#shots through windows my beloved
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THE TUDORS (2007-2010)
THE BOLEYNS: A SCANDALOUS FAMILY (2021)
#perioddramaedit#periodedit#anneboleynedit#thetudorsedit#tudoredit#theboleynsedit#asfedt#the boleyns a scandalous family#The Boleyns#a scandalous family#the tudors#anne boleyn#elizabeth i#elizabeth tudor#*mine#shots through windows my beloved
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a case of the cuddle bug | logan sargent social media au
pairing: logan sargent x fem!piastri!reader
someone check his temperature, he's got a serious case of the cuddle bug
author's note: thought we could all use some logan content to get us through the weekend
MASTERLIST | TIP JAR
yourusername
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tagged: logansargent
yourusername: he's not racing :( more time to cuddle :)
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user1: if i find out that that t-shirt was made by them i may need to be shot in the head
yourusername: sorry to be the bearer of bad news 😕
user2: y/n where do we find a logan?
yourusername: date your brother's best friend - the romance books did NOT lie
logansargent: hard to be too sad when you're around
yourusername: awwwww logie bear 🐻 i love youuuuu
logansargent: i love you too come back to the motorhome the hospitality coffee is not worth it
yourusername: not even if i swipe you a cupcake?
logansargent: okay..... maybe ....
alexalbon: i'm sorry buddy, i promise i'll do us proud
yourusername: yOU BETTER 👹
alexalbon: i'm soRRY are you like a gremlin? did someone spill some water?
yourusername: i'm gonna ignore most of that cause gizmo is cute
logansargent: she loves you really alex
alexalbon: do you still love me logie?
logansargent: yes?
alexalbon: I' SORRY I HAVE.A GUILTY CONSCIENCE I DON'T LIKE PEOPLE BEING MAD AT ME
user3: lol mood ^
oscarpiastri: you could support your BELOVED BROTHER NOW (AT HIS (OUR) HOME RACE)
yourusername: ugh i guess
oscarpiastri: you literally said you'd support me any time logan wasn't racing :(
yourusername: unless he can come with me, we'll be supporting you from the williams garage
oscarpiastri: better than nothing i guess
logansargent
liked by oscarpiastri, alexalbon and 459,046 others
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logansargent: no way around it, this weekend has been the hardest of my career. however, i'm thankful for alex for picking up a couple points for the team and for having y/n with me to support me this weekend, enjoy the cute picture of her (but not too much)
also i guess congrats to oscar on a podium at his home race 🤷🏻♂️
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user4: hardest weekend ever... here's a pic of my. hot gf :)))))
user5: he's real for that, just reminding us that he's still winning off track
alexalbon: thank you isn't enough logie, love you man, can't wait to see you back in the car next week x
yourusername: you're so lucky you got points otherwise your ass would've been grass xoxo
alexalbon: Y/N I SAID I WAS SORRY PLEASE STOP BEING MEAN YOU'RE MEANT TO BE THE NICE PIASTRI
oscarpiastri: you stole my soon-to-be brother-in-law's car and called me a shit padel player 🖕🏻
alexalbon: why is everyone ganging up on me :(
logansargent: you gotta take it for at least this weekend bro
alexalbon: i guess...
user6: they're so cute, but who is taking these photos of them?
yourusername: oscar makes himself useful sometimes
oscarpiastri: ugh i get NO CREDIT IN THIS FAMILY
logansargent: i at least appreciate it oscar 🫶🏻
oscarpiastri: that's all well and good and i love you, you're my bff but sometimes i don't want to see you be lovely dovey with that hellspawn
fredvesti: let it be known i will no longer be sneaking out with you guys for ice cream on a race weekend, the risk was not worth the third wheeling
logansargent: i paid?
fredvesti: thank the lord you did otherwise i'd raise an official complaint
oscarpiastri
liked by landonorris, alexalbon and 793,209 others
tagged: logansargent & yourusername
oscarpiastri: got a podium at my home race and i'm still not my sister's favourite
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user8: have we considered that y/n and logan have attachment issues?
oscarpiastri: she sat at the window like a woman waiting for her husband at war when he DARED to go home for christmas when we were 16
yourusername: as if you haven't cried over lily 🙄
oscarpiastri: i ACTUALLY don't get to see her very often, i can't separate you and logan
yourusername: LEAVE ME BE
user9: oscar says this as if y/n wasn't crying her eyes out at the podium
user10: and logan wiping her tears to prevent smudging her eyeliner - sigh
logansargent: don't hate the player hate the game
oscarpiastri: what happened to blood being thicker than water
yourusername: you know what else is thicker than water ... 😩😩😩
oscarpiastri: okay you can sTOP RIGHT THERE
landonorris: they're really one being huh?
oscarpiastri: believe me the dinner at mine? they were being TAME
yourusername: okay for the audience we are not that bad, we're just affectionate we aren't like making out in front of everyone
landonorris: .... shame
oscarpiastri: yOU HAVE SHAME THAT'S MY SISTER
logansargent: THAT'S MY GIRLFRIEND
yourusername: AND THAT'S MY BOYFRIEND
landonorris: damn tough crowd
yourusername
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yourusername: a wee break before my boy is back to knock your socks off
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user11: they're so cute your honour
alexalbon: dating a racing driver and not wearing a seat belt? interesting.
yourusername: dating a professional golfer and still shit at golf? interesting.
lilymunhe: she did get you there alex, soz.
yourusername: also we weren't even driving, that hair acting is all a fan
logansargent: practically a professional photographer now (the model definitely helps, she looks perfect doing anything)
yourusername: hehehheheheheheheheheheheeh
user12: y/n really just gagging alex at every corner
user13: she saw logan wasn't holding a grudge and decided to double down on hers
user14: and we respect that
logansargent: you knock my socks off everyday babe
yourusername: as long as it's only me 😘
logansargent: i've been in love with you since i was 13 👍🏻
yourusername: SNAP🫰
oscarpiastri: once again left out of the photodump
yourusername: you are not 'my boy' that would in fact be inappropraite
oscarpiastri: you couldn't just change the caption?
yourusername: you're not cute enough to be a lannister (cersei and jaime call me)
logansargent: ????
yourusername: *call us 😉
logansargent
liked by lilymunhe, alexalbon and 592,309 others
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logansargent: glad to be back in the car this weekend, though if alex could stop terrorising y/n that would be great
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user15: were oscar and y/n's parents in the williams garage?
user16: so oscar wasn't lying about him basically being family already 🥹
alexalbon: i was not TERRORISNG I WAS ENGAGING IN SIBLING LIKE BANTER
oscarpiastri: hold on buster, that's MY sister 🤨
alexalbon: i can't win with any of you three 😭
yourusername: LET'S FUCKING GO EAGLE BOY GOD BLESS AMERICA 🦅🇺🇸
logansargent: i'll let you have this one for once
yourusername: as an aussie that was very hard to say, please appreciate it
logansargent: thank you my little kangaroo?
yourusername: kinda offensive they're scary
logansargent: koala?
yourusername: YOU SAYING I HAVE CHLAMYDIA?
logansargent: well i've ran out of australian animals now :(
user17: thanks for the violent reminder of chlamydia being rife in koalas :(
oscarpiastri: gonna have to beat you this weekend to win back my parents' favour it seems
yourusername: let's be real, they prefer logan over both of us :(
oscarpiastri: true 😔
logansargent: i can't help the southern charm
williamsf1
liked by yourusername, alexalbon and 1,034,672 others
tagged: logansargent
williamsf1: LOGAN POINTS, I REPEAT LOGAN POINTS 😤
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user20: TRUST HIM, I REPEAT TRUST HIM
yourusername: THAT'S MY BOY LET'S FUCKING GO
oscarpiastri: you never get this excited for me?
yourusername: FUCK OFF THIS IS NOT YOUR TURN, IT'S LOGAN'S DAY
maxverstappen1: pretty sure i won the race
yourusername: FUCK OFF ALL OF YOU
user21: y/n crying her eyes out she's so real
user22: based on the faces in the garage i think she may have let everything out lol
user23: as she should
user24: can't expect two people to be attached 24/7 and not be ride or die for each other
logansargent: thanks for the support, glad to pick up some points for the team
yourusername: I'M SO PROUD OF YOU
logansargent: i know you've shouted it in my face since i got back from media
yourusername: you need to know it :(
logansargent: i love you so much
yourusername: i love you even more
user25: the whole piastri family going wild in LOGAN'S garage was not on my 2024 bingo sheet
user26: but it was cute as fuck
yourusername
liked by oscarpiastri, logansargent and 287,045 others
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yourusername: we're down bad with a case of the cuddle bug
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user27: the CUDDLE BUG?
user28: i need to be taken out of my misery
logansargent: i've got a high fever, a love fever
oscarpiastri: THAT WAS CORNY AS FUCK
yourusername: i thought it was cute :(
logansargent: and that's what matters
yourusername: exactlyyyyy
oscarpiastri: so fuck me, right?
yourusername: yes!
logansargent: yes!
user29: this whole interaction makes it so obvious oscar was the only boy growing up LOL
alexalbon: i'll concede, you guys are cute
yourusername: we been known
logansargent: no one does it like us
alexalbon: erm alex and lily erasure?
yourusername: lily cute, you not so much
alexalbon: stop being SO PROTECTIVE WHY ARE YOU A GOLDEN RETRIEVER WITH EVERYONE ELSE AND A RABID JACK RUSSELL WITH ME IT WAS JAMES' DECISION GO FOR JAMES' ANKLES
williamsf1: ???
yourusername: i thought it was friendly sibling banter (also james is logie's boss of course i'm not gonna go for his ankles dummy)
logansargent: she's my little guard dog 🫶🏻
yourusername: anything for you, come back to cuddle :(
logansargent: on my way cuddle bug!
fin.
note: i understand why williams made the decision they did, but i've had such a soft spot for logan since he admitted he's lonely in the paddock :( i hope he has a good next race to really prove himself to everyone xx hope you enjoyed! xx
#f1 imagine#f1 x reader#f1 instagram au#f1 x you#f1#f1 social media au#logan sargeant social media au#logan sargeant x you#logan sargeant imagine#logan sargeant x reader#logan sargeant#logan sargent x reader
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Mesaytara
Charles Leclerc x Sheikha of Abu Dhabi!Reader
Summary: in which an Emirati princess sets off to make her mark on Formula 1 … and maybe falls in love along the way
You press your face against the glass of the private suite, watching with wide eyes as the mechanics scurry about below, tending to the sleek race cars lined up on the grid. The engines growl and rumble, seeming to shake the very foundations of the brand new Yas Marina Circuit.
“Baba, can we go down and watch them up close?” You ask your father, turning your big eyes up at him imploringly.
As the youngest child and only daughter of the ruler of Abu Dhabi, you know you hold a certain power over him. He dotes on you endlessly, his precious princess over a decade younger than your brothers.
Your father, Sheikh Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan, smiles fondly at your eagerness. “Of course, habibti. Anything for you.”
Despite being the most powerful man in the United Arab Emirates, your father takes your small hand lovingly as you practically drag him from the plush suite. Your entourage of guards and attendants follows at a respectful distance as you make your way down to the pit lane, the roar of the engines growing louder with every step.
Gasps and whispers follow as star-struck crew members realize just who has arrived mere feet from their work stations. They snap into nervous bows and stumble over themselves to clear a path for the Sheikh and his daughter.
But you pay them no mind, your attention utterly transfixed by the brilliant colors and aerodynamic curves of the Formula 1 cars. You’ve never seen anything so sleek and powerful up close. A faint scent of racing fuel and hot rubber hangs in the air, sharp and intoxicating.
“They’re so beautiful,” you murmur reverentially, watching as a pair of Red Bull mechanics roll out the tires for Mark Webber’s car.
Your father chuckles indulgently at your awestruck expression. “That they are, habibti. Works of engineering brilliance.”
A shot rings out from the starting lights, signaling the final minutes before the race begins. The air thrums with rising tension as the crews make their last frantic preparations. The loud thrum of the engines spinning up reverberates in your chest like a beating heart.
Leading you back to the shelter of the suite just before the cars roar out on the formation lap, your father settles into the plush sofa and pats the seat beside him. You immediately scramble up next to him, craning your neck to keep the track in view through the wide glass windows.
And then, they’re off — a streak of blinding color and screeching tires as the crimson Ferraris charge into the first turn. You rise up on your knees, hands pressed against the glass and breath fogging up the surface as you watch them disappear into the distance, chasing one another in a frenzy of motion.
For the next hour and a half, you are utterly enthralled, riveted to every twist and turn of the spectacle unfolding before you. You cheer and gasp with the roiling crowd, celebrating each breathtaking pass and lamenting every spin or collision.
When the checkered flag finally waves, signifying the end of the inaugural Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, you turn to your father with eyes still wide with wonder and admiration.
“Baba,” you breathe, newfound determination shining in your gaze. “I want to do that someday. I want to be a race car driver too.”
The rest of the assembled Emiratis in the suite freeze, shooting covert glances at one another uneasily. For a daughter, even a beloved princess, to harbor such ambitions is nearly unheard of in your culture. The thought of a young woman taking up such a masculine, dangerous sport is immediately dismissible.
But your father only smiles down at you warmly, cupping one calloused hand around your small cheek. “If it is Allah’s will for you, my daughter, then who am I to stand in your way?”
Around the suite, brows raise in shock and disapproval at the ease with which the Sheikh entertains your fanciful dream. You are too young to recognize the raised eyebrows and muttered whispers for what they are.
All you know is the pure joy that blossoms in your heart at your father’s blessing. You throw your arms around his broad chest, squeezing him tightly.
“Did you see them, Baba?” You gush excitedly in his ear. “How they danced through those turns? How bravely they raced and fought for every position? I’ve never seen anything like it!”
His chest rumbles with a low chuckle, cradling you against him in a fierce embrace. “I saw indeed, habibti. And perhaps no one else in our family has the same firelight in their spirit to take on such a challenge as you.”
You pull back with a radiant smile, total adoration shining up at him. At eight years old, you are still young enough to see your father as an all-powerful, all-knowing figure put on earth solely to make your dreams a reality.
The thought that he may ever deny you anything, even something as far-fetched as becoming a professional race car driver, is simply unthinkable. This is a man who rules a nation, who commands wealth and resources beyond your comprehension — and he has just promised to make your heart’s desire come true.
Still, your brow furrows slightly as the first traces of dubiousness creep into your shining eyes. “But Baba … I’m a girl. Will they even let me race?”
The Sheikh laughs again, deep and booming, causing the other attendants in the room to jump slightly at the unexpected outburst from their normally stoic monarch.
“And who is to say what any they will allow?” He counters, wagging one finger at you firmly. “If this is what you wish to do, we will move mountains to make it so. Even the most powerful dunes bow to the will of the lords who rule them.”
You giggle at his metaphor, picturing the undulating desert sands moving like ocean waves at his command. Your laugh fades as your expression turns pensive once more.
“But … I’ve never even sat in one of those cars, Baba,” you confess, chewing your lower lip anxiously. “What if I’m not brave enough? Or quick enough? What if I’m … not good enough?”
The very notion that anything or anyone could ever deny his daughter is clearly laughable to the Sheikh. He leans in close until he is staring into your eyes intently.
“Not good enough?” He asks, cradling your face in his hands. “You are the daughter of my heart, habibti. You were born of bravery and fire. There is no challenge in this life you cannot master if you desire it so.”
His words chase away any lingering doubt like the rising sun burning away the morning mist. You nod vigorously, fresh determination shining in your eyes.
“Then I’ll do it, Baba. I’ll work and train and become the quickest, bravest driver who ever lived! You’ll see!”
Your father’s warm chuckle is one of pure paternal pride and adoration. He presses a weathered kiss to your forehead, crinkling his nose at you playfully.
“If it is written, my daughter … then I have no doubt you shall, Inshallah.”
***
The mid-morning sun blazes over the sweeping dunes as the convoy of gleaming white Land Cruisers rolls up to the private family compound in Al Ain. After spending the night at one of the royal residences deep in the desert, you are returning to the main palace to celebrate your 15th birthday with the rest of the family.
As the lead SUV crunches to a stop on the grandiose circular driveway, you can’t help but notice an enormous object taking up a significant portion of the motor court. It is covered with an impeccably smooth red tarp, the color so rich it seems to glow against the bright sand like a magnificent mirage.
“What’s that?” You whisper to your brother Hassan, eyes wide with girlish curiosity as you peer through the tinted windows.
Hassan merely shrugs, already looking bored by whatever grand spectacle your father no doubt has planned this time. As the eldest son and heir apparent, he has long grown accustomed to the lavish trappings and surprises that come with being part of the Emirati ruling family.
You, on the other hand, still thrill at every indulgent display of your father’s affection — and his obvious efforts to make this birthday one you’ll never forget.
The minute your door is opened by a waiting attendant, you are scrambling to get out and get a closer look at the mysterious shape lurking beneath the tarp. Your towering bodyguards swiftly fall into step behind you, eyes sharp for any potential threat as they follow your darting form across the gleaming tile courtyard.
“Baba!” You call out excitedly, slowing your pace only when you draw up to the tarp-covered shape. “What is it? What’s under here?”
As the Sheikh emerges from the inner courtyard doors, chuckling heartily at your youthful enthusiasm, you notice the crowd of grinning spectators gathered behind him. A pride of aunts, uncles, and cousins spill out from within, all waiting with barely contained glee to bear witness to your reaction.
“Patience, habibti,” he chides you playfully, though his own eyes are twinkling with poorly masked mirth. Your father lives for these moments — any opportunity to shower his only daughter with grand gestures and lavish surprises. “The unveiling comes first.”
You practically vibrate with anticipation as your father accepts a simple push remote from one of his attendants. He casts you one more indulgent smile, then thumbs the button dramatically. There is an agonizing beat of total silence before the heavy tarp begins its slow mechanical slide to the ground.
When its contents are finally revealed, your jaw drops open in a shocked ‘O.’ There, squatting low and sleek before you like a panther ready to pounce, is the unmistakable profile of a Formula 1 car. But not just any car ...
“No ...” you breathe, pressing one hand to your mouth as you recognize every curve and angle, every slashing line of the striking Ferrari red livery. “It … it can’t be...”
“The F2002,” your father announces grandly, gazing at the vehicle with obvious pride. “The very same one that Michael Schumacher drove to his fifth World Championship that year. I had heard the team was auctioning it off to make way for their museum refurbishment … so I put in a special request.”
You stumble forward, hands outstretched to reverently trace the contours of the car as if to assure yourself it is real. Your fingertips glide over the sinuous sidepod, feeling the raised ridges of the sponsor’s decals and the rough nubs of leather on the steering wheel. You can scarcely believe you’re running your hands over the very car that dominated the 2002 season.
“Baba ...” you barely have the breath to vocalize your stunned gratitude. Any other girl may have been delighted by clothes or jewelry for a 15th birthday. But this … this is beyond your wildest dreams.
Your father steps up beside you, wrapping one strong arm around your shoulders as you continue gaping at the car in awe. He leans in close, his words meant for your ears alone.
“Do you remember what I told you that first day at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, habibti?” His voice is solemn but warm with parental affection. “That if this was your true desire — to race, to pour your spirit into this challenge — that I would move mountains to allow it?”
You nod numbly, still half-convinced you are dreaming even as the heavy scent of racing fuel and hot metal seems to fill your senses. Your eyes trace hungrily over every aerodynamic seam and vent carved into the car’s bodywork.
“So much has changed in the years since that day,” your father continues, giving your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “The world shifts in ways we can never foresee, carrying us all along in its currents whether we resist or not.”
You tear your gaze away from the car to glance up at him questioningly. His expression has turned peculiarly intense, the solemnity in his face aging him beyond his years.
“But there is one force more powerful than any empire or nation, habibti. More resolute than any passing storms that batter our traditions.” He leans in close, searching your eyes as if to impart something profoundly meaningful. “And that is the immortal strength of a father’s love for his child.”
The simplicity of the statement, the effortless way it encapsulates every indulgence and surprise of your young life, steals what little breath remains in your lungs. You simply gape at him, scarcely daring to blink as he cups your face in his calloused palms.
“So no, my daughter,” he murmurs, holding your gaze firmly with his own. “I will not deny you this. Your desires and dreams are my own. If you wish to race, if you burn to chase this path … you will do so with my eternal pride and blessing at your back.”
You feel tears prickling the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of his vow. At fifteen you are still young enough for his words to anoint you with purpose and conviction. Your destiny feels as immovable as the highest dunes in that moment, your path clearly illuminated by his will alone.
As if to echo his promise, your father nods over your shoulder towards the gathered crowd. You glance back to find your extended family arrayed in a loose semicircle, hushed and watchful as if awaiting some pronouncement. Among their numbers, you recognize several prominent local racers and federation officials who have clearly been summoned here as witnesses.
“Which is why ...” your father continues, raising his voice to carry across the courtyard. “I have already taken the liberty of entering you in next year’s inaugural Formula 4 UAE Championship.”
A ripple of gasps and muttering races through the crowd at his words. You can see disapproving glances exchanged between the elders and officials, expressions ranging from skeptical to outright incredulous.
But your eyes only widen further, mouth falling open in shock as the implications of what your father has decreed wash over you. He said the words so casually, as if securing your entry to the first-ever national Formula 4 series was as simple as booking a dinner reservation.
“The … the F4?” You manage to croak out, still utterly blindsided by the revelation. “You mean … I’ll be racing in single seaters?”
A fresh murmur of disbelief rises from the crowd at your stunned reaction. Out of the corner of your eye, you see several uncles shaking their heads in disbelief, while your aunts look politely appalled. Even your stone-faced bodyguards shift uncomfortably at your father’s flagrant disregard for propriety.
But the Sheikh only frowns at them all, appearing affronted that they would dare doubt his word. When he speaks again, his tone brooks no argument — this is a decree from the ruler of the nation himself, not a mere family disagreement.
“For too long, many have clung to outdated traditions that would see my daughter’s ambitions rendered invisible,” he declares, seeming to grow in stature as he takes in their skeptical faces one by one. “We have chosen to view her gender as an obstacle to overcome, rather than a divine gift to be nurtured!”
You watch, stunned and a little afraid, as your father’s impassioned words seem to pull the disapproving gazes towards him like a lit torch drawing moths to the flame. You have never seen your normally reserved father so heated, so emboldened to make this public defense of your dreams.
“Which is why I say enough!” He sweeps one hand through the air, brushing aside generations of ingrained patriarchal norms like a tuft of desert sand. “My daughter burns with the spirit of a million wildfire hawks! And if you would deny her the right to chase her own destiny, you deny the winds that stir this very land itself!”
A hush falls over the assembled crowd, none daring to rebut the Sheikh’s sudden impassioned rhetoric. You can only gape at your father, utterly transfixed, drinking in his protective roar.
“From this day forward,” he declares, turning his fiery gaze back down to you. “My daughter will race for more than just herself. She will drive for every daughter in this family — in this nation — who has ever had her dreams dimmed simply for being born female. She carries the weight of a thousand ancestors’ ambitions on her back!”
His words seem to electrify the very air surrounding you. You can feel their power, their reckless conviction washing over you like a sandstorm flaying away all the self-doubt and uncertainty in its path.
When he gathers you into his embrace, you cling to him with everything you have. Tears stream openly down your cheeks, heedless of the audience bearing witness to this seismic shift in the ancient social order.
“You will race, habibti,” your father rumbles fiercely into your hair, squeezing you so tightly. “Not just because I wish it, but because it is your destiny written in the stars themselves. The path may be difficult, the challenges ahead more than you can fathom … but you will never walk it alone.”
You nod wordlessly against his chest, blinking back tears of overwhelming gratitude and purpose. In this moment, he does not merely feel like your indulgent father — he is the very sun burning away the last vestiges of doubt, ensuring your course is forever set towards glory.
When you finally pull back, your eyes shine with fresh determination and unflinching resolve. You turn to face the silent, gaping crowd with your chin raised defiantly, every bit the born warrior princes making her stand.
“I will race,” you declare, pitching your voice to carry to the furthest reaches of the courtyard. “And I will win.”
A shocked beat of silence hangs over the assembly. And then, incredibly, it is your dear brother Hassan who steps forward first, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head in disbelief.
“Of course you will, you spoiled brat,” he proclaims with a snort of laughter. “Knowing our father, you’ll probably end up with one of Lewis Hamilton’s cars next.”
The tension shatters in a wave of startled chuckles from the onlookers. You shoot your brother a watery smile, silently thanking him for being the first to signal his acceptance of the path your father has set out for you.
As the rest of the gathered officials and elders slowly begin to nod and murmur in acknowledgment, you feel a profound sense of peace and conviction settle over your heart. You need no longer dream and wish and hope — everything has been set into glorious, undeniable motion.
When you turn back to the gleaming Ferrari sitting before you, it no longer seems like an impossible fantasy, but a key to a future burning brighter than the desert sun itself. You move towards it without hesitation, climbing up into the body-hugging carbon seat until you are cocooned within its sleek lines.
Wrapping your fingers around the sculpted steering wheel, you can practically feel its power and purpose thrumming through you like an electric current of pure adrenaline. This is where you belong — raw ambition harnessed within a technological marvel. You are a falcon poised for flight, wings outstretched to conquer the horizon, gender be damned.
You glance up through the curved windscreen to find your father watching you with naked pride shining in his eyes. He catches your gaze and offers a single, solemn nod of acknowledgment. His little princess, once an innocent dreamer … now preparing to become a pioneer for a new era.
You nod back, inhaling the rich scent of clinging burnt rubber and drinking in the intoxicating promise of everything to come.
You are chasing more than just some fanciful passion. You will prove to the world that no ambition is too lofty, no dream too bold, for you to conquer.
***
The sleek Aston Martin DBX glides silently through the entrance tunnel and into the team’s gleaming new headquarters in Silverstone. As the muscular crossover comes to a stop in the bright, airy courtyard, a familiar thrill of anticipation sparks to life in your chest.
This gleaming complex of glass, steel and green technology has become more than just the workplace of your racing heroes over the past year. With the news of Aston Martin’s sudden sponsorship woes, it has taken on a tantalizing new significance — the potential launching pad for your own Formula 1 dream.
You shoot your father an excited glance as the driver opens your door, but the Sheikh remains impassive behind his amber-tinted aviators. Now in his late 60s, Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan has grown only more inscrutable and steely with age and power.
To the casual observer, he would appear utterly unruffled, preparing to stride into a meeting that could alter the course of the Formula 1 landscape. You, however, have spent a lifetime studying the nuanced ridge of his jawline, the reserved set of those broad shoulders, and can sense the focused intensity burning behind his courteous facade.
This is far more than just a meeting for the ruler of Abu Dhabi and chairman of International Holding Company, one of the largest conglomerates in not only the Emirates but the world. This is the potential culmination of a promise made to his only daughter nearly 15 years ago — a vow to move heaven and earth to ensure her dreams were realized.
You follow half a step behind your father and his retinue of advisors as they cross the courtyard, resisting the urge to gawk openly at the team motorhomes and formidable industrial build of the main factory. Despite spending your early years mired in the European junior formulae, this exalted world of Formula 1 still manages to set your heart pounding with equal parts reverence and ambition.
A sleek black sedan is idling in the VIP parking section, dispatched to collect the final party in your impending negotiation. As you slow your approach, the driver emerges and moves to hold open the rear door with an obsequious bow.
“Son of a bitch kept us waiting,” comes the droll observation from the tall, lanky figure emerging from the sedan’s depths.
Lawrence Stroll, Canadian billionaire, business magnate, and majority owner of the Aston Martin Formula 1 team, appraises your group through those same inscrutable tinted lenses favored by all men of profound power and means. At his side is the rather more bookish form of team principal Mike Krack, eyes already politely averted as he waits for the Sheikh’s lead.
You can’t resist a tiny, adrenaline-tinged thrill at the sight of them both. These are the men who hold the keys to the kingdom you’ve spent your life battering against — the exalted realm of Formula 1. You’ve spent countless nights watching their team’s racing green cars arc and pivot through Yas Marina’s turns, dreaming of the day you might join their ranks.
Now that tantalizing possibility hovers before you, dangled by the generous purse-strings of your family’s staggeringly deep pockets. For in the wake of Aramco’s high-profile defection as Aston Martin’s title sponsor, a Goliath-sized vacuum has opened — one which your father’s IHC conglomerate is uniquely positioned to fill.
For a price, of course.
“Ahmed,” Lawrence greets your father with a curt nod, making no effort to mask his impatience or indifference to decorum. “I’ll cut right to it — what’s your ask here? 25% share in the team? 35? Just name your number so we can get this whole-”
“Actually, Lawrence,” your father interrupts him, sliding off his sunglasses to reveal that piercing gaze that has cowed entire global cabinets into obedience. “I have no interest in an ownership stake. Not in this particular venture.”
The Canadian billionaire pulls up short, clearly thrown by the unexpected rebuff of his assumption. He glances towards his team principal, who can only offer a minute shrug, before turning back to your father with one arched brow.
“Well then … enlighten me,” he prompts with just a hint of renewed interest flickering in those beady eyes. “If not an ownership play, then what’s your angle here?”
Your heart leaps into your throat as your father responds, his words carefully measured but leaving no shred of ambiguity in their intent.
“My desires are rather more … specific. More personal.” Your father casts a meaningful glance in your direction. “As I’m sure you’ve both realized by now, I have a rather more vested interest in the world of Formula 1 beyond mere business or expense portfolios.”
He turns back to Lawrence and Mike, expression inscrutable once more.
“I want a seat for my daughter. On your team.”
The stunned silence that follows is perhaps the loudest absence of sound you’ve ever experienced. Even the distant whirr of machinery from the factory seems to grind to a halt as the two men process your father’s audacious declaration.
You watch them closely, studying their reactions with rapt fascination. With a single conversational grenade, your father has lobbed your ambitions squarely into their laps in a way that cannot be ignored or dismissed as idle fanciful musings. This is a directive from one of the wealthiest sovereign individuals on earth, stressed through the undeniable weight of his tone and body language.
For a few charged seconds, all you can hear is the thundering of your own pulse in your ears.
Then, surprisingly, it is Mike Krack who finds his voice first. The diminutive Luxembourger clears his throat, exchanging a poorly masked look of disbelief with the still dumbstruck Lawrence Stroll.
“With … all due respect, Your Highness,” he begins carefully, as if testing the tensile strength of rice paper with each word. “While I cannot challenge your ambitions for your daughter, a Formula 1 seat is simply not something that can be … appointed through sponsorship alone.”
He pauses again, seeming to hesitate under the level stare of your father. You realize his reaction stems not from any doubts about your abilities - the team principal doesn’t even know you from any other young hopeful dreaming of the F1 grid. His concern is far more fundamental, stemming from the very nature of your gender in this male-dominated world.
“There hasn’t been a female driver on the grid since the 90s and even that was short lived. For good reason — the physical and mental demands are … immense. No offense intended, but perhaps a personal sponsorship targeted towards the F1 Academy or something similar would be-”
“That won’t be necessary,” your father cuts him off with a curt wave of his hand. “My daughter’s credentials should speak for themselves, if you care to review them. She’s competed in — and won — both the Formula 3 and Formula 2 championships over the past four years. I assure you, she is more than prepared to handle the same mental and physical rigors as her male counterparts.”
Silence falls again as Krack and a visibly skeptical Lawrence clearly reassess their earlier assumptions. You feel their analytical gazes washing over you, weighing and measuring as if they can somehow gauge your skills and fortitude based on outward appearances alone.
When Lawrence speaks again, there is a newfound edge of pragmatism in his tone.
“Sure, that’s all well and good on the junior level,” he allows with a slight nod. “Won’t be the first time a hotshot comes up thinking they’re Senna reincarnated only to completely bottle it on the big stage. Happens all the damn time.”
He holds up one hand as your father’s brow furrows dangerously. “But say we do entertain this … suggestion of yours. That still leaves the rather prominent problem of having an open seat to slot her into. In case you haven’t heard, we already signed our team for next year. Only got two cars, last I checked.”
A thin, vindicated smile curves your father’s lips. For all his bluster, the Canadian team owner has just delivered the perfect entry point to reveal his true bargaining chip.
“About that,” the Sheikh murmurs, casting a sidelong glance towards Krack. “I have it on good authority that Aston Martin will, in fact, have a rather convenient vacancy opening up on their driver roster very soon.”
Mike Krack’s expression shutters instantly at the tung-in-cheek reference, no doubt recognizing the inside information that could only have come from one of his own drivers or personnel leaking like a sieve. His eyes slide momentarily toward Lawrence in wordless apology.
Your father doesn’t miss a beat, pressing his advantage with the casual confidence of a man who has spent a lifetime wielding power and influence as deftly as others use voice tonality.
“Fernando Alonso’s impending retirement may well be the worst kept secret in the paddock, no?” He arches one eloquent brow at the increasingly chagrined team principal. “A Delta Topco investor of mine happened to mention the championship-winning Spaniard has been snapping up quite an impressive Swiss real estate portfolio as of late ...”
The comment hangs engulfed in awkward silence as even Lawrence seems slightly taken aback by your father’s easy name-dropping of proprietary team intel. You realize with a start that this is a glimpse into the upper realms of global power and business dealing you’ve only ever witnessed from the outside — the effortless ability to command knowledge and find out even the most classified information with just a few strategically-placed calls or leanings of influence.
It’s Krack who finally capitulates first, clearing his throat again as he darts a helpless glance towards the team owner. “Clearly … this exit has been, ah, on the team’s radar for some time. We’ve been exploring our options, but-”
“But you haven’t had to make it official yet, yes yes of course,” your father interjects, waving off the rest of his explanation with an airy flick of his wrist. “Which brings us back to the matter at hand.”
He pins them both with a pointed look, any trace of ambiguity evaporating from the scorching intensity of his gaze.
“Gentlemen, I will get straight to the point — Aston Martin requires a new title sponsor to remain financially solvent and competitive on the Formula 1 grid. International Holding Company has the resources and reach to provide that sponsorship, effectively in perpetuity if need be.”
His mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile, though there is no warmth in the expression whatsoever. This is a businessman reveling in checkmate before the final stroke is even delivered.
“All I require in exchange is one of the seats that will be so … conveniently vacated.”
A heavy silence falls over the courtyard once more. You watch Lawrence and Mike exchange another loaded glance, wrestling with the realization that your father seems to hold all the leverage in this particular negotiation. The cool confidence radiating from the Sheikh suggests he is more than comfortable walking away from this deal if they prove … unreasonable.
Finally, Lawrence seems to decide upon the path of least resistance. The corners of the Canadian billionaire’s mouth tug downwards in displeasure, but he offers a curt nod of acceptance.
“You’re twisting one hell of a knife, I’ll give you that, Ahmed,” he mutters, clearly taking no joy in the literal quid pro quo being forced upon Aston Martin’s future solvency. “Okay, fine. We agree to your … terms, shall we say. One seat on the grid for the 2025 season in exchange for IHC’s sponsorship.”
Both men turn their assessing gazes towards you once again. There is no missing the skepticism and doubt burning behind their studied neutrality. They have clearly accepted your presence on the team as nothing more than a necessary evil to be endured in exchange for the monetary incentive.
There will be no welcoming embraces or admiring back-slaps from these two men hardened by decades in the cutthroat world of business and motorsport politics. You are a costly contractual obligation to them at this point, one they have no emotional investment in whatsoever.
There is only one way to change that. Only one path to earn their acknowledgement and respect.
You lock eyes with Stroll and then Krack in turn. When you finally find your voice, it comes out low and thrumming with absolute conviction.
“I will earn my place on that grid. And any doubts you may have now will be extinguished when I take that Aston across the finish line first.”
It’s a bold statement, perhaps even arrogant from an unproven rookie. But it has been woven into the very fabric of who you are over a decade and a half of sacrifice, discipline, and unwavering paternal support. You are a daughter forged from renewed sands by the sheer force of your father’s will into a warrior princess.
Doubt is no longer a luxury you can entertain, now that your dream looms so close at hand.
Your father casts you a faint, proud smile — the only outward sign he will permit of his profound approval and respect for the woman you have become. His eyes glitter with razor-sharp ambition.
“My daughter speaks true,” he declares, turning back to Lawrence and Krack with a challenging arch of his brow. “But of course … I expect you’ll both prefer to judge her for yourselves on the track.”
Lawrence’s perfunctory nod is perhaps a touch more intrigued now, a glimmer of renewed interest flickering behind those impassive eyes. For the first time, he seems to be assessing you as an actual person and athlete rather than some implausible imposition. A sliver of doubt appears to prick at the stony edge of his demeanor.
Mike Krack simply inclines his head in acquiescence, the perfect picture of professional decorum regardless of his personal misgivings. Smart money would place him as one of the individuals funneling inside information about Alonso’s moves to your father’s sources. He is clearly not about to push his luck any further by voicing unnecessary dissent or challenge.
“Very well then,” your father concludes with an air of finality, turning towards Lawrence with an expectant look. “Shall we go ahead and make this official?”
The billionaire businessmen meet in the center of the small gathering, squaring off like two prize fighters preparing for the bell. You watch with bated breath, heart thundering in your chest, as they size one another up for the final moments of the negotiation.
Then, in one smooth motion, they clasp hands and exchange a firm shake — sealing your life’s ambition into ironclad reality. A barely perceptible nod of understanding passes between them, an acknowledgment that despite all the complexities and nuances, there is now a deal on the table that benefits them all.
Your father has successfully leveraged every ounce of his wealth, power, and influence to deliver on his decade’s old promise to you. The seat, the sponsorship … everything has been set into motion.
The only thing left is for you to drive.
***
“Are they seriously going to make us do this?”
Lance Stroll’s voice carries a distinct whine as he hunches lower on the leather couch, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the small crew setting up lights and cameras around the Aston Martin hospitality unit. His lanky frame is dressed down in team-issued sweats, tousled hair lopped into that carefully cultivated ‘I woke up like this’ aesthetic he seems to spend hours perfecting.
You shoot your new teammate a sidelong glance, arching one sculpted brow at his apparent distress. Despite being the owner’s son and growing up immersed in the utmost privilege, Lance still seems to find novel ways to broadcast his discomfort with the fame and exposure that comes with being an F1 driver.
“What, you’ve never had to film some cringey sponsor vid or team propaganda before?” You tease him lightly, unable to resist needling him a bit. There’s a certain giddy thrill at realizing you now share an equal standing with Lance on this global stage — though you still frequently have to remind yourself of that fact.
Lance shifts again, slouching further into the plush cushions with a frown. You watch his finely-boned features scrunch up petulantly, and can’t quite resist rolling your eyes.
“I mean, yeah, of course I have,” he mumbles, suddenly finding great interest in inspecting his nails. “But those were always pre-scripted or completely faked, y’know? This just seems so ...”
“Menial? Frivolous?” You arch a taunting brow at him. “For the son of a billionaire businessman and an actual princess?”
He blinks, thrown briefly off-guard as you remind him of your own lofty status with a wry grin. It’s still a novel concept for him to process, you can tell — the idea of an Arab woman of royal lineage daring to enter the same playing field, to consider herself an equal.
Good. It will make savoring his skepticism all the more satisfying when you blow past him on the circuit.
“Just don’t get too used to all this, alright?” He rallies, regaining some of his trademark swagger as he jerks his chin towards the ever-growing gaggle of team personnel crowding the lounge area. “We’re still teammates and all, but on the track … well, may the best nepo baby win.”
You laugh at his attempt at posturing, gentling nudging his foot with your own in an uncharacteristically playful gesture. “Don’t worry, Lancelot, I’ll go easy on you,” you tease. “Baba always did say to respect one’s elders, after all.”
Lance’s indignant sputter of outrage at your jibe is mercifully cut off by the arrival of one of the producers, a slim woman in stylish athleisure attire adorned with Aston Martin’s iconic green cues. She claps her hands together with a bubbly smile.
“Hiya, names Chelsea, nice to meet you both!” She chirps in a distinctly American accent, utterly unbothered by the two pairs of eyes swiveling to size her up with varying levels of dulled enthusiasm.
“We’re going to keep things pretty simple for this one — just a quick, low-stakes game to help get you guys on camera and build some pre-season hype on the socials, yeah?” Chelsea continues brightly, gesturing for her crew to finish setting up the lighting and cameras.
“Ooo, a game?” You perk up instantly, intrigued. As a lifelong academic overachiever, any type of challenge or opportunity to demonstrate your brain muscle still manages to activate the synapses of childish glee. “I do love a bit of friendly competition ...”
“Not if it’s going to be anything too taxing, I hope,” Lance drawls with an exaggerated yawn. He mimes checking an invisible watch on his bare wrist. “Do we at least get snack breaks? This jet lag is a killer and I need to keep my strength up ...”
You can’t resist rolling your eyes again as Chelsea laughs politely, clearly recognizing his pampered shtick for what it is. She pauses to check her notes on a tablet before continuing.
“Well, good news for you then — your mental fortitude won’t be too strained today. We’re going to keep things pretty light. We’ll just have some common, everyday items for you two to identify and guess the purchase prices. Easy peasy! More variety show games than trigonometry.”
Chelsea grins, unaware of the subtle way the blood seems to drain from your teammate’s face. You blink once, digesting her words, before a bemused smile finds its way across your own lips.
“Wait … they’re actually going to ask us to identify grocery prices and things?” You shake your head in disbelief. “No, this has to just be a wind-up, right? Even in this economy, there’s no way the team can be serious about-”
“Unfortunately, we are painfully earnest on this one, kids,” Another voice pipes up, accompanied by the familiar cadence of an East London accent.
Jack, a senior member of the Aston team’s creative division, slouches against the doorway to the lounge with his customary smirk already in place. Clearly this was his brainchild — a casual hazing ritual for the team’s most privilege-addled members.
“See, the blokes upstairs figure since you two grew up way closer to hedge fund managers than grocery checkout queues … could be a bit of a laugh, yeah?” He jerks his chin towards you both with a conspiratorial wink. “Just a bit of fun for the fans, have a go at seein’ how the young rich kids guess costs of plebeian things like bananas and bread loaves. Been a hit with the other teams, gets good traction on social, all innocent fun and whatnot.”
“Told you it would be taxing ...” Lance grumbles under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if staving off the first twinges of a migraine.
You, however, find yourself rather intrigued by Jack’s premise. It does seem a fairly innocuous way to let the fans peek behind the curtain at the lives of their favorite drivers, to which you and Lance represent the extreme ends of wealth disparity.
More than that, however, some tiny kernel of competitive ego has taken root in your chest, issuing a silent challenge. What better way to prove you are more well-rounded and less out-of-touch than the reputation that clearly precedes you both?
Let Lance play into the indolent, affluent caricature that paints all of F1’s rising stars in broad strokes. You, however, were raised under a rather different philosophy ...
“You know what, I think this sounds rather amusing,” you announce with a demure shrug of your shoulders, catching Lance’s incredulous stare head-on. “Should be … illuminating.”
From his spot by the door, Jack lets out a dry cackle of amusement. Chelsea, bless her, maintains her gracious professionalism despite sensing the rising undercurrents of upper-crust posturing between the two of you.
“Brilliant, that’s the spirit!” She cuts in brightly, clapping her hands together again. “Everyone just follow my lead, we’ll start off nice and easy ...”
Within a few minutes, the cameras are rolling, framing the two of you seated opposite one another on the couch. A small table sits between you, ready to display the variety of day-to-day items you’ll be asked to examine and appraise.
At Chelsea’s behest, a production assistant brings out a single, slightly bruised banana and places it on the table with an audible thunk. You instantly feel Lance’s gaze swivel in your direction, doubtlessly already anticipating whatever absurd denomination you’re about to slap on the unremarkable piece of fruit.
“Alright, then we’re live starting in 3 … 2 ...” Chelsea narrates before cueing the two of you with a brilliant smile and a wink. “Welcome back everyone, today we’ve got Lance and our newest driver Y/N here to play a little guessing game for us!”
She gestures grandly towards the table, injecting her effervescent delivery with just the right mix of playful condescension.
“First item up — something anyone can find at their local shops or markets. A nice, appealing banana. Question is … what would our two racers be willing to pay for such a humble thing? Off the lot, so to speak. Y/N, love? What do you reckon this banana would cost?”
You swallow back the first, instinctive answer that comes to mind — that it likely doesn’t cost anything, seeing as fresh produce is always plucked from your family’s private orchards and greenhouses at a moment’s notice. Instead, you force yourself to consider the question from the perspective of a supposed commoner, out doing their weekly shopping.
“Well ...” You begin slowly, chin cradled in one hand as you lean forward to examine the fruit. “I suppose bananas don’t seem terribly expensive, do they? Just a bit of potassium and carbs, good for starting the day strong and beating any energy troughs during exercise ...”
Chelsea nods encouragingly, hanging on your every word in that canned, just-over-dramatized manner of most TV personalities. Across from you, Lance is already pinching his nose again, eyes squeezed shut as if preparing himself for the inevitable bomb you’re about to drop.
With a decisive nod, you fix your eyes directly on the camera and proclaim, “Ten euros for a single banana seems perfectly reasonable in this economic climate, no?”
The silence that falls over the lounge is damn near deafening. You watch Chelsea’s overly-rehearsed presenter mask slip for just a moment, features contorting into naked shock. Even Jack the producer lapses into a rare moment of speechlessness, mouth hanging open in slack-jawed disbelief.
At your side, Lance finally breaks, collapsing forward as his frame is wracked with deep, abdominal convulsions of laughter.
“Sweet merciful …" He finally manages to gasp out between ragged gasps. Long, spindly fingers clutch at his stomach as tears of mirth stream down his reddened cheeks. “Ten … fucking … euros! For a banana?”
Any residual thoughts you may have had about defying expectations and proving your economic awareness swiftly crumble to dust amidst the howls of laughter. You gape at your teammate, feeling your cheeks flaming with a mix of confusion and growing embarrassment as the reality of your inflated estimate crashes over you.
“Well … it’s … it’s not THAT outrageous, is it?” You sputter in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation. “I’d just assumed, with the import tariffs and global agricultural strife we’ve seen as of late-”
“Stop, stop! Just … stop ...” Lance wheezes, waving his hands in surrender before you can dig the hole any deeper. “I can’t … I actually can’t breathe right now.”
“For the record, love,” Jack pipes up from his doorway perch. “Stores don’t even charge ten euros for a bunch of bananas, let alone one lousy nanner.”
The production assistant responsible for presenting the fruit chimes in with a faint “20 pence, last I checked,” sending Lance into another spiral of unbridled cackles.
Just like that, any delusion of cultured cosmopolitan grace you may have carried has been utterly incinerated. You are as transparently affluent as the rest of them assumed, your upbringing and lifestyle so sequestered from normalcy that even the simple prices of supermarket produce have become alien concepts.
And the realization that you are still young, still so new to this entire experience, hits you with sobering impact. For so long, you had believed your decade and a half of single-minded pursuit had prepared you for seamlessly joining the elite ranks of your new career.
But one ill-fated guess at a banana’s cost was all it took to remind you that, in many ways, the learning curve you face goes far beyond simply whipping a turbo-hybrid around a few iconic circuits.
As Chelsea scrambles to regain control of the taping and cycle in a new item, Lance leans over with the last dregs of laughter still shuddering his lean frame.
“You’re totally gonna get us roasted online for this, you know?” He murmurs, lips quirked in that devilish smirk you’re already becoming accustomed to. “Maybe we should schedule a field trip to, y’know … go grocery shopping or something? Little crash course before the damage gets too widespread?”
Despite his smarmy delivery, you recognize the extended olive branch for what it is — an acknowledgment that you’re both very much still kids stumbling into a world of intense scrutiny and maturity. A reminder that you’re on the same team, for better or worse.
So you shoot him a wry grin in return, squaring your shoulders as Chelsea presents the next mundane item with a theatrical flourish.
“Oh, I have a feeling the roasting you speak of has only just begun, Lancelot,” you proclaim with an arch of one challenging brow. “But if prices shock me so thoroughly … what’s your excuse going to be?”
His widening smirk is all the response you require. Teammates or not, this is still a competition on and off the track.
An education, regardless of how humbling, is about to be had.
***
The media center in Melbourne’s Albert Park is a churning sea of humanity when you arrive. Journalists from every corner of the globe jostle for position, clutching voice recorders and branded lanyards as they await the start of the season’s first official press conference.
Despite the pandemonium, an anticipatory hush falls over the assembled scribes when you are led to the makeshift stage alongside Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen, George Russell, and Oscar Piastri. The five of you settle into the leather chairs arrayed in a semicircle, blinking furiously under the brilliant TV lights as you ready yourselves for the onslaught of questions.
Your heart pounds in your ears, palms suddenly slick with nervous perspiration as you fight to maintain an aura of calm composure. Though you’ve been groomed practically since birth to carry yourself with regal poise, this is an entirely new arena you find yourself in. One where pedigreed lineage and family legacy afford no protection or leg up.
This is the world where you will either rise or fall based purely on your own deeds behind the wheel and words under fire. No longer will a dismissive wave of your father’s hand send underlings scattering — here, you will have to forge your own path, earn every scrap of credibility and respect.
The thought is at once thrilling and utterly terrifying.
You do your best to focus as the opening preambles and formalities commence, nodding politely when your name is announced along with your Aston Martin team affiliation. A small, fiercely proud smile tugs at your lips as the FIA moderator rattles off your accomplishments in the junior formulae.
Multiple feeder series championships across Europe and Asia, becoming the first Arab woman to compete in the FIA single-seater ladder. A true pioneer transcending societal norms and expectations.
This is your chance to let that very accomplishment shine on its own merits. An opportunity to prove you belong here through your own grit and talent, free from the protective umbrella provided by your family name and wealth.
The first question, mercifully, comes from a fellow Emirati news outlet. The young man politely identifies himself and his publication before addressing you.
“Your Highness, as the first woman from our part of the world to ascend to this level of motorsport, what does this achievement mean for you? How important is it to serve as an inspiration for other young Arab women and girls with big dreams?”
You exhale slowly, offering the man a grateful smile at the respectful phrasing. This is the type of insightful perspective you’d been hoping to discuss — the gravity of overcoming generations of patriarchal norms, the significance of inspiring an entire culture to see women as strong and capable.
“Well, it is an immense honor and privilege to hopefully be paving the way for other young women, both in my region and all around the globe,” you begin, falling easily into the poised cadence you’ve honed since childhood.
“This was a dream I was fortunate enough to have the support system to chase from a very young age, despite the conventions of my culture. I know there are countless other girls out there with the same fire, the same ambitions, who have been discouraged or dismissed simply for being born female. If my example can shine a light on a new way forward, can help uplift even one other person to take up the mantle and fight for their passions … then every obstacle I faced along the way will have been worth it.”
A smattering of polite applause ripples across the room and you incline your head graciously, relieved to have navigated one of these public inquisitions so smoothly on the first go. Perhaps this won’t prove as daunting as you feared, after all.
The next few questions are mercifully innocuous as well — standard inquiries about dealing with the pressures of F1, relationships with teammates and engineers, your personal driving style and technical strengths. Child’s play for someone with your extensively cultivated presence before the media cameras.
You are settling into a contented, borderline cocky rhythm when the tone of the press conference takes an abrupt turn.
“Your Highness,” a gravelly voice suddenly rings out, immediately catching your attention as one of the gruffer correspondents gestures for the mic with poorly disguised impatience. He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably as every head swivels in his direction. “Given your … background, and the societal norms you’ve admittedly had to overcome, does it give you any pause that women’s bodies may simply not be able to handle the extraordinary G-forces and physicality required to pilot one of these beasts around a track for hours at a time?”
The silence that falls across the media room is positively deafening. You can sense the other drivers beside you tensing, no doubt steeling themselves for the oncoming wreckage they can see barreling down the line.
For your part, you simply blink once, twice — allowing the weight of the man’s insinuation to fully descend like an iron shroud and smother you from every side. Any joviality or adrenaline from the earlier back-and-forth evaporates in a searing wave of incredulous rage.
Before you can so much as draw breath to respond, however, the reporter has already pressed on with the ruthless zeal of a jackal going for the kill.
“Furthermore, with all the perceived advantages provided to you by your … esteemed heritage ...” He sneers the words with no small hint of derision. “How can we be certain you aren’t simply some vanity pet project for your father to amuse himself with? That this isn’t merely an attempt by Emirati royalty to assert itself in yet another arena in a flamboyant display of ego and excess?”
Dead silence. Not even the sound of a pen scratching or camera shutter cutting across the vacuum of noise as the entire room seems to be holding its collective breath.
You can feel your heart pounding once more, though this time it thunders in furious sync with the scorching rapids of your own rising temper. How dare this absolute jackass reduce your life’s work and sacrifice to some sexist, patronizing narrative about Daddy writing checks?
“How dare you ...” you begin in a low, menacing tone — only to be smoothly interrupted by the one voice you’d never expect.
“Oh, on the contrary,” Charles Leclerc speaks up from your right, smooth and controlled until now. “How can any of us be so fortunate?”
Every head pivots to regard the Ferrari driver, astounded by his interjection on your behalf. Up until now, Leclerc has maintained his signature cool, borderline impassive demeanor during interviews and pressers.
But now the Monegasque racer leans forward, forearms resting on the table as he fixes the hapless reporter with a look of genuine, cutting disdain.
“Here we have the first woman to race in F1 in decades, shattering years of patriarchal norms to achieve her lifelong ambition on the single most demanding stage of our sport,” he continues in a deliberate, measured tone. “And your very first instinct is to make tired, sexist implications about the frailty of her gender and body? And then to have the audacity to insult her even further by suggesting she couldn’t possibly be here on her own merits?”
Leclerc pauses, allowing his stinging rebuke to hang in the air. You glance around to see the matching expressions of discomfort and secondhand embarrassment painted on the features of your fellow drivers.
“For someone meant to be among the world’s most informed observers of our sport, your remarks are about as offensively misguided and stunted as I could possibly imagine,” Charles finishes with an unmistakable air of finality, folding his arms across his chest. He looks utterly disgusted, but there is an undercurrent of protective ice in his voice that raises the tiny hairs on your arms.
Before the flailing reporter can attempt to concoct some garbled justification for his outrageously inappropriate line of questioning, another voice pipes up — this one bearing the bright, airy lilt of an American accent.
“So, Y/N,” the younger woman interjects, clearly hoping to spare you all any further ugliness, “To pivot away from all that noise for a second … what was your initial reaction when it was announced you had secured the Aston seat? Did you do, like a big celebration or anything?”
You blink a few times, as if rebooting from Leclerc’s unexpected defense. When your mind finally reconnects, you offer the American reporter a grateful smile and a pointed glance towards Charles before speaking.
“You know, we didn’t go too over-the-top or anything,” you reply, welcoming the chance to shift to a fresh topic and get this presser back on track. “I’ll save that for the podium come race day.”
A smattering of relieved laughter ripples through the room, the tension level lowering incrementally as the debacle proceeds. You catch Charles’ subtle nod of acknowledgment across the table, his jaw marginally less taut now that the conversation has regained its footing.
From there, the presser proceeds relatively smoothly — more questions about favorite circuits and tactical approaches for the season, obligatory banter about inter-team rivalries and the usual window dressing. All through it, you feel a profound sense of gratitude for Leclerc’s willingness to essentially co-sign on your abilities and condemn the subversive misogyny lurking in that reporter’s pointed questions.
By the time the closing remarks and thank yous commence, you’ve already made up your mind to seek Charles out on your own to voice your appreciation and admiration.
You are among the first to rise and exit the media bullpen, practically speed-walking around the side of the building in hopes of catching Leclerc before he can retreat into Ferrari’s impenetrable bubble of flunkies and handlers.
“Charles! Hey, Charles — wait up a sec!”
The lean figure pauses and turns as you trot up, tilting his head inquisitively as you draw up short just in front of him.
“Sorry, hope you don’t mind me ambushing you like this,” you begin, barely suppressing the warm flush already creeping into your cheeks under his focused attention. “I just wanted to say … thank you for that. In there, I mean. What you said — how you handled that asshole’s ignorance before I could even begin responding.”
Charles’ expression flits momentarily through surprise before settling into its customary affable warmth. “Oh, that? Don’t mention it, Y/N. God knows we’ve all had to deal with our fair share of insufferable pricks on the media circuit at one point or another.”
He shrugs, as if his public solidarity with a fellow competitor were the most trivial, obvious hill to plant himself on. You feel a sudden swell of respect and admiration for the Ferrari star rise within you.
“Besides,” he continues with a casual, “How could I not defend the up-and-coming driver who gets to experience insane misogyny and ridiculous societal restraints while also knowing what it’s like to eat gold flake sundaes daily?” He shoots you a playful wink, dimples creasing his cheeks. “The duality of a princess is a heavy burden indeed ...”
You let out a peal of laughter, genuinely caught off-guard by the cheeky charm behind the dig at your privileged lineage. Far from offense, you find his irreverent humor utterly refreshing in the face of excessive nobility.
“It is a tragic affliction, I must admit,” you retort, placing one hand over your heart in mock solemnity. “But one I shall bear with dignity and poise. For my people.”
Your laughter fades into a more pensive expression, honeyed eyes finding his in an unspoken exchange of sincere emotions.
“But truly, Charles, thank you. I meant what I said in there — about wanting to inspire other women to fight for their dreams. To have someone like you leap to defend those ambitions right out of the gate … it means more than you can possibly know.”
He regards you with a speculative sort of new interest for a stretched moment before nodding slowly.
“I meant what I said too, Y/N,” he replies, utterly sincere. “If having to dress down a few assholes in public is what it takes to further that inspiration … well, that’s a pretty easy charge for me to take up.”
A fresh surge of resolve and determination irons out your features into that same unmovable resolve you inherited from your father. In that instant, you see the man Charles will hopefully become — a true legend and respected custodian of the sport, unwavering in his principles.
“Regardless, I’d love to find some way to properly thank you once we get back to Monaco,” you venture, wondering how far you can stretch this newfound rapport with the Ferrari star. “Maybe I could take you out for dinner or something next week? My treat, obviously.”
A faint flicker of surprise ghosts across Charles’ expression before that patented dimpled half-smile returns.
“Monaco? Oh, I’d love to, but I’m actually not sure if-”
He trails off, shaking his head in a rueful sort of resignation.
“Ah, merde — what I mean is that I just got word this morning that my flight back has been canceled due to some raised travel advisory or other. Classic airline nonsense.”
Your brows wing upwards as your sharp mind cycles immediately to the obvious solution.
“Well, in that case, why don’t you just come back on my plane?”
The words are out of your mouth before you can properly consider the context of your own casual statement. Leclerc blinks — Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he processes your incredibly nonchalant reference to having your own personal aircraft.
“... your plane?” He echoes, a new glint entering his stare as he studies you with fresh gravity.
You wave one hand in a dismissive little flourish, your practiced regal upbringing suddenly very apparent in the effortless hauteur radiating from you.
“Well of course, Charles — you didn’t think I flew commercial, did you?” Your nose wrinkles in feigned distaste as you grin up at him. “No, no — my family maintains a full fleet. I’m scheduled to return to Monaco via the 747 after the weekend wraps.”
Now it is the Ferrari star’s turn to look utterly gobsmacked, any veneer of media-trained poise utterly dissolving at your casual reference to owning a jumbo jet as if it were something as trivial as a sedan or motorcycle. His eyes bore into you with sudden intensity, as if seeing you in an entirely new light.
You can practically see the mental math exploding across his expression — the private security details, the designer casualwear on your lithe frame, the stunning and no doubt priceless jewelry glittering at your throat and wrists. All the tell-tale signs of absurd, eighth-continent-money levels of wealth.
And here you are, acting as if maintaining your own plane is just another given amenity ...
“Wait ...” he begins slowly, still processing the full scope of what you’ve so dismissively unveiled. “You’re telling me you have an actual, like … a 747 just sitting around that you use to fly wherever the hell you want?”
You blink owlishly up at him, momentarily bewildered by the sheer shock on his face. Surely the finer nuances of just how rich your family is couldn’t have escaped him completely up to now, could it?
So you simply shrug, offering him a playful smirk in a bid to diffuse any perceived arrogance or condescension on your part.
“More or less, yes,” you confirm breezily, pointedly ignoring his incredulity. “So what say you, Monsieur Leclerc? Shall we share a ride back to the riviera? I promise the in-flight movies are decent, at least.”
For a long moment, Charles can only stare at you, astounded at the bottomless depths of absurdity that is your birthright and lineage. Just when you think he may have simply short-circuited into a vegetative state, however, his mouth abruptly curves upwards into a devilish grin of epiphany.
“You know what?” He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelieving amusement. “In that case, you’re on. A nice flight back to Monaco sounds … perfect for a little post-race pick-me-up.”
You can’t help but smirk triumphantly as Charles extends one hand, which you accept in a firm shake.
Some rigid societal expectations among the royalty and aristocracy may be slow to evolve, but others? They’ve prepared you for the political game that is Formula 1.
***
The late afternoon sunlight slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Monaco apartment, casting warm geometric patterns across the plush marble tile. You lie draped over one of the oversized couches, aimlessly scrolling on your phone in a rare moment of quiet downtime.
Or rather, you’re hanging completely upside down on the couch, bare feet kicked up over the back cushions as you flick through a few inane social media feeds. The blood is just starting to rush towards your head in an oddly calming wash when the soft snick of the entryway lock disengaging catches your attention.
“Mon amour?” Charles’ familiar, lightly-accented voice rings out from the foyer. “You home?”
“In here!” You call back, not bothering to right yourself as your boyfriend’s lean silhouette appears in the archway, shrugging out of his leather jacket.
He spots your inverted form sprawled across the sitting area and shakes his head with a bemused chuckle, all tousled chestnut curls and devilish dimples.
“Must you always hang about like an overgrown cat?” He chides playfully, moving to settle onto the adjacent sofa. Even after nearly five months of dating, Charles still seems perpetually amused by your tendency to shirk regal posture and poise whenever afforded the opportunity. “Is gravity simply too much effort for royalty these days … "
“Your mockery wounds my very soul, kind sir,” you drone in a monotone false-lament, never breaking eye contact with the Ferrari star as your arms dangle limply towards the floor. “Should I have the servants fetch you a fainting couch to make up for my uncouth posture?”
Charles snorts, watching you with undisguised affection as he stretches out on the other sofa. “And they say chivalry is dead ...”
One callused hand comes up to gently brush an errant lock of hair away from your face, fingers trailing across your cheek in a simple caress. After so many months of sneaking heated looks across press conference panels and fielding ruthless speculation over your rumored involvement, moments like this still spark a bewildered sort of giddy thrill within you.
Here is Il Predestinato himself, someone blessed with every imaginable advantage — talent, wealth, fame, charisma. Yet it is you, the comparative newcomer raised worlds away, who seems to hold his singular focus even in the quiet stillness.
“Is this some new fitness fad the rest of us ignorant plebeians should be made aware of?” Charles inquires after a pregnant pause, arching one brow at your upended state.
He knows you too well by now, you muse — knows how prone you are to defying expectation or traditional high society conventions whenever the mood strikes. So rather than offer any excuse or justification, you simply shrug airily.
“Just experimenting with different … perspectives for the time being,” you retort, sticking your tongue out at him and reveling in the simple, teasing intimacy of the moment. “The world tends to look rather different when you turn everything on its head.”
“Isn’t that the truth ...” Charles hums, shifting ever-so-slightly closer before changing tacts. “Well, on that note … I’ve found myself with a rather unique perspective to share this evening.”
Your interest is instantly piqued, head lolling to one side as you regard the Ferrari star with renewed focus. One hand leaves its resting place on your abdomen, fingers wiggling inquisitively.
“Oh? Do tell, Monsieur Leclerc ...”
Charles chuckles again, low and genuine, before his emerald gaze turns pointedly opaque. Even now, after sharing countless impromptu evenings watching mind melting reality television and indulgent private vacations, he still retains the ability to utterly captivate your attention.
“Well, this particular news is rather more ...” He pauses for dramatic effect, pursing those perpetually kiss-plumped lips as if savoring the impending reveal. "... interesting.”
You exhale a petulant little huff, fighting the urge to stick your foot in his face or throw one of the decorative cushions at him.
“Charles, if this is meant to build suspense over you finally buying that fancy vacuum you won’t shut up about, I swear by the — mmph!”
Your playful griping is cut off as Charles suddenly lunges across the short distance separating your couches, capturing your lips in a fierce, silencing kiss. You squirm slightly at the abrupt shift in dynamics, the world seeming to spin and right itself as muscular forearms slide beneath you to gather you up into his lap.
By the time he finally pulls back, leaving you both breathless and slightly disheveled, you find yourself settled firmly in Charles’ sturdy embrace. Two sets of lidded eyes glaze over one another, reveling in the familiar intoxicating rush of chemistry.
“Easy there, mon ange,” he murmurs once you’ve both caught your respective breaths, one palm smoothing up and down your spine in an idle caress. “I promise this is a rather more agreeable surprise than debating vacuums.”
You watch, bemused, as his free hand dips into the inner pocket of his hoodie, withdrawing a familiar red envelope sealed with the unmistakable prancing horse emblem of Ferrari. Your heart rate instantly kicks up another notch at the mere sight of it, that infernal curiosity burning hotter than ever.
“The team initially planned to hand this off through proper channels,” Charles continues, expression inscrutable as he toys with the envelope, thumb tracing its embossed crest. “But given the … personal opportunity it presented, I thought it only appropriate to circumvent protocol this once.”
With that, he extends the envelope towards you, a silent offer for you to take up whatever life-altering missive lies within. You swallow hard against the sudden lump of anticipation welling in your throat, looking from the envelope, to Charles, and back again.
“What … what is this?” You croak, hating how fragile and uncertain your voice sounds.
Charles’ smile is soft as warm brandy, suffused with unguarded affection and pride. A pride not for himself, but for the very caliber of opportunity before you.
“For you,” he murmurs simply. “For your boundless determination to achieve in the face of adversity. This is the ultimate reward for outrunning not just your competitors, but the very expectations of an entire sport.”
The breath leaves your body in a dizzying rush as sudden realization crystallizes in your mind. How many nights have the two of you stayed up into the wee hours, idly discussing dream teams and potential openings across the grid? Debating which partnerships could provide the optimal platform for success?
This envelope bears no stamp or mailing address. But its rich, unmistakable crimson design and gleaming logo render such mundane addressing unnecessary. There is only one organization with the status to deliver their most sensitive communications in such an iconic manner.
With trembling hands, you accept the envelope, taking care not to smudge or crinkle its embossed insignia as you turn it over. Slowly, reverentially, you peel open the wax seal and slide out the sheaf of papers tucked within, eyes hungrily scanning the blocky sans-serif text:
SUBJECT: Ferrari Driver Offer, 2026 Season
Your breath catches in your throat, the words seeming to blur in a shimmering haze as hot tears instantly prick the corners of your eyes.
This isn’t merely a summons from Scuderia Ferrari. This isn’t a polite inquiry or negotiation tactic meant to bolster future value or status.
This is a formal contract, stamped with all the hallmarks of managerial approval ...
An invitation to join the most legendary name in all of motorsport as one of its drivers.
You shake your head in stunned disbelief, hardly daring to blink as your scrutinize every word, every assurance and term of agreement laid out in stark black ink.
It’s there, immaculate and absolute — a seat beside Charles for the 2026 season, to be finalized pending your confirmation and the exit of one former world champion.
Lewis Hamilton’s retirement.
The news had broken last month over the Ferrari driver’s surprise announcement that he would be exiting Formula 1 at the conclusion of the 2025 calendar year. Just one championship shy of his stated goal of eclipsing Michael Schumacher’s record for most drivers’ titles, the British superstar shocked the sporting world by revealing he was finally ready to step away from the cockpit and move on to other endeavors.
Speculation had run rampant, of course, over who within the sport’s glittering ranks of young up-and-comers had the talent and mettle to fill such an impossible void. You’d jokingly thrown about a host of names whenever the discussion arose with Charles, more content to fantasize and daydream rather than entertain any serious expectations.
Yet here it lies in your hands, in unblemished print. Proof that you’ve smashed through yet another carbon fiber-coated glass ceiling specifically by shattering every limitation placed upon your ambitions.
You glance up to find Charles gauging your reaction with a tender intensity akin to a besotted schoolboy, as if readying himself to sweep you off your feet all over again should you swoon from the news. Suddenly his every gesture from the moment he walked through your front door this evening makes perfect sense — the dramatics, the playful banter, and maddening evasiveness.
This was his way of showing you he’d listened, absorbed every idle comment or perceived slight you’d ever murmured over the proving grounds of your respective talents. That he saw and cherished every spark of hunger in your honeyed gaze, evident in your determination to continue defying odds not only as a woman — but as a pioneer hoping to be immortalized within motorsport.
The tears spill over at last, streaking unchecked down your cheeks as a tremulous laugh bubbles up unbidden from your chest. You lift one hand to shakily wipe at the dampness, willing yourself not to become an incoherent, hiccuping mess on the precipice of such a monumental achievement.
“I … I don’t even...” You begin, shaking your head slowly. For once, the woman raised to carry herself with poise and dignity in any station finds herself utterly bereft of words.
Charles merely watches and waits, soft sleeve brushing away the fresh tears tracking across your cheeks before cradling your jaw in one warm palm. Those mesmerizing eyes bore into yours with aching sincerity, seeing straight through you down to the deliriously euphoric riot of emotions swirling in your chest.
“Ferrari recognizes your spirit, your passion for this life, because it is the same fire that has forever stoked the heart of the Scuderia,” he murmurs, thumb smoothing an idle arc over the plump swell of your lower lip.
“They chose you not because you are a symbol — a pretty flag for them to rally under and wave as some achievement in name only. They see you as the next tireless warrior to pour their full belief into achieving victory.” A soft, affectionate breath of laughter escapes him, warm and adoring. “Which I know for a fact is the only ambition you’ve ever given a single damn about.”
You release a watery giggle at that, nodding in fervent agreement as you reach up to cradle the back of his neck, anchoring yourself in the tender solidity of his touch. Weeks and months of dogged speculation over prospects and vacancies, endlessly weighing the potential upshots and pitfalls of every career trajectory before you ...
… and here it waits, bold and singular as the sun itself — your chance to immortalize yourself among the hallowed ranks of Formula 1 royalty.
“You were made for this, mon cœur,” Charles continues, fingers trailing down the side of your neck in a gentle graze. “Your spirit, your sheer determination to shatter every obstacle placed in your way — Ferrari sees that fire blazing in you. It’s why they want you.”
He leans in, resting his forehead against your own as his lips curve into a devastatingly handsome smile, dimples peeking through.
“And not because of any family name or billions or royal pedigree you carry … but precisely because of how hard you’ve fought to strip all that away on the track. To make your own name and legacy that matters.”
The words strike you like the sweetest, most poignant arrow straight through your heart. And isn’t that what you’ve craved since the earliest dawning flickers of your obsession with this beautiful, brutal sport — recognition and triumph earned purely on your own merits?
You are no longer a Sheikha first, racing driver second. You are Y/N Y/L/N, Scuderia Ferrari driver in the making.
Before you can even find the words to respond — and what words could ever suffice at a moment like this — you are surging forward to capture Charles’ plush mouth with your own. The contract flutters forgotten to the floor as you pour every ounce of exhilarated gratitude and ardor into the fevered kiss, hands mapping the broad sloping planes of his shoulders and back with trembling urgency.
Charles responds in kind, all velvet heat and insistent possession as his arms sweep you impossibly closer, fingers tangling in the loose curtain of your hair. You allow yourself to succumb fully to the dizzying euphoria of his passion and the all-encompassing ambition now flowering in your breast unfurled, crashing over you in intoxicating waves.
This is no mere contract, no insignificant changing of pitlane scenery. This is the definitive moment where you have eclipsed every last shadow of self-doubt and exceeded even the lofty expectations bequeathed to you since girlhood.
You will become a legend.
Only when the need for air finally parts you does the fervent heat of the moment ebb enough for rational thought to pierce the moonlit haze of emotion. Your lips are swollen and tingling, senses heightened to every whisper and shift of muscle under Charles’ shirt as his chest expands in deep, measured breaths.
When you finally find the strength to lift your gaze and meet his hooded stare, he is the one rendered momentarily speechless by the intensity and elation blazing in your expression. Something he sees reflected back at him now from the woman nestled so securely in his arms.
“Oh, mon amour ...” Charles rasps at last, a sinfully indulgent smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He shakes his head as if beholding some ascending deity, utterly transfixed.
“This is only the beginning ...”
***
The camera flashes turn the plush Ferrari hospitality suite into a makeshift photo studio. You try not to blink as the bright lights sparkle off the deep red lipstick you’re wearing.
“Okay, bellissima, one more,” the photographer calls out. You tilt your head slightly and smile wide. Charles squeezes your hand. The shutter clicks.
“Perfetto! I think we got it,” the photographer says, lowering his camera with a grin. “Grazie mille, you two.”
“Thank you,” you reply in your lightly accented English. Charles plants a kiss on your cheek, leaving the faintest imprint of his lips in lightly tinted lip balm on your skin. The makeup artist rushes over to touch it up before the next part of the shoot.
This is your first joint promotional event as Ferrari’s new driver pairing for 2026. Well, sort of new — Charles is a proven superstar entering his seventh season with the team. You, on the other hand, are the fresh face and the source of international intrigue.
“Next up, we’re filming a little Q&A section,” the producer explains, adjusting his headset. “Just a fun, casual way for the fans to get to know you both better before the season starts.”
You and Charles take your seats, situating yourselves comfortably on the curved scarlet sofa. An array of cameras surrounds you on robotic arms, remotely controlled to capture every angle.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the producer calls out from behind the lights. An energetic young woman with a microphone appears on camera, greeting you both enthusiastically.
“Bonjour Charles, Salaam Y/N! So great to have Ferrari’s exciting new line-up with us today. Let’s get to know you guys a little better — there are notecards with rapid-fire questions right here and you just banter away, okay?”
Charles leans forward, grabbing a stack of notecards from the table beside him. “Here’s an easy one to start — who is the most famous person in your contacts?”
“Mine is Seb, of course! Sebastian Vettel. Used to be my teammate, now he’s basically a world-famous hermit.”
You roll your eyes playfully. “Oh come on, you can do better than that.”
“Your turn then, Your Highness,” Charles counters with a teasing lilt. “Who’s the biggest celebrity in that royal contacts list of yours?”
You tap a manicured fingernail against your plump lips, pretending to ponder the question. In truth, you know exactly who it is, and Charles is going to be stunned. A sly grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Does my father count?”
Charles barks out a laugh. “I don’t think so, Y/N. Pick someone a bit more … interesting.”
“Oh? You want interesting?” You tease, unable to resist dragging this out. “How about … Taylor Swift?”
Whatever Charles was expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. His eyes go comically wide, jaw dropping slightly. “You … Taylor Swift? As in, the international popstar?”
“The one and only,” you confirm with a serene nod.
“How in the world do you have Taylor Swift’s phone number?” He sputters.
You shrug, admiring the gemstone-encrusted rings glittering on your fingers. “It was my 18th birthday party. Baba knew how much I loved her music, so he got her to perform.”
“He got … your father got Taylor Swift … to perform at your birthday?” Charles is still gaping at you like you’ve grown a second head.
“Well yes, what else would you expect?” You laugh at his dumbfounded expression. “It wasn’t that big a deal, habibi.”
Charles opens his mouth, then closes it, seemingly at a loss for words. You lean over the side of the couch, draping one hand over the armrest as you gaze up at him with false innocence.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
“I …” he finally manages. “Y/N, you never cease to amaze me.”
“Is that so?” You bat your eyelashes coyly. “Good thing you’re stuck with me then.”
Charles shakes his head in disbelief, but his expression melts into a fond one, dimples showing as he grins down at you.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, mon amour.”
You sit up slightly at the pet name, spoken so tenderly. That warm, bubbly feeling fills your chest like always when Charles looks at you like that — like you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.
“Alright, alright,” you murmur, trying to ignore the blush you can feel heating your cheeks. “Ask another question before I get too distracted by that irresistible smile of yours.”
Charles chuckles darkly. “Oh, trust me. I’m very distracting.”
You giggle at his faux arrogance. “Very distracting indeed. Now come on, ask me something good.”
He glances down at the cards again. “Let’s see … what’s the most extravagant gift you’ve ever received?”
You don’t even have to think about that one. “My baby.”
There’s a pause, then- “Did you just refer to me as a gift?”
“Not you,” you laugh. “My gorgeous F2002.”
Recognition dawns on Charles’ face as he remembers your long tangents about the iconic race car. “Ah, of course. Your prized possession.”
“It was a present for my 15th birthday,” you explain, unable to keep the pride from your voice. “From Baba. I nearly fainted when I saw it.”
“I’ll bet,” Charles murmurs. “She’s a beauty, that’s for sure.”
“That she is,” you agree softly. Your eyes linger on Charles, watching the way the harsh factory lights play against the sculpted lines of his face, catching in his dark eyes. Beautiful, just like your car.
You tear your eyes away before you get too carried away, clearing your throat. “Next question?”
Charles blinks, seeming to shake himself from his own reverie before consulting the cards again. His brow furrows slightly as he reads the next one.
“Well this is … certainly a question.” He looks up at you with mild bewilderment. “What’s the most embarrassing thing your family has ever done?”
You grimace slightly at that. Your parents certainly haven’t been immune to embarrassing their only daughter over the years. After a moment’s hesitation, you launch into the story.
“Okay, so when I was sixteen, I had this dreadful crush on one of Baba’s racehorse jockeys …”
Charles listens attentively, dimples showing again as you regale the tale of your young lovesick self hopelessly pining after the older, objectively very attractive jockey. How your parents, in their infinite wisdom and total lack of subtlety, had gotten it into their heads that the best way to cheer you up over your unrequited crush was to invite said jockey over for a family dinner at the palace ...
“... and of course, in front of this painstakingly handsome man, my parents could not resist mercilessly teasing and embarrassing me the entire night!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, but you’re laughing too at the ridiculousness of the memory. “I thought I would simply perish from mortification right there at the table.”
“No, no, no,” Charles shakes his head, grinning widely. “Please, tell me more about how devilishly handsome this jockey was.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you snort, reaching out to shove his shoulder lightly. But you oblige him anyway. “Okay, fine, you want details? He was … oh, I don’t know, maybe 6 feet tall, tanned and muscular from all that riding, perfectly tousled dark hair-”
“Tousled dark hair, hmm?” Charles arches an eyebrow at you, smile turning sly. “Should I be jealous?”
“Oh hush, that was years ago,” you wave a hand dismissively. “Though I suppose if we want to talk about petty jealousies and crushes …”
When he seems confused, you smirk up at him mischievously.
“Word on the street is a certain Monegasque driver had quite the thing for Valentino Rossi back in the day.”
It’s Charles’ turn to snort at that, shaking his head ruefully. “You’re one to talk. Everyone knows how obsessed you were with Fernando Alonso for years.”
“I was a child!” You protest with dignity, trying not to laugh. “It was an innocent celebrity crush and nothing more.”
“Uh huh, sure,” he teases. “Which is why you still have that massive lifesize poster of him in your bedroom at the palace-”
“How do you know about that?” You halt him, utterly mortified all over again. Your face flames scarlet as Charles dissolves into helpless laughter beside you.
“I’m only joking, ma belle,” he finally gasps out. “I’ve never seen this supposed poster.” Charles reaches out, looping an arm around your waist to pull you snug against his side. You go easily, butting your forehead lightly against his shoulder with a huff.
“You’re the worst, you know that?”
“And yet, you keep me around,” he murmurs warmly. His fingers trace idle patterns against your hip, making you shiver. “Something about me must be tolerable.”
You tilt your head back to meet his intense gaze, your lips curving despite yourself.
“I suppose you’ll do,” you murmur. Then you lean up on your tiptoes to press your mouth against his.
Charles melts into the soft, lingering kiss, the arm around your waist tightening to bring you even closer against him. This close, you can feel the lean muscle and warmth of his body, your own tingling with awareness. One of his hands slips into your hair, cradling the back of your head and angling your lips for better access.
A quiet noise of pleasure escapes your throat as the kiss deepens, growing more heated. You part your lips eagerly to grant his questing tongue entrance, tasting the hint of coffee and addictive scent that always makes your head spin dizzily. His other hand smoothes down your side, over the dip of your waist and the curve of your hip, burning through the thin fabric of your team polo-
“Ahem … aaaand cut! Fantastic you two, that’s a wrap on this portion,” the director says, his amused tone breaking the trance. “Why don’t we take a short break before setting up for next segment?”
Cheeks flushed, you and Charles reluctantly pull apart, remembering there’s a whole bustle of crew surrounding you at the moment. Tucking a glossy lock of hair behind your ear, you lean in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear.
“Raincheck on that kiss, habibi? I have a few more surprises in store for you later.” You graze his earlobe with your teeth, delighting in the way his breath catches. “If you think we already know everything about each other … you haven’t seen anything yet.”
With a saucy wink, you extract yourself from his embrace and saunter off to refresh your makeup, leaving your dazed boyfriend gaping after your retreating form.
***
Two Years Later
You wake with a start to the sound of your alarm blaring at 4:38 am. Groaning, you reach over to silence it, blinking blearily in the dark. It’s the start of another day of fasting for Ramadan — the first your now husband will be participating in to support you.
A soft snore comes from beside you and you can’t help but smile fondly. There he is, heartthrob of Formula 1 fans everywhere, drool trailing down his chin onto the 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton pillowcase. How attractive.
“Charles,” you whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. “Time to wake up for suhoor.”
He merely grunts and rolls over, pulling the covers up over his head. You sigh in exasperation. For an elite professional athlete, he can be stubborn as a mule when it comes to early mornings.
Giving up for now, you slip out of bed and pad across the plush carpet of your sprawling bedroom quarters in the palace. You flick on the ornate brass lamps, bathing the room in a warm glow that glints off the gold accents everywhere.
A jaw-cracking yawn escapes you as you make your way over to the bathroom, hoping a splash of cool water on your face will help wake you. Your bare feet slap against the intricate tile mosaics as you go.
“What time is it?” A sleepy voice calls out behind you.
“Early,” you call back. “We have forty minutes before the fast begins.”
You emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later, slightly more alert, to find Charles blinking confusedly around the room, mussed hair sticking up every which way. He looks utterly lost without his morning coffee.
“Come along, habibi,” you say, grabbing his hand and tugging him out of bed with a grunt. “Let’s go see what the kitchen staff has prepared.”
Charles just nods obediently, Ferrari red pajama pants hanging low on his hips in a way that makes your cheeks flush. Even barely conscious, he’s unfairly good-looking.
The two of you make your way down the torch-lit hallways of the palace toward the private dining room reserved for the royal family members. You can’t resist threading your fingers through his and giving his hand a squeeze.
“I’m proud of you for doing this,” you murmur. “It means everything to me.”
Charles halts, tugging you into his arms. His embrace is warm and comforting and familiar. You let your eyes drift shut as he brushes his lips across your forehead.
“Of course,” he rumbles in that delicious accent of his. “Anything for you, mon cœur.”
A throat clears behind you and you jump apart, heat flooding your cheeks. Whirling around, you spot your father regarding you sternly, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.
“Good mor-er, night? Apologies, Charles,” he says gruffly. “I’m still getting used to this schedule.”
Charles gives a awkward little bow. “No need to apologize, Your Highness.”
You roll your eyes fondly at the two most important men in your life. For cultures on opposite sides of the world, sometimes they’re more alike than either would admit.
“Have you two eaten yet?” Your father continues. “The cooks have prepared a feast as usual.”
Shaking your head, you tug Charles’s hand to follow as you make your way into the lavish dining room. It’s deserted at this hour save for the kitchen staff milling about, setting out enormous platters of food.
Arabian coffee in delicate gemmed cups. Chickpea stew and crisp flatbreads fresh from the tandoor oven. Heaping mounds of creamy balaleet vermicelli sweetened with rosewater and cardamom. Succulent medjool dates and purees of every fruit imaginable to kick off the fast as healthfully as possible. It all smells utterly divine and makes your mouth water.
You glance sidelong at Charles to see him staring around with an utterly gobsmacked look. His adorably bewildered expression makes you stifle a giggle — you always forget this is the first time he’s experiencing the elaborate palace rituals.
“Dig in,” your father says gruffly, already loading up his plate.
And dig in you do, shoveling food into your mouths as quickly as your etiquette training will allow. All too soon, the muezzin’s call to prayer rings out over the grounds, signaling the official start of the day’s fasting.
You sit back with a contented sigh, hands resting atop your pleasantly full belly. Beside you, Charles looks pleasantly stuffed as well in that gorgeous way where his shirt rides up just a hint. The old you might’ve flushed scarlet and averted your eyes like a proper modest lady. This emboldened you lets your gaze linger ...
“Enjoying the sights?” Your father’s wry voice cuts through your daze.
You startle, snapping your attention back to see his eyes twinkling with amusement. Of course the man misses nothing when it comes to his only daughter. The tips of your ears burn.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he continues, rising to his feet. “I have matters of state to attend to as usual despite the hour. Do try to behave, you two.”
You open your mouth to protest the teasing, indignant, but he silences you with a look and a raised brow. With great restraint, you merely nod instead. Soon as the door swings shut behind him, you blow out an exasperated breath, rolling your eyes heavenward.
“I love him dearly,” you start. “But sometimes-”
Whatever sarcastic rejoinder you were going to make dies on your lips when you catch sight of Charles again. He’s leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out before him, looking utterly at ease amid the heart of Arabian luxury. A tiny, fond smile plays about his lips.
“What?” You ask self-consciously.
“Nothing,” he says at once, shaking his head. “I just … you look beautiful here. Content. Like you were born to it.”
It’s your turn to blink in surprise at the unexpected compliment. Of course you were raised amid affluence and trained in regal bearing from birth. And yet ...
“Flatterer,” you say at last, trying to brush off the warm curl of pleasure blooming in your chest.
Charles sits up straight, expression turning earnest in that intense way of his that never fails to rob you of breath.
“I’m serious,” he insists. “You’re so at home here. The way your face lights up at all the little traditions, how you banter with your father like you rule the place …” His eyes roam over you adoringly. “You’re magnificent.”
Your cheeks heat furiously, but you can’t look away, caught in his smoldering gaze. How is it possible for this man to make you feel so flustered and treasured after all this time? He reaches across to take your hand, calloused fingers stroking over your knuckles.
“Thank you,” you whisper at last. “For doing this with me. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“Of course,” Charles echoes his earlier sentiment simply.
There’s a brief, electrically charged moment where you’re both just gazing at each other like nobody else exists. And then … a low rumbling growl shatters the stillness. You blink as Charles flushes bright red.
“I, ah, seem to be hungry again already with the early schedule,” he admits sheepishly.
You throw back your head with a peal of laughter, loud and unbridled and utterly unconcerned with propriety for once. Leave it to your man to break the tension in the most delightfully awkward way. “Easy there, habibi. You’ll need to save room for iftar later tonight.”
Realizing you’ve caught him looking undignified, Charles has the good grace to look a bit sheepish. “You’re right, mon ange. Got a bit carried away with my last chance to eat for awhile.” He licks his lips slowly, watching you with heated eyes. “I’ll be counting the seconds until I can taste you agai-”
“Charles, not during fasting hours!” You cut him off with a scandalized giggle, heat flooding your cheeks at his shameless innuendo. Even after all this time, he can still fluster you with a single heated look.
He just throws back his head with a full-throated laugh, utterly unrepentant.
You shake your head at his antics, trying in vain to suppress your grin. “Incorrigible,” you mutter fondly.
Leaning back in your chair, you settle in to watch him contently. Heat simmers low in your belly, anticipating the moment you can finally break your fast tonight and enjoy some … dessert.
The little eight-year-old girl attending her first race could never have imagined that this would be her life one day. Alhamdulillah for the blessings that Allah saw to bestow upon you. With your husband by your side and the ink drying on a long-term contract with Ferrari, you have everything you could have asked for.
#f1 imagine#f1#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#f1 x reader#f1 x you#charles leclerc#cl16#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc fic#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc blurb#f1 fluff#f1 blurb#f1 one shot#f1 x y/n#f1 drabble#f1 fandom#f1blr#f1 x female reader#charles leclerc x female reader#charles leclerc x y/n#scuderia ferrari#charles leclerc one shot#charles leclerc drabble
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fratboy!jj hcs ₊˚⊹♡
a/n : i know i've talked about frat!rafe before, but what about frat!jj ?
cw : mdni , drinking , implied smut
- fratboy!jj participates in every single event his frat has . fundraisers, bonfires, dartys, you name it
- with his brothers , they all have some kind of dumb nickname for him like " big papa " or some nonsense .
- he first sees you when you and your friends decide to go through his frat's " car wash " . when he sees you, his hips are grinding against your driver's seat window, " cleaning " with the soapy suds running down his abs . his skin was tan from being out all day , muscles gleaming under the sunlight hitting the soap and water .
- he uses his index finger in a downward motion to ask you to roll down your window . mid laugh, you abide and soap runs down your window
- fratboy!jj boldly invites you and your friend to his party tonight , letting you know the theme was black and white
- when you get there , you're dresses to the nines in a tight , black leather dress . and when jj , clad in black shorts and an unbuttoned black camp shirt , sees you , hes speechless .
- after a while of casual drinking and dancing , fratboy!jj ends up taking body shots off of your stomach , unashamedly holding eye contact with you the whole time
- he gets bold quick after some drinks are in his system , and asks to take you up to his room
- after that night , he shows you his goofier side , even when he's sober
- fratboy!jj my beloved <3
#divider: chilumitos#jj maybank x reader#jj obx#jj maybank smut#jj maybank#frat!jj#jj obx imagine#jj maybank headcanon#outer banks smut#obx smut
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My Darling, My Honey
Alastor X Fem!Reader (Part 5)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Quick Notes:
This is when both reader/you and Alastor are both alive. (... we'll probably end up in hell later on btw so stay tuned...)
Reader is an artist/painter.
Part 5:
It was almost pure bliss.
Except many months later, you found out a secret of his one day.
He was an exceptional chef, you were always in awe of how he cooked such magnificent dishes every day.
But one day, you peeked out into the forest through the window in the living room and saw Alastor standing alone, covered in blood. Your first instinct was to run outside, so you did just that.
You rush to his side and ask if he's okay, and what had happened to make him covered in such copious amounts of blood.
He blinks a few times before oddly turning his head to you, breaking out of his stupor, "Oh my dearest (y/n), do not fret so. For I am only acquiring our dinner for tonight!"
You look down at what he is holding in his hands. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth. A leg. A human leg. Your eyes then trail to the ground where you see a bloody human body, mangled beyond recognition. "This is.. dinner?"
A large grin appears on Alastor's face, "Quite right! This one should be enough to last us through the week!"
He looks at your face with an almost vicious look to his eyes, awaiting your response anxiously, not that he would let that show, anyways.
All you can manage is "Oh. Okay." Before you walk back inside the house without another word.
It's no exaggeration to say that your brain chemistry was permanently altered from that moment onward.
The situation felt so strange and bizarre, you didn't know what to think. Part of you knew that was he's been doing is extremely horrible and corrupt. It almost made you empty the contents of your stomach, it didn't feel real.
It didn't feel real, but suddenly some of Alastor's behaviors started to make sense. His picky taste for food...He never let you help with cooking, you had chalked it up to him being more of a perfectionist, but now... you know its more than that. He was hiding the fact that he was butchering and preparing human flesh, right in your very home, all this time.
But.. for some reason... all you could think about was how dedicated he was to providing a comfortable life for you, because he truly loved you. Everything he did every day showed you that you mattered and that you deserved only the best.
"But I still love him with all my heart... maybe I'm just as messed up..." Was a sentence your mind kept repeating to itself for quite some time.
Your appetite shrinks after the initial shock for a few days, but you were never one to skip meals or have your appetite be gone completely, even if you were sick. In this instance, you weren't sure if it was a blessing or a curse in this case.
The meals he made for you had never made you sick in the past, so your body was already used to eating his cooking, and he made such amazing food, carefully crafted with such love and attention to detail, you couldn't help but keep eating his delicious cooking, no matter how bizarre and immoral it was.
"I think I really am just as messed up..." The thought crossed your mind again, but thoughts were interrupted by a rare occurrence, a kiss on the cheek from Alastor as he set your plate down in front of you.
The fact that you never stopped eating his cooking and always thanked him for his food and hard work, even after knowing where the main ingredient comes from, solidified the fact that you were the one. You loved him even after seeing him all bloody, holding a dismembered corpse, and telling you it was dinner. It was this pivotal moment that he knew, that you were the one to be his beloved forever.
In the coming weeks, things went back to "normal". You were settling into the new normal, as Alastor didn't hide the meal prep like he used to, and seeing him bloody and bringing in mysterious cuts of meat into the house became a normal sight to you.
One night when you were going to see Mimzy, Alastor informed you that he was unable to escort you that night. You were a little disappointed, but he assured you it was okay for you to go, it was just that he had plans that he wouldn't divulge any information on, no matter how much you pressed him.
Little did you know, but that night, Alastor was out on the town shopping for the perfect ring to propose to you with.
-> Part 6
#hazbin hotel alastor#alastor x reader#hazbin#hazbin hotel#fanfic#alastor#hasbin hotel#alastor x y/n#alastor x female reader#alastor x you#alastor hazbin#alastor hazbin hotel#alastor the radio demon#radio demon#fem reader#female reader#reader insert#x reader#x y/n#x you#hazbin hotel x reader#hazbin hotel x you#hasbin
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❅*⋆ 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙣𝙤𝙬
navi | taglist
pairing: jung wooyoung x fem!reader
w.c.: 4.4k
genre: smut, fluff, established relationship
while the world revelled in the first snowfall of the year — crowding their windows as the sky painted the streets in a blanket of white — your focus remained elsewhere, too busy celebrating wooyoung.
❅ warnings: food/eating mentioned, unprotected sex (👎), creampie, oral sex (m receiving), deepthroating, men whimpering *drools*, wooyoung is a tease, sub-leaning!reader, cockwarming, creaming, praise, nicknames (youngie, woo; baby, good girl, darling, love), they are so in love i want to throw up
❅ A/N: happiest birthday to my beloved.
nsfw under the cut—minors dni 🔞
Smoothing your spatula over the cooled top layer, small, golden crumbs adhered to the buttercream as you coated the freshly baked cake’s exterior. You peered outside the window atop the sink, a smile stretching your lips when you’d noticed the falling white specs coating the world behind the safety of your glass pane.
You loved winter. You loved the hot chocolate with marshmallows melting into a swirl of whipped cream, huddling up on the couch with candles burning, blankets engulfing your form while the world around you faded away as warmth seeped into your skin. You loved the anticipation of snow, and the bliss it brought with it when it dressed the streets in a soft, pearly gown. You loved the big jumpers you’d sneak out of Wooyoung’s closet, his scent imbedded into the soft fibres, and the homemade soup burning your tongue as he spoon-fed it into your open mouth. Even with harsh storms swaying the trees from side to side, branches banging against your windows, hail pounding on the hoods of cars, and bleak winds breaching the thick layers of cashmere and fleece, winter with Wooyoung was warm.
Too immersed in taking in the sky’s frosty offering, you’d missed the gentle rustling of keys, the click of the front door, mindlessly spreading the slightly-too-thick coating while socked feet padded their way to your idle form. The sudden hands on your waist startled you, a gallop of buttercream flying off the spatula you were holding as your arm jolted upwards, quickly twisting your body with a stunted inhale to face the intruder. Your initial fright dwindled away as you stood before Wooyoung, eyes closed to avoid the buttercream stuck over his eyebrow, his body trapping yours against the marble counter.
“Woo,” you breathed out a sigh of relief, giggles bubbling up in your throat as you reached for the tablecloth you had thrown over your shoulder, wiping his face with your lips drawn tight to suppress the laugh attempting to slip through.
“Is this how you treat me on my birthday?” You wanted to kiss his pout away, but you resisted. “I rushed home to my darling because I missed her so much, and she tries to blind me,” he sulked, fluttering his eyes open once you’d wiped his face completely clean.
This time, you giggled, leaning forward to press your lips together, moving to peck the corners before pulling away. “I’m sorry, my love,” you smiled apologetically, not bothering with teasing him on his birthday. His mouth stretched into a smile that mirrored yours, and you leaned into his body, arms wrapping around his small waist while his circled your own. Glancing down at his shirt, about to scold him for the improper number of layers he’d thrown on before leaving, your eyebrows shot up at the blotchy streaks of brown painting the thin white. “What did the guys do to you?”
He tilted his head to take in the state of his shirt, blowing out a breathy laugh before directing his gaze back to your puzzled features. “Oh baby, you should’ve seen my face. They had Jongho push it down into the cake.”
“Mm, you still have some in your hair,” you grinned while picking out the crumbs from his hairline, running your fingers through dark locks to break up the stuck-together strands.
A gust of air blew over your face as it escaped Wooyoung’s parted lips in a heavy sigh, interrupting your ministrations when he dropped his head onto your shoulder to nuzzle his nose into your pulse point, inhaling the lingering scent of vanilla wafting off your skin and occupying your residence. Pressing a kiss to your neck, he muttered against the soft flesh, “I’ve missed you.”
You smiled, “you’ve only been gone for two hours.”
“Too long.”
Your chest warmed, fingers carding through the soft hairs at his nape while he laid the weight of his head onto your shoulder, breath steady and arms secure around your waist, occasionally tightening as he zoned in and out of the present, content to simply rest within the aura of tranquillity you’d effortlessly granted him. “You’re here now,” you burrowed your nose into his hair, the chocolatey aroma of a wasted cake embedded into the soft locks.
It wasn’t that Wooyoung was fond of winter too — he simply enjoyed spending it by your side. Pretending to be cold so you’d snuggle closer to him, running your hands through his hair and peppering kisses over his face until it scrunched up, blowing hot air over his already-warm palms just to see the corners of his eyes wrinkle as his lips curled with a smile. You'd wait all year to watch the world pile on layers of thick fabric with a sheet of white, quickly melting dust resting on their shoulders, dainty snowflakes bedecking brown locks, irises glinting under the winter sky as you walked down the slippery sidewalk with intertwined fingers swinging between your bodies.
Winter, to you and Wooyoung, meant meaningless walks under the soft snowfall, feeling the momentary chill of the icy flakes on your skin before it reverted back to liquid. Red noses inhaling the crisp air, soft gusts of fog leaving freckled lips as excited words rolled off his tongue — something about a new series he was watching, or was it a movie? The non-prescription glasses he insisted on wearing all but fully beclouded, droplets of melted snow rolling off the plastic frame, his lips cracked with their excessive movement as he kept switching between topics, as though he’d been saving them up for weeks. As though you didn’t share most of the day’s hours in each other’s company, eyes meeting delicate features as the morning sun cast its early rays over your resting figures, and falling shut within each other’s embrace, hoping their gentle touch could carry into your dreams.
Wooyoung knew when to be quiet as well. When the grey, weary skies reflected upon your affect, your warm sheets proving to be a little more difficult to part with, and words a little more difficult to utter. In such instances, Wooyoung offered you peace, safety, warmth. A place to rest and recover, where the passage of time didn’t seem too daunting, where you could find footing at your own pace, with a gaze flooded with unfaltering adoration cast upon you, and arms warmer than the peak of summer holding your trembling form until it found the strength to stand alone, a ghost of a palm on your lower back even as you took your first steps back into the present.
A pleasant exhale warmed your shoulder before Wooyoung’s body retreated partially, arms still encompassing your body while he directed his focus onto the counter behind you. “Has my baby been working on this since I left?” His tone was playful, amused as he peered over your shoulder at the crumb-coated cake left unfinished.
The corners of your lips lifted into a shy smile, cheeks flushed while you nodded. With your eyes fixed onto a particular stain on Wooyoung’s collar, you’d missed the tenderness of his gaze as he took you in — curling in on yourself while he held you in his arms, flour dusted over your sweater and traces of buttercream left at the corner of your mouth from a sneaky taste testing you thought would go unnoticed. Holding your chin with his pointer and thumb, Wooyoung directed your focus back to his face, greeting you with an easy smile before leaning forward to close the gap between your lips. They sashayed like dancers, moulding against one another in a gentle, yet gradually deepening kiss, noses pressing against one another as Wooyoung stepped further into your space.
And just like that, he was gone again, moving back to moon over the blend of abashment and disorientation taking over your features while your lips continued to chase his, the plushness lingering over your senses, and you wanted more. But the hands on your waist were twisting you clockwise until you faced the loitering snowfall once again, Wooyoung’s arms now on either side of you, bracketing your body against the counter while his lips feathered over the cartilage of your ear as he spoke, “come on then, don’t let me distract you.”
Your heartrate picked up, Wooyoung’s body heat — despite the intentional space left between your back and his chest — seeping into your skin, not aiding the flush running up your body at the proximity, the not-so-innocent touches, the teasing, the taste of his lips persisting over yours.
“Woo,” the tone was firm, but your voice wavered before you could stop it, and the telltale stretch of his mouth against the shell of your ear told you all you needed to know — Wooyoung was aware of his effect on you, and would work to exploit his power in any way he could.
Slender fingers reached for the piping bag you’d set aside earlier, twisting one of your hands with his free one to place the tool into your open palm. “Here, I’ll help,” his smirk remained, evident in his voice as he laid his hands over your knuckles, following your lead as you adjusted the bag in your hold until it fit comfortably.
You exhaled the breath you’d been holding, steadying your trembling hands and angling your body over the counter, dragging Wooyoung down with you as he watched your measured movements in silence. Pressing down on the sides of the plastic bag, you formed your first buttercream swirl with a meticulous twist of the wrist. You pursed your lips, leaning back ever so slightly to examine it before nodding in approval, bending down once again to repeat the process.
Wooyoung's hand remained perched idly over yours, eyes flitting between your profile and the hands lining his birthday cake’s circumference with — very uneven — swirls of vanilla buttercream. With no trace of your previous bashfulness to be found, Wooyoung found himself mooning over the engaged furrow of your eyebrows, the glossy sliver of tongue held between your teeth, steady hands moving underneath his with no complaint about their added weight; you’ll most likely use that as an excuse to justify the noticeable discrepancy in swirl size, and Wooyoung will most likely allow it, drop the banter and accept you accusations, simply to see the blissful spark lighting up your irises.
Suddenly straightening up into his body, you’d dragged Wooyoung out of his sappy daydreams and back to inspect the finished cake, the decorative swirls appearing more uniform now that they’d been clustered together, the mouthwatering scent of vanilla and caramel so inviting, so homey and pleasant.
As though you’d read his mind, you reached forward to grab a clean fork from the dishrack, not bothering with cutting out a slice before you’d stabbed the cake to scoop out a bite of fluffy, vanilla-coated sponge. Wooyoung's mouth opened without thought as you directed the heaped fork over your shoulder, teeth clanging against the metal as he slid the contents off its prongs. You'd expected the passionate feedback, turning your head as soon as his eyes had fell shut, wishing you’d plugged your ears as soon as the hyperbolic moaning began. Sensing the sway of his body behind you while he chewed loudly, you slid your finger over the coated side of the cake, collecting a bead of buttercream and rotating your body to smear it onto his cheek. The moaning stopped, thank fuck.
The deadpan expression barely lasted, his features melting into that of warmth, affection, love — as though you’d handcrafted the intricate snowflakes painting the world white and placed them into his hands. Wooyoung’s gaze moved to your lips, skipping contemplation, and diving forward to share the sweet remnants of vanilla on his tongue, flicking it over your bottom lip with a sly smile. He trailed tender kisses up your face, starting at the corner of your mouth and up to your cheekbone. And just as your eyes fluttered shut, a warm, buttercream-covered cheek collided with yours, curved nose nuzzling into the warm flesh to smear the sugary cream over your skin. His grip on your waist was unyielding, holding you still while you thrashed in his arms.
“You shouldn’t play with your food, my love,” he grinned, fingers now poking at your sides.
“Woo—” you shrieked and jerked away from his touch, throwing your head back as giggles erupted from your chest. “Please—s-stop!”
He carried on with his ministrations for a few moments more, revelling in the pleasant melody leaving your smiling lips, the joyous expression persisting even after his hands ceased their motion, now resting comfortably over the curve of your waist. It was as though an inconspicuous force drew him to you, finding it laborious to remain detached from your form. The cake on his shirt be damned, he wrapped himself around you, tucking his head into the crook of your neck to inhale the scent of your body wash, pressing feathery pecks over the soft skin.
The corners of your lips curled upwards, sighing pleasantly at the gentle gesture as you smoothed your hands down his back, nuzzling your cheek into his clothed shoulder while the scent of musk and chocolate mingled in the air around you.
Settling in the tranquil stillness with Wooyoung, you could feel the taut, lean muscle lining his back beneath your palms, absorbing his comforting heat as you stood together. “How are you not cold?”
He smiled fondly at the slight lisp you spoke with, tucked so close to his body, his shoulder muffled your words. Pulling back, he placed a wet kiss to the tip of your nose when you’d whined about the sudden parting, and his hands reached for yours. He enveloped the icy digits within the warmth of his own, bringing them up to his mouth to blow hot air into the cocoon he’d created around your hands. Closing his fingers around yours completely, he hoped it’d contain the warmth of his breath, lowering them back down to peer at you through his eyelashes, a familiar glint in his eyes.
“What?” you questioned warily, one eyebrow raised and heat rushing through your body.
Despite his intense stare, his eyes — though slightly narrowed — remained soft, one hand leaving yours to smooth down the hair at the side of your head, the scent of chocolate surrounding you once again as he pressed his lips to your temple, the leftover sugary cream on his skin spreading over your cheekbone as he spoke.
“My sweet baby, let’s warm you up, yeah?”
--
All plans to ravish you vanished as soon as your knees met the carpeted floor between his legs, hurried fingers tugging at his sweatpants, not allowing him the time to settle back down onto the couch cushions before a wet tongue swiped over the precum beading at his tip.
“Baby, you really don’t have to,” he muttered breathlessly, fingers carding through your hair, eager eyes watching your spit-soaked lips approaching his cock.
Looking up at him through your lashes, you wordlessly took his cockhead into your mouth, fluttering your eyes shut as you lowered yourself further down his length, grunts and choked moans reverberating in your ears and motivating you to carry on. He felt heavy on your tongue, the prominent vein lining his shaft throbbing in your mouth and bitter precum overwhelming your tastebuds. Wooyoung’s thighs tensed under your palms, and glancing up at him, you watched the turmoil his features portrayed, wanting you to move at your own pace, yet the burning want sizzling in his gut begged him to take what he wanted.
“Youngie,” a gentle mumble of his name was enough to drag him out of the battles crowding his mind, snapping his eyes down to your face with parted lips and stunted exhales. Dragging your mouth down his length, you watched as his gaze moved to take in the slow descent, then back up at the sound of your voice, “use me however you want, birthday boy.”
You flattened your tongue over underside of his cock, moving upwards to circle around his head, your exaggerated slurping breaking Wooyoung’s composure, the internal battles in his mind coming to a standstill as your warmth engulfed him, eyes beginning to roll back with every inch you took down the rough plane of your tongue. His hands shot up to hold your face, thumb caressing your cheekbones while he kept you in place, languidly rolling his hips into your mouth, head thrown back over the cushions behind him with burning arousal rushing through his body. You nuzzled your nose into the thick hairs at his base, and even as you gagged, your mind floated in ecstasy with every upward buck of Wooyoung’s hips.
“Fuck—‘m sorry darling, you feel so good,” he admired the skill in which you took his cock with lidded eyes, brows furrowed while he held you down until he felt the last of your oxygen warming the skin of his pelvis.
Wooyoung helped you off his length before you had the chance to tap on his thigh, chest heaving as he watched you regain your breath, his throbbing length coated in your spit and spurting translucent, sticky precum in anticipation. He followed the string of saliva connecting the tip of your tongue to his cockhead, swallowing dryly as his body lit up with all-consuming lust. Watching you suck in the air you’d lost, Wooyoung assumed he’d have more time to recover, to push down the hints of an orgasm come too soon, but the sudden fingers around his base offered him no reprieve. Small, firm tugs on the lower half of his cock built him up to an almost-high once again, his voice thinning — groans turned choked-up moans — and his hips involuntarily jerking into your fist.
“W-wait—baby, ‘m gonna cum, please—” he pleaded, but the small smile you tried to hide told him everything he needed to know: you weren’t planning on stopping. You wanted to hear him whimper and whine, watch him squirm and shiver under your touch until he’d dirtied his clothes with his own cum, until his cock could no longer handle the flaring stimulation. But Wooyoung had other plans, grabbing your wrist and sighing as you relaxed your fingers around his cock, shutting his eyes to bask in the calm before opening them once again to take in your dejected features. Too riled up to play your games, like a carnivorous fauna who’d been mercilessly starved for weeks, Wooyoung wanted to feast. “God, darling, I wanna fuck you so bad.”
You thought the couch would’ve been reserved for foreplay and playful teasing, but Wooyoung didn’t bother move to the comfort of your shared bed, simply lifting you off the ground and trapping you under him, the fingers tangled in the hair at your nape tugging your head back to bare your neck while blunt canines left imprints over the delicate skin. Wooyoung’s cock fit snugly between your walls, resting comfortably within your clenching heat while he ravished you, his body weight resting on your pelvis restricting your movement. It seemed as though the raw lust blazing in hooded eyes had dissipated completely, replaced by unwavering patience, gentle pecks and blooming bruises, a throbbing cock seated within your cunt with no plans of moving, of fucking you the way you’d yearned for.
“Youngie,” you whined, a high-pitched whisper that elicited a hum from the man biting into your shoulder. “Please move.”
A breathy chuckle blew over your skin, “I thought the birthday boy made the requests?”
Your expression fell, was it the embarrassment or dejection? Either or, you turned your head to face the backrest, the motion restricted by the hand in your hair, now easing its grip as Wooyoung noticed the flush spreading up from the collar of the flour-dusted sweatshirt he didn’t bother add to the pile of clothes haphazardly thrown over the carpet.
Redirecting back up to your jaw, he planted wet, open-mouthed kisses over its slope, gentle fingers on your chin guiding your gaze back to him. “Oh baby, I’m just kidding.”
His lips settled into an easy smile, soft fringe fanned over his forehead and shimmering beads of sweat forming over the slivers of skin peeking through. The abashment you’d felt faded upon meeting his eyes, void of any judgement, and full of unconditional infatuation. His lips landed onto yours while you were too busy admiring his features — a slow, deep kiss to match the leisure movement of his hips, the drag of his cock over your walls throwing gasoline into the fire burning in your gut. Arm hooking under your knee, he spread you open and laid himself over your lower half.
“What are you—”
“Moving,” a sly smirk paired with a sharp thrust into your welcoming heat, a groan left his parted lips while he watched you melt under his towering frame, the audible squelch of your pussy like music to his ears.
He didn’t give you time to process, elbows digging into the cushion on either side of your head as he built up to a mind-numbing pace, stuffing his cock inside you and revelling in the pleasure painting your features — eyes shut and mouth forming an ‘o’, unable to form coherent words, only a staccato of airy ah’s. His cock was relentless, repeatedly pressing into your sweet spot to light fireworks behind your eyelids, your hips rolling to meet his to create an echo of skin-on-skin between the four walls. The constant squeeze of your pussy around him, the sweet sounds leaving your lips, the firm hold you had around his biceps as he pistoned his hips into you with fervour — Wooyoung’s composure began faltering, and his desperation unveiled itself the deeper he fucked himself into your sopping cunt.
You were so wet, a frustrated whine reverberating in Wooyoung’s throat when he slipped out of you, hands trembling as he hurriedly pushed himself back into your fluttering hole, sighing in unison once your walls were once again moulded to his shape. He lowered himself atop you, his forearms easing some of his body weight off yours while he nuzzled back into your neck, grunts and breathy moans now much closer to your ear, much clearer, sending searing waves of heat straight down to your stretched core.
“So fucking perfect,” he muttered into your skin, “taking me so well, letting me use your cunt the way I want. Such a good girl for me,” he bit down on the column of your throat, feeling it vibrate with your moans as he built himself up to the brink of his orgasm, then slowing down to drag you there with him.
“Fuck, Woo, please—”
Your fingers found the hair at his crown and tugged, not to pull him off you, but to hear the whimpers sounding at the back of his throat. You were close too, so fucking close from the relentless abuse of your g-spot, Wooyoung’s cockhead pressing into it with every forceful thrust into your needy cunt while his pelvis continuously brushed against your swollen clit. The familiar fluttering didn’t go unnoticed, your pussy gripping Wooyoung with its every retreat, swallowing him back inside — inch by inch — with an exhale of relief.
“Close?”
It sounded more like a statement, but you nodded anyway, the hands on his shoulders sliding down his bare back to grip the warm flesh of his hips, desperately guiding them into your heat. The gesture, paired with the doe, sparking eyes you looked up at him with, the gentle tone of your voice as whispered pleads and repetitions of his name escaped your pouty lips, dragged Wooyoung over the edge, tumbling down the steep hill of his orgasm until his vision blurred with unshed tears. The rhythm he'd maintained broke, replaced by sloppy, frenzied thrusts into your dripping cunt, a thick ring of cream forming around his cock as he emptied inside you.
He twitched violently between your walls, and the sudden warmth spreading through your lower belly dragged you down that hill with Wooyoung. You clamped down around his length, halting the frantic pounding as he sheathed himself within your cunt, feeding thick ropes of white into your womb while he shuddered above you, unfiltered moans vibrating against the side of your neck.
It felt like you were still coming, even as Wooyoung used your cunt to milk out the last of his cum, heavy dollops streaming out of the stretched hole, your walls continued to flutter around him, thighs trembling at his side and under his palm. Even as he stretched your leg out for you, refusing to leave the comforting warmth of your cunt while he wrapped his arms around you and twisted you onto your sides, your mind still floated within a cloud of ecstasy.
Was it your orgasm, or was it just Wooyoung? His presence, the soft scent of his cologne and the chocolate in his hair creating a bubble of comfort around your resting frame, his warmth seeping into your skin and lighting your heart ablaze. Today was meant to be about him, celebrating him, but love laced itself into everything Wooyoung did, and he couldn’t help but give, even on a day on which he was meant to take.
“Thank you for today,” the words spoken into your hair were unexpected, and you lifted your head to meet dazed eyes.
“What?”
“The cake, and the dessert,” he smiled at the innuendo, leaning down to peck the tip of your scrunched nose. “Thank you for loving me.”
Dumbstruck, you stared up at the man with glassy eyes, tucking yourself back into his chest before he could question the tearful reception of his words. But Wooyoung only held you tighter, pressing a faint yet reassuring kiss over your hair while you sunk further into his arms. Warm. Even in the midst of winter, Wooyoung was warm.
With the fluffy blanket you’d laid over the backrest now wrapped around your bare figures, you rested within Wooyoung’s secure hold, sharing whispered confessions and hearty giggles while the sun started its descent from its locus. And as the sky shifted from blues to a vivid magenta, you endeavoured to maintain the smile stretching Wooyoung’s lips, to watch his lines around his mouth further deepen until this happiness forever etched itself onto his face.
The world continued to celebrate the first snow of the year — blankets of white now melting over the asphalt — but your focus remained elsewhere, too busy celebrating Wooyoung.
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What is Broken I (Aemond Targaryen x Pregnant Wife!Reader)
The war, the "Dance of the Dragons," as they have come to call it, is over. And yet, you are not celebrating. You have just learned that your husband, Prince Aemond, spent the last months of the war with another woman in his bed. Not only that, but his mistress is pregnant. Just like you...
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N), side Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers
Warnings: Angst, pregnancy and related symptoms, infidelity, some pushing and hitting
Author's Note: It's finally here! Sorry y'all, this month a) I found out my dog has terminal cancer, b) I got covid, and c) my laptop randomly went kaput in the middle of an episode of the West Wing. But it's finally here! As it says on the taglist, this will be a three-part series.
Taglist is done via reblogs
What is Broken
It was a lovely night in King’s Landing.
There was not a cloud to be seen for miles, and the stars were bright and twinkling. The waters of Blackwater Bay were calm and reflected the full moon as clearly as a freshly polished mirror. Even the wind seemed in a pleasant mood, carrying the sweet scent of spring on its back as it drifted lazily through the windows of the Red Keep.
Every bit of it grated on her heart like a whetstone across dull steel.
The worst night of one’s life should not be so lovely, she thought. It should be terrible. With storms and an angry sea, and perhaps even a raging fire somewhere in the distance.
If the night had been so, she would not have seen it when, only a few moments ago, a massive winged form landed in the fields just outside the city with a lowing wail, the last person she wanted to see strapped to its back. Thankfully, Aemond was far enough away that she could not make him out against the mass of his mount.
The people would cheer him in the streets as he rode toward the castle. The victorious Prince, returning after long months at war, having not only ended the war itself but avenged the deaths of his eldest sister, brother, and his little nieces and nephews.
Daemon Targaryen and his dragon had perished above the God’s Eye, the waters below boiling when their bodies fell into its depths.
With the Rogue Prince gone, the war was swiftly over. Rhaenyra was killed, her last remaining son taken as King Aegon’s ward, and the royal host returned to King’s Landing victorious. Even Cregan Stark had agreed to halt his advance South, redirecting to Harrenhal for peace talks.
Harrenhal. A cursed place, now to be the site of great diplomacy.
Even thinking about the horrible castle was enough to turn her stomach.
A letter detailing exactly what had occurred within those melted stone halls during the war, written by the late Prince Daemon himself, sat on her vanity. A final act of retribution against his soon-to-be killer.
She knew that her husband was only returning home because of the letter.
My dear Princess,
Despite the conflict between our sides of the family, I have always thought you a rather sweet girl. Therefore, it is with the deepest regret that I must now shoulder the burden of informing you of your beloved husband’s improper conduct during this awful conflict…
A pang of nausea shot through her stomach as she remembered the words.
A mistress… some Strong bastard… called Alys, my spies tell me… every night, without fail… from the very first week… another bastard babe in the whore’s witchly womb…
There was a pounding from within her, soft thumps and kicks as the life inside her own womb became unsettled by its mother’s roiling emotions. She laid a hand over her belly, whispering soothing words she did not believe to try and calm it – and herself.
Once, she would never have believed Daemon’s stories. But then word came that, after the final battle, Aemond returned to Harrenhal for less than an hour before he again mounted Vhagar and flew for King’s Landing. It was not like Aemond to make such swift decisions. Nor did it strike her as the action of an innocent man.
When she called for Ser Willis Fell, her heart had been filled with hope that the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard would dispel her worries. That she had only allowed herself to consider the possibility of Aemond’s infidelity because her mind was addled by her delicate condition.
“My princess, I cannot, in good conscience, tell you a lie…”
She had screamed then. And cried. And possibly thrown things at the Kingsguard, but she couldn’t entirely remember.
All she could remember was how Aemond kissed her on the day he left for Harrenhal. Deeply and passionately. Until she could feel his love for her as clearly as her own heartbeat. Then he knelt before her and placed a single, tender kiss to her belly, to where they had only just learned that their babe grew.
Less than a moon’s turn later, he had taken another woman to his bed, and seeded her, too.
Now he was returning home – in haste.
He knew, then. That Daemon had let slip his secret. Perhaps it had even been the Rogue Prince’s last words. Spat in Aemond’s face in the seconds before his body tumbled into the lake below. Had she not been caught in the crossfire, she might have admired it for the masterful manipulation it was.
But in seeking to destroy Aemond, Daemon had destroyed her as well.
She was broken from her thoughts by the distant sound of people cheering. Aemond was making his way through the city more quickly than she thought. The streets weren’t as crowded as she hoped they would be this late at night.
It was late. Far later than she had become accustomed to. These days, she was often in bed and asleep not long after the sun had set, hoping that she would somehow find a full night’s sleep. Never to any avail.
For a moment, she thought of slipping beneath the blankets and pretending to be asleep so she would not have to speak to Aemond until the morning. But he would only crawl into bed with her, and then he would see when she inevitably woke…
That was not a conversation she wanted to have today. Really, there was no conversation she wanted to have with Aemond, only that which must be had.
She was resolved that Aemond would not find her weeping or stewing in heartbreak. No, she would not let him think he held such power over her, even if he did. He always had, even when they were young children.
So, she resumed her nightly routine as though nothing was wrong, as if she was entirely unaffected by his betrayal. Sitting at her vanity, she began to unbraid her hair. Her maids usually did it for her, but she had dismissed them the moment she read Daemon’s letter, not wanting to see their pitying faces for longer than she had to.
Since learning she was with child, everyone – including her maids – fussed over her constantly. It was not without reason, she knew. There was indeed very good reason why everyone was so concerned about her. But after six months, she was tired of it.
Just the simple act of taking her braids out and brushing through her loose hair by herself brought a welcome feeling of independence that she had not felt in some time. Perhaps ever.
That feeling slowly faded away as the cheering and celebration from the city came closer and closer, until she could hear gauntleted hands clapping in the castle courtyard below.
Aemond was here.
Her hand fell to cradle her stomach and was immediately met by three quick thumps against her palm. She knew the child did not understand what was happening and was only responding to the touch itself, much in the same way a cat arches its back when petted.
Still, it comforted her. It made her feel like she was not alone.
“Kirimvossi, rūhossas,” she whispered with a smile before resuming brushing her hair.
Her smile did not last.
Sooner than she had hoped, she heard the clanking of armor as the guards outside her door straightened, bowed, then retreated.
A shiver went through her, stealing the air from her chest while cold gathered in her heart and began sinking to her stomach. Dragging her brush through her hair suddenly took great effort, as did every breath.
Yet it was surprisingly easy to banish the tears forming in her eyes and school her face into tired neutrality. To glance only once at the figure now lingering in the doorway before turning away without acknowledging him.
She did not know if it was strength or cowardice.
He called her name, his voice rasping and low – desperate. “We must speak.”
She did not respond. She didn’t even look at him.
Aemond sighed, calling her name again. “Please, my love. Look at me.”
Still, she did not move.
“Ābrazȳrītsos,” he said, a hint of command slipping into his plea. Little wife.
He had always loved calling her little. According to their mother, the first thing Aemond did when he saw her as a babe was exclaim, “She’s so little!”
Ever since, he’d been calling her little.
First, she was simply hāedus. Little sister.
Whenever she tried to follow Aemond when he went somewhere she wasn’t allowed or did something she wasn’t allowed to do, he would gently scold her, “Haedus, you’re too little.” Inevitably, she would cry. About half the time, her crying was enough to sway him.
Then, she became zaldrīzītsos. Little dragon.
“You’re my zaldrīzītsos,” he would say when she hugged him tightly after Aegon or one of the Strong boys mocked him for not having a dragon. She didn’t have one either, but she never felt she needed one, for she had Aemond.
For a time, she was maegītsos. Little witch.
Aemond had dubbed her so when she came to visit him in the Maester’s tower while he recovered from the loss of his eye. The Maester would give her some “special leaves” so she could brew a “magic potion” to help Aemond get better. In truth, the potion was simply tea. But Aemond always pretended that the potion had indeed worked miracles, just to make her happy.
Once he was healed, she was again zaldrīzītsos.
Since he finally had a true dragon, she worried that he would not want her anymore. When she came to him in tears one day as he was leaving the Keep to see Vhagar, he hugged her tightly and told her, “You will always be my zaldrīzītsos.” Then he brought her with him to ride Vhagar. It was the best day of her life.
Or it was, until the day they were officially betrothed, and she became raqiarzītsos. Little darling.
It was what he would call her every morning when he greeted her with a chaste kiss on the cheek. How he would summon her to his side at court events. What he moaned when they kissed unchastely each evening before saying goodnight.
She had been so excited when she became his ‘ābrazȳrītsos.’ The first time he had whispered it in her ear at the wedding feast, she’d blushed so brightly that their grandsire inquired about her health. The next time he said it, Aemond made sure they were alone.
Little sister. Little dragon. Little witch. Little darling. Little wife.
Always little.
Once, the names had made her heart flutter with delight. Now, they only prompted another wave of nausea.
Aemond was everything to her – he always had been. She thought he felt the same way, but it seemed she was wrong. To him, she was just “little.”
She flinched at the sound of his voice, of that word. How he spoke to her like she was some frightened animal poised to lash out.
Yet at the same time, her heart melted to hear the voice she loved so dearly after so long an absence. Merely the sight of him in the mirror sent a feeling of warmth and belonging flooding through her.
She hated him.
She loved him.
She was angrier at him than she had ever been in her life.
She wanted nothing more than to run into his arms.
She could do nothing but continue to brush her hair and stare into her reflection.
Aemond sighed, finally stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. “You won’t even look at me, ābrazȳrītsos?”
She gave no answer.
He whispered her name again, “Abrazȳrītsos, please,” Aemond’s voice turned quiet as he reached her and set a hand on her shoulder as if to turn her around by force, but she wrenched herself out of his grip, staring down at the floor. Though she did not look at him, she could almost feel the misery on his face. “Please look at me.”
“If I look at you, I fear I will be sick,” she explained weakly. “I don’t want to harm the babe.”
His irritation began to surge, she knew it even without seeing him. His breathing quickened slightly, and she could hear the creaking of leather as he rolled his shoulders and balled his hands into fists – he had been so hurried he had not yet taken off his riding gloves.
“You are my wife,” he huffed. She could hear him attempt to contain the sharp edge of barely contained anger in his soft voice. At least he was considerate enough to hide it. “You are my sister – my blood. You love me as I love you, and you carry my child within you. Yet you cannot even look at me?”
Fury roared to life like a surging flame within her. How dare he be angry with her when he is the one who ruined everything?
“Why did you come back?” she spat back, quietly yet viciously.
His stare continued to weigh on her through the mirror. “I promised you the day I left that I would return to you when the war was done,” he said, half-smiling at the memory. “The war is over, so here I am.”
She shook her head. “The war is not over.”
“Of course, it is. Daemon and Rhaenyra are dead, and – ”
“The fighting is over,” she corrected. “But the war is not finished. Peace must still be brokered. As Prince Regent, that is your responsibility. Yet you are here rather than with the rest of the soldiers and politicians at Harrenhal. Why?”
She wanted him to be the one to say it.
Aemond sighed, raising a hand to touch her, then pulling away. “Is it so hard to believe that I missed you and simply couldn’t stand to stay away a moment longer?”
She was moving before she could process what she was doing, standing from the vanity and turning to face Aemond, her hand raised and ready to strike.
But he caught her arm by the wrist, stopping her moments before her palm could impact his cheek – his scarred cheek. His eye was wide, filled with sadness and shock in equal measure. He turned to look at her hand as if it was some kind of curiosity he had never seen before, like he couldn’t understand how it could ever be raised against him.
Tears were spilling down her cheeks when he turned back to her, and his expression gave over entirely to despair. Aemond opened his mouth, but words failed him.
He lowered her hand gently, bowing his head slightly to the right to give her an easier target.
It broke something within her.
She dove toward him, wrapping her arms around him as she cried into his chest, clinging to him as if he were her the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground.
But the moment Aemond moved to return the embrace, she shoved him away. It only moved him a step back, still within her reach. He did not move closer, and when she began to pound her fists furiously against his chest, he didn’t try to stop her.
“Why did you come back?” she demanded as she pushed him once more. “Why did you not just stay in Harrenhal with your whore and leave us alone?”
Aemond did not respond. His mouth hung open, but he said nothing. He could do nothing but stare at her, his eye flitting between her belly, where his child had grown –so much he could hardly believe it – in his absence, to her eyes.
Those eyes. A warm, rich brown that shone with gold in the firelight. It was Aemond’s favorite color. For whenever he saw it, in her eyes or their mother’s, he knew he was home.
But now those eyes he loved so dearly were filled with tears of his own making. He wanted nothing more than to see them dry and sparkling with love once more.
“Abrazȳrītsos, you must know I will always return to you,” he begged, stepping forward and cautiously placing a hand on her belly. Almost immediately, he felt a stirring within her, and a weak pushing against him.
His child.
Was it reaching for him, or pushing him away?
Before he could truly ponder either answer, his wife pulled away from him, her arms curling protectively around her abdomen.
He had to say something. Something to take her pain away, to make everything well again so he would have the chance to hold her and the babe. Even if it was a lie, he would say it if it made her forgive him.
“Raqiarzītsos,” he started, only for her to take another step away and scowl at him. He sighed as the realization of how deeply had hurt her truly sunk in. He softly called her name, “My love, it was one mistake. One moment of weakness, I swear –”
“Liar!” Her voice had grown rough with her fury, and Aemond flinched at the sound. He had never heard her shout like that, not even when she was a babe herself.
She saw his discomfort and reveled in it. Seeing him suffer a fraction of what she felt gave her a sinful spark of joy, one that she felt no need to beg forgiveness from the Seven for. She turned away from him and retrieved the letter from Daemon, panting as she looked over the words once more.
“A mistress now lies in your husband’s bed. She was a wetnurse at Harrenhal, some Strong bastard. She must be something truly special, for she is the only Strong – trueborn or bastard – to have survived Aemond’s rather thorough purging of the bloodline. I suppose it is now clear why. I have not been able to learn much about her. She is called Alys, my spies tell me.”
With smoldering eyes, she turned to Aemond and began to read aloud. “She reports to your husband’s chambers every night without fail, as she has done from the very first week he arrived at that cursed place. One of my spies even reported that he calls her to him after each battle or razing of some poor Riverlanders, as well as anytime he feels frustrated. It is no surprise, then, that there is another bastard babe in the whore’s witchly womb. Your brothers do have a fondness for seeding unsuitable women, don’t they?”
When she looked up from the letter, she found Aemond’s face set in anger, his fingers curled as though they were aching to grip his sword and run someone through. His eye flew from the letter to her face, the rage burning there only softening for a moment.
The left corner of Aemond’s mouth twitched upward involuntarily, and he jerked his head to the side to try and hide it. “You would believe Daemon’s word over mine, abrazȳrītsos? After all he has done?”
She let the letter drift back to the table. “If all I had was his word, I would not have believed it,” she explained. “But it is not only his word.”
Aemond exhaled slowly, looking away from her. Incensed as he was, he would not make her the target of his ire. Never her. “Will you tell me who else?”
“No,” she answered, shaking her head slightly. There was a dark glint in his eye that promised violent retribution upon whoever she would name. No one deserved torture, or perhaps even death, for telling the truth.
With a nod, Aemond closed his eyes and bowed his head. He would not press her further, though she knew he would likely still try to find out who it was by other means. But in that moment, she could not bring herself to care.
She was so tired.
She had anticipated a long fight, and thought she was ready for it. In the hours she waited for Aemond’s return, she had carefully tended the spark of her anger so it would burn only when she commanded. But the moment she saw him, it escaped her grasp and became a wildfire in a dry grassland. It was fierce, quick, and lethal. In an instant, it had consumed every bit of her strength, leaving only the barest smoldering remains in its wake.
After a few more silent moments, Aemond again opened his eyes and looked down at his wife.
“I will not insult your intelligence by trying to deny it any further,” he said, clenching his fist to stop himself from reaching for her, “and I know there is nothing I can say to excuse what I have done. But my love, I truly am sorry. For what I did, and for the hurt I have caused you.”
She stared at him, trying to detect and hint of insincerity. She found none.
“I love you. I know I have given you ample reason to doubt that but…” he swallowed thickly. “I do love you, abrazȳrītsos. I always have and I always will. I know in my heart that the gods made us for each other. And if they had fated us to others, I swear I would have defied their will and ripped them from the heavens so that I could love you.”
He licked his lips and removed his gloves before offering her his shaking hand.
Perhaps it was the result of the weariness pervading her entire being. Perhaps it was the tug of an unborn babe reaching out, somehow knowing its father was near. Perhaps it was the sliver of her soul that had always belonged to Aemond beckoning her to rejoin him and become whole again.
Whatever the reason, despite the protestations of her aching heart and her rational mind, she put her hand in his.
It did not fit as well as it used to.
If Aemond noticed, he did not acknowledge it. He raised their joined hands to his lips to kiss before resuming his plea. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, and I will understand if you do not give it, but for the sake of my heart and the love we share, I must ask it. Abrazȳrītsos, can you ever forgive me?”
The world fell silent, and so did she.
If she focused, she could hear her heartbeat, along with two others, thumping out three different rhythms. It was discordant, yet somehow comforting. She listened to it for a moment, trying to hear a melody within it. But there was nothing.
She turned her attention to her hand in Aemond’s grasp. There was a welcome heat where his skin touched hers, but also a tingling numbness. A slight discomfort, akin to wearing new gloves before they had softened and molded to her hands.
Then, she looked at Aemond. At the face that was more familiar to her than her own. It had changed in the last six months – more so than she would have expected. The color of his skin had deepened from so many days spent in the sun, and there were new blemishes that had not been there before. The shadows under his eyes, the roughness where it once was smooth, and the new smudge of a scar above the corner of his right brow.
All of it was strange. Known, yet unknown. Question, but no answer.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“What…” Aemond’s lip quirked again as he cupped her cheek with his free hand. “I don’t understand, what don’t you know, my love?”
She winced slightly at the foreign sensation of his hand against her skin. He had callouses now he didn’t have before. “I don’t know how to forgive you, or if I even want to. I just feel… tired.”
Aemond nodded, bowing his head once more to hide the disappointment he could not keep from his face, and looked at her belly. “Of course, you are tired,” he said, “I am sorry, I did not consider how late it was.”
She caught his eye flicking towards the bed – their bed, or at least, it used to be. A cold coil of panic began to wrap itself around her heart. He could not sleep here. He could not see…
“I would prefer if you slept elsewhere,” she said hastily before he could ask otherwise. “For tonight, I would like to be alone.”
Tears shone in Aemond’s eye for a moment, but he did not let them fall. He gave her a tight smile and again kissed her hand. “If that is what you wish, I will obey, but may I ask one thing?”
It would be foolish to say yes. Foolish to give him the opportunity to persuade her at all when she knew how easily he had always been able to sway her with his sweet words. Foolish to do anything but send him away immediately.
And yet…
“What would you ask?” she whispered, betrayed by the foolish little part of her heart and soul that was still and would always be his ‘hāedus.’
“I ask only for a few moments, and then I will leave, as you wish. But it has been half a year, abrazȳrītsos, since I have seen you, or heard your voice, or held you in my arms.” He squeezed her hand, drawing her attention to his face, open and earnest and pleading. “So for only a few moments, please, allow me to hold you again.”
His softly spoken words were like a siren’s song, and she began to feel faint as she struggled to resist falling under its spell. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, begging her mind to calm and think clearly.
“I promise, I will do nothing more than hold you,” he said, running his hand delicately over her cheek. “I just want to hold my wife.”
He did not deserve it, she knew. Nor did he deserve to be touching her as he did now, though she did not push him away. He did not even deserve her consideration of his request.
But it had been half a year for her, too.
Half a year with no one to kiss her good morning or good night. No one to carry her to bed when her legs and back ached. No one to hold her hair and whisper soothing words when she was sick.
She’d had her mother, her sister, and her maids. Even a Maester, at one very low point. But that was not the same. It was not the touch of a beloved husband.
Despite her anger, she was aching to be held by him.
“Just for a few moments,” she whispered through trembling lips. “Then you must leave.”
She did not have time to regret her decision before Aemond pulled her forward and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her forehead as he thanked her. And before she could pull away, he was turning her slowly, so her back was pressed flush against his chest.
“It’s alright,” he assured her when she made a soft noise of confusion. “Trust me, abrazȳrītsos.”
His hands skated down her arms, his touch featherlight and yet searing. She gasped as he began to cradle her belly, her head lolling back into his shoulder. If given one more breath, she would have pushed him away, but then…
He laced his fingers together and took the weight of her belly into his own arms.
It was a rapturous feeling, to have the burden of it lifted from her and her eternally aching spine, even for a moment. She sighed in relief and leaned back further into her husband. Gratitude flooded through her, and her hands flew to rest over his.
“Oh, Aemond,” she breathed into his neck.
Gods, she had missed him so much. Everything would have been so much easier if he’d been here to hold her like this. He had always known been able to help her, she should have known that even with their first child, he would somehow know what to do…
Her eyes snapped open, and her blood ran cold.
This was their first child, but it was not Aemond’s only child.
He had another, far away, within a different mother. A mother whom he had been there for as she grew, Who, thanks to her role as a wetnurse, would be able to teach him exactly how to help.
“Did you hold Alys like this?”
Aemond stiffened behind her, and his grip tightened. “Abrazȳrītsos…”
“Don’t lie to me, Aemond. Not anymore.”
Silence, then…
“Yes, I did.”
She seized his hands and ripped them apart, tearing herself out of his grasp as quickly as she could, heedless of him reaching for her. Stumbling, she crossed the room before turning back to him, eyes blazing through new tears.
“Do not ever touch me like you touched her,” she spat. Her rage had reignited, the barren grassland now an endless field of flame.
Aemond’s mouth hung open as he looked to her in despair, his arms held helplessly in front of him. His voice broke as he said her name – a plea. “I just wanted to hold you. To help you.”
“And you did. For a few moments, just as you asked. Now leave, as you promised.”
He was looking at her like she was a wild beast, primed to lash out should he make one wrong move. But she didn’t mind, for that was exactly what she felt like. He had made her feel that way, and she hated him for it.
Aemond just stood there, and she could see his mind working desperately to figure out what to say to placate her. She would not give him the chance.
“Leave!” she screamed, her voice ripping its way out of her throat, burning as it went. She could not help but wonder if that was what dragons felt when they breathed fire.
Lowering his arms, Aemond nodded. “I will leave, abrazȳrītsos. Just as I promised. I am sorry.”
“I don’t care.” She meant it. His apology meant absolutely nothing to her raging, broken heart.
She watched him carefully as he turned and walked through the door, ready to rage at him again if she needed to. Perhaps she would actually breathe fire the next time.
Aemond did not try anything to soothe her or convince her to change her mind. The warrior prince knew when a battle was lost. But she knew he had not yet ceded the war.
That much was clear when he paused in the doorway, looking back at her in determination. “I love you, abrazȳrītsos, and nothing will ever change that.”
Then he closed the door, and was gone.
But she could not stop crying, for she knew he would return.
Worse, she knew that as angry as she was, she loved him, too. And nothing would ever change that, either.
-
#aemond#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond fanfic#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond imagine#aemond fluff#aemond one eye#aemond smut#aemond the kinslayer#aemond x reader#aemond x you#aemond x y/n#aemond x fem!reader#hotd#hotd aemond#hotd fanfic#hotd smut#hotd imagine#hotd x reader#house of the dragon#house of the dragon fanfic#ewan mitchell#what is broken
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May I request a one shot about virgin severus, wanting his girlfriend to ride him but feeling too embarrassed to ask.
Virgin Sev my beloved <3
Genre: smut
Warnings: loss of virginity, handjob, mentions of masturbation, sub Sev, dom reader, praise kink, gentle and loving sex, aftercare
Masterlist
You and Severus were lying in bed, your finger slowly stroking his cheekbone as you admired him. He was so beautiful, his Roman nose perfect for kissing and perhaps riding.
Severus smiled at you, shyly pressing his lips to yours. You've only been dating for a few months, and Severus was still shy with you, forever amazed that someone as kind and patient as you would ever want him.
You allowed your lips to linger on his, curling your fingers in his hair. The moment was pure perfection, the fireplace crackling merrily in the corner of your bedroom as rain pattered against the windows, and just you and Severus here together.
Severus slowly ran a hand up and down your side before resting it on your hip, his eyes darkening as he gazed at you. You recognized that look; for the past few weeks, he'd been pinning you with that look of lust, keeping his desires and urges pushed deep down inside of him.
He was a virgin, and you were not, and you knew how shy he was about sex because he had several insecurities about his body. You and him had only recently started showering together after you coaxed him into it, promising him that his body was nothing to be ashamed of.
"Something on your mind, prince?" you asked Severus as you noticed him fail to sneakily catch a glimpse at your cleavage in your pajama top. You smirked, scooting closer to him until your cleavage slightly spilled past your top.
Severus licked his lips, his breath hitching as you moved closer. His fingers dug into your hip, suppressing a whine as he felt blood quickly rush to his cock.
"Nothing's on my mind," he lied, sighing as he felt his erection strain against his sweatpants. He tried to cross his legs in the position he was in to no avail, wheezing nervously and pulling the blankets around him.
You watched his movements, spotting his erection. He was big as you knew from your showers together but looked even bigger in sweatpants. Your smirk grew, dragging your finger down his face and chest, stopping just above his waistband.
"You can tell me anything, baby. You know there's no shame in anything you tell me," you reassured Severus, smiling warmly at him. "I'm here to make everything a comfortable experience for you, no matter what it is."
Severus smiled a little, feeling himself relax. He only grew harder at feeling your hand so close to his cock and he tried to ignore it, focusing on your soothing words and voice.
"It's just..." he trailed off, tearing his eyes away from your face as he became embarrassed. "I... have this habit. Some nights after you go to bed, I sneak into the bathroom and masturbate while thinking of you- you riding me."
Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, a warmth spreading through you. Your pussy clenched and you felt it soak with arousal, your breathing becoming heavy as you replied, "Yeah? You think about that?"
"I do," Severus whined, so hard at this point that it was unbearable. "I want it so badly, but I've been too shy to tell you up until now."
You sat up, stroking his waistband before pushing your hand past it. Severus gasped, squirming his hips around as your hand hovered directly above his clothed erection.
"Is this okay, baby?" you asked Severus in a sultry voice, your eyes half-lidded as you gazed down at him. He was visibly nervous, his eyes wide and his chest heaving.
"It's okay," Severus confirmed, wiping his sweaty brow. "I'm just nervous, I'm sorry. I don't want to ruin this by being nervous."
You gave him a sympathetic smile, leaning down to kiss him tenderly. "You won't ruin this, Sev. I'll be gentle and careful with you, okay? If anything hurts or you feel uncomfortable, let me know, and I'll stop," you mumbled against his lips, rubbing circles into his cheek.
Severus nodded, swallowing thickly. You kissed him again, sitting up and straddling his lap. The both of you gasped together at the contact, your hips squirming as his hard cock rubbed against you.
"Mmm, baby," you moaned, pressing your palms flat onto his chest. "You're throbbing and so big."
Severus whimpered, a beautiful sound that made your clit tingle with need. "You feel really good on top of me like this," he said, his voice breathy as he gripped your waist. "I- can you fuck me? Please?"
You could've come just from his words alone. He sounded and looked so desperate, his eyes wide and pleading, his bottom lip jutted out in a pout and his voice a soft whimper. His hair was a mess around the pillow, and his cheeks were covered in a bright blush.
"Of course, baby. How could I say no to my pretty boy?" you smirked. Severus moaned at the nickname, desperately bucking his hips upwards. He forgot for a moment that this would be his first time, too focused on wanting to feel your pussy wrapped around his cock instead of his fist.
You lifted yourself up to slide down your pajama shorts and underwear, Severus's bottoms following suit. He hissed as the warm air of your bedroom washed over his cock, which stood rigid and aching for your touch.
"Please," he begged you, almost feeling dizzy from how badly he needed you. You wrapped a firm hand around his cock, smiling at the sharp gasp that escaped him. You began to pump the shaft, satisfied to see precum quickly gathering and spilling over your fingers.
"S-so good. Your hand feels so much better than mine," Severus moaned, twisting the sheets in his hands. You moved your hand faster, relishing in the little moans and gasps that left him. He sounded ethereal, and you wanted to keep his noises of pleasure in your mind forever.
"You're doing so well. Does that feel good?" Your question caused his cock to twitch in your hand, a telltale sign of orgasm, and you were surprised that he'd be coming so soon.
"Ahh, please. Feels so good, please!" Severus gasped as your thumb swiped across his tip, gathering a bead of precum. You switched hands to bring that thumb to your lips, sucking on the tip and tasting him.
Severus could have imploded at the sight of you tasting him. You hummed at his flavor, earthy and a bit salty. "You taste as good as you look, just how I imagined you," you said, flicking your wrist in a way that made Severus shudder.
Severus felt his stomach clench, knowing that he was close. He was so used to coming quickly, and with you stroking him so amazingly, he knew that his orgasm would be explosive.
You continued stroking him, going even faster now. You kissed him deeply, diving your tongue into his mouth and driving him wild. When he came, he released the prettiest whimper you've ever heard from him followed by a shout of your name.
Severus trembled as ropes of hot cum shot all over his stomach and your hand. He breathed unevenly, gasping as his cock twitched and throbbed from his release. He had come so much, and it was the most gorgeous sight to you.
"Good job, handsome. I'm so proud of you," you praised Severus. He blushed deeply, giggling weakly as you removed his hand from his still hard cock.
"I like being praised," he admitted, his head feeling fuzzy as you removed your top, your breasts bouncing back into place. He stared at them, his mouth watering at how soft and supple they looked.
"You deserve all of the praise in the world, my love," you replied sweetly, sighing contently as Severus slowly ran his large hands up and down your bare torso. They ghosted the undersides of your breasts, and he seemed hesitant to touch them.
You grabbed his hands, leading the way and placing them over your breasts. You sighed in relief, and he moaned as he squeezed them curiously as his thumbs circled your erect nipples.
"You have pretty breasts," Severus observed, grinning up at you. "They're so soft. I've always enjoyed looking at them, but finally touching them is a whole new wonderful experience."
His eyes then trailed down to your pussy and your slick covered thighs. He felt his nerves melt away, being replaced by eagerness and excitement.
"Can you fuck me now?" he asked sheepishly. As much as he loved feeling and admiring your breasts, he was desperate for your pussy.
"I thought you would never ask," you teased, grabbing his cock and casting a non-verbal lubrication spell. Once he was fully lubricated, you lined him up with your entrance, the two of you sharing a deep look of love with each other.
"Remember to tell me to stop if you need to," you reminded Severus, the tip of his cock brushing against your hole. "I love you, Severus, and I'm honored to be your first time."
If Severus wasn't so horny right now, he would have sobbed out of gratefulness for you. His eyes momentarily stung with years as he responded, "I love you too, Y/N. You're my everything."
He leaned up and kissed you passionately, resting his back against the headboard and pulling you with him. You slipped his cock inside of you and you moaned into each other's mouths, entranced by the feeling of your bodies finally becoming one.
"Merlin, you're incredibly warm," Severus chuckled, pecking your lips once. "I don't know how to explain this feeling. It's unlike anything I've ever felt."
You pressed your hips further down onto him, feeling snug. He inhaled sharply at your movement, his eyes flicking between your face and breasts.
"The tip of your cock is nudging my g-spot right now," you mewled, your eyelids fluttering as his thick girth stretched you out. It didn't hurt; it was an incredible feeling of erotic bliss.
"It is?" Severus asked in astonishment, knowing about how pleasurable the g-spot was from what you've told him in the past.
"God, yes," you whimpered, beginning to rock your hips. You started off slow, giving Severus time to adjust, and he was amazed by how fucking good you felt.
"Mmm, right there. Do that with your hips again."
"Y/N, you're so good. Your pussy feels like magic... don't stop fucking me."
"Ah, please! Faster!"
Severus's filthy words spurred you on, motivating you to give him more. You snapped your hips hard and fast above him, pinning his hands above his head and attaching your lips to his neck.
"My good boy, the best boy," you hummed, leaving behind hickeys on his neck. "You have such a great cock to fuck, honey."
Severus couldn't speak anymore, long gone in the pleasure. He only made whiny noises in response to your praise, every snap of your hips shooting sparks of lust up his spine.
"I can feel my orgasm, it's so close," he breathed, needily kissing your breasts. His hands were shaking, his eyebrows furrowed together as you continued to fuck him.
"Mine too, baby. I want to feel your hot cum shooting inside of me and dripping out of me, and I know you'll come nicely like the good boy you are," you replied huskily, your clit throbbing as it begged for attention. You let go of one of his pinned hands, letting it fall onto his chest.
"Touch my clit, sweetheart. Make me come and I'll give you the best orgasm of your life," you cooed, directing Severus's hand to your clit.
Severus nodded obediently, pressing two slender fingers into your clit and rubbing. You clenched around him, making him groan, and you felt your climax start to crest.
"Oh my gosh, I'm coming!" Severus ezclaimed suddenly, his orgasm taking you by surprise. He came hard, filling you up. He sobbed as he came, so overwhelmed by his orgasm that he saw stars burst behind his eyes.
He felt so much relief and felt so loved by you, grateful that you had been the one to take his virginity.
Your hips stuttered as Severus came, snapping them a few more times before you came yourself, soaking his cock with your arousal. He cursed as your pussy squeezed him and milked him of every last drop of his cum.
There was a beat of silence before you collapsed into his arms, your panting paired with his soft whimpers and mumbles of affection.
"Thank you, Y/N, thank you for taking my virginity," Severus was mumbling into your hair as he kissed you there. "It was an amazing experience, one that I'll hold in my heart forever."
You giggled at his words, snuggling him closely. He was still such a romantic even after having his brains fucked out.
You and Severus cleaned up shortly afterward, running a bath and then cuddling in bed. You gave him a full body massage with scented oils and kissed each and every one of his scars, telling him repeatedly how well he had done for you.
Severus was very glad that he had asked you to ride him.
#severus snape#snape love#snape content#professor snape#snape fanfiction#snape imagines#snape one shot#snape fanart#snape fic#pro snape#severus snape x y/n#severus snape x reader#snape x you#severus x you#severus snape smut#virgin snape
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Hello I am a huge fan of this fanfic your doing, but can I please request, the grid watching a spicy scene of her show? Or her in a body suit type like the picture below? I think Carlos reaction would be funny
Of couse! I had so much fun writing this! My request are OPEN and feedback is always welcome.
-XoXo
The unexpected red-flag
The conference room fell into stunned silence as the rain drummed relentlessly against the windows. The TV murmured in the background, its volume turned low, but it was the soft, melodic voice of Amira Sainz that cut through the quiet.
News had spread like wildfire: Baby!Sainz, the beloved sister of Carlos, would grace the third season of the renowned Netflix series “Narcos”. The drivers, usually a rowdy bunch, now sat in hushed anticipation. For Carlos, this was more than just excitement; it was a lifeline. His sister’s return to the family was long overdue, and the chance to witness her artistic brilliance on screen made his heart swell.
Yet, their busy lives as racers left little room for leisure. Days blurred into nights, filled with data analysis and the adrenaline rush of the track. But fate intervened during the red flag at Spa, where the heavens unleashed torrents of rain. The perfect opportunity arose: why not start watching “Narcos” during this unexpected break?
Surprisingly, it was Yuki who suggested it. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he proposed the idea, met with a chorus of enthusiastic “yeah’s” and “omg, yes!” from the other drivers. Carlos and Oscar, absent at the moment, would soon join the impromptu viewing party.
And so, they embarked on their journey into the world of drug cartels, corruption, and intrigue. They skipped scenes where Amira wasn’t present, eager to witness her talent firsthand. But little did they know that the next scene would unravel secrets and twists they never anticipated.
Let's just say Amira Sainz looked good with and without clothes. Throughout her spicy scene, the drivers were so silent. They all looked at her dreamily on the TV when she kissed the guy and started taking of her clothes and-
"¡Eh, estúpidos idiotas! ¿Qué demonios estáis haciendo? ¡¿Por qué demonios estáis viendo a mi hermana desvestirse?!" questioned an angry Carlos. As soon as he saw his little sister on the TV he went into full overprotective big brother mode.
Instantly, Logan shot back, “It’s not what it looks like,” while Fernando chimed in with a soothing “Hermano, you have to calm down.” Meanwhile, Lance attempted diplomacy: “Carlos Boy, we can talk like adults.”
The other drivers rallied, attempting to quell the hot-blooded Spanish driver. But amidst the chaos, Oscar slipped away, drawn by curiosity. He cornered Lando, who was practically bursting with excitement.
“I can’t believe I missed this. How was it?” Oscar leaned in, eager for details.
Lando’s eyes sparkled. “Oscar, you should have heard her speak Spanish. And her hair—oh, her hair falls down her back like—” His words were cut short.
“LANDO NORRIS! STOP TALKING ABOUT MY SISTER, YOU CREEP!” Carlos’s voice thundered across the room, drowning out the rain and the TV.
From the commentator box outside, a muffled sound reached their ears—a high-pitched scream. Lando Norris, usually unflappable on the track, had met his match in Carlos’s protective fury.
#carlos sainz x sister!reader#charles leclerc x reader#lewis hamilton x reader#alex albon x reader#george russell x reader#lando norris x reader#oscar piastri x reader#daniel riccardo x reader#lance stroll x reader#pierre gasly x reader#yuki tsunoda x reader#baby!sainz!sister
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s h i n u n o g a e - w a
p a i r i n g : yoongi x reader
g e n r e : husband au.
t a g s : soft smut, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex, creampies, fiancé to husband!yoongi, this is really fucking soft, domesticity, slight dirty talk, he wakes you up by giving you head, he just rlly loves you
w o r d c o u n t : 1.9 k
s u m m a r y : four times you said I love you, + the one time yoongi says it first. alternatively: five special moments with your beloved husband.
"No need to ask cause it's my darling,"
Soft giggles fill the room, sun light pours in through the large glass windows that take up the walls. There's one window opened off to the side, the sound of birds chirping fill the entire living room up. You stand swaying in Yoongi's arms, right in the center of the room that's filled with all the flowers you have ever loved.
He looks good wearing white, his hair falls over his eyes occasionally but he simply blows it out of his face. You can feel the tight grip he has on you, every time he dips you low he presses a gentle smooch to your soft lips. The "I love you's" are left unsaid, you can see it in his eyes just how much he loves you.
You stare into his eyes with a bright smile, "Is this like a dance practice or something? Trying to make sure you won't drop me the day of our wedding?"
Yoongi snorts quietly and nuzzles into your shoulder, breathing in your soft scent, "You know I'll never drop you love," he turns to lay soft kisses up your neck and then the side of your face.
A soft noise bubbles out of your throat as you turn to capture his lips and bring him closer to you. Yoongi deepens the kiss with a quiet groan and his arms tighten around your waist. "Fuck," he mutters out against your lips, "you drive me absolutely insane."
You smiled softly, eyes fluttering open as you stare back at him, "You always say that." You eye his lips and then look back at him, "I love you."
"I love you too," he presses his forehead against yours and smiles.
.
"Oh don't you ever say bye-bye,"
Yoongi's eyes were stuck in place, time ceased to exist and the world stopped spinning. It was only you and him in this moment, he didn't even pay attention to the piano and violin playing in the background. Nor did he give any mind to his older brother, his groomsmen, when he congratulated him. It was all about you right now, nothing else mattered in his moment.
You shot him a soft bashful smile, timidly looking into his eyes as your father walked you down the aisle towards him. You looked so beautiful in all white, the veil did nothing to obscure your beauty, you looked like a goddess. He could see the heart locket necklace he first gifted you when you were six months into dating, it's been ages since he last saw that locket (you kept it stored away in perfect condition).
You reached the altar and Yoongi immediately stepped down to gently take your hand and help you up the steps after he promised your father to take care of you. "You look handsome," you cheekily whispered to him.
"And you look like a princess." He chuckled, "Very beautiful indeed."
The ceremony began, the entire time Yoongi had his hand lain over yours as the two of you waited for the moment you'd exchange the vows and rings. You were anxious, heart rapidly beating in your chest. Yoongi sensed your nervousness and he gently ran his thumb over your knuckles to soothe you.
"I promise," Yoongi softly began when he started his vows, "to love and cherish you for the rest of my life like I promised those years back when you first accepted to be my girlfriend. I loved you then and I love you way much more now. I knew from the beginning I wanted you in my life forever and now I get to call you my wife, mine forever." He presses his forehead to yours, smiling when he sees your teary eyes and wobbly smile as he slides the ring on to your finger.
"You may now kiss the bride," and with that he captures your lips in a gentle and passionate kiss.
The crowd of guests erupt in loud cheers and whistles. You laugh happily against his lips and look up at him lovingly. "I love you so much.."
"I love you too.."
.
"I want you to be my last,"
Your eyes fluttered open when you felt a pair of hands gently stroking your hips and then reaching up to cup your tits. You moaned in surprise when Yoongi gently suckled on your throbbing bud, you weren't aware that your husband had his face between your soft thighs and your legs tossed over his shoulders.
"You awake baby?" Yoongi softly whispers when he pulls back.
You reach down to pull the sheets off of the two of you, "Yeah," you softly say, reaching down to gently stroke his fluffy long hair, "how long have you been awake?" You chuckle when he tilts his head to the side and smushes his cheek against your thigh as he stares up at you with lovestruck eyes.
"Not that long either love," he hums, "you were looking so pretty and I couldn't help myself." He presses a chaste kiss on your thigh and then got back to work.
His eyes fluttered closed as he circled your clit when his tongue, lapping at it slowly and pressing down to apply the slightest of pressure. Yoongi slid his hands back down to gently rub your thighs and then slip them under your soft ass cheeks to grip them. Your lips part in a silent moan as your hands come down stroke his hair and push it out of his face.
"Fuck Yoongi," you whisper out as your eyes slip shut and you relax, "like that."
Yoongi's fingers gently prod you open as he slips the long digits inside of you. They fill you so nicely and send tingles down your spine. You push your hips upwards and rock against his fingers, your pussy begins to slick up and make lewd squelching noises. "Yoongi," you whimper and arch your back, gently twisting the sheets and gripping it tightly.
He works his tongue around your clit even faster, flicking it back and forth as his fingers curl upwards and stroke over your walls. Yoongi groans against your soaked cunt, pulling back as he soft panted and watched as his fingers disappeared inside of your cunt. "You gonna cum for me baby?" He lazily smirks, licking his slick covered lips.
"Y-Yeah," you softly breathe out, chest rising and falling as your cunt tightens around his fingers, you're teetering on your orgasm by now, "so close," you bite your lip.
Yoongi moves his fingers faster and faster, watching you closely and right when you're about to cum he stops and slips his fingers out. You whimper in confusion and open your eyes with a confused pout, "W-Why? I was so close," you whined out.
"Want you to come on my cock baby," Yoongi crawls up and gently pins you down, "feels like my cock is about to fall off with how hard it is." He groans rutting against your thighs, cock slapping against your skin occasionally. "Need your pussy so badly." He whispers and leans down to kiss you.
A soft little moan leaves you, your arms come up to gently wrap around his neck and tug him closer. He lays his body flat against yours, hand coming down to grip his cock as he strokes it slowly and lazily slaps it against your pussy. You spread your legs widely for him as he makes himself at home and slides his cock inside.
"Shit." Yoongi sighs out in utter bliss as he pushes all the way inside.
You stare up at him with a teary gaze, "Fuck me Yoongi, please," you whimper, "feels so good baby." You roll your hips against him, trying to get his cock deeper inside of you.
Yoongi started up at a normal pace, pushing in deeply and pressing against you. His cock filled you just perfectly, pressing against each of your sweet spots. Your moans were breathier and shallow, thighs shaking just a little because your pussy was throbbing from the denied orgasm moments prior.
"Coming already baby?" He breathes out, "Can feel your little pussy tightening around me baby. You gonna make a mess on me?" He pants out, hips moving faster and faster.
He speeds up drastically and causes the mattress to shift and squeak. His hips slap against yours, balls pressing against your ass with each thrust. Your moans grow in volume, you scramble to grip his forearms, "Yoongi...!" You cry out.
He growls lowly and leans down to suck dark marks on to the side of your neck. "Go on baby, make a mess all over my cock." He lifts one of your thighs up and tosses it over his shoulder as he grinds into your pussy repeatedly. His cock drives deep into your g-spot, heightening your pleasure.
You cry out in shock and toss your head back, "Yoongi! Oh fuck baby..!" You tremble as your toes curl in pleasure.
You cum with a loud moan, head thrown back and nails digging into his forearms. Yoongi hisses, "That's it baby, cum for me, like that," he whispers in pleasure and slams into you repeatedly. His thrusts jostle you on the bed, you bounce in place and struggle to get a grip on him.
His mouth parts, eyes squeezing shut as he shoves his cock deep inside of you. He shudders in pleasure and slows down to a grind as his cock throbs weakly inside of you. His cum spills into you, filling your pussy to the brim. He pants harshly and leans down to kiss over your neck and lips.
"I love you baby..." He sleepily mumbles.
"Love you too."
.
"If I had to keep being separated from you like this, I'd rather die,"
You sat next Yoongi enjoying the music blaring out in the arena as the basketball players all got ready for the upcoming game. Yoongi had his hand in yours, thumb gently rubbing over your knuckles for comfort. You pursed your lips and looked around, "Are we heading straight back home after this?" You lean over to murmur in his ear.
"Do you want to go back?" Yoongi says back with a serious look, "We can head home after this unless you wanna stay for a couple more days here in Japan."
You nod with a smile and peck his lips, "Yeah that sounds good love I don't mind." You sit back in your seat and nod your head a little to the beat of the music playing in the background.
Yoongi admires your side profile for a moment before he turns back to what he was doing before you spoke with him. Someone on the mic suddenly calls out to your husband, referring to him as their special guest. "We have the Mrs here too," they say, panning the camera to you and Yoongi as people in the seats above all cheer and clap for you two.
You shyly lean into Yoongi's side and smile for the camera that is aimed at you and your husband. Yoongi sees that your faces are still on the big screen so he leans over to smooch you gently in front of everyone. The cheers get louder and you find yourself laughing awkardly.
"Yoongi are you doing that on purpose?" You say in amusement as you stare into his eyes.
Yoongi smiles at you, shrugging as he chooses not answer. You roll your eyes fondly and lay your head on his shoulder. "I love you Yoongi." You gently hold his hand.
He squeezes your hand gently in return, "I love you too y/n." He murmurs in return.
Forever.
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Right lads I’m gonna sit you all down so we can all have a fun little chat about ✨the lighting in the captain’s flashbacks✨
Have a look at these screenshots from redding weddy and carpe diem, these take place during the day. Notice how the lighting is very warm; there’s golds and browns and you can feel the sun coming through the windows
Now take a gander at these screenshots from redding weddy, they take place during nighttime and the lighting is very cool. Blues and dark greens and blacks, you can feel the bitter chill in the night air
There’s another difference between these two scenes: in the warmer ones, havers is present, and in the cooler ones, havers is gone. Havers quite literally brightens the captain’s life, this is regardless of whatever is happening. In cap’s death scene, the lighting is warm despite the tragic circumstances. When havers tells cap he’s leaving, the lighting is still warm. Any kind of heartbreak the captain feels is eased by havers’ presence, even if he is the source of that heartbreak.
I would also like to note the parallels between these two shots (this fucking window oh my god)
When we first see cap sitting here in redding weddy, he is reliving the memory of havers leaving, the music crescendos as the beloved lieutenant disappears through the gate. Because the scene focuses on havers leaving, the lighting is cool. When we revisit it in carpe diem, cap is reflecting on his death. The main focus of the minor flashback isn’t havers but it highlights a scene where havers is present (the one with the general guy) Thus, the lighting is warm.
Uhhhhh anyways that’s all I have to say about this lol, idk who’s creative decision it was to do this but they deserve a million dollars and I want to give them my hand in marriage
#AKDJSKHFAKHDAKJFKSJFKDHFJSAKJDKSHDKSHDKSJDKKDHFKSJDLSJFLAKLDKDSLFJLFKSUDKK#I LOVE YOU LIGHT/DARK DYNAMIC I WANT TO KISS YOU PASSIONATELY!!!!!!!#bbc ghosts#the captain#lieutenant havers#capvers#long post#kinda#this is another one of my captain essays
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If you have not watched Netflix's live action ATLA yet, let me stop you right now. It is not good and it's score on rotten tomatoes is honestly too high.
However, it's far better than the 2010 Live Action movie.
I'm on episode 6 now, and as I watch, I've been trying to find the words that best describe the series.
I've struggled, but the first thing I've noticed is how all of the actors seem to walk their parts and miss the meaning and motivations of their characters all together. The only one who comes close to embodying their character is Iroh, and the only one who looks like they came from straight out of the avatar universe is the Bounty Hunter.
However, now that I'm in episode 6, I've found the word.
The series is Rushed. It's rushed. It feels that they are trying to pack as much avatar lore into the storyline as possible and they don't care what storylines or arcs they have to mangle in order to do it. It's like a really badly written fanficition or a bad spark notes recap of the OG show. I feel comfortable saying that because I've read the Kiyoshi novels (which are like fanfics) and they are EXCELLENT.
You notice this when the show starts. Aang can fly unassisted. Let me repeat. He can fly unassisted. Only two Airbenders in all of Avatar history can fly unassisted, and one hasn't even been born yet during the time Aang was trying to stop the 100 year war. This boy can fly, but we're 6 episodes in and he has not water bent once. If he hadn't turned into Kiyoshi, I wouldn't believe that he's actually the avatar.
As to not provide any spoilers, they've taken multiple storylines and mashed them together. For example, the spirt of wisdom that we meet in the library in the arc where Appa goes missing. Yeah, we meet the guy in the forest with the Panda Bear Forest spirit and then we meet Kah shortly after. As if that's not all terrible, then we are introduced to the Mother of Faces.
The mother of freaking faces! If you don't know who she is, she is not in the show. She is introduced in the graphic novel trilogy "The Search" when Zuko and Azula try to find their long lost mother.
It is my feeling that if you want to revisit a beloved show that you should work to make it better. Deepen it. Add color to it and help the audience better understand the characters insights. Take your time with it.
Netflix tries to do a little of this by providing some additional backstories, but it does this by running rough shot through literally everything else.
It even changes the characters relational dynamics with one another. For example you know how even though Sokka is the oldest, Katara very much has adopted the place of their mother? Yeah... throw that notion right out the window. Now, instead of Katara being the practical one who keeps everything on track, she's painted as the rash kid who needs to grow up and Sokka is the father figure.
Now, Zuko is kind of the beloved child even though he's been banished and Azula is seen as a nuisance to her father. Like what??????
It's actually ironic that the show removes Sokka's misogynistic nature because the show is kind of misogynistic in and of itself.
It's 6 episodes in and has already stripped three female characters of their core tenants.
1. Azula is a prodigy. She's the pride of the fire nation. Not anymore.
2. Katara is a motherly figure who is the mother of the group. She cares for everybody and keeps them on track. Not anymore.
3. Suki is a fierce and independent warrior who is not impressed by Sokka's misogyny. Now, she's a creepy woman who follows him around the entire time he's on the island until he asks to be trained by her.
When we heard that the OG creators and Netflix went different ways because of creative differences, we should have known right then and there that the live action was going to be trash.
Also, I'm going to put it out there. Considering the fact that this should be a block buster series, Netflix did not spend anywhere enough money on it, because the graphics are so cheesy and Appa looks terrible.
#atla#netflix#atla live action#sokka#katara#kataang#zuko#azula#nikelodeon#roku#kiyoshi#kah#avatar#avatar the last airbender#airbending#zaheer#legend of korra
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Sweater Weather (Gale x GN!Reader)
Rating: Teen/SFW
Pairing: Gale and Reader (Second Person POV)
Word count: 1k
Summary: You knew that Waterdeep could be chilly during Hammer, but you didn’t realize quite how cold it could get. Luckily, Gale is always happy to lend you some warmth
“I had no idea Waterdeep could get so cold,” you said, shuddering against the cold winds that crept through the poorly insulated windows of Gale’s tower. Even beneath a veritable pile of blankets, the cold still seemed to seep into your bones. You insisted repeatedly that you would be “just fine”in the cold, yet you still shivered under all of the layers.
A cold front loomed over the Sword Coast, heralding the beginning of Hammer. The seasons were more temperate in Baldur’s Gate and you were unprepared for the harshness of Hammer further north.
Conversely, this was Gale’s favorite season. Gale’s wardrobe was significantly larger than yours and warm woolen sweaters and heavier cloaks comprised much of it. His mother made him a new heavy tunic sweater every year, partially out of motherly fussiness but mainly because she knew how much Gale loved a solidly-made sweater. That day, he was clad in a heavy burgundy sweater and trousers. He wore a pair of well-insulated slippers, yet another gift from his mother Morena.
“Come here, my love,” Gale said, beckoning you over to where he sat by the hearth in his library. Without abandoning your ersatz coat of blankets, you trudged across the room in stocking feet to curl up against Gale’s welcoming embrace.
The warmth of the fire and your lover’s body heat were comforting as you cocooned yourself by Gale’s side. On Gale’s opposite side, Tara was curled up and asleep with her head resting on her front paws. You could hear her snoring softly as you settled into Gale’s arms.
He gave you a tender peck on the forehead as you leaned into him. “We need to rectify the paucity to warm clothes in your wardrobe, my dear,” he sighed. “As charming as it is to see you scuttle about in your blanket cocoon, you require far more insulation against the Hammer winds.
You nodded reluctantly. You quickly realized that it was foolish to put on a tough front in front of Gale. Not only could he read you like one of his beloved tomes, you knew he always wanted you to be comfortable.
“You needn’t be so stalwart,” Gale said, taking a fatherly tone. “There is nobody in this tower or in all of Faerûn to impress or intimidate. Our days of toughness are over for now. It is safe to be vulnerable, challenging though that may be.” His lips curved into a half smile. “You’re a terrible liar anyway.”
“You’re right,” you sighed. Old habits died hard.
“I tend to be,” Gale replied with a hint of pride, which earned him an eye roll from you.
“So humble,” you wise-cracked, shaking your head. You shifted beneath the blankets and began to sit up. “I’m going to make some tea. Do you want any?”
Gale’s brows furrowed and he shot up from the sofa. “Sit back down. You’ll catch cold wandering about like that.” He bent down and kissed your forehead. “I shall bring the tea and I shall bring you more appropriate clothing.”
You chucked, but acquiesced as Gale hurried out of the room. It was little things like this that you found most charming. He cosseted you at every turn. Even when the was lost in his inner world, the only thing that could snap him out of it was you. He valued your comfort and happiness above all else. Often you had to remind Gale that his needs mattered just as much and, despite his protestations, you wanted to care for him in equal measure. He struggled at times to allow himself to be loved and cared for, but old habits die hard.
The library where you and Gale whiled away so many hours together was a manifestation of his thoughts, dreams, and ideas. When you first moved in together upon returning to Waterdeep, it felt odd and somewhat uncomfortable to sit in his library. You felt as if you found someone’s secret hiding place and decided to claim it as yours. With time, though, you became more comfortable. You belonged there as a part of his inner life.
“Your tea, my love,” Gale said warmly. He set a cup and saucer in front of you, part of a set passed down through his mother’s family. “Unfortunately, this is the last of the mint tea. I shall acquire more when I go to the market tomorrow.”
He disappeared once more, trodding down the hallway to your shared bedroom. You could hear him rummaging around, presumably looking for a sweater tunic for you. Eventually, he returned, carrying an emerald green garment.
“It may run a bit big, but it should do the trick,” he smiled as he passed the sweater tunic to you.
You gratefully pulled it over your head. You could smell Gale’s favorite rose-scented soap on the fabric. It did, in fact, make him smell a bit like an old dowager, but you’d come to appreciate it as one of his quirks.
The weight of the tunic was comforting, like a hug from a loved one. You could immediately feel the warmth flooding your body as you cozied into the tunic. It was a touch too big for you, so you rolled up the sleeves before taking a sip of the tea Gale made you.
“We’ll have to get a few shirts and sweater tunics in your size. It’ll only get colder from now until Tarsakh,” Gale advised, pulling you close to him. He kissed the top of your head, burying his nose in your hair. “I have to keep you warm, my love.”
“We’ll keep each other warm,” you corrected, giving Gale’s hand a squeeze. “Through all the days of Hammer to come, this year and every year.”
The cold winds blew harder outside, rattling the windowpanes, yet you remained warm and comfortable in your lovers tunic as the two of you cuddled together in front of the library’s hearth.
#bg3#gale dekarios#bg3 gale#gale of waterdeep#baldur's gate 3#bg3 fic#baldur's gate#gale x reader#gn reader
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First of all, very in love with the digital reader fic you put out <3
But since reader expressed not knowing why they were in hell I just couldn't help myself from thinking about this-
Reader: I don't even know why I'm here, the hell did I ever do?
Lucifer: Didn't you crash over half of all the systems on earth when you were alive?
Reader: That was an accident! I was only trying to crash like...ten!
Just a goofy thought that popped into my head- destructive characters that are chaotic on accident my beloved lmao-
Kisses darling <3
-📽
Sweet silly little Lucifer with his ducks. I feel like everyone thinks he's completely aware of everything happening in Hell at all times. Meanwhile, he's just making ducks and missing his daughter and can't remember the last time he ate.
Digital Pet [Vox x Reader, but this is a Lucifer interaction]
What Do You Mean You Don't Know
You'd been surfing through the digital plane like any other day. Vox had his schedule completely full, so you were on your own the pass the time. You hopped between windows that led into various devices all around Hell.
It was hard to tell where you were most of the time, but a part of you was convinced that you could slip into the devices of demons outside the Pride Ring. You'd once seen hellhounds and succubi at a party when you'd peeked into a large screen behind a DJ on stage. The large venue was covered in honeycombs and you saw some sort of lava lamp-looking furry doing shots in the middle of the energized crowd. While the aesthetic was similar enough to what you'd seen in the sinner's little slice of Hell, it felt... different.
It was precious information you decided to hold close to your chest. Maybe you'd tell Vox one day but from everything you'd seen about his power-hungry reputation, you decided it may be best not to play your card too soon. For all you know, it was just an exclusive club with different vibes. It wasn't unheard of for demons from the other rings to come to the clubs in Pride.
You were floating through an endless hall of screens and lights, looking between the different windows into the world you couldn't hope to touch when you saw a face that made you double-take.
"Is that..." You float back and gasp as you get a closer look that confirms your suspicions. "Oh, you motherfucker!"
Lucifer let out a startled yelp, dropping the duck he'd been painting as he fell out of his chair. He'd just been minding his own business, listening to some light jazz while he made duckie replicas of his daughter and all her little friends at the hotel when a loud voice suddenly blasted over the music on his laptop.
He frowned as he looked down and saw his white pants splatted with the fresh red paint of Alastor's duck. He was on his ninth attempt at replicating the cocky jerk and had finally been on the verge of getting his stupid grin right when you startled him.
"Oh great," Lucifer grumbled as he pulled himself off of the ground. "It's already bad enough I have a growing pile of ducks dedicated to this prick, now he's ruining my clothes too."
Lucifer leaned over his desk, trying to see what sort of pop-up advertisement or virus had gotten on his system when he suddenly saw you watching him with crossed arms. Your small form glared at him from where you sat atop of his video player.
"A sinner...?" Lucifer blinked slowly before looking at you in awe. He could see your soul and recognized you as a person immediately. "What on Earth are you doing in there?"
"You tell me!" you point at him angrily. "You're the guy in charge of this shit, aren't you? What did I ever do to you?! I didn't do anything to deserve a worse Hell than everyone else."
"How should I know?" Lucifer squawked as he threw up his arms in defense... "I haven't gone outside in... wait, what day is it?"
"How do you not know?" You ask, the two of you amping each other up in your confusion. "You're Lucifer! This is literally your entire thing!"
"Uh, excuse you," Lucifer tsked as he placed a hand on his chest. "I'll have you know I am a man of ducks and dadness. Not keeping track of every soul that drops into Hell. Do you have any idea just how many of you die a day? A lot. Too many. Just. Please get better at staying alive, I beg you."
You deadpan at him before shaking your head with a sigh. "Well, do you at least know how to get me out of the digital plane? I'd like to actually eat food or let my feet touch the ground o-or sleep in a bed!"
"Uhh," Lucifer laughed nervously. "Yeaaaah, no. Nope. Sorry uh, no. Technology isn't something I really know anything about. I'd love to help but uh, yeah... no."
You groan, obviously disappointed in his answer as you flop over to the side and let your frustration win in the moment. You run a hand down your face and look up at the great devil of Hell with a sigh.
"Do you at least have any idea why I'm in Hell and not Heaven?"
Lucifer hummed, squinting at you as he ran a history check on your soul. It took a lot longer to find a reason than he expected, but then he finally landed on it.
"Ah, there it is," he muttered. "Looks like you ate the last slice of birthday cake in the fridge back in your college days."
Your jaw drops, for a couple of reasons. The top reason should have been that such a little thing damned your soul for eternity. However, your priorities were a bit skewed. Which became transparently obvious as you exclaimed, "Excuse me?! It was MY birthday cake!"
"Yeah, but they called dibs," Lucifer shook his head with a sigh. "Heaven takes dibs very seriously. And as you should know by now, I don't make the rules."
The powerful demon grumbled like a child as you recovered from the absolute bullshit that was your afterlife. It wasn't until you'd sat back up that you looked past Lucifer and finally noticed his room.
"Why the fuck are there so many ducks?"
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Vibration
PAIRING: dilf!mark lee x afab reader
WORD COUNT: 2.9K
SUMMARY: Going home with Jaemin after another date leads to a night (and morning after) that you will never forget. Especially after you meet his incredibly hot Uncle Mark.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I present my official gift to my fellow Markfs for our beloved Mark Lee's birthday. This has been a long-standing, half-finished wip that was heavily inspired by MarkLeeInARobe2023 during that one live during tds2 where we are all pretty sure he wasn't wearing any underwear. Hope you all had a wonderful Mark Day and that you enjoy this gift from me to you :)
WARNINGS: explicit smut, alcohol consumption, mild swearing
PLAYLIST: Vibration by Mark Lee, Daddy Issues by Demi Lovato
Beast on the loose, rocking on
Close your eyes and look
Feel the vibration
Do you feel alive?
~~
“Shhhhhh…Jaem! We are going to get in trouble!” you squeal, dodging the tall man’s grabby hands as you wobble, almost dropping into the sparkling water of the pool under the night sky.
“Loosen up, silly,” he slurs back, bottle of tequila dangling from his long fingers dangerously over the slate tiles under your bare feet.
A third date with a cute guy from the IT department at work had turned into after dinner drinks and after after dinner drinks and dancing and shots and now you were stumbling around in the backyard of Jaemin’s house…?
“This is your house, right?” you ask, pausing and cocking your head to the right in punctuation as you watch him peel off his undershirt, his lightweight sweater long discarded half a bottle ago.
“I live here, yes,” he chuckles back, dropping down to let his feet dip into the light blue water of the beautiful pool set in the middle of the yard.
“My uncle is letting me stay with him for a few months before I find my own place.”
You take a moment to glance towards the large house in front of you. The entire back wall is floor to ceiling windows, giving a beautiful view of a modern and spacious kitchen, dim lighting illuminating granite countertops and shiny appliances. Jaemin’s uncle must be another one of these rich tech bros who never grew out of spending his money on shiny things. At least in this case you were benefiting from it.
You think you see some movement in the living room and are about to say something before you hear a loud splash and water shoots over your bare legs, dampening the flowy skirt of your thin dress.
Gasping, you shoot daggers at the smiley man in the pool, watching with interest as he dips his head back, running slender fingers through long auburn locks. You smile at him softly, tequila or lust clouding your judgment as you descend the stairs in the pool to meet him in the middle where your feet barely touch the bottom.
Jaemin’s hands find your waist underwater, pulling you closer to him as your dress billows out in the water, exposing you under the shimmering lights. A devious grin forms across his beautiful features as he tightens his grip on your waste and you narrow your eyes at him.
“Jaemin…don’t even think about it…” you warn, placing your hands on his shoulders preemptively.
Suddenly you are being tossed in the air and back into the water, head being pulled under the water and a muffled shriek bursting from your throat. You gasp for air as you break through the surface again only to find the charming boy in front of you laughing maniacally, clutching his middle underwater.
“Na Jaemin!” comes a loud voice, causing you both to snap your heads back towards the house, to find a blonde man with round wire frame glasses on the tip of his nose standing in black silk pajamas near the glass sliding door.
Jaemin is suddenly next to you and your heart is racing as the man takes another step closer to the pool, stepping into the moonlight. The rippling water of the pool is casting bright flashes across his face and strong frame, pants hugging his thighs before flaring out in a perfectly tailored length. His hair is on the longer side, similar to Jaemin’s but a beautiful pale blonde, dry and silky.
“Uncle Markkkk,” Jaemin slurs, tossing an arm around your shoulder, hand tangling instinctively in your long wet hair. You shrug violently in an attempt to get away from him, blush flaring up on your cheeks as you meet the stern man’s gaze.
“It’s late, use the indoor hot tub if you’re going to be out here. I don’t need pissed off neighbors,” he adds before turning on his heel to head back in the house. You don’t miss how his plump ass is accentuated by the silky material and have a hard time dragging your eyes away. Before he’s even out of sight, Jaemin’s hands are hungrily all over you again, sliding up your wet back to massage your shoulders.
“Jaemin, stop,” you warn, avoiding his kiss with a shake of your head. Getting caught has thrust you back to an embarrassed reality and you’re already plotting your escape via a long Uber ride back to your apartment.
“Don’t worry about Mark, he’s cool, I promise,” Jaemin coos, connecting his lips with your neck, wicked tongue making quick work at marking the skin there.
You melt under his touch, weak for that particular spot, and close the gap to connect further with his chest. Slotting your lips with his, you lick behind his teeth greedily, wrapping your arms around his neck and sighing against his lips.
“Fine, but take me inside, you owe me a shower and warm clothes,” you whisper against his mouth, linking your legs around his waist and grinding against his crotch as a silent promise.
The next morning you wake up to an empty bed and sun streaming through the window. It feels late but when you check your phone you realize it was around the time you would wake up on a weekday. The house is silent and Jaemin’s backpack is gone from where he had messily strewn it the night before.
A note on his desk indicates he had been called into the office on this peaceful Saturday to deal with a possible data breach and you are welcome to anything in the kitchen. You check your phone to realize he’s already sent you money for an Uber and your heart sinks. He was cute, cuter than you usually went for and way too nice for you. You now know this has to be the last date with him, your commitment issues flaring up.
Mk usually plays tennis on Saturdays so the coast should be clear. Call me later xx
You sink into his desk chair, crumpling the note and letting it fall into the small waste basket. After a quick wash of your face and brush of your teeth, you shrug into one of Jaemin’s oversized hoodies, letting it drop long on your thighs and covering the boxer briefs he had lent you last night. Combing through your hair with your fingers, you pull the hood up over your head and pad downstairs, louder than you would have in someone’s home.
Making your way into the kitchen, you go straight to the fridge, yanking it open to find glass bottles of water lining the door. You uncap one and take it down in one gulp, thirsty beyond belief.
“Jaeminnie, we need to talk about last night,” comes the same voice who had startled you by the pool the night before.
You freeze, pushing the fridge door shut slowly. In the hoodie and boxers, with your hair and frame covered, you know you could easily be mistaken for the boy you had gone home with. You had similar build and heights and a quick glance over your shoulder confirms that Mark hadn’t lowered the newspaper he was reading.
“You can’t just keep fucking every beautiful girl you meet in my pool. What would my brother say about how I’m letting you spend your summer?” he continues in a condescending tone as you back up against the island, nervous to turn around.
“And by the sounds of you two in the shower, it sounds like she’s sexy as hell and quite the catch, so don’t you think it’s about time you settled down?” he finishes, lifting his tone up in a question, never lowering the paper.
You place the empty bottle down on the glossy countertop and cross the kitchen to the table where he sits, placing manicured fingertips on the top of the paper to get his attention.
“Quite the catch? Sexy as hell? Oh do tell me more about this beautiful girl,” you reply with a smirk, pulling the newspaper from the shocked man’s face.
“Jesus, fuck, I’m so sorry…” Mark trails off as you push the hood off your head, shaking your locks temptingly and giving him a quizzical cock of your brow.
“Don’t be sorry,” you start, leaning your hip against the edge of the table as you watch panic wash over his face.
His face looks freshly washed with no doubt luxury skincare applied immediately after and he is lounging casually in a dark blue robe with white trim, ML embroidered in gold thread at the chest. His toned chest is peaking through, belt loose at the waist and legs spread wide, bare legs ending in soft slippers planted on the floor.
“I heard someone leave early so I assumed it was you. I had no idea you were still here,” he tries to explain, fidgeting with the dangling edge of the belt. His eyes are struggling to meet yours, as you train your gaze down at him with your hands now shoved in the hoodie pocket.
“He had to head to work. He said you wouldn’t be here,” you reply softly, now feeling bad for grilling him as he squirmed below you. He looked soft and sweet in the morning light, drastically different from the stern fatherly tone he took last night at the edge of the pool.
“Can I make you a cappuccino? Some eggs?” he asks, sitting up in the chair, bare knees bumping against yours and sending a shiver up your spine.
“Hmm I was thinking of how I could repay you for your hospitality. This is quite a beautiful home you have here, Uncle Mark,” you reply, brushing your hand across his that was resting on his knee.
He winces at the name but looks down at your hand on his, turning his over to let your fingers lace with his. The tips of his fingers are calloused and you silently wonder if he plays guitar, having noticed some framed records on the wall on the stairs.
“Mark, please, just Mark,” he replies, voice coming out gravelly, eyes dying to roll into the back of his head at the name.
“And it’s fine, I don’t know how to make eggs anyways,” he adds, squeezing your hand gently as you move your other to the belt at his waist.
“Of course a filthy rich guy like you doesn’t cook,” you reply lightly, dropping down to your knees, releasing his hand and placing both your palms on his knees, knocking the edge of the robe out of the way to expose his bare thighs. As far as you can tell, he isn’t wearing any underwear and the thought of his hardening cock bare against his thigh makes you squeeze your legs together.
Mark widens his legs as his eyes narrow, watching you sitting back on your legs in front of him, baggy material pooling around your thighs. Before you can reach to pull the knot of his belt loose, he leans down and you feel your eyes slide shut, assuming he’s going to kiss you. He chuckles instead, breath warm across your lips as he tugs at the hood of the sweatshirt.
“Take this off now,” he commands, sitting back up in the chair and pulling at the belt himself, letting it slip to the floor. The robe falls open, revealing a toned and lean torso accompanied by muscular arms. His cock is hard and flushed red against his stomach and an evil smile is spread across his lips.
As soon as you’ve removed the offending material, your eyes go immediately to his cock, teeth sinking into your lower lip as you take in the sight of him. He’s dripping with sex appeal and you can’t help but stare. He’s definitely older than you and Jaemin but can’t be too much older by the look of his physique. His face is young and the blonde dye of his hair makes it impossible to detect any grays, if he even has any.
“Now where’s that thank you I was promised?” he asks, tipping his chin down to speak to you, hand balled into a fist at his knee. His eyes continue trailing down, landing on your breasts being pressed together by your bare upper arms as your hands rest on your knees. You look like a dream kneeling before him in nothing but gray boxers and it’s taking everything in him not to fuck you over the counter top.
You lean forward, sliding your hands gently up his smooth inner thighs, taking his leaking cock in your hand and lowering your lips to the head. You listen as Mark’s breathing slows and hear a soft moan slide from his lips as you close your lips around him, running the point of your tongue over his sensitive slit.
You chuckle at the noise, sending vibrations across him, using your hand to work the base of his shaft as you kitten lick his head. You let your teeth drag lightly against him every once and a while, tasting his woody musk. You let your eyes slip shut, rocking back and forth on your knees, the energy coursing through your body making you feel more alive than ever.
A disgruntled noise from above draws your gaze up and his hand is suddenly in your hair, pulling the long locks into a ponytail to pull you off his dick.
“Come on, sweetie, I know you can do better than that. I heard how Jaemin fucked your throat last night - my bed shares a wall with the shower,” he grunts out, voice dripping with filth as he accurately recounts your actions from the night before.
Spurred on by his words, you take his cock deep in your mouth, brushing up against the back of your throat as you hollow your cheeks around him. You’re suddenly desperate to prove how well you can take him, despite being slightly bigger than Jaemin and holding far more confidence in the way he carries himself.
Mark lets out a high pitch yelp and you swear you can hear his voice break as he does, sliding his hand down your neck and to your upper back, causing you to shift forward and take him impossibly deeper. Your nose is pressed up into neatly trimmed hair and your eyes begin to water as he lifts his ass off the chair to thrust into your throat. You shift to accommodate him and look up through your lashes to him.
“Holy hell, that’s good,” he groans, arm muscles tensing as he digs his fingertips into your back, no doubt leaving bruises there.
You slide off him, dragging your tongue on the underside of his shaft and swirling around his tip. He squeezes his eyes shut tight behind his glasses, free hand pushing through strands of blonde that had fallen in front of his face.
Without much warning he is shooting warmth across your lips and chest, letting out a deep groan and reaching down to fist at himself through his orgasm. He looks down at you with a smile, lips curling up as if he’s about to say something devious.
“MELT! Babe, are you here?” comes a loud voice, echoing off the walls of the kitchen and causing you to pull back, heart pounding in your chest.
A tall, long-legged man in a polo shirt and athletic shorts appears, his socked feet coming to a stop at the sight of you on your knees on the glossy floor. His hair is dark and lightly permed, long bangs hanging perfectly over his eyebrows and a dainty gold chain laying against his tanned neck.
He gives you a long look up and down, eyes pausing on the cum glazing your lips as you freeze and dart nervous eyes over to Mark, who looks unbothered.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here? Looks like Markie found something fun to do instead of tennis this morning,” comes his warm voice as he leans against the entryway to the kitchen.
“Ah Hyuckie, let me be, I texted you while you were golfing,” Mark says with a roll of his eyes and a huff, reaching a soft hand to your chin to pull you to your feet.
“Meet my not-so-better-half, Haechan,” Mark adds, comment directed at you as he brushes his lips against the corner of your mouth, licking away the remains of his release left there.
You gulp and drop your head sheepishly, looking down to your bare chest and covering it nervously with your arms. Twice in less than 24 hours you had been caught in a compromising position and this time you simply wanted to melt into the floor.
Haechan closes the space between you and you feel a hand in your hair, pulling you up gently to meet his gaze. His eyes are sparkling and beautiful, dark moles dotting his cheek and lips plump and soft.
“She’s cute,” he says to Mark, dipping his head down to brush his lips against your collarbone, tongue darting out to taste some of Mark’s cum on your skin.
“Tastes good too,” he adds with a smile.
“Did you enjoy sucking off my husband, darling?” he asks, dark eyes swimming with mischief. He looks breathtaking up close, features just as pretty as Mark’s and voice dripping with lust.
“Husband…” you trail off, unable to form a coherent sentence. You shoot daggers at Mark, who merely smiles and rolls his eyes again before moving to the coffee machine and starting to make another coffee.
What the fuck had you gotten yourself into?
~~
#nct smut#nct x reader#mark lee fanfic#mark lee x reader#mark lee smut#mark lee#nct fanfic#jaemin x reader#jaemin smut
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backseat love.
You lay in the back of his red mustang.
His beloved car was parked in a secluded stop near the beach.
It was a warm summer night in late August.
The sky was clear, the air was crisp.
The moon illuminated your beautiful features effortlessly.
You closed your eyes.
Jackson’s musky scent clouded your mind completely.
You felt his plush lips exploring your neck.
His kisses were sweet, restrained even.
His body hovered above you, always leaving a bit of space as to not smother you.
Your hands trailed along his strong arms, rubbing circles on the spots in which his skin was tattooed.
Jackson stopped kissing you for a moment as he giggled under your touch.
“That tickled.”
You smirked diabolically.
“My bad”.
Not even a second later you had your hands on his sides tickling him on purpose.
Jackson got startled and tried to escape your nimble fingers while laughing hysterically.
You learned to love that high pitched laugh rather quickly.
He easily freed himself out of your touch and reversed the roles.
Now, he held your hands in place and laid directly on you.
Feeling him felt nice, being this close to him felt even nicer.
The mood changed as quickly as his eyes did.
You did not understand how but his dark eyes turned even darker somehow.
Jackson looked at you intensely.
“Y/N, don’t you ever do that again. Unless…”
He stopped talking and observed your face instead.
You felt his eyes linger on your lips.
Excitement rushed through your whole body.
You licked your lips in anticipation.
“Unless?”
Jackson’s eyes lit up from arousal, swallowing hard.
“Unless you want to get punished, baby girl.”
He crushed his lips onto yours and kissed you with his all.
Desire, longing, yearning, passion – you couldn’t think of a word to describe him.
Describe this.
Your fingers found the back of his head, tugging on his Cruella hair.
“Need you closer.”
You mumbled in between kisses, not wanting to break contact with his lips.
Jackson complied, thrusting his hips onto you.
“Like this?”
You moaned.
Your eyes shot open from embarrassment.
Jackson’s lips turned to a smirk, watching you very closely.
“I wanna do that again.”
You looked confused.
“What?”
“I wanna hear you moan again. No, I-”
He thrusted his hips again, making you understand how desperate he was for you.
“I want to make you moan again. And again. And again.”
Jackson’s lips found yours again, kissing you until you ran out of breath.
His almond shaped eyes looked down at you, requesting.
“If you let me?”
Fuck, he was good.
Your hands let go of his hair and travelled down to his crotch instead.
You were kneading him through his pants, smirking at him.
“Let’s go then.”
You had no idea how long the two of you had been at it.
The car was rocking.
The windows were fogged.
The air smelled like sex.
Both of you were sweaty and out of breath.
You still sat on his lap thanks to the last position he had you in.
You were covered in bite marks.
Neck, tits, inner thighs – Jackson marked you everywhere.
“I had no idea our date would go like this but I liked it.”
He laughed shyly.
You mirrored his laughter and pressed your forehead to his.
Jackson took your head into his hands, watching you with the biggest smile.
“You are so beautiful, y/n. Like really, fucking beautiful.”
He placed another kiss on your lips.
The kisses before were hungry and hurried.
Now they were sincere and sweet.
“How the hell are you still single?”
Ouch.
That one hurt.
“Because of guys like you, Jackson.”
You wanted to get away from him.
And his car.
You wanted to get up and cry.
“Because of guys like you. The ones that get to know me and tell me the sweetest things. Y/N, you are so beautiful. Y/N, you are so great. I wanna date you and do this and do that blablabla. Guys like you Jackson, they only want to fuck me and then they leave for someone else. You tell me why I’m still single.”
You practically spat out those last words.
Rage filled your whole body.
“Hello? Y/N? You okay?”
You snapped back to reality, leaving your blame game fantasies.
An awkward laugh left your lips.
“Sorry, got lost in thought.”
You smiled, hoping he would let it go.
Jackson was not sure what to do next.
Your vibe had changed completely.
You were cold and reserved now.
Your body tense.
Your smile fake.
“Did I.. Did I do something wrong?”
You turned your head away, laughing again.
“Of course not.”
His hand grabbed your face smoothly and turned it back so you could face him.
“Don’t do that y/n.”
You looked at him surprised.
“Do what?”
“Don’t hide from me, please. I know that I said something that triggered you and I’m sorry. But please, don’t shut me out.”
Jackson’s eyes were filled with sorrow – something you had never seen before in a male counterpart.
Slowly you regained your composure.
“You asked as a joke, I overreacted. It was really not that deep.”
“What if it was?”
He tugged back the strands of hair that fell into your face.
“What if it was deep? Why not talk about it? Don’t hold everything in, y/n.”
You were resistant.
This was not what you wanted.
This was supposed to be a careless date.
How did it turn into this?
“Do you trust me?”
Strangely enough, you did.
You nodded your head.
Jackson beamed you a smile.
“I trust you, too.”
His words touched you.
He touched you.
You felt yourself relax, as if weight had dropped off your shoulders.
You let out a deep breath.
Jackson took your hands into his and squeezed them.
“Wanna know how this normally goes?”
He nodded quietly.
“Well, I am still single because I meet the worst kind of people. You know the ones that don’t want to commit but behave as if they fell in love with you? It’s always the same – they tell me the nicest things, just like you did. Y/N, you are amazing. You are beautiful and smart and funny blabla, how are you still single?”
Tears were starting to fill your eyes.
Jackson didn’t say a word.
He knew it was hard for you.
He knew what it felt like to be in your shoes.
He knew how hard it was to open up about your struggles.
Tears were running down your cheeks.
“God, I feel so stupid telling you all this. I am still single because guys only think of fucking me. That’s all they do. They use me and then they throw me away. Like I meant nothing. Like I was trash. They delete my contact, they block me, they are out of my life without a single word. That is why I am still single, Jackson. I’m just not made for love.”
Your last words lingered in the air for a while.
You felt his thumb on your cheek, whiping away your salty tears.
“That was hard, wasn’t it?”
You nodded.
You felt small.
You felt vulnerable.
You made a giant fool of yourself on this date.
Great.
“I admire you, y/n.”
Your reddened eyes shot up, looking at him with confusion.
“You.. You what?”
Jackson laughed, adoring your cuteness so much.
“I know what it’s like to go through hard times. And how it feels to be rejected. And how it feels to bottle it all up. I am sorry that you had to go though all this. But you haven’t closed off your heart and I admire you for that.”
Now you wanted to cry more.
Not out of sadness, but out of gratitude.
“What? Did you expect me to kick you out of my car after you confessed all that?”
Jackson laughed and started kissing your tears away.
He looked at you sternly, whispering.
“I would never do that.”
All of you wanted to believe him.
All of you craved for someone that was good to you for once.
But all of you was suspicious because of your past.
„You said this happened normally, right?“
You nodded.
„Good.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, closing the space between the two of you.
“I’m sure you already know that I am not a normal guy, right?”
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