#bachira

"Over here, please!"

"Give us a smile!"

"Tell us about that rock on your finger!"

"Did you propose during the World Cup?"

Photographers shout at you both from left and right as they immortalize your appearance at the fundraiser, straining the barricades that separate them from the red carpet.

You smile sweetly at them, innocence personified as you talk to a reporter and explain that the opening of the new children's hospital is such an important cause to the both of you, and that the future of a new generation depends greatly on how the world provides for them.

Beside you, Meguru hasn't uttered a word since the bundle of lace was slipped into his jacket. The world around him has fallen away. His eyes, big and bright even now in his thirties, burn with hot determination as he stares a hole into the side of your face. He's forgotten about his tie; he's forgotten about the reporters and about his teammates who stand scattered across the red carpet but united by the desire to donate the entire world cup's proceedings to this cause. Meguru's hand slips lower down your back, noting the absence of a waistband underneath your dress and suffering through the realization that you're in front of hundreds of people, wrapped in a massive dress made of several yards of black satin, with no underwear in the equation.

So then, mature or not, can you truly blame him, when all the attendees of the event are ushered into the massive auditorium, that he steers you towards the bathrooms?

The marble floors are so pristinely dark and polished that, should you be given enough time to consider it, you might blush at the realization that they serve as a perfect mirror of what the situation underneath your dress is like.

Meguru, however, gives you no time at all.

Your soft gasps bounce off the walls, fingertips digging into the wide countertop that stretches across from the stalls. The marble digs into your ass where the satin of your dress is bunched around your waist, baring you to the world, save for the strappy heels that dig into Meguru's shoulders. He laves at your inner thigh and sinks his teeth into the softest parts, wild eyes pinning you down as two thick fingers tease their way deep into your core. Your stomach stutters through an attempt at breathing quietly, which only eggs him on more. He attaches his lips to your clit and tongues at it sloppily, slurping it into his mouth until you're making a mess of his carefully subdued hair.

"Someone— Someone could catch us," you groan, your face flushed and your jaw slack as you eye the door.

Meguru hates it when a good meal gets interrupted. His face would have to be surgically removed from you - he refuses to part from you for any reason, let alone a mid-fuck conversation. Instead, he lets his tongue loll from his mouth to press against your clit and shakes his head wildly - his way of indicating that he locked the door, you hope. Instead of considering this, it just has your head bouncing off the marble countertop next to the washing basin, a high keen escaping you at the stimulation. The dull throb in the back of your head is a tomorrow-issue, you decide.

When you come, it's with a violent shudder, trembling hands in his hair pressing his tongue against your clit, quaking thighs squeezing the sides of his head as he mercilessly continues pumping his fingers into you.

Only when you've stopped trembling does he pull back, licking his lips clean and staring you down. The fire in his eyes hasn't dimmed, but there's a gentleness to the way he takes your hand in his and presses a kiss to your fourth knuckle, the yellow sapphire sparkling even in the light of this bathroom.

"We're going home."

It's not a demand, but it's also not a question that begs an answer. There's a certain desperation to him, always. It used to only be directed towards football. You respected that about him, when you met him. Overtime, however, his brain took hold of that desperation and divided it equally between the sport and yourself. You know that, from the deepest parts of your soul, the desperation is a two-way street.

"What about the fundraiser?" you hum, absentmindedly toying with the hoops that hold his belt. You don't need to look down to guess how hard he is, straining against his slacks and no doubt already making a drizzly mess of his shorts.

"Money's already been donated, and the pictures have been taken." He squeezes the outside of your thigh once more. "So, let's go," he reiterates urgently.

He helps you down and kneels to straighten out the folds of your dress. The look he gives you from down on the marble tiles makes you thank your lucky stars that he got a vasectomy last year. His eyes promise a long night ahead.