried meats sometimes too.
You thought of the olive trees lining the road to town. Huge and ancient. Offering branches that white doves often sat in - cooing away their calls. You thought of buying chestnuts for Ceres because she adored them so. Goats cheese for your mother that she liked with honey. Bunches and bunches of aniseed to make into Canistrelli biscuits for father.
The happy creak of your basket on your arm. Feeling the sun tangle in your hair as you shaded your eyes, felt the sea kissed breeze caress along your arms and back as if an embrace of a lover.
All those things you’d lost in one fell swoop. A life that had been snatched from you without your even getting a chance to bid it goodbye. Just like your brother. Your father.
And here you were now. Hiding away in the crowds. So lonely you felt its sting like the deepest shrapnel. A wound never closing. Always being prodded some more by the dire aspects of your circumstances. Anything to not be trapped in your gilded cage. Being reminded daily that your one use in that foul place, lay solely between your legs.
Two small girls come stumbling to an ungraceful stop, laughing, breathless and slowing from a run. They come right to your side to fill some amphorae with water. Dunking the clay jug into the clear water and letting it fill.
They each have dark hair and dark eyes. One must be close to Ceres’ age of six, toddling, milk teeth smile, youthful weight clinging to her cheeks, the other slightly older. Longer hair and a fuller smile. They have flowers pinched from a stall stuffed in their rusty coloured linen apron pockets. Some bay laurels and cornflowers.
You smile warmly at them. They smile back, unabashed. Joy seeping out of them. That brand of innocent fearlessness that grasps the young.
Turning your head you hear the clank of armour, feet shifting fast on dirt. Varro steps towards you with his scowl and his hand already on his sword.
You reprimand him silently. Gaze packed in ice. Jaw set. Mouth flicking to a grim line. You calmly hold up your hand and motion for him to step back. He’d scare the poor things.
You feel a gentle tug on your dress where it splays at your shoulders. Turning back, you see the younger one has her small hand on your dress.
You gently return your hand to your side. Seeing what she wanted your attention for. They both looked at Varro with much wide eyed curiosity. Only very rich ladies could afford a soldier. Only those of very high status. You fear he’s just betrayed your standing.
“Pardon me…” She utters. Her unsure voice carefully picking over the words. As if she was still learning larger words and their uses.
“Yes?” You smile. Touched by her boldness. Treating her with gentility.
“Are you the Empress?” She seeks. Forming words slowly. A curious tilt of her head.
You see no reason to lie.
You can feel Varros eyes burning a glare into your back. Harsher. More furious than the sun. Don’t.
“I am.” You respond.
They smile as if excited. Sharing a look. Both each producing a small laurel sprig from their stuffed pockets. They each step forwards and present the small branches out to you. A gift. You lay your hand flat and accept them both. Curling your fingers around branch stems.
“Gods blessings be upon you, Empress.” They speak in clunky unison.
You take the branches with reverence. Feeling the smooth leaves. The verdant and subtle scent coming from them.
“Pray tell me. What are your names?” You enquire.
The eldest speaks first. “Amata, Empress.”
The youngest follows suit. “Junia, Empress.” She tells you proudly.
You reach for your purse. Stowed safely within your dress folds away from the hands of beggars. You pluck out two coins and place them in their small hands. Junias hand reminds you if a small pudgy starfish. Curling round a silver shell.
“Blessings be upon you both. Amata. Junia. For your kindness…” You beam to them both.
They shimmer with mirth. Taking their jugs and scampering away through the crowds like nymphs.
Varro appears at your shoulder like an omen. “Empress.” He says your name lowly. Chiding you with his tone alone for revealing yourself to them.
“Surely two little girls holding flowers in their pockets, pose no danger to me.” You reply archly. Watching across the crowds where they’d disappeared.
“I only seek to resupply you of my one duty.”
“I don’t need reminding.” You tell him. Not unkindly. But he can hear the way you might be tempted to let the words be sharpened to little blades off your back teeth.
He’ll say this for you; you don’t have sharp teeth or poisonous tongue like every other noble in that palace. You are made different to their spoilt ways. Something sleeker and softer. All foam whipped off waves. You can sting and lash if required - you simply choose not too.
You hear bells toll for midday from the temple beyond. Clanging off the golden stone of every building around you. You fancy you can see the ripple of the sound sending waves to burst across the fountains surface.
Varro is giving you that stern look that urges you to be heading back. Before you’re started to be noticed. Before you become a perfidious gap in your Emperors day, when he isn’t vying for blood, gold or war. That or applying himself ruthlessly to the detriment of this great city, crushing his own people in the same way his favourite wine is made. Squeezing every drop til dry.
You hate to return. But you fear what wrath will come if you don’t. The thought of slipping away into these crowds and dipping into another form of life mocks you. Cowardice curbs your actions.
With some of the meagre coin in your pocket, you could try and make for the coast, possibly. You could disguise yourself as a merchants wife, or a servant. Anything to slip the golden net you’ve been landed in.
You wonder how far you’d make it, running away like a common ruffian, before the stomping hooves of a Roman battalion would be on your heels. Snatching you back here to be humiliated at Geta’s own insistence. The punishment he’d dole on you doesn’t bear thinking about. You were property after all.
You watch men and women weave in and out of the crowds, wishing you had half their luck as to put your back to this palace and peel away. Your mind wanders over that idea. A faint ember that dies to a curling puff of smoke. Snuffed out.
It doesn’t bear thinking about-
You take your offered laurel branches and stand. Varro takes up his guard. Eyes flicking all around. Searching for those corners he requires. For that split second of danger he can cleave his sword onto treasonous limbs for your protection.
You make your way back through crowds. Varro cutting a swathe for you. You keep your head down and remain quiet. Mind vacant as you move through the paved streets.
A flash of a body pushing past you takes your attention down a side alley. One arched with fabric awnings thrown over merchants stalls.
The flash of white turned out to be a senators robe. The vivid plum purple bordering white. You bat away the bitter thought of once recognising it as your fathers noble robes.
You catch sight of three people, stood on a street corner. One of them you don’t recognise but you know him to be a Senator. The two people he’s stood conversing with does make you stop in your tracks.
General Acacious and Lady Lucilla.
They are conversing deeply. Attention not given to you where you stand on the other side of the street. Shade cloaks them all. A moment out the sun. A place they hope guards them in obscurity. Talking with each other in hushed tones. Marcus and Lucilla wear hoods so as to hide their fine features from any obvious recognition.
The crowd trickles on around you. Water carving on around a large rock in the way.
Lady Lucilla raises her eyes. They flash to you in an instant. Dazzling green. A sun dappled meadow holding you in sight.
Her face falls as she halts her words. Lips parting. The General and the Senator both turn to follow her gaze. Finding you, caught static, at the other end of it. You recognise a prickle of panic when you see it.
You turn your head. Eyes snapping away as you hold your skirts and continue on.
Your guard says nothing. Though you know he saw what you just did. It’s not his place. He forgets all he sees or hears - all that doesn’t pose risk to you.
Maybe you weren’t the only person in Rome to wish the Palace walls didn’t have treasonous eyes and ears. You can’t help but wonder if perhaps Varro was right;
There is danger round these street corners in Rome.
~
Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--
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Bully - Part 2 of 3
warnings: controlling parents, very brief smut
taglist: @bbyhargrove @whore-of-the-pumpkin-patch @shamidreamer @180-fuck-me @rosey96 @hargrovesswifee @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch
A routine has fallen in to place, Billy’s at your locker every morning with that arrogant smirk on his face and his hand out to ‘steal’ the Hostess snack from you. Little does he know, you started buying two instead of one and more days than not, you buy Snoballs for Billy because you’ve learned they are his favorite of the Hostess variety. You never buy a Ding Dong again, still feeling incredibly embarrassed at the dirty joke he’d made but you switch it up sometimes so he doesn’t suspect you’re buying it solely for the purpose of him. As it turns out, you like the attention you’re getting from him, even if it isn’t very nice attention.
Almost every night the past few weeks, your hand sneaks into your pajama pants as images of Billy flood your mind. You don’t know how to touch yourself, no idea where to even begin but you firmly press your palm against your vagina over your underwear as you think about Billy’s face and his voice. His voice excites you most. You do that until you fall asleep and the stickiness on your thighs has been annoying but not as bed as having to hide your underwear in the morning, afraid of your mother finding it and flipping out about you being a slut or something. You don’t know if liking Billy in this way makes you a slut but you still feel ashamed every time.
“What’s up, loser?” Billy’s voice coats your ears as you begin dialing in your code. The words are meant to be cruel and Billy curses himself for how flirty his tone comes out, glancing around to see if anyone heard.
“Good morning,” you tell him, unzipping your backpack and grabbing the packet of Snoballs and sliding them into his palm.
“You’re like obsessed with these,” he comments, raising an eyebrow. He gives your face another once over and then asks, “What’s that all over your face?”
“It’s called makeup,” you reply, cheeks reddening. You’d put it on in the gas station bathroom and you’d have to wash it off there on your way home.
“You trying to impress some guy?” Billy asks and his tone sounds almost jealous, possessive. It makes your heart beat faster as you think, yeah, you.
“Who is he?” Billy asks pointedly when you don’t respond, looking around like the imaginary suitor could be nearby.
You shrug, taking pleasure in his apparent jealousy though you don’t understand it.
“Probably some other geek,” he snivels, pushing himself up from your locker and retreating down the hall. The interaction leaves you wanting more, craving for him to look at you like that again. It’s odd, though. You can’t fathom why he’s taken an interest in your social life other than to antagonize you for the lack of it.
As you’re walking to class, you see him grope Tina’s ass but his eyes are trained on you and the high pitched giggle she gives hurts your heart. You didn’t even realize they might be a thing. However, she is typically right behind him and making rude comments about your appearance when she can. You force yourself to ignore the jealousy coursing through your blood and get yourself to class.
-
Billy’s outside, smoking alone against the gym wall. He looks up as he hears a vicious laughter and sees you walking with your books pressed tightly to your chest. The laugher is coming from a tall brunette boy behind you, Billy thinks he’s a underclassmen, maybe a sophomore or junior. He takes a drag from his cigarette as he watches on curiously. He wonders if maybe this is the boy you’re wearing makeup for. The kid gets really close to your face, Billy tries to make out what he’s saying but it’s hard to tell from here. He feels jealous, wonders what makes this guy so special. Then the guy shoves your shoulders, causing you to drop all your books to the ground. Billy tenses, it’s like looking in a mirror but instead of the excitement he usually gets from seeing the anguish on your face, he’s incredibly angry. He’s pushing himself up off the wall just as the kids shoving you a second time, however this time, you fall to your knees and hands. Billy barrels over to the bully and you, he grabs onto your elbow and lifts you to your feet before grabbing a hold of the kids collar and shoves him against the wall.
“You like putting your hands on girls?” Billy growls and the kid whimpers and squirms beneath him. “You think you can just push her around?” he seethes, dropping the kids collar.
He winds up his fist, ready to knock the kids lights out when he hears your sniffling. Instead, he shoves the kid and tells him, “I fucking see you even look at her and you’re dead. You hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah,” the kid says frantically, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll leave her alone.”
“Now get the fuck out of my sight,” Billy let’s go of his collar. The kid scatters away quickly but Billy doesn’t give him a second glance. He’s stalking over to you and grabbing a hold of your elbow and guides you to the parking lot, ignoring your confused protests. He opens the door to his Camaro and instructs you to sit.
He walks around and pops his trunk open, your eyes following him curiously. Your hearts racing, trying hard not to look at the scrapes on your knee. When you see blood, you panic and you’re already trying to hold back sobs. Billy standing up for you was strange, when you saw him walking over, you’d fully expected him to join in and then when you saw the absolute rage in his eyes. He walks back around and squats down in front of you, lifting a tiny red first aid kit and resting it between your legs. You suddenly feel self conscious, worried that from his angle he can see your underwear so you grab the hem of your skirt and try to cover yourself. Billy pops open the case and grabs out a small stack of antiseptic wipes. He rips open one with his teeth and locks his eyes on yours. Your breath catches in your throat, seeing Billy on his knees between your legs brings chills up the back of your thighs and you choke out a small sob, quickly bringing the back of your hand to wipe away the tears.
“Why are you doing this?” you ask, softly.
Billy begins cleaning up the wounds on your knees, the alcohol on the pads stings the sensitive skin and you hiss.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, “It could get infected if you don’t clean it.”
“No,” you hiccup, “why are you being nice?”
Billy sighs, reaching back into the case and pulling out the tube of Neosporin. He squeezes the ointment on his finger and gently coats the scratches with it. “What do you mean?”
With a sniffle, you continue, “Why do you care? Why did you yell at him?”
“Is that the guy you put all the makeup on for?” Billy looks back up at you, his eyebrows furrowed. He doesn’t get why you’re not thanking him for standing up for you, so he figures that must be why. “That guys a loser, you shouldn’t like him.”
“Huh? What? No, I don’t like him,” you mumble, watching as Billy puts bandages over the cuts. “I just mean, you’re always so mean to me, why are you being nice now?”
Billy closes the box up and looks back up at you, “I’m not mean to you.”
“Yeah, you are,” you argue, “You’re very mean to me. Now you’re acting like you care about me. I don’t understand.”
Billy stands up, looking down at you now. He leans his arm against the side of the Camaro as he peers into your eyes. From his view, the sun catches on your face beautifully even through the shine of your tears, Billy thinks you look gorgeous. He sighs and then mumbles under his breath, “I like you.”
“What?” you ask, unable to hear what he said.
“Nothing,” he groans, pulling you to your feet with a grip on your elbow. “You better get back to class, loser.”
“See?” you shriek, pointing at him. “Mean. You’re being mean, again.”
“It’s not mean,” he seethes as he crosses his arms.
You scoff, feeling your blood boil, “If it’s not mean, what is it? You think it makes me feel good when you call me names or trip me in the halls?”
Billy grins suddenly and it only makes you angrier, you don’t understand him at all. He’s the most confusing person in the whole world. Maybe that’s part of it for him, this is just all a part of his bullying.
“I’m not being mean,” Billy bites his lip and traps you against his car, placing a hand on either side of your shoulders, “I’m flirting with you, loser.”
“Flirt- what?” you look up at him incredulously.
You’ve never experienced someone flirting with you before. You’ve never in your life had a single boy show any interest in you but you didn’t think what Billy was doing was flirting. It kind of makes sense to you, though. Since the teasing had started, you began feeling certain things you’d never felt before, you found yourself looking forward to seeing Billy at school but every girl at this school thought he was cute and you thought so too, so you figured you just liked any attention from such a cute boy. Flirting wasn’t being mean though, was it? That’s not what you’d seen in movies or the romance novels your mom kept hidden in the laundry room. You’d tried to read them a handful of times but always got too embarrassed.
“Flirting,” Billy chuckles, “do you know what that is?”
“Yes!” you fumes, cheeks ablaze. “If you’re flirting with me then that means…”
Billy’s hand drops to your waist, curling around the flesh and squeezing, “Means what?”
You swallow the lump in your throat but it does nothing to help the words climb through. Billy seems to like the reaction he’s getting from you, his fingertips traveling up under your top and ghosting the sensitive skin. You panic, jumping from the touch and pushing his hand away.
“Do you like me?” Billy asks, dropping his hand to his side.
“I don’t know,” you whisper as you look down, embarrassed by the way his touch has made your legs feel shaky.
“You know,” he sings, hooking his knuckle under your chin and urges you to look back up at him. “How does it make you feel when I touch you?”
“Uh…” you swallow hard, eyes darting across the freckles decorating his nose and cheeks. He’s so pretty, his intense gaze has you hypnotized. You don’t even try any further to answer him.
Billy chuckles and steps away from you, “I’m just messing around with you.”
You grab your backpack and scurry off before he can say anything else. You hear his car start up as you’re rushing back to the school, not daring to look back at him.
-
“What happened to you?!” your mother exclaims when you walk through the door.
“Oh, I tripped,” you lie as you try to walk past her. She grabs a hold of your wrist and pulls you back.
“Is that makeup?” she inquires, her tone more sad than angry.
You bring your hand up to your cheek, realizing that you’d forgotten to wash it off on the way home and you’re certain that there’s trails of mascara staining your face. In the daze that Billy had left you in, you’d walked home like a zombie, thoughts clouded with his words, eyes and fingers.
“Momma,” you mumble, “I’m sorry. Some girls at school wanted to put it on me. I was trying to make friends.”
She peels your backpack off and dumps the contents onto the floor, seeing for herself that you were lying as the tube of mascara, lipstick and the tiny compact of blush fall out. Along with the Hostess snack you’d neglected.
“What has gotten into you?” she scolds, “Is it a boy?”
Visions of blonde curls, icy blue eyes and pink lips force their way into your head as you shake it. “No,” you mutter, “I’m just trying to fit in.”
“Acting like a whore is no way to fit in,” she bites back.
You sniffle, tears making their return and you find yourself wanting to run back out the door to find Billy.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, getting on your knees to collect your school items and shove them back into your backpack. You pick up the makeup and hand them to your mothers expecting hands. Without looking up, you know she’s stomping to the kitchen to throw them away.
“Go to your room,” she orders and you obey without a protest, shutting the door behind you and finding solace in your bed.
Curling under the covers and closing your eyes, wrapping your arms around yourself. You picture it’s Billy’s arms around you and you find yourself finally answering his question.
“Yes,” you whisper to the empty room. “It feels good when you touch me.”
You wonder what would have happened if you’d just answered him, would he have kissed you? His words before you left ring through your ears, I’m just messing around with you.
-
Your mom has started to pick out your clothes before school. The only dresses and skirts you’re allowed to wear are the ones that go past your knees. Billy’s noticed, thinks the way he approached you scared you and that maybe you were ashamed of the way he looked at you. So he does a complete 180, he stops antagonizing you but not only that, he stops talking to you all together. Which in turn has your self confidence plummeting. You assume it’s because you’re no longer wearing what you wanted to wear.
You’re eager to get his attention back. The first plan is to sneak one of your shorter skirts in your backpack and change into it when you get to school. You had to get crafty since your mom had taken to doing backpack checks before you left each morning. You folded it up as small as you could and volunteered to take the trash out, while you were outside you hid it in the neighbors bushes.
However, when you’re at school and you’ve changed into it, Billy’s eyes still don’t follow you like they used to. Even when you’re walking past him and Tommy in the hallway, you drop your pencil and bend over to pick it up but when you turn around, Billy’s not watching, he’s chewing his pinky nail and looks totally engrossed in whatever dumb thing Tommy is blathering about.
Determined, you start hiding skirts and low cut shirts in your locker, along with some makeup you’d purchased at the drugstore. You purposefully start walking by his car during lunch, where he’s lounging with his friends and you hope that his friends say something to you just so he’ll have a reason to look at you. It doesn’t work. Tina and Carol make comments but Billy’s eyes never fall on you. You’re getting more desperate by the day.
You’re beginning to gather the attention of other boys but it’s nothing compared to the way Billy used to look at you. They’re nervous in their approach, fiddling with their fingers and unable to hold eye contact. Billy’s all about eye contact, like he can see something in there. God, you’d give anything to meet those blues again. Still, you attempt to flirt back with the new suitors, trying to at least learn how but none of them flirt like Billy did. None of them make your heart beat so fast you’re afraid it’s gonna jump right out of your sternum. They don’t make your thighs feel warm and tingly. You don’t think of their faces and voices in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep.
Phase two is in order, you decide. Buying a Snoball every morning and placing it delicately on Billy’s desk behind you in English class before he even walks in. Again, he doesn’t speak to you, doesn’t even look up at you but you hear him open the package and eat the sweets. You wish you weren’t so shy, wish you could turn around and demand his attention but him not rejecting the snack is a win, you think.
One day, it starts up again. In English class, you feel a little tug on your hair. First, you ignore it, certain it was an accident. Then, Billy twists a bigger chunk between his fingers and yanks your head back. You yelp, hands moving to cover your mouth the second the sound flies from it. You turn, Billy’s released his grip on your hair and is pretending to be really interested in something on the ceiling.
“Ms. Y/L/N,” the teacher scolds, “Is there a problem?”
You quickly shake your head, “No. Everything is fine.”
Rubbing the back of your head, you know your face is bright red from embarrassment but mostly from excitement. You weren’t sure why, but you were aroused at the feeling of Billy pulling your hair. You figure it must be from begging for his attention for weeks and finally getting something. It felt so good, you push your hair past your shoulders and onto his desk, urging him to do it again but he doesn’t. However, he knocks the book off your desk when the bell rings, turning to lock eyes with you as you bend down to pick it up, that arrogant smirk plastered across his face. You feel warm all over.
-
Billy was freaking out internally, the way your outfits got less and less revealing, he was worried he’d creeped you out so he panics and ignores you for weeks. He wasn’t good with rejection and that’s what this felt like. To be honest, he’d never truly been rejected romantically.
He notices the short skirt the first day you wear it, but he tells himself there’s no way it’s to catch his attention. Especially when he notices more and more boys talking to you. He figures that you didn’t wear it for him, but for some other boy. When you drop your pencil as you’re walking by, suddenly the rant Tommy’s spewing about his and Carol’s latest fight is the most interesting thing he’s heard. He gnaws on his fingernail and forces his eyes to stay glued to his friends face. He swears he hears you huff as you stomp away, but tells himself it’s wishful thinking. Your outfits get more and more revealing by the day and it drives Billy crazy but he’s a strong man, he refuses to let it get to him.
Then there’s a pack of Snoballs on his desk every day for a week and he’s convinced you’re trying your absolute hardest to tell him you like him without actually saying the words. And Billy likes playing games, so he still doesn’t say or do anything. He wants you to get so frustrated that you scream at him.
Little by little, he begins fucking with you. It starts with grabbing the handful of your hair and pulling your head back. It’s much more aggressive than he’d been in the past but you silently beg for him to do it again, pushing your hair over your shoulders and covering his desk with the strands. He pretends he doesn’t notice, folding his hands behind his head and actually listens to the teachers lecture, daring you to turn around and look at him. When you don’t, he decides he’s gotta do something else, a way to let you know he’s back. He pushes your book off your desk, smirking down at you as his eyes fall to the exposed cleavage as you bend over. The smile on your face tells him everything he needs to know.
The next day, he’s waiting at your locker and you weren’t anticipating it so you’re wearing the outfit your mother picked out. It’s a long skirt that goes to your ankles and a floral button up. You blush, seeing him standing there. You avert your eyes, focusing in on the dial and entering the code.
“Morning,” Billy says, “Hiding something?”
You roll your eyes, grabbing the skirt and shirt you’d hid in your locker and shove it into your backpack. “Be right back,” you mumble, rushing away to the bathroom.
When you exit, he’s still waiting by your locker but he lets his eyes drink in your new outfit. He particularly likes the knee high socks and it’s then that Billy realizes you must have strict parents and for whatever reason, that makes this all the more exciting. The fact that you’re breaking rules just to impress him makes his mouth water.
“You hide a closet in your locker?” he asks when you drop your backpack on the floor.
Blushing, you don’t give him the obvious answer but instead open your locker back up and shove the clothes you arrived in behind your textbooks. You pull out the Hostess snack and hand it to him, seeing the laugh rising in his chest before you hear it.
“Ding Dong, huh? You hinting at something?” he pockets the snack and grins at you.
“Maybe I am,” you admit, willing your cheeks to stay pale. You close your locker and lean against it, looking up at him. Billy bites his lower lip and in the moment, he doesn’t care if it looks like he’s chatting up the nerdiest girl in school. Doesn’t care if anyone notices or says anything.
“Can I pick you up around 8?” Billy asks and you almost shiver, stunned that your plan worked but incredibly nervous at the same time.
You jot down your address on a piece of paper, wondering if you’re exactly ready to lose your virginity on such short notice. However, you’re not sure you can go anymore time without Billy’s attention and you’re willing to get it by any means necessary. You wonder if maybe he’s not after that, but your mother says every man is and Billy is exactly like the boys she’d warned you about. Somehow, that excites you and you want to find out if she was right after all.
“I’ll see you at 8, loser,” Billy tugs on your pigtail before pushing himself off the locker and walking down the hall.
The name is becoming endearing, even if it’s not a nice thing to say to someone it still makes your heart swell. Your fingertips move up to wrap around your pigtail and you tug on it like he had, smiling as you watch him saunter away. Now the hard part, how were you going to sneak out of your house at 8 pm? Your parents were still awake then but they stayed in their room to watch TV, your mom would check on you around 9:30 but she never came into your room, just peeked in. You could easily make it look like you were in your bed.
Giddy with excitement all day, you bounce to and from class. Billy beats you to English class and he winks as you walk in, causing your heart to flutter while you make it to your seat. When you sit, he grabs a hold of your pigtail and pulls it.
“Don’t think I’ve seen such a big smile on your face before,” he comments when you turn to him. He rests his chin on his palm as he looks at you under his heavy eyelashes.
You blush, “You have to park like a block away from my house. Eight is kind of past my curfew.”
“Are you gonna get in trouble?” Billy asks, sounds like he’s actually concerned.
You shake your head, “Only if I get caught.”
Billy nods against his hand, his left hand lifts to grab the necklace you’re wearing and you look down as he gently caresses it.
The teacher closes the door and begins her instruction, you turn with her and focus your eyes up front. Billy won’t stop touching you. He fumbles with the collar of your shirt, traces his fingers against the back of your neck and arms. You have to squeeze your thighs together, gripping your pencil even tighter but you don’t want him to stop. These touches are even better, they’re soft and make you melt.
You’re surprised he’s doing this where eyes can catch it. Occasionally when you glance back, the look on his face makes your stomach tighten, he looks entranced. You don’t know it but he’s fantasizing about taking your clothes off and running his fingers along every inch of your body. When he suddenly stops, you turn to see him shuffling in his seat and he exhales softly, averting his eyes towards the clock in the classroom. You’re oblivious to the fact he’s trying really hard not to pop a boner in class.
Billy lingers after the bell rings and he waves to you, “Later, loser.”
“See you tonight.”
they looked at me first...
i think this is the longest fic ive written lol anyways she's coming soon!!
When I go read a fanfic, but then see it was last updated over two years ago
Not enough vander fics on here, I’m kinda concerned guys
just watched wakanda forever and OOHWEE why was the whole cast so goddamn sexy-
every time this man popped on screen id be like “i hear somethin purring 🤨…. OH WAIT THATS MY PUSSY 🤭🤭”
🃏👑🃏
You were married off to the king as a young noble woman. The arrangement was rather rushed in your opinion, not that anyone asked for it. The king only needed a show queen, a quiet but present symbol for the kingdom and you suited well enough for that.
He didn’t need a wife for pleasure, he had plenty mistresses for that and he seemed to be in no rush for a successor. You suspected it was because he had no intent to hand over power to anyone else anytime soon. Although, that's just what you assumed, others never blamed him for it. You were always the target of the hushed whispers and silent accusations of infertility, unruliness or even infidelity when it came to the subject of an heir.
The people's gossip aside, it was an easy marriage. You didn’t have to share a bed with a man you didn’t love and you didn’t have to raise his children. Many more deserving women would kill for such a life, which only made you feel worse about the utter discontent you felt. It was the loneliness, mostly. Such a privileged life and yet not a single companion in the world to share it with.
The king and his advisers only speak to you when they need you to make an appearance as queen. Their orders always dripping with condescension and near mockery. They’ve made you smile and wave for hours, waltz until your feet blister and recite a holy text’s worth of pompous poetry, but this most recent ploy was particularly concerning.
You sit on your throne next to your husband, hands in your lap, staring at the colourful figure in front of you. The bells on his ridiculous hat jingle as he bows his head so low they almost touch the marble floor. Quiet chuckles emit from the nobility crowding the massive ballroom and the unease in your stomach only builds.
When the jester picks his head back up, you can’t help fiddling even more with your dress, just like your husband's advisers have scolded you not to. The jester silently stares with his sheet white face, big red grin painted across his mouth. You want to shrink under the jesters stare, the blue diamonds painted over his eyes make his gaze feel piercing.
The king grins when he catches your nervous gaze.
“Do you like your surprise, my love? I thought you could use some cheering up lately. As did my advisers.”
He chuckles, looking over at the old men in the corner of the room. They smile back, amusing in a joke you're not a part of.
You just nod your head as politely as possible. You don’t know what's happening, but whatever they have planned can’t be good.
The jester skips up to where you and the king sit. He gives an exaggerated curtsy to the king, earning a laugh from him and the various nobility.
The bells jingle as he springs back up and steps closer to you. He stretches his hand out, you stare at it and then back to your husband.
“The fool wants a dance, my dear. Give him a dance.”
You try to hide the apprehension on your face and reach for the jesters white glove-covered hand. He doesn’t squeeze or pull you up like you expected, instead he holds it gently, waiting for your next move. You rise from your throne and cast one more glance at your husband, who only offers a self-satisfied grin in return. This whole time all they've wanted from you is a perfect queen and now they want you to dance with a fool?
The jester walks you to the middle of the room, encircled by leering nobility. He places your hand on his waist before dramatically correcting the mistake and placing it on his shoulder instead, looking bashfully to the audience who snicker at the joke. He takes your other hand in his and gives you a little nod before the musicians starts playing and he guides you into step.
Now obviously you know very well how to dance, you enjoyed it quite a bit when you were little although, now it’s just become another part of your queenly duties. Did any of that even matter now? Now that it’s clear the king and his peers see you as just as much of a joke as the man you’re waltzing with.
Your deep thoughts are broken when said man unexpectedly twirls you in a dizzying circle. You flail slightly in your surprise but you’re brought back into his arms just as quickly to continue your steps. You fully focus on him now and you wonder what his features look like under that gaudy clown makeup. Even in the bright chandelier lights of the ball room, you can’t make out the colour of his irises. Earlier, you thought they were hazel but now it seems they're an impossibly dark brown.
The dark pools look as if they could swallow all the colour from his face and your own. Actually, has he blinked even once during this dance, or at all for that matter?
You’re not sure if it was your mistake or the jester’s but you step on his foot and he suddenly pulls away from you. He clutches his foot and jumps up and down in theatrical pain. The room bursts into laughter, bellows and cackles. These elite men and women delight in the humiliating performance you’re both putting on for them. It takes everything in you not to cave right there in the middle of it.
While the jeering continues, you try your best to steel yourself, replacing the need to cry with spiteful compliance. If they want a dance, they can have a dance.
You curtsy at the jester, offering an apology and hold your hand out to him. He looks around and then points to himself. You can’t help but smile and nod your head.
He takes your hand and when the music starts back up again, you step in time to the beautiful melody. You try and put your full attention on the jester, not anyone else in the large room, which proves to be quite easy as he is by far the most interesting person present. You can just make out the small smile under the red painted grin, his relaxed eyebrows under the bright blue diamonds, the crook of his pointy nose.
While moving in sync, you become almost lost in trying to map out his face under the make-up. You look for imperfections in the face paint but can’t seem to find a single smudge or brush streak, in fact the paint looks impressively even, like it’s a second skin.
It truly does feel like its only you two and the music, for the first time in a long time you feel wanted by someone else.
But when the king grows bored he demands new entertainment.
He motions for the musicians to stop their music and you’re brought back to reality. The jester bows for the crowd, he gestures to you and you offer a little curtsy before being escorted back to your throne. Form there, you watch the rest of the strange performers routine. He juggles an impressive amount of miscellaneous items, he folds himself into ridiculous positions, walks on his hands and generally makes a fool of himself for the crowd.
You watch in delight, though your husband doesn't seem as interested as he was before your little dance.
You think about the jester all the way back to your courters that night. You think about him as you slip on your night dress and slide into bed, and you think of him as you stare up at the ceiling for possibly hours. There is too much on your mind, the fun of watching the jesters performance has subsided and thoughts of what this means for your reputation and position in the court remain constant. A sigh leaves you as you lift yourself up and open the doors to your balcony.
You lean on the balcony ledge and stare out at the starry night sky, not even the strange jester can distract from the humiliation ritual you were just a part of. He could have been in on it for all you know and you're just naive enough to think he was being kind to you during the whole thing.
A shuffling sound from behind you makes you turn your head and it takes you just a split second to register the very colourful jester standing in the corner of your balcony.
The screech you let out is smothered by your own hand. You clutch the edge of the balcony, staring at the slender man who puts his hands up, waving apologies while moving his chest as if laughing, nothing comes out of his mouth. You clutch your heart, breathing quite heavily as you stare at him bewildered. You look around trying to discern where he could have come from, and how you only now hear his bells jingle as he waves his hands, still apologising.
He steps closer and stands tall in front of you, he’s much more imposing than you remember him being. He holds up one finger and then mimics a waltz. His head bows low and he holds his hand out for you to take. He’s asking for another dance but is there really much of a choice at all? Has this also been planned? If you say no, will he just leave? Do you want him to leave? The dance you shared was the most delightful time you've had in so, so long
You stare at him for a good while, he stays with his hand outstretched, bent over at a near 90 degree angle, not straining even a little. The longer you wait, the more uncomfortable you feel in his unwavering presence.
Against your better judgement, you reach out and touch his gloved hand. He curls his fingers around yours and stands upright. You let him bring your hand to his shoulder, place his hand on your waist and step closer. This time is different from the last time. Now it really does feel like his attention is only on you, not with the other guests, not with the performance. It should be frightening, but you find no malice in his eyes, no ridicule in his demeanor.
As he steps into motion, you begin a slow waltz in the small space of your balcony. It's slower than in the ballroom, it's more intimate. While you dance with this complete stranger, your thoughts run rampant, you second guess your judgement again and again. Maybe the kindness you sense from him is a ruse. Maybe he is here on behalf of the king, setting up another degrading show. He could even be an assassin, come to rid you quietly in the middle of the night.
You would deserve such a fate for giving in so easily. You slowly spin in his arms and this time you don't hear the snide laughs of the nobility, just the sounds of the night. Both of you step in time and you let him guide you to the edge of your balcony. You hold your breath as he dips you over the ledge. Your eyes squeeze shut and you let out what could be your last breath ready for him to let go and let you fall.
But he doesn't let go, your grip on his shoulders never slips. You open your eyes, a bit blurry from wetness but you can make out his face, because it's right in front of you even though you're bent over the balcony far enough that your feet have left the ground. You stare back at his unrelenting gaze. In the dim light of the moon his eyes look even darker than before and something new swims in the deep black of his pupils, something sad.
They are lidded as they examine your face, your entire being. His hand on your back presses your chest further into his until you're sure he can feel your rapid heartbeat through your very flesh.
He lifts you upright again, turning you away from the ledge and out of harms way. You’re still chest to chest, he’s so close but you can’t feel him breathe. Your wide eyes stare up at him, trying to discern his expression. Your breaths are short and your grip on him hasn’t let up a bit.
He brings his hands up to your cheeks, the warm fabric of his gloves on your cold cheeks has you easing into them far too easily. His eyes examine every inch of your face while his thumbs stroke your cheeks, you can just barely see the frown on his lips behind the painted smile. He brings your face closer to his, slow and methodical, making it very clear what his next move is. You’re not sure if this was due to his own hesitation or to give you time to pull away, regardless you let him inch closer and closer until his lips grazed yours and you finally feel him breathe out one long breath.
The kiss is deep. Despite being slow and gentle, it still forces a struggled breath from you. You would’ve thought he tasted like paint but he doesn’t, he’s warm and inviting. It’s nice.
Your eyes close, surrendering all hesitation to the stranger in your arms. Fingers dig into the fabric of his puffy striped sleeves as your body melts further into his. You quickly learn to breathe through your nose, out of necessity and unwillingness to part from his affections.
You let him work your mouth open, slipping his tongue inside. The feeling is so foreign, you can’t help but whine. The backs of his fingers flutter over your throat and you shiver.
His tongue fills your mouth, sliding along yours and savouring your taste. The wet muscle reaches far into your mouth, farther than you thought normal but your experience is slim and you don’t have the awareness to fully question it. It’s overwhelming. Your knees tremble and he lowers you both to the cold stone floor. His tongue reaches into your throat, a feat you know is impossible.
You’re too lost to even think of the implications of this, as you gag and convulse around the thick muscle in your throat that no longer feels like a normal tongue. He reaches so far, your eyes roll back, your lower region warms uncomfortably and you forget how to breathe. You tap his shoulders quickly, a plea for air, and he retreats from your throat. He holds you as you cough and heave, wiping the spit from your chin.
You look at him with the an expression full of shock and fear and bewilderment and every other emotion shooting through your fuzzy mind. His expression is hard to discern but he seems both amused and sad.
He stands and brings you up on shaky legs. When he starts to back away, you panic and clutch his hands tighter. You don’t know what you were hoping for. That he would stay? That he would spend the night with you?
His face is full of what you hope is longing and not pity, you know what pity looks like. He holds you close in what you know is a goodbye embrace. He presses his forehead to yours and he places one last short kiss on your lips. Its playfull and very much not what you’d consider a proper good bye kiss. You search his gaze and you’re met with rather boyish mirth, lifting your spirits slightly. Maybe this isn't goodbye then?
He winks at you and takes your hand, spinning you around once, twice and three times before he lets go. When you rebalance yourself and look around the balcony, there is no sight of the jester. It's just the pitying sounds of the night and your only other witness, the moon. Like he was never there at all.
pairing: oscar piastri x fewtrell!reader, lando norris x fewtrell!reader
summary: Y/N makes a heartfelt confession
warnings: SMAU (no written parts), swearing, mature themes (!!!), use of y/n, angst
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a/n: for the sake of my sanity, let's pretend the hoodies are actually the same!
liked by oscarpiastri and others
ynfewtrell you can always find me at the nearest café 💌☕️
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user Here before Oscar
user stunning 🤍
maxfewtrell Omg queen of digital nomads
ynfewtrell stop???
pietra.pilao pink is your color 💗
user so is orange! (iykyk)
user WHERE’S OSCAR
user @.oscarpiastri find her
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