#ALL WOMEN IN ONE PIECE ARE GODDESSES!!!!!!

[joy-girl]

THE WAY I GASPED!!!!!

[fushitoru]

a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic

pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader

summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?

warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii

a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3

general masterlist

You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.

Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described. 

Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.

For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.

The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.

The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.

You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.

Silence, then a low chuckle.

When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.

Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever. 

Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.

"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.

"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"

Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.

"—grant me the honor of—"

"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.

The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.

"Pardon?"

You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."

His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."

A pause.

His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"

You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."

His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."

You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."

You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."

He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."

You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"

"Exactly."

You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."

At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"

You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."

He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."

"As they should," you replied smoothly.

To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."

A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.  

Yet, he remained.

You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.

You paid it no mind.

He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.

"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"

A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."

You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."

His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."

You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."

"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."

You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"

His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.

"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."

You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."

He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"

"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."

He smirked. "Explains what?"

"Why I’ve never heard of it."

A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.

You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."

"Not yet," he said, far too easily.

You didn’t look up. "Why?"

"Because you haven’t given me yours."

You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.

"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.

"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.

You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."

You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."

"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."

You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.

Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."

You didn't dignify that with a response.

But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.

He had yet to claim your name.

No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.

Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.

Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.

He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.

But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.

Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”

A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.” 

Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.

Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."

Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."

“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead. 

“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response. 

Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”

Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."

Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."

Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."

"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"

Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."

Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.

Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.

"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"

Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."

Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."

Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"

"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."

Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."

Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.

His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"

But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.

"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."

And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.

The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.

Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.

Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.

You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.

Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”

You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?” Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”

“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting. 

However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?

But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.

It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.

Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.” 

“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”

Helen shrugged. “So what?”

You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”  

Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.

The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.

That suitor.

The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."

The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."

Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."

Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.

Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."

Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.

Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."

A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.

As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.

Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”

You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.

The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.

Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”

You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.

“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.

Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.

“Did you see him?”

You resumed braiding. “Who?”

Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”

You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”

“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”

You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.

“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”

Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”

Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”

You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.

And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.

The thought settled in your chest like a stone.

It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.

Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.

You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”

Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”

You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”

“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”

You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”

Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.

“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.

You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”

Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”

“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”

“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”

You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”

“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”

You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.

“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.

Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.

But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.

Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.

Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.

But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.

Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.

So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.

The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.

Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.

They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.

It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.

Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.

"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."

Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.

"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."

His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."

You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.

It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.

For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.

Perhaps the gods were toying with him.

"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.

Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."

"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."

"Not a chance."

You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"

Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."

He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.

"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.

"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."

You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"

For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.

It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.

And gods, it was beautiful.

Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.

"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."

Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."

He did not say so. He knew so.

Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.

And he had no intention of stopping now.

But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”

Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining. 

You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.

In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.

You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.

It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.

That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.

In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.

His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.

It is sharp. Focused.

It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.

It darkens.

Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.

Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?

His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.

But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—

His eyes.

Still watching.

“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her. 

But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”

Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”

Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”

This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”

Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.

But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."

Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"

Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."

"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.

Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."

Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.

Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.

You do not want to be here.

All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.

“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”

“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”

You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock. 

"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"

He does not notice the shadow behind him.

“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”

The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.

Gojo.

The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.

“You—”

“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”

With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.

Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.

“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.

You hesitate, unsettled.

“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.

Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.

His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”

He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”

“That’s not—”

“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?

You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”

His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.

“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”

His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.

“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”

Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”

Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”

You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.

His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.

The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.

“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.

His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”

The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.

“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”

You swallow. “No.”

A lie.

Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.

For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”

You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”

He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia. 

You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”

Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”

You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”

His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do.  “Then by all means, put me to shame.”

You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.

Until it isn’t, obviously.

He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.

“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”

You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”

Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”

“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”

Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”

“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”

“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.

His head snaps up. “Wait—”

You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.

Silence.

Gojo blinks at the board.

You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”

Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”

You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.

“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”

That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”

Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.

You don’t trust that look.

“What?” you ask warily.

He hums. “Just thinking.”

“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”

Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”

“You act as if I owe you something.”

His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”

You narrow your eyes. “No.”

“You didn’t even hear me out.”

“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”

Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”

You arch a brow. “Fair?”

He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”

“You most certainly did not.”

“And I helped with your wrist.”

Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”

Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”

You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.

“The gardens?”

He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”

“Why?”

Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.

 “Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.

“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”

Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.

"There you are!"

Helen.

You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.

"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"

Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."

Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”

You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”

“A bruise?!”

“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you. 

Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”

“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”

Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.

“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”

You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.

She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.

“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”

You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”

“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”

You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.

It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.

You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”

“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”

You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”

Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”

You do not have an answer to that.

And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.

…

The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.

But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?

The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.

Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.

You cannot say why.

A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—

You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.

A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.

You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.

Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”

You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”

He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”

And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.

Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.

You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.

But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.

You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.

If he comes, he comes.

And if not—

Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.

But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.

Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.

You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.

And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.

With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.

Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.

“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”

He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”

You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”

His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”

You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”

“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.

“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”

You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.

“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.

Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.

Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.

Yes.

It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.

You don’t know what to make of it.

You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.

The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.

You look away first.

Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.

A beat passes before he answers.

“Because you are.”

You swallow.

He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.

“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”

Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.

“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”

You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”

He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”

“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.

And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.

Does he want to reach for you?

The thought unsettles you more than it should.

He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”

Your fingers still.

“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”

You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”

His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.

“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.

“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”

You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”

Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”

“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”

“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”

“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.

And then—silence.

You glance at him, and find him already watching you.

His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.

And then—

A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.

Your heart stutters.

Oh.

For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.

He is very handsome.

The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.

Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.

Gojo moves before you can react.

His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.

You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.

His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.

Your own breath falters.

His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.

Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.

He waits.

A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.

You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”

His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”

You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”

“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”

“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”

Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”

“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.

His gaze flickers to your lips.

Your breath catches, just for a moment.

And then—

His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.

You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.

It is all the invitation he needs.

He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.

The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.

For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now. 

When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.

“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition. 

Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”

“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”

“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”

Your heart drops to your stomach.

What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.

Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?

Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king. 

What a match.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.

“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”

“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”

Fate.

What cruel irony.

You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.

And yet—

You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.

The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.

She wants this.

And what of you?

Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”

“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”

Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.

You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.

It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.

Over a man. What a shame.

You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.

Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.

But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise. 

The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.

Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.

You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—

And there he is.

Satoru.

Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.

Your heart stutters.

You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

The pebble strikes the stone beside you.

“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”

You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”

His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”

“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.

“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”

Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”

But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.

You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”

“And when have I ever listened?”

There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.

He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”

Your stomach lurches. “She said—”

“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.

He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.

“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”

Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”

Oh.

He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.

“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”

“Ask me what?”

His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”

The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”

His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.

“You.”

Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.

“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.

“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.

It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.

His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.

So you whisper, “Then prove it.”

And that is all it  takes for him to break.

His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—

Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”

“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.

But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”

He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.

After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”

But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”

You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”

“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.

You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself. 

Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering. 

“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”

Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”

“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”

Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”

He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.

You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.

For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.

Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.

You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”

Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.

It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.

When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing. 

So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now. 

And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.

“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.

“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”

“Helen!” 

The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.

His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.

What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.

And perhaps he has.

After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—

He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.

Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.

general masterlist

a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....

ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter

thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3

[inseobts]

Stone Cold Feelings

zoro x fem!reader

boa hancock’s love-love beam turns everyone to stone, except you and zoro (and luffy). and so boa makes her mission to understand why zoro didn't turn to stone and shamelessly flirts with him (or at least she pretends to)…

a/n: as I said in the middle of the fanfic I don't really know if that's how boa's powers work, but let's pretend it is.

words count: 2.7k

tags: fluff, boa hancock spoilers, jealousy, humor, fluff, love confession

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The Thousand Sunny stops near a small island, and Luffy jumps off like he owns the place. You and the rest of the crew follow behind, walking into the jungle. It doesn’t take long before she shows up.

Boa Hancock.

Tall, beautiful, dramatic, she appears like some goddess with her sisters and Kuja warriors behind her.

Luffy grins “Boa! You’re here!”

She gasps, spins, and poses “Luffy!” Her voice is full of love and sparkles. She turns to the rest of you “As for the rest… Mero Mero Mellow!”

A pink heart flies from her hand. It bursts in the air. Everyone freezes.

Sanji turns into stone right away, heart eyes still frozen on his face.

Brook’s skull goes stiff. Even Franky and Usopp are statues now.

You blink.

Zoro groans, rubbing his head.

Luffy just laughs like it’s a party “She always does that.”

You look around.

Only you, Zoro, and Luffy are still human.

“Huh…” you mutter “Why am I not a statue?”

Zoro glances at you. His cheeks turn pink for half a second before he looks away.

You don’t notice. You’re busy poking Robin’s stone face “They’ll be fine, right?”

Boa stares “What is this…?” She steps closer, eyes wide “Another one… unaffected? Two?”

She’s pointing at Zoro now. Her eyes sparkle “How… unusual.”

Luffy munches on a piece of meat “That’s Zoro. He’s kinda weird.”

Zoro shrugs “Guess it just didn’t work on me.”

You wave your hand “Me neither?”

Boa ignores you completely “So strong… so cold… so handsome!” she walks up to Zoro and leans in “Why didn’t my beam work on you?”

Zoro frowns “I don’t know. I just… didn’t care?”

You laugh “He’s too dumb to fall for it.”

Zoro glares “Hey. Then you're also dumb?”

Boa twirls a lock of hair, looking dramatic “He resists me… even though I am beautiful…” She gasps “Is this what true love is?!”

You stare “Wait, what?”

She waves her hand “Never mind. That was just a greeting.” She casually un-stones everyone like nothing happened “Let’s all… eat!”

Boa starts following Zoro around for the rest of the day. She sends hearts, pouts, winks, and flirty lines. Zoro dodges every time, annoyed.

An hour later, you're all sitting around a huge meal. Boa's palace chefs brought out a feast. Luffy’s halfway into his sixth plate. Everyone else eats and chats like normal.

Everyone except Boa.

Boa sits right next to Zoro. Too close.

She laughs too loudly at things he doesn’t say. She leans forward, pressing her arm against his.

Zoro keeps moving slightly away.

You try to focus on your food, but your chopsticks keep missing your mouth.

“Zoro,” Boa says sweetly “You are… very quiet. Strong. Mysterious.”

Zoro grunts “Trying to eat.”

She giggles “Do you always ignore beautiful women?”

You stab your food harder than needed.

She didn’t even try with you. You didn’t turn to stone either. You didn’t even blink at her dumb pose. But she’s all over him.

It’s annoying. Really annoying.

You clear your throat “So… uh, Boa? You know I didn’t turn into a statue either.”

She blinks, not looking at you “And?”

You raise an eyebrow “So why aren’t you trying so hard with me?”

The table gets quiet for a beat.

Boa lifts her chin, dramatic again “Because you’re not him.”

You scoff “Rude.”

Usopp tilts his head “Wait, are you mad at it?”

You freeze “What? No! I just...”

Zoro’s watching you now. He doesn’t say anything, but his eye is on you.

You look away fast.

Boa leans in closer to Zoro again “Just look at me once. Really look. My powers work best like that.”

Zoro shifts uncomfortably “No thanks. I'm eating.”

She sighs, dreamily “Why do you resist me? I’m the most beautiful woman in the world…”

She bats her lashes “Why don’t you turn into a statue for me? Look at me.”

Zoro finally drops his chopsticks and sigh reeeeeally deeply “Because I like her.”

The table stops moving.

Luffy chokes on meat.

Sanji drops his fork.

Nami spits her drink.

You freeze.

Zoro points at you “I like her.”

You stare at him “You… what?”

Boa is stunned “WHAT?!”

Zoro just shrugs, like he didn’t just break the table’s collective brain “Yeah. That’s why.”

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

Everyone's frozen.

Not from a beam this time. Just from shock.

Zoro sits back down and picks up his food again like he didn’t just say that in front of everyone.

You’re still blinking like your brain hasn’t processed it yet.

Boa Hancock recovers first. She stands dramatically, arms crossed, hair somehow blowing even though there’s no wind.

“Hmph,” she says, voice full of pride “Who cares? Even married people have turned to stone for me.”

The crew collectively “Huh?!”

Boa flips her hair “I attract everyone—no matter age, gender, or sexuality. That’s the power of my beauty.”

She gives you a side-eye “Only my Luffy has resisted me… until now.”

She’s not angry. Not even sad. More like… surprised. Curious. Mildly impressed.

But mostly, she’s just trying to make Luffy jealous with all this.

Luffy, of course, is too busy battling a giant piece of meat “Zoro likes Y/N? Cool.”

Boa’s eye twitches “Luffy, are you even listening?”

He grins, sauce on his face “Yeah. Love stuff’s fun.”

You cover your face with both hands “Can we not do this right now?”

“Too late!” Nami says with a wicked grin.

Usopp’s already leaned in “So wait, you didn’t turn to stone either!” He points at you dramatically “Why not?”

“I don’t know!” you shout “Guess I’m just… not into her like that!”

“Are you into Zoro like that?” Brook asks way too cheerfully.

Sanji bangs his head on the table “Of course not! Zoro doesn’t deserve her!”

“Shut up, curly-brow.”

You blink “CAN WE PLEASE MOVE ON—”

“Wait wait wait,” Chopper jumps up, eyes sparkling “This could be science! You both resisted her beam. That’s rare!”

Franky’s nodding “It’s super rare. Boa’s beam doesn’t care who you are. If you feel even the tiniest thing, boom—stone.”

Nami hums “So if you didn’t freeze… does that mean you didn’t feel anything? Like anything at all?”

She’s looking at you now.

Everyone is.

Your face heats up “I… don’t know! I mean she’s pretty and all but like—not in a heart-throbbing way?!”

You glance at Zoro.

He looks away at the trees like they’re fascinating.

Boa rolls her eyes “I’m not hurt, if that’s what you’re wondering. I never even cared about you two...”

She turns away, arms folded “I’ll find another way to make Luffy jealous…”

Luffy looks at her, food in his mouth “Jealous of what?”

Boa now twirls toward him “Don't worry! Here, you can have my meal too.”

The crew is still whispering.

About you. About Zoro. About the “I like her” thing.

You whisper to Zoro, “Can we disappear into the forest and never come back?”

Zoro mutters, “Only if you lead the way.”

He’s trying to act cool. But you see the tips of his ears are red. And yeah… yours probably are too.

You haven’t looked Zoro in the eye since lunch.

You also haven’t looked at anyone in the eyes since lunch.

Because apparently, "I like her" is enough to set the entire crew on a mission.

A mission to ruin your life.

Robin is smiling in that quiet, knowing way that makes you nervous.

Nami keeps giving you looks.

Usopp has created five theories about "how long Zoro's been in love".

Sanji hasn't stopped sulking.

Chopper made you tea and whispered, “It’s okay, feelings are confusing.”

Brook’s already writing a song.

Luffy? His dumb ass just asked if you and Zoro are married now.

...Twice...

You and Zoro are sitting on opposite sides of the campfire.

Not awkward at all.

Totally normal.

Great.

“So,” Nami says, too casually, “you like her, huh?”

Zoro grunts “Didn’t I already say that?”

“Yeah, but why?”

Zoro pauses “Why not?”

You want to throw yourself into the fire.

Nami’s eyes slide to you “What about you, Y/N? Got anything to say?”

You fidget with your cup “Nope. Not a thing. Totally normal day. Nice weather.”

“Don’t avoid the question” Robin adds with a gentle smile.

You fake a cough “I mean… people say things in the heat of the moment, right?”

Zoro finally speaks “It wasn’t heat of the moment.”

You turn your head so fast you almost pull a muscle “What?”

He shrugs “I just had the answer to her questions.”

Silence.

Even the fire seems quieter now.

Zoro looks at you, serious “I like you. I’m not good at saying it. I just do.”

Your heart does something. Not the stone beam thing. Worse. It flips, spins, and slams into your ribs like a cannonball. And suddenly, you’re mad again. Not at him. At… yourself. At everything.

“So why didn’t you say anything before?”

He blinks “I don't know.”

You stare at your tea.

Another silence.

The crew senses the moment and tries to fake being quiet, but the whole vibe is “pretending not to listen while obviously listening”.

Zoro doesn’t push. He just leans back on one elbow, looking up at the sky.

“You don’t have to say anything about it.” he says, voice low.

You think about it all night.

You roll over in your bedroll, eyes wide open.

Ugh. Feelings.

It’s been two days.

Two. Whole. Days.

And they still won’t shut up.

You can’t eat in peace.

You can’t walk in peace.

You can’t even breathe without someone sliding up next to you.

“Hey, Y/N,” Usopp whispers, dramatic as ever “Tell me the truth. You weren’t turned to stone because…?”

Brook leans over “Is it because you’re secretly blind?”

Sanji dramatically clutches his chest “Or is it because your heart only has room for true love… but that can't be Zoro?”

Chopper hops on your shoulder “Was it science? Wait—feelings science?”

Even Franky joins in “Come on, it’d be super romantic!”

You nearly trip over your own feet “Can’t I have one quiet minute?”

Nami strolls up “Nope. Not until you say it.”

Robin smiles like she knows everything. Probably does “We’re only curious, Y/N.”

“Obsessed” you mutter.

“Potato, potahto” Nami shrugs.

Zoro walks beside you, calm like always, but you know he hears every word.

He doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t asked once. That’s what makes it worse. He gave you time. He backed off.

But the crew?

The crew is relentless.

You reach your limit during breakfast on the third day.

You’ve had enough teasing. Enough nudging.

Sanji makes heart-shaped pancakes and slides you one with “S + (your initial)” syrup-drawn on top telling you "Because that's can't be a Z".

Chopper actually made you a quiz.

Luffy just goes, “You're married, just say it.” for like the 148th time.

You snap.

“FINE!”

The whole table goes dead quiet.

You slam your cup down “I wasn’t turned into stone because I wasn’t looking at Boa in the first place!” (a/n: I honestly don't know if that's how it works but let's pretend it is)

Everyone “HUH?!”

Your face is red now. Your hands are shaking a little.

“I was looking at Zoro when she did the beam, okay?! I wasn’t thinking about her! I didn’t even notice her stupid pose or whatever! I— I like him! That’s why it didn’t work!”

Absolute silence.

Then they explode.

“CALLED IT!” Usopp screams.

Nami slaps the table “I knew it!”

Brook throws his hands up “Aaah young love!”

Chopper’s eyes are sparkles “You were looking at him the whole time?”

Franky dabs away a tear “That’s super love.”

You want to dig a hole and live there now. Forever.

Zoro, who’s been totally silent, finally speaks.

“…Seriously?”

You glare at your plate “Yes, seriously.”

“…You were looking at me?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

There’s a pause.

Then his voice, quieter “I'm happy.”

Your head shoots up.

His eyes meet yours.

No teasing. No smirk. Just Zoro, being honest.

The crew screams.

Luffy claps like he’s watching a fireworks show.

Sanji is on the ground “Why himmmm—”

Nami’s already passing out mugs “Cheers to mutual pining resolved!”

Zoro walks over, calm as ever. He leans next to your seat, looking at you like you’re not surrounded by chaos.

“I guess we’re even now” he says, voice low.

You stare at him.

Something bubbles in your chest.

Not nerves. Not panic. You don't know what.

You stand up.

He blinks “What—?”

You take his hand.

Rough, warm, still holding a rice ball.

You don’t even think.

You just tug.

Zoro lets you.

No questions. No resistance. He just follows, letting you pull him past the fire, past the table, past a stunned and now absolutely feral crew.

“WOOOO—”

“GOOOO Y/N—”

“SWORD DATE! SWORD DATE!”

You keep walking. Out of sight, into the quiet.

Then you stop.

Let go of his hand.

Turn around. And now your brain catches up.

Oh. Oh no.

You really just did that.

You stare at him. He stares at you.

Zoro tilts his head “So… uh.”

You cut in, panicking “I didn’t plan this.”

He blinks “No?”

“No!”

You throw your hands up “I just got overwhelmed! And I didn’t wanna talk about feelings in front of Luffy and Sanji and Nami and Usopp and Brook and—”

Zoro nods slowly “Got it.”

“And now I brought you out here and I have no idea what to say.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then “You already said it back there.”

You freeze.

Zoro steps closer. Not too close. Just enough.

“You like me.”

You glance up at him “...Yeah.”

“And I like you.”

You nod, swallowing “Yeah.”

Silence again.

A breeze rustles the leaves.

Zoro exhales “Okay. So… now what?”

You blink “I thought you’d know.”

He scratches the back of his neck “I’m great at fighting. Not so great at this.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. It breaks the tension, just a little.

“I guess we figure it out” you say softly.

He looks at you “Together?”

You smile “Yeah. Together.”

Zoro steps forward, hand brushing yours, not grabbing, just offering.

You take it.

This time, slower.

The next morning, you stretch your arms and walk out to the clearing.

Zoro’s already there. Training, of course.

Sweat glistens on his forehead. His bandana is around his arm today, not on his head. He’s focused, steady. Every swing has weight. Control. Grace.

You watch for a second too long.

Then he notices you “You wanna join?”

You blink “Join… what? Your intense ‘sword vs gravity’ fight?”

He smirks “Sparring. Not that fancy.”

You step forward “Fine. But if I fall flat on my face, that’s your fault.”

“Deal.”

You grab a wooden practice sword and face him.

He waits for you to make the first move. You swing. He blocks.

It starts slow. Testing pace. Testing rhythm.

Then faster.

Back and forth.

The thud of wood against wood, your feet shifting on the dirt, breath picking up.

He dodges a swing and smirks “You’re not bad.”

“Don’t go easy on me” you shoot back.

He spins, blocks you again “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

At some point, you’re laughing.

Not because it’s funny, just because it feels good. Like something stuck inside your chest is finally shaking loose.

Zoro lunges. You duck.

You step in close, too close, and suddenly you're chest-to-chest.

Frozen.

Your hands are still gripping the sword.

His hand is on your arm to steady you. And neither of you are moving.

You’re both breathing hard.

His face is close. Closer than it’s ever been.

His eyes flick down to your lips for half a second.

Then back to your eyes.

“Should we—” you whisper.

He kisses you.

It’s not rushed. Not clumsy. It’s careful. Solid. Just like him. Like he thought about it before, maybe a hundred times.

Maybe he was just waiting for the right second. And now here it is.

Your sword clatters to the ground. You don’t care.

His hand slides behind your back. Yours finds his shoulder.

The world quiets.

When you pull away he’s still close, looking at you like you’re the only thing he sees.

You whisper, “That was…”

He raises a brow “Bad?”

You smile “No. That was good.”

He grins “Wanna do it again?”

You kiss him this time.

No swords. No teasing. Just you and him.

Soft. Steady. Real.

And this is how your romance story started.

[wonderjanga]

Diana Remembers 💭

Diana was minding her business, probably eating a tub of ice cream, when all of a sudden. She got flashbanged by a memory.

See, the memory starts with her when she’s about seven years old biologically, chronologically she was about 159. She was standing behind a pillar, peaking around the side of it as she watched an argument between two women. Her mother, Hippolyta, and a woman clad in robes that had a symbol that was now familiar to an adult Diana.

Hippolyta: “You can’t just leave!”

Prev Champ(PC): “Hippolyta, I have to. It’s my duty.”

Hippolyta: “Your duty should be to your queen! To Themyscira. Not to man’s world! You were an Amazonian first.”

PC: *sounds impatient* “I know that, but I’m not just an Amazonian anymore. I’m the Champion of Magic now.”

Hippolyta: “We have magic users here.”

PC: “Yes, but I can’t just ignore the magicals of man’s world. They exist as well.”

*silence*

Hippolyta: “…If you leave, you’ll never be able to come back.”

PC: “I know.”

Hippolyta: “And— and yet you still wish to go?”

PC: *smiles* “Yes.”

(My friend said this lowkey sounded like doomed Yuri)

Diana ended up sitting in silence for a few solid minutes after remembering that because, while the conversation itself was absolutely riveting to a tiny Diana, what’s important about this memory was the fact that the woman who claimed to be the Champion of Magic had the same lightning bolt as someone she just so happened to know. Her brother. Captain Marvel. So she went to ask him about it.

Marvel: “Huh? Oh yeah, that was me.”

Wondy: “Pardon?”

Marvel: “That was me. When I was an Amazonian. I told you about this didn’t I?”

This is connected to this post (How Do You Just Know My Parental Figure). In this post, there’s a quick piece of dialogue between them where Billy tells her about a champion that was an Amazonian.

Wondy: “I… had no idea that was you.”

Marvel: *confused* “Oh, come on, Diana… I literally played with you when you were a little girl! You don’t remember any ladies with lightning bolts on their chests besides the one from your memory?”

Wondy: “Well, yes, but I never really connected it to you until now.”

Marvel: “Diana, the symbol is literally trademarked for the Champions. Well, not literally, but you will be struck down by one of the God or Goddesses of the current Champion’s pantheon.”

*silence*

Marvel: “That’s actually why I can’t have merch.”

[mrsfancyferrari]

Marriage of Convenience

Summary: Lewis has to get married to you for a year for his engagement in Ferrari. Who knew how much he would get sucked into your life…. pt 1

Song: Heartless · The Weeknd

Author’s note: Hey guys! I saw some tiktok that was about tropes with F1 drivers and Lewis's one was marriage of convenience. It has stuck with me ever since! I'll be using some real results from the races so it will not always be updated every week! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 18.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

Lewis Hamilton, the illustrious Formula One champion, stood in the opulent office of his PR manager, the walls adorned with gleaming trophies and framed newspaper articles detailing his meteoric rise in the racing world.

The sun cast a warm glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in a hue of gold that matched the luxury that surrounded him.

Yet, the warmth did little to dispel the chill that had settled in his stomach at the mention of the words "marriage of convenience."

"But why now?" he pressed, his voice laced with a hint of desperation. "I've been single for years, and it's never been an issue."

His PR manager, a sharp-witted woman named Elena, leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled under her chin.

She wore a smile that was both empathetic and firm, as if she knew this was a battle she'd already won.

"Lewis, my dear," she began, her British accent crisp and professional, "the rumors have been swirling like a tornado around a trailer park. Your personal life is becoming a distraction, and your competitors are using it to their advantage. A whirlwind romance, a quick 'I do,' and voilà, you're the settled, mature, and dedicated racer that everyone adores."

Lewis sighed, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "Fine," he conceded with a begrudging nod. "But you're finding someone who understands this is all for show, right? No strings attached, no messy feelings."

Elena's smile grew wider, a knowing glint in her eye. "Leave that to me," she said. "I have the perfect candidate in mind."

"Her name is Y/N," Elena began, sliding a sleek manila folder across her desk. "She's a model and an influencer with a taste for fast cars and an even faster lifestyle."

She opened the folder to reveal a photograph of a breathtaking black woman with goddess braids that cascaded down her back like a midnight waterfall.

Her almond-shaped eyes sparkled with intelligence and a hint of mischief, her full lips curving into a smile that could make the sternest of hearts flutter. "Y/N understands the business, and she's more than capable of playing her part. She's signed an NDA that would make Fort Knox look like a suggestion box."

Lewis studied the photo, his heart racing slightly at the thought of being married, even if it was just for show. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but this was different—this was a strategic move, a chess piece in the grand game of his career.

He cleared his throat, trying to push aside the butterflies. "Alright, let's get this over with. When do I meet her?"

Elena's smile remained unwavering. "Tomorrow night, I've set up a dinner meeting at Le Château de Lumières. It's the most romantic spot in the city, perfect for a first date that'll look like it was plucked from a fairytale."

Lewis nodded, his throat suddenly dry. "Fine," he murmured, his eyes still lingering on the picture. "But what happens after the season ends?"

Elena leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Then, my dear Lewis, we orchestrate a spectacularly tragic fallout. Something dramatic, but not scandalous—perhaps you're both too busy with your careers, or you realized you were better off as friends. The public will eat it up, and you'll be free to pursue whatever—or whoever—you wish afterward."

He nodded, trying to calm down the tornado of emotions swirling inside him. Marriage, even a fake one, was a concept he'd never truly considered.

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he knew he had to trust Elena.

She had a knack for spinning his life into gold, and if this was what she deemed necessary for his career to continue shining, then he'd have to go along with it.

Elena slid the folder back to him with a knowing smirk. "You can have the file if you want to admire her more," she teased, her fingertips brushing against the glossy surface of the photo. "Her numbers are in it, of course."

Lewis grumbled something unintelligible under his breath before snatching it and walking out of the office, his mind racing with a mix of apprehension and intrigue.

The folder felt heavier than it should have, as if it contained the weight of his future rather than just a few pieces of paper and a photo.

He knew the drill—fake relationships had been part of his public persona before, but marriage was a whole new level of commitment, even if it was just for show.

"Remember to study her likes and hobbies, you might find something in common," Elena yelled from the office. He couldn't help but smirk at her enthusiasm—it was infectious. He knew she had his back, and that was all that mattered.

Back in his penthouse, Lewis found himself staring at the folder on his coffee table, Y/N's mesmerizing eyes peeking out from the photograph.

He decided to take Elena's advice, eager to find common ground with his soon-to-be fake wife. As he scanned through the pages detailing her life, he found himself genuinely intrigued.

Her love for fast cars, her charity work, and her penchant for extreme sports mirrored his own passions.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all.

With a sigh of resignation, he pulled out his phone and searched for her social media profiles. He told himself he was only interested in her fashion sense, but as he scrolled through her feed, he couldn't help but admire her beauty.

Each picture was a masterpiece of angles and lighting, showcasing not only her impeccable style but also the way she carried herself with an air of confidence and grace.

Her figure was a symphony of curves, each one highlighted by the designer garments she modeled. But he was a man of integrity, so he focused solely on her outfits, nodding in approval at her exquisite taste in luxury brands.

He noticed her love for racing reflected in some of her captions, with shots at various Formula One tracks around the globe. It was clear that she had an appreciation for the sport that went beyond the glamour.

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"Fans would definitely believe this," he murmured to himself, his thumb hovering over the screen.

They both shared a love for speed and the thrill of the chase—both on and off the track.

With a sigh, he set his phone aside and rolled onto his back, his thoughts racing faster than his cars ever could. The reality of the situation was setting in: he was about to embark on a season-long charade with a woman he had never even met. His stomach churned with a mix of anxiety and anticipation.

As he lay there, the sound of a bark pierced the silence, jolting him out of his contemplative haze. Quick footsteps approached, and before he could react, Roscoe's furry face poked into the doorway. The bulldog's eyes sparkled with curiosity, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

"Did you have a good nap, Roscoe?" Lewis asked, his voice thick with affection. The dog's response was a series of eager growls and sniffs as he trotted over to his dad, his paws thumping rhythmically against the hardwood floor.

Lewis chuckled and sat up, his six-pack abs rippling as he did so. He reached out and scratched behind Roscoe's ear, the dog's eyes closing in bliss. The simple act of bonding with his pet helped to ease the tension that had been building in his chest.

"Alright, buddy," he said, standing and stretching. The fabric of his sweatpants outlined the firm muscles of his thighs and the curve of his ass, evidence of countless hours spent in the gym and behind the wheel. "Tomorrow is a special day, so you better be on your best behavior. You're about to meet the woman who's going to be my fake wife and your fake mom for the season."

Roscoe cocked his head to the side, as if he understood the gravity of the situation. Lewis couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all—his burly bulldog playing step-son to a supermodel for the sake of his image. He stood up and padded over to the windows, his bare feet sinking into the plush carpet, the coolness a stark contrast to the warmth of the day outside.

He looked out over the bustling city, the setting sun casting a fiery glow across the horizon. It was a stark reminder of the race he'd run in the morning, the thrill of the wind in his face and the roar of the engine still echoing in his ears.

Tomorrow would be a different kind of race altogether—a race to win over the hearts of his fans, to keep the sponsors happy, and to maintain the facade of a perfect life. But as he felt the comforting weight of Roscoe's head on his leg, he realized that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so bad to have a partner in this charade.

"Come on, let's get you a treat," Lewis said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through the room. He walked to the kitchen, the dog's nails clicking against the floor as he followed. The sleek chrome and marble surfaces gleamed under the pendant lights, a stark contrast to the warm, lived-in feel of the living room.

Lewis grabbed a treat from the jar on the counter and tossed it to Roscoe, who caught it with surprising grace for his bulk. "You're going to need to charm her, buddy. Maybe even more than you charm the judges at those dog shows."

The bulldog's eyes lit up, and he trotted over to his bed, the treat forgotten as he began to perform a series of clumsy, yet earnest tricks.

Lewis couldn't help but laugh as he watched Roscoe's antics. "I think she'll love you," he said, his voice filled with affection. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. We're both just actors in this little play."

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

"Y/N, repeat what you just said," your mother repeated, looking utterly perplexed, her perfectly manicured hand hovering over the delicate china teacup as if it were a lifeline to sanity.

"I signed a contract to 'marry' Lewis Hamilton for a year," you announced with the casual air of someone discussing a weekend getaway, a smug smile playing on your lips as you watched the shock ripple through her impeccably made-up visage.

"The Lewis Hamilton?" she queried, her eyes narrowing to slits as she tried to process the ludicrous information you'd just served up like a hot slice of gossip at a high society luncheon.

"Yes, Mother," you drawled, not bothering to look up from your phone as you swiped through the latest collection of designer shoes. "The very one who races cars and breaks hearts for a living. But don't worry, this is strictly business."

Her silence was palpable, thick enough to slice with a knife. You could almost see the cogs whirring in her head, trying to piece together this unexpected jigsaw puzzle of your life.

Finally, she found her voice, "Why on earth would you agree to such a… such a… frivolous arrangement?"

"To boost our engagement," you said, enunciating each word with the precision of a seasoned politician, raising your gaze to meet hers. "It's a win-win, really. His fanbase goes through the roof, and I get to live like a queen for a year. Plus, think of the networking opportunities!"

"But your reputation," she gasped, setting the teacup down with a clink that sounded like a death knell for your social standing.

You rolled your eyes, "Mother, it's all just for show. And it's not like we're actually going to be doing the whole marriage thing. We're just going to pretend."

Her sigh was one of resignation, tinged with a hint of disappointment. "I just hope you know what you're getting into," she murmured, her eyes searching yours for a glimmer of doubt.

"Trust me, I've got it all figured out," you assured her, your voice a blend of confidence and nonchalance that would make any business mogul proud. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I need to go pick out a wedding dress. The press will be all over this, and I can't disappoint them with a lackluster wardrobe."

Your mother's expression was a masterclass in poise under pressure. "Very well," she conceded. "Send me the pictures. I'll handle the social media side of things."

You leaned in to kiss her cheek, the scent of her expensive perfume lingering as you pulled away. "Thanks, Mother," you said with a wink. "I knew you'd understand."

As you sailed out of the room, her voice followed you like a soft breeze. "Just remember, darling," she called after you, "keep your emotions out of it. You're playing a role, nothing more."

Your heart thudded in your chest, a delicious mix of excitement and trepidation. You had signed up for a year of make-believe with the world's most desired man, and you had no intention of letting reality spoil the fantasy.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The velvet leash grew taut as Lewis tugged it gently, urging the bulldog, Roscoe, to follow him through the dimly-lit corridor. The dog's jowls swayed with each reluctant step, a silent protest to the indignity of being tethered like a mere accessory.

Despite his displeasure, Roscoe's curiosity about the evening's events remained piqued. The whisper of fabric against fabric grew louder as they approached the private dining room, where the scent of fine cuisine wafted through the air.

"Come on, Roscoe, you have to meet her too," Lewis murmured, his voice a blend of excitement and nerves.

The restaurant's peculiar policy of leashing dogs seemed almost comical in the grand scheme of the evening, yet it was a small price to pay for the exclusivity of the venue.

The walls of the corridor were adorned with paintings of pastoral scenes, a stark contrast to the urban jungle outside.

Upon entering the room, a soft glow from the candles on the table cast a warm embrace around the figure of a woman who was more than just beautiful—she was an embodiment of elegance.

Her eyes sparkled like the diamond necklace that hung delicately around her neck, and her smile was as radiant as the polished silverware that lay before her.

As they drew closer, the air grew thick with anticipation, charged with the electricity of new beginnings and the thrill of the unknown.

Y/N's gaze fell upon the unusual duo—Lewis, the charming billionaire, and Roscoe, the leashed bulldog. Her eyes narrowed playfully as she took in the scene.

She knew that this was not a typical dinner date, and that was precisely what made it so alluring.

"Well, hello, Mr. Hamilton," she purred, her voice a velvet caress that seemed to resonate through the very air. "I'm surprised you didn't bring your entire zoo."

Lewis chuckled, his grip on the leash loosening as he felt the tension in the room dissipate.

"Ms. Y/N, I assure you, this is a very special occasion. Besides, I thought you'd appreciate the company of my best man here."

Her smile grew, a knowing twinkle in her eye. "Best man, huh?" she said, standing up with the grace of a gazelle. "I see you've got a sense of humor, Mr. Hamilton."

Roscoe, feeling the shift in the room, allowed his tail to wag slightly, his earlier annoyance forgotten as he caught the scent of her perfume.

It was a sweet, intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that seemed to speak of exotic lands and passionate nights.

"And who's this handsome boy?" she cooed, leaning down to address Roscoe. The bulldog, ever eager for affection, leaned into her touch, his eyes closing in pleasure.

"Ah, this is Roscoe," Lewis said with a touch of pride. "He's a bit of a diva, but I assure you, he's quite well-behaved when properly motivated."

Y/N reached out to stroke the dog's head, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary, feeling the softness of his fur and the warmth of his body.

"Well, it seems I've got quite the welcoming committee," she said, straightening up to her full height and extending a hand to Lewis.

Their fingers met in a firm, yet delicate handshake, sending a thrill up his spine. Her touch was cool and smooth, like the finest silk, and it sent a jolt through his body that he hadn't felt in years.

"Lewis, please," he said, his voice a whisper. "I think we can dispense with the formalities."

Her hand remained in his, the warmth from their palms mingling, creating a current that seemed to pulse through the very air that surrounded them.

Y/N's eyes searched his, looking for a hint of what was to come, a promise of the evening's delights.

"Very well, Y/N," he murmured, the sound of his voice a caress that seemed to stroke her very soul. "Shall we sit?"

The three of them moved to the table, the leather chairs creaking softly as they settled into them. The table was set with fine china, the crystal glasses casting rainbows of light across the crisp, white linen.

A bottle of champagne chilled in an ice bucket, the promise of a celebration yet to unfold.

As they sat, Y/N couldn't help but feel a strange sense of déjà vu, as if she had been here before, with another man, under very different circumstances.

But this was no ordinary man, and this was certainly no ordinary dinner. The weight of the necklace grew heavier, a silent reminder of the deal she had struck.

The waiter, a young man with impeccable manners, approached with a silver tray laden with hors d'oeuvres. His eyes flickered briefly to the leash in Lewis's hand before he focused on the couple, his expression unchanged.

"Your usual, Mr. Hamilton?" he inquired.

"Yes, thank you, Freddie," Lewis replied, his gaze never leaving hers. "And for the lady?"

Y/N's eyes roved over the selection, her stomach fluttering with a mix of excitement and nerves. "Surprise me," she said with a smile.

The waiter nodded and deftly selected a few items before retreating, leaving them in the warm cocoon of the candlelit room.

The silence that followed was filled with the soft crackle of the candles and the distant clink of silverware on porcelain.

Lewis reached for the champagne bottle, his fingers sure and steady as he popped the cork with a flourish that sent a spray of bubbles into the air.

The sound was like a declaration of intent, a promise of the passion that was to come. He filled her glass, his eyes never leaving hers, and then his own.

"To new beginnings," he toasted, the crystal flutes clinking together like the ringing of wedding bells.

The bubbles danced in the golden liquid, a fizzy symphony of anticipation. Y/N took a sip, the cool liquid sliding down her throat with a tantalizing tickle that made her shiver.

She watched as Lewis did the same, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion, a gesture she found inexplicably erotic.

"So, do you know more about this… arrangement," he asked, the word 'arrangement' rolling off his tongue like a secret shared between lovers.

"Yes, I do," she spoke politely, setting her glass down with a soft click. "We're supposed to take our wedding photos next week Thursday, but it can be changed if you like."

Her words hung in the air, a silent invitation for him to take the reins, to assert his dominance in this game of pretense they were playing.

He leaned back in his chair, stroking Roscoe's head as he contemplated her words. "I trust you have everything under control, then?"

Y/N's smile grew, a hint of mischief playing at the corners of her lips. "I always do."

"Excellent," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through her very core. "But there's something I need to discuss with you before we proceed."

Y/N's eyebrow arched slightly, a question lingering in her eyes. "And what might that be?"

Lewis took a deep breath, his gaze flicking to the dog for a brief moment before returning to her. "Do you mind if my dad comes with me?" he said, his voice a soft rumble. "He said this was the 'only' time he was going to see his son get married."

Surprise flitted across Y/N's features, but she quickly schooled her expression back to neutral. "Of course," she said, her tone even. "I would be happy to include your father in our…arrangement."

Lewis's eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of hesitation or mockery. Finding none, he nodded slowly.

"Thank you," he murmured, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. "He's quite the character, but he means well."

Y/N's smile grew warmer, her eyes gleaming with understanding. "I'm sure he does," she said. "And I'm quite fond of characters myself."

"As long as my mother can come too," she said, her voice teasing.

Lewis's eyes widened, his grip on the champagne flute tightening for a brief second before he managed to compose himself.

"Your mother?" he repeated, his voice a mix of incredulity and amusement.

Y/N nodded, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Yes, my mother. She's quite the socialite, you know. She'll make sure the photos are absolutely perfect for the society pages."

Lewis's eyes searched hers, trying to discern if she was joking or if this was a genuine request. The thought of his stern, business-like father being a part of their staged nuptials was one thing, but the addition of her mother, a woman known for her sharp tongue and even sharper wit, was another matter entirely.

"Your mother, you say?" he repeated, his voice laced with a hint of apprehension. Y/N nodded, her smile unwavering, and took another sip of her champagne, her eyes never leaving his.

The bubbles danced on her tongue, a fizzy counterpart to the dance of emotions playing out before her.

Lewis's mind raced, trying to imagine the woman who had raised the enigmatic Y/N, who had agreed to this unorthodox union for the sake of his own ambition.

He could almost hear the whispers of her reputation, the tales of her social triumphs and the occasional scandal that had graced the pages of high society magazines.

"I see," he said finally, his tone measured. "And what does your mother think of… our arrangement?"

Y/N's laughter was like a chime of fine crystal, delicate and alluring. "Mother is quite thrilled," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "She's always had a soft spot for a man who knows his worth and isn't afraid to show it."

Lewis couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease. Her mother's presence would add an unexpected dynamic to the already complex situation. But he knew better than to argue with a woman who could navigate the treacherous waters of high society with such ease.

"Very well," he conceded, his smile forced but genuine. "The more the merrier, I suppose."

The tension between them eased as they delved into their meals, the succulent flavors of their dishes a delightful distraction from the unspoken tension.

Roscoe, seemingly aware of the shift, settled at Lewis's feet, his snoring a gentle bass line to their conversation.

"Your mother is quite…known," Lewis said, choosing his words carefully. "What should I expect?"

Y/N's gaze grew distant as she thought of her mother. "Expect the unexpected," she replied with a knowing smile. "But she has a heart of gold beneath that tough exterior."

They ate in silence for a few moments, the weight of the unspoken contract hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, Y/N cleared her throat. “We should probably talk about…appearances. What’s the plan for things like…races?”

Lewis leaned back in his chair, pushing his plate away. "Right. Races. Well, the team and my management have a schedule in mind. They want us to be seen together at as many events as possible. It’s all about maximizing…visibility."

Y/N frowned slightly. “Visibility. Right. Well, my work is quite demanding, but I'll be able to attend at least 3 races at the start before my work starts again.”

Lewis seemed surprised. “Three? That’s…more than I expected, actually. Which races?”

“China, Japan, and Australia,” she replied. “I managed to clear my schedule for them. After that, it will be more difficult, but I can try to make a few here and there when I have more time.”

“Australia is a long way,” Lewis commented, more to himself than to her. “It’s a demanding circuit, and the jet lag is brutal.”

"I'm aware," Y/N said dryly. "I've traveled before."

He gave her a small, apologetic smile. “Of course. Sorry. It's just…it's a lot to ask you to be a part of this, especially knowing you have your own life and career.”

Y/N shrugged. "It is what it is. I agreed to it, didn't I?" she replied trying to stay formal.

Lewis nodded slowly. "Yes, you did. And I appreciate it. More than you know." He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time that evening.

He saw a hint of apprehension in her eyes, but also a surprising strength. He wondered, fleetingly, what she really thought about all of this.

“So, Australia,” he continued, breaking the eye contact. “We’ll be traveling on different days, of course. Security and logistics are…complicated. But we’ll be staying at the same hotel. There will be a lot of press events, photo opportunities, things like that. My team will brief you on the details.”

Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Of course. I wouldn't want to deviate from the pre-approved narrative."

Lewis smirked, a genuine smile reaching his eyes for the first time. “You catch on quick. Look, I know this is all…surreal. And probably incredibly annoying. But I promise, I’ll try to make it as…bearable as possible. And I’ll try to be as respectful of your time and your life as I can.”

“I appreciate that, Lewis,” Y/N said, her voice softening slightly. “I’m not expecting this to be a fairytale, but I do expect us to treat each other with respect. We’re both professionals, and we should act like it.”

“Agreed,” Lewis replied, extending his hand across the table. "To professionalism."

Y/N hesitated for a moment before taking his hand. The contact was brief, but a faint spark seemed to pass between them.

It was nothing dramatic, just a subtle shift, a momentary acknowledgment of the strange and uncertain journey they were about to embark on together.

Lewis, observing Y/N stroking Roscoe, his bulldog, said, "So, what about dates?"

Y/N stopped mid-stroke, fixing him with a sharp glare. "Dates? Lewis, we're in a contractual agreement. This isn't real."

"What? I heard married couples still go on dates and we're going to be married soon," he retorted, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fine. What are your hobbies so we can link them to it without making it too obvious that we're reading from a script?"

"Well, I like golfing, surfing, playing the piano…" he started, ticking them off on his fingers.

"Boring," Y/N teased, more out of habit than malice. Lewis didn't seem offended, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Okay, okay. What about you then? Give me something good to work with."

"Easy. Archery, animal riding, shooting…" she said casually, continuing to pet Roscoe.

"Shooting?" he repeated, thinking it was a joke. "Like…guns?"

"Yeah, shooting. I am one of the best shooters in my family," Y/N said matter-of-factly. Lewis looked genuinely shocked. "Guns? Really? You don't seem like a…gun person."

"Appearances can be deceiving," Y/N replied with a cryptic smile. "It's a family tradition. We've been competing in shooting competitions for generations. It's quite exhilarating, actually."

Lewis shook his head, seemingly trying to reconcile the image of the elegant, equestrian beauty with a crack shot. "Well, that's…unexpected. Maybe we could arrange a 'date' at a shooting range. Show the world a different side of you. Spice things up a bit."

Y/N considered this, a flicker of genuine interest in her eyes. “Perhaps. I haven’t been to the range in a while. I could certainly give you a lesson. Though I can’t promise you’ll be any good.”

Lewis laughed. "Challenge accepted. But you have to promise not to be too competitive. I'm a champion, you know."

"We'll see about that," Y/N said, a playful glint in her eyes.

The conversation drifted, covering details about their upcoming staged engagement party, the social media strategy, and the general rules of engagement (pun intended).

After an hour, they were both feeling the strain of the pretense. Roscoe, however, seemed to be thriving on the attention.

When they finally finished the catered lunch, Roscoe, true to form, woke up again, demanding belly rubs. It was time for Y/N to leave. Surprisingly, Lewis didn't want her to.

He found her sharp wit and unconventional hobbies intriguing.

"Do you need a ride home?" he asked, walking her to the grand entrance of the restaurant. The question felt surprisingly genuine, a departure from the carefully crafted facade.

"No, my friend is picking me up, thank you for the offer," she said.

They waited for a few minutes, a comfortable silence settling between them. The only sound was the gentle hum of the city in the distance. Then, a car pulled up and honked.

"That's her, I'll be going home now, bye Lewis," she said, her hand hovering for a moment before gently touching his arm.

The contact was brief, almost hesitant, but enough to send a strange flutter in his stomach. She then looked down, rubbing Roscoe's face, who was nestled in his arms. "Bye Roscoe, I'll see you soon,"

Then she walked down the opulent stairs, entered the waiting car, and with a final wave, she was gone, leaving Lewis standing alone in the doorway, Roscoe snoring softly in his arms.

That evening, Lewis found himself thinking about Y/N. He couldn’t deny she was interesting.

Far more interesting than the endless parade of socialites and models he usually surrounded himself with. . . .

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The roar of the Ferrari engine faded, replaced by a dull hum in Lewis' ears. He should have been focused on the intricacies of the new aerodynamic package the mechanics were painstakingly explaining.

Instead, his mind was a runaway train, careening toward a single, looming destination: Y/N.

He was getting 'married' to Y/N. For a year. The absurdity of it all still felt surreal, even after weeks of negotiations, contracts, and carefully crafted press releases. It was a business arrangement, pure and simple.

A calculated maneuver orchestrated by his management team to boost engagement, fan interaction, and ultimately, his brand. A fake marriage.

He hadn't even argued. His career was his everything. He'd poured his life, his soul, into racing. If this…stunt, this temporary charade, helped solidify his position, then he'd play the part.

But that didn’t stop the unsettling flutter in his stomach.

He only half-heard the mechanic's concluding remarks, a jumble of downforce percentages and drag coefficients. He mumbled a thank you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and practically bolted from Maranello.

The image of Y/N in a wedding dress swam in his mind, a mirage both enticing and terrifying.

He gripped the steering wheel, pushing the car to its legal limit as he sped towards the Bridal Boutique. His own suit, a classic black tailored piece, was already sorted.

It had been his father’s, a detail that had felt strangely poignant amidst the manufactured romance.

Pulling up outside the boutique, he took a deep breath, trying to regulate his racing pulse. He stepped out of the car and headed inside, the tinkling of a bell announcing his arrival.

"Y/N's here," he announced to the receptionist, a woman with bright, friendly eyes. He felt a ridiculous need to justify his presence. "I'm…ah…Lewis Hamilton."

The receptionist's smile widened, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Ah, Mr. Hamilton! We've been expecting you. She's over there. You're a very lucky sir, she's very beautiful."

Lewis swallowed, feeling a lump form in his throat. He murmured a thank you and navigated through the maze of tulle and lace.

His gaze scanned the room, passing over blushing brides-to-be and their entourages, until he found her.

Y/N was standing on a raised platform, surrounded by fabric and mirrors. She was facing away from him, but even from this distance, he could see the curve of her neck, the way the light caught in her hair.

She was wearing a simple, elegant gown, ivory silk that cascaded to the floor.

The satin felt heavy against your skin, a stark contrast to the lightness you usually embraced. You stared at your reflection, a stranger in a sea of white lace and tulle. This wasn't you.

This wasn't the free-spirited, motorcycle-riding, target-shooting version of yourself that you carefully cultivated. This was… bridal.

And you were about to be a bride. For a year. To Lewis Hamilton, the racing prodigy whose reputation was as fast as his cars.

You swirled again, the dress billowing around you like a cloud. It was beautiful, objectively. Expensive, undoubtedly. But it felt like a costume, a character you were trying to embody but couldn't quite grasp.

Father would have loved it. Traditional, elegant, perfectly… safe. A sigh escaped your lips. Since when did you care about safe?

You had been trying on dresses for hours, each one more elaborate than the last. Each one failing to capture the essence of you. You knew Lewis was going to be late.

His team meetings always ran long, especially with the season going to be in full swing soon. He’d apologized profusely over the phone, his voice laced with a nervousness that mirrored your own.

You glanced at the clock on the wall. Still another hour to go. “Next!” you called out to the stylist, your voice echoing slightly in the opulent boutique.

You needed to get this over with before Lewis arrived. The thought of him seeing you in this parade of frills and lace sent a shiver down your spine.

Dress after dress, disappointment mounted. A mermaid gown that made you feel like you were suffocating. A ballgown that swallowed you whole. An A-line that was simply… boring. None of them felt right. None of them felt like you.

Standing before the mirror, you examined the latest contender – a strapless, heavily beaded monstrosity that sparkled under the chandelier light.

You looked like a disco ball. A very uncomfortable, very expensive disco ball.

“I can’t do this,” you muttered to yourself, the words barely audible. You had agreed to this arrangement – the fake marriage, the orchestrated photos, the carefully crafted narrative designed to boost Lewis’s public image.

You knew what you were signing up for. But seeing yourself in this getup, imagining walking down the aisle towards a man you barely knew, felt surreal.

He cleared his throat. "Y/N?"

You spun around, the heavy dress making the movement awkward. Lewis stood just inside the doorway, his shoulders filling the space.

The breath caught in his throat. The receptionist hadn't exaggerated. You were stunning. The dress, while beautiful, paled in comparison to your natural radiance. Your eyes, usually sparkling with playful mischief, were now tinged with a nervous apprehension that mirrored his own.

"Lewis," you said softly, your voice a low, melodic hum. "You made it."

He managed a weak smile. "Couldn't miss it. The… dress looks amazing on you."

"Thank you," you replied, your fingers nervously pleating the fabric. "Did… did you see your suit?"

"Yeah, it's… it's great. My father's. Which feels… I don't know, significant, somehow. Even though all of this..." He trailed off, gesturing awkwardly around the room.

"Is what it is," you finished for him, a hint of wry amusement in your voice. "A very public, very expensive, agreement."

The silence that followed hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken anxieties and uncertainties. You both knew this wasn’t a real marriage.

It was a business transaction, a carefully calculated move to improve Lewis’s image and, let’s be honest, give your fledgling art career a boost. But standing here, in a bridal boutique, surrounded by the symbols of love and commitment, it felt… complicated.

"So," he said, trying to inject some levity into the situation, "are you ready to become Mrs. Hamilton for the next year?"

A small smile touched your lips. "As ready as I'll ever be. Just try not to crash the car on our wedding day, okay? Think of the engagement rates."

He chuckled, the sound easing some of the tension in his shoulders. "Wouldn’t dream of it. My driving is worth more than that." He paused, his gaze sweeping over you. "Is this the dress you're picking?"

You shook your head, the movement causing the beads to clatter softly. "I hate it. It doesn't represent me. It's… too much."

"Maybe your fiancé should pick one for you," one of your entourages said. You forgot they were even there. All this while they were sitting on the couch, probably bored out of their minds.

Lewis seemed surprised by the suggestion, but a playful glint appeared in his eyes. "Sure, I think I know your taste well." Before you could protest, he disappeared into the racks of dresses, a wide grin on his face.

"Don't pick something too girly!" you yelled after him, and you heard his laughter echo from behind a curtain.

You rolled your eyes and turned to your entourage, “I should have never let him do that.”

“But it’s too late now!”

Lewis emerged, holding a dress that was… surprisingly you. It was a sleek, ivory slip dress, with delicate lace detailing at the neckline and a subtle, almost imperceptible train. It was understated, elegant, and undeniably chic.

"Well?" he asked, holding it out. "Think this is more your style?"

You took the dress, running the silk through your fingers. "This is... perfect. How did you know?"

He shrugged, a self-deprecating smile on his face. "I've been paying attention. Besides, anything would be better than that monstrosity."

The fitting room suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. You met his gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. This was going to be a strange year, a year filled with pretense and performance.

But maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of something real amidst the artifice.

"When I go change into this, why don't you go try on your father's suit?" you suggested, trying to break the unexpected tension.

Lewis's smile widened. "Good idea. I'll see you in a bit." He winked, and with that, he left the fitting room, leaving you alone with the dress and your increasingly complicated thoughts.

The ivory silk felt cool against your skin as you slipped the dress over your head. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for you. You looked in the mirror, and for the first time since agreeing to this ridiculous scheme, you didn't feel like you were playing a part.

You felt… like yourself. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be a complete disaster.

"Lewis? Are you there?" you asked hesitantly from behind the curtain.

"Yep, just waiting for my future wife to be revealed," he joked.

"Okay," you said shyly, feeling a blush creep up your neck.

You could hear the rustle of fabric and a muttered, "Alright, here we go." Then, with a dramatic flourish, the curtains were drawn open, revealing Lewis in a impeccably tailored suit.

It was classic, understated, and undeniably him. In his hands, he held a bouquet of bright yellow and blue flowers.

He stood there, momentarily speechless, his eyes fixed on you. The air crackled with an unspoken energy, a palpable tension that both thrilled and terrified you.

"Wow," he finally breathed, his voice a low rumble. "You look… incredible."

You felt your heart skip a beat. "You don't look too bad yourself."

He grinned, handing you the flowers. "Yellow and blue. They're your favorites, right?"

You took the bouquet, inhaling their sweet fragrance. "They are. Thank you."

"Right, we'll leave you alone to suck up the moment," the main entourage, Monica, announced, herding the rest of the entourage out of the room.

The door clicked shut, leaving you and Lewis alone in the opulent room. The weight of the situation settled heavily on your shoulders.

You walked towards the plush velvet sofa and sat down, the voluminous dress swallowing you whole.

"Where's Roscoe?" you asked, referring to Lewis’s beloved bulldog. "I miss him." You’d met Roscoe several times during the contract negotiations and found the wrinkly pup to be far more endearing than his owner, at least initially.

"So you miss my dog but not me, your future husband, your future love of your life, your…" Lewis teased, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Okay, okay, I get it," you said, slapping his arm lightly. "I missed you too." It wasn't entirely a lie. During the days of rehearsals and media training leading up to this day, you'd found yourself strangely comfortable around him.

He was surprisingly down-to-earth, considering his fame and fortune.

He chuckled, the sound easing some of the tension in his shoulders. "So… do you need help getting out of that dress? I'm sure you're dying to take it off."

You laughed, a genuine, bright sound that surprised him. "Actually, I was kind of enjoying it. Makes me feel like a real princess, even for a few hours."

"Well, you certainly look like one," he said, a genuine compliment escaping his lips.

"Alright, enough flirting," you said, trying to regain your composure. "We have a fake marriage to attend."

"Right," he said, suddenly remembering the logistics of the whole thing. "The venue, the vows, the… first dance."

"Don't worry," you said, your eyes twinkling. "I've taken care of most of it. The venue is a beautiful church outside of Florence. The vows are… well, let's just say they're carefully worded. And the first dance? I'm thinking something slow and romantic. What do you say?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Slow and romantic? You think you can handle it, Mrs. Hamilton?"

You grinned, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Try me, Mr. Hamilton."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I think… I think I might just enjoy that."

The drive to the church felt surreal. You were seated next to Lewis in the back of a sleek, black car, the Tuscan countryside whizzing by in a blur of vineyards and olive groves. You expected awkward silence, maybe a stilted conversation about the weather. Instead, Lewis surprised you.

"So," he began, turning to you with a genuine smile, "tell me, what do you actually know about Formula 1? Besides the fact that I'm supposedly good at it?"

You chuckled. "More than you probably think. I've been following the sport since I was a kid. My dad's a huge fan, and he practically raised me on a diet of qualifying laps and race strategy."

His eyes lit up. "Really? Most of the 'celebrity' guests I meet at the races barely know the difference between a pit stop and a penalty. It's… refreshing to actually talk to someone who gets it."

He launched into a detailed explanation of the upcoming season, his passion evident in every word. He spoke about the new regulations, the aerodynamic changes, the challenges they were facing with the car's performance.

"We're struggling with the downforce," he explained, his brow furrowed in concentration. "The simulations are promising, but we're not seeing the same results on the track. We're working on adjusting the suspension and the rear wing design to try and find that extra bit of grip."

You listened intently, nodding occasionally, asking informed questions. "Have you considered tweaking the differential settings? Maybe a more aggressive locking strategy could help with traction out of the corners?"

Lewis stopped mid-sentence, staring at you in surprise. "That's… actually a really good point. I hadn't thought of that. I'll bring it up with the engineers. You have to come to the factory in Maranello so you can get to know the team before the season starts."

"I'd like that," you admitted, a genuine smile spreading across your face.

This wasn't the superficial celebrity encounter you'd anticipated. He was treating you like an equal, someone whose opinion he valued. It was… disarming.

As the car pulled up to the church, a mix of nervousness and anticipation fluttered in your stomach. You were about to 'marry' a Formula 1 legend, a man you had met, for the sake of boosting his public image. The absurdity of the situation hit you full force.

The church was even more breathtaking in person. Nestled amongst rolling hills, its ancient stone walls seemed to whisper stories of centuries past.

There were some photographers strategically positioned, discreetly snapping aesthetic pictures of the venue. They were there to sell the illusion, to capture the romance that wasn't truly there.

Lewis left the car first, extending a hand to help you out. "Ready?" he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

You took his hand, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver through you. You smiled and walked towards the entrance of the church, the sound of hushed chatter growing louder with each step. Your palms were sweating, and your heart hammered against your ribs. You were anxious. Terribly anxious.

Lewis squeezed your hand reassuringly. "It's gonna be great, wifey," he murmured, a playful glint in his eyes.

You nodded, trying to force a smile. "Just…don't call me that in public, okay?"

He chuckled. "Deal. And relax. Everyone here is in on it. It's just us, our friends and family."

The heavy wooden doors swung open, revealing a small gathering of people. You saw a mixture of familiar faces – yours and Lewis's close friends, the ones trusted enough to keep the secret – and family. All their faces were directed to you.

You and Lewis were immediately engulfed in hugs and pats on the back. Some of your friends were teary-eyed, overcome with emotion, while others offered proud congratulations. The scene was chaotic, overwhelming, and strangely…supportive.

"You look beautiful, darling," one of your friends gushed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "I'm so happy for you both!"

You managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Sarah. Don't cry, you'll ruin your makeup."

Finally, you spotted your mom across the room, engaged in conversation with Lewis's father. Your mother was already crying, naturally. She always cried at weddings, even the fake ones. Seeing her emotional state made your own eyes start to sting.

"Mom!" you called out, gently extricating yourself from the throng of well-wishers.

Your mother turned and rushed towards you, engulfing you in a tight hug. "My baby is getting married!" she sobbed, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm so happy for you, sweetheart. He seems like such a wonderful man."

You glanced over at Lewis, who was smiling warmly at your mother. He could charm the birds out of the trees, you thought.

"He is, Mom," you said, deciding to play along. "He's wonderful."

She pulled back, holding you at arm's length, and examined your face. "Are you happy, darling? Really happy?"

You hesitated for a moment, the question hitting you with unexpected force. Were you happy? You were about to embark on a year-long sham marriage with a man you barely knew. Logically, the answer should be no. But as you looked at Lewis, standing there patiently, a curious feeling began to stir within you. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to this arrangement than met the eye.

"Yes, Mom," you said, surprising yourself with the conviction in your voice. "I'm happy."

Your mother squeezed your hand. "That's all that matters. Now, go get married!" She beamed, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand.

Just then, Anthony Hamilton approached, his face etched with a nervous concern that mirrored my own. He fidgeted with his tie, avoiding direct eye contact.

"Y/N, dear," he began, his voice a low rumble. "Are you… are you sure you want me to do this?" He gestured vaguely towards the makeshift altar. "It’s not too late to back out, you know. Lewis… he can be a handful."

My heart went out to him. He was a good man, Anthony, despite the pressures of his son's demanding career. He probably felt as uncomfortable with this whole charade as I did.

"Of course, Mr. Hamilton," I answered, offering him my most reassuring smile. "I feel like it would be the best option for everyone." For Lewis's career, for my future, for my mother's peace of mind.

His eyes welled up, and he nodded slowly, his voice thick with emotion. "Alright, alright. But promise me you'll look after him, eh? He needs someone solid in his corner."

"I promise," I said, though I wasn't sure if I was promising him or myself.

"Alright! Everyone go to your positions now!" the videographer yelled, his voice cutting through the emotional tension like a rusty knife. The sound of hushed conversations and shuffling feet filled the room as everyone scrambled to their assigned seats along the aisle.

Anthony, after taking a deep breath, offered me his elbow. I placed my hand there, the silk of my dress cool against his suit. We walked behind the large oak doors that led into the ballroom, hiding from the expectant gaze of the crowd. I could feel my pulse throbbing in my ears.

Suddenly, the opening bars of "Canon in D" filled the room, a classic choice for a deeply un-classic situation.

"Ready?" Anthony asked, his voice barely a whisper.

I took a deep breath, forcing a calmness I didn't feel. "Ready."

The doors swung open, and I started to walk. Slowly. Deliberately. Each step was calculated, designed to capture the perfect angle for the cameras. The faces of the guests blurred into a sea of expectant smiles and glittering jewels.

She could see her mother beaming in the front row, her eyes brimming with tears. Y/N hoped they were tears of joy, not disappointment that her daughter was entering into such a transactional union.

At the end of the aisle, Lewis stood waiting, looking impossibly handsome in his custom-tailored suit. He caught my eye, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I saw something flicker in his gaze – a vulnerability, perhaps, or just a raw, naked ambition.

We reached the altar, and Anthony squeezed my hand before stepping aside.

"You look lovely, Y/N," Lewis murmured, his voice low and smooth.

"Thank you, Lewis," she replied, keeping her voice equally neutral. "You don't look so bad yourself."

The officiant, a jovial man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, cleared his throat.

"Dearly beloved," he began, his voice echoing through the hall, "we are gathered here in the presence of God, family, and friends to witness a joyous occasion—the union of Lewis Hamilton and Y/N L/N in holy matrimony."

The ceremony was a blur of rehearsed lines and forced smiles. They exchanged vows that felt hollow and meaningless. They slipped rings onto each other's fingers, the cold metal a stark reminder of the contractual nature of their relationship.

Then came the moment she had been dreading.

"You may now kiss the bride," the officiant intoned.

Lewis turned to her, his eyes searching hers for a moment. Then, he leaned in and kissed her. It was a chaste, professionally executed kiss, designed to elicit cheers from the crowd and likes on Instagram.

But even so, you felt a strange flutter in her stomach, a sensation she quickly dismissed as the product of nerves and exhaustion.

It was all a blur from then on. Walking down the aisle with Lewis in hand, waving at the guests, mostly family and friends, throwing confetti over our heads.

The whirlwind of congratulations, the endless photos, the forced smiles that were starting to ache my cheeks.

Then, suddenly, we were in a room by ourselves, apparently, it's tradition for newly weds to stay in the same room right after the ceremony to soak up the moment.

The honeymoon suite was extravagant, all plush velvet and panoramic views. It felt absurd to be here, pretending, with 24-hour security just outside the door to ensure the “integrity” of our little charade.

My friends, bless their hearts, had noticed my tense demeanor and, with a knowing wink, had slipped two glasses of wine into my hands. "Relax a little, Y/N," Maya had whispered, "You look like you're about to explode."

I took a tentative sip. The wine was crisp and refreshing, a welcome distraction from the buzzing in my head. I was a lightweight, a fact I had conveniently neglected to mention to Lewis. He stood awkwardly by the panoramic window, his perfectly tailored suit looking even more impeccable against the velvet drapes.

He turned, his expression hesitant. "That kiss was... nice," he said, almost as an afterthought.

I raised an eyebrow, taking another sip of my wine. "Well, I'm happy you enjoyed it because that's all you're getting from me today," I said, leaning back against a ridiculously ornate chaise lounge.

He frowned slightly. "We do have to kiss more during the first dance and the reception party."

The wine had officially loosened my inhibitions. A mischievous glint sparked in my eye. I found myself leaning forward, a dangerous smile playing on my lips. "Is that an order, Mr. Hamilton?"

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "It's…a suggestion. A highly recommended suggestion."

I burst out laughing, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings. He looked even more uncomfortable. "Alright, alright. A suggestion it is. But tell me, Lewis," I drawled, tilting my head, "how passionate are we talking? A quick peck for the cameras? A lingering lip-lock for the tabloids? Or perhaps a full-blown, movie-style makeout session to send your fans into a frenzy?"

He gaped at me, his usually composed facade cracking. "Y/N, are you…teasing me?"

"Maybe," I said, grinning. "Consider it a rehearsal. For the sake of public perception, of course. We have to be convincing, right? This isn't just about boosting your engagement numbers; it's about protecting your reputation."

He took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself. "Fine. Let's…rehearse." He approached me cautiously, like he was approaching a wild animal, his eyes locked on mine. "Just…remember it's all for show. This is purely professional."

"Of course," I whispered, the wine singing in my veins. "All for show. Completely professional." My heart, however, seemed to have missed the memo. It was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird.

He placed his hands on my waist, his touch surprisingly gentle. He leaned in, his breath warm against my cheek, and I suddenly found myself struggling to remember my lines. "Ready?"

My voice caught in my throat. I managed a shaky nod, my heart suddenly pounding a rhythm that had nothing to do with wine and pretense. As his lips met mine, a strange sensation washed over me. 

 He hesitated, giving you a moment to back out, but you didn't. Instead, you raised a hand and rested it on the back of his neck, your fingers threading slightly into his short, dark hair.

It started slowly. A tentative brush of lips, a polite greeting. He tasted of mint and something else, something subtly powerful and undeniably Lewis. He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "Is this… believable?"

"Believable enough to fool millions?" you countered, your voice a husky whisper. "Probably not. Try again. Think longing, think desperation, think… you're about to lose the most important thing in your life."

Lewis frowned. "That's a bit dramatic, even for this."

"Welcome to acting, darling," you said, your smile widening. "Now, try again."

This time, he didn't hesitate. He leaned in, his lips claiming yours with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. This wasn't the gentle, chaste kiss from before. This was raw, demanding, and surprisingly… good.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and you found yourself responding without conscious thought. Your fingers tightened their grip on his neck, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, tongues dancing, breath mingling. It was a whirlwind of sensation, a delicious chaos that blurred the line between rehearsal and reality.

For a fleeting moment, you forgot this was all a performance, that you were just pawns in a PR game. You were just two people, caught in the heat of a kiss that felt anything but fake.

He finally broke away, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and intense. "Okay," he said, his voice raspy. "That… that was better."

You were still trying to catch your breath. "Better indeed," you managed to say, your voice slightly breathless. "But was it believable? Or just…intense?"

Lewis looked away, running a hand through his braids. "It was…both. Maybe too intense."

"Too intense for a fake marriage?" you challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Before he could answer, I noticed the smear of red on his chin. "Oh, you've got my lipstick all over your mouth," I said, a mischievous glint in my eyes.

Before Lewis could touch his face, I held his hand, preventing him. "Leave it there, at least that will convince people that we were kissing," I said, letting go of him.

He stared at me, a mixture of surprise and something else I couldn't quite decipher flickering in his eyes. "You're… surprisingly good at this," he said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"That's my job," I replied, a smile playing on my lips. "But you're a quick learner, Lewis. I'll give you that."

The large hall was bedecked in a symphony of white roses and crystal chandeliers that cast a soft glow across the polished floor. The moment you and Lewis stepped in, the buzz of conversation hushed and all eyes turned to you.

The crowd erupted in applause, a wave of congratulations that made you blush despite the artifice of it all.

You took Lewis's offered arm, his grip firm and surprisingly comforting, as you both glided towards your sweetheart table at the center of the room.

The scent of his cologne mingled with the floral bouquets scattered around, creating a heady aroma that was at odds with the butterflies doing somersaults in your stomach.

Your hearts beat in sync with each step, echoing the rhythmic thump of the bass from the live band playing in the corner. The dress you wore was a vision of elegance, a stark contrast to the nervous energy thrumming through your body.

You felt like a moth drawn to a flame as you approached the table, the spotlights seemingly highlighting every imperfection, every lie. Yet, as you sat down, the plush chair enveloping you in a gentle embrace, the weight of the moment lifted slightly. You exhaled and offered him a tentative smile.

"Well, we've made it this far," you murmured under the guise of the applause.

"Barely," he quipped, a playful glint in his eye.

As the applause died down, a server appeared, filling your glasses with champagne. The cool liquid was a welcome relief against the dryness of your mouth.

You took a sip, feeling the bubbles tickle your nose. The room was alive with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses, a cacophony of happiness that seemed almost surreal.

"To us," Lewis said, raising his glass. His smile was perfect, a masterpiece of diplomacy. You mirrored the gesture.

You clinked glasses, the sound resonating in your ears like a toll of fate. "To the most convenient marriage of the year," you toasted, trying to keep your voice steady.

The liquid slid down your throat, a potent symbol of the agreement you'd made. You felt the warmth spread through your body, loosening the tension slightly.

The dress, a creation of satin and lace, whispered against your skin with every movement, a silent reminder of the part you had to play.

As the applause faded into the background, the first course of the meal was served. The table was an opulent display of gourmet delights, each dish more tempting than the last.

Lewis picked up a piece of hors d'oeuvre, a dollop of caviar perched atop a tiny cracker, and held it out to your lips.

"Open for me," he said, his voice low and playful.

You parted your lips and allowed him to feed you, the salty fish roe bursting on your tongue. The sensation was oddly intimate, and you watched his eyes darken as he observed your reaction.

The taste was decadent, a delightful assault on your senses that made you want to moan. You chewed slowly, savoring the richness.

You returned the favor, plucking a strawberry from the fruit platter with your fingers and bringing it to his mouth.

The fruit was ripe, the juice staining your fingertips and leaving a sweet trail across your skin. He took the berry with a smoldering look that sent a bolt of heat through your core.

You picked up a piece of chocolate-covered fruits, the dark chocolate shimmering with edible gold dust. You held it to his mouth, watching as he took it with a bite, the gold leaving a glittering trail on his bottom lip.

Leaning in, your heart racing, you couldn't help yourself. You licked the remnants of sweet chocolate from his lips, the taste a tantalizing mix of the rich confection and the salt of his mouth.

You blamed it on the alcohol, the way it loosened your inhibitions and made everything feel more daring, more alive. His eyes searched yours for a moment, and you realized with a start that he wasn't objecting.

The room spun slightly as you felt his hand come to rest on the small of your back, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the bare skin exposed by your dress.

"You're doing great," he whispered in your ear, his breath hot against your neck.

You leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand spreading like a brand across your skin. The champagne had done its work, the tension giving way to a pleasant buzz that made everything feel a little less forced.

You turned to face him, your eyes locking for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity.

"Thank you," you murmured, your voice a soft purr that seemed to resonate through the room.

His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heart-stopping second, you thought he might kiss you.

But instead, he leaned back, his expression unreadable.

The band struck up a tune, the sound of instruments swirling around you like a warm embrace. You felt a sudden pressure to perform, to be the bride everyone expected you to be.

Maya bustled over to your table. "Can you guys cut the cake now, or do you need more time for yourselves?" she teased, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

The question was like a splash of cold water, reminding you of the façade you were maintaining. You laughed, a little too loudly, and nodded.

"We're ready," you said, standing up. Lewis's hand was at your elbow, guiding you through the crowd towards the grand, multi-tiered cake.

The cake was a masterpiece, a cascade of white fondant adorned with intricate lace detailing and delicate sugar roses.

You felt a strange sense of detachment as you both took the knife, your hands shaking slightly.

As you made the first slice, the sound of cameras clicking filled the air. The flashes were like stars in a night sky, blinding you to everything else.

But all you could see was Lewis's profile, the tension in his jaw, the way his hand held the knife with surprising tenderness.

He took a piece of cake and offered it to you, a silent question in his eyes. You took it, feeling the soft cake crumble against your teeth.

The sweetness was overwhelming, a metaphor for the situation you found yourself in.

You took a deep breath, willing yourself to be the poised and elegant wife Ferrari required.

The spotlight was on you, but it was the pressure of his hand against your back that kept you from crumbling like the dessert in your mouth.

"Move closer," you whispered, holding out a dainty slice of the heavenly cake to him. The scent of vanilla and buttercream filled the air as you brought it closer to his lips.

The moment was charged with a current that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

With a gentle nudge, you coaxed him to open his mouth. His full lips parted slightly, and you placed the cake on his tongue.

His eyes never left yours as you traced the outline of his mouth with your fingertips, catching the crumbs that clung to his perfect smile. The warmth of his breath danced across your fingertips, sending a shiver down your spine.

You watched as he closed his eyes, savoring the flavor. His Adam's apple bobbed with each swallow, and you felt a sudden urge to trace the path the cake took down his throat with your own mouth.

As the music grew louder and the flashes grew more insistent, Lewis leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

"Dance with me?" His voice was a velvety rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. You nodded, and he took your hand, leading you to the dance floor.

The lights dimmed, casting the room in a romantic glow. A slow song began to play, a classic ballad about love and commitment. Ironic, you thought, given the circumstances.

Lewis placed his hand on your waist, and you reluctantly put yours on his shoulder. The fabric of his bespoke suit felt smooth beneath your fingers.

He pulled you closer, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body. You avoided looking at him, focusing instead on the swirling patterns of the projected lights on the ceiling.

"Relax," he murmured, his breath tickling your ear. "It's just a dance."

But it wasn't just a dance. It was a performance, a charade, a carefully constructed illusion. Every step, every sway, every glance had to be perfect, believable.

You caught the eye of someone, notebook in hand, eagerly observing your every move. You forced a smile, hoping it looked genuine.

As the song continued, you found yourself slowly starting to relax. Lewis was a surprisingly graceful dancer, guiding you effortlessly across the floor.

The rhythm of the music, the warmth of his body, the soft lighting – it was all strangely seductive.

"You look beautiful," he said softly, his voice barely audible above the music.

You finally met his gaze, and you were surprised to see genuine warmth in his eyes. Was it possible? Could there be something more to this arrangement than just business?

"Thank you," you whispered, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks.

He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his face. "You know, this isn't so bad."

"What isn't?" you asked, confused.

"This. Us. Pretending to be in love," he said, his eyes twinkling. "We're pretty good at it, don't you think?"

You laughed. "We are, aren't we?"

As the song ended, he leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours.

"You know what would make this even more believable?" he whispered.

Your heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"If we kissed," he murmured, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

You looked up at him, your pulse racing. The idea was ludicrous, of course. This was a marriage of convenience, a contractual agreement to help him secure his engagement at Ferrari.

Yet, as his eyes searched yours, you found yourself leaning into the moment, curious about the sensation of his lips on yours.

The music swelled around you as his hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. His other hand cupped your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly across your skin.

You felt the electricity crackle in the air between you, and without another word, he closed the gap, pressing his mouth to yours.

His kiss was gentle at first, exploratory, as if he too was surprised by his own actions.

But the alcohol was really hitting the both of you, and with it, your inhibitions began to melt away like candle wax in the heat of desire.

Your arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer, your body responding instinctively to his touch.

Lewis's hand slipped down from your waist to the curve of your hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles through the fabric of your dress.

You held back, though, coming back to your senses. This wasn't what you had signed up for. You were supposed to be his beard, not his lover.

You stiffened in his arms, and he must have felt the shift in your demeanor because his hand stilled.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and thick with a hint of regret. "I didn't mean to cross a line."

You took a deep breath, your chest rising and falling against his firm embrace. "It's okay," you managed, even though your body was screaming for more. "We just need to remember what this is."

He nodded, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. "Right," he murmured, his grip loosening slightly. "A marriage of convenience."

The music had changed to something faster, a pounding bass that seemed to echo the beating of your heart. You stepped back, trying to compose yourself and smiled for the cameras.

"We should focus on the wedding," you said, your voice shakier than you would have liked.

Lewis's hand remained at your waist, his thumb continuing to stroke your skin in a gentle, hypnotic rhythm. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern etched into his features.

You took another deep breath, willing your racing pulse to slow. "I'm fine," you lied, plastering a smile back onto your face. "We're just playing our parts, right?"

He nodded, his eyes lingering on your mouth. "Right."

The music changed again, the tempo quickening. The DJ announced that it was time for everyone to join in, and the floor flooded with guests eager to dance. The pressure of the moment was lifted as the spotlight shifted away from the two of you.

The crowd grew thick around you, a sea of bodies moving in a harmonious wave of color and sound. Lewis's hand remained at the small of your back, his fingers splayed possessively.

You felt a thrill of excitement as you realized that in this chaos, you could be anyone, do anything, and no one would question it.

And then, through the kaleidoscope of faces, you saw her. Your mother, standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching you with a knowing smile.

She had always had a knack for reading your expressions, and even from this distance, you could feel her approval. It was as if she knew the secret desires that had blossomed in the warmth of Lewis's embrace.

Her eyes sparkled with a mischief that told you she wasn't fooled by the pretense of your union.

You felt a sudden rush of heat, remembering the way Lewis's kiss had made your knees weak. You hoped she hadn't seen that.

"I'm going to talk to my mother," you murmured into Lewis's ear, your voice low and urgent.

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before you slipped away from the dance floor and made your way through the throngs of partygoers.

Your mother's smile grew wider as you approached, her eyes twinkling with the same mischief that had always made you feel both cherished and exposed.

She knew you so well, and as you reached her side, you were acutely aware of the rapid beat of your heart, the warmth still lingering on your cheeks from Lewis's kiss.

"Having fun?" she asked, her voice a sweet symphony of teasing and concern.

"Mother, let's talk outside," you suggested, gesturing to the balcony, desperately needing a moment of respite from the pounding rhythms and probing gazes.

Her smile never wavered as she nodded in agreement, placing a hand on your forearm. "Lead the way, dear," she said, the warmth of her touch grounding you amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

The cool night air hit you like a breath of fresh oxygen as you stepped out onto the balcony, the sound of laughter and music muffled by the thick double doors.

The moon cast a silvery glow over the cityscape, painting the buildings in a soft, ethereal light. The distant sounds of traffic were a faint reminder of the world beyond the bubble of the penthouse suite where your lives had suddenly become a performance for the paparazzi.

Your mother looked stunning in a midnight-blue gown that accentuated her figure, her eyes dancing with curiosity. She took a sip of her champagne, her gaze never leaving you.

"What's on your mind, darling?" she asked, her voice a gentle coo that could melt the coldest of hearts.

You leaned against the balcony railing, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat still pulsing through your veins from Lewis's kiss.

"I just needed a break," you replied, hoping she wouldn't push further. The night air kissed your skin, sending goosebumps along your arms.

Your mother's eyes searched yours, a knowing glint shimmering in her gaze. "You seem…flustered," she said, her tone light but her words carrying the weight of a thousand unasked questions.

You took a deep breath, the cool air filling your lungs and calming your racing thoughts. "It's just…Lewis," you began, struggling to find the words.

"What about your fake husband?" your mother said, her voice dripping with playful accusation. She had always been perceptive, and she knew you better than anyone.

You felt a blush creeping up your neck, and you took a sip of the cool, bubbly champagne to buy yourself some time. "What do you mean?" you asked, feigning innocence.

Your mother raised an eyebrow, the gesture so familiar it was as if you were a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew. "I saw the way he was looking at you during the first dance," she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "And the way you two were just…dancing."

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the pulsing heat between your legs, the phantom feeling of Lewis's hand on your hip. "It's all for the cameras," you protested, even though the words felt hollow.

Your mother's smile grew knowing, and she leaned closer, her perfume a faint whisper of gardenias in the night air. "Is that all it is?" she murmured, her eyes twinkling with the same mischief that had always made you squirm. "Or is there something more going on between you two?"

You took another deep breath, the coolness of the air doing little to ease the heat pooling in your belly. "Mother," you began, feeling the weight of her gaze on you, "I've only known him for less than a month."

Her smile softened, the playful glint in her eyes fading to a look of understanding. She leaned closer, her voice a warm, comforting whisper. "Sometimes, love doesn't care about time, darling. It just happens."

You stared out into the night, the city lights blurring as you replayed the last few minutes in your mind. The feel of his lips on yours, the gentle caress of his hands, the way your body had responded so instinctively.

Was it possible to develop feelings so quickly, so intensely, when the foundation of your relationship was nothing but a business deal?

The question lingered in the air as you watched Lewis mingle with the other guests, his charisma lighting up the room. His laugh was infectious, his smile captivating, and the way he moved through the space was like watching a panther – sleek, powerful, and utterly in control.

You took another sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzing against your tongue as you contemplated your mother's words. Love? In a marriage of convenience? The very notion seemed absurd, and yet, you couldn't deny the undeniable pull you felt towards him.

The way your body had responded to his touch, the way your heart had skipped a beat when he looked at you – it was all too real, too potent to dismiss as mere infatuation.

"Just remember what you said three weeks ago, that 'it's all just for show. And it's not like you're actually going to be doing the whole marriage thing, that you're just going to pretend.'"

Her voice, usually a soothing balm, was sharp with an undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite place. "Don't break your own promise, but I wouldn't mind it. Lewis will take good care of you."

Her words hit you like a ton of bricks. Was she…encouraging you? But before you could respond, she had already turned away, leaving you alone with the night's whispers and the tumultuous dance of your thoughts.

You took another sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzling down your throat, and tried to convince yourself that it was just the alcohol playing tricks on you.

But deep down, you knew it was more than that.

Sighing, you set the champagne flute down on the railing and smoothed your hair back, trying to regain your composure. The chilly breeze whispered across your skin, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

With one last deep breath, you pushed away from the balcony and turned to face the warm embrace of the party once more.

As you stepped back into the penthouse suite, the heat and the music enveloped you like a lover's arms. The lights danced over the guests' faces, casting a spell of excitement and anticipation.

The DJ announced that it was time for the welcome toasts, and a hush fell over the room. You searched the crowd for Lewis, your heart skipping a beat when your eyes met his across the sea of bodies.

He offered you a smile, his own eyes a storm of emotions that mirrored your own.

Making your way to the makeshift stage, you took your place beside him. The spotlight was hot on your face, and you could feel the eyes of the guests on you, eagerly waiting for you to speak.

Lewis took your hand in his, the warmth of his touch sending a jolt of electricity up your arm.

You cleared your throat, the words of your toast already written but feeling so insignificant now. "Thank you all for joining us tonight," you began, your voice steady despite the tumult in your chest. "This is a very special occasion."

Lewis squeezed your hand, his thumb stroking the back of your palm in a silent message of support.

You glanced at him, his eyes locked onto yours, and felt a jolt of something primal, something that had nothing to do with the contract you'd signed.

"We're here to celebrate the beginning of a new chapter in our lives," you said, your eyes never leaving his. "One filled with adventure, success, and," you paused, feeling the weight of his gaze, "passion."

The room erupted in cheers and applause, and Lewis stepped up to the microphone, his hand still wrapped around yours. "Thank you," he said, his voice a rich baritone that seemed to resonate in the very air around you.

"To my beautiful wife," he turned to you, a smoldering look in his eyes that sent a delicious shiver down your spine, "Thank you for agreeing to this crazy adventure."

You leaned into the microphone, the warmth of his body against yours a potent cocktail of desire and nerves. "And to my dashing husband," you said, your voice a purr, "Thank you for making this marriage of convenience feel like anything but."

The crowd gasped, and a smattering of laughter filled the room, but you didn't care. You knew you were playing with fire, but the heat was too tempting to resist.

As you finished your toast, Lewis leaned down and whispered, "You're going to pay for that later." The words sent a shiver of anticipation through you, and you couldn't help but smile.

You took your cue, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions raging inside you. "To our friends, our families, and Ferrari," you said, raising your glass, "Thank you for bringing us together."

The room erupted in cheers and applause, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at the success of your ruse.

But as you watched Lewis, the way his eyes sparkled with mischief, you knew that this marriage of convenience was about to take a very inconvenient turn.

"Now, it's time for the parent dances," the DJ announced, breaking the spell of the moment. You felt a knot in your stomach. You had lost your father years ago, and having your mother dance with Lewis was the closest thing you'd ever get to a traditional wedding dance with a parent.

"Mrs. L/N," Lewis said, extending his hand towards your mother with a charming smile. "May I have the honor of this dance?"

Her eyes sparkled with delight as she took his hand, the same hand that had sent shockwaves through your body just moments before. "Why, Mr. Hamilton, I'd be thrilled," she replied, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor.

You watched as they swayed to the music, the connection between them palpable. The sight was bittersweet – a reminder of what you had lost and what you never had.

But as you observed them, the tension in your chest began to ease. If Lewis had to dance with someone, you were happy it was your mother.

She deserved this moment of joy and glamour, even if it was all an act.

As the song came to a close, Lewis guided your mother back to her seat and returned to you, his eyes never leaving yours. "Your turn," he murmured, extending his hand.

You nodded, trying to ignore the butterflies that had taken up residence in your stomach. This was your job, to make this marriage look believable, and part of that meant playing the role of a loving wife to a tee.

As the music changed to a slower tempo, Lewis' father, Anthony, made his way over to you, his smile warm and welcoming. He took your hand in his, his grip firm but gentle, and led you onto the dance floor.

"Thank you for being here, my dear," he said, pulling you closer into his embrace. You could feel the strength in his arms, a stark contrast to the softness of his voice.

His cologne, a rich blend of leather and sandalwood, wrapped around you, a comforting scent that reminded you of the safety and protection a father's arms could offer.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Hamilton," you replied, your voice a soft whisper against his chest. You felt a strange comfort in his arms, a sense of belonging that you hadn't felt since your own father had passed away.

The music washed over you, a gentle symphony that seemed to be composed just for the two of you. You moved in sync with him, his steps guiding yours with a grace that could only come from years of experience.

His hand rested at the small of your back, the heat from his palm seeping through the fabric of your dress and setting your skin alight.

You looked up at him, his eyes crinkling with kindness. "You know, you're quite the catch," he said, his voice a gentle rumble. "My son is a very lucky man."

You blushed, your heart fluttering at the compliment. "Thank you," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the music. "Lewis is… quite the catch himself."

Anthony chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Yes, he is," he agreed. "But I can see the way he looks at you. There's more to this than just a business deal."

You swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. The truth was, you didn't know what was happening between you and Lewis. It was like you had stumbled into a fairy tale, except the prince was a billionaire race car driver, and the marriage was as fake as the smile you painted on every day.

"You don't have to tell me," he said, as if sensing your discomfort. "But just remember, love has a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it."

His words hung in the air, and you felt a sudden tightness in your chest. Was that what this was? Love? The very thought was terrifying, and yet, as you watched Lewis across the room, his eyes never leaving yours, you couldn't help but wonder if there was some truth to it.

The dance ended all too soon, and you found yourself back in the swirl of the party, the music and laughter a cacophony around you. You searched the room for Lewis, needing to be near him, to feel the reassurance of his presence.

Then, you heard a mic being tapped, and the volume of the room dropped like a curtain. You looked at the stage to see Maya and Miles with grins on their faces that could only mean one thing – they were about to give their speeches.

Your heart skipped a beat. You knew Maya all too well; she was the kind of friend who had a knack for speaking her mind, especially when it came to juicy secrets.

Miles took the mic first, his voice smooth and charming. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I'd like to start by saying how honored I am to be standing here today, witnessing the union of two of the most amazing people I know."

"Now," he continued, "I know we're all here to celebrate the love between Lewis and his beautiful bride," he said, pausing for effect. "But what I'd like to remind everyone is that this isn't just a marriage – it's a partnership that's going to be taking the racing world by storm. And speaking of storms, I've got a little something for you two,"

Maya strutted up to the podium, the mic in one hand and a glint in her eye that had you on the edge of your seat. She tapped it, the sound echoing through the room, and announced,

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to share a little story about how our dashing couple met. It's not your average love at first sight tale, oh no."

You felt your face heat up as the room grew quieter, all eyes on Maya. Lewis's hand tightened around yours, his thumb stroking your knuckles in a silent message of reassurance. You could see the curiosity in his eyes, a hint of amusement playing on his lips.

Maya began, "Picture this: Two strangers, thrown together by fate, or should I say, by Ferrari. A billionaire playboy, and a girl with a heart of gold. They say opposites attract, but in this case, it was more like a collision of epic proportions!"

The audience chuckled, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of dread and excitement. You knew Maya had a wild imagination, and she wasn't one to shy away from spicing things up.

"They say love is a wild ride," she continued, her voice taking on a dramatic tone. "But let me tell you, when these two hit the track, it was nothing short of explosive! The chemistry was palpable, the tension could have fueled a race car!"

Your heart raced as she painted a vivid picture of your whirlwind romance, embellishing every detail and adding a steamy twist here and there. You shot her a glare, but she only winked back, reveling in the moment.

Miles took over, his deep voice a stark contrast to Maya's. "But what you don't know," he said, leaning into the mic, "is that there was a secret deal made, a deal that would change the course of their lives forever. A marriage of convenience, you say? Pish-posh!"

The crowd leaned in, eager to hear the juicy details. You held your breath, waiting for the inevitable revelation of your arrangement with Lewis. But instead, Miles spun a tale of a daring bet between the two friends, one that had led to a year of adventure and discovery.

"They said they'd keep it professional," Miles said with a wink. "But when love enters the race, all bets are off!"

You felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. It wasn't the truth, but it was close enough to keep the secret intact. The crowd roared with laughter, and you couldn't help but laugh along, the tension in the room dissipating like mist on a warm morning.

As the applause died down, you leaned into Lewis, whispering, "Your friend is something else."

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "He does have a way of keeping things interesting," he murmured, pulling you closer.

The rest of the reception was a blur of laughter, dancing, and whispered secrets. The speeches had been a wild ride, but somehow, you found yourself enjoying the thrill of it all.

The way Lewis looked at you, the way his hand never left your side – it was as if you had stumbled into a love story after all.

As the night went on, you were able to relax, a glass of champagne in hand, chatting with your friends who had flown in for the occasion. They were all buzzing with excitement, eager to hear every detail of your whirlwind romance with the infamous Lewis Hamilton.

You felt a thrill run down your spine every time they talked about your "true love," knowing that it was all just a well-orchestrated facade. But the way he made you feel, the way he looked at you – it was easy to get lost in the fantasy.

You took a sip of the bubbly liquid, the coolness of it spreading through your body like a gentle caress. The alcohol did its work, loosening your inhibitions and making you feel light, like you were floating on air.

The room was warm, a cozy cocoon of friendship and goodwill that enveloped you, making the weight of your deception feel a little less heavy.

Your friend Laura leaned in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "So, what's it really like being married to a superstar?" she asked, her voice low and conspiratorial. You giggled, feeling a little tipsy and more than a little bit naughty.

"Well, it's not all fast cars and glamour," you said, your voice a purr. "But the perks aren't too shabby." You shared a knowing look with her, and she squealed, her hand flying to her mouth. You had always had a flair for the dramatic, and tonight was no exception.

As you talked, the room grew hazier, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and cologne mingling with the aroma of fine wine and rich food.

The music was a sensual backdrop, the rhythm pulsing through the floorboards, inviting you to move. You felt the warmth of Lewis's hand on the small of your back as he joined your circle of friends, his presence a comforting warmth that seemed to drive the chill of doubt away.

"Let's dance," he whispered in your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. You nodded, placing your hand in his, and allowed him to lead you into the throng of bodies, each swaying to the seductive rhythm.

His hand slid to your waist, his fingers ghosting over the smooth fabric of your dress, and you felt a thrill at the possessive way he held you, his other hand cradling yours.

The music was a slow, sultry number that seemed to resonate within the very core of your being. His thigh brushed against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

His touch was like a brand, leaving a trail of heat wherever it went. You looked into his eyes, and for a moment, you forgot about the cameras, the guests, the lie. It was just the two of you, lost in a dance that felt all too real.

The conversation with your friends was lively, their questions about married life to the legendary Lewis Hamilton met with your playful evasions and coy smiles. The champagne bubbled in your veins, making you feel more daring, more alive.

You caught Laura's eye, and she winked, a knowing smile playing on her lips. The tension between you and Lewis was palpable, a secret only the two of you shared, and it was intoxicating.

Suddenly, the music shifted to something softer, a classic love song that seemed to beckon for a more intimate moment.

You felt Lewis's hand tighten around your waist, pulling you closer, your bodies fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle you never knew you were meant to complete.

His breath was hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine as he whispered, "Let's take the family picture."

You nodded, allowing him to lead you off the dance floor and towards the small area designated for family photos. Your mother sat watching, her eyes filled with a warmth that seemed to say she knew more than she was letting on.

She patted the seat beside her, and you sat down, feeling a sudden vulnerability that the alcohol hadn't quite prepared you for.

Lewis's father, Anthony, took a seat. The sight was surreal, a makeshift family portrait that was as beautiful as it was unexpected. The photographer, a friend of the Hamiltons, approached with a professional smile. "Ready?" he asked, holding up the camera.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the erratic beating of your heart. Lewis sat beside you, his hand reaching for yours, and you felt a rush of affection that was as surprising as it was overwhelming.

The camera clicked, capturing the four of you in a moment of forced intimacy that somehow felt more genuine than you had anticipated.

The flash illuminated the room, freezing the scene in time – a snapshot of a life that wasn't quite real, but felt more right than anything you had ever known.

The picture was taken, and the moment passed, but the warmth lingered. You couldn't help but look at the image displayed on the camera's screen – the four of you, a small but significant representation of what could have been.

Your mother's smile was wide, her eyes sparkling with happiness, and you realized that maybe this wasn't just about the Ferrari deal. Maybe, just maybe, it was about creating a new kind of family, one born from necessity but blossoming into something more.

The photographer handed the camera to Lewis, who studied the picture with a thoughtful expression. "It's perfect," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the image of your joined hands.

"Yes," your mother agreed, her voice thick with emotion. "It's like looking at a real family."

The words hung in the air, and you felt a sudden tightness in your throat. This was supposed to be just a year of pretending, but the lines between reality and the role you were playing were beginning to blur.

As you looked into the camera lens, you realized that the love in your eyes for Lewis was no longer just an act.

It was a tangible thing, a living, breathing entity that had snuck into your heart without you even noticing. . . .

His eyes scanned the room, finally settling on her. Y/N. Even her name felt foreign on his tongue. She was surrounded by her friends, a vibrant group of women who punctuated her words with laughter. He watched her, a strange curiosity washing over him.

She seemed… lighter, more at ease than he’d ever seen her with him. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled, a genuine, unburdened smile that never quite reached him.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. His father, Anthony, stood beside him, a proud smile plastered on his face. "Son, I've gotten you and your wife a present."

Lewis braced himself. He knew his father’s “presents” usually came with strings attached.

Anthony gestured towards a nearby table. On it sat a framed picture. Lewis's breath caught in his throat. It was a photo from the ceremony, taken just as the priest declared them husband and wife.

In the picture, he was kissing Y/N. The angle made it look passionate, intimate. A lie meticulously crafted for public consumption.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Anthony beamed. “A perfect memento of your special day. I’ve already had copies made for all the papers.”

Lewis forced a smile. “Right. Perfect.”

He took the frame, the cold glass a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand. The kiss in the photograph was nothing more than a well-rehearsed move, a performance for the cameras. Yet, looking at it now, with the love in her eyes captured in that split second, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of something akin to regret.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice thick with something he couldn’t quite identify.

Anthony clapped him on the back, his eyes gleaming. "Remember, son, this is just the beginning. You two are going to be the golden couple of the racing world. A powerhouse team that can't be beat."

Lewis nodded, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach. He had agreed to this sham of a marriage for the sake of the Ferrari deal, for the sake of his career, but seeing the hope in his father's eyes made him feel like a fraud.

Anthony leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, I know this isn't the way you planned your wedding night," he began, "but I've got a little surprise for the two of you."

Lewis's heart skipped a beat, his mind racing with what his father could possibly mean.

"Dad," he began, his voice tight. "We've talked about this. It's just for show."

Anthony's smile never wavered. "Of course, of course," he said, patting Lewis's back. "But a little bit of authenticity goes a long way, doesn't it?" His eyes twinkled with mischief. "Besides, I've got a feeling that there's more to this arrangement than meets the eye."

Lewis felt a sudden heat rise to his cheeks. His father had always had a knack for reading him like a book, and it was clear he wasn't fooled by the façade. But before he could protest, Y/N's mother called Anthony over, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

"Goodbye son," his father said, his grip firm on Lewis's shoulder. "I hope you can enjoy this new chapter in your life."

The words echoed in Lewis's ears as he watched his father walk away, leaving him standing next to the framed photograph.

He glanced back at Y/N, her laughter filling the air like music. Her eyes caught his, and she offered a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was a smile for the cameras, a smile that said, “Everything is fine.”

But Lewis knew better. He could see the shadows that lurked beneath the surface, the doubt that she kept so well hidden.

He made his way over to her, the floor seeming to tilt beneath his feet. He had to admit, the champagne was hitting him harder than he'd expected.

The warmth of her hand in his was like a lifeline, grounding him in a reality that was quickly becoming more tangled than the vines that adorned the walls of the venue.

Their guests began to file out, their laughter and chatter fading like the last notes of a symphony. The grand ballroom grew quiet, the only sound the soft clink of crystal and the rustle of fabric as they moved together.

The first guest approached, an older woman with a cackle that could cut through glass. She leaned in, her breath hot with whiskey, and whispered in his ear, "A little something to keep you both warm on those cold nights, dear."

With a wink, she handed him a velvet box that was surprisingly heavy. He took it, feeling the weight of her assumption pressing down on his shoulders.

The next was a burly man, a sponsor for the racing team, who clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Here you go, champ," he said, his meaty hand palming Lewis a bottle of cognac.

"Keep her happy, yeah?" The bottle was cold, the condensation already forming on the glass a stark contrast to the heat of his cheeks.

A procession of well-wishers followed, each with a gift more extravagant than the last. A set of silver cufflinks that weighed down his wrists, a leather-bound book of love sonnets that smelled faintly of cigars, and a sculpture of a Ferrari that was so intricately detailed it looked as if it could drive off the table at any moment.

Each time, the guest would lean in and whisper something about the marriage bed, their eyes glinting with knowing amusement, as if they were all in on a secret that was anything but secret.

The weight of the gifts grew heavier with each addition, until Lewis felt like he was carrying the weight of a thousand expectations. The room spun around him, the lights playing tricks on his vision as he tried to keep his smile in place.

Finally, the last guest had gone, the caterers had cleared away the last of the dishes, and the music had faded to a dull throb.

The only people left were their closest friends, the ones who had known them before the racing world had claimed them, before the Ferrari deal had turned their lives into a performance.

Lewis placed the last gift on the pile, his heart racing. He could feel the eyes of their friends on him, the same friends who had seen them through the ups and downs of their careers, who knew that this marriage was a sham.

He approached Y/N, who was still sipping on her champagne, surrounded by her giggling friends. The way they leaned into her, whispering sweet nothings, made him feel like an outsider in his own wedding. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions that surged within him.

As he drew closer, the scent of her perfume reached him, a delicate blend of jasmine and vanilla that had haunted his dreams for weeks. It was the same scent she'd worn on their first time meeting each other.

He wrapped his hand around her waist, feeling the smooth fabric of her dress give way to the warm, supple flesh beneath. Her breath caught in her throat, the sudden touch sending a tremor through her body that made him tighten his grip, if only to steady her.

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes wide and searching, and for a moment, Lewis wondered if she could feel the storm of doubt and desire that raged within him.

He leaned closer, the scent of her perfume wrapping around him like a seductive embrace.

Her breath hitched, the soft fabric of her dress whispering against his fingertips as he pulled her closer. He felt the warmth of her skin through the gossamer material, her body responding to his touch with a delicate shiver.

Their eyes locked, and in the silence of the emptying ballroom, the truth of their arrangement danced unspoken between them. The air grew thick with tension, the only sound the erratic beating of their hearts.

"Are you ready to go?" he muttered, the words barely escaping his lips.

The music had stopped, the laughter had faded, and the only sound left was the erratic thumping of their hearts. The question hung in the air, a silent plea for a connection that went beyond the script they'd been given.

Y/N's eyes searched his, a mix of confusion and something else, something he hadn't anticipated. Her cheeks were flushed, not from the heat of the room but from the potent cocktail of emotions that swirled within her.

The champagne had done its work, loosening her inhibitions and leaving her vulnerable to the storm that brewed in her chest.

"Tired?" she murmured, her breath warm against his neck. The word was a question and an invitation, a gentle challenge to his intentions.

Her pulse quickened, a silent rhythm that matched the tempo of his own heartbeat, echoing through the sensitive skin of his neck.

Lewis nodded, the simple gesture loaded with a world of meaning. His eyes never leaving hers, he felt a strange thrill at the thought of her submission, her willingness to follow him into the unknown.

He wasn't tired in the traditional sense; he was weary of the charade, the endless masquerade that had become their lives.

"Let me say bye to my friends," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. The words seemed to hang in the air, a declaration of intent that sent a shiver down his spine. The room swirled around them, the faces of the remaining guests a blur of pastel colors and forced smiles.

He nodded, his hand still clutching hers, the heat of their connection a stark contrast to the cool air conditioning. The tension between them was palpable, a living thing that seemed to pulse in time with their racing pulses.

Y/N turned to her friends, her smile a practiced mask that didn't quite reach her eyes. She whispered her goodbyes, each word a silent promise that she'd return to them, unchanged by the whims of fate that had brought her to this moment.

The women hugged her tightly, a few whispering words of advice or congratulations that she barely heard over the roar of blood in her ears.

As she moved from one friend to the next, her mind swirled with the gravity of the situation. The warmth of their embraces was a stark contrast to the icy grip of doubt that had taken hold of her heart. Each goodbye felt like a final farewell, a symbolic cutting of ties to the life she knew.

When she finally turned back to him, her eyes searched his for reassurance. The intensity of his gaze made her knees wobble, and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

"I'm ready," she murmured, the words a soft caress against his skin.

Their friends had formed a corridor, cheering and showering them with the remaining confetti as they walked hand in hand towards the exit.

Each step felt like a leap into the abyss, the weight of their decision pressing down on their shoulders. Yet, with every footfall, the tension grew more electric, the anticipation more potent.

The confetti fluttered around them like a blizzard of colorful secrets, whispering sweet nothings of passion and promise.

Each piece that stuck to their skin was a silent testament to the excitement of the night to come. The cheers grew louder, the claps more insistent, as if the very air was urging them onward.

Y/N felt a strange mix of exhilaration and fear. The confetti stuck to her lashes, her hair, the fabric of her dress, a glittering reminder of the happiness they were expected to embody.

His grip on her hand was firm, grounding her in the present, as the cacophony of their friends' celebration grew dimmer with every step.

As they passed the threshold, the confetti cascading down like a glittering waterfall at their backs, the weight of their decision settled over them.

The cool evening air kissed their flushed faces, a stark contrast to the heated passion that awaited them. The world outside the ballroom felt alien, a place where their roles could be shed like the very confetti that clung to their clothes.

Their eyes met, a silent promise exchanged, and the cheers of their friends faded into the distance. The night was theirs, a canvas upon which they would paint their desires without the judgmental eyes of society watching over them.

He led her to the limo, the driver holding the door open with a knowing smile.

The cool leather of the seat was a stark contrast to the heat that emanated from their bodies, their hearts beating in unison like a primal drum.

As the car pulled away from the curb, the city lights danced across their faces, casting shadows that played upon their features like lovers' whispers.

The confetti that clung to them fluttered in the breeze from the open window, a gentle reminder of the world they'd left behind.

Y/N leaned back into the plush seat, her eyes closing for a brief moment as she allowed herself to be enveloped by the sensation of the cool leather against her skin. She was tired, but it wasn't the physical exhaustion of the wedding that weighed her down.

"Wake me up when we get there," she muttered, the words slipping out of her mouth like a soft sigh.

Lewis chuckled lowly, his eyes never leaving the road ahead.

"I don't think that's going to be an issue," he murmured, his voice a velvety rumble that sent shivers down her spine.

The idea of staying at his house had been a fleeting thought, a secret fantasy that had danced at the edge of their consciousness since the moment they'd met.

The car's smooth ride seemed to mimic the rhythm of his breath, deep and steady. The scent of her perfume filled the space around them, an intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that had become as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

Lewis hummed but discarded that thought immediately. He wasn't going to wake her up.

The gentle vibrations of the car's engine lulled her into a deep, peaceful sleep, her head resting against his shoulder. Her soft, even breaths brushed against his neck, sending waves of warmth through his body.

He felt a primal need to protect her, to shield her from the world outside, even if just for this one night. His eyes remained on the road, but his mind was lost in the sweetness of her presence.

When the limo arrived at his house, he thanked the driver with a nod and a tip that conveyed the depth of his gratitude.

The engine's purr grew quieter as the car came to a stop, and the world outside seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what was to come. The headlights cast an ethereal glow across the manicured lawn, illuminating a path that led to his front door.

He turned to her, the soft curve of her cheek still pressed against his shoulder, her lashes fluttering with the beginnings of a dream. Gently, he lifted her into his arms, cradling her like a precious treasure that had been entrusted to him.

Her eyes remained closed, but a faint smile played upon her lips as if she knew she was safe, protected in the cocoon of his embrace.

The cool night air kissed her skin as he carried her up the stone steps to the grand entrance of his house. The weight of her was comforting, grounding him in a way that his vast wealth and power never had.

The door swung open, revealing a warm, inviting foyer that was a stark contrast to the cold, impersonal hotel suite they had just left behind.

Inside, the scent of freshly baked cookies wafted from the kitchen, a welcome greeting that seemed to have been orchestrated by some invisible hand.

He kicked off his shoes, the sound echoing through the hallway, and carried her to the living room. The crackling fireplace cast flickering shadows across the floor, dancing over the polished hardwood like a living tapestry.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she took in her surroundings with a sleepy smile. "This isn't the hotel," she murmured, her voice a soft purr that seemed to resonate with the warmth of the room.

He chuckled, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. "No, it's not. This is my home," he said, his voice thick with the promise of what the night would hold.

He lowered her onto his plush bed, her legs draped over his as he sat beside her, one hand never leaving her waist.

Her eyes searched his, the sleepiness replaced by a spark of excitement. She knew this was a pivotal moment, one that would change their dynamic forever. "What are we doing?" she whispered, her heart racing.

With a knowing smile, he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, the warmth of his breath mingling with hers. "Whatever you want," he replied, his voice a seductive whisper that seemed to coil around her like a lover's embrace.

He kissed her again, more insistent this time, his hand sliding up her side to cradle her neck, his thumb tracing the delicate line of her jaw.

Her breath hitched, and she leaned into him, her body responding instinctively to the heat of his touch. The weight of his hand on her neck sent a shiver down her spine, and she could feel her skin prickling with anticipation.

His thumb traced the outline of her ear, sending a cascade of sensations through her, making her squirm with pleasure.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring the soft recesses of her mouth, tasting the sweetness that was uniquely hers.

Her hands found his shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if to hold onto him, to never let go. . . .

[authorhjk1]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C6pTqflplBO/?igsh=NTc4MTIwNjQ2YQ==

Sana/Jennie museum threesome

The Roman Goddess (part III)

(Minatozaki Sana X Jennie X Male Reader)

"Stop playing hard to get, Mars."

Venus' mischievous smile makes you lose your mind.

You knew it was a bad idea, when you saw the invitation to this event lying on the bed in your hotel room. And her note next to it explained why she wanted you here.

"I don't think we should do this."

You take a step back, surprised by your own self control.

"Y-Your husband is right there."

You whisper and point to the next room of the museum.

"Oh, forget about him, baby. I'm just here for that dick of yours."

You watch her looking down on you, before she reaches out to cup your crotch.

You can't do anything. Nothing to resist. Venus has always been something you can't walk away from. Something that draws you in. And that purple dress she is wearing makes your head spin, everytime you look at her. It fits her body perfectly, hugging her curves tightly.

A satisfied smile plays around Venus' lips, when she sees you glancing at her cleavage.

"You see? We're meant for each other. My body is yours. And yours is mine."

She steps closer. You close your eyes, still feeling her hand on your clothed cock. She places her tongue on your cheekbone and gives your cheek a long lick upwards, until she reaches your ear. Her purpose is clear. Destroy your silent resistance. Let yourself go. Give in.

"Your cock. It belongs in my pussy. As deep as it can go."

You flinch when Venus bites your earlobe. She is way more aggressive than she used to be. But then again, she is used to getting what she wants.

"And I'm not leaving this museum, until you tear this dress off me and fuck me like you mean it."

Your eyes shoot open when you hear high heels click on the stone floor. Someone is walking towards the two of you. Venus takes two steps back and pretends to read the information plate of the glass case on your left. You quickly hide your erection with the brochure you've held onto until now.

When the woman finally rounds the corner, you almost roll your eyes. What in the world? What the fuck is going on?

Her blue dress is barely a dress. More like a tunic. A very revealing one. You can see most of her slender legs and her tummy. The former is decorated with some body jewelry, which catches your eye. You notice you're staring, when she speaks up.

"I didn't expect you to see here."

Venus turns around.

"Oh, hey you."

She gives the new woman a big smile, but you can tell it's not genuine. Venus hesitates for a moment, but decides to properly greet the other woman. The two of them meet in the middle of the room. You can sense the awkwardness in the air as they give each other a hug. It looks forced and delicate, almost as if both of them are afraid the other might shatter into pieces, if they squeeze too hard.

You take a deep breath, glad you aren't the center of Venus' attention at the moment. Turning around, you try to ignore the two women and regain your composure. The glass case behind you showcases a trident and a net. You read the small plate that is placed next to the case.

The Retiarius, one of the most iconic gladiators of ancient Rome, fought using a trident (tridens) and a net (rete). Unlike his heavily armored counterparts, the Retiarius relied on speed and agility.

"How is your husband doing? You always talk about how he is working all the time."

"He is doing just fine. If I remember correctly, you ended things with your boyfriend? Tell me all about that."

Equipped with minimal armor—typically a shoulder guard (galerus) for protection—he would attempt to ensnare his opponent with the net before striking with the trident. This lightweight approach contrasted sharply with the heavily armed Secutor, creating a dramatic spectacle of skill versus strength.

"You know how guys are. Lazy idiots, who only think about sex. Especially when they see a woman like me. Believe it or not, I had one of his best friends on my doorstep an hour after I ended things with him."

"I can only imagine. My husband is a loyal, loving man. He gives me the world. I hope you'll find someone like that someday as well."

The weapons displayed here are replicas of those used in the grand arenas of Capua, a renowned training center for gladiators.

You move onto the next exhibit, while you hear the two women talk in the background. It's obvious they don't like each other. They're just bragging about how everyone loves them and how beautiful they are. You do have to admit that they're both gorgeous, but their characters seem flawed, to say the least.

Now standing in front of a mosaic, you get a glimpse of what a fully filled arena must've looked like in its full glory.

This intricate mosaic from the arena in Capua illustrates the staged reenactment of the Battle of Zama, the decisive confrontation of the Second Punic War fought in 202 BCE. In this spectacle, captured Punic warriors were forced to relive their defeat, facing off against Roman-trained gladiators representing the legions of Scipio Africanus.

"By the way, I love that dress of yours. I don't think I'd dare to show off this much skin, but it really fits your style."

"Thanks. Oh, but I love yours as well. Did your husband buy it for you? His taste is really something."

The Punic fighters are depicted with their characteristic long spears (hasta), curved swords (falcata), and round shields (caetra), emulating the Carthaginian infantry. Some are shown as Numidian allies, wielding javelins (pilum) and riding light horses, mirroring the diverse forces of Hannibal’s army.

"You know, I'd love to catch up with you some more, but my husband already mentioned earlier that he would love me to accompany him to the arena. But I'm sure we will have a chance to resume this pleasant conversation."

"Of course, dear. You're a loving and loyal wife. You always put his needs over yours."

Their opponents, dressed in Roman-style armor, carry gladii (short swords) and rectangular scuta (shields), symbolizing the disciplined Roman formations that triumphed at Zama. Such events were designed not only as entertainment but as a display of Roman supremacy, reminding the spectators of Rome's victory over one of its greatest adversaries.

You let out a deep breath as you hear Venus exit the room. You already felt bad, because you slept with a married woman. And while your carnal desires have kept you under their control so far, you finally have the courage to stop. You don't want to do it here. Not with her husband in the next room. That's not just morally wrong, but also stupid and dangerous.

You decide to ignore the other woman. She's probably doing the same with you. You reach another, smaller glass case. A figure of Venus inside. You can't help but glance at your own personal Venus through the door in the other room. For a moment, your eyes are glued to her backside, which is tightly wrapped by her dress. But you quickly avert your eyes again, hoping no one caught you. You decide on studying the description of the small figure, waiting for the other woman to finally leave the room.

The goddess Venus, revered as the deity of love, beauty, and fertility, held a special connection with the gladiators of Capua. In Roman culture, Venus was also associated with victory and fortune, making her a significant figure for gladiators who sought her favor before entering the arena. It was believed that invoking Venus’ blessings could turn the tide of combat, granting strength, agility, and the favor of the audience.

"Interesting."

You mumble as you take out your pen. This could make for a great part of your book. The first one featured the Roman legions. The second one was centered around Roman naval warfare. And this third one was supposed to be more about politics, while highlighting the character of a cunning, but charming woman.

Thank to Venus, you've already made great progress. "The Roman goddess", your third book, is almost finished by now. And it seems like you just found the best way to start your fourth book. Very ambitious, since you haven't completed the third one yet. But you know that this could lead you to even more fame. And money. For a moment, you wonder if you could ever reach the same level as Venus' husband. Through writing? Not likely. But it's going well so far.

The idea alone already makes your fingers itchy. You want to go home and continue to write. And you know now, your fourth book will be about gladiators. As you take notes on the museum's brochure, you are already planning out the first ideas for a plot.

You loose yourself in your thoughts, whispering along as you keep on reading the description of the small figure.

In Capua, one of the most renowned gladiatorial training centers of the Roman world, shrines and offerings to Venus were common, especially among gladiators who wished to honor the goddess in the hope of survival and success. The connection between Freya and the gladiators-

"What the fuck happened here?"

You say out loud, starring at the small text.

"Are you okay?"

You jump. The woman who talked to Venus is standing right behind you.

"Yeah, sorry."

You turn back around.

"Is something wrong?"

"Kinda..."

You hesitate. She sounds kinda bored and you don't want to make it worse by letting your history addiction shine through. But what's the worst that can happen?

"Here."

You point at the description.

"For some reason someone switched the names of Venus and Freya."

"And who is that?"

"Well, Venus is this one."

You point at the statue and have to force yourself to not look into the next room.

"And Freya is basically her Nordic equivalent."

"Isn't this the goddess of love or something?"

"Yes, you're correct. She's also responsible for marriage and the spring."

"You seem to know what you're talking about."

The woman next to you crosses her arms in front of her chest as she looks down at the figure of Venus.

"A little. My specialty is Roman and Greek history, but I know a thing or two about other civilizations as well."

"Are you a history teacher or something?"

"An author."

It still feels odd to say that. But you're realizing that you aren't as nervous as you should be. This woman is gorgeous, stunning. And yet, you don't really think about that and just see her as a normal person. Maybe because you spent a lot of time with Venus?

"Are you famous?"

"I wouldn't say so. Not really."

"Too bad. It would've explained why she sleeps with you."

You almost have a heart attack.

"W-What?"

You cross your fingers that she isn't talking about Venus. Not possible. You've never seen her before, so how would she have seen you? And you are sure that Venus didn't say anything either. Right?

You feel your heart beating faster, while your body seems like it's frozen. You wait for her to keep talking.

"Did you never see her taking pictures of you or something?"

You slowly shake your head.

"No... Did she?"

"There's an mobile app for women like us."

She pauses for a moment.

"Rich, famous women. Who are either married or single."

"Ah...."

"The app is used to share our sexual adventures with each other. And recommend people, based on where you are. For example, you told her that you'd be in Italy for a while. How do I know that? I checked the app. She put a picture of you in there. What you're good at, that you're fine with keeping secrets and that you're currently in Italy. And your number as well."

"She gave everyone my number and a picture?"

"Yeah."

You feel a little used. Venus seemed to value privacy so much. So why did she just violate yours?

"I also know that the two of you are playing a little game. You call her Venus. And you're Mars, right?"

You slowly nod your head. It finally dawns on you in which direction this is gonna go.

"I want in."

"What?"

"I want to take what's hers. Make Venus jealous and show her that you like my pussy more than hers."

When she says Venus' name, it almost sounds like an insult.

"Do I have a choice?"

The woman in blue shakes her head, while giving you a mocking smile.

"You don't."

You look at her, then look back towards the room Venus went to, and then look back at her.

"Okay....What do you want to do? A hotel? Or-"

"Shut it."

You're surprised by her rudeness.

"We are going somewhere where she can see us. Got it?"

"S-Sure."

"Oh and we need a name for me too. I want one just as good as hers."

You instinctively glance at the description of the figure.

"Freya?"

You see a smile playing around her lips.

"Sounds good."

"I don't think we should be here. This isn't just against museum rules, but also inappropriate."

"Zip it. I do what I want."

You sigh as she leads you into the sunlight. It seems like someone really paid the museum a lot of money to host this event. Which makes sense, since everyone here seems to be rich. The museum staff has placed a purple sun blind over the imperial box. From here, you have great view of the whole arena.

Of course it isn't in its original state, but it looks fabulous nonetheless. Which makes sense, since it's the second largest amphitheater of the Roman Empire. In the middle, where the gladiators have fought thousands of years ago, the museum has set up tables and chairs, a large buffet and even a small dance floor.

You feel odd, overlooking this beautiful scenery. Not just because you have a gorgeous woman lean over the balustrade right in front of you, but also because it feels wrong. This was once a place of blood and death. People died down there and yet these rich people treat it as some fancy place for a party.

"There she is."

Freya nods towards Venus, who is standing near the buffet. You can spot her easily. She is the most beautiful woman down there. You can't keep your eyes off that beautiful body.

You know her husband has to be there somewhere, but you can't tell who it is. And you're not even sure if you want to know. After all-

"What are you waiting for?"

You look over the bent over woman in front of you. Venus has so much control over you, you almost forgot about Freya. But now, you can see how beautiful she is as well. How sexy, how gorgeous. Just as much a goddess as Venus is. Same but different.

"Kneel for me and make yourself useful."

You hesitate. Venus wasn't really this commanding. But in the end, you don't care. As long as it means you are able to have sex with a woman like her.

You feel the naked stone on your knees. Reaching forward, you slowly lift up Freya's dress. Her blue underwear matches the dress. You lean in and give the back of her thighs kisses. You taste her skin, making sure you take your time as you carefully make your way upwards. When you eventually meet her clothed core, you plant a kiss on the fabric.

Freya's legs open a little wider, but you change directions. You lick and kiss her cheeks, giving them an occasional bite or two.

"That feels good..."

You continue, until you feel like she is starting to get impatient. Pulling at her panties, you watch them slowly glide down her smooth legs.

Licking your lips, you stare at her exposed pussy. It's a little darker than Venus', but not less beautiful. You lean in. One slow lick from the bottom to the top. It makes her hum in appreciation. You reach for her cheeks to pull them apart a little further. Taking in Freya's scent, you begin to feast on her pussy, while the rich people feast on the buffet in the arena.

You quickly notice that Freya isn't as wet as Venus is. It takes you a while to finally have her dripping. But for some reason, that just makes it taste even better. You lick along her folds, part them with your tongue, dive in deep. And then you retreat, circle around her outer lips, dip down to let your tongue flick against her clit. And then you start from the beginning once more.

Throughout your delicious meal, Freya has stayed mostly quiet. An appreciative moan here and there, a slight gasp, whenever you try something new. You can really see how the two women differ from each other.

As you keep going, you notice how Freya likes it when you use your hands on her ass from time to time. Pull her cheeks apart a little, slightly dig your fingers into them, squeezing them. You feel how she slowly becomes hotter, how her body's temperature starts to rise. She starts to move back a little as more pleasure rushes through her system.

Making your final move, you take her clit into your mouth. You suck on it, making her squirm for a moment. And then, a deep moan leaves her body. She shakes in front of you, your hands on her ass and hers on the balustrade keep her standing. More of her juices leave her pussy, which you taste as you dive back in during her high.

When you finally move away from her, you take a look at her now glistening folds once more. But when you're about to stand up, you feel one of her hands pushing your head back down.

"What makes you think you're done?"

You're surprised she wants more. You would've loved to feel her lips, or her pussy on your cock. But you decide to follow her lead. Maybe you'll get even more out of this.

"That's a good boy."

You hear her sigh when you place your lips on hers once more. Closing your eyes, you enjoy her taste. The moment is short lived, when you hear your phone's ringtone.

"Answer it."

Freya's voice is laced with mischievous intent.

You quickly realize why. She must've seen how Venus took out her phone and is now calling you.

"Hello?"

"Are you hiding from me?"

"I'm-"

You get interrupted by Freya, who pulls your face toward her core.

"I'm not."

You resume your meal, while Venus talks on the other end of the line.

"Good. I'm really horny right now. And I need you."

"I'm not sure if we should do it here. Your husband-"

"Oh, don't worry. He won't catch us, I promise."

"I don't-"

"It's gonna be quick."

Freya lets out a sigh as your tongue swipes upwards a little too high, coming dangerously close to her other hole. You bite your lip for a second, hoping Venus didn't hear that.

"I'll reward you."

Seems like Venus took your silence as indecisiveness.

"I'm going to head to your hotel room after this event. My body will be yours tonight."

You almost let out a groan into Freya's pussy.

"Is there anything you would prefer me in?"

You feel the other woman's hand on the back of your head again, urging you on to keep eating her out.

"A specific dress? Lingerie? Nothing?"

You close your eyes, trying to stay strong. At the same time, you keep you face buried between Freya's legs.

"Yes, that feels good."

Her moan is way louder than all the other ones.

"Mars, what's going on?"

You realize that she did it on purpose.

Freya now reaches for your phone.

"Keep going."

She takes and places it on her ear.

"Hello, darling?"

You don't hear what Venus is saying. You let out a sigh, but resume your work. You kinda feel like you betrayed her. But the again, you aren't in a relationship. She is even married to someone else.

"Oh, I bet he's loving dessert right now."

You hear Freya's breath hitch as you let your tongue circle around her clit once more.

"Oh damn, you really weren't lying. He is gonna make me cum again."

You double your efforts at her words. The damage is done already. Might as well finish the job.

"Don't get all possessive, honey. I'm sure he won't mind sleeping with you tonight."

"Really? And what are you gonna do about it?"

You feel how Freya is getting closer again. This bantering with Venus is probably getting her off even more.

"What makes you think you're a better fuck than me?"

"Oh, I'm so up for that. I'm gonna show you how much better I am."

You suck on Freya's clit once more. And the climax of her conversation and you work suddenly make her cum again.

"Oh, fuck!"

Once she calms down, Freya speaks again.

"That was amazing. Where we are? Just look up."

You notice how a second later the call ends. Freya turns around and gives you your phone back.

"While we wait for Venus, why don't you show me what you got there?"

She reaches for your belt and starts to undress you. When your pants and boxers fall onto the stone floor, Freya wraps her fingers around your cock.

"It's always hard to tell someone's size without properly measuring it, but I feel like Venus underestimated you."

She stands in front of you, while she begins to stroke your length. You can't help but reach out to feel more of her body. You place your hand on her naked waist.

"You like me, don't you?"

It's probably for the best, if you don't answer. So you stay silent, your eyes slowly wandering from her waist to her clothed tits. And your hands soon follow.

"You probably thought she was a goddess when you first saw her, huh? That's why you play this little game. But trust me, she is no better than I am."

Her confident smirk makes you realize that she genuinely thinks she is better than Venus. She isn't just saying that to make you choose her.

"Maybe we should start without her."

You watch how Freya's hand leaves your cock. She sticks out her tongue and licks her own palm. Then, she places her wet hand around your length again.

"Come on. Make everyone watch."

She turns around again. And like before, Freya bends over the stone balustrade.

You hold your breath for a moment. You really must be lucky if you get to have sex with her. But, if Venus is about to join the two of you, this might turn into the best day of your life.

Stepping behind her, you align yourself with her pussy. Your tip grazes her lips. When you push inside, you hear her let out a sigh.

"No wonder she doesn't want to share you."

Your hands are on her waist. You feel that waist chain between your fingers. But that's by far not the best thing you're feeling right now. Her tight cunt is nicely wrapped around your cock, keeping you inside as you attempt to back up.

When you start to properly fuck her, you already hear the sounds of someone walking behind you. It's still a little further away, but it's growing closer. You decide that this the best moment to make use of Freya's pussy as much as possible. You don't know what might happen next.

"Fuck, right there."

She moans when you fuck her harder. Soon, you place one of your hands on her clothed tits, while the other stays on her waist. You take her from behind, enjoying her body to the fullest. As every thrust leads you deeper and deeper inside, you start to forget all about the world around you. Her tight grip on your cock is all that matters right now. Your thrusts become faster. And the sound of your hips meeting her ass becomes louder.

"The two of you started without me?"

You quickly turn your head. Venus is standing behind you, a pout on her lips. Your eyes immediately roam her body. Her beauty and Freya's pussy around your cock make your head spin.

"Why don't you join me? Venus?"

Freya says her name once more with an underlying emotion. But to your surprise, Venus walks closer. She captures your lips with hers, her hands on your chest. By now, you've stopped fucking Freya. Which she doesn't seem to like. The bent over woman moves her hips and you groan into Venus' mouth.

Venus breaks the kiss and whispers into your ear.

"Make sure your cum belongs to me."

She gives you a mischievous smile, before she backs away. Just like Freya, she bends over the balustrade. The two women are barely an arm's length apart from each other. But your view has suddenly improved immensely. Your eyes are glued to Venus' ass as you start to fuck Freya once more.

Your self control only lasts a second. You reach over to squeeze the cheek that is closest to you. Venus looks back at you, a satisfied grin on her face.

"Can't take your hands off me?"

You nod as you try to keep up the pace of your fucking. Freya has begun to moan again, this time a little louder. Her tight pussy is holding onto you as if she knew you're on the brink of jumping ship.

"Come on, Mars. It's not polite to leave a woman waiting."

You close your eyes. Count to three. When you reach three, you don't know if you should pull out or not. You count to three again. And again. And finally you feel yourself pulling out all the way. Freya's walls drag along your length and a long sigh leaves her lips.

Only now do you notice that she is breathing heavily. You decide you're kind enough to give her a break.

A moment later, you stand behind Venus. Your wet cock rests on the fabric of her dress as you squeeze her cheeks. She purrs like a cat in the sun, already getting wet by just your hands on her body.

As much as you love seeing her ass like that, you eventually realize the urge to bury yourself inside of her grows larger. You hike up her dress. No panties. If only her husband knew what a slutty wife he has. The already familiar sight of Venus' pussy doesn't give you time to hesitate. You quickly push inside. That familiar warmth closes down around your length immediately. Reaching forward, you take a hold of both of her naked shoulders. The way she is leaning over the balustrade probably enables everyone in the arena to look deep into her cleavage.

But she doesn't seem to care. Venus' moans are just as loud as Freya's as you start to fuck her as well. You can tell how much wetter she is. Her juices practically coating your cock.

"That's right. I promised you. You own my body tonight."

You groan in response. The urge to lean down and give her exposed back a bite is unusually strong. But you focus on fucking her harder. Her pussy basically asking for it. Her tight walls squeezing you, her juices making sure your thrusts are smooth.

Eventually, you make the mistake of looking to your left. Freya is still standing there, elbows on the balustrade, as she bites a nail while she watches. You can tell that she wants more. It takes you a while to muster enough self control, but then you manage to pull out of Venus. She gasps in surprise.

But before she can even turn her head, you already bury yourself inside Freya's tight and waiting cunt.

That's how you fuck them both for quite a while. You actually last way longer than you thought you would. The constant switching from one woman to the other gives you always a couple of seconds to breathe. After a while, the two of them learn how to live with it and sharing you becomes visibly easier.

You're fucking Venus right now, while Freya has moved a little closer, so you can finger her at the same time. You can't even count anymore how often you switched between them. But when you deliver one unusual deep thrust into Venus, you're suddenly very aware that you probably won't be able to switch again.

Your strength is starting to leave you as well. Freya seems to have noticed.

"You're gonna give us your cum now, right? Dump your load into our pussies, after you used them like you wanted to."

Her words don't slow your approaching orgasm down at all.

"Oh, yes. Fill me up."

Venus sighs as she feels your cock throbbing inside of her. You reach out to Freya, moving her closer. The two of them are now side by side, their asses touching. You try to count your thrusts, but it's in vein.

When you cum, you bite your lip in pleasure. Venus' pussy almost traps you inside of her as you shoot two streaks of cum inside. But after a short struggle, you finally manage to pull out. One long streak hits both their asses, before you're able to push into Freya one last time.

"Fuck, yes."

She sighs loudly as she feels your cum rush into her body.

The three of you are all out of breath and you almost collapse on top of Freya.

"You still haven't answered my question."

You look over to Venus. Her ass is covered in cum and you see how a long trail of it is already running down her right leg.

"How would you like me tonight?"

You think hard about this. You might never be able to see her again after tonight. Who knows where she is gonna be tomorrow.

"I want you to wear nothing, but two things."

She raises an eyebrow in question, a cheeky smile on her lips.

"Heels and a choker."

Freya lets out a chuckle.

Venus gets off the balustrade. You notice how her arms are a little red. She kisses you again, while you're still inside the other woman.

"I'll be there at 10."

[bbyjackie]

𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐙𝐎𝐑𝐎'𝐒 𝐆𝐅 — ♡

one piece social media + dating pt. 2 feat: zoro

♡ liked by ilovecottoncandychopper, S0U1K1NGBR00K and 6.5k others

_ynln: who are you where do you live how old are you why are you so fine how do you like your eggs cooked in the morning?

tagged: theroronoa.zoro

theroronoa.zoro: sorry i have a girlfriend

↳ _ynln: damn, not even one chance? 😔😔

↳ theroronoa.zoro: nah (liked by p1rateking_luffy)

sogekingg.usopp: is your boyfriend single (liked by p1rateking_luffy)

↳ _ynln: USOPP WTAF 😭

↳ _ynln: stop trying to steal my man, get your own bro

↳ sogeking.usopp: now i don't support homewrecking, but.. ☝️😋

↳ _ynln: BUT????

blackleg.sanji: PLEASE YN PLEASE GIVE ME A CHANCE 🧎🏼‍♂️🧎🏼‍♂️

↳ _ynln: no

lovenami: WHERE ARE YOU GUYS?!?

↳ lovenami: WE WERE MEANT TO MEET UP TWO HOURS AGO WHERE TF ARE YOU

↳ _ynln: SORRY NAMI IDK EITHER ZORO DRAGGED US SOMEWHERE AND WE GOT LOST 😭

♡ liked by FRAAANKY, trafalgar_d.law and 9.8k others

theroronoa.zoro: zoro. thousand sunny. 21. my gf invented me. like my eggs however yn likes them.

tagged: _ynln

jinbe: Very cute post (liked by nicorobin)

lovenami: anyone wanna jump off the ship w me?

↳ ace: yes 😁

blackleg.sanji: MY BEAUTIFUL GODDESS YN 💗💞💕💝❤️‍🔥

blackleg.sanji: I WILL DEDICATE MY LIFE TO YOU

_ynln: ZORO QWDHBIVEFBQOBJ

_ynln: i love u sm??

↳ theroronoa.zoro: apparently you don't cause why is there question marks

↳ _ynln: GEEZ OKAY I LOVE U 😭 (liked by theroronoa.zoro)

CAPTAIN.KIIIID: i hope y'all break up

↳ _ynln: DAMN KID WTF WHO HURT YOU

♡ liked by theroronoa.zoro, p1rateking_luffy and 10.3k others

_ynln: drinks on?

tagged: lovenami

lovenami: drinks were on that random guy at the club 😇😇

↳ blackleg.sanji: @theroronoa.zoro HOW DARE YOU NOT PROTECT THEM FROM CREEPS 🫵

↳ theroronoa.zoro: he was supplying all of us with drinks why would i chase the guy away

↳ lovenami: real, i wasn't gonna pay 400 berries for a pint 🥱

blackleg.sanji: THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMEN IN THE WORLD IN ONE PHOTO?? 😍😍😘

blackleg.sanji: what did i ever do to deserve this 😩😩‼️

S0U1K1NGBR00K: May I see your panties?

↳ _ynln: absolutely not thanks (liked by lovenami, theroronoa.zoro)

p1rateking_luffy: LAST NIGHT WAS SO FUN 😄😄

p1rateking_luffy: THANKS FOR BUYING ME FOOD 💗

↳ _ynln: luffy wait what i didn't buy you anything?

↳ _ynln: OMFG DID YOU JUST DINE AND DASH???

♡ liked by _ynln, nicorobin and 17 others

[close friends]

theroronoa.zoro: nice 👍

blackleg.sanji: I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU FOR THIS

blackleg.sanji: I AM SO JEALOUS

_ynln: best nap ever (liked by theroronoa.zoro)

p1rateking_luffy: I wanted to play tag but you guys were sleeping?

ilovecottoncandychopper: Yn looks like she gives good hugs! (liked by theroronoa.zoro)

↳ _ynln: CHOPPER GIVE ME HUGS ANYTIME ❣️❣️

sogeking.usopp: get this off my timeline right NOW 🫵

↳ _ynln: WHY ARE YOU GUYS SUCH HATERS 😭😭

[maplesyrupsainz]

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙opposites attract | CL16˖⁺｡˚⋆˙

pairing: charles leclerc x tattoo artist!reader y/n (she/her) x alexandra saint mleux

genre: social media au, polyamory

warnings: polyamory, some sexual innuendo

summary: in which no one actually believes your new partners could actually like you

a/n: LOVE this request i jus chose charles & alex coz i figured they r both sweet and tattooless LOL they dnt rly match y/n vibe hehe i luv it tysmmm

request!!!: reader is a tattoo artist of at least heavily tattooed. I’m talking big tattoos all over her body. I imagine that no one believes they could be together let alone be friends because it’s someone you totally wouldn’t expect to be with a driver and his girlfriend? I’m open for any driver x wag pair :))

my masterlist

fc: aussiedomxo on ig

twitter ->

instagram ->

yourusername 📍 monaco

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, yourbff, and others

yourusername so much fun in monaco this week – got to do some super cool tattoos among other things!

view all comments

user1 alex in the likes

user2 why would they be friends 💀

user3 we dont know them lol. be srs rn

user4 she's so cool

yourbff sooo cool

yourusername ilysm

user5 who's the man lol

user6 who is she???

user7 tattoo artist who's been seen out with alex

user8 who cares bro 😂

user9 idk ppl r so dramatic and nosy lol

alexandrasaintmleux me next! 🙋‍♀️

yourusername i could never mark that glorious skin of yours

alexandrasaintmleux not what you were saying last night .......

charles_leclerc 😂😂😂

user10 urmmm WHAT

user11 excuse me lol

twitter ->

instagram ->

f1wagupdates

liked by user12, yourusername, and others

f1wagupdates (your nationality) tattoo artist y/n y/l/n was spotted driving one of charles leclerc's cars this weekend in italy, following rumours of her newfound "friendship" with him and his girlfriend, alexandra saint mleux

tagged: yourusername

view all comments

user18 stop it hahahaha

user19 is this some elaborate prank

user20 not y/n liking this post lol

user21 i kind of love her

user22 threesome alert threesome alert

user23 our unbothered queen y/n

yourbff she looks good in red

liked by yourusername, alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc and others

user24 omg hello????!???!

yourusername posted a story

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc, and others

user25 there's no way charles & alex like u covered in all that 💀

alexandrasaintmleux wow

yourusername i am not worthy of you

charles_leclerc my love 😻

yourusername meow

charles_leclerc oh stop it you

user26 me when i love women

user27 wow the tats r so cool

user28 charles & alex have rich prince and princess vibes & then there's y/n

user29 trashy tbh

alexandrasaintmleux posted a story

liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername, and others

charles_leclerc wow look at her 😻

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

francisca.cgomes love her!! bring her to a raceeee

alexandrasaintmleux all in good time 🤓

user30 omg y/n again??

user31 why are u always with her now

user32 where's charles!!!

user33 this pairing makes no sense

charles_leclerc

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, yourusername, and others

charles_leclerc home life lately

view all comments

user34 AHHHHH stop it

user35 omg wait what?

user36 WAS THREESOME ALERT THREESOME ALERT REAL???

user37 YESSSS F1 POLYAMORY

user38 maybe they're just friends??? everyone always wants ppl to be dating

user39 be fr...

alexandrasaintmleux our tattooed goddess 💘

charles_leclerc she is so majestic!

alexandrasaintmleux unbelievably beautiful

charles_leclerc oh, i believe it 😌

yourusername GUYS. stop it im blushing

user40 AHH NO WAYY

user41 where are the charlesalexyn deniers now

user42 omgg they are so mismatched but in the best ways possible

user43 i can't believe it's real omg

user44 literally i didnt believe it at first

yourusername im so lucky to know you guys! you know what they say, opposites attract 😉

charles_leclerc forever and always ❤️

alexandrasaintmleux our missing piece 🧩

THE END ❤️

[quarterlifekitty]

I'm begging with all the devotion I can muster PLEASSEEEEEE write part two for the goddess reader its such a unique creative concept that was written so well for being so short the people NEED it thank you for your service 🙏🏽

here's a little something something. Also, not really a content warning, but I feel the need to mention: I write intimacy/romance like a freak

cw: non-graphic sexual intimacy, mentioned death of a child

You can only appear to your devoted one through significant offerings. Trapped in the realm of the gods, you are powerless for as long as you lay forgotten by mankind. You tell König that his love is what gives you power.

His usual gifts to you are fruits and jewelry. At the end of his battles, he collects the gear of the fallen– armor, weapons, shields– and has it all melted down. He commissions the best craftsmen to create delicate chains, cameos in your image, beautiful bangles engraved with processions of animals. Rabbits are his favorite to adorn your altar with– representing luck, quickness, numbers… fertility.

His favorite piece for you is a hair pin. He had it made from the guard of a sword he pulled from some foreign noble– embedded with small jewels and molded leaves. He loves to see it glitter in the light as you turn to see him with that inspiring smile when he comes to visit.

Your temple features an impluvium– a tiled pool for catching rainwater. It’s purified from your influence, he’s drank from it many times. And one day, he sees your stolla neatly draped on your pedestal. Gold and silver are the only things decorating your ample form as you relax in the cool water, beckoning him forth like a nymph. He’s never shed his things more quickly.

He’s had women before. Paid women. Women whose time had a price– who wanted him to take what he wanted and leave quickly. He’s an efficient man, and it was never a problem for him, he understood that there was no room for true intimacy in a brothel.

You treat König to something so different it’s almost antithetical. It’s tantric, cool and warm at the same time, as many square inches of your skin pressed to his as possible. You are entwined. He could swear his flesh feels wedded to yours. To part from you would be death– to be alone in his own body.

The last time a person’s touch made him feel beautiful, he was a boy holding the hand of a girl, the young daughter of the man who owned the farm his family worked on. They were children when she died. He has felt robbed, alone, and abandoned ever since. You crack him open by the sternum and climb in between his ribs the same way that she once did. He would die for you and fight his way back from the underworld to die for you again.

[quandledlngle69]

･ﾟ★ HOW THE BLUE!LOCK BOYS MET YOU .ᐟ PART I.

☆ CONTENT: How the Blue lock characters met you and how they act after you get into a relationship + Different aesthetics I think suit the blue lock characters and the aesthetics and looks their partner would have. ☆ GENRE/THEMES/WARNING: mentions of Bachira being bullied, kaiser being a dick like always, all readers in this fic are black women! ☆ PAIRING: Reo!Mikage, Michael!Kaiser, Itoshi!Sae, Itoshi!Rin, Meguru!Bachira x Black!femreader. ☆ W.C. 3.4K ☆ NOTE: Sorry if this is seems rushed lmfao it kinda felt like it, also i am currently attempting to write for the other characters on my page as this is going to be a two part thing, enjoy.ᐟ

Itoshi Sae – TROPICAL GODDESS – Oh Qué Será?, Willie Colón.

After a particularly heavy and busy season of his football career, Sae takes himself to the summer beaches of Puerto Rico. He scrolls on his phone, his feed mostly full of other footballers and professionally taken sightseeing views. Until he stops on your post. 

You're posing on a bar stool, the photo clearly had been asked to be taken by the bartender in front of you. Your palm holding up your cheek, eyes dreamily squinted closed as if you were enjoying the warmth of the sun on your back. The orange light reflected on your dark skin, making you look as radiant as a dancing sunflower. Your crochet bikini looked hand made, and the many pieces of gold jewellery overlapping on your neck and fingers only tied the whole aesthetic you had. A bright sunshine yellow hibiscus flower was planted snuggly in the ebony waves that cascaded down your back, like a fierce lion's mane.

Your smile was so cheeky–like you were having the time of your life. It made Sae breathless. He had been approached by many women of different walks of life: actresses, models, born wealthy, generally famous, and yet the more he dissected your single post with his sharp teal eyes, the more his lungs felt squeezed. You know what made him even more breathless? The fact that he recognized the outside bar. 

Because he was a few feet away from it. And you know what's even funnier? 

You're sitting on the same bar stool, in the same outfit, sipping the pina colada he saw in the corner of the picture. And as you turn your head, your penetrating gaze left him frozen in his place in the hot sand.

Itoshi Sae is not one to approach anyone, let alone a beautiful woman like you.

But maybe he’ll bend his own rules, this once.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★

When you and Sae finally get together, you’ll notice he never looks at anyone how he looks at you. His indifference fades, and his cold eyes soften every time you talk or gaze at him. To him, you're a goddess, and don’t be surprised when you catch him staring at you, or when you're snuggled under the covers, and the rough pads of his fingertips are ever so gentle tracing every feature on your face like he’s committing it to memory. He’ll drop everything for you, it doesn’t matter where he is. Training? An interview? A Match? In a different country? None of those factors matter when it comes to you. You're his ride or die, and he proves that everytime without fail. He travels with you every time a season ends, and every new location posted has a blurry figure in the back, or a hand on your thigh or waist. People started getting suspicious when they could recognise the bracelets in the pictures were identical to the ones Sae wore in his matches. The suspicion turned into concrete proof when you had the mistake of posting a selfie Sae took with sunglasses on.

You kinda forgot the fact you could see his whole reflection in the shades.

Reo Mikage – LAW STUDENT/ACADEMIC RIVALS – Obsessed, Mariah Carey.

From elementary to highschool, Reo had always been at the top of his class, the ‘well liked class president’. Coming home with anything less than an A was unacceptable, especially with the weight on his shoulders of inheriting his fathers company. So when he was finally accepted into a prestigious school like Harvard, he was more than giddy.

He also wasn't silly, and recognised that it would be extremely competitive. The job demand for lawyers and judges was no joke.

Yet when he was told it would be competitive, he didn’t sign up for the frustration, annoyance and jealousy bundled and wrapped just for him, all from one person. Because although he was top of his class, there was one person who he butted heads with.

You.

You, who sat in the lecture hall a few rows in front of him on the far left, you who had the most perfect side parted honey–blonde bob he’s ever seen. You, who pushes your oval glasses up every ten minutes when it slides down your nose. You, who comes to the lecture five minutes early routinely. You, who was continuously handed A pluses like it was child's play. You, who consecutively has a routine of fixing your lips after class is dismissed: Charlotte Tilbury lip liner, followed by NYX butter gloss, then clear lip gloss on top of it.

Did he learn that against his will? …no, but your very distracting–

The first real interaction was when you were both voted as tied class presidents. At the end of class, you were both called up to the front by your professor, and for the first time, he had your undivided attention. And it was exactly what he was expecting– a stare that was calculating, studious of him. He was used to this from his fathers businesses partners, or other important high status people–but coming from you? It made him weak, almost like a little boy with a crush.

And god–was that your perfume? It was more pleasant than any of his expensive colognes at home. It was like a warm sugar vanilla, a fresh bakery. And– wait, when did you get that close? You were an arms length away, hands clasped together politely in front of you.

“It’s pleasant to finally talk to you, Reo right?”

You already knew his name. Is it strange to say it's satisfying hearing his name fall from your lips?

You're more gorgeous up close than he could imagine, and your outstretched palm is warm as he gently grasps it for a handshake, your manicured nails fresh. You smile at him, and he swears it's like watching someone hang up the moon and stars in the sky. Reo knows he gets everything in life–but can he be selfish this once and ask for you?

｡･:*:･ﾟ★

When you guys get together, just know Reo will not let you pay for anything. He would rather die than let your card be swiped at a five–star restaurant, or pay for your own nails, hair, or makeup. And do not tell this man you're going shopping, he’ll raise his eyebrow to ask if, ‘you're missing something’ and to your confused look, he’ll drop his platinum black card in your hands without a word and walk off. He will be kicking his feet every time you get your hair done. Oh you got a different length? Let him touch it. A different colour? Send him a pic as soon as it's done. You got the same colour as his hair? He’s basically yours for life and you're never getting rid of him. He manages to spoil you more than your stereotypical bald dad–and just that manages to gain your fathers approval of Reo.

Meguru Bachira – THE ART STUDENT – Is This Love, Bob Marley.

Bachira first met you because his mother encouraged him to take afterschool art classes in highschool. This year had been poor, and besides his football teammates being barely his acquaintances, he had no friends of his own. He wasn’t expecting much out of it, but at least it sounded therapeutic.

He had walked into the room, immediately being hit with a sweet, gentle floral perfume, and the lingering scent of herbal medicine behind it. The corners of the classroom were covered in green, various plants that seemed to be thriving laying around.

The chairs and desk were purposely shifted into the corner to make room for everything else. The largest window wide open, the breeze coming and going as it pleases, the brown transparent curtains gently flailing around. You were sitting on a little stool in front of a large canvas that's half–painted by your hands. He stood there, just..watching quietly, you didn't even notice his presence from how deep in concentration you were. Your odd patterned ankle skirt swayed gently from the wind of the open window, your gold chain belt drooping off your hip, your off the shoulder striped sweater muddled with different colours of paint. Your butterfly locs were up in a high bun, out of your face as you worked. The sun shone brightly through the window, perfectly lighting up your portrait. You yourself quietly hummed to the melody of the reggae song on the radio, dipping your brush back into the water and mixing it back and forth, the sound of sloshing water filling the air.

When the door behind him shut rather loudly–it finally got your attention as you looked up, surprised, but a shy beam of a smile on your face, the twinkle in your eyes made his heart stutter a little.

“Hello, you must be Meguru, right? I heard you wanted to join the art club.” You chirped, putting your paint brush down. “I'm happy, oh–and I'm the co–founder of this club! It’s nice to meet you!”

He was barely paying attention to your words, just nodding along as he stared at your form getting closer, the floral scent he had been smelling in the background getting stronger.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★

It took a while, but when he finally got the courage to ask you out, you had said yes, and he was dumbfounded. He didn’t have any friends, so having a girlfriend? It wasn’t something he ever imagined. One of the things that you love about Bachira is how observant he is. You had complained to him once that your favourite foundation ran out, and you searched for weeks but couldn’t find another one in your shade. Bachira, being the amazing one he is, had an exceptional talent beside football and that was remembering colour theory. He only had to look at the colour once, before he made the perfect shade match. So when he comes over to yours with a bottle of a warm copper foundation, you were sceptical at first, until you did a swatch on your face, and you were delightfully surprised it was a flawless match. 

You definitely spoiled him with kisses for this.

Your days are filled with a child–like silliness and laughter purer than anything on earth. His mother loves you–and that's just a fact. You also realise he’s extremely messy, and he gets paint everywhere– how does one get paint behind their ears? You show him a whole other world, one where he doesn’t have to be lonely. He truly appreciates you, and the weekends he spends at your house–why didn’t you tell him you had a hammock in the middle of your room?!

You spend many afternoons inside the sun–filled space, slow music playing in the back while he splayed on top of you in the hammock, dozing off, cheek to your chest as you scratched his back. And you may be like a dancing mushroom, but it would be a mistake to anyone wanting to bully Bachira in your presence. You wouldn’t be physical, neither verbally abusive, but you would break someone down with your words. Someone's bullying Bachira because he’s ‘weird’? You will and definitely go onto a whole rant about how that person's self–projecting, making them rethink their actions for the next ten years, and his heart swells a little more every time you defend him.

Itoshi Rin – TENNIS PLAYER – Black Beauty, Lana Del Ray.

Rin had heard of you before. The girl who had come from nowhere, climbing up the ranks of tennis with one dominating win at a time. He had watched one of your plays once when you came up on TV. You were a beast on the court, leaving your opponent in complete despair, crushing their massive egos with an indifference he was familiar with. Your colour palette was also neural; black, white and grey, whether you were on the court or not. You had such a clean look to you. Bare faced, the only ‘makeup’ product you used was the aloe chapstick kept in your skirt pocket, your hair was always slicked back into that high barbie ponytail. Even your nails–a plain nude almond.

Perhaps he didn’t want to admit these details of you stuck in his brain because he hadn’t stopped watching you since he first saw you on the big screen. He’d rather die than admit to anyone that ever since he saw you on TV, he’d been collecting little subtle merchandise. 

Maybe there's a poster of you in his room. But no one needs to know that.

So when he finally made it to the world cup a few months later and he was up with the big dogs, it was hard to calm his racing heart when he was sat next to the tennis team; who were there to fill in the halftime with a quick little match. And maybe the gods were blessing him this once. Because it was you he was sitting next to.

You barely glanced at him as he sat down, (which he was honestly grateful for) wired earbuds in your ears, steely analysing the field. To him, you seemed nonchalant.

Little does he know about the heat creeping up your neck and cheeks. What are the chances you sit next to the Itoshi Rin? You hope he doesn’t know how much of a fan you are. He probably doesn’t even know you. Oh you hope he doesn’t–there's been some unsightly images of you from the press during your matches–

He had noticed the way your leg started to bounce, as if you were anxious about something. 

You attempted to calm your rampant heart –get it together! He’s an athlete just like you! Would it be weird to ask for an autograph? No, it would be totally weird.

But before you could draw away from your decision, you let out a shaky breath, and with a straight–face, turned towards him. You swallowed thickly, aware he was already looking straight at you with those sharp teal irises.

His bottom lashes were even longer upclose.

“Your Itoshi Rin, right?” You address him miraculously without stuttering, your tone not too excited, but humble, not to seem displeasing. 

His voice comes out huffed, almost defensive enough to make you falter.

“Yeah, what's it to you?” You think he’s annoyed, but in reality he doesn’t know how to talk to pretty girls like you at all. You’ve got your attention on him, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, he internally cringes at his tone, hoping he didn’t come off as cold. He thinks he’s fumbling with the way you slightly shrink into yourself, but your next words completely take him off guard.

“Can I have your autograph?”

There was a beat of silence for a moment. 

You don’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn adorably pink as he mumbles what seems like an agreement under his breath.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★

When you guys finally get together, honestly it's a long struggle of who can last being the most nonchalant. Rin definitely cracks first. But when you guys finally warm up to each other, you notice Rin is very observant of your quirks, your likes and dislikes. He remembers you don't like mushrooms or olives, how your eyebrow arches when confused or in disbelief, and how you bounce the tennis ball four times exactly before you swing. It warms his cold heart that you're the same way, finding and grabbing any owl object you could find. Plushies, keychains, posters, shirts, anything, all from him mentioning once in a passing comment his favourite animal was an owl when you were snuggled on the couch watching a nature documentary.

Michael Kaiser – FASHION STYLIST – NISSAN ALTIMA, Doechii.

It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence that Micheal Kaiser and his team got a new fashion stylist for the upcoming season. His manager said something about switching it up a little every now and again–not like he cared to listen. It was their biggest sponsorship yet–one that had nothing to do with sports. 

We're talking about working with Vogue, Dior, Saint Laurent, Clavin Klein, etc. Top end brands that suited a high–profile person like Kaiser and the rest of his team. So when they finally stepped inside the studio that was preparing them for their photoshoot in a few hours, he was not amused that there was no one there. He was expecting a team there to greet them, or staff bustling around almost tripping over themselves to get supplies. Ness was the first to state Kaiser's thoughts out loud, and at that moment, you appeared behind the corner.

Kaiser could tell you was a no–nonsense person off the bat. You were dressed in your jorts and oversized jersey shirt, a staple of casual streetwear. Your nails were heavily designed, adorned with gems and charms that clinked with everything you touched. Your hair was like a map of constellations, each parted into the shape of a star, coiled into tight bantu knots – each twist gleaming under the unnatural white light.

When you introduced yourself as their stylist and makeup artist for the season, Kaiser sneered, asking you if you were doing this all on your own. It came out snobbish, almost degrading. The gum you were loudly chewing and popping in your mouth made his eye twitch. You arched your brow, staring at him over your dark shades. But you weren't phased by his attempt to jab at you, and bluntly confirmed that yes, you were doing it all on your own.

And maybe Kaiser prejudged you a little too hard, because for limited hours and a team of eleven players–you were three times more efficient than his German stylist team at home. You had started at twelve, and had everyone's makeup done by two o’clock, and by two–thirty, throwing clothes in his face at him to put on.

He doesn’t want to admit he was humming to the girly rappers on the mounted TV, or the fact he wanted to compliment you for getting the right shade for his red eyeliner. He had no weakness to poke at as you did your job well, and he didn’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed.

There's a confident vibe and aura you brung that made him curious about you.

You're leaning over him, subconsciously holding your breath, making sure his eyeliner is as straight as possible. Your face was screwed up with concentration, lips pursed and eyebrows knitted. His head draped back over the top of the chair, his prominent adam's apple bobbles with each swallow, and you could feel the blue tips of his hair ticking your forearm. He subtly breathes in your perfume, the orange blossom and trace of jasmine stapling itself to his memory.

Your eyes flickered up, noticing the slow curl of his lips, “You're quite efficient, Engelchen.” He murmured, his voice is soft despite its deepness, as if to not mess up your concentration.

You let out a faint hum in acknowledgement, “You learn in life that it’s better to take things in your own hands, that’s how you get things done more proficiently,”

Your words made him pause, and they sounded familiar in a way, similar to his own motto.

When you finally pulled the brush of the liner away, his blonde lashes fluttered to gaze up at you, his sapphire orbs glinted with an amused and self–righteous look, and you could feel your heart rate rapidly picking up, tensing under his stare. 

“You couldn’t be more correct.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★

When you finally get together, even though he doesn’t admit it, he falls first and harder. He treats you like a delicacy, and it's hard to get annoyed with him when he’s all over you, cooing at you with his pretty accent and pretty face. It's not uncommon for you to fight, (honestly you feed off each other's toxicity) but it’s unpredictable who puts who in their place. Anyone who meets the both of you, they always say there's an oozing aura of arrogance and confidence that's nauseating. You're like dogs fighting for dominance half the time. By the two months mark of first meeting you, Kaiser had already kicked the bucket of his last stylist team just to implement you into his busy and strict routine. Before you began as his personal stylist though, there were many moments where you had to separate him and Isagi in the studio when they started bickering with each other, dragging Kaiser four chairs down so there would be no way to interact with Isagi.

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

･ﾟ★ Credits for dividers.ᐟ @aquazero, @vysleix, @unknown-till.

[jarofstyles]

Moonflower

Hi my lovelies! I’ve got a Witch H x Witch Y/N piece for you guys!! I hope you’ve enjoyed the spookier stuff, this one is filthy and sweet with a magical vibe 🔮

Check our out Patreon for early access and 200+ exclusive writings

WC- 5.8k

Warnings- magic, rituals, witch stuff, potions that effect arousal and that sort of thing, unprotected sex, spit play if you squint, soul ties, etc

She caught his eye across the fire.

He hung back at the tree line, as most of the men did. The dance dedicated to the moon goddess, Divine Feminine, was performed only by the women in the coven, but the full moon circle ritual was open to all. She should have known he would come crawling out of the shadows eventually.

Her heartbeat was thudding harder in her chest after finding the confirmation he was there. The relationship she shared with Harry had always been a complex one, but it was one she cherished nonetheless.

He tended to stick in his cottage with his books, his spells, the incantations muttered by his deep, raspy voice. A bit of a loner, he was, but a valuable asset to them all. While he wasn’t much for group activities, he was very active in the one-on-one space. specifically seeking Y/N out for potions, practicing with her and somehow finding his way between her thighs. She found herself waiting for those moments, eating them up each and every time. It seemed to get more frequent lately- not that she was complaining.

Harry made her nervous in a good way. He challenged her, made her a better witch. But he was a little hard to read at times. She wasn’t sure where she stood or what their relationship was. All the witch knew was that he had been seeking her out more often, finding his way to get his hands on her and excuses to talk to her whenever he could and she loved every little bit.

His eyes felt hotter than the flames licking the air, the music slowing as the sparks spit up into the sky. The offering was burning in the pit, and she could feel the magic in the air. It was only natural with a bunch of magically incline folks around.

That, and the fact that the women were all fully nude, and the heat of the fire could be felt on bare skin.

As the ritual came to an end, she ignored the feeling of his eyes on her- and the giddiness it was sending towards her stomach- as she stepped back towards her velvet ritual robe. He’d approach her. She could feel it.

Harry’s footsteps would have been almost silent if it hadn’t been for the crisp leaves on the ground for the season. It gave her a chance to know he was coming, though he knew she was aware his eyes were watching as she wrapped the velvet robe around her, the fabric soft and warm against her skin- though not as warm as it should be. His gaze lingered on the way the fabric draped over her curves, the way it pooled at her feet. He could almost smell the scent of her, the mix of chamomile, jasmine and something sweeter, more unique to her alone as he trailed closer to her.

The same song and dance, but it didn’t get old. Not to him. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, holding her gaze for a long moment before he stepped out of the shadows. "Y/N.”

“Harry.” The girl replied, tugging her hair over her shoulder, out from under the robe. The moon lit him from behind, the fire from the front. While people could call him a bit odd, perhaps a bit unfriendly, they couldn’t call him anything but handsome. The man was gorgeous, almost unfairly so. Sometimes she wondered if it was possible he had put an incantation on himself to appeal to her deepest rooted desires in attraction, but it wasn’t possible. At least from her knowledge. It wasn’t a love spell either, because the obsession wasn’t there- but the curiosity was. It always lingered.

Seemingly on both ends.

“I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” She tied the belt around the robe, crossing her arms over her chest. “You didn’t tell me when I went to borrow your book yesterday.”

"Didn't think it was necessary," Harry replied, his voice as smooth and dark as honey dripping off a spoon. He took a step closer to her, the fire casting the most alluring glow on her face. He could see the pulse at the base of her neck quickening, and he knew she wasn't as immune to him as she tried to portray. "Besides, I knew you'd be here. You always are."

“Well, it’s the most important ritual of the year for the women.” She gave him a look. “But you tend to avoid the more social situations. It’s like flipping a coin.” People did sometimes place bets but he didn’t need to know that. “Am I the reason you decided to haul yourself out of your little lair, then?”

Harry chuckled, the sound low and husky, sending a shiver through her despite her best efforts to subdue the reaction. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her skin. "Partially," he admitted, his gaze sticking to hers. "But mostly, I just wanted to see you dancing tonight." He stepped closer, his face inches from hers. "You look absolutely divine in the moonlight like that, Y/N."

Seeing her nude, free, moving around so passionately was beautiful. It was something he wanted to see again. She could be a goddess herself if she wanted to be. Sometimes he was highly aware she underestimated her beauty and her power, but this was one of the most glaring moments.

“You’ve seen me naked quite a few times.” She muttered, voice quiet as she raised a brow at him. If he felt the heat on her face she would blame the fire, or the dancing, but it was definitely from him. Y/N was rarely, if ever, flustered by a man- but he managed to be one of the only ones who had her feeling all out of sorts and blushy. “I’ll take it as a compliment, though. There were plenty of naked women here tonight. I’m sure you enjoyed it.”

Harry's lips curled into a smirk at her words, his eyes glinting with mischief and something darker, more primal. "But none of them are you." The witch murmured, his voice soft and intent. He reached out, his fingers trailing down her arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "I may have seen you naked before, but it never fails to take my breath away."

“Harry.” She warned softly, turning to the side. It was an open secret, really. People sort of knew that she and Harry fucked, considering she wasn’t able to be quiet when he did, but tonight was different. Tonight was a ritual night, and traditional rules didn’t go.

She knew what he was doing.

“If you wanted to fuck me tonight, you can just say that.” Soon, the forest would be filled with the sounds of pleasure. The people who wanted to go home would disperse and the others would strengthen their bond to the moon, elevating their power through their sexual energy.

Harry's eyes flashed with heat at her blunt words, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Oh, I want to do more than just fuck you tonight, Y/N," he said, his voice a dark purr. He pressed against her , one hand coming to rest on her hip as the other slid up to wrap around her throat, not squeezing, just...there. "I want to worship every inch of your body under the moonlight. But I meant what I said. Not tryin’ t’soften you up.”

Yes. He didn’t want anyone else to do this with Y/N. He wanted her.

“I have to ask, though… Did you bring any of that fun stuff we tried out last month with you?”

Y/N’s body felt a new level of warmth as he pulled her into his body, letting her head fall back to look at him. She knew exactly what he was talking about- and she did.

Realistically, she knew he was going to do this. She hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up, but this was the outcome she’d wanted. Packing the two pink vials into her robe pocket, she’d tried to manifest him showing up so he could be the one to take the potion with her and experience the pleasure she had put into it.

They’d played with it a few times, when she needed to experiment with it. The first time being before she sold it off, she needed to test the batch and… well, Harry was available, and it had been the start to their little arrangement.

“I do have it.” She pulled the vials out of her pocket, letting them clank in her palm. “Is that what you want to take tonight?”

Harry's eyes locked onto the vials, a predatory gleam appearing in their depths. He licked his lips slowly, deliberately. "Mmmm, you read my mind, gorgeous. S’almost like you knew I’d be here for you." His hand slid from her throat to tangle in her hair, tugging her head back further. "I thought you'd never ask." He plucked one of the vials from her palm, holding it up to the moonlight. “Open.”

With a wicked grin, Harry unstoppered the vial and brought it to her lips. Y/N parted her lips, and he slowly tipped the vial, pouring the shimmering, pink-hued potion into her mouth. A few drops spilled over, trailing down her chin and neck, glinting in the moonlight. "Swallow for me, Goddess. Take it down."

She tilted her head back further, her throat working as she swallowed the potion. Harry's eyes were riveted to the movement, his voice growing hoarse. "That's it, almost done with it. You take it so well. Open up for me again." He brought the vial back to her lips, repeating the motion until the vial was empty, the last few drops spilling over her chin and onto her bare breasts.

He tossed the empty vial aside, his focus solely on Y/N. His touch gentled, his fingers trailing down her neck and collarbone, smearing the spilled potion across her skin, letting the residual warm her and spread the sparkle over the expanse for him to lick up later. "You're gonna get messier before this night is over."

Harry took the second vial, his eyes never leaving hers. He brought it to his own lips, tilting his head back and draining it in one long pull. As he swallowed the last drop, a shudder ran through him, his pupils dilating with the rush. "Fuck, that's...intense." He licked his lips, tasting the lingering sweetness. "I can feel it already. My senses are heightened." His head tilted as he looked at her curiously. “Y’did some work on it and didn’t consult me? What a shame.” He clicked his tongue, taking hold of her hand, walking them further back into the trees. “C’mon.”

As they walked, Harry's hand tightened around hers, his grip firm as he squeezed their palms together. Pulling her along, his steps grew surer with each one as the potion took full effect, warming his blood further. The spot he led her to was somewhat secluded, the trees dense around them, moon filtering through the canopy above to cast dappled light upon their faces. He turned to her, his eyes gleaming with desire that had been heightened. The sounds of pleasure had already started out in the other parts of the forest, but he was focused on her as he muttered under his breath. She couldn’t quite make out what he said, but realized quickly as the long grass weaved together out of the thin air that he had cast an enchantment to make the ground softer for them.

Harry turned to face her fully, his expression one of raw, unbridled lust. The potion had ignited his desire to a fever pitch, but the full moon always did have an effect to elevate all emotions. "I can smell your arousal, feel the heat coming off your skin." He stepped closer, backing her up until her back hit a broad tree trunk. His hands found her hips, gripping them over the soft velvet as he pressed his body flush against hers. "I'm going to worship every inch of you tonight, little goddess."

Y/N's breath hitched as her back met the tree, her head tilting back to look up at him. Her body hummed with anticipation, the potion's effects already coursing through her too. Her own desire was amplified, her heart pounding in her chest. Her breath was coming in quick, shallow pants, breasts heaving against his chest. A soft moan escaped her as she squirmed against him, her hands reaching up to grip his broad shoulders.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her nails scraping against the skin as she held on for dear life as his pillowy lips pressed sloppy kisses down the expanse of her throat. The simplest action made her stomach churn in the best way, eyes fluttering shut as the tiniest wet drag of his tongue under her jaw had her keening. With a sigh, her head fell back against the tree trunk, the rough bark pressing into her scalp as she arched her back, pressing her breasts against his chest. a started squeak left her as he lifted her with no warning, but held no hesitation with legs wrapping around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back as she tried to pull him even closer. Her mouth hung open, soft gasps and moans escaping in between desperate little pants.

Harry groaned against her throat, the vibrations rumbling through her as he licked a hot stripe up to her ear. "You taste divine. So fucking good." he growled, nipping at the lobe. His hands slid down to grip her thighs, squeezing the supple flesh as he ground his hips against hers. The heat of his arousal pressed insistently against her core, even through the fabric of his trousers. "It’s time to get this robe off. I want to see this beautiful skin in the moonlight, just for myself.”

With a flick of his wrist, the sash of her robe loosened, the fabric gaping open to reveal the curve of her breasts. A guttural groan left him as he pushed the garment off her shoulders, the material pooling at her waist where her legs were wrapped around him. His head ducked down, his mouth finding her breast, drawing her peaked bud between his lips. He sucked hard, pulling a cry from her.

The potion was a heating crescendo in his veins, every beat of his heart a pounding drum as it coursed through him. Every touch, every scent, every sound was magnified tenfold. The feel of her thighs wrapped around him was an exquisite torture, his body burning to be inside her. His skin was flushed, his breaths coming in deep, heavy inhalations as he tried to draw in more of her breast into his mouth.

His hands trembled as they roamed over her body, fingers digging into her possessively. The potency of the potion had his control slipping, his actions becoming more urgent, more demanding. Hips bucked against her, the hard ridge of his cock pressing against her core through his trousers. He growled against her skin, the sound primal as he fought to maintain his composure. "You're drivin’ me mad.” The husky groan was deep in his throat as fingertips ran up her thigh. Any chill from the night was forgotten as the magic in their veins warmed their blood, the sole focus being on exactly what was poured into the mixture- pleasure.

He took his time with her, his movements languid and deliberate. His hands caressed her skin like she was a precious artifact, thumbs brushing over her ribs before sliding up to cup her breasts. His mouth followed suit, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against her flesh, tongue lapping at her like she was the finest fruit he could have picked off the trees in her carefully cultivated yard.

Plucking her from the tree, he gently set her down in the plush grass bed he had conjured so he could worship her slowly, starting at her ankles. He kissed each one, then ran his fingers along her calves, behind her knees, up her thighs. He nuzzled the soft flesh of her belly, his hands skimming her hips and waist. He pressed his face between her breasts, inhaling deeply before placing a kiss to each one. “I’ve been waiting all month for this.” He admitted shamelessly, licking between her tits up towards her neck. The shiver ran through her body as he suckled on the skin at the center of her throat, making her breath hitch. “I think it’s time.”

Y/N felt like she was on fire, every nerve ending lit as his tongue ran over her skin. Her skin tingled every place he touched her, and even where he hadn't, as if his presence alone was enough to set her aflame. Her heart raced in her chest, fluttering like a bird in a cage as his hands and mouth roamed over her body. She could feel the heat pooling between her thighs, her core throbbing with a need that was almost painful. “Harry.” She breathed, fingers finding his hair. “You know better than to tease me this much when we’ve taken a vial…”

His chuckle against her neck was warm and low, the vibrations making her squirm. "I know, little goddess." He murmured, voice sultry. Green eyes darkened as he gazed at her. "But I wanted to savor you." To emphasize his point, he took his time again, trailing kisses down her collarbone, between her breasts, down her soft belly until he was kneeling between her thighs. “Is that so wrong?”

His fingers gently parted her, gaze fixed on her face as he slowly leaned down to taste her. She gasped, back arching as his hot mouth closed over her. His hands gripped her thighs, keeping them spread wide as he devoured her like a man starved. The magic had taken full effect, the only thing on their minds being what could get them closer, what could concoct the most pleasure. He was hungry for it, for her as he spread her open for him, letting the moonlight shadow his features as he looked up at her. The heat of his mouth was overwhelming, and she fisted her hands in his hair, hips bucking against his face. "Harry, do not tease me..." She growled. “You know what I like.”

“Shush, Goddess. I take care of you each time. I don’t want to hear your tongue unless it’s moaning or singing my name.” Dark eyes shot her a look of promise. Harry would take care of her. He always did.

His tongue delved deeper, flicking against her clit as he sucked gently. Adding a finger, he curled it to rub against that special spot inside her as he continued to lap at her pussy. The whine that left her throat was a reward, a pulse in his trousers as he stroked over it. The other hand came up to pinch her nipple, rolling it between his fingers as he worked her open with his mouth. The sound of his eating, the wet slurping noises, filled the night air as he feasted on her.

Her head fell back, a guttural moan escaping her lips as his fingers and tongue worked in tandem to drive her wild. Her hips undulated against his face, seeking more of that delicious friction. One hand fisted in his hair, holding him against her as if afraid he'd stop. The other tangled her fingers in the weaved grass, knuckles pale with how hard she was gripping. "Yes, right there..." She whimpered, thighs trembling around his head. “Your tongue is so good, your fingers- keep fucking me like that, Harry.”

He growled against her, the vibrations making her see stars along with the bright moon in the sky above her as he doubled his efforts. Two fingers pumped in and out of her slick hole, curling to hit that spot inside her. His tongue flicked rapidly over her clit, alternating between broad licks and soft suckling. The hand on her breast slid up to wrap around her throat, squeezing lightly. It was just enough pressure to make her feel owned, possessed by the man between her legs.

He pulled back, staring at her. His green eyes glinted hungrily in the dim moonlight, the mix of spit and her glistening on his chin. “I forgot about how much of a mess you make, little Goddess. I think we should add some more, no?” Harry rasped, pursing his lips to spit right over her cunt. The glob of saliva hit her swollen folds and slid downwards, causing her to shiver as she keened, the hand in his head pushing him towards her again. Leaning back down, his tongue lapped at her, spreading the mess as his digits pumped in and out.

His fingers crooked just right inside her, stroking along that sensitive bundle of nerves as his tongue focused on her clit. He could feel her tightening around his digits, her thighs quivering on either side of his head. "Cum for me, my goddess," Harry growled against her flesh, the vibrations pushing her closer to the edge. "Let me feel this sweet cunt spasm on my tongue so I can fuck you. The moon is so bright, I want you to look right at it as you cum for me.”

The words were her undoing. With a moan that echoed through the night, Y/N's back arched off the ground. Her inner walls clamped down on Harry's fingers, pulsing and squeezing as her orgasm ripped through her. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her, her vision whiting out as she stared up at the moon. Harry swallowed her cries, his face buried in her cunt as he lapped up her cream.

The potion amplified her orgasm, making it feel like a tidal wave of warmth crashing over her. Each pulse of her pussy around Harry's fingers sent shockwaves through her entire body, making her toes curl and her back arch even further. The magic in the vial seemed to reach inside her and squeezed her for every drop of pleasure. It felt like her entire world had narrowed down to that one spot, her clit and Harry's fingers the only things that existed.

As her body finally stilled and her breathing attempted returning to normal, Harry slowly pulled his fingers out of her. He licked them clean, a smug smile on his face as he watched her sprawled out on the ground, boneless and sated. He stood up, his movements deliberate as he undid his belt and trousers, shoving them down to pool around his ankles. Her pleasure had always been his driving force, but making her orgasm like that was exactly the thing he needed. His cock had something to show for it, hard and ready, as he stepped out of his clothes.

Y/N sat up, recovering quickly from her intense orgasm- all thanks to the damn potion. It would need to be recreated exactly when she got back to her cottage, saved for occasions like this.

Thank the moon for magic.

She looked at Harry, a sly smile on her face as she reached out to tug him down to the grassy bed beside her. He landed with a soft thud, looking up at her with a raised eyebrow. "My turn." The witch purred, climbing on top of him and straddling his hips. She reached between them, wrapping her hand around his thick shaft and guiding it towards her pussy.

Harry let out a low groan as Y/N's hand squeezed around him, her fingers not quite meeting as she stroked him from root to tip. She positioned him at her entrance, her heat caressing the head of him as she slowly sank down, taking him deep inside her. His head fell back against the grass, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He could feel every inch of her as she took him in, her tight heat enveloping him.

The magic coursing through her made every sensation feel magnified and intense, and that was saying something considering sex with Harry without any influence was the best she had. The drag of Harry's prick against her sensitive walls was almost too much to bear. She could feel every ridge and vein, every twitch of him inside her. Her nerve endings were on fire, pleasure sparking through her with each movement. She threw her head back with a moan, her hips starting to roll, riding him with increasing fervor as the magic demanded more.

Watching her ride him, Harry couldn't keep the groan from leaving the back of his throat. Nothing in his life had been more beautiful, more sensual than the witch riding his cock, bathed in moonlight. She was gleaming, nearly glittering as her lust blown eyes peered down at him, nails digging into the inked chest with each roll of her hips. "By the moon, you're fucking beautiful," he rasped, his hands gripping her hips as she set the pace. "Look at you taking me so well, little goddess. You feel amazing." He murmured, his hips lifting to meet hers, driving himself deeper. "I could spend eternity inside you and it still wouldn't be enough. Perfect cunt swallowing me up, hot and precious. I wasn’t going to let you share it with anyone else tonight."

"You're mine," he hissed through gritted teeth as she swiveled her hips, grinding down on him. "No other man gets to feel this. Only me. Say it." His hands squeezed her backside, encouraging her to ride him harder as his own hips thrust up in a matching rhythm. "Say you're only mine, Y/N. Tell me this is just for me."

Their secret little rendezvous had been the best thing to happen to him. Everything he needed, really. Potion or not, his pull towards her was guided and stronger each cycle of the moon and he knew it meant she was his, somehow- some way. They kept it quiet though it was an open secret, but he didn’t want it to be any longer. He wanted the woman to be his.

"I'm yours, Harry. Only yours," Y/N gasped out, her nails raking down his chest as she rode him hard and fast. The magic made her words come true, like a vow sealed in starlight and shadow. "No one else could ever make me feel like this. You're the only one who knows how to touch me, how to make me come undone." Breaths came out in pants as she fucked herself on him, the vibration in her blood making her more desperate for it. She wanted him, wanted him to want her.

Harry's eyes gleamed with triumph and possessiveness as she declared herself his. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her down onto his chest as he took over the pace, thrusting up into her with deep, powerful strokes. The magic surged, amplifying every movement until it felt like he was fucking her soul, touching bits he had never even dreamt of before. "Swear by the moon. Tell her that you're mine." He growled, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "My little witch, my perfect little goddess- Swear yourself to me, tell the Moon that you’ve chosen your soul bond. I can not pretend the secret meetings are enough. This is all I crave, day in and day out." He pulled his face up to hers, meeting her eyes. “Proclaim it.”

"I... I choose you, Harry," Y/N stammered out, her voice hitching as he drove up into her, the hard ridges of his abs rubbing against her sensitive clit. "By the moon, I choose you. No other... only you. You're my soul bond, my moon and stars. I swear it." The magic thrummed through her veins, sealing her oath.

It all made sense now.

Harry's eyes flashed with dark fire as she swore herself to him. He crushed his mouth to hers, his kiss searing and dominating. His hands gripped her ass tightly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he powered into her, his pace growing harder, faster. He growled against her mouth, "Yes... My little goddess. Say it again. Tell me you're mine." The magic pulsed around them, mirroring the rhythm of their bodies.

"I'm yours, Harry," Y/N whimpered out between kisses, her voice breaking as the pleasure consumed her. "I'm yours, forever and always. Only yours." Her body began to shake, her orgasm building to a crescendo as he pounded into her. The moon hung low in the sky, watching over them as they made their sacred vow. Harry's thrusts became erratic, his own release looming as he heard her declare herself his.

"And I am yours, by the light of the moon," Harry declared, his voice flowing out into the night. "Y/N, my witch, my goddess, you are mine and I am yours, now and forever. By the power of the celestial bodies….” He panted, looking up at her with hooded eyes. “By the magic that binds us, I proclaim myself your soul bond, your half, your everything." It was too much. Feeling the beginnings of her orgasm, feeling the soul bond snap into place, finally getting the confirmation that she was his as much as he was hers, it was overwhelming. His body felt every bit of it, pleasure thrumming through him as he broke. Thrusting up into her one last time, he held himself deep as his orgasm ripped through him.

Harry's declaration pushed Y/N over the edge. She threw her head back, her long hair cascading down her back as she cried out his name as the feeling overtook her. Her cunt tightened around him, milking him for all he was worth as her body trembled with pleasure that was unheard of for her, even with the vials. This was something new, something raw and real and she hadn’t even anticipated it feeling this good. But perhaps it wasn’t just the potion, but the man she was with instead. Stars burst behind her eyes, and she could've sworn she heard the moon sing approval as their bond snapped into place, sealing them together.

Harry's arms pulled her down her as she convulsed on top of him, his own body shuddering with aftershocks, holding her to his body to soothe her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his hot breath tickling her skin. "My Y/N." He murmured softly, his voice laced with a newfound sense of possession and an underpainting of love. "My moonlit obsession, my forever girl." He kissed her neck gently, his hands stroking her back soothingly.

His gentle touches and murmured words slowly brought Y/N back down to earth, catching her soul before it went too far up to the stars. She sagged against him, her body heavy and sated, her limbs like jelly. He supported her weight effortlessly, his strong arms wrapped protectively around her. "Shh, it's alright, little goddess," he whispered, his voice a hushed rumble against her ear. "I've got you. You're safe.”

Y/N's body continued to tremble slightly in the aftermath, her heart racing. She clutched at Harry, her fingers digging into his shoulders as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly become liquid and shimmering around her. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, not from sadness but from the sheer overwhelming intensity of what she had just experienced.

Harry noticed her trembling and gently wiped away her tears with his thumbs, his touch infinitely tender. He began to press soft kisses all over her face - her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her chin, her tear-stained cheeks again. Each kiss was a silent promise, a whispered I love you against her skin. He murmured soothingly, "That's it, my love. Calm. You're alright. I've got you."

Y/N's bleary, tear-streaked smile was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen. It was a smile of pure trust, of complete surrender, of utter contentment. They’d been playing cat and mouse for far too long. This had always been their fate. She looked up at him with eyes that shone like the moon herself, her gaze filled with adoration as she looked down at him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she held him close as if she never wanted to let go, sagging into him as she trailed chaste kisses over his sweat damp neck.

Harry nuzzled into her touch, his eyes fluttering closed as she marked him with her gentle pecks. He turned his head, pulling hers up to capture her lips in a soft, sweet kiss. It was a far cry from the dominant, claiming kiss they had shared earlier. This was a promise, a declaration of love in its purest form. He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against hers as he looked deep into her eyes. "We're bonded.”

Y/N's eyes widened at his words, a fresh wave of tears spilling down her cheeks, but this time they were tears of joy. She nodded, a shaky smile spreading across her face. "I felt it." she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion. "It was like... like a piece of my soul clicking into place with yours." She placed a hand over his heart, feeling it beat in sync with her own.

For so long, they had danced around their feelings, afraid to voice them aloud, afraid to ruin the delicate balance of their dynamic. But the magic sent by the moon was meant to bring them together, to force them to confront the truth. And as they sat there, hearts pounding in sync, they both knew that there was no going back. They were meant to be, and the moon had spoken.

"No more dancing around, yeah?" Harry said softly, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. "No more tiptoeing, no more 'what ifs' and 'maybes'." He leaned in, kissing her deeply, pouring all his unspoken feelings into the kiss. When he pulled back, Y/N was breathless, her eyes dazed. "And I think it goes without saying… M’the only one you’ll be testing these potions with from now on.”

[gav-san]

Soul Shanked 1/4

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Chapter Title: Marked and Mildly Deranged Length: 8.5 K+

Next

 “What Is a Man?”

You were nine.

Curious. Bright-eyed. Holding a weathered story scroll in your lap and trying to puzzle out a sentence that read:

“The man took her hand gently…”

You blinked.

Then wandered down the palace hall to where Elder Gloriosa sat on a veranda cushion, drinking bitter tea and scowling at birds.

You approached carefully, the way one does when poking a large, judgmental cat.

“Elder Gloriosa,” you asked sweetly, “what’s a man?”

She froze mid-sip.

Then very slowly lowered her cup.

Her eyes narrowed. A wind stirred. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried.

“A man,” she said at last, voice grave, “is a selfish, sweaty beast.”

You blinked. “…Oh.”

She stood, joints cracking like angry firewood, and began pacing.

“They are crude and ugly. Faces like scarred potatoes. Hair like wet dogs. Smell like smoked failure.”

You clutched your scroll.

“Are they… dangerous?”

She wheeled on you like you’d asked if snakes could drive ships.

“They drink until they are stupid. Then they fight each other shirtless. Then they find someone smaller, usually a woman or a child, and try to hurt them with charm and shoulder width.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Shoulders?”

“They are weaponized.”

She knelt beside you, eyes wide and tragic.

“They are sentient, but not like us women who are graceful, and poetic. No. It is chaotic. Sticky. Loud. They grunt and wave their bits about like cursed barnacles.”

You turned white.

“Bits?!? What are bits?”

“Weapons.”

“I thought they were gentle. The story said—”

“LIES.”

She slapped the scroll from your hands.

“They cry when you beat them and scream when you ignore them. They name swords after their mothers and ships after their regrets.”

By now, you were backing toward the door.

She followed.

“They talk over you. They interrupt. They grow hair everywhere. Even places that should not be hairy. Backs”

You were shaking.

“They eat with their hands. Laugh like donkeys. Think they deserve power just for breathing! And worse—they believe in themselves.”

A pause.

Then, low and grim:

“And sometimes… if you’re not careful…they look at you like you’re a goddess.”

You blinked, trembling. “Why is that dangerous?”

She stood tall. Looked out to sea like she could see all her mistakes lined up on the waves.

“Because you might start to believe them.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

Carved protective runes on your bedframe.

They were crooked and backwards, but you meant them. Slapped a training dummy that vaguely resembled a chin. Painted it red. Called it “Captain Grossbeard.” No one said anything otherwise.

You marched around the temple halls muttering,

“I am the storm. I am the sword. I fear no man.”

And in the dead of night, wrapped in your blanket and resolve, you whispered with all the righteous fury your little heart could muster:

“No man creature will ever get me.”

You meant it.

With every scrap of fire your nine-year-old soul could summon.

You were ready.

Unshakable.

Unseduceable.

Untrickable.

—

Fate, however, was not so humorless.

The women of Amazon Lily came in every shape and size. Towering warriors, thunder-hipped sword dancers, graceful archers with legs like spears and tempers like fire.

The empress, Boa Hancock, was as fierce as she was beautiful.

And then there was you.

No statues in your honor. No warriors fighting over your affections. No chaotic marriage proposals from lovestruck pirate captains or suitors turned to stone in the palace courtyard.

You were level-headed, practical, and, according to Hancock, a ‘reasonable creature, which is to say, only mildly insane’.

Meaning, you had come out of the Amazon Lily once before and survived without succumbing to the filth of men.

Which was exactly how you liked it.

You didn’t crave glory or attention. You liked routine. Simplicity. Being useful. And so, when Amazon Lily needed someone to run messages, inspect trade ships, deliver threats with a smile, or retrieve a tea shipment from Sabaody, you were the one they sent.

Alone on a small ship from the Amazon Lily.

The usual route consisted of very few direct interactions with men and their ilk, and it made a nice diversion for regular work.

There was no clue that today would be any different.

You stepped off the longboat onto Sabaody soil, paid the toll, and adjusted your cloak. You're frowing, striking, and very out of place in your Amazon Lily cloak and braid adorned with shells. A curved staff rests across your back.

And then your palm ignited with a dash of heat, and as you lifted it you immediately noted the soft, glowing script that appeared.

You stared at it.

At first, you thought it was a prank. Some weird ink. Maybe pollen?

You rubbed it.

It stayed.

You squinted.

“Shanks.”

That was the word. Slanted. Gold. Elegant. Disgustingly confident cursive. Written in soft cursive, right across the center of your palm.

“What the-“

You blinked.

You rubbed harder.

You shook your hand like it was cursed.

“What the hell is a shanks? Did someone infect me with a disease?”

A nearby vendor looked up.

You glared at them. “Don’t look at me. I’m having a medical emergency.”

You ducked into a quiet alley, and stared at the name again like it was a venomous snake.

Shanks, the word unchanged by your poking.

What. The. Hell.

You ran your thumb over it. Tried spitting on it. Rubbing it with dirt. Muttered a few prayers under your breath. Nothing helped.

It glowed cheerfully back at you.

Mocking you.

A type of fish? A devil fruit?

A disease?

Written in soft gold, right across the center of your palm. You narrowed your eyes at the thought of what your sisters would say.

“She caught a case of the shanks.”

“We had to put her down.”

You sat down on a crate and buried your face in your hands. 

This couldn’t be happening.

Across the sea, ten miles away, Red-Haired Shanks sat cross-legged, watching his crew bustle on the deck with a sake jug in hand.

Suddenly, his chest warmed.

He looked down.

There it was.

A name.

Written like it had always belonged there, just under his collarbone.

He grinned like an idiot. “Well, well.”

Benn Beckman, nearby, didn’t even look up.

“That’s new.”

“Well,” Shanks replied easily, tipping back his jug. “Begin the preparations gentlemen!”

He paused. Then added:

“…I’m about to meet the love of my life.”

Benn took a deep drag of his cigarette.

You pushed open the door to Shakky’s Rip-Off Bar with one foot, the other braced against the crate of sealed scrolls you’d brought from Amazon Lily. You were sweating—not from the load, but from sheer existential dread.

The gold-etched name on your palm had not gone away.

If anything, it was glowing harder, like it enjoyed your panic.

“Shanks.” Cursive. Fancy. Aggressively smug. “More like shit.”

You hadn’t dared ask the people of the island, many unfortunately men. Or the harbor guards. Or the fish vendor who said something about a ‘Red-Hair being back in town.’

Nope.

You were going to get through this like a professional.

You were fine.

You blink at the smoky interior like you’ve just entered a dragon’s den.

Shakky waves.

“Welcome, darling. Ignore the mess.”

You drop the crate onto the floorboards with a solid thunk, flex your poor back, and approach the bar like a soldier on a battlefield.

Shakky doesn’t even blink.

“You okay, sweetheart,” she says smoothly, sliding a glass of something chilled your way. “Hancock’s still upset about the soap?”

“She’s considering burning the supplier’s house down.”

“Reasonable.”

“She sends her regards,” you say politely. “And says if the soap supplier raises prices again, she’s sending snakes. Plural.”

“Duly noted.”

You glance around, subtly inspecting the room for… her male creature. The old one with the excessive amount of body hair. Glasses, holding a drink like it’s a character trait, excellent at harassing you. 

The coast is clear.

For now.

You exhale.

And then you whisper urgently:

“I have a medical question.”

That earns a slow blink from Shakky.

She tilts her head. “Go on.”

You glance around again, then yank off your glove and slap your palm down on the bar like it’s a crime scene.

“What is this?” you hiss.

There it is.

That damned glowing word.

Shanks.

Still smug.

From the corner, a chair creaks.

You jump.

Rayleigh, lounging in the shadows with a bottle, squints toward your hand.

Motherfucker, how does he hide like that.

He ignores your glare, and for once, you want an answer enough to let him look.

He squints harder.

Then bursts into a laugh so loud it nearly knocks the rum bottle over.

You stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

“What,” you demand, “is so funny? Am I dying?!”

“Only emotionally,” he chuckles, wiping his eyes. “Oh, you poor thing. Couldn’t have happened to a worse woman”

Shakky smirks. “So it was what I suspect.”

You slam your hand down again. “What is happening?! What is a shanks? Why is it on my skin?! Is it a threat? A disease? Some kind of cursed pirate STD?!”

Rayleigh leans forward, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“It’s the name of an old cabin boy of mine.”

You stare at your hand.

Stare at him.

Back at your hand.

“Shakky,” you say flatly. “Is this Shanks a man creature? Did he put a hit out on me? Has your pet husband gone rogue?”

Shakky chuckled, to your consternation.

Rayleigh chuckles again, this time gentler.

“Don’t worry, girl. That’s just a soulmate mark.”

You freeze.

“…Is that a disease?”

Shakky wheezes.

Rayleigh falls off the couch laughing.

You try your best not to spear the man-creature, as you know he’s Shakky’s pet.

“What is so funny?”

“Not quite. It’s… uh, a romantic thing.” Shakky explained with a hand wave, “Like love.”

You clear your throat.

“Love? Like the concept of the curse?”

 “Happens when the other half of your fate gets close. Ten miles, give or take.”

Rayleigh winks and you growl.

You sit at the bar, hand still glowing, eyes wide and glassy like someone who just saw their own funeral invitation written in cursive.

Across from you, Shakky pours you another drink— alcoholic, by the look on your face you’ll need it.

“I need clarification,” You croak, not touching it. “About… everything.”

Rayleigh grunts. “She’s gonna need a chart.”

Shakky smiles gently, lights a cigarette, and leans on the bar like she’s preparing to explain gravity to a baby.

“Okay,” she begins, “So. First things first: A man is a person—usually taller, louder, and hairier than you—who you will find deeply aggravating.”

You rolls your eyes, which she ignores.

“They have a different biology. You don’t need to worry too much about it unless you plan on—”

“Absolutely not. I’ve seen yours.” 

Rayleigh cackles.

“—Right. So men exist, unfortunately. And outside of Amazon Lily, they’re… everywhere. Now, a soulmate is someone the universe pairs you with.”

“Like… like in combat?”

Shakky pauses.

“No. Not like a sparring partner. More like someone you’re cosmically drawn to.”

You blink.

“That sounds awful.”

Rayleigh wheezes.

“Now,” Shakky continues, trying not to laugh, “Soulmates usually feel a pull toward one another. A bond. Attraction.”

“Like gravity?”

“Sure. Except you might want to kiss them.”

You stare at her.

Then, slowly:

“Why would I do that?”

Rayleigh is fully keeled over now.

Shakky takes a drag of her cigarette and starts listing on her fingers:

“Sometimes people in soulmate bonds end up in relationships. Romantic ones. Emotional connections. Some get married. Some have children—”

You immediately shove the barstool back and stand, horrified.

“Children?! With a man?! That’s what the glowing means?!”

“Not automatically,” Shakky says quickly, clearly entertained. “You don’t have to do anything. Well, to have children you do-“

You cut in.

“Except battle a mythical threat no sister has bothered informing of-“

Rayleigh laughed. “This is going to be fun.”

Shakky grins. “Amazon Lily doesn’t really get male soulmates. It’s not a popular topic.”

You stare at your glowing palm like it just personally betrayed you.

Rayleigh leans back, finishing his drink.

“Best advice I can give you?”

He raises his glass.

“Run now. Or start emotionally preparing.”

You’re already pulling your glove back on like it’s a warding talisman, halfway to the door.

“I was just doing a supply run,” you hissed, pacing Shakky’s floor like a woman betrayed by gravity itself. “I was not emotionally prepared to be icked by destinies assigned man-creature’s.”

Rayleigh was wheezing.

“He’s not that bad, really,” he managed between gasps, one hand slapping the table as his shoulders shook with laughter.

You turned on him sharply. “You know the disease?!”

That was it. Rayleigh whooped like a man being punched by fate itself. He doubled over, tears streaking down his face. You suspected a heart attack was imminent and sincerely prayed for it.

Shakky, far calmer, sipped her tea.

“He comes here on occasion,” she said, as if discussing the weather. “I told you, Rayleighs former cabin boy.”

You looked at Rayleigh, her man-creative and gave him the most disguised look a woman has ever made at him, further sending him into cardiac arrest due to laughter.

You stared down at your palm—the cursed red name that had scrawled itself across your skin like a traitorous tattoo.

Shanks.

The name of doom.

An ill-conceived destiny.

A man.

“Does the shanks disease know?” you asked darkly. “Does he get infected as well?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Shakky replied brightly. “He probably saw your name appear and immediately said something dramatic like, ‘Finally.’ He’s a romantic.”

You went still.

Stone still.

Rayleigh hiccupped mid-laugh, coughing.

You slowly looked between them, horrified. Betrayed by scrolls, tea, and fate.

Then you whispered, utterly mortified.

“I have to flee this island.”

Rayleigh gave a very enthusiastic “Bye bye sweetheart” and Shakky sighed as you fled.

You returned to the docks like a woman possessed.

No delay. No farewell drink. You left the scroll receipt unsigned and muttered something about “soul rot” and “spontaneous name infections” to the stunned sailors as you boarded the ship you used to arrive..

By the time the anchor lifted, you’d already burned a loose scarf and were halfway through scrubbing your palm with seawater like it might dissolve destiny.

It didn’t.

You stared at the elegant, glowing “Shanks” etched into your skin like it was a personal attack.

Shanks barged back into Shakky’s bar, glowing.

Literally.

His shirt was half open and his smile was full chaos. Right across his chest, gleaming like sun-kissed treasure, was your name.

He skidded to a stop in front of Rayleigh and announced, proudly:

“I need a drink,” he said, voice easy. “Something celebratory.”

Rayleigh didn’t even look up from his drink, already smirking.  He seemed like he was restraining himself.

“Good news?”

Shanks tugged his shirt open just enough. Gold script shimmered faintly over his heart.

A name. Yours.

Beckman glanced up, sighed. “Don’t encourage him. He’s high on bad ideas.”

Rayleigh squinted. Blinked. Set his glass down a little too hard.

Then dropped his glass and howled with laughter.

Shanks was still proudly displaying his chest like it contained the One Piece itself. He rotated for better lighting. He even leaned into a patch of sun filtering through the bar window, just so your name would really sparkle.

Rayleigh had only just stopped laughing, wiping tears from his eyes with a bar towel and wheezing, “You’ve got no idea what’s coming, do you?”

Shanks blinked.

“…Coming? You mean the great adventure of love?”

Rayleigh snorted and almost choked on his drink again.

Shakky, merciful and amused, stepped out from behind the bar and gently placed a hand on Shanks’ shoulder like she was about to break bad news about his boat engine.

“Sweetheart,” she said patiently. “Have you met the owner of that name?”

“Shanks grinned. “Not a clue. But I got a feeling you do.”

Shakky shook her head slowly.

“No, no. This isn’t a vacation. Not without armed backup and a plan for extraction.”

Shanks stared.

Stared harder.

“…Why?”

Paused.

Rayleigh grinned. “Tell him, Shakky.”

“She’s from Amazon Lily.”

There was a pause.

Shanks tilted his head. “…The Amazon Lily?”

“The very same,” said Rayleigh, pouring another drink. “Land of no men, no mercy, and statues made from the unlucky.”

“She’s not just from there,” Shakky added. “She’s one of them. Top of her class. Favorite of the Empress. Tried to file paperwork to have her mark declared a battlefield injury.”

“…The island that turns men into stone with eye contact and keeps them as warning statues?”

“Exactly.”

His smile faltered.

Shanks’s smile twitched.

“…Wait. So you know who she is?”

“Oh, we know,” Rayleigh said, far too pleased. “We’ve known since earlier today, when she stumbled in here clutching her hand like it was cursed.”

“She asked me if soulmates were a disease,” Shakky muttered, eyes distant. “Dead serious.”

Shanks blinked.

“She meant it,” Rayleigh added, raising his drink.

Shakky nodded grimly. “And now she thinks she’s been infected. By a man-borne plague.”

Shanks slowly sat down, the light dimming behind his eyes.

“So what you’re telling me is—my one and only soulmate… is an Amazonin Lily Warrior, sworn off all men-”

“Correct,” Shakky said.

“…and thinks I’m a walking biohazard.”

“Bingo,” Rayleigh toasted. “To fate.”

Shanks groaned as Rayleigh drank an entire shot and Shakky smiles sympathetically.

Benn refrained from commenting.

Shanks exhaled. “Okay, I can work with that. At least it saves me the trouble of a chase. So I can’t visit the island without—”

Shakky: “No. Don’t cause a war.”

“…” Shanks tilted his head,: “…Can I send something?”

Rayleigh huffed, “Only if you want Boa Hancock to hunt you like a rabbit.”

Shakky smacked his shoulder.

Shanks leaned forward, face in hands. “Maybe I’ll write her a letter?”

“Start with an apology. And maybe… include clarification that you are disease free.” Shakky, dryly replied.

Shanks chuckled.

Then he drew a long breath, adjusted his coat, and rolled his neck with deliberate calm.

He looked up, steady and sure again.

“I’ll speak to whoever’s in charge first- Hancock, right. Properly. Face to face.”

There was silence.

“No.”

Beckman didn’t even look up, but reached for another cigarette.

Shakky blinked. “You’re going to what?”

“I’ll reach out to Hancock,” Shanks said. “Ask for a meeting. Just talk. Emperor to Empress-”

Rayleigh started laughing again—slow, wheezing laughter that didn’t stop.

“She’ll listen,” Shanks added. “If I’m respectful. If I make it clear I’m not a threat.”

Beckman groaned. “You are the threat.”

“She won’t turn me to stone on principle,” Shanks reasoned. “I’ve got manners.”

“You’ve got audacity,” Shakky snapped.

Rayleigh wiped his eyes. “You’re going to walk into Amazon Lily. Alone. After giving the Empress’s favorite a soulmate mark. And you think reason will win her over?”

“I’m an emperor,” Shanks said, shrugging. “Surely she won’t deny a simple conversation.”

“Not with her,” Shakky muttered. “She turned a man to stone for saying hello too confidently.”

“I’ll be diplomatic.”

Beckman sighed. “You’re going to get yourself turned into an art feature.”

Shanks leaned casually on the bar, unfazed. “If she kills me, at least I’ll go out looking good.”

Rayleigh raised his glass. “Send us a statue. I’ll put it in the garden.”

“Life-sized,” Beckman added. “We’ll use it to hang hats.”

Shakky poured herself a double shot of something unlabeled. “You’re all idiots.”

Shanks gave her a slow, confident smile. “What would you do if fate carved a name on your chest?”

“Button up my shirt,” she snapped.

He only chuckled.

“I’ll ask nicely,” he said again. “That’s all I’ll do.”

Beckman exhaled. “Give me one hour’s notice before you sail. Just so I can update your will.”

Rayleigh raised his glass one last time. “To love.”

“To statues,” Shakky muttered.

Shanks smiled and tapped the spot over his heart.

“You don’t meet fate halfway by standing still. Besides, if she kills me, at least it’ll be interesting.”

The moment you reached home, you marched into the palace, slapped the crate of trade receipts down with enough force to rattle the columns, and declared in a clear, unshakable voice.

“I’m never leaving again.”

Ran raised a curious eyebrow.

“Did someone insult the empress?”

“No,” you muttered, pulling your glove back on. “Worse.”

“…worse?”.

“I am spiritually unwell,” you added. “I have been afflicted.”

Gasps echoed across the hall.

The guards stood. “I’ll call for the snakes.”

“No, I need to speak with the Empress, right away.”

And so you were whisked away to Boa Hancock.

You stood before the Empress, palm out, the glow flickering like a curse that wouldn’t die. It shimmered just beneath the skin—his name, etched in gold, resting traitorously against your lifeline.

You had come to her for wisdom. Reassurance. A solution.

What you got instead was—

“WHAT. IS. THAT?!”

The words cracked like a whip across the throne room.

You flinched. Somewhere in the rafters, a dove actually keeled over.

“I—I don’t know,” you stammered, holding out your hand like it might explain itself. “It appeared when I stepped off the ship to go visit Shakky. She said…it might be a… soul… thing?”

Silence.

The word no one dared say hovered in the air like a ghost.

Soulmate.

You didn’t speak it. Neither did the Empress. But every woman in the room felt it sink into their bones like a divine hex.

Hancock was frozen on her throne, eyes locked on your palm. Her expression was a war between horror and something much worse: recognition.

Then she moved.

“What disgusting, treacherous man has dared mark one of my-“

She Grabbed your palm like a curse, reading the name with visible recoil.

Then, she snatched a report scroll from a nearby guard—half unrolled, seawater-stained, stamped with the last Sabaody ship logs. Her eyes scanned the names fast, each flick of her gaze more furious than the last.

She stopped cold.

Her hand clenched around the scroll.

Her face went pale. Then dark.

Then incandescent with rage.

She screeched.

“Shanks!”

You blinked. “You… know him?”

“Know him?!” she roared. “KNOW HIM! Everyone knows him! Do you have any idea who he is? What he is?! The threat he is to women everywhere?”

The word hit you like a slap. It’s not that you didn’t memorize many male pirates, but your experience was limited. To be frank you never memorized male names if you see them regularly. 

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Rayleigh mentioned he used to train him—”

“Rayleigh’s old apprentice?” Hancock barked. “He is not some scruffy cabin brat! He is a global force of nature with a bounty in the billions and diplomatic immunity because no one wants to risk his crew tearing through the Grand Line like a divine plague!”

Your knees shook. Blood rushed to your head.

“Oh.” You squeaked.

“Oh?” Hancock’s voice shot up an octave. “Oh?!”

“I mean, that’s… it could be worse, right?”

“Worse? He’s one of the Four Emperors! You might as well have gotten branded by a tidal wave!”

Were those stars forming at the edge of your vision?

“Shanks!” You choked, feeling dizzy. “As in Red-Haired Shanks?!”

You were a trained warrior, a scholar of naval threats, and a woman of discipline—but your knees still buckled a little.

You did know of the fucking Emperors who ruled the sea.

You stared at her. “He didn’t do anything—he wasn’t even there! I never saw him!”

“Exactly!” Hancock shot back. “You never even saw him, and still—still—your soul reached for his?!”

Her sisters in the court murmured in terror.

Gloriosa, ancient and unbothered, sipped her tea in the corner. “At least it’s not Kaido.”

“Not the point!” Hancock snapped.

She rose to her feet, the motion sharp and dangerous, her cape whipping behind her like a flag of impending doom.

She pointed at your palm. “That’s not a name. That’s a problem.”

You looked down. The mark still glowed innocently.

Warm. Gold. Unbothered.

“Is there a cure?” You squeaked, not really joking. “Or a way to hide it? Perhaps he’ll find it inconvenient and ignore it?”

Hancock paced now, one hand in her hair, the other gesturing wildly. “He probably doesn’t know every detail, but make no mistakes, he’ll figure it out. He’s a famous romantic- and that man Shakky houses for some reason- he has a soft spot for degenerates. And when he finds out? Oh, he’ll come. Of course he’ll come. Men like him always do. Smiling. Apologizing. Making it worse.”

You stared.

“You think he’s coming here?!”

She stopped. Slowly turned back toward you.

Then said, with the seriousness of a woman already preparing her war face.

“Start practicing your ‘go to hell’ and for the love of the sea gods— do not accept rum from him. Don’t even leave the belly of the Lily, lest he discover a way to…compromise you!”

The entire palace erupted in chaotic wailing.

Sandersonia fanned herself. “A pirate has claimed her!”

Marigold shouted, “Prepare the ship! Prepare the cannons!”

Hancock paced, furious and rattled.

“He’s powerful. Annoyingly flirtatious. Laughs like a goddamn wind chime. And now he’s tethered to her?! One of my own?!”

You raised your gloved hand slowly.

“We have time, don’t we? I didn’t meet him. I didn’t even see his ship. I ran.”

“You ran correctly.” Hancock whirled, pointing a dramatic finger. “We must break the bond before he discovers it!”

“Is that possible?”

“I will try anyway.”

You fainted.

The message was hand-delivered with the kind of care usually reserved for ceasefires and war declarations.

Shanks had written it himself—ink smooth, edges clean, the handwriting firm and respectful. No roses. No flirtation. Just facts. Just a name. Send with a female on an aligned crew.

And an apology.

To Empress Boa of Amazon Lily,

I write with great care and no intent to offend. It has come to my attention that a mark—bearing my name—has appeared upon one of your own. I understand the nature of such an event is complex, unwelcome, and possibly distressing.

Know that I intend no intrusion. I ask only for the chance to discuss with you the implications of such an event.

With respect,

Shanks

The return message arrived exactly three hours later.

Folded into a seared chunk of driftwood.

Branded across the front in aggressive knife marks were two words:

ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Beckman, watching from the deck, just sighed.

“She’s going to try and sink the ship if you push this.”

Shanks unfolded the second, more official scroll tucked inside the burned envelope.

It read:

Should the Yonko known as Red-Haired Shanks approach the shores of Amazon Lily, he will be considered an active threat and treated accordingly.

There will be no meeting.

There will be no negotiation.

This is your only warning.

Shanks folded the message quietly.

Then he looked up toward the horizon, where the Calm Belt lay—still and wide.

“…She didn’t say I couldn’t send word again.”

Beckman rubbed his temple. “You’re going to escalate this into an international incident with that carefree attitude.”

Shanks smiled.

He simply turned, opened a second scroll, and began to write again.

To Empress Boa Hancock,

I got your message.

Dramatic. Charred edges. Good handwriting.

I understand your position. You’re furious, protective, and probably trying to have me classified as a natural disaster.

Fair.

But I’d like to remind you—I’m still asking.

Politely.

I didn’t choose this mark. Neither did she. But it’s there, and now so am I.

And like it or not, this situation now involves me.

I’m not trying to provoke anything. I’m not trying to cause a scene.

If I were, writing first would not be my opening move.

So please—don’t make me come to your island while I’m still being nice.

A quiet meeting. Just once. If you refuse that?

Well.

I’m famously bad at hearing no.

You know where to find me.

Shanks

He tied it with red twine. No wax. Just a smile on his face like he’d already made peace with whatever storm followed.

Beckman, watching, groaned. “You do realize she’s going to throw that in the ocean.”

“She might,” Shanks said. “But I wrote it anyway.”

“She might also fire a cannon.”

“I’ll duck.”

Beckman pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re flirting with death.”

Shanks grinned. “Only if she’s interested.”

The second letter was delivered by a trembling pirate courier, who clearly had no idea whether handing it over counted as a diplomatic act or an execution request.

Hancock ripped the thread binding with one fluid flick of her nail.

She read the first line.

Then the second.

Then she froze.

“Don’t make me come to your island while I’m still being nice?” she repeated aloud.

The entire throne room fell still.

Gloriosa slowly set down her teacup like she was bracing for a seismic event.

Hancock kept reading—face locked somewhere between seething and visibly calculating the surface temperature of lava.

“He thinks he’s being polite?!”

“I believe he does,” Gloriosa said cautiously. “Shanks is notorious for his diplomacy.”

Hancock’s eye twitched.

“I will polish the cliffs with him!”

“He did ask before he came,” Murmured Sandersonia helpfully. “Could be worse.”

“He’s still asking,” Marigold added, eyes wide.

Hancock hissed through her teeth. “You don’t ask an Empress. You bow. You beg. You certainly don’t smirk through the ink!”

“Technically, there was no smirking visible,” Gloriosa offered.

Hancock whipped around. “He charmed. In calligraphy!”

Gloriosa held up her hands. “I’m just the tea auntie.”

Hancock stomped to the edge of the dais, fists clenched, hair fluttering in her fury.

“He thinks this is a game. A charming letter. A little rogue diplomacy. He doesn’t understand. I will petrify him into a lawn ornament.”

There was a long silence.

Then Gloriosa spoke again. Quietly.

“…Should we inform her?”

“Absolutely not. She is in a fragile state, thanks to that pig.”

You were sitting in the palace garden, sipping tea, watching a bird hop sideways in the grass.

It was peaceful.

Which was suspicious.

You’d learned that silence in Amazon Lily usually meant someone was planning something—or someone had just made a very bad decision.

But today?

Today was—

“Hmm,” you muttered, looking down at your hand.

The mark glowed faintly. Again. For the third time this week.

You shook your head and pulled your sleeve back down. “No.”

You weren’t going to think about it. You weren’t going to ask questions. And you absolutely weren’t going to read into the fact that every time it flared, the guards on duty went tense like someone had set a cannon off three islands away.

Across the courtyard, a group of royal guards were whispering urgently with Marigold and Sandersonia. You caught snippets:

“…He wrote again.”

“…Still polite, technically…”

“…‘Don’t make me come while I’m being nice’—is that a threat or a proposal?”

“Empress broke a vase.”

“Make that two vases.”

You blinked. Then looked back down at your tea.

No one had told you anything.

And if the Empress breaking crockery over international pirate diplomacy was about you?

…Well.

You didn’t want to know.

You picked up a scone.

Ignorance was peaceful.

[katmostardently]

Set after the Doyle arc, Emily’s been a bit distant and guilty for everything, you’ve been patient nonetheless.

Implied death, hurt/comfort, fluff, barely implied smut

ʕ⁎̯͡⁎ʔ༄

Word count: 737 words

a/n: I got some ideas after listening to Would You Fall in Love with Me Again, it’s short but it’s 4 am, I blame all my mistakes on that. I currently have some ideas for longer stuff but I’m lazy, tired, and uninspired so here are my scraps!! :;(∩´﹏`∩);:

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again

“I’m sorry, I know I’m not the Emily you fell in love with.”

Her voice cracked, and you’d never quite seen Emily so broken down. You could see the genuine sorrow in her eyes, each line of her face filled with guilt. After getting out of a life or death situation because of Doyle, it was as though the only thing she had left for you was regret. Emily hated it, because someone like you didn’t deserve it

Someone like you didn’t deserve to have your heart shattered, torn to bits, to be forced into grieving, just to have it all been for nothing. Yet here you were, and that was just what happened.

Even if a week had passed since her return, hardly anything was settling in, even then, you were still there.

You placed the plate of spaghetti you’d just prepared for Emily down, settling on the couch next to her. “Emily-“, you were quick to start, and Emily was quick to silence you.

“I’m sure you’re more upset than anyone on the team, you… You’re wearing my ring for god’s sake, I couldn’t bring myself to even let you know about all this…” Emily’s mouth had quivered, letting out a shaky breath as she turned to you. “I made you wait, and now I’m not even the woman you adored so much. Y/n, I…”

She looked at you, not wanting to leave you alone ever again, but at that same moment, not feeling worthy to hold you in her arms. “I’m so sorry…” Sure, Emily was in fact changed, anyone would be.

She had this tired look in her eyes, like she wasn’t truly there, like she needed some escape. You saw it in the moments where she got home from work, when she’d secretly discard your food at night. The cigarettes in Emily’s pockets, the nights you’d wake up and cradle her through a nightmare. It all tore away at her piece by piece.

But in those same eyes, you saw the same eyes that lit up every time you were near, the same eyes that called to you with a single glance.

The same eyes, pooled with that intense devotion, that stared up to you when she knelt down on one knee a year ago.

“It’s true, you left me waiting, and it hurt, the fact that I couldn’t know you were alright.” You answered her honestly, “but it hurt even more to think you were dead. I wanted whatever monster took you from me to suffer, and I felt cursed thinking that you were taken from me.”

Before she could muster a response, you took Emily’s hand, holding it against your cheek.

Instinctively, she traced her thumb against your lips.

“And I’m so, so, so happy that you’ve come back to me.” With the way you were looking at her, Emily was certain that she’d married a princess—no, some generous, all forgiving goddess.

“I don’t deserve you…” She whispered, her hand continuing its gentle caress.

You let out a little chuckle at her words, shaking your head, “see, now only my Emily, would say something so untrue. Because you, Emily Prentiss, deserve the world.”

Then to be exact, it felt as though you gave Emily a whole galaxy, because in moments like these you always brought her some solace. There was not a single doubt you couldn’t crush with your benign palms.

She could simply hold you close in response, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you felt her heartbeat.

Emily knew that her heart would never stop, not when she’d been given the best of all women to be her fiance. She vowed to never let it stop, not when you’d be waiting for her, she could never again leave you frozen in time. Her dearest, y/n y/l/n, soon to be y/n Prentiss.

Perhaps she didn’t have to worry all that much, because somehow, you fell back in love with her new, shattered self. But really, you just simply never stopped loving her, there was no need to win you back, to make you fall in love again.

“Now… Your spaghetti’s gonna get cold….” You reminded, about to move when Emily stopped you, tenderly pushing you against the cushions. “I want my fiancé right now, not some spaghetti…” She murmured against your neck, and you smiled in response.

Forevermore, you’d never even think of giving up Emily Prentiss.

[glowettee]

do you have any posts abt decentering your life from men? i think i rely on male validation wayyyyyy too much lol. love your content btw ✨

✧˖° how to stop centering your life around men (because you have way better things to do)

(a guide to decentering men, breaking free from male validation & making yourself the main character for real this time)

so you’ve noticed it... the way your mood shifts depending on whether or not he texts you back, the way your confidence is high when you’re getting attention and low when you’re not. maybe you catch yourself subtly performing when guys are around, or maybe you find yourself molding into the kind of girl you think they’d want.

and honestly? same. we’ve all been there. society trains us to believe that being wanted is the ultimate achievement, that our worth is measured by how desirable we are to men. but that’s a lie. your life was never meant to revolve around them. you were always meant to be the sun, the main event, the entire storyline.

i really hope this post can help you understand you were never meant to revolve around them. love you - mindy

✧˖° step one: start seeing them for what they actually are

listen, it’s time to be so for real with yourself. ask: do I even like this man, or do I just like the attention? do I actually think he’s interesting, or do I just want him to think I’m interesting? do I want him, or do I just want to be chosen?

because half the time? the men we obsess over are painfully mediocre. and yet we assign them so much power. letting them dictate how we feel about ourselves, letting their validation (or lack of it) determine our worth.

take a step back. stop romanticizing them. start seeing them as human beings. flawed, regular, not the prize. the real prize? is you.

✧˖° step two: detox from male validation (yes, a real detox)

you don’t realize how much male validation fuels your self-worth until you cut it off. so let’s go cut. it. off.

for the next month, no:

dressing for male attention (dress for you instead).

posting just to see if he will like it.

checking who watched your stories.

replaying conversations to see if you sounded cool enough.

instead, every time you feel the urge to seek male validation, replace it with self-validation.

take pictures just for yourself.

romanticize your own opinion of you.

remind yourself that your value doesn’t shift based on their perception of you.

✧˖° step three: become the most interesting person you know

a lot of us center men in our lives because we have nothing else filling that space. so fill it. with things that actually excite you.

start a niche hobby that makes you feel alive (pottery, screenwriting, blogging (girlblogging to be exact), literally anything).

go to cafes alone, sit in the prettiest spot, and enjoy your own company.

build your dream life piece by piece, your wardrobe, your routines, your vibe.

when you’re truly obsessed with your own life, the need for male validation just… disappears. because suddenly, you’re so content, so full, that their attention feels like an afterthought.

✧˖° step four: unfollow the pick-me content (yes, even the guilty pleasure stuff)

what you consume matters. if your feed is filled with “how to make him obsessed with you” content, if you’re constantly absorbing media that glorifies male attention, you’re subconsciously reinforcing the idea that men = purpose.

so let’s cleanse. unfollow the pick-me content. mute the male gaze influencers. instead:

fill your feed with confident, self-sufficient women.

read books by powerful women who own their narrative.

watch movies where the female lead’s story isn’t about a man.

you are not the supporting character in a man’s story. start consuming content that reminds you of that. you are a goddess, an angel, the main character of YOUR story! please remember that <3

✧˖° step five: enforce the highest standards (with zero guilt)

decentering men doesn’t mean avoiding relationships, it just means refusing to settle. it means knowing that you don’t need male validation to be worthy. and that means setting real standards:

if he’s inconsistent? he’s gone.

if he makes you question your worth? he’s out.

if he needs you to shrink yourself to fit into his life? bye.

your love life should enhance your life, not become your life. you don’t need to be chosen. you need to be cherished. there’s a difference.

✧˖° mindy’s personal tips ✧˖°

some little things that helped me fully break free from male validation: ➝ talk to yourself like you’re the love of your life - hype yourself up in the mirror, take yourself on cute dates, write love letters to you.➝ wear perfume, do your hair, and put effort into your looks even when you’re alone. let your beauty be for you, not for male approval. ➝ when a guy doesn’t text back, shift your energy immediately. instead of spiraling, get up, put on music, do something fun. do not make him your focus.

✧˖° homework: shift your energy back to you

for the next week, every time you catch yourself seeking male validation, pause. redirect that energy inward. do something for yourself instead. and watch how your entire aura changes.

because when you stop chasing their approval? you start living for real.

love you <333 so sorry this reply was sooo late

xoxo mindy

[viridwns]

Mannequin

TW: Forced relationship, non-consensual kissing/touching, Douma being aight?, mention of gore if you squint, also didn't check grammar or spelling :/

A/N: I am working on so many requests rn, I had to work on one of my own ideas (I saw a dress on pinterest and had to make a story out of it).

"You look like a goddess."

"So beautiful."

"She's ethereal."

"Only the best for Lord Douma."

"This shows too much skin!"

You look at yourself in the mirror, turning your body every whichway to assess the dress (or rather a piece of cloth) that has been put on you.

You felt naked.

Douma kidnapping you to his cult wasn't something new. Especially after he was sent out on a mission did he just long for alone time with you. His followers taking you, dressing you, doing your hair wasn't new to you either.

But being put in this?!

Yeah, this was something new.

They never put you in a dress so revealing.

It was a strapless dress, with sleeves flowing over your lower arm, attached with a silver chain to the main part. Your top was made out of the same silver. It barely covered your breasts. You hoped the thin closing around your neck wouldn't break. The silver was further attached to the bottom of your dress. A waistband sitting snug on your hips, a sheer cloth billowing from it, and stopping just above your ankles. Aside from your lower arms and from the waist down, you were without coverage. Your only shield that protected the outing of your breasts to the rest of the world was the flimsy silver chain wrapping around your upper half.

No way you were going to wear this in front of the demon who ripped apart countless of kimono's off you. He couldn't even see your figure in those. You don't want to find out what he'd do when you were practically bare.

You let your fingers trace the silver; these chains wouldn't even survive a slight tug from him.

"Our seamstress worked tirelessly on this. Researching the western culture without Lord Douma's knowledge was a difficult task. Plus the seamstress had to start over many times; the fabric is so flimsy it ripped multiple times!" A woman looked at you via the mirror with begging eyes. You felt a pang of guilt shoot through your gut at her words.

"It's not that I don't like it! it's the most beautiful piece of clothing I ever laid my eyes on. It's just that...It's so immodest!"

You turn your head away from the mirror, getting embarrassed from seeing your form in such a state in front of all these women.

Counter arguments started to bounce off the walls. You shook your head.

"I'm not going to prance around in nothing but see through fabric and chains!"

"You must! you're Lord Douma's spouse, send by God himself to keep him company-"

You waved your hands in an attempt to cut her off. You didn't need them to obsess over the made up story Douma fed them. You were not God send, and you were definitely not here to keep the demon company.

You wished you could tell them the truth, but that would only result in carnage; The pile of corpses Douma left for you to find serving as a efficient warning the first time he brought you here.

You were never going to tattle on his secret again.

The arguing continued, a hand already pressed on you shoulder so you would sit down.

"Just let me do your hair first okay? If you really don't like it we'll dress you in different clothing.

You reluctantly gave in. Knowing that their say was final anyway. You can't even remember the last time your opinion was taken into serious account.

It's always about pleasing the demons', never about what you would like.

You watched the skillfull hand of the woman behind you doing your hair in the dressing table mirror. She was braiding it into a crown around your head, letting the back stay the way it is. She intertwined some white roses into the braid; it looked like you were wearing a flower crown.

Even though you did find yourself pretty in these fancy clothes and hairstyles; you couldn't enjoy yourself. You were treated like a dress up doll for the demons', only being allowed to look pretty for them, never for yourself.

You had forgotten the giddy emotion you got when being gifted a new dress and twirling in it in front of the mirror for the first time.

Another sigh, another careless smile from one of the followers.

"You couldn't look more beautiful. Lord Douma will ravish in the sight of you." The women all agreed in unison, complimenting you on your beauty.

You turned around to face them, a small smile on your lips.

"I will make sure to praise your work in front of Douma." A wave of excited and thankful shrieks came over you.

Douma tended to let the women you like live longer so you can enjoy their company more when you're here. You had to mention them in front of him.

A male follower came rushing into the room. The women all forming a protective circle around you-you were only to be seen by Douma's eyes.

"It's almost sunset, come quick." He rambled, waving to everyone to come with him. Urgency laced his words.

It was time for Douma to give the message of the Lord to his people.

Prick.

You stood up, relief slowly eating away the nerves that had build up in your stomach.

Sunset also meant that Akaza could go outside and get you out of here.

One thing about Douma is that he never asked if he can take you with him, he just does.

And hell be upon him when the rest finds out you're missing, coincidentally at the same time Douma isn't present either.

Akaza is always the one to get you, even if he can't stand up against Douma, he somehow always gets Douma to give you over.

Maybe it's because of the threatening shadow of Kokushibo always leaning over Akaza from behind; piercing his three pair of eyes into Douma's soul (if he even had one, you were fairly certain he didn't).

You feel the corners of your lips tug upwards at the sight of Douma being beheaded.

Maybe if you puppy-dog-eye Muzan enough when you get back he'll take away Douma's mouth for a bit. You could use a bit of peace and quiet.

You didn't notice you were being lead to the main hall, so lost in your daydreams that you only noticed where you were when a heavy silence deafened your ears.

The hundreds of pairs of eyes staring at you, gaping at you, had you realize what you were wearing, or what you weren't wearing. Your arms slipped over your figure in an attempt to keep as much hidden as you could. Your futile attempt in creating a shield for yourself was met with two female followers grabbing both your hands and forcing them to your side, keeping you in place with their determination to show you to their Lord.

Your eyes were pinned forward, gaze focused on the tall figure slowly rising upright from his cushion.

Douma looked the same as he ever did. Same hair, same clothes, same cursed eyes and his trusty hat.

The only thing different was that his expression was...well not his usual 'grin'.

His eyes were wide, mouth closed. He was unreadable. You couldn't figure out what emotion he was wearing on his features.

You noticed his hands were in taut fists by his sides.

What was up with him?

"Douma?—"

That's when he stood up, rising to his full height. You swear you could feel the floor shake as he strode towards you.

You didn't—couldn't—move. Why was he so much more terrifying when not smiling?

The women let you go; getting on their knees as their Lord approached—heads touching the floor.

He didn't acknowledge any of them as he took your wrist in his hand. You saw his sharpened nails. bile climbed up your throat, you forced it down again as you swallowed.

Douma dragged you behind him, pace quick, eyes determined. You spluttered his name, trying to ask what was wrong. He was not himself, he never acted this way.

"Douma, what are you do-"

"Just shut up."

You were taken aback by his tone, shutting up immediately. He never had any emotion except for faux happiness in his voice. Now his tone was just empty, devoid of anything.

You could hear his heavy breathing as he took you outside. You spotted the white circle gifting the world with a guiding light in the darkness high up in the sky. It was a full-moon tonight.

Your eyes snapped to Douma as he stilled his movements. He shoved you in front of him, placing you in the holy glow of the moon. You faced him with confusion lining your features. You could not figure out what he was trying to do.

He took a few steps back; basking in the sight of you. He swallowed thickly. His eyes trailing slowly over you body, analyzing every dip, mole, crook, wrinkle, imperfection and perfection you had.

You looked like an angel in the heavenly glow of the nightlight. Douma couldn't stop inspecting you. When you walked into the hall, not wearing a kimono like always, he was put into a trance. He had never seen you wearing western clothing, and even though this was extreme and probably not accurate to the western style at all-he was captivated.

You had never looked more beautiful than you did at this moment. He wasn't used to emotions sizzling in his blood. He didn't know how to put the burning sensation in him out. For once he didn't want to throw you on a bed to eat you up to your very core, but he just wanted to take in you.

You played with the ends of your sleeves as you felt yourself getting smaller under Douma's multicolored gaze. You hated not knowing what to do, not being able to gauge the demon's feelings.

A snap of twigs made your head turn away from the stone-turning stare of Douma.

You sighed in relief.

"You bastard. You can't just take her with you! Not without Lord Muzan's permission! Love, you must've been te-."

Akaza stilled, his eyes met yours and slowly drifted over your body. You cocked your head.

Not him too.

"What are you wearing? What is she wearing?" He pointed an accusing finger to Douma,

"Doesn't matter, she is gorgeous."

You had to keep yourself upright form the whiplash Douma gave you with his words. He had never sounded to sincere, so soft.

Akaza walked over to you, his footfalls not heard. He was about to hold your hand when Douma spawned next to the two of you and gripped Akaza's hand in a bone-breaking grip. His muscles were bulging under his skin as he kept Akaza from touching you.

"Let her stay like this for a little." Douma never was serious with Akaza. Always letting the upper three do what he wanted. Akaza stopped all his actions. He knew Douma could kill him in seconds if he resisted him now.

"Douma I want to go. I don't feel comfortable." It was nerve-wrecking to break the tension. It was something you never dared to do, scared of loosing a limb if you did. The air was thick and if you had a knife you swore you could cut it.

Douma turned his focus towards you. Just like that you could breathe again, all tension leaving. It was like Douma realized that he had dropped his act.

You grimaced when his grin returned on his lips. You saw Akaza visibly relax when he did.

"Whatever you wish princess."

You looked at him with suspicion. He was never this easy to persuade. Usually he would whine for an hour before inevitably giving in.

Akaza shared a glance of doubt with you. He cautiously took your hand and within the blink of your eyes you were standing in the chaos of walls, lights, floors and stairs.

You felt light-headed, your stomach sloshing inside of you. This was never going to get easier.

You held Akaza's hand as you got your bearings, slowly pushing away the nausea and pressure that was building in your head. If it wasn't for him you would buckle and fall.

"You okay? I don't understand how you aren't used to this yet." Akaza rubbed your back. You shot him a glare and released your hand out of his.

"What is she wearing?" You pursed your lips in annoyance as Kokushibo appeared in your line of sight.

"I'm getting out of this dress right now, don't worry about it." You snapped, done with this whole night already. Why were they all acting like you never dressed up before?

You were wearing a dress for the first time though...maybe that's what had them reeling like this.

"No, I like it. You look beautiful." The upper one stared down at you, his hand resting at your shoulder, slowly gliding down to your lower back as he assessed you.

"We should get you more dresses, and have Daki braid your hair more often." He mused. A shiver ran up your spine as his cold fingers kissed your skin.

"I don't feel comfortable in this. I am practically naked." You objected, looking up at Kokushibo through your lashes.

"Only bonus points if you ask me." Douma winked, his eyes dark with lust as he cocked his head with a cheeky smile.

It was like whatever happened a few minutes ago never did. He was back to his old self. Much to your relief and dismay.

"Stop acting like an animal in heat you idiot." Akaza sneered, but the dust of pink on his cheeks didn't go unnoticed by you.

"Which one of you took her out of the kimono I picked for her?" There it was. A voice, cold as ice, heavy as stone and threatening like a knife against skin.

Muzan was standing across from you. His head high, hands behind his back and maroon eyes radiating annoyance.

Muzan was very controlling of what you wore, ate and just did overall.

Douma was in for a lot of shit.

"Ah Lord Muzan! isn't she pretty? My followers know exactly what to do with her!" Douma pushed you forward, showcasing you to the demon king.

You slightly pouted your lips. You hated being pranced around like an animal in a zoo. You just wanted to change into comfortable-covering-clothes.

Muzan took you in, walking around you as if he was deciding to buy a new piece of furnace. He was judging you.

"I've seen this style before. Did your followers research her western background?" Muzan asked as he let his hands wander over the material; tracing the silver that were hiding your breasts.

"They did, and they did such a magnificent job."

No they didn't. You never wore anything like this back home.

Home. You missed it.

"I wore dresses at home-" Muzan grabbed your jaw, you coughed.

"-back in my former country, they were nothing like this." You managed to get out with the aching grip of the demon king on your jugular.

You had to stop messing that up.

Muzan loosened his grip just a tat.

"You look nice in this. Maybe I should let you indulge in your own culture more."

Your eyes grew big.

"Are you serious?"

"Dare you question me?"

You shook your head no as best you could with his hands still lingering between oxygen and choking.

When was the last time you had enjoyed something from your culture?

When was the last time you spoke in your tongue?

Sadness tugged at your heartstrings when you made that realization, but you quickly cut the emotion off as you went down on your knees. Muzan letting your go to have you grovel at his feet.

You bowed down; head touching the floor the way he loved.

"Thank you, my lord." You felt the insides of your stomach climbing up your throat as you said it, but you forced it down. You had learned quickly enough to do what Muzan likes, and thank him for the smallest bit of gratitude.

Having you call him 'lord' was another one of his manipulation tactics. he wanted you to know the power dynamic between the two of you. He wanted you to know where you stood exactly.

Muzan hummed in satisfaction. You rose to your feet again with the help of Kokushibo, who so kindly stuck out his arm for you to take.

"No, stay on your knees." Muzan commanded. Your mouth fell open, but without any hesitation you bend down on your knees again. Your dress spread around you in a perfect circle.

Muzan tilted your chin up. He raveled in the way you looked up at him with those innocent eyes. You looked so fragile with those flowers in your hair and the white clothing your skin.

He felt his trousers tighten just at the thought of corrupting the innocent thing before him.

You felt the eyes of the three demons behind you burning holes in your body as Muzan traced his thumb over your bottom lip.

"Kiss me." He whispered.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment. you weren't feeling up to this right now, but the consequences of rejecting Muzan-rejecting the demon king-would be a grave mistake.

Muzan couldn't handle that a mere human could reject a near God like himself. It hurt is ego immensely.

You gently stood up, not breaking eye contact with him once, you let your breath fan over his lips, mentally preparing for what was about to come. Muzan grabbed your hips as he watched you.

Pushing back every urge to stop, you lunged forward, crashing your lips on the frozen ones of Muzan. Your warmth enveloped Muzan's nerves as he reciprocated the kiss. He was more fierce, more eager, and after a second he took back control. Forcing you to stay in place as he explored the cavity of your mouth. You felt your oxygen running out as Muzan bit and tugged on your bottom lip. He dominated you easily. Your hands were taut around Muzan's shoulders. Squeezing as the need for oxygen became to extreme.

The moment spots started forming in your vision, Muzan broke the connection. You heaved, chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. You didn't stop looking at him, you knew he saw looking away as a form of 'not wanting' (even though that's what you did feel). You felt your lips swell and your face heat up. Your eyes were glossy and Muzan wore a small grin on his face.

He loved seeing you like this. Lips plump read, face hot and bothered and eyes doe-like.

"You are talented in putting on a show, darling." You furrowed your brows, Muzan guided your face in the direction of the other demons'.

You felt your muscles tense at the sight of all three looking at you like you were the first source of water they found after days of traveling in a dessert.

You felt fear fluttering in your stomach like moths pouncing on a flame.

You barely made it out alive when with one of them. You wouldn't be able to take all four.

"N-no, please, I-" Muzan raked his sharpened nails over the silver, it broke without any resistance, just like you predicted.

"Don't worry. They'll do as I say, and for now I want them to watch."

He kissed your shoulder as the shield slowly broke off your body.

You got what you wanted though, you got out of the dress.

[rafesplaymate]

Hook. Line. Sinker.

Rafe Cameron x Glamourmodel!Reader

❀⋆.ೃ࿔ navigation. ❀⋆.ೃ࿔ masterlist

warnings: stalking. obsessive / possessive behavior. emotional infidelity (by topper). objectification / sexualization. non-descriptive smut. dark themes / adult content.

a/n: i could not get this idea out of my head since i sent it in to @bunnyrafe. so, i decided to create my own little universe about it. imagine playboy is still big and making magazines + social media post (w/o all the dark history). reader has a boob job (yk playboy)

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Rafe thanks whatever higher power decided to make sure he was at this exact location at this exact time. Almost feeling like he needs to thank God for guiding him here or some shit.

His curiosity peaked when he was driving down the one way road near the cut. His eyes going immediately to the ropes blocking off and a sign stating “Closed,” on one of the prettiest parts of the beach. Pfft, nothing’s ever private for the self-crowned King of Kildare. So Rafe does what comes natural to him; he inserts his nose in business that has nothing to do with him, with an arrogance that states it’s his right to know and parks his freshly-washed truck. Immediately sneaking under the ropes and walking a short distance until he sees something that for once in a long, long while. Leaves him struck.

He’s watching from afar as a crew sets up various reflectors. There’s slight chaos, people buzzing around and setting up. A photographer adjusting the lens on his camera. Women decked in casual clothing, going through a rack with various pieces of barely-there lingerie and bikinis.

But that’s not what catches Rafe’s attention.

It’s her.

There she’s sat in a pink directors chair. Her hair in a pretty blowout, flowing long behind her with the beach breeze. Her pretty legs peeking out from the white robe wrapped around her. Smooth and glowing, stretching down to pretty manicured toes. Makeup artist buzz around her, adding finishing touches to her flawless face, slathering gloss against plump, pouty lips and adjusting the tousled loose curls flowing around her gorgeous face.

Even from afar Rafe can see the long, wispy lashes adorning pretty eyes, staring up at the woman standing over her, brushing a makeup brush lightly over the smooth skin of her face.

He knows who she is, he knows exactly who she is. She’s been the figment in his imagination whenever he’s desperate and withering, stroking himself. Eyes shut tightly imagining her perfect figure withering under him or staring harshly at his phone screen at the skimpy photo she’s posing for.

He’d never in his life imagine he’d be standing right in front of his biggest fantasy. Albeit from afar, but so close. He feels like a creep, like a peeping tom lurking on what he knows is going to be another one of the various, scandalous shoots she’s so famous for. He can’t help it, even with all the chaos surrounding her he’s zoned in on her and her only.

When she stands up, the white fluffy robe falling erotically off her shoulder, exposing more of her smooth skin, it has him huffing deeply out of his nose. His eyes zoned in on her behind his wayfarers, hand slightly clenching.

It’s when she begins untying the lose knot on the straps of her robe that his him tensing up the most. The smooth skin of her back being revealed down to her pert, plump butt and slim thighs. He feels like he’s dreaming, almost like he wants to pinch himself to make sure he’s not dreaming. But the blaring heat of the sun, the sweat dripping down his tan forehead, making his shirt stick to his back and the painful ache of his stiffened cock brings him back to reality.

She hands the robe to the woman next to her, throwing her tousled curls behind her back. Her back is still facing him but when she turns around … that’s when Rafe really feels like he’s died and gone straight to erotic heaven. He runs his gaze down the entirety of the beach goddess standing right in front of him. His slightly clenched fist now turning white at the knuckles and blunt nails digging into his palm.

He runs his eyes over her perfect, incredibly busty perky tits and perfect upturned nipples. Down to her smooth, flat stomach which pinches in perfectly at the waist and rounds out to beautiful hips he wants to grip into and leave bruised. Her skin glowing, flawless. Slathered in some kind of oil or lotion, making her glisten exquisitely under the North Carolina sun.

But it’s when he sees the perfect V sat inbetween her slightly muscular, yet plush thighs that he lets out a deep heavy groan. The perfectly groomed landing strip waxed there teasing him and making him want to feel it tickle his nose as he buries his face into the most perfect cunt he’s seen in his life.

She’s looking down at her stomach, smoothing her pretty hands over it and then flipping her head back adjusting her hair with both hands, eyes closed. It’s like she knows he’s right there and like she’s putting on a show for him and he revels in it.

He watches as she turns back around and prances confidently forward, walking on the tips of her french-tipped toes slightly kicking the sand. Walking toward the shore and dipping her toes in it.

“Alright everybody! Let’s get this going!” Shouts the older man with frosted tips, dressed flamboyantly. An enthusiastic smile on his slightly wrinkled face.

Rafe watches as men on the crew adjust the reflectors, and he especially watches as his dream girl faces the crowd once behind her. And all he can wonder is how she can feel so comfortable standing so bare in front of so many people. Her hands coming to her pretty hips, cocking them to one side as she digs her french-tipped nails into her smooth-tanned skin.

Rafe gets closer and ducks behind one of the various palms trees hiding his tall figure, needing to get a closer look and hear whatever the fuck they’re talking about.

“Okay y/n, we’re gonna do a couple prints with the blowout and then a good few in the water with your hair slicked back. Sound good?” states, who he’s positive by now is, the photographer.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” she replies back, light and airy with a sweet giggle. Fuck, even though he can barely hear what’s going on just the cadence of the way she speaks sends his nerves into overdrive.

“Perfect.” chips the photographer, “Let’s get a roll on it while the sun is still out.”

Rafe stays there the entire time. The ache in his cock growing bigger, his chest tightened and body tense watching her maneuver herself into various poses. And in his sick mind he feels as if she’s posing for him, and him only. Teasing him with that perfect body and flawless face, seductively bending and prancing around as various clicks and murmurs of praise clamor near.

It’s when the sun starts bleeding into the ocean like lovers reuniting and leaving a warm orange haze across the beach as the photographer shouts “aaaanddd that’s a wrap!” that Rafe realizes he’s been there the entire time. His once neat and primped, plaid button up now soaked through with sweat.

“You did great! I think this is one of your best editorials yet! Absolutely stunning my dear, as always.” praises the flamboyant man as he embraces the now covered model, giving her a slight squeeze and she returns his affections with a warm smile on her face.

“It’s always the best time working with you Stephen, you make it great.” she quips genuinely. Pretty lips turning up on a sweet smile. “Nonsense, you make my job easy being as perfect as you are. My star! Now get some rest, you’ve earned it. And maybe visit around the Island, I know you love places like this.” He pinches her smooth cheek endearingly.

“Maybe! We’ll see. Goodnight everyone thank you!”

Various voices shouting “goodnight y/n” and “be safe,” reply back. As if he would let anything happen to his precious gift, thinks Rafe.

The beach princess of his dreams now changed into a baby pink, ‘Juicy’ velour jumpsuit and light-brown uggs. Her drying hair clipped back in a light pink claw clip, walking her way up the designated path back to the main road.

Rafe jumps into action, making it back quickly to his truck and speeding out of there before anyone catches him. Debating if he should have followed her to make sure she got back to wherever she’s staying safely. But his cock was so hard it was almost painful. He needed to get home. Driving all the way with only one thought in his mind. Her.

That night, Rafe fist his cock till he can’t anymore under the shower head until the once hot water turns freezing cold. His eyes shut tightly replaying the events he’ll forever have ingrained into his mind, from earlier.

And once he finishes up and steps out of the shower, drying himself off and staring at himself in the mirror. He’s only got one thought in his head. His methodical brain going into overdrive with plots. That no matter what it takes, she’ll be his. Under his thumb, and he’ll never let her go. Ever.

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“Did you hear who’s on the island? Everyone’s talking about it man.” quips Topper straightening himself quickly with excitement. The country club is lively, Kooks in every corner and constant murmurs of conversation all around.

“Hell yeah! I’ve been dying to see her, I want to know if she’s as sexy in real life as she is in pictures and on social media.” states Kelce, fully catching onto Topper’s direction of conversation with the same enthusiasm.

She is. Thinks Rafe, knowing exactly who they’re talking about. His stomach filling with that possessiveness he’s so well-known for. His eyes glaring at his friends behind his shades, who talk animatedly about you. He catches slight statements of “she’s the ultimate wet dream” and “i’d do anything for just one night,” as his ears ring with brewing rage.

Ha! He thinks. He’d bash their heads in before they even got near you. His perverted mind already convincing himself that you belong solely to him. And he’s not letting his grip loose.

“Aren’t you dating my sister, bro?” drawls Rafe in his deep, nasally cadence. His legs spread wide as he leans back confidently with his arms over the chairs handles. His demeanor threatening and protective. The boys assuming over Sarah, but in his mind it’s because they’re speaking about his woman.

“Yeah-I mean-c’mon man this is Y/N Y/LN we’re talking about. She’s like the ultimate sex symbol and besides she’s basically famous. We probably won’t see her, let a man drea-holy shit.” Topper’s eyes widen comically, staring straight behind Rafe as Kelce turns in the same direction, jaw dropping slightly and body sitting forward quickly. Eyes bulging in the same comedic manner as Topper.

Rafe’s brows furrow as he watches people in his line of vision all turn in the same direction, eyes of lust, shock, curiosity and even envy from the various men and women around. And when Rafe tilts his head to the side, eyeing whatever is behind him from his peripheral vision that has people, including his friends so starstruck, does he see the girl who’s been invading his mind since yesterday.

There she is. In the prettiest, skimpiest little off-white sundress. Her statuesque figure shown off by the scrap of clothing and contrasting perfectly against her skin-tone. Her skin is glowing just like it was yesterday, stunning legs on display and her pretty feet sitting beautifully in clear platform mules. Shiny hair pinned up in a messy up-do with wispy hairs framing her face beautifully. Big squared glasses perched on her perfect nose and a small smile on her luscious lips as she listens to- is that fucking Sarah?

People’s eyes follow his sister and his future woman as they make their way over to the table resided by the 3 boys. Men and women’s eyes lowering down to her backside and he can only imagine what they’re leering at if the shortness in the front of her dress is any indicator for the length in the back. All the attention quickly dividing elsewhere when Sarah reaches them and speaks up.

“Hey guys!” says his sister enthusiastically as she catches them in her line of sight, immediately reaching back and holding her hand out to guide you along with her. “This is y/n. I met her at the market.” Idiot, thinks Rafe. Why would Sarah think they’d need to be introduced to someone that even his own Dad, has admitted to finding attractive. Rafe shudders at the thought.

Both Kelce and Topper shoot straight up, hands sticking out cheerfully shouting out overlapping “Hi’s” wearing smiles so big it looks like their cheeks hurt. Idiots, thinks Rafe. Why would they make it so obvious? Especially Topper in front of Sarah?

“Hi…” the model says shyly, reaching her hand out and placing it delicately in Topper’s. Giving him a warm smile. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“This is my boyfriend Topper, who by the way is a big fan!” says Sarah gives Topper a playful eye roll and smug smile, to which he bashfully looks to the side with a cough to clear his throat, cheeks reddening. “This is Kelce, and this,” Sarah turns to point “is my brother Rafe,” to a still-sitting Rafe. Who now rises slowly, shades hiding his pretty cobalt eyes. He stands to full height, towering over the 4 of you and inching a bit closer to you, taking off his glasses as he hangs them on the collar of his white polo.

When y/n turns to look at him, it’s like something struck in both of them. Rafe already felt someway, he stalked her all day yesterday for fucks-sake! But being near her is making his body and mind go haywire. He watches as she pulls her glasses off, exposing those pretty eyes and long wispy lashes. Perching them on her head.

When y/n looks at him though, her breath stops and she’s looking at him with a love-struck look that has Rafe smirking. Hook.

“Hello,” drawls Rafe, his voice deep and nasally, reaching his hand out, “nice to meet you.” He says with the same smug smirk sat on his pretty face. He watches as she places her delicate hand in his palm, beautiful eyes still stuck on him and now locking with his piercing ones. He brings her small hand up to his lips, holding eye contact and pressing a small kiss to her knuckles. Taking in the creamy, vanilla scent radiating off of her and smooth skin of her palm.

“Hiiii..” she whispers, airy voice as light as ever. Eyes still stuck on him in a daze and glazed over with… is that lust? Rafe convinces himself it is, and he’s almost sure it is. Only deepening his para social infatuation with her. “It’s nice to meet you ..Rafe.” He swears he can drop dead right there, hearing his name roll off her tongue in that pretty voice he imagined moaning into his ear all night.

“Ahem!” Sarah clears her throat inquisitively. Breaking the veil that lifted over the both of them for that single moment, like two lovers destined to meet. Topper and Kelce watching the interaction with wide eyes. “Well, now that you’ve got acquainted with a couple people around here and have pretty much seen all there is to this area, that’s interesting anyway. How about we go down to the Outer Ban-“

“No.” quips Rafe sternly. Voice firm. Leaving no room for argument with just a single word. His eyes cutting deeply into Sarah, whose face now scrunches with defensive attitude, “what is your problem?” she bites back.

The two boys still watching with wide eyes, but glancing over unabashedly at the model whose eyes are still focused on the man who’s got heat building between her thighs very quickly. And her heart pounding in her chest.

“You wanna take her to the Cut? Around those filthy fucking pogues?” bites back Rafe with the same animosity, inching forward threateningly as if daring Sarah. As if she ever gave a fuck what her brother thought. “Yeah.” she bites back firmly, “And what? She did a photoshoot there just last night.” Oh, I know. “She wants to see the area outside of working, besides I’m her tour guide and I promised to show her the whole island and that’s what I’m gonna do.” scoffs Sarah, rolling her eyes at her brother’s ingrained dominance.

“Nah. You’re not.” quips back Rafe, arrogance radiating off of his big and tall frame. “Nah, you know what. I’ll take it upon myself to show this sweet little princess around, if she wants to see the Cut or play in the water it’s better she’s with someone who can take care of her. Protect her from those fucking weirdos you like so much. Like me.” says Rafe with that smug smile on his face that Sarah wants to smack off 100% of the time. “Who do you even think you are-“

“So you wanna see the Outer Banks, beautiful? How about I show you around?” He cuts off Sarah, ignoring the anger radiating off of her as he turns his full attention to his proclaimed little princess. Who had been watching the whole time, struck by the sexy man who she now knows as Sarah’s brother and who’s got her inner thighs squeezing together and slick. His causal dominance over her, making her head hazy, and stomach flip.

Line.

Sarah, Topper and Kelce stand stunned by Rafe’s casual display of dominance but more-so by the fact that they can see that she liked it. A flirty giggle falling from her lips as she nods her head quickly. Leaning her body into him. Rafe smiles at the sweet sound, throwing his arm over her shoulders and turning his back to his sister and friends. Completely over-taking her attention and asserting his claim. She immediately nuzzles into his side, her arm wrapping around his waist and giving Rafe her undivided attention as she looks up at him with doe-eyes hanging onto every word that falls from his pretty pink lips.

“Yeah? You Like that?” He brings his other hand to pinch her chin, then giving it a slight knock with his index finger as he smirks down at her. “You stick with me and I’ll show you exactly everything you’ve been missing and whatever you want to see. I’ll take such good care of you, princess. Don’t worry.”

Sinker.

｡𖦹°‧°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Read Part 2 here.

a/n: phew! he’s so dreamy ugh! i hope you all enjoy!