#I can’t handle trying to draw or anything else right now

[pannypunkpanda]

Hallo— I know I disappeared for like a year but I’m alive, wooooooooooo

[pucksandpower]

La Regina

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Charles Leclerc x Schumacher!Reader

Summary: a girl raised at her father’s knee goes from rising star to princess to queen (or in which becoming a legend runs in the Schumacher family)

You bounce excitedly in the passenger seat of your papa’s car as he pulls into the parking lot of the karting track. At 5-years-old, you’re too young to race officially, but he promised to let you drive some practice laps after the scheduled competition today.

“Remember, Maus, listen closely to the instructors and stay safe out there,” Michael says, ruffling your hair affectionately before getting out.

You scramble out after him, having to jog to keep up with his long strides across the parking lot. You reach to take his hand, but freeze when a small crowd starts converging around your papa. Men in bright vests are rushing over, cameras flashing rapidly.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” You ask, startled by the commotion.

Before Michael can respond, a curly-haired woman thrusts a baby into his arms. “Oh my god, can you just hold her for one second? I need a picture!”

Your papa looks bewildered but graciously cradles the infant, giving an awkward smile as more and more people start shoving pieces of paper and pens in front of him.

“Excuse me, please, I have my daughter with me today,” he tries saying over the chaos, but no one is listening.

You shrink back, overwhelmed by the pushing crowd and flurry of voices pleading for autographs and photos. Where did all these people come from? This has never happened before when you’ve gone karting with your papa.

Sensing your unease, Michael gently passes the baby back to its mother and kneels down in front of you. “Hey, it’s okay, Maus. Why don’t you wait for me over there?” He gestures to a bench off to the side.

Part of you wants to cling to him, scared of all the strangers crowding around so aggressively. But you also don’t want him to have to worry about you on top of everything else. You nod bravely and make your way through the throng to the little bench, watching apprehensively as your papa tries politely handling the requests.

After what feels like forever, the crowd finally starts dispersing, though a few linger behind like stubborn cats begging for scraps. Michael shakes the last few hands and accepts some papers to sign before gratefully escaping over to you.

“I’m so sorry about that, Maus,” he says, looking apologetic as he plops down on the bench. “I didn’t expect such a scene on what’s supposed to be our fun day.”

“It’s okay, Papa.” You lean against his side, still a bit rattled but comforted by his familiar warmth. “Who were all those people? Why did they want your … uhh …“ You can’t quite remember the word for the scribbles people ask famous people for.

“Autographs,” Michael supplies with an amused chuckle, wrapping an arm around you. “And they wanted photos too, I suppose. I’m … well, I’m quite a famous racecar driver.”

You cock your head, trying to process this concept of your papa being some kind of celebrity. As far as you’re concerned, he’s just your goofy, loving dad who takes you karting and makes the silliest voices for all your stuffed animals at home.

“Really? Like the famous famous people on TV?” You’ve seen the paparazzi swarming the actors and musicians during awards shows, but you’d never imagined that could happen to your own papa.

Michael nods, drawing you closer with a squeeze. “Yes, somewhat like that, though it’s a bit excessive at a small karting event.” He laughs again and brushes some of your wayward hair from your face. “But you’re right, to you I’m just Papa. I don’t expect anything more from my favorite Maus.”

You beam at the affectionate nickname, all the earlier stress melting away. Who cares if strangers want your papa’s autograph or photos? All that matters is you two spending the day together like always.

“Can we go get our karts now?” You ask eagerly, bouncing a little on the bench. “I want to show you how fast I can go!”

“Of course!” Michael jumps up and scoops you into his arms with a playful growl, making you shriek giddily. “My little speed demon is going to leave me in the dust.”

He swings you up onto his shoulders and you cling on tightly as he strides toward the pit area. A few more people spot him and make a move closer with cameras and sharpies extended, but seem to think better of it when they see you perched up high.

The two of you spend the next couple hours karting together, trading places taking warm up laps and cheering each other on. At one point, a young attendant working the pit area approaches Michael somewhat nervously.

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Schumacher?” He’s clutching a crumpled baseball cap in one hand, ducking his head shyly. “I’m just such a huge fan, would you mind taking a photo and signing this for me after your session?”

Your papa smiles kindly at the young man and takes the cap. “Not at all, no problem.” As the attendant walks away, looking elated, Michael turns to you with a wink. “See? That’s how you politely ask for an autograph.”

You giggle and mime zipping your lips. “Don’t worry, Papa, I won’t let the fame go to my head when I’m a famous racecar driver too someday.”

Scooping you up once more, Michael presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek. “That’s my girl. Now, last few laps — let’s see who can go the fastest without ending up in the grass!”

As evening starts falling, the two of you make your way back through the now nearly deserted lot after returning the rental karts. Most of the other karters have cleared out, leaving just you two strolling unhurriedly back to the car.

“Well Maus, despite the, uh, overexcited fans, I’d call this day a success,” Michael says, swinging your joined hands idly. “We both had our fun on the track, and I think you handled that crowd back there like a champ.”

You smile up at him, still so proud just to be his daughter. “I don’t care about all those other people, papa. As long as I have you, that’s all I need.”

Stopping beside the car, Michael crouches down and cups your face in his calloused racing palms, looking at you with such fierce adoration.

“Maus, you have me, always. No matter what happens out there,” he gestures vaguely at the empty track, “When I’m with you, I’m just Papa. My greatest accomplishment, my biggest award, is being your father. Verstanden?”

You launch yourself into his arms, hugging as tightly as you can. “Verstanden, Papa. I love you.”

“Ich liebe dich mehr, Maus,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek to your hair. “Now, what do you say we go get some victory ice cream?”

As the two of you climb into the car, you can’t keep the smile off your face, practically glowing with contentment. Sure, maybe your papa is some big famous racecar driver that everybody wants a piece of. But really, he’s just your papa — and you’re his whole world.

***

The ringing of the house phone cuts through the tense silence like a knife. You shrink further into the couch cushions as your mother rushes to answer it, shoulders visibly taut.

“Hello? No, I cannot make any comment at this time. Yes, I understand there is interest but-” Corinna breaks off, rubbing her temples wearily. “Please respect our privacy as a family right now. Thank you.”

She hangs up and leans against the wall, eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. Before she can even draw a full breath, the phone rings again, shrill and insistent. With a muffled curse, your mother snatches it up.

“What? I told you, I cannot give any statements! This is a private matter. How did you even get this number?”

You watch apprehensively as she responds again, her voice rising in distress. In the days since your papa’s skiing accident, it seems like the entire world has been hounding your family, desperate for any scrap of information.

On the TV across the room, the endless cycle of news reports drones on lowly. Images of your papa’s broken, still body being rushed from the slopes into a helicopter. Flashing advancer texts speculating on his chances of recovery from the traumatic head injury.

It makes you feel ill.

Beside you on the couch, Mick sits blank-faced, looking nearly as pale and worn as your mother. At 14, he understands the gravity of the situation all too well. Your big brother has always idolized your papa, hoping to follow in his racing footsteps one day as well. The thought of him not being there to see the realization of that dream is devastating.

Gina is curled up in the armchair, her shoulders shaking every so often with muffled sobs. At 16, she’s arguably been taking this the hardest of all you kids. She keeps her face stoically dry in front of your mother, but you can see how red and puffy her eyes are from constant crying.

As for you, at 11-years-old, you’re somehow both numb and feeling everything all at once. Part of you still can’t fully process that this nightmare is real. That your hero, your papa, could be lying comatose in a hospital, hovering between life and death. The other part of you is overwhelmed in a tsunami of terror, panic, anger, sadness — any and every emotion crashing through you at all hours.

“Kids, I’m so sorry about this,” your mother says, defeated, as she rejoins you in the living room after ending her latest call. The bags under her eyes seem to have deepened further overnight. “I know this is incredibly difficult and intrusive. But your papa is … he’s a public figure. People are concerned.”

“Incredibly insensitive is what they’re being,” Gina spits, uncurling herself from the chair enough to shoot your mother a resentful look. “We’re going through actual hell and all these people care about is getting a sound bite for the evening news!”

Corinna looks pained but doesn’t rebuke her. “I know, liebling, I know. But your papa has millions of fans all over the world who have followed his career for decades. Whether we like it or not, they care about him … and about us by extension.”

You think back to that day at the karting track all those years ago when you first realized your papa was what people called “famous”. How all those strangers clamored around him so aggressively just for a photo or an autograph. That level of fandom seemed exciting and novel at the time, when you were just a naïve 5-year-old. Now you see it for how intrusive and violating it is, this sense of entitlement people have to the private life of a public figure.

The phone starts ringing again, shattering the fragile quiet. Your mother squeezes her eyes shut and makes no move to get it this time. After four rings, the call goes to voicemail. A moment later, the tinny sound of an Italian voicemail being left blares through the speaker.

“Scusi, scusi, please, if there is any update on the condition of the great Michael Schumacher, any information at all! We are all holding vigils and saying prayers, but we must know how he fares! The world is watching and waiting!”

The words, pleading and demanding all at once, are like a slap across your face. The man’s voice is laced with such desperation, as if your papa’s life is mere entertainment to be consumedby the masses. You feel abruptly furious, incensed that a stranger’s morbid curiosity is given the same weight as your family’s anguish.

“Turn it off,” Mick mutters through clenched teeth, hunching over on the couch. “Just turn it off, Mama.”

Corinna nods numbly and reaches to end the voicemail, her mouth set in a grim line. Buzzing fills the room again as the TV drones on, the reporters’ voices a dull roar that you can no longer discern actual words from as your ears ring with white noise.

The shrill ringing of the phone cuts through once more, like a record scratching in your brain. Your mother flinches violently, hands coming up to clamp over her ears as she squeezes her eyes shut, finally at her breaking point.

Unable to watch this torture anymore, you surge to your feet and storm across the living room. You rip the phone from its cradle and hurl it against the far wall, the plastic casing shattering loudly. The ringing blessedly ends, leaving only an eerie silence in its wake.

Mick and Gina stare at you with wide, stunned eyes. Your mother simply deflates, sliding down the wall to the floor as the adrenaline drains from her body. For several beats, no one dares breathe too loudly. Then, Gina starts to shake her head slowly, tears slipping free.

“Brava,” she murmurs, the barest hint of approval in her voice.

Your mother doesn’t scold you for the outburst. She merely reaches out a hand, silently beckoning you closer until you slowly cross the room again and sink to your knees in front of her. She cups your face in her palms, her own cheeks glistening with fresh tears.

“You’re right, liebling, you’re right,” she whispers brokenly. “This is about our family, not … not the world thinking they’re owed something.”

She pulls your head against her shoulder and you cling to her tightly as she begins to weep in earnest, great shuddering sobs wracking her whole frame. Gina scrambles over and tucks herself against your mother’s other side, and soon all three of you are tangled in each other’s arms, letting the tidal wave of grief crest over you.

Mick stays frozen on the couch, watching over your huddle with dark, haunted eyes. For the first time since this ordeal began, the four of you are united in simply feeling, truly letting yourselves shatter. No more putting on brave faces or pretending to be okay — from this moment, you can finally grieve as a family behind closed doors, blockading out the rest of the cruel, prying world.

Later that evening, after crying yourselves into an exhausted stupor, you drift up the stairs and sequester yourself in your bedroom. You bypass the framed photos of your papa on your nightstand, the sight of his bright smile and twinkling eyes too searing at the moment. Instead, you sink to your knees in the middle of the floor and clasp your hands tightly, bowing your head to murmur desperate pleas.

“Please, please let my papa be okay. I don’t care about all his fame or the stupid reporters. I just want him to get better and come home to us. He’s not just the famous Michael Schumacher to me. He’s Papa. He’s my whole world.”

The words spill out in a torrent, all the fear and longing you’ve been bottling up for the better part of a week erupting forth. You plead to any higher power that may be listening, bargaining away your future, your dreams, anything — as long as your papa pulls through this nightmare.

How many times had you taken for granted those moments of him just being your dad — making you pancakes on Saturday mornings, dozing on the couch during family movie nights, playfully tossing you into the pool when you grew too whiny in the summer heat? You’d give anything to have those simple, precious daddy-daughter moments back.

“The world can have his trophies and titles,” you whisper fiercely, tears slipping free to patter on the carpet. “I don’t care about any of that. I just want my papa. Please, please bring him back to us.”

You curl in on yourself, forehead pressing into the floor as your shoulders shake with silent sobs. All the adoring fans, the fawning media, the hangers-on clamoring for a piece of his glory — they only know the manufactured public persona of Michael Schumacher, legendary racer and famous celebrity. But to you, he’s always just been the quiet hero tucking you into bed at night, the gentle presence reading stories in funny voices, the mighty protector pulling you in for all-encompassing bear hugs.

You miss that wonderful, silly, tender father more than anything in the world. You don’t give a damn about his racing accolades or his fame. You just desperately need your papa back home where he belongs — with his family, the people who loved and treasured him most as simply Michael.

Just Michael. Your one and only papa.

The raw ache of that longing consumes you utterly. You lay there amid the fading light from your bedroom windows, dreams and memories of your papa flickering behind your eyelids as you plead to any benevolent force that may be listening. All you want is the chance to make more joyful memories with him, to hear his rich laugh, to keep basking in his unconditional love for years and years to come.

Please, you beg the universe silently, one last time. Please let this nightmare end. Don’t let the brightest light in my world be extinguished before its time.

Let me have my papa back.

***

A tense hush has fallen over the dining room table, the clinking of utensils against plates the only sound cutting through the thick silence. Gina avoids everyone’s eyes, pushing food around her plate listlessly. Mick stares down at his half-eaten dinner, jaw working like he’s chewing over something weighty. You pick at a bread roll, too knotted with anxiety to muster much appetite.

Your mother is the one to finally break the stifling quiet, clearing her throat. “Kids, I know these last few weeks have been … incredibly difficult for us all.”

You risk a glance up at Corinna. Her eyes are tight at the corners, her mouth a taut line. Just like all of you, the constant vigil at your papa’s bedside, combined with the relentless badgering from the media, has clearly taken its toll.

“But we have to keep trying to be a family, yes?” She reaches across the table to grip your hand. “We’re all Michael has right now. We have to … to stick together for him.”

You nod numbly, swallowing hard around the lump in your throat at the reminder of your papa’s unchanged condition. The waiting, the not knowing if or when he’ll wake up, is a special kind of torment you wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Mick abruptly shoves his plate away, the porcelain scraping loudly across the wood. You all flinch a little at the harsh sound.

“I’ve been thinking ...” he starts, then seems to reconsider his words, shoulders tightening fractionally. “Well, Y/N, you know how I … how I race under Mama’s last name?”

You frown slightly, uncertain where he’s going with this. “Betsch, yes. Because you wanted to make your own name without the expectation and pressure of being Michael Schumacher’s son.”

He dips his chin once, looking almost pained. “Exactly. And I think … I think maybe you should consider doing the same.”

The words sit heavy and convolulenting between you all like a sack of wet cement. You blink dumbly, hardly comprehending what he’s suggesting at first. When the implication hits you, you actually recoil as if he’d slapped you across the face.

“What? No. No, absolutely not, Mick. How can you even say that?”

“Y/N, just hear me out,” he pleads, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. “With Papa … with what happened, the paparazzi and the fans, they’re going to be watching our every move even more than before. Especially you since you’re planning to continue competing-”

“Don’t you dare make this about his condition,” you spit, fury thrumming through your veins like struck lightning. “And of course I plan to keep racing — it’s what Papa would want! I’m not going to hide from his name like it’s some shameful thing!”

Gina is watching the exchange with wide, startled eyes, her food forgotten. Mick runs an agitated hand through his hair, shaking his head firmly.

“It’s not about hiding or shame, it’s about protecting yourself! Don’t you see how crazy things have gotten? All the reporters harassing us, the fans leaving awful messages online hoping for updates ...”

He leans forward, expression almost desperate. “If you race as Betsch, you can compete without having that extra spotlight. You can just be a normal kid on the track without people peering in.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck in waves of humiliation and rage. How dare he insinuate that inheriting your papa’s legacy is some kind of burden to be shrugged off? That the name Schumacher is a burden to bear rather than a badge of honor?

“I’m not you, Mick,” you bite out, fists clenching beneath the table. “Maybe racing under Mama’s name helped you deal with the pressure better and that’s fine. But I’m proud to be Michael Schumacher’s daughter! And if people can’t respect that, if they think it means they own a piece of me, then they can go to hell!”

“Language!” Your mother gasps, both appalled and slightly impressed. But you ignore her admonishment, too fired up to rein it in now.

“What, you think pretending to be someone else is going to spare me from living in Papa’s shadow anyway?” You shake your head adamantly, leaning across the table towards Mick. “It’s not, and you know it. Even if I raced under a fake name, everyone is still going to know exactly who I am and make comparisons.”

Slamming your palms on the table, you surge to your feet, chair screeching harshly against the floor. All the pain and uncertainty of these past few weeks is bubbling over into bitter, biting words.

“So why should I hide it? Why can’t I take pride in my name and my heritage? Maybe it’ll mean more scrutiny, but it’s a million times better than feeling like I have to be ashamed! Like I can’t fully honor Papa and make him proud!”

Chest heaving, you stare down a wide-eyed Mick, almost daring him to challenge you further. He seems to read the conviction blazing in your eyes, features softening into chagrin.

“You’re right ...” he murmurs with a wince. “You’re right, Y/N, I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

You hold his repentant gaze for a long moment before deflating back into your chair with a muted thud. In the ringing silence, you can hear your mother’s soft sniffles from the far end of the table. When you look over, she has her head bowed, hands pressed to her eyes as she cries quietly.

“M-Mama?” Gina ventures in a small voice, reaching across to grasp her mother’s wrist. “What’s wrong?”

Corinna lowers her hands, swiping at the tears streaking her cheeks. When she meets your bewildered gaze, her expression is a complicated brew of pride and heart-wrenching sadness.

“Nothing is wrong, liebling,” she assures Gina with a watery smile, before turning back to you. “Y/N, you’re so much like your papa, do you know that? So brave and determined … so full of that same fighting spirit.”

She dips her chin, lips trembling faintly. “He would be so proud to hear you defend his name like that. To see you ready to take on the weight of wearing it, regardless of what the world throws at you.”

More tears spill forth, but she brushes them away impatiently with the backs of her hands.

“But liebchen, you have to understand … Michael spent decades bearing that scrutiny and expectation. People analyzing his every move, always under a spotlight so harsh it burned. I never wanted that for any of you.”

Sliding her chair back, your mother crosses to kneel before you, cradling your face gently between her palms. Her eyes are shining but intensely serious, almost pleading with you.

“The Schumacher name casts such a long shadow, one so great that your own light can be eclipsed before you ever have a chance to properly shine. I don’t want you smothered by that burden, mein schatz. I want you free to make your own amazing mark on this world, completely unchained.”

You feel your throat grow tight at her words, the weight of them ringing so true and terribly sad. You reach up to circle your fingers around her wrists, holding her hands to your cheeks like vices.

“I know, Mama, I know,” you whisper roughly. “But that light you want me to shine? Papa is the one who sparked it inside me in the first place.”

You meet her watery gaze steadily, willing her to understand the conviction taking root inside you.

“The joy and passion I have for racing doesn’t come from some anonymous dream. It comes from him — from the nights he spent giving me a play-by-play of his biggest victories, from the days we spent at the karting tracks making memories, from everything I want so desperately to honor.”

Leaning forward until your brows nearly touch, you let the pleasing words spill out directly from your heart.

“So please, please don’t ask me to race as anyone other than your daughter, yes, but also proudly as Michael Schumacher’s daughter. That name isn’t a burden or a shadow to me. It’s something I want to carry forward and make blaze even brighter.”

Your mother’s eyes slip shut as she draws in a shuddering breath. For a long moment, she simply holds your face cradled in her palms, seeming to bask in your impassioned words. When her eyes finally open again, they are overflowing with a fierce tenderness.

“Oh liebchen,” she murmurs, voice thick with an odd mix of grief and wonder. “You are your father’s daughter through and through. So determined, so unafraid to face the world head on ...”

She strokes her thumbs along the apples of your cheeks, swiping away the dampness there. “I only hope he knows just how brightly his fire still burns in you. How it is living on in the most brilliant way.”

Surging up onto her knees, your mother pulls you into a fierce embrace, tucking your head beneath her chin. You cling to her tightly, drawing strength from her warmth, her tireless support and love. Over her shoulder, you can see Mick and Gina watching silently, their own eyes overly bright.

When your mother finally leans back, cupping your face once more, her expression has regained some of its usual firmness and resolution.

“Very well, then,” she nods, offering you a watery but determined smile. “If you truly feel ready to take on the world, to claim that name and legacy as yours, then we will face it together. As a family.”

She rises lithely to her feet, drawing you up along with her. Gathering Mick and Gina in with the sweep of her arms, she folds you all in her protective embrace, holding your foreheads together in the center.

“You may be Schumachers, but that name does not define or limit you,” she declares, quiet but firm. “It is simply one part of your identity, one piece of the incredible legacy you inherited. What you choose to make of it, how brightly you make that legacy burn, is up to you alone.”

She pulls back just enough to meet each of your eyes in turn, her own gleaming with resolute pride.

“So let them watch, let them scrutinize and sneer and make their judgments. You will simply keep chasing your passions and living your truths. Yes, the world may know you as Schumachers, but you alone will define what that name represents, now and for generations to come.”

***

The roar of the engines fades as you cross the finish line, taking the chequered flag. The broadcast team erupts in excitement.

“Unbelievable! Y/N Schumacher has done it — the daughter of the legendary Michael Schumacher wins the Formula 2 championship in her rookie year!”

You can hardly believe it yourself as you start your cooldown lap, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The pit crew is cheering wildly, holding up the #1 sign. Your race engineer is on the radio, his voice cracking with joy. “You’re a champion, Y/N! A first-year champion!”

“What an incredible drive from the young German. Shades of her father with that relentless determination and racecraft. She’s carried on the Schumacher name proudly.”

As you return to the pit lane, you spot Mick getting out of his own car. He has a huge smile on his face, eyes shining with pride. You take a moment to drink it all in as you bring your car to a stop and he’s the first one there, ripping off your helmet so he can hug you tightly.

“You did it! I’m so proud of you!” He’s beaming as he pulls back to look at you.

“Aww, Mick ...” You blink back happy tears, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what you’ve accomplished. “I couldn’t have done it without you pushing me every single race.”

Mick shakes his head dismissively. “This was all you. You were the faster driver this season, plain and simple.” His face falls a little. “I really thought I had you there at the end, but you just wouldn’t give up.”

You grin cheekily. “Of course not! I’m a Schumacher — we never give up.”

“What a beautiful moment between the siblings. You can see the immense pride Mick has for his sister, despite coming up just short of winning the championship himself.”

The rest of the team surrounds the two of you, lifting you both up onto their shoulders as the celebrations kick into full gear. You lock eyes with Mick over the sea of smiling faces and he winks at you contentedly.

Later, after you’ve returned to the garage, you find a quiet moment alone with Mick. He pulls you into another hug, this one more lingering.

“I really am so happy for you, Y/N. You’ve worked so incredibly hard for this.” Mick’s voice is thick with emotion.

You squeeze him tightly. “Thank you, Mick. That means everything coming from you.”

He pulls back, cupping your face fondly. “I remember when we were kids, dreaming of following in Papa’s footsteps. And now look at us!”

You laugh, a few happy tears spilling over. “I know, it’s crazy! I couldn’t have done this without your help, you know. You’ve been by my side every step of the way.”

“A storybook ending for the Schumacher siblings. Y/N cementing herself as a future star, with her older brother not far behind.”

Mick shakes his head adamantly. “No, Y/N, this was all your talent and determination. I just got a front row seat to watching greatness in the making.” His eyes are shining with sincerity.

You throw your arms around his neck, struck by how lucky you are to have such an amazing brother. “I love you, Mick. Thank you for always believing in me.”

He hugs you fiercely. “I’ll always believe in you. You’re a champion now, but I know this is just the beginning for you.”

The team arrives then, champagne bottles in hand and ready to continue the celebration. You pull back and grin at Mick mischievously, cracking open the first bottle with a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you … for now.”

The bubbly liquid sprays everywhere as you both dissolve into laughter, reveling in this perfect moment of sibling bonding and love. Mick pulls you into a wet hug, so proud and grateful to share this with you.

“And an iconic image — the Schumacher children celebrating a Formula 2 title just like their father did in the upper series so many times before. A changing of the guard, with the name Schumacher set to dazzle racing fans once more for years to come.”

Later that night, after you’ve showered off the champagne and slipped into comfy clothes, there’s a soft knock at your hotel room door. You open it to find Mick standing there, shifting awkwardly.

“Hey, you’ve got a second?” His eyes are slightly red-rimmed, like he’s been crying.

“Of course, what’s up?” You gesture him inside, concerned by his demeanor.

Mick enters slowly, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. He seems to be struggling to find the words.

You rest a hand on his arm. “Mick, you can tell me anything, you know that.”

He nods jerkily, finally meeting your eyes. “I really am so happy for you, Y/N. You have no idea how much it means to me to see you accomplishing your dreams.” His voice catches with emotion.

“But?” You prod gently.

Mick’s eyes water again. “But … it’s also really hard for me. This was my dream first, you know? To become a champion like Papa.” He swipes at the tears angrily. “And now you’ve beaten me to it. I’m just … I’m struggling with that a bit.”

Your heart clenches at his quiet admission. You pull Mick into a tight hug, rubbing his back soothingly. “Oh, Mick … I’m so sorry. I never wanted to take that away from you.”

He shakes his head against your shoulder. “No, no, it’s not your fault at all. You earned this, fair and square. I’m just … dealing with some complicated emotions, I guess.”

You push him back by the shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes intently. “Mick, listen to me. You are one of the most naturally gifted drivers I’ve ever seen. This is not the end for you, not even close. You’re going to be a champion too, I know it.”

Mick seems to deflate slightly at your words, the tension easing from his shoulders. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you state firmly. “We’re going to take this to the top level together. And we’re going to make Papa even more proud than he already is.”

A slow smile spreads across Mick’s face. “Together,” he repeats, reaching out to take your hand and give it a squeeze.

You squeeze back reassuringly. “Always together. You and me, just like when we were kids. We’re a team, remember?”

Mick nods, the brightness returning to his eyes. He seems lighter now, the melancholy cloud lifted by your words of encouragement.

On impulse, you throw your arms around him again, nearly knocking him over with the force of your hug. Mick laughs delightedly, squeezing you just as tightly.

“Thank you, Y/N. I needed to hear that from you,” he murmurs shakily into your hair.

You pull back just enough to grin at him cheekily. “What are little sisters for?”

Mick lets out a surprised bark of laughter, warmth and affection shining from every part of his expression as he gazes at you fondly. “You’ll always be my little sis, champion or not.”

It’s your turn to laugh, swatting at his chest playfully. “Well this little sis just kicked your ass this season, so show some respect!”

Mick’s eyes crinkle with mirth. “I’ll remember that for next year, believe me.”

***

It’s a crisp autumn evening at the Schumacher family home in the Swiss Alps. You’re curled up on the plush couch in the living room, flipping through a magazine while your brother paces back and forth anxiously.

“Will you please sit down?” You ask, eyeing him over the top of the pages. “You’re making me dizzy.”

Mick runs a hand through his tousled blond hair. “Sorry, I’m just … worked up, I guess.”

You set the magazine aside. “About what? We haven’t had a race in weeks.”

He stops his pacing to face you. “You know the season’s almost over, right? And Haas still hasn’t said anything about re-signing me for next year.”

“Oh, Mick.” You offer him a sympathetic look. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. You’ve had a solid season.”

Mick flops down next to you, deflating a little. “I don’t know. There are so many other options on the table. What if Haas decides to go a different direction?”

“Then you’ll find another seat,” you say firmly. “Any team would be lucky to have you behind the wheel.”

He manages a half-smile. “Thanks. I just wish I had your confidence sometimes.”

“What can I say?” You flash him a cheeky grin. “It’s a gift.”

The peaceful moment is shattered as both of your phones start ringing in unison. You exchange a puzzled look before digging them out.

“My manager,” Mick says, furrowing his brow as he answers. “Hello?”

You do the same, pressing the phone to your ear. “Hey, Nicolas, what’s up?”

For the next few minutes, you and Mick are silent, listening intently with rapidly changing expressions — yours elated, his crestfallen. When you finally hang up, Mick is staring at the floor, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Well?” He asks, voice tight. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

You take a deep breath, trying to tamp down your surging excitement. “Ferrari wants me for next season.”

Mick’s face falls even further, if possible. “You’re kidding.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this!” You can’t keep the grin from overtaking your features. “Can you believe it? Driving for the Scuderia! It’s a dream come true!”

“Yeah, for you maybe,” Mick mutters darkly.

You blink at his tone, smile fading slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He drags a hand down his face wearily. “Haas declined to re-sign me for next year.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. “What? No, that can’t be right!”

“Afraid so.” Mick’s voice is flat, resigned. “They said something about … needing to bring in fresh blood or some bullshit excuse.”

You scoot closer, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “Mick, I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”

“Don’t be.” He tries for a nonchalant shrug, but it comes off as dejected. “At least one of us is moving up in the world.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?” You protest. “We’re teammates! We were supposed to take on Formula 1 together!”

Mick snorts humorlessly. “Looks like that’s not going to happen after all.”

An uncomfortable silence stretches between you. You open your mouth, searching for the right words of reassurance, but come up empty. How can you comfort him when your own dream has come true at his expense?

“Hey.” Mick’s somber tone breaks the quiet. “I’m happy for you, you know. Really, I am.”

You meet his sincere gaze, feeling your eyes start to well up. “I know. But that doesn’t make this any less shitty for you.”

He manages a rueful smile. “What can I say? I’m a realist.”

“So what are you going to do now?” You ask quietly.

Mick lets out a heavy sigh, leaning back against the couch cushions. “Keep grinding, I guess. Look for another seat, any seat, even if it’s not in F1 next season.”

“You can’t give up on F1!” You protest instantly. “You’re too good for that, Mick.”

“Am I, though?” He lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Face it, Y/N, you’ve always been the better driver. This just proves it.”

You shake your head adamantly. “That’s not true at all! You’re every bit as talented as me.”

“Then why did Ferrari pick you instead of me?” There’s no accusation in his words, just weariness.

You falter, mind churning as you search for an answer that won’t come. “I … don’t know.”

“Exactly.” Mick closes his eyes briefly. “Maybe it’s for the best. At least this way, one of us still gets to live out the Schumacher legacy and race for Ferrari. Carry on the family name, you know?”

“But you’re a Schumacher too,” you say, feeling your throat start to tighten with unshed tears. “It should be both of us out there, not just me.”

Mick reaches over to give your hand a comforting squeeze. “Hey, don’t cry about it. I’ll be okay, really.”

“How can you be so calm about this?” You swipe angrily at the moisture gathering in your eyes. “It’s not fair, Mick. It’s just not fair at all.”

He levels you with a look that’s decades older than his years. “Life rarely is. You know that as well as I do.”

You fall silent, unable to formulate a response. He’s right, you realize with a pang. The two of you, of all people, should understand that success and failure often go hand-in-hand, even for the most talented competitors.

Pursing your lips, you lean forward and pull Mick into a fierce hug. He tenses for a split second before wrapping his arms around you tightly.

“I’m still so proud of you,” you murmur into the crook of his neck. “No matter what happens, you’ll always be my incredible big brother.”

Mick lets out a shaky exhale against your hair. “And you’re the most badass little sister a guy could ask for. Ferrari has no idea what they’re in for.”

You pull back just far enough to meet his eyes, emboldened by the warm affection shining in them.

“Just promise me one thing?” You ask.

He arches an eyebrow quizzically. “What’s that?”

A mischievous grin tugs at your lips. “That you’re not going to take it easy on me whenever you’re back on the grid.”

***

You take a deep breath as you pull your sleek new Ferrari up to the iconic factory in Maranello. This place holds so many memories — some joyful, others bittersweet. Your father cemented himself as a legend here, and you can’t help but feel the weight of that legacy on your shoulders now more than ever.

The door swings open and there stands Fred Vasseur offering you a warm smile. “Y/N, welcome home.”

You return the smile, unable to mask the flood of emotions. “It’s good to be back, Fred.”

He gestures for you to follow him inside. “I’m sure this place brings back quite a few memories.”

“You have no idea,” you murmur, taking in the familiar sights and smells. The rosso corsa that coats every surface, the scent of machinery and high-octane fuel … it’s intoxicating.

A tiny you runs through the hallways, giggling madly as your frantic mother tries to catch up. “Mick! Y/N! Get back here this instant!”

Mick peeks out from behind a workbench, sticking his tongue out at Gina, who playfully swats at him. You spot the perfect hiding spot — a massive green recycling bin tucked in the corner ...

“Y/N? Are you still with me?” Fred’s voice breaks you from your reverie.

You shake your head. “Sorry, got a bit lost in thought there. This place just … feels like stepping into the past.”

Fred nods knowingly. “I can only imagine. But today is about your future with the team.” He leads you through the winding corridors, pointing out various departments. “Over here is aerodynamics, that hallway takes you to the design labs ...”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Your father’s voice echoes down the corridor, his tone playful but tinged with desperation. You stifle a giggle from your hiding spot as his footsteps draw closer.

“Michael, any luck?” That’s Paolo, one of the mechanics. You chance a peek and see half the team has been enlisted to search for you.

Your dad scrubs a hand over his face. “She’s too good at this game. Should’ve known better than to play hide-and-seek in a place this size.”

You chuckle softly at the memory, prompting a curious look from Fred. “Sorry, just … reminiscing again.”

He gives you an easy grin. “By all means, feel free to share. I’d love to hear some of those old stories.”

You take a breath, composing yourself before launching into the tale. “Well, there was this one time when I was maybe … four or five? Mick and I were causing an unholy ruckus as usual, and Papa suggested a game of hide-and-seek to wear us out. Big mistake on his part.”

Fred’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Let me guess, you proved to be a master hider?”

“You could say that.” You grin mischievously. “I found this big recycling bin, crawled inside, and stayed completely silent while the whole team tore the place apart looking for me. Papa was just about to call in the overalls for backup when Paolo finally peeked in the bin.”

Fred throws his head back with a hearty laugh. “I can just picture your poor father’s face when they found you! He must’ve been both relieved and completely exasperated.”

You nod. “Oh, he wore that particular blend of emotions often when we were young terrors around here.”

The two of you continue chatting amicably as Fred shows you around the various facilities — the simulator room, the engine workshop, even the gym and physiotherapy center. With each new area unveiled, another flood of nostalgia washes over you.

You and Mick sprint into the wide-open workshop, engines and miscellaneous car pieces scattered all around. Gina is closing in, her longer legs giving her an advantage.

“Got you now, you little gremlins!” She scoops Mick up with one arm, then turns her sights on you.

You let out a shriek of laughter, dodging around a massive piece of equipment as your mother joins the chase. “Come here, Maus! It’s time for your nap!”

You shake your head furiously. “No nap! No nap!”

Corinna’s hand finally snags the back of your shirt, and you erupt into a fit of giggles as she pulls you into a hug ...

“That’s some smile you’ve got going there,” Fred notes with a wry grin. “I take it another happy memory?”

You give an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, you could say that. Just … remembering how this place used to be our personal jungle gym. Mick, Gina, and I would run absolute loops around Mama while she tried to wrangle us for nap time.”

Fred chuckles fondly. “I can picture three tiny terrors leaving chaos in their wake.” His expression softens. “It must be incredibly special to be back here after all these years. To follow in your father’s footsteps like this.”

You swallow hard against the swell of emotions. “It’s … overwhelming, if I’m being honest. But in the best possible way.” You glance around at the familiar setting with new eyes. “These halls practically raised me. And now … now I get to write my own chapter here.”

Fred gives your shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “You’ve got a long road ahead, but I have complete faith you’ll make us all proud, Y/N.”

You straighten your shoulders, giving him a determined nod. “I’m ready.”

As you follow him further into the factory, you can’t help but revel in the rush of coming full circle. Yes, this team, this place, is indelibly woven into your childhood. But now … now it’s time to create new memories.

To race.

To win.

To become a legend.

***

The crowd outside the Ferrari headquarters swells as you emerge from the famous red doors for the first time as an official Scuderia Ferrari driver. Shouts and cheers erupt from every direction, fans pressing forward eagerly with pens and photos clutched in their hands.

“Over here, Y/N!”

“Un selfie, per favore!”

“Can you sign this for my daughter?”

You plaster on a polite smile, trying to graciously oblige as many autograph and photo requests as possible. But the throngs only grow more insistent, hands grabbing at you from all angles as the crowd closes in. Your heart races and you feel yourself starting to panic at the lack of personal space.

“Per favore, let her breathe!” An insistent voice cuts through the commotion in lightly accented Italian.

The crowd parts slightly as a familiar, lean figure pushes through — your new teammate. His green eyes meet yours with a reassuring look as he plants himself firmly by your side.

“Give her some space!” Charles barks out in English this time. “She can’t breathe!”

You shoot him a grateful glance as the fans reluctantly take a step back. Charles gently takes your arm and pulls you out of the scrum.

“Sorry about that,” he says with an apologetic smile, running a hand through his tousled brown hair. “I know how intense they can be around here.”

“No, thank you,” you reply earnestly. “I was about two seconds away from an anxiety attack.”

Charles chuckles. “Well, we can’t have the new driver cracking under pressure on day one.”

You make a face at his teasing remark. “Watch it, pretty boy.”

Laughing, Charles puts his arm around your shoulders in a friendly gesture. “Come on, I know just the place to escape the madness for a bit. Dinner’s on me.”

He guides you across the plaza and down a side street to a cozy trattoria — Ristorante Montana, known as the unofficial “Ferrari restaurant” frequented by team members. As you enter, a stout woman with a warm, welcoming smile emerges from the back.

“Ah, Charles! Welcome back. And this must be ...” Her eyes widen as they land on you. “Oh, la piccola principessa is all grown up!”

Flustered, you open your mouth to respond, but the woman has already swept you up in a tight embrace.

“Rossella, you’re smothering the poor girl!” A elderly man’s voice calls out in amused rebuke.

“Hush, Maurizio, and pour us some wine!” Rossella releases you and holds you at arm’s length, beaming. “Michael’s little girl, all woman now. I’ll never forget the first time your father brought you in here as a bambina.”

She gestures to a framed photo hanging on the wall of a much younger Rossella standing next to Michael, who is holding a grinning toddler — unmistakably you.

“He was so proud,” Rossella continues misty-eyed. “Just like I know he would be of you today, following in your father’s footsteps.”

You swallow hard, touched by the warm welcome and memory. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Charles watching you with a soft smile.

Rossella shifts gears abruptly, all business. “Now, what will you two have? The usual for you, Charles? And for you, la principessa, I insist you try the gnocchi al ragú. Just like my nonna used to make it.”

As Rossella whisks off to the kitchen, Maurizio appears with a bottle of deep red wine and two glasses.

“To new beginnings,” he toasts with a wink, pouring for you and Charles.

You raise your glass to clink against Charles’ with a smile. “New beginnings.”

Over pasta and wine, you and Charles fall into an easy rapport, bantering back and forth as the weight of the evening’s earlier stress dissipates. You find yourself repeatedly distracted by the dimpled grin that lights up his face whenever he laughs at one of your quips.

“So is this a regular hazing ritual you put all the rookies through?” You ask innocently. “Get them away from the crowds and ply them with wine so they’re too drunk to be nervous on day one?”

Charles barks out a laugh. “You’ve found me out! Although I do seem to recall my own initiation being a lot harder. Maybe I’m going soft in my old age.”

“Old age? You’re what …12?” You retort, eyes dancing with mirth.

The waiter arrives with the dessert menu, but Rossella shoos him away.

“No, no menu. I’m bringing you the tiramisu to share. My secret recipe.”

Charles groans in delight. “You’re a legend, Rossella.”

She pats his cheek affectionately before disappearing again. A comfortable silence falls between you and Charles as you each take a bite of the rich, velvety tiramisu.

“Mmmm, this is literally heaven,” you murmur happily.

Charles hums in agreement around another forkful.

Your eyes catch movement out of the corner and you turn to see Rossella returning, carrying a large framed photo under her arm. She sets it down on the empty chair next to you with a proud grin.

It’s a glamor shot of you from a recent photoshoot for Vogue Italia — hair and makeup impeccable, lips parted in a secret smile as you gaze directly at the camera.

Rossella rests a hand on your shoulder. “For me, bellissima? So we can hang la principessa right next to il padre.”

Touched, you take the proffered sharpie and scribble out a quick inscription before signing your name with a flourish at the bottom.

“Grazie mille,” Rossella breathes, throwing an arm around you to squeeze you against her ample frame. “You’ve made this old heart very happy tonight.”

When she finally releases you, you see Charles watching you both with a soft, almost wistful expression. You raise your eyebrows at him in question, but he just shakes his head with a smile.

As you and Charles prepare to depart, Rossella calls out once more. “You come back soon, eh principessa? I have more pictures to collect.”

You throw her a wink over your shoulder. “D’accordo, d’accordo. We’ll be back soon!”

Out on the street, you pause, conscious of the evening rapidly drawing to a close. You turn to Charles, studying him properly for the first time. His deep green eyes crinkle at the corners as he meets your gaze.

“Thank you,” you say sincerely. “Really. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t swooped in to rescue me back there.”

Charles shrugs nonchalantly, but his expression is kind. “We look out for our own in Ferrari. That’s what teammates are for, no?”

A beat passes, the momentary tension thickening between you. Then Charles seems to catch himself, clearing his throat.

“Anyway, I should let you get going before your handlers send out a search party. Need me to call you a car?”

“No, no I’m good,” you reply quickly, trying to mask your disappointment at the night ending. “My performance coach has the car around front.”

You start to turn away, then impulsively pivot back. Rising up on your toes, you throw your arms around Charles’ neck and pull him in for a brief, platonic hug.

“Seriously, thank you,” you murmur in his ear. “For everything.”

As you pull back, your faces are just inches apart. Charles’ eyes are warm, his gaze intense. For a dizzying moment, you’re certain he’s going to kiss you. Then just as suddenly, the moment passes and he steps back with a friendly smile.

“Anytime, princesse. I’ll see you bright and early next week for our first time running the SF-23 on the simulator.”

With a wink, he turns and saunters off down the street, hands shoved in his pockets in that effortlessly cool way of his. You let out a long breath, flustered and exhilarated all at once.

Your performance coach has indeed been waiting with the car, looking mildly concerned. “Everything alright?”

You flash her a bright smile, practically skipping to the car. “It is now, Mara. It absolutely is.”

Your first day as a Ferrari driver was certainly more than you bargained for. But as you settle into the plush leather seats, you can’t wipe the silly grin off your face. Something tells you this new chapter with the Scuderia is going to be an adventure — in more ways than one.

As Mara pulls away from the curb, you catch a final glimpse of Charles striding confidently down the street. Even from a distance, you can make out the dimpled smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

Leaning back against the headrest, you think back to the memory of his arm slung casually around your shoulders and sigh contentedly. Yes, you have a feeling this is just the beginning of what’s shaping up to be a very interesting partnership with Charles Leclerc.

***

Sebastian looks over the wine list, pretending to be engrossed in selecting the perfect vintage as he peers over the top of the menu. His eyes are fixated on the entrance to the upscale Italian restaurant, waiting for Charles and you to arrive.

This had better work, he thinks to himself. The two of you have been making googly eyes at each other for months now, but are both too stubborn to make a move.

Finally, the hostess leads Charles and you into the dining room. Sebastian ducks down, pulling the brim of his fedora lower over his face and adjusting the fake mustache he’s wearing as a disguise. He watches as the hostess shows Charles and you to an intimate table for two by the window, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating your faces.

“There must be some mistake,” Charles says, looking around in confusion. “I was under the impression we were meeting Sebastian here for dinner?”

You look equally perplexed. “That’s what he told me too. He said to meet at 8 o’clock sharp.”

“Well this is just awkward,” Charles runs a hand through his tousled hair. “Should we wait for him or ...”

Before you can respond, the waiter arrives with a basket of bread and butter. “Good evening, my name is Gerardo and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

“Actually, we’re still waiting on-” Charles begins, but the waiter cuts him off.

“Ah yes, Mr. Vettel asked me to inform you that he will be unable to join this evening after all. A last minute obligation came up. He insisted I take excellent care of you both and that the evening is on his treat.” Gerardo smiles broadly. “So what will you have to drink?”

Sebastian smirks to himself at his cleverly orchestrated ruse from his secluded table in the back corner. He watches with bated breath as a flustered Charles and you exchange an awkward look.

“I’ll have a glass of Chianti,” you say finally, breaking the tension.

“Make that two,” Charles adds with a resigned sigh.

As Gerardo heads off to grab your drinks, an uncomfortable silence falls over the table. “You know, we don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Charles says, ever the gentleman. “I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding.”

“Don’t be silly,” you reply, offering him a warm smile that makes Sebastian’s heart melt a little. “It would be rude to ruin the evening Sebastian so carefully planned, even if he’s not actually here to enjoy it.”

Charles visibly relaxes at your acceptance of the situation. “You’re right, of course. If it’s a free dinner, we would be fools to turn that down!”

You both share a laugh, finally breaking the ice. Sebastian feels a swell of pride watching the two of you start to let your guards down around each other.

Over the next hour or so, Sebastian is delighted to see Charles and you become more at ease, trading jokes and stories over several delectable courses of pasta, veal, and freshly baked focaccia. He’s never seen either of you look so lighthearted and carefree, nor has he witnessed two people connect on such an organic, genuine level before. It’s positively magical to behold.

Gerardo arrives once more, this time bearing a decadent slice of torta della nonna for you to share for dessert. “Compliments of the house,” he announces with a wink before departing.

You immediately dig into the lemony confection with gusto. “Oh my god, this is dangerously good,” you moan through a mouthful of pastry cream and flaky crust.

Charles tries and fails to stifle a laugh at your unabashed enthusiasm. “You’ve got a little ...” he gestures vaguely at the corners of your mouth.

“What? Where?” You ask, attempting to wipe the stray crumbs and smears of powdered sugar from your cheeks.

“Here, let me,” Charles says softly, reaching across the table with his cloth napkin.

Sebastian watches with bated breath, his heart pounding in his chest, as Charles tenderly swipes the napkin along your lips, his thumb grazing your cheek in the process. The moment seems to last an eternity, the two of you locked in each other’s smoldering gaze.

Then, ever so slowly, Charles leans across the table towards you. Sebastian can scarcely breathe as he witnesses the magnetic pull drawing the two of you together. This is it, this is finally happening, he marvels silently.

Sebastian lets out an inadvertent yelp of glee and instantly slaps his hands over his mouth. A table of nearby diners turns to gawk at the strange mustached man.

“Ahem, sorry! Hairball,” Sebastian rasps out in a terrible Italian accent. He slinks down in the booth, burning with embarrassment as the other patrons slowly turn away with disgusted looks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charles and you also turn towards the commotion, the heated moment effectively ruined. Damn it, he was so close!

You and Charles eventually turn back towards each other, the awkwardness having returned. “We should, uh, probably ask for the check soon,” Charles mumbles, unable to meet your eyes.

“Yeah, I’ve got an early training session in the morning anyway,” you reply, the disappointment evident in your voice as you stare down at the table.

Inwardly cursing his rotten luck, Sebastian motions for the bill and slips his black credit card into the folder when Gerardo brings it. He knows the only way to redeem this night is to insist you and Charles stay for one more drink. Maybe add a little more wine confidence to help reignite that spark you both nearly combusted over just moments ago.

As Gerardo whisks away to process Sebastian’s payment, the older German steels his nerves. He removes his ridiculous disguise, straightens his tie, and makes his way over to your table with purpose.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Sebastian asks with an exaggerated wink as he reaches you. “It appears Mr. Leclerc and Miss Schumacher were stood up this evening. For shame!”

“Ah, Seb!” Charles laughs in surprise at seeing his friend and former teammate. “We should have known you were behind this madness.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “You’re a menace! I can’t believe you tricked us like that.”

Sebastian claps his hands together and flashes you both a devilish grin. “What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic who cannot abide two clearly smitten people tiptoeing around each other any longer. Now, Gerardo is going to bring you the finest Barolo they have, on my dime, and you are going to remedy this sexual tension situation once and for all over another bottle or three!”

Charles opens his mouth to protest, but you laugh delightedly and nod towards Sebastian. “You know what, I could go for another drink. What do you say, Charles?”

The older Ferrari driver seems to wilt under the weight of your brilliant smile, Sebastian can’t fault the man for that. “Ah, what the hell,” Charles shrugs, throwing his arm around the back of your chair. “Let’s see where this night takes us!”

Sebastian settles in, pouring you all generous glasses of the deep ruby wine when Gerardo delivers it. He may be getting on in years, but his matchmaking job has only just begun. One way or another, he’s determined to ensure his two protégés quit stumbling over each other and finally discover the romance that’s been blossoming under their noses all along.

Sipping his wine, Sebastian gazes at you and Charles, sees the tenderness flickering in both your eyes as you lean in closer together over the candlelight. He smiles contentedly to himself.

Mission accomplished.

***

The paddock is mostly deserted at this late hour, the muffled sounds of the teams packing up drifting in from the garages. You linger near the Ferrari motorhome, watching Charles sitting alone on a stack of tires, shoulders slumped. He’s been increasingly withdrawn these past few days leading up to the Japanese Grand Prix.

You approach slowly, not wanting to startle him. “Charles? You okay?”

He looks up, managing a small smile when he sees you. “Hey, mon amour.”

There’s a weariness to his voice that tugs at your heart. You take a seat beside him, letting your arm brush against his in a subtle show of support. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Charles is silent for a long moment, pulling his helmet off and turning it over in his hands. “It’s Suzuka,” he finally says, so softly you have to lean in to hear him. “Being back here … it’s difficult.”

Your brow furrows. Right, this is where Jules Bianchi crashed, his accident eventually proving fatal. Charles had been incredibly close with his mentor and godfather. “I can’t even imagine how painful this must be.” You cover his hand with yours. “Having to race on the same track ...”

“I relive that day over and over.” Charles’s accented voice is thick with emotion. “I can still see the footage of his car slamming into the crane, like it’s burned into my mind. He was my friend, my godfather, like a brother to me. And now every year, I have to come back to this place that took him from us far too soon.” He squeezes his eyes shut, a stray tear escaping.

“Oh, Charles ...” You wrap your arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. His body is rigid at first before melting against you, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him tightly as his breath hitches with suppressed sobs, your own eyes stinging. How many times has he bottled up this grief, putting on a brave face for the world?

“I’m so sorry,” you murmur, stroking his back. “I can’t imagine the pain you’ve carried all these years. But Jules wouldn’t want you torturing yourself like this.” You pull away enough to frame his face with your hands, meeting his reddened eyes. “He’d want you to keep living, to keep pursuing your dream that he helped nurture. He’d be so proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”

Charles manages a watery smile, covering one of your hands with his. “You’re right. Thank you, chérie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He leans in, resting his forehead against yours with a shuddering sigh. “I just miss him so much some days. Like an ache I can’t shake.”

“I know.” You brush away the dampness on his cheeks with your thumbs. “Believe me, I understand that ache all too well.”

A crease forms between Charles’s brows as he regards you intently. “Your papa.”

You give a solemn nod. “Everyone talks about him like he’s gone. But he’s not, he’s still here, still breathing. It’s just … he’s not the same man I grew up with anymore.” You blink back tears of your own. “Sometimes I’ll see flashes that remind me so much of how Papa used to be. And then that illusion is shattered and I’m grieving all over again for the person he was.”

Charles’ arms wrap around you fully, tucking your head under his chin. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be. Seeing those glimpses of the man he was, only to have that hope ripped away.” He presses his lips to the crown of your head. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You let out a choked laugh. “Yeah, definitely doesn’t feel like it most days.” Pulling away, you try for a smile. “But we Schumachers are fighters. We don’t stay down for long.”

“That’s my girl.” Charles grins, cupping your face and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “I’m lucky to have you by my side through all of this craziness. I don’t know what I’d do without your support, especially this weekend.”

“Are you kidding?” You turn to fully face him, clasping his hands in yours. “Charles, you’ve been my rock too, you know that? Signing with Ferrari this year, following in my father’s footsteps … the pressure has been immense. But you’ve never let me crumble under it. You’re always there with a laugh or a hug or some silly joke to make me smile even on the hardest days.”

Charles’s grin turns lopsided, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that always makes your heart flutter. “Well, someone has to keep that ego of yours from inflating too much, future champion.” He leans in until his lips are a mere breath from yours. “But in all seriousness, we’re in this together, okay? No matter what the future holds, I’ll always have your back.”

“I know,” you murmur, feeling his words like a soothing balm over the parts of your heart still aching for your father as you once knew him. “And I’ll always have yours. We’re a team, on and off the track.” You close the distance between you, kissing him deeply.

Charles returns the kiss with fervor, his fingers threading through your hair to hold you close. The worries plaguing you both seem to temporarily fade into the background amid the warmth and solidity of his embrace. When you finally break apart, breathless, his emerald gaze holds an intensity that steals the air from your lungs in the best way.

“Je t’aime,” he murmurs, the endearment like a vow falling from his lips. “No matter what happens out there tomorrow, or any other race day, that will never change. You and me against the world, princesse.”

You flash him a coy smile, feeling desire begin to simmer low in your belly. “Is that a promise, Mr. Leclerc?”

“Mmm, I can make it one if you’d like.” Charles waggles his eyebrows, making you giggle as his hands roam freely over your back and sides, pulling you flush against him. His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Maybe I can find more convincing ways to pledge my devotion once we’re back at the hotel.”

“I definitely wouldn’t be opposed to that,” you say breathily, leaning in to nip at his lower lip in a way that makes him groan. “Though if memory serves, I seem to recall you saying something about honoring the team’s curfew tonight?” You trail openmouthed kisses along the sharp line of his jaw. “Wouldn’t want to be … sleep deprived before the race.”

Charles’s fingers flex against your hips as he lets out a shuddering breath. “You’re really testing my willpower here.”

“Payback for all those times you’ve tortured me.” You punctuate the statement with a sharp nip to the sensitive skin below his ear, making him jerk against you with a strangled sound. Pulling back, you smirk at the glazed look in his eyes. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

He blinks slowly, then his gaze narrows in a way that makes heat flare across your skin. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that later.” His voice is low, almost a growl that sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

“I look forward to it.” You lean in until your lips are nearly brushing his again.

“Tease,” Charles accuses, though his kiss quickly swallows any further retort.

You lose yourself in the press of his mouth, the exploring glide of his hands over your body, the undeniable chemistry that still sometimes takes your breath away. When you finally break apart, gasping for air, you stay wrapped in each other’s arms, foreheads resting together.

“Thank you,” Charles murmurs after a long beat of comfortable silence. “For always knowing how to pull me out of my own head. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“That’s what partners are for,” you say simply, brushing back the silken strands of chestnut hair falling over his forehead. His eyes are so warm, so full of love and adoration, you feel it envelop you like a cozy blanket. “I’ll always be here to lean on, just like you are for me.”

Charles catches your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm. “And I’m grateful for that every single day. Facing the good times and bad, together.” His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “I know Suzuka will never be easy, not with the weight of the memories here. But you make the burden feel lighter. Like no matter what, I’ll be okay as long as I have you by my side.”

You lean in, brushing a featherlight kiss across his lips. “Always. No matter what the future holds, you’re stuck with me, Leclerc.”

A slow, utterly content smile spreads across his face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He steals another lingering kiss before glancing toward the pit area, where the last few stragglers are packing up for the night. “As much as I’d love to keep you all to myself, I suppose we should try to get some rest before tomorrow.”

Sliding off the tire stack, he offers you his hand, that warm gleam still dancing in his forest-colored eyes. “Though maybe we could indulge in a long, hot shower first? You know, to … unwind after such an emotionally draining evening.”

You raise an eyebrow at his transparent attempt at nonchalance, but can’t help a smirk from tugging at your lips. “Why, Mr. Leclerc, are you propositioning me?”

“Would that be so terrible?” He tugs you into his arms, leaving a trail of teasing kisses along your jaw. “After all, we did have quite the … charged conversation just now. I’d hate for all that pent-up tension to distract us on track tomorrow.”

You let out a breathless giggle as his wandering hands and lips leave tingles across your skin. “Well, when you put it that way … I suppose a nice, relaxing shower could be just what we need to clear our heads.” Looping your arms around his neck, you meet his heated gaze through lowered lashes. “Lead the way, liebling.”

Charles’ responding grin is nothing short of wolfish. “With pleasure.” Scooping you up in his arms, he heads for the parking lot at a swift pace, leaving the weight of Suzuka and its ghosts behind for the night.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening as you bring your Ferrari across the finish line, tires smoking from the incredible pace. Your race engineer’s voice crackles over the radio, congratulating you, but the words are drowned out by the thunderous cheers echoing around the Autodromo Nazionale Monza.

You can hardly believe it. Your first season with the Scuderia and you’ve just won the Italian Grand Prix — on the hallowed ground that your father once ruled. The sea of fans decked out in red is a sight to behold, celebrating wildly as you complete the cool-down lap.

Pulling into parc fermé, you kill the engine, the high-pitched whine slowly dying away. Undoing the straps, you clamber out, still trying to process what just happened. This is really real.

“You!”

The familiar voice makes you turn. It’s Charles, beaming from ear-to-ear despite settling for second place today. He pulls you into a massive hug, squeezing you tightly.

“I can’t believe you just did that! Amazing drive!”

You laugh, giddy with joy and adrenaline. “I still can’t believe it either! Everything just … clicked.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Charles chuckles, ruffling your sweat-damp hair. “You were incredible out there. Absolutely brilliant.”

Hearing the praise from your boyfriend means everything. You know how hard he’s worked, how much he’s sacrificed to get this far. And he’s still your biggest supporter.

The two of you finally pull apart as the rest of the team makes their presence known, congratulating you with bearhugs and massive pats on the back. You did it — you brought the victory home for Ferrari at the Temple of Speed.

After the chaos of the post-race celebrations dies down a little, it’s time for the podium ceremony. You can’t wait to stand up there, basking in the adulation of the wildly passionate Tifosi. As you make your way out with Charles and the third place finisher, the crowd’s cheers swell to a new eardrum-bursting level.

Climbing the steps, you take your spot on the top level, heart racing as you look out over the endless sea of fans. The air is filled with brilliant red smoke, passionate flag-wavers creating mesmerizing patterns. You’ve seen Grands Prix in Italy before, but being up here, having actually won — it’s on another level entirely.

Speeches are made, anthems are played, and then it’s time to crack open the podium champagne. As the bottles are picked up, a rolling chant starts building in the grandstands:

“La Prin-ci-pess-a! La Prin-ci-pess-a!”

The sound shakes you to your core. Tears instantly spring to your eyes.

Charles, beside you on the second step, grins and nudges you. “Listen to them! You’ve done it — you’ve made them fall in love with you just like they did with your father.”

Looking down at him with misty eyes, you mouth, “Thank you,” so overwhelmed that you can’t speak. He slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close. The two of you share a soft kiss as the chanting grows louder and louder.

As you pull back, gazing out over the surging tide of humanity, faces beaming up at you in adoration, it finally sinks in. This moment — winning at Monza for Ferrari, with Charles by your side, the Tifosi embracing you wholeheartedly — is beyond anything you ever could have dreamed.

The emotions pour out in waves of joy and pride and disbelief. You raise your bottle high, echoing the chants and cheering your heart out to the crowd. They roar back even louder, feeding off your energy in the way that only this group of diehard fans can.

Once the champagne showers subside, giddy fans whistling at you and Charles canoodling on the podium, it’s time to head back down. But the celebrations are just getting started. The team wants to keep the party going.

On the drive over to Maranello, you find yourself sandwiched in the backseat between Charles and your race engineer, Ricky. Everyone is grinning like maniacs, high on the thrill of victory, singing drinking songs at the top of their lungs.

“Solo per lei! Principessa di Monza!” Ricky bellows, gently elbowing you. The rest join in, filling the car with the chant of “Only for her! Princess of Monza!” You can’t stop giggling, leaning into Charles, deliriously happy.

Once you finally roll up to the factory, the party spills out of the car and into the streets. The entire workforce has turned out, waving huge Ferrari flags, beating drums and sounding air horns in celebration. You’re immediately swarmed, being passed from hug to hug as champagne is sprayed in joyful arcs.

They finally manage to sweep you, Charles, and most of your garages inside the factory, where long banquet tables have been set up in the main hall. An enormous cheer goes up as you enter, sparkling wine sloshing from hastily poured glasses all around you.

The meal that follows is a total blur — amazing food, flowing alcohol, raucous toasts, and the happiest pandemonium you’ve ever witnessed. You keep getting tugged from conversation to conversation, everyone wanting to hear how the race played out from your lips. Charles sticks by your side the whole time, looking on with sheer pride.

At one point, you end up going shot for shot with Fred Vasseur, the team principal pouring vodka like his job depends on it. “La mia principessa!” He chuckles, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears of joy. “You’ve made us all so proud today!”

He hoists his glass. “To our Princess! The Princess of Monza!”

The chant starts up again all around you. “La Prin-ci-pess-a! La Prin-ci-pess-a!”

You beam at them all, squeezing Fred’s hand. No words can describe this feeling, being embraced so completely by your team — your family. This is what you’ve dreamed about since you were a little girl. Following in your father’s footsteps, bringing glory to Ferrari, carrying on the legend.

The party rages on long into the night. At some point, you lose track of time completely, delirious with exhaustion from the whirlwind of emotion.

You come around for a moment, blinking in the dim glow of the factory lights. There’s quiet rumbles of laughter around you, echoing off the walls. Looking around blearily, you realize you’ve been tucked into a makeshift bed fashioned from a pile of Ferrari t-shirts, nestled in one of the car assembly spaces.

Charles is there too, cradled against your side, one arm wrapped protectively around you. The rest of the team — your PR officers, engineers, mechanics, everyone — is strewn about in similar nests, all of them totally conked out.

With a contented sigh, you snuggle deeper into Charles’ embrace, feeling his lips brush the top of your head. This bizarre, wonderful scene seems to encapsulate everything about being part of the Ferrari family. It’s chaotic and overwhelming and unlike anything else in the world.

But most of all, it’s home.

As you start to drift back to sleep, savoring the lingering scent of champagne and motor oil, one final chant echoes in your head:

La principessa di Monza.

La principessa di Ferrari.

***

11 Months Later

The last few laps feel like they’re happening in slow motion. Every turn, every gear shift, every tiny input to the steering wheel is magnified tenfold as the circuits count down. The pressure is immense, but you’ve been here before. You can do this.

“Stay calm, stay focused,” your race engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “The calculations look good. Just bring it home steady.”

Nodding to yourself, you downshift entering the stadium section, the roar of the massive crowd surrounding the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez swelling in your ears. This is it — your chance to join the likes of motorsport’s greatest heroes by winning the Formula 1 World Championship.

Your first victory at Monza, being crowned the “Principessa di Ferrari” by the adoring Tifosi, was a dream come true. But this … this is what you’ve worked towards since you were old enough to understand what your father achieved. To etch your name into the history books forever.

The laps tick by agonizingly. Every time the pitboard comes into view, your heart rate spikes. But you’ve got a comfortable gap to second place, managing the race perfectly. Just a few more corners now.

“Final lap, final lap,” your engineer calls out. “Looking brilliant. Stay comfortable and you’ve got this!”

You suck in a deep breath to steady your nerves. Out of the sweeping Curve 3 and onto the pit straight, the crowd’s thunderous cheers are reaching fever pitch. You can see the seas of red-clad fans absolutely losing their minds, knowing the woman they idolize is about to achieve immortality.

Crossing the finish line, you finally let out the breath you’ve been holding for what feels like ages. The emotion is overwhelming — a combination of pure elation, disbelief, and total exhaustion.

You did it.

World Champion at last!

You cruise around, yelling unintelligibly into the radio as the celebrations kick off around the circuit. There’s confetti in the air, smoke flares going off in brilliant shades of red, and a full-throated roar that could probably be heard all the way back in Europe.

Pulling into parc fermé, you switch off the car, letting the weight of the moment sink in. Tears of joy prick at your eyes as the magnitude of your achievement hits home. Ever since you were a little girl, running around watching your papa, this has been the ultimate dream for you.

And now, it’s finally happened. You’re a World Champion. Just like him.

The first person to reach you is Charles. He comes sprinting over from his own car, bounding past the marshals without a second look. One glimpse of the huge smile plastered across his face is all it takes for you to dissolve into giggles and delirious tears.

“You did it! You brilliant, brilliant woman, you did it!” He shouts, grabbing you up in his arms and spinning you around in a whirlwind hug.

“I can’t believe it, Charles! It felt like a dream … like it wasn’t really happening!”

You’re both laughing and crying at the same time, drunk on the euphoria of the moment. Clutching each other tightly, you press your foreheads together, trying in vain to compose yourselves.

“I’m so proud of you,” Charles murmurs, gazing at you with adoring eyes. “You worked so incredibly hard for this. You deserve everything.”

Surging forward, you capture his lips in a searing, passionate kiss. For a few brief moments, the two of you are alone, lost in the depth of your emotions and your all-encompassing love for each other. Nothing else in the world matters but this perfect second frozen in time.

You finally break apart, breathless, when the rest of the team sweeps in to congratulate you. They swarm around in a laughing, whooping mass, jumping up and down, hugging, chanting your name over and over.

“To our champion! The Queen!”

The cry comes from Antonio, one of the veteran mechanics who’s been with the team since your papa’s days. He clasps your hands tightly, gazing at you with pride.

“Sei la regina! The Queen of Ferrari!” He hollers over the raucous din, tears shining in his eyes. “Just like your father, you’ll reign forever!”

Your eyes start brimming over again, overwhelmed. The tears roll down your cheeks, smearing streaks of sweat and grime from the race. But you can’t stop beaming.

All at once, the rest of the crew picks up on Antonio’s declaration. Their cheers and chants coalesce into one booming refrain:

“La Re-gi-na! La Re-gi-na!”

The sheer adulation washes over you in waves, every face beaming up at you in utter reverence. You find yourself struggling to take it all in. In a few incredible seasons, you’ve elevated yourself into the realm of legend in their eyes.

Charles wraps his arms around you from behind, steadying you as your knees start to go weak. You can feel his smile radiant against your neck as he cheers and whoops right along with the rest of them.

“You hear them?” He chuckles, kissing your temple. “It’s all for you, mia regina! My Queen.”

Hearing your love, your partner, your other half call you that sets off a fresh round of giggles and sobs. Turning in his embrace, you loop your arms around his shoulders, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him deeply.

When you finally part, you look out over the still-roaring crowd, many of them carrying elaborate signs with intricate drawings depicting you as a regal sovereign. Some have fashioned ornate crowns out of random merch and foam, holding them high. Others set off flares and smoke bombs in Ferrari red.

For a moment, their euphoric cheers fade into the background, drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the rush of blood in your ears. Closing your eyes, you let the enormity of the moment wash over you, embracing the pride and humility and disbelieving joy.

This is your coronation. The new ruler of the Scuderia — la regina di Ferrari.

“La Regina di Ferrari! La Regina del Mondo!”

You can only chuckle in disbelief, Antonio and Ricky carefully taking your hands to hoist you up onto their shoulders in throne-like celebration. Charles is right by your side, standing vigil as your King Consort.

As the party spreads out around you, confetti and smoke filling the air, you look out across the ecstatic crowd. All you see are fervent faces, worshiping you as their new Queen of the World.

It’s a delirious scene that you never, ever could’ve imagined. And yet it feels so natural, so right. Like you were born to be in the center of this storm of jubilation. This is your true home.

And now, you’ve taken your rightful place as its ruler.

Mexico City burns long into the night in tribute to the newly-coronated Queen. Tomorrow, the party will likely continue all the way back to Maranello. But in this moment, you’re lost in the swirl of ecstasy, allowing yourself to be swept up in the currents of adoration.

La Regina di Ferrari.

La Regina del Mondo.

***

Eight Years Later

Jules can barely contain his excitement as you and Charles help him into the little red race suit. He’s practically vibrating with energy, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Easy there, petit coureur,” Charles chuckles, ruffling Jules’ hair affectionately. “We’ll get you suited up and on the track soon enough.”

“I’m gonna beat everyone!” Jules declares confidently. You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

“That’s my boy,” you say with a wink. “Just like your Papa and me.”

Charles grins and pulls Jules into a hug. “We’ll see about that, won’t we? Today’s just for fun though, remember? No official points or anything.”

“I know, I know,” Jules says impatiently. “But I’m still gonna win!”

You laugh and swing him up into your arms, peppering his face with kisses until he squeals with delight. “Whatever you say, liebling. Now let’s get you out on that track!”

The three of you make your way out to the karting circuit, hand-in-hand. You can already see a small crowd starting to form along the fences, phones and cameras at the ready. A familiar scenario, even at such a low-key local event.

“Mama, Papa, look!” Jules points excitedly. “Those people want to take pictures!”

“That’s right, schatzi,” you say gently. “Your Papa and I are pretty well known in motorsports.”

“Like movie stars?” His eyes go wide.

Charles laughs. “Something like that, I suppose. More like … really famous racecar drivers.”

“Whoa ...” Jules seems to be processing this new realization. “You’re the best ever, right? The bestest?”

You share an amused look with Charles. “Well, we’ve had our fair share of success,” you hedge.

“Your mother is a multi-time World Champion,” Charles says proudly. “As am I. We did pretty okay, I think.”

“Woooaahh!” Jules looks absolutely awestruck, like his little mind has been blown. It’s both adorable and bittersweet — your own child, only just now grasping the level of your accomplishments and fame.

The crowd has grown considerably by the time you reach the pit area, people pressing against the barriers in hopes of getting a glimpse of the royal family of Maranello. A small team of event staff try valiantly to keep order, but it’s a losing battle.

“Excuse me! Y/N! Can we get a photo?”

“Charles! Over here, please!”

“Oh my god, is that little Jules? He’s so cute!”

Jules clings a bit closer to you and Charles, startled by the commotion. You pull him protectively against your side.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “Just some fans who are excited to see us.”

Charles gives the crowd a regretful smile and a small wave before ushering you both past the security team and into the pit area. The calmer, more controlled setting seems to ease Jules’ nerves.

“Why were all those people yelling and taking pictures?” He asks with a small frown.

“Like I said, we’re pretty famous racers,” Charles explains patiently. “A lot of people know who we are and want our autographs or photos with us.”

“Like celebrities!” Jules says, the admiring light returning to his eyes.

You laugh and ruffle his hair again. “Something like that, yeah. Your Papa and I have had a very successful racing career over the years.”

“The best careers,” Charles amends with a wink at you. “Multiple world titles each.”

“World titles?” Jules looks utterly baffled by the concept. “Like … the best in the whole world?”

“Exactly,” you confirm, feeling that familiar swell of pride. “We were the fastest drivers in the world, for a few years at least.”

“Whooaa ...” Jules seems torn between awe and disbelief. “You’re like … superheroes!”

You and Charles both crack up at the adorable comparison.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Charles laughs, “but I suppose to some we come pretty close, eh?”

He scoops Jules up and swings him around, making him shriek with laughter. You watch them with a content smile, suddenly aware of how blessed you are to have this life — your incredible husband, your precious son, the career successes you both achieved. It’s more than you ever could have dreamed.

“Alright,” Papa says, setting Jules back down. “Why don’t you go grab your kart and we’ll get you out on the track? Think you can take on the world champions?”

Jules gives a determined nod, that familiar fire blazing in his eyes — the same look you’ve seen in your husband’s familiar green ones a thousand times over the years. “You bet! I’ll show you how it’s done!”

With one last hair ruffle, you send him scampering off excitedly. Charles slides an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“He’s something else, isn’t he?” He murmurs against your temple. “So much like us at that age. I can already tell he’s going to be a hell of a driver someday.”

You lean into his embrace with a contented sigh. “He is … and just look at how the crowd reacted to him. He’s barely grasped that we’re famous, and now he’s already getting mobbed himself. Our little star in the making.”

Charles makes a rueful sound. “We’re going to have to get used to that, I suppose.”

“Oh, I think we can handle it,” you say lightly. “We’ve had plenty of practice being in the spotlight, after all.”

He laughs and drops a kiss to your hair. “That’s true enough. As long as we stick together, we can get through anything.”

“Exactly.” You turn in his arms to face him properly, cupping his jaw tenderly. “You, me, Jules … nothing else matters as long as we have each other.”

Charles’ eyes are warm with devotion as he gazes down at you. “My soulmate. My family. How did I ever get so lucky?”

He leans in to kiss you, slow and sweet, the rest of the world temporarily fading away. You lose yourself in the familiar comfort of his embrace, the love you share-

“Ewww, gross! Stop kissing!”

You break apart with a laugh to find Jules making over-exaggerated gagging noises nearby.

“And the moment’s ruined,” Charles teases, keeping an arm looped around your waist.

You bend down to Jules’ eye level with a mock stern look. “You just wait until you’re all grown up with a sweetheart of your own. Then you’ll understand.”

He scrunches up his nose theatrically. “Never! Girls are gross!”

You and Charles share an amused look.

“If you say so,” Charles chuckles. “Now let’s get that kart fired up.”

Jules’ entire demeanor shifts in an instant, that fierce competitiveness surfacing once again. He scrambles into the cockpit of his little kart and takes firm hold of the wheel, looking suddenly years beyond his age.

“You’re going down!” He declares brazenly. “I’ll leave you both in the dust!”

And just like that, the proud parents are replaced by your familiar racing mentalities — the thrill of competition, the desire to win. You share a conspiratorial grin with Charles.

“Is that so?” He taunts playfully. “In that case, no more taking it easy on you two.”

You bend down to kiss Jules’ forehead, unable to resist a parting quip. “Promise you won’t be sad … because Mama always wins.”

With that, Charles heads off to grab his own kart, leaving you and Jules alone for a brief moment. He looks up at you with shining eyes.

“You’re my hero, Mama,” he says simply. “And Papa too. I wanna be just like you when I grow up!”

You feel your heart swell fit to burst, filled with more love than you could possibly put into words. Bending down, you pull your beautiful little boy into a fierce hug, eyes shining with unshed happy tears.

“Oh liebling … you already are. You’re everything we could have dreamed of and more.”

You press a lingering kiss to the top of his head, overwhelmed with affection. When you finally pull back, there are indeed tears shining in your eyes.

“Now go show your parents what you’ve got, baby,” you say with a watery smile. “I can’t wait to see you out there.”

Jules gives you a determined nod, eyes blazing with that trademark fire. “You got it, Mama! Get ready to lose!”

With that, he slams down the visor on his helmet and revs the little engine. You step back with a laugh, watching him peel out onto the track with all the confidence and flair of a seasoned pro. Like parents, like son indeed.

By the time Charles rejoins you, his own kart idling beside yours, Jules has already completed a couple of warm up laps. You can’t resist shooting Charles a smug grin.

“Well, well … looks like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. He drives just like you.”

Charles snorts, clearly trying to downplay his obvious pride. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s all your genes coming through.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a sudden commotion from the fences draws your attention. The crowd has grown even larger, people pressing against the barriers with raised phones and voices calling out excitedly.

“Oh my god, it’s them!”

“They’re so cute together!!”

“Over here, please! This way!”

You share a resigned look with Charles as event staff rush to try and control the growing swarm.

“This is what it’s going to be like from now on, isn’t it?” You murmur. “Our little family, constantly in the spotlight.”

Charles shrugs, slinging an arm around your shoulders as he watches Jules blaze by. “What else is new? We’ve been there our whole careers. At least this time, we get to share the fame together … as a family.”

You lean into his side with a contented smile. Out on the track, Jules whips past in a blur of determination, completely unbothered by the fawning crowd. Just a little boy living out his dream, regardless of who his parents might be.

“You know what?” You say softly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Charles drops a kiss to your hair as the roar of the crowd and engines swells around you. “Me neither, mon amour. I wouldn’t change a single thing.”

[lymtw]

NSFW

Gojo x f!reader

Description:

Satoru and his tendencies of always keeping his hands on you. Even in public, he can't hold back from touching you, so you insist on getting the furthest table at restaurants.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

On a date with Gojo, you always choose to sit at the furthest booth with the dimmest lighting because you know him too well.

“How was your day, baby? I missed you.” He’s right next to you, his hand is already settled on your knee. You know this time won’t be any different than the other times he has taken you out for dinner. Gojo just finds it so pretty the way you jump at the initial contact every time.

“It was fine. You weren’t around so it kind of minimized things that needed to get taken care of.”

He gasps, dramatically. “Wow, that was really something, babe. Did you sharpen your tongue even more for that one?”

You smirk, trying to hold back a laugh.

“I missed you too, though. How was your day?”

His fingers started out massaging your knee, but eventually his hand traveled higher up your leg as his mind began wandering to more sensual thoughts.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you. All I wanted was to come home to my pretty girl and take care of her for the rest of the day.”

You turn to him and smile, leaning in to peck his lips.

“Uh-uh. Come here,” he says when you pull away.

You were irresistible to Gojo. The only fault to you in his mind was that he never got enough of you. Every part of you could be touching him, and he still would feel like he needs more of you. He wants to breathe you in like oxygen, but never let out the breath so that you could stay within him.

“God, I can’t handle you, Satoru.” You say as you’re being suffocated by his lips. He’s kissing your cheeks, your jaw, your neck, but every time he nears your lips the kisses linger in that area.

“I need more of you. Please.”

You giggle at his darkened gaze. You know that look all too well, and it’s not anything to worry about when you’re in public. “You’re obsessed,” you joke.

“And what about it?” He whispers into your ear. His hand smoothly moves to the inside of your thigh, his thumb drawing short lines on your skin. “It’s too easy to love you like a normal person.”

“You love me~” You laugh. You’re making light of this because your heart is beating so fast you fear it might explode.

He scoffs. “Acting like you don’t know this.”

“Sometimes I think you just tolerate me. I don’t want to argue but, you could have anyone, right?”

“It’s not tolerance if i’m choosing to be with you, ma. Trust me,” he leans towards you, his nose brushing yours, “I could stay with you for an eternity. Talking, watching, touching, giving into every one of your pleasures.”

After all this time with Gojo, he still manages to make your heart race. You don’t know what’s gotten into him, but fuck…

“Tell me what you want.” His hand goes up one last time, reaching below your dress to touch the front of your panties. He knew the effect of his words, and yet he still challenged your ability to remain unfazed. You couldn’t, and now he knew by the wetness his fingers made contact with.

“Satoru… we shouldn’t.” You reach down, but not for his hand. You hold the bottom of your dress, your knuckles protruding with the grip.

“There’s no one else here,” he mumbles to you despite there being four full tables in sight. There’s a reason for why you always choose the furthest table, and this is that very reason.

You let out a shuddered breath, your toes curling in your heels.

His middle and ring fingers rub you through the thin material of your panties, gradually making the damp spot bigger.

“Who else is gonna do this for you? Hm?” He tilts his gaze towards you, watching the sweet expression on your face through lidded eyes.

“Satoru, please,” you moan, letting your dress fall over his hand again in favor of holding his bicep.

“I’m not gonna stop until you cum.”

“Okay, fine, fine. But we’re leaving after this.”

Gojo relishes on the breathiness of your voice when you talk.

“I might take my time, then. Just really want to build you up, pretty.”

“Fuck, Satoru. Come on.” You shut your thighs around his hand and start grinding against his fingers.

“I know, I know. You’ll just have to wait for it, baby, right?”

Your breathing quickens and your moans are more frequent. This is Gojo’s favorite part about making you feel good, but what happens when it all gets stripped away from you like this…

“I-I was gonna cum. Satoru, I-“

“And you looked so pretty, so I want you to do it all over again.”

[thatweeboverthereisthirsty]

Jade & Lilia reacting to their fem s/o that vapes/smokes 👀

Part 4 of S/O Who Vapes/Smokes

(Azul, Jade, Jamil, Lilia)

A/N: ironically I started this before I tried vaping and now I'm trying to quit 😅 (20 days sober lol)

The sheer surprise Azul experiences by seeing a cigarette set casually in your fingers is unexplainable by his standards

Smoke billowed from your parted lips and he let out a small squeak of shock

You turned towards your boyfriend and felt your cheeks flush in embarrassment

“A-Azul! When did you get here?”

“Just in time to see you engaging in a disgusting habit.”

Shame flooded your system and you scowled

In anger you took another long draw and you felt his gaze burn into you

He scowls and marches over to you

You pull back and look at him with defiance but startle when his gaze softens a bit

“Y/N” he started cautiously, “You know I love you and support you no matter what you do, right?”

You nod hesitantly and he continues “But I also want what is best for you and I might come from the sea but I do know a thing or two about stuff that hurts humans.” 

It was hard to look him in the eye as he said that and you busied yourself snuffing out the cigarette

“I love you, Angel but this isn’t good for you and you know it.”

“I know but I can’t help it. Azul it helps, it really does.”

He sighs and sits down next to you, his nose wrinkling at the smell of your after smoke. 

“There are people who can help… I can look into some resources for you?” he asks careful not to upset you

For a moment you sit in tense silence before finally turning towards him with sad eyes

“Can I try to quit on my own first?” 

He smiles and nods at you before kissing you briefly even though you know the smell and taste bothers him

“Of course Angel. I’m with you every step of the way.” 

You’ve only been vaping for about a month but you could tell you were already addicted to it

The flavor, the feeling, the smell, the buzz, all of it was more addicting than anything you’ve ever experienced

The problem you had now was that your boyfriend just caught you taking a hit and you were suddenly regretting all of it

Jade was quiet for a moment, standing in your dorm room doorway stiffly

As if he snapped out of a trance he stepped into your room and closed the door behind him as he set his bag down

“So, how was your day?” 

You cringed inwardly and looked down at your vape which you still held like it was a lifeline that could save you from this conversation

“Jade…” 

“My day was good, Floyd tried to beat up a student and Azul wants me back early tonight to test out a new recipe before he opens the lounge”

His eyes met yours and you saw cold indifference in them

It hurt your heart to see him like this after you spent so long trying to get to the softer side of him which he rarely let anyone see, not even Floyd had been given that privilege since they were kids

“Jade!”

He raised an eyebrow and sighed dramatically as he sat on your bed

“Listen little Coral, I don’t care what you do or don’t do with your life but I do know that there are other ways to handle your problems.”

You bit your lip, feeling like a scolded child 

“You will get through this and next time you feel the urge to bring that nasty device to your precious lips, come to me and I will distract them with a much more therapeutic activity.” 

You blushed wildly and gawked up at him 

“Now about that test you have tomorrow” he said with a smirk

You scowled at the thought of the impending doom that loomed over you then grinned as an idea struck you

“You know Jade, I’m kinda feeling like vaping right now. Maybe I could take you up on that offer?”

Needless to say, you didn’t get much studying done

It’s late when Jamil finds you smoking off the balcony at Scarabia

Kalim had invited you to stay the night after another one of his parties and you agreed knowing it would make the childish dorm leader happy

You didn’t expect that anyone else would be up this late so when you heard a shocked gasp you startled

Jamil had been on his way to the kitchen to make some tea for Kalim who was having trouble sleeping but strayed from his original task to take the cigarette from your hand

“What are you doing?!”

You rolled your eyes as if you were annoyed even though you just didn’t want to see the disappointment in his gaze

He waits patiently for a response but when it’s clear he isn’t going to get one he sighs

He takes your hand gently and pulls you towards him into a hug

“I know that you can’t help it if you are addicted but if you aren’t yet please stop. I love your voice and I love you, I can’t imagine not having either one day because of this.”

You look up at him with shameful tears in your eyes and he frowns as he wipes them gently

“I’m sorry Jamil.” 

“I know, and I’m sorry you feel like you have to do this.” 

The two of you talk for hours into the night about how he can help you and eventually you fall asleep in his arms

Lilia has seen and tried just about everything there is to try so when he sees you with a mysterious device in your mouth he is confused

You pull the vape device from your lips and he watches as white vapor follows it

As he gets closer he notes that it smells like the fruity scent you usually have

He had assumed it was some kind of perfume but he supposes it probably comes from your peculiar vapor device

That's when it hits him- the smell of nicotine hidden under sickly flavoring

Any normal human wouldn’t be able to scent something so subtle but to him it’s as if you had bathed in the stuff

“Love?” he appears next to you suddenly

Months ago that would have scared you but now you found it endearing

“Lilia!” you exclaim, slipping your vape into your pocket in what you hoped was a natural and unnoticeable way

He raised an eyebrow and summoned the vape to his hand and held it in front of you

“What is this odd device?” he asks in his rare serious tone

Sighing you explain to him that it is a modern way of smoking and that it is healthier than cigarettes so it is ok to do

He frowns through your explanation

“First, nothing that contains addictive non-prescription substances could ever be healthy in any way, second I can smell the chemicals that are no doubt doing damage to your lungs as we speak.”

Maybe he was being a little dramatic but he knew how sensitive humans were to these things and he would do anything to keep his human healthy and safe

You look at the ground while he speaks and he sighs in frustration

He doesn’t want you to feel scolded or ashamed, he just gets nervous about your health

“We will figure it out ok love? For now can you try not to do it as often?”

You nod and he kisses you soundly, Lilia will do anything for his human and he vows to find an alternative to your vaping device that allows you to feel secure in yourself and him to feel secure in your health

[crypticreid]

KINKTOBER DAY THREE

October 8 -- Begging

masterlist

author's note: this was supposed to be mutual masturbation, but I wasn't feeling it, so I switched it to begging. Thank you again for everyone reading and supporting. 💕💕💕 If you'd like to be added to the tag list, let me know! 🎃🎃🎃

summary: Spencer can't help but be upset with the choice you made, so he takes out his frustration in your hotel room later.

warnings: female reader, dom!spencer, begging, a little bit of 'good girl', hand job, fingering, female receiving oral, multiple orgasms

word count: 3.6k

this is adut content. 18+ plus only. minors do not interact!

His eyes flick over to you, and you can read him like a book. The anger and frustration battle across his features as he opens his mouth to argue against your suggestion. You speak before he can, “I know this is dangerous, but I trust all of you to keep me safe. We have to do this.” Spencer slams his mouth shut and forcefully turns his head from you. Your stomach drops, but you know you’re making the right decision. This case will be over in a couple of hours, and then you can talk this out with him, and everything will be fine. 

If anyone notices Spencer’s reaction, they don’t say anything. Instead, most of the team looks at you with worried expressions. Hotch is assessing you, his arms crossed tight over his broad chest. “This guy is erratic and unpredictable.” He says in his calm and calculated tone. 

“He’s going to attack tonight. We know that this vigil is going to draw him. He can’t resist it. All I need to do is distract him long enough for you to move in.” You explain rationally. “We can’t allow more people to die, and I’m the only one who hasn’t been identified as an agent by the media.” 

You refuse to break eye contact with Hotch. You steady your breathing and straighten your shoulders. You’re confident in this choice, and Hotch knows you won’t back down. He nods, “okay.” 

“Okay?” Spencer interjects, his voice breaking slightly from his heightened emotion. “You can’t be serious, Hotch.” 

“This is her choice.” Hotch answers, and everyone in the room seems to hold their breath as they wait for you to reply. 

Hotch clears his throat, “let’s get started. We’ve got four hours until the vigil.” 

You level your gaze at Spencer, trying to telepathically tell him you’re sorry. “I have to do this.” Spencer’s jaw sets hard. You see the muscles flex against each other. He turns away from you and leaves the room.

“He’s just worried. We all are.” Emily reaches out for you and rubs a comforting hand up and down your arm. You nod. 

You don’t see Spencer again until you’re in the SUV five blocks away from the site of the vigil. Morgan had spent the entire ride over repeating the plan to you and making sure you understood exactly where everyone else was going to be. You kept nodding and letting him start over again because you knew that this was how Morgan made himself feel better about the situation. Before he got out of the vehicle, he had reached over to the passenger seat and grasped your shoulder. “You’re brave. And you’re damn good at your job. We’ll catch this bastard.” 

Now you’re alone, glancing at the watch on your wrist. In ten minutes, you’re going to get out of the car and walk toward the vigil. It’s chilly enough that you have a jacket on, and it doesn’t even look like you’re wearing a vest underneath your clothing. You let out a shaky breath and try to calm your nerves. 

You jump when the passenger door swings open and you reach for your holster automatically. “It’s me.” Spencer says, and you take your hand away. 

“You’re supposed to already be at the vigil.” You mutter and look straight ahead out the windshield because you can’t look at him. You can’t handle seeing any sort of anger on his face. 

“I know.” He says your name, and you turn to face him. The anger in his eyes has dissipated, and only fear remains. 

“Spencer, I’ll be –” You start, but you’re interrupted by his hands grabbing the side of your face and pulling you in for a kiss. It’s forceful and meaningful, and your hands find a tight grip on his shoulders. The two of you say goodbye to each other with your lips and tongues, neither one of you wanting to break apart, to face reality. 

Finally, he pulls away from you and sets his hands on your shoulders. “Be safe. Please.” 

You incline your head toward his, connecting your forehead to his. “I will.” 

He kisses you again, with less force, but with the same meaning, and then steps away and closes the car door. You watch as he walks down the alley until he completely disappears. And then a few minutes later, you get out and walk the opposite direction down the alley. 

Your hotel room is dark, and only the lights on the nightstand work, but you’re too exhausted to complain. After wrapping the case, Hotch had told everyone to head to the hotel for a few hours, and you would fly out in the morning. No one argued because you hadn’t even seen your hotel room since landing. 

You’ve taken a shower, changed into pajamas, and started to get comfortable in bed when there’s a knock on your door. You climb out of bed and look through the peephole to see Spencer standing in the hallway. Quickly, you open the door and step aside for him to come inside. As soon as you shut the door and turn around, he has his hands on you, your waist, your hips, shaky hands traveling across your skin. 

“I’m okay, Spencer. Not even a scratch. I’m fine.” You reassure him with a calm and steady voice. He doesn’t stop his hands and won’t look you in the eyes, so you reach out for him. Your own hands hold onto both sides of his face and force him to look into your eyes. “I’m fine.” You repeat. 

He swallows and nods and blinks away the tears that were gathering in his eyes. “Don’t do that again, please.” 

You know you can’t promise that, but you also know that Spencer doesn’t want to hear that right now. “Okay.” He kisses your cheek. “Okay.” He kisses your other cheek and then your forehead and, finally, your lips. His hands on your hips pull you tighter against him like he can’t have you close enough, like he wants the two of you to merge together as one person. Your hands move up into his hair, fingers tangling into soft locks, nails scratching against his scalp. His moan vibrates against your lips, and he deepens the kiss. His grip on your hips is vice-like. You groan into his mouth. 

He mumbles your name, and you answer with a moan, suddenly desperate for every part of him. The stress of the day comes to a head, and you just want your mind to go blank. Spencer is the only person who can make your brain stop its constant ruminations. 

“Please, Spencer.” You urge him with your words, but also a quick movement of your hips against him. You move your hands away from his hair and down the back of his neck toward his clavicle and then start to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. 

You only get one button undone before he says, “stop.” He breaks away from your lips, and his hands wrap around both of your wrists and pull your hands off of his shirt. When you look into his eyes, the anger is back, not as fiery and passionate as it was hours before but low and simmering just below the surface. “You think you just get what you want after that?” 

His voice is heavy with emotion, and it zings straight to your lower belly. You want to smile, but press your lips together instead and shake your head. 

“Answer me.” 

“No.” 

“Maybe I shouldn’t give you anything tonight, huh?” He moves one of your wrists into his other hand so that he has both of them wrapped in one hand. The hand that's now free moves to your neck, a finger trailing down to your clavicle. You swallow against it. “I should leave this room right now. Leave you all alone and so needy.” 

You swallow again. “Spencer, please.” 

He lifts your wrists above your head and pushes you up against the door of the hotel room in rapid succession. You let out a sharp gasp at the movement. “Please, what? What do you want?” His other hand has found another place back on your hip, gripping it, his thumb rubbing back and forth on a bit of skin peeking out from your old Academy t-shirt. 

“Please don’t leave.” You whisper. The hand on your hip slides underneath your shirt and up your stomach toward your breasts. His fingertips are barely there against your skin, enough to make your skin tingle, and goosebumps bloom, but not enough to satiate any need for his touch. 

He drags one of his fingers across the underside of your breast, and your hands twitch in his grasp above your head. He twists his grip and tightens it. 

The hand near your breast spreads across your breast and grabs it. You arch your back into his touch. “You need it so bad, don’t you?” 

“Yes. I need it.” You don’t even attempt to play coy and press your thighs together, trying to get any sort of relief between them. 

Spencer ducks his head against your exposed neck and kisses it roughly, nips at it without leaving a mark, and then licks and soothes where his teeth nibbled. “Are you going to listen?” 

You nod before realizing that you need to answer verbally. “Yes. Yes. I will. I promise.” 

He laughs against your neck. His breaths on your skin make you press your thighs tighter together. “You’re going to do as you’re told.” It isn’t a question. 

“Yes.” You confirm. 

His lips find yours again, and the hand up your shirt tightens on your breast, his thumb finding your nipple, teasing it back and forth. He kisses you slowly, pulling your bottom lip with his teeth and then racing to brush his tongue against it. A constant tug of war between a ping of pain and a rush of comfort. You take all of it, anything he is willing to give you, you want all of it. 

When his thumb and pointer finger takes your nipple and rolls it between a pinch of his fingers, you let out a desperate noise. 

“Spencer.” 

He makes a deep noise from the back of his throat but doesn’t stop kissing you or pinching your nipple. A pulse all of its own begins in your core, fluttery and demanding. 

“I’ll do anything, please.”  He bites at your clavicle, the only place he’s marked you so far because he knows it will be covered by your shirt in the morning. 

“You’re going to leave your hands above your head, do you understand?” He finally instructs. 

“Yes.” 

“You don’t get to touch me.” 

“Spencer,” you start to protest, but you look into his eyes and stop yourself. 

“You touch me, and I stop. Do you understand?” 

You swallow. “Yes.”  

“Good.” He goes back to your neck, teasing and tasting your skin, driving you crazy with want. But you don’t dare move. If he pulls away completely now and leaves, you think you might lose your mind. 

In between his soft bites, he instructs, “I’m going to let go of your wrists, okay? But you’re not going to move them. Leave them exactly where they are. And then I’m going to get on my knees and make you come as many times as I want. But if you touch me at all, I’m going to go back to my hotel room and leave you here all alone. Okay?” 

“Okay.” You nod feverishly. He lets go of your wrists, and you don’t move a muscle. 

He smiles smugly and pinches your nipple one last time before sliding down to his knees in front of you. His fingers graze up the back of your calves and thighs and then to the front of your thighs. He pushes your legs apart, and you lean back further on the door for support as he pulls down your pajama pants, leaving your underwear on. 

“Look at you,” he tuts. “Soaking through your panties just from a couple of kisses.” 

You let out a frustrated breath. “It was more than a couple kisses.” 

A muscle in his jaw ticks, and you slam your mouth shut. “Are you going to waste my time? Talking back with that smart mouth?” 

“No.” 

“I can think of better uses for that mouth. You can’t talk back with my cock down your throat, can you?” 

You swallow harshly, and you feel yourself getting wetter. “No, I can’t.” 

He leans forward, and you hold your breath, waiting, but he kisses your inner thigh instead. And then he starts the same pattern of kissing and nipping he’d done earlier, but now on your thigh. His hands are on your ass, massaging and rubbing. As he moves to your other thigh, he makes a point to incline toward the place you need him so desperately, but he only exhales across it. You whimper, and you feel the turn of a smile on his lips as he presses into your thigh. 

It is basically torture, and it’s taking every single ounce of self control you have not to grab his head and put him exactly where you want him. You know you can’t, so you beg instead, “please, Spencer. I can’t take the teasing anymore.” 

“Aw, my poor baby.” He taunts, and you grunt when he pulls away completely and removes his hands. He sits back on his heels and looks up at you. “Take off your shirt.” 

You do what he asks rapidly and then put your hands back above your head without him asking. He smiles, “good girl.” 

The room is dim, shadows play across his face, but he watches you as you breathe, your breasts rising and falling. He lifts hands and presses his palms up your stomach and then back down, causing more goosebumps springing up across your skin, toward your core, but he bypasses it and travels down your thighs instead. “I think you’ve ruined these panties, baby.” He laughs, mesmerized by the growing wet spot. Your clit is throbbing and you feel like you could fall apart with only one single touch from him. 

“What would you do if I stopped now?” He wraps his hands across your thighs and squeezes and then looks up to your eyes. “Stood up and walked out of this room?” 

You would probably spend the rest of your night touching yourself until you couldn’t handle it, but you don’t want that. “Please don’t.” You reply instead. “Please touch me, Spencer.” 

He squeezes your thighs again. “I am touching you.” 

You groan, frustrated. “Touch my pussy, please. I need it.” You give in. He can’t help his smile as he moves one hand over slightly and uses his thumb to touch the wet spot on your underwear. He presses into you over the fabric. It’s only the tip of the iceberg, but you moan anyway because you’re so desperate. 

He presses deeper, wetting his thumb through the fabric, and then moves it upward, finally rubbing over your throbbing clit. You let out a shaky breath and lean forward slightly. His thumb rubs up and down on your clit lightly, practically a feather-like touch. He doesn’t use any pressure on it. You move your hips forward, trying to force some pressure, but just pulls away. 

“Spencer.” You whimper. 

He laughs, “so whiney.” He puts his thumb back and continues in the exact same way as before. You lean back fully back on the door with a small cry. “Do you want to come?” He asks.

You screw your eyes shut and nod furiously. 

“Open your eyes and answer me.” 

You force your eyes open. “I want to come, please, Spencer.” You try to get rid of the whine in your voice, but you don’t succeed.  

“Yeah, I can tell you do.” He uses just a little more pressure on your clit and begins to circle it. You shiver and let out a pitiful moan. “So needy. So desperate.” He mutters and leans forward to kiss along your thigh again. Your hips buck against him involuntarily. “You can come whenever you want, baby.” 

“I need more.” 

“No.” He kisses your thigh again and looks up to your eyes. “You come from this.” You curl your toes on the floor and push your head back. “I’ll give you more when you come.” His thumb continues its barely enough circles on your clit and you exhale. “Don’t you want more?” 

“Yes!” You huff. 

“Then come.” He nips your inner thigh, moving closer and closer to your clenching pussy, but never actually reaching it. His other hand moves back to your ass and he kisses your other thigh. You can feel the deep pleasure at the base of your spine and you give yourself over to it. “That’s it, so good, baby. Come just like this.” 

You come hard and force your hands to stay above your head, your hips bucking against Spencer’s hand. He moves his hand from your ass and holds onto your hip to stay your movements. Once you come down from your high he pulls down your underwear and sticks his thumb into your pussy. 

“You're dripping, baby.” He murmurs and fingers you for a few seconds until swiping the thumb back up to your clit. You’ve barely had time to recover from your first orgasm and you let out a small breathy shout. “Ssshh, we can’t let anyone else hear how needy you are.” 

You bit your lip to contain your whimpers. Spencer’s thumb circles your clit, using the pressure you need. Another wave of pleasure is already rising, gathering low in your belly. “Do you want my fingers, baby?” 

“Please. Spencer. Yes. I need them. Please.” You ramble. 

He takes the hand that’s on your hip and inserts his middle and ring fingers into you, immediately pressing into you, rubbing against the spot inside you that makes you want to scream. You swallow the shout that you can’t let out and instead continue to ramble to Spencer. Your legs shake as you give into another wave of pleasure. 

“That’s it, give me another one. So good, baby.” You come against his hand again, but this time Spencer doesn’t let you come down from it. Instead, he moves the hand off your clit and grips your hip to hold you in place as his mouth replaces his hand. You ride his tongue through the aftershocks of your orgasm and let the next wave begin to crest. His fingers never falter as he fingers you. He pulls away for only a split second, “touch me.” 

Your hands fall from the door instantly and tangle in his hair, grasping and scratching, finally getting to push him harshly into you. He moans against you, sending vibrations up your body. You come one more time with a small shout, as quiet as you can. Your legs are shaky and unstable, but Spencer holds you tightly as he takes his time licking you clean. 

When he stands up to his full height, you pull him into a kiss and then lower your hands down to his belt. He breaks the kiss, “I don’t have a condom.” 

You kiss him and continue to take off his belt. “I don’t care.” You get his belt undone, unbuckle his pants, and reach in to take him in your hand. He’s unbelievably hard. The feeling of him is so heavy in your hand. 

He puts his hands on your shoulders as he takes a shuddering breath. “You should care. We haven’t talked about this yet. And you’re in the heat of the moment.” He rationalizes. 

You stick out your bottom lip because you know he’s right. “Can we talk about it later? Cause I want you, all of you.” You squeeze the base of him. His eyes flutter shut and then flip back open as he licks his bottom lip. 

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll talk about it.” Then he kisses you again as you pump your hand up and down on him, your thumb swiping at his leaking head. “Oh shit. Don’t stop.” He stutters against your lips. His kisses are sloppy and nothing like his calculated kisses earlier, but you don’t care. He’s pumping his hips into you, so completely lost in the feeling of your hand on him. 

It doesn’t take long until he’s moaning into your mouth, “so good. You’re so good,” he rambles. One of his hands reaches for your hair and pulls your head back so he can look into your eyes. You bite your bottom lip, and he comes in his pants with a harsh grunt. 

He kisses you, and you keep moving your hand until he’s hissing from sensitivity and pulling away from you. 

The hand in your hair tightens and pulls you back into a deep kiss until you're both breathless. You subtly wipe your hand on his underwear because they’re already a mess, and then both hands hold onto his waist until his kisses slow down. 

“I’m sorry for being angry.” He finally says. 

“We’ll talk tomorrow. I guess today, technically. But at home, I mean.” He looks into your eyes, searching. 

He nods. “Okay.” And he kisses you again, light and feathery. “I need to go clean up before we leave.” 

Your fingers play with the edge of his pants. “Or you could stay, and I could clean you up.” You offer with a not so innocent smile. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” He kisses you chastely and pulls away. He looks around for your shirt and pants and then helps you get dressed again. “See you on the jet.” 

You step away from the door and let him leave. In a few hours, you’ll have to board the jet and pretend that the genius profiler on your team didn’t just give you three mind blowing orgasms, so for now you allow yourself to watch him walk down the hotel hallway. He scrambles to buckle his belt as he walks and then runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. You go back into your room with a smile.

tag list: @spenciesprincess @catalinasroom @tylevx @alicentswife

[i2ycat]

way too late

pairing jake x gn!reader synopsis in which you come to the realisation that you’ve been loving jake all this time way too late genre angst, fluff, friends to ??, hurt w comfort word count 0.7k warnings little mention of blood, kissing with a bloody lip main masterlist

reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

Jake’s hand softly caresses your face, tears brimming his eyes as he holds his suitcase in the other with a vice grip. It was evident that he didn’t want to leave either, not with how your relationship was starting to blossom so beautifully in the spring.

“Can’t you just stay?” you plead, finally mustering up the courage to reciprocate the intensity of his stare. You could see his face soften even further, brows furrowing and gaze dropping to his feet in an attempt to choke down the impulse to drop everything and run back to your open arms, to where everything would’ve been in its place and nothing else would matter. It would just be you two against the world.

Your heart clenches almost painfully in its place. “Can’t we just go back to where we were?” you continue, even though you know that it is damn near impossible. This was the last page of your shared chapter, ink no longer tracing the lines of his name or the crinkles of his eye smiles; the last paragraph of his current existence—the boy you met in your first year of college, the boy that loved you more than anything.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, throat constricting as he continues to stare at the ground.

You bite into your lip harsh enough to draw blood because you were frustrated at the world, at the entire damn universe for presenting you with the one boy who understood everything about you without much toiling and then taking him away the moment you realized just how much you’ve loved him and wanted him in your life.

He didn’t even need to try hard to make you forget all about your problems; just his existence was comfort enough. He was your only safe place as you navigated yourself in this confusing world.

The absurdity of it all made you want to laugh, even through the tears.

“I hate you,” you say.

Jake looks up and searches your eyes for any confirmation, which he obviously doesn’t get because you love him and he knows that you love him more than just any friend would.

He releases his grip on the handle of his suitcase and brings you into a hug. His perfume and warmth engulfed you almost entirely, which made you damn near sob like a baby in the middle of the airport.

Your chokes drowned and died down in Jake’s hoodie as you proceeded to tell him that you hated him.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, bringing your face from his shoulder towards his own. “I know you don’t.”

It felt like the world had stopped then and there, much like the first time you met him. You didn’t want to admit it at the time, but you fell in love at first sight with Jake, in his baggy jeans and hoodie, adorning an expression akin to that of a lost puppy. You were the ultimate fool for only realizing that now.

His dewy brown eyes drew you physically closer, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours. You could taste the irony of your own blood against Jake’s own lips, but you were not in the right headspace to be caring enough about proper hygiene.

This was your personal euphoria, but in a few hours time, it was just going to be the last line you wrote as you reminisced, so you hurried to savor his cherry-flavored chapstick and commit it to your memory forever.

Everyone else in this space and time was just a part of the flurry of emotions that you felt as you kissed Jake. This was the first time, but you’ve already acknowledged it as the last, even if you didn’t want it to be.

Even through the dull ache in your lungs, you kissed Jake, and only until you'd used up the last of your oxygen did you stop for air.

The two of you panted and huffed, your arms wrapped around his neck and his arms around your waist.

The cold air of the airport brings you back to the reality that Jake will no longer be in your arms like he is right now, so you take the opportunity to finally say what has been on your mind the very moment you met him: “I love you, and I hate that I do.”

“Even when you’re admitting that you love me, you still won’t hold back on the ‘I hate you’ stuff.” his lips crack into a smile. “Well then, I love that I love you, Y/n, more than anything in this entire world.”

© i2ycat 2024

[lesbianlores]

Quick drabble

Parings: shuriri x reader

Contains: Strap! riri, major overstimulation, praise, punishment, aftercare.

A/N: Little gift for my night owls 🫶🏾 (Shuri doesn’t do much here but watch)

After cumming for the 3rd time tonight Riri still hasn’t came to a halt with her harsh trusts, your hips were bruised and face stained with tears. Shuri watched from a distance in the corner of the room as Ri angrily pounds into your pussy, holding your legs up and far apart from the back of your thighs biting hard on your neck, hard enough to slightly draw blood.

You turn your head towards Shuri with a look on your face that says “Please help.” and a hand reaching out as you call her name.

“Shuri, Shuri!” You cry but Ri quiets your pleading with a hand to your mouth as you grip on her arm as some sort of support. This is hell for you, makes you regret purposefully flirting with that girl at the party just to spite them over a rumor that was spread by press.

Had you handled this maturely by confronting them in the first place instead of believing pathetic people over the internet looking for drama you wouldn’t be here.

“Don’t call for her, she won’t help you. You did this to yourself mama, now take it like a big girl.” She sarcastically motivated you with a cocky smirk on her face, you can tell Shuri felt guilty. She was always more gentle with you during punishments, that’s why they agreed to leave the punishing to Riri. But this is getting out of hand, your eyes and cunt are red from this torture that has gone on for hours.

You cant take anymore, your head is spinning as you cum once again. The safe word is right at the tip of your tongue until you hear Shuri’s voice.

“Riri, I think that’s enough. She looks like she’s about to pass out.” Shuri says getting up to take a closer look at you.

Riri on the other hand can’t even think straight, the volume of her rage overpowers anything else she didn’t even hear what Shuri said. As Shuri predicted your body is slowing becoming limp, too weak to mutter a word as your head glides back, you feel like your body is powering off like a dead phone.

“Ri that’s enough!” Shuri forcefully pushed her back by the arm, your breathing hard as if you just came from a body of water trying to catch your breath. Cum still oozing from your fucked out pussy while you hover your hand over it in pain.

“Shit.” Ri says out of breath.

“Damn, almost killed the girl.” Shuri laughed, getting a chuckle out of the both of you.

“Im sorry ma, cmer let us clean up this mess.” Ri said carefully scoping you off the bed while Shuri starts a bath. “You took it so well f’me, I should’ve went that hard. I’m sorry baby.” she said with sympathy.

“It’s okay my love, I’m sorry for trying to make the two of you jealous. That wasn’t the smartest thing to do.” You said through a crack of your voice with a faint smile, accepting the small peck on your lips Shuri offered before slowly helping Riri with lowering you into the tub.

A/N: I have actual fics in line for uploading guys, please be patient with me 😩.

[iamthecomet]

mometttttt

can we get some fluffy phantom swiss??

feeling sad and wanting some comfort 🥺

maybe trans phantom dealing with painful cramps and swiss being there and being the amazing boyfriend he is and comforting phantom through the cramps?

Of course, Chase! I'm sorry that you're feeling sad. I hope this helps. Sending you lots of hugs too.

Just under 1k words of Trans!Aeon/Swiss. SFW. Just mentions of period cramps. ♥

Aeon wakes up in agony. Pain lancing through his belly, down his thighs, through his back. He curls in on himself. Knees drawing up tight to his chest. He wraps his arms around them, holds on tight as the wave of pain intensifies. Digs it’s claws in. 

It’s so early. The sun is barely up. Streaking pink into the hotel room. Aeon had hoped for a day to sleep in. For the opportunity to luxuriate in bed next to Swiss on an off day. Peace. Comfort. 

He should have known better than to hope for anything. 

He breathes a little easier as the pain eases. He doesn’t loosen his grip on his legs though. He knows it’ll be back before long, it always is. He thinks about stumbling to the bathroom–at least to make sure he hasn’t made a mess of himself. But it feels impossible. More work than his aching limbs can handle. 

He lays there for awhile, listening to Swiss’ soft snores. Feeling the warmth of him radiating from the other side of the bed. He opens his eyes and looks around the pre-dawn hotel room. Shadowy, still a mess from when they fell into bed last night. Half-eaten room service near the door. Their bags thrown on the other side of the room. Aeon thinks about the medicine stuffed in there. Some tea Mountain made for him that always seems to help. 

He makes a plan. If he’s fast enough he can at least get to the bathroom and grab the tea before the next cramp hits. He can probably just rip the bag open with his teeth and eat the contents right? That will do the same thing? The idea of waiting for hot water from the weird coffee machine is impossible. Besides he barely knows how to work them on a good day. 

Humans really do make everything needlessly complicated. 

He could ask Swiss, but the multighoul is sleeping so soundly next to him, he doesn’t want to disturb him. They’ve been traveling so much, barely sleeping. Aeon doesn’t want to be the reason Swiss doesn’t get enough sleep. 

He starts to push himself up, to uncurl. He gets as far as straightening his legs and pushing the blanket off before it hits him again. He swears he feels it in his bones. Dull insistent fire crawling through his body. He bites his lip until he tastes blood and even that isn’t enough to bury his whimper. 

He bites down on his tail to try to muffle it, but Swiss wakes up anyway. Making a low groggy noise, confused as he rolls towards Aeon’s body. Curled up tight on the edge of the bed. Swiss’ hand is warm and broad on his back. A grounding weight. Swiss eases himself up, folds himself over Aeons’ body to look at him. 

“Bug? You ok?” 

Aeon looks up at him, Swiss’ eyes are sleep lined, barely open. But his dark brows are twisted in concern. The hand is on his hip now, heavy. Solid. Aeon swallows, he intends to nod, to tell Swiss to go back to sleep. But his body betrays him, he shakes his head. 

“Cramps,” he mumbles in explanation. He doesn’t want Swiss to worry–there’s really nothing to worry about. He’s fine. 

He crumples beneath another cramp. Tears pricking at his eyes. He turns enough that he can cling to Swiss. Now that he’s here and awake, Aeon can’t do anything else. He buries his face in Swiss’ chest and inhales the smell of him. Sweat and weed and sandlewood. He closes his eyes tight and tries not to cry as Swiss pulls him close, cradles Aeon’s little body against his. 

Swiss kisses him between his horns, runs a comforting hand up and down his spine. Tangles the other in his hair, runs his fingers through it. He scratches at Aeon’s scalp until Aeon’s body goes lax as the cramp ebbs. 

“What can I do?” Swiss asks, lips brushing over the curve of Aeon’s horn. 

“The tea Mountain made me.” 

“Where is it, baby?” 

“Front pocket of my bag.” 

Swiss untangles himself from Aeon. Aeon lays back on the bed, flat on his back. Tears burning against his cheeks. He hears Swiss rifling around in his bag. Hears the water run. Hears Swiss messing with that weird coffee maker. 

“I hate this,” Aeon says softly. 

“I know.” 

“Just wanted to sleep in with you,” Aeon mumbles, voice cracking. 

The coffee maker hisses, Aeon hears it spit water out into the styrofoam cup. Swiss is back right away. Helping Aeon sit up and pressing the overly hot cup into his hand. The smell of the tea alone makes something in Aeon’s back loosen. 

He sips at it–it’s too hot but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t want to wait any longer. 

“We can still sleep in,” Swiss promises. Leaning over to kiss Aeon’s temple. “Sleep all day if you want.” 

Swiss curls one big arm around Aeon’s waist, pulls him close. The little ghoul leans against him. Eyes closing against another cramp. Swiss takes the cup from him so Aeon doesn’t spill. He presses his lips to the side of Aeon’s head, holds him close as the pain ravages him. 

When it’s done, Swiss hands the cup back to him. “Drink up so we can go back to sleep.” 

“I–” Aeon looks away, lilac blush coloring his cheeks. “I think I should take a shower first..” 

Swiss shrugs, buries his nose in Aeon’s hair and inhales. “Fine. Shower first. Sleep after. All day. No excuses.” 

Aeon turns his head to catch his lips on Swiss. It’s chaste, as easy as breathing. “Too good to me,” Aeon mumbles as he brings the cup back up to his mouth. Swiss grins down at him. “No such thing.” 

[lovesby]

HOLD ME, HAND. a handmade Renchanting zine by me! Transcripts, and image descriptions under the cut. Experience it on my website! (Transcripts inline on there.)

Pictured is the cover and back cover of the zine. The back cover is the same style scribbled black vertical line, but less dense, and with a streak of red scribbled lines towards the top half of the page.

Page 1 and 2 of the zine. On the left, the page behind the cover, has a crude drawing of the Dogwarts banner in red pen. It is an almost fully red banner with three white triangles at the bottom edge. The text on the side of the page, written along the side edge, says “a hand made Renchanting zine by SBY.” Renchanting is in red text, as is SBY. SBY is circled like a signature. On page two, there is a poem, titled “how it ends”, aligned left, in plain black text. It says; Let’s try this again: You go into fruitless labor for fruitless/business for fruitless prizes in fruitless/games. No winning here, there is none./I know that. I see it. I’ve seen it all ahead/of time, I see it clearly now. Play/stupid games, play stupid pretend. No/winning. I know. But this time I’ll play along, stupid games./This time, I’ll climb up the hill and see/you there, and walk the other/way. I’ll know better. I’ll leave you to it. A gentle/nod. Magic can’t save us, in the end./Love can’t mean anything if I know -how it ends.

Pages 3 and 4 of the zine. On the left page, page 3, is a poem written diagonally down the page. Once in black, then repeated in red. It is titled “on you.”/”(on you)” and the title is both on top and on the bottom of the poem to be read with the rest. The poem reads, “on you. drawn to you like gravity draws the axe to meet its mark (on you). drawn to you like gravity draws the axe to meet its mark” On page 4, on the right, is a sketchy drawing of a handaxe, colored in slightly with blue pen and red hearts scribbled around the sharp end of the axe instead of blood. On the handle, all caps cut off text reads, “Red winter is-”

Pages 5 and 6 of the zine are in all black ink. This is a two page spread of a poem titled “puppy love”. The title is horizontal down the middle spine. On the bottom half, under the large block of poem text, is drawn the roots and trunk of a tree. On the top half, on the right page, above the text, is drawn the top half of the same tree. The text on the left reads, “I don’t fully understand what it is/about you that makes me want to/run and hide under the tall dark/oaks. Something about you makes/me scared like a child, not devoted/to some thing or another. Or another/thing. I don’t fully understand what/it is that makes my heart tug and/beat when someone else is near you./Like something or another, pulling/me closer.” The text on the bottom half of page 6 reads, “I don’t need to understand what it is/about you that makes me want to put the/wooden handle in your firm calloused hands./The hands I held in mine, planting row/after row of garden in the soil in/front of the shack your calloused hands/helped build, behind the walls your hands/helped me build. I feel it too. So I’m/putting this in your hands, now."

Pages 7 and 8 of the zine. On the right is a crude drawing of a red crescent moon with three black birds in front of it. On the right is a poem titled, “be still, be ready (steady)”. The title is written vertically on the middle spine again. In red pen, complementing the black ink text of the poem is a scribbled red cloud and red snowflakes. The poem reads: and with the palpitations in/my throat i finally/understood what it would/feel like to eat a/heart while it was still/beating. i’m holding your heart in my hands/and swallowing it whole./you asked me to, and now i am, i’m/swallowing you whole.

Pages 9 and 10 are a mostly white page space two page spread of black lowercase text, that simply reads, very spread out, on a top left to bottom right diagonal, “oh./i understand,/now.”

Pages 11 and 12 of the zine are the first part of a four page spread of one poem meant to be read from left to right ignoring the middle spine. There is a long arrow at the cutoff at the end of the page, indicating that the poem continues. It is in black ink and says; The wagon jumps --- not for joy. Executioner’s boots squeal/at the same frequency of the damn wheels creak. The same joy/peverted [sic]. I never understood an axe until I became one./Sharpen me,/deep repetitive motion, make me feel/good. How I touch/the scar around your neck and know/I made it --- mine, mine. I smell bile/feel it in my throat too, and/I look up to see one of the men,/big and strong framed/an ox/of a man and gentle like one Pages 13 and 14, continuing the 4 page spread. The rest of the text says; has thrown up onto the road. Leaving it/pieces of him in our wake. I don’t throw up/even if I feel like/I left myself somewhere else. Becoming the axe, becoming the axe. Long road home/to take it back. Bury me/in someone else’s/hand. The title of the poem is revealed on the bottom right of the last page; “Long Live the King”. Above it is a drawing of an open eye and a closed eye in red ink.

[wrenhyperfixates]

Synopsis/tw: Dottore taking care of you because that’s what I need right now :’) not proofread. reader’s a bit depressed/has been crying a lot. gn!reader. non-sexual nudity. it’s sfw but below a cut bc it’s a bit long I’m slowly turning into a dottore fanfic blog ig

People say that to feel your heart break, you have to have a heart. Well, Dottore was pretty sure he didn’t have one, yet he felt a distinct ache in his chest when he saw your eyes, puffy and red. And those small gasps and winces as you slow and hide your sobs.

Dottore closed the door slowly behind him so as not to disturb you where you sat on the couch. Heaving a hefty sigh, he removed his mask and sat next to you. You’d screwed your eyes shut to help stop the flow of tears. When it became clear you weren’t going to be opening them any time soon, he sighed again.

“Love, look at me.”

Though his words were a short, simple command, the gentleness hidden in the tone of his voice—gentleness you knew him well enough to hear—turned the phrase into a plea.

For anyone else, his face would be set into a grim look of annoyance. New as he was to the soft feelings he held for you, he tried to keep such an expression, but his eyebrows still drew into a tight line of concern.

Eyes not quite yet dry, you do as he asks, gaze darting around a bit, but ultimately looking at the doctor.

“You’ve some nerve, trying to hide something from me,” he spoke again. Dottore cupped your cheek and you immediately leaned into the warmth of his gloved palm. “Just give me a name, and I’ll have whoever hurt you chained to a lab table by sunrise.”

A gasp flies past your lips, followed by a small chuckle. “Thanks, ‘ttore. Though no one did this, I’m just…”

He allows you the time to pick your words, waiting patiently for you to continue, and stroking your cheek with his thumb in the meanwhile.

“…overwhelmed,” you finish after a few moments. “Overwhelmed with- Archons, overwhelmed just by life itself.”

A sob breaks your voice as you finish your sentence, more salty trails staining your cheeks as tears once again spill from your eyes. Before you can blink them away, Dottore has pressed you to his chest, tucking your head under his chin.

“Now, now,” he tuts. “You underestimate me.”

“What? You gonna tie my feelings up in your lab?” you tease, though your tone lacks some of the mirth you tried to force into it. Still, it earns a laugh from Dottore.

“Hm, perhaps not. But it is nothing I can’t handle. I am used to working with machinery on the brink of disrepair and volatile chemicals… Perhaps it is not the most apt analogy for humans and their feelings, but I do know how to handle things with care.”

Humming in thought, you snuggle closer to his chest to muffle the small sobs that you haven’t yet gotten under control. In the silence you realized the second harbinger, a force of nature, had a very steady heartbeat and his stoic presence was somehow calming.

“Ok.”

“Good. Now love, I’ll need you to do as I say, but it is of the utmost importance that you make it known if I do anything that causes you to be uncomfortable.”

After waiting for you to nod in affirmation, he bids you to stand and follow him. Though, you don’t hesitate, you weren’t expecting your destination to be the bathroom.

Dottore ran the water so the tub would fill as he rummaged through some draws, pulling out a variety of jars and bottles. Some seemed to be what he was looking for and others he cast aside. From the looks of it, maybe you couldn’t be sure you weren’t about to become one of his experiments.

“Love,” he calls over his shoulder, “I’ll need you to strip, if you’re feeling up to it. There’s a robe on the hook by the door if you want it.”

Heart-skipping a beat you do as you say, fastening the plush robe tightly around you. It smells strongly of your lover, and you wonder if the musk is from his soap or if it’s his natural scent.

Dottore has the bath ready quickly, water warm and dotted with bubbles and rose petals. With your permission, he removes the robe from your body and helps you into the water. The rolled up sleeves of his button down get wet as he helps you get settled, but if he notices he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Everything ok so far.”

“Yes, ‘torre.” Your eyes shine with gratitude as you look at him. They still shine with tears too, but for the moment, your mind is elsewhere. “Thank you. Sorry to make you take time out of your day for this.”

Laughing he shakes his head. “My schedule always includes time for you. Besides, I take pride in what is mine. And love, lest you forget, you are mine.”

To anyone else, those words from the mad doctor would be enough to set their heart beating at a rapid pace and a shoot a tingle straight down their spine. To you, those words were coated in honey, whispered against your skin, and punctuated with a kiss to each of your fingertips.

Relishing in his touch, you nod and do your best to relax in the water. Dottore continues to whisper sweet reassurances into the steamy air of the bathroom, observing each microscopic change to your expression so he could adjust his words to be exactly what you need. His love was genuine, even if the way he expressed it was carefully calculated.

When he feels the water begin to dip in temperature, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles to capture your attention, then looks you right in the eye as he speaks.

“I intend to wash you, if you are alright with that.”

Turning over the prospect over in your head, you reach a conclusion faster than you expected, but the answer rolls off your tongue naturally. “Yes.”

He does not hesitate before setting to work. His hands, devoid of gloves unlike earlier, make direct contact with your skin. They’re calloused, and for saying he knew how to handle things with care, they treated you a bit rougher than expected. But, perhaps it was intentional as there was a sort of calming effect to strong, decisive actions. Something that kept you grounded when you felt you were drifting away.

Dottore took his time lathering the soap on your body before rinsing it away, following up by doing the same to your hair, massaging your scalp and skin as best as he could as went. Despite not being particularly practiced with giving massages, in tandem with the sweet nothings he began to softly whisper again, it did more than enough to calm your tensed body.

Once done with the washing and with your approval once again, Dottore begins to pat you dry. Instead of trekking to your room to fetch your own things, he pulls out his own clothes for you to wear, leaving you to change while he acquires some pastries you had stored in the fridge.

“Feeling better, love?”

Dipping the bed as he takes a seat next to you, he rests the tray on his lap. You reclaim your place snuggled into his side as you grab a pastry and pop it into your mouth. Fiddling with the buttons of his shirt which you now wear, you hum your affirmation.

The corners of his mouth turn down. “Promise?”

You eat a couple more pastries before answering. “Yes. I am feeling better. Having you here, the way you’ve taken care of me helped. Honest!… I’m just maybe not all better yet.”

“Mmm, well, that can’t be helped. Healing is a slow process for any wound, and I would not expect the ebb and flow of you anxiety to suddenly bow to my whim.”

“Yeah. Any chance you can keep helping though?”

He polishes off a couple pastries of his own before offering you the last one and setting the tray on the bedside table. Pulling you into his lap, he tugs the blanket so it rests securely round you both.

“Well, of course. I’m not one to abandon an experiment after a single trial.”

Resting your head back so it laid in the crook of his neck, you continue to let the his presence wrap around you and melt away the buildup of your stress. You press a kiss to his collarbone, and he responds with a peck on the top of your head.

“What about after two trials? Or three? Will you be tired of me then?”

“Honestly, my love, you ought to prepare yourself because the trials shall be endless. Or, let me be more blunt: I shall never tire of you. After all, you are mine. But more than that, I am yours.”

[astrowaffle]

Wow you guys really seemed to like the steampunk AU, that post got way more attention than I was expecting, so here's some more information and stuff:

-The world is still like a videogame that they got trapped in but now it’s a steampunk adventure-y type game with circus elements 

-The adventures are probably a bit different

-They’re probably more like, fantasy adventure video game style things with like puzzles and fighting? Idk I'm not a big gamer I've never actually played any steampunk video games. What are those like?

-Instead of circus tent, there is a big wagon thingy that I'll draw eventually

-there's still not much of a story and I'm not sure If there'll ever be

-I'd also kinda want to make some mini comics for this au but I suck at coming up with ideas :/

Pomni:  

-She likes to craft things

-friends with Gangle and Ragatha

-still very anxious but less anxious then normal Pomni?

-has a very logical mind and is good at puzzling things together but also doesn’t do well under pressure and typically panics in stressful moments where these skills might be useful

-She can play the flute because flutes are good, they are the best instrument. (I am totally not biased just because I play the flute in marching band)

-My headcanon for regular Pomni is that she’s less anxious than she initially is in the pilot after getting used to things, like, beyond the anxiety, her actual personality is very cheery and friendly, also very logical, because idk it just fits her somehow? So yea, that headcanon also applies to this au 

-but of course she is still an absolute nervous wreck because yes

-How else is she supposed to react in this situation

-also look at those fingerless gloves I want those

-the gears in her eyes turn when she is thinking

Gangle:

-Also likes crafting things

-friends with Pomni, Zooble, and Kinger

-she often borrows  sewing needles from Ragatha to sew her comedy mask back together when it’s torn, and also constantly tries to craft new ones

-She really likes her boots

-I don’t blame her those are some nice boots

-Ok wait a minute what if that little wing bow thingy on her head is actually a pen/quill that she can use to write stuff?

-ooooooh yes I like that

Caine: 

-✨monocle✨

-He can control the time of day with the clock that’s on his hat

-It’s a lot harder for him to heal injuries in this world, he can’t just instantly fix anything anymore it requires a bit more effort

-I’m doing this because I like when injury and pain and suffering

Bubble: um- idk it’s just bubble but now they’re a robot I guess

Kinger:

-ok but what if he had a collection of mechanical insects? Omg designing mechanical insects would be so fun-

-The clock that he wears is broken but he doesn’t notice. And Time is irrelevant anyways

-damn those gloves are fancy

-they probably feel really silky

-and his robe is also very silky because mmm good texture

Zooble:

-They are a robot now

-also a mechanic/inventor because nobody else is and somebody had to learn how to make new robot parts

-their right arm can go s t r e t c h

-bonds with Gangle over their hatred of Jax

-they’re also kinda protective over her

-I lowkey ship them (this ship is so underrated)

-No but seriously why do see zero art of this ship

- Zoob’s in denial about their feelings and still pretends not to care because they’ve had such a “I don’t give a shit about anything” attitude that suddenly developing feelings for someone has caught them off guard cause they suddenly are giving a shit about something and they don’t know how to handle it, But if Jax does anything to Gangle they will rush in to protect her in a heartbeat and just try to play it off as it just being because they don’t like Jax BUT WE ALL KNOW THE TRUTH ZOOBLE JUST CONFESS ALREADY-

-ok that got way too rambly let's just move on now

Jax:

-MY FAVORITE

-he likes shiny things

-He will collect those shiny things

-He also very fast because look at those LANKY RABBIT LEGS

-I mean technically that’s already cannon, did you see how fast he ran away after seeing abstracted kaufmo? He just z o o m e d outta there

-those keys on the chain are only a small portion of his collection

-his room is definitely full of weird steampunk knick knacks because yes

-He uses them to prank people

-the centipedes he has to scare/annoy Ragatha are mechanical

-I’m so excited to design mechanical centipedes I love bugs so much guys you have no idea I finally have an excuse to draw insects and maybe people will actually care because it’s fandom related now

-He does not like getting wet. At all. (this is also just a general headcanon for him but especially in this au)

-floofy

Ragatha:

-the seams of her fabric are prone to tearing so she always carries a needle and thread to sew herself back together. she's good at sewing

-My main headcannon for normal Ragatha is that her button eye is a parallel to an eye injury she had in real life before joining the circus, but in this AU she probably acquired the injury in this universe.

-she’s good at using tools and weapons but not in like, a mechanic sorta way like Zooble but in a defense sorta way

-like, she’s very kind and caring but also sorta tough and even though her body is good at falling apart, she knows how to use strategy to fight and um wait what would they even be fighting-

-idk I haven’t thought about that yet

-Gloinks?????

-do those exist in this au???

-wait it’s my au why am I asking this

-overall she is very, “tries to help everyone else and seems very tough on the outside but is prone to falling apart both physically and mentally but just gets good at quickly patching it up and ignoring it until it become too much for her to bear”

-pls help her she needs therapy

-they all need therapy

-I’m pretty sure we’ve all established that at this point

-but I’m just making sure you know that it’s still a consistent factor in this au

[promptful]

how about sick and care taker quotes/propmts?

Caretaker/Sick Prompts

Hi! Here you go.

WARNINGS: Vomit. Hospital. Disease.

DIALOGUE

CARETAKER

1) “You’re burning up.” 

2) “Here’s some medicine.” 

3) “You’re not ‘fine.’”

4) “Let me draw you a bath.” 

5) “Try and get some food down. Anything.” 

6) “How about some Ice chips?” 

7) “I know it’s nasty, but I need you to take it anyway.” 

8) “Can I get you water? Food? Medicine?” 

9) “Are you dizzy?” 

10) “If you even slightly lose consciousness, I’m taking you to the hospital.” 

11) “I don’t care if I get sick. Move over.” 

12) “What better way to spend a sick day than movie night and snacks?” 

13) “Ohmygod, I just kissed you.” 

14) “I got your hair, it’s okay.” 

15) “Were you able to eat anything?” 

16) “Ice pack?” 

17) “I’m staying home today. I don’t want to leave knowing you’re feeling this bad.” 

18) “Stop. I can handle everything else.” 

19) “Stay in bed, for me?” 

20) “I will pick you up, dammit. Lay down.” 

21) “I even contacted my mom/dad for this soup. Eat.” 

22) “No matter what you look like, or how you feel, I’ll always love you.” 

23) “In sickness and in health, right?” 

24) “If I get sick, you’ll take care of me, right?” 

25) “You’re like a little furnace.” 

26) “Sleep, I’ll be right here.” 

27) “Let me call into work for you.” 

28) “I—I’m not going to tell you what you can and cannot do. But please. Don’t go out like this.” 

29) “Don’t feel bad if you vomit this up later.” 

30) “I got you, I got you.” 

31) “Hey! Are you still with me?” 

32) “Fever dreams, huh?” 

33) “I know you feel horrible, but just a few more days and you’ll be right as rain.” 

34) “You won’t get me sick. Well. You might, but I don’t mind.” 

35) “Can I hold you?” 

36) “Even if you’re sick, you’re still the prettiest girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse in the world.” 

37) “Let me take care of you.” 

38) “If you even say ‘I’m sorry’ once, I’m going to be extra caring until you can’t stand me.” 

39) “Tea?” 

40) “Sick snuggles?” 

SICK

41) “My throat feels like it’s on fire.” 

42) “Why is everything so hot?” 

43) “Why is everything so cold?” 

44)“I… really don’t feel good.” 

45)“You’re brave being in vomiting distance.” 

46) “I’m fine. It’s fine. Stop—stop fussing over me.” 

47) “It’s like there’s a weight on my chest.” 

48) “Let me sleep. Please.” 

49) “Sorry, I’m… I’m really dizzy.” 

50) “That felt so real.” 

51) “Stop, I don’t want to get you sick!” 

52) “Hold me?” 

53) “I feel like I’m half-way to Hell and Heaven all at the same time.” 

54) “‘Think I got one foot in the grave.” 

55) “Gonna vomit.” 

56) “Don’t let me fall.” 

57) “Is my skin on fire?” 

58) “You’re so cold.” 

59) “Don’t know if I wanna eat or cry.” 

60) “Please, don’t get sick because of me.” 

61) “Did you just kiss me?” 

62) “Gotta—gotta go to work.” 

63) “Bathroom. Now.” 

64) “Thanks…” 

65) “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

66) “Come on. There’s no need to overreact over this.” “You are literally passing out.” 

67) “I feel terrible.” 

68) “Did Hell warm over?” 

69) “Love you.” 

70) “Is this a good enough excuse for you to make me cake/cupcakes/chocolate?” 

71) “No hospital.” 

72) “Did I swallow sandpaper?”

73) “What about—what about work?” 

74) “You’re too good to me.” 

75) “It’s just a little cold.” 

76) “I’m gonna… gonna sleep this off.” 

77) “I’ll freeze to death if this doesn’t stop.” 

78) “Why are you so warm?” 

79) “I’m shivering…” 

80) “Feel like shit.”

SCENARIOS

81) I’m holding your hair as you're vomiting into the toilet. You keep apologizing, but I seriously don’t mind. 

82) I made you a bowl of soup? I hope you like it. 

83) Without thinking about it, I press my lips to yours and… oh. This is going to bite me later, isn’t it. 

84) You’re trying to leave for work, and I keep telling you please no. I can’t imagine what I’d do if someone called me saying that you passed out. 

85) Laying on my lap, you’re watching television, and I’m running my fingers through your hair. 

86) I made you a list to convince you why you’re still pretty/handsome despite being sick, no matter how hard you’re trying to convince me otherwise.

87) We were just conversing and suddenly your eyes fluttered shut. Ohmygod. 

88) This… we’re really close, but you asked me to help you bathe and I can’t just say no.

89) We’ve been arguing about taking some disgusting cherry tasting medicine. Come on. Take the medicine, and then I promise you, I’ll get you some ice cream.

90) I offer some of my clothing after your own get soaked in sweat. I don’t think the red on your cheeks is related to how you’re feeling. 

91) While this distance does leave me at risk for getting sick, you’re lying your head on my chest and all I can think about is your soft breathing and hair on my face. 

92) After a fever dream wakes you up, I roll over and hold you close, your head underneath my chin.

93) Delirious, you just confessed your love, and I tell you it back immediately, even if you may not remember. 

94) Even if my boss may not be happy with me, I called into work to take care of you regardless. 

95) You’re underneath ten different quilts and there’s nothing I can do but try to feed the gremlin underneath there. Even if you’re slightly scary. 

[luimagines]

the boys hanging out in modern!readers room pwease?

🐰

Sure thing Bunny!

Masterlist

Content under the cut!

When the boys were transported to this new world, they didn’t know what to think. It was loud, smelled weird and had way too many gadgets out and about.

Their friends ushered all of the through the streets as quickly and silently as the group would allow. They explained their home as they went, what each building was how to get there and more importantly, how close they were to their home.

It was than that it dawned on more than half of them how.. small their homes were. Not necessarily in the literal sense, (although there was plenty of that as well) more so in the space where all these people could live together where the term village certainly didn’t fit. It was hard to accept that this didn’t count as a city on it’s own.

They were assured, however, that the city was much larger and louder... and smellier. They didn’t want to imagine it.

Getting to their home was another issue entire. It appears that they didn’t have the key and no one else was home.

A small blessing, they guessed, if a bit inconvenient for the current purpose.

They climbed in through the window and opened the door from the inside before the alarms could go off. They were a bit late on the draw and the group could hear them from the outside, but they were silenced just as quickly. A security system, they said.

Cautiously, the group made their way inside.

“Make yourselves at home.” Their friend grinned and spun around, immediately taking off their shoes. Wind and Wild followed suit, copying their action of leaving them by the door. “My home is your home. I just hope... that my parents aren’t going to come home any time soon. I’m not exactly fond of the idea of that lecture and explanation that their due but! We’re here! And no one will bother us here. Anyone hungry?”

All hands went up.”

“Do you need help?” Wild offered.

“Sure! Just wash your hands first.” They grinned and opened the door to a large metal box they had in the middle of the room. “Feel free to look around! Just don’t break anything please.”

Hyrule took off down the stairs while Wind and Four went further into the house.

Time didn’t even want to think about the implications and sat down on the couch. It was softer than he thought it would be. Not wanting to ruin the clear craftsmanship of the furniture, he got to removing his armor. He wasn’t sure where he was going to put it but he didn’t want it to snag and tear anything.

Warrior was quick to the same and neatly began organizing a pile that wouldn’t be too disruptive to the rest of the houses layout. “You have... a lot of plants.”

“You can blame my mother.” They laughed. “She has the greenest thumb of the family. She can make anything grow, I swear. Oh- Wild bE CAREFUL!”

Twilight winces and sits next to Time. This isn’t his job right now. He doesn’t want to go look. It can’t be that bad. It’s not like he’s not near anything sharp or hot or-

He gets up two second later.

Wild was trying to do what he knew best but was close to touching the stove with his forearm. “...Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, just be aware of it. You nearly burned your entire arm.”

“It wouldn’t change much.”

“Yes, but we don’t have the supplies to treat burn wounds.” 

“How can you even tell it’s hot?”

“Ohh dear...” They sigh.

Twilight can feel the long suffering emotion behind it. “Is it the light?”

“It’s the light.” They sigh.

Wild blinks and looks at the stove. He’s not entirely sure how it works or how to read it. But still, he can see the little red light just around the nob they turned. “...Oh.”

“You know what?” They smiles patiently. “I’ll handle it. Thank you though.”

Twilight pats Wild’s shoulder and leads him away. Wild tries to not be too dejected.

Legend and Sky took to exploring not long after Hyrule did. Frankly it’s not much to see but it’s bigger than their houses for sure. With a lower floor and two rooms in the back, they’re surprised by how much space their friend has for the small family they claim to live with.

They find a room, unlocked, where there’s clothes on the floor and the bed is unmade. It smells....quite familiar actually. A lot like someone they travel with.

“They have their own room?” Legend looks around, amazed. There’s a bed in the corner, a dresser by the wall, multiple pictures and paintings cover the walls and a bookshelf with more books than Legend has rings rests on the other side of the room. Naturally he walks over to it.

Sky takes to looking at the pictures on the wall. Some have words, he can tell, but as he suspects, he can’t understand a word.

Legend fares a little better. With the amount of time he’s seen their friend write, he’s been able to piece together the vague and confusing alphabet into something he can understand.

Hyrule walks in a moment later and tilts his head. “What’s this room for?”

“I think it’s theirs.” Legend picks a book off the shelf.

Hyrule feels shame wash over him. “Should we be looking through their stuff then?”

“That didn’t cross your mind when you were at my place?” Legend quips back. “Besides, they said their home is our home. If there was something off limits they would have said something.”

Sky hums and looks away. “As long as we don’t break anything.”

Hyrule hums, no longer feeling good about it. It was one thing to see what the room of your family members were like, now that he has a little more context despite himself. But to look into your personal belongs, without your knowledge of consent, is a bit too intimate.

He heads back upstairs. Four and Wind meet up with him with satisfying and excited faces. “Traveler! We found some cool things!”

His smile is tight. “Yeah?”

Time hums. “Find anything of interest?”

Four opens his mouth but shrugged. “Not really. Just stuff.”

Time grins and nods along. “As expected. They’re not a fighter and neither is anyone in their family.”

He can hear something sizzling where Reader was off in the other compartment. Apparently, they deemed it safe to be left alone because they come back to where most of them are congregated.

“Here. I’ll put a movie on. Moving stories, yeah?” They grab a black rectangle and push on the colorful things that stick out of it. They turn on the larger black box on the small table and begins to move through the images on the screen.

The small action catches most, if not, everyone’s attention and soon everyone is sitting around the box as music begins to play. “This one was my favorite when I was little. I hope you enjoy it.”

The sunset in the back is beautiful and multiple animals that they can’t name start to blink their eyes as it rises over the land. It’s nothing they’re ever seen before.

They are enraptured.

Their friend sighs and smiles at the seen, trying their hardest to not sing along to the music. They don’t want to ruin the experience.

Besides, they’ll be in the kitchen cooking enough food to feed a small army.

They can sing all they want without them noticing. They are thoroughly distracted and they take it as a win. 

It’s good to be home.

[atomic-rattz]

Welcome to the shore!

Hello, welcome to my blog!! My name is Atomic/Tomi and I created this blog mainly for the purpose of drawing and other art things but I might just have fun on here.

Basics:

I use she/her pronouns but I actually really don’t care what you use. I’m aroace (don’t know what to say abt this lol)

Interacting with me:

Please note before you interact that I am a MINOR. I am open to talking to anyone as long as you follow my dni. I might suck at talking online, but talking to people here brings me much joy so feel free to talk to me. 💜

when you follow me just know i talk a lot and its not only art lol i speak freely of whats on my mind

If you do not like me, please do not leave hate comments and rather just block me instead. (My sad small rat brain can’t handle that..)

DNI:

Please no proshipping, tcest, NSFW, ableism, homophobia, racism, etc. I can’t think of anything else but just please no problematic things here, i’m just trying to have fun making art… (ESPECIALLY TRYING TO REQUEST ART OF THAT.)

My interests!!

Tmnt (I mainly like rise, I have not watched any other generation besides Mutant mayhem and rise I feel so fake but if I can I might watch 2003)

Adventure Time, currently rewatching the whole thing

Rats, fancy ones not the ones in your sewer

Sharks

Hamilton (musical)

Snoopy (collecting things atleast)

Will Wood (artist)

Isopods.. (basically roly polys also did you know pill bugs aren’t classified as a “true bug” bcs of bill bugs actually being a crustacean hehe i love isopods)

I have a lot others but these are my main hyperfixations right now..

and here is a terrible drawing of me dont worry i am not always in constant anguish

I do art requests!! (read abt interacting with me and dni)

I will draw any tmnt stuff (follow dni guidelines plss), aus are fine and any other generation. Keep it simple! This art request thing is just for fun and might just be some doodles. Just send an ask! Yes, anyone can do this. Don’t expect a full drawing!

If anything weird is sent I will ignore..

DO NOT STEAL MY ART!!!!! (if repost wanted please ask permission.)

Just remember that stealing art will not do anything for you. It can inspire you, that’s great, but if you steal you’ll never improve in art!!! Make your own and i’m sure it will be amazing!!!

Tags:

#atomic’s irrelevant talking:

random talking posts idk you might wanna block this if you dont like me talking and only wanna see art

GOT A DTIYS GOING ON

[hells-greatest-performers]

Lucifer? Couldn't you just declare Babies and children as unable to be binded by a contract? Like they can't make deals, can't 'inherent' them and can't make any that would start to be binding when they reach adulthood. That wouldn't free Husk, but it would free Freya and the unborn one. And countless children in hell, probably. Wouldn't be too different from the laws many places on earth have

Husk: *continues to struggle, his desperation turning into outright panic. Angel Dust tightens his grip, trying to calm him down, but Husk’s cries and thrashing only grow louder. The commotion draws the attention of Lucifer, who swiftly appears in the corridor, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene.*

Lucifer: *voice commanding* What is going on here?

Husk: *sobbing, still struggling against Angel* I can’t leave Freya alone! Alastor put a claim on her—he says he owns her soul! I’m scared he’ll take her away!

Lucifer: *expression shifts from confusion to a stern, protective anger as he processes Husk’s words. He steps forward, placing a reassuring hand on Husk's shoulder.*

Lucifer: *calm but firm* Husk, listen to me. No one, not even Alastor, can lay claim to a soul without my permission. I promise you, Freya is safe here.

Husk: *breathing heavily, looking up at Lucifer with wide, fearful eyes* But he said—

Lucifer: *interrupting* Whatever he said, he does not have the power to take her soul. I will personally ensure her safety and get to the bottom of this. But right now, you need to take care of yourself and your unborn child.

Angel Dust: *seeing Husk beginning to calm, loosens his grip slightly but keeps a supportive arm around him. Husk's resistance wanes, exhaustion and the emotional toll evident on his face.*

Angel Dust: *softly* See, Husk? Freya’s going to be okay. Lucifer will handle it. But you need to get back to the infirmary.

Husk: *finally relenting, tears still streaming down his face* Okay...okay. Just... please, don't let anything happen to her.

Lucifer: *nodding resolutely* You have my word. Now go, rest and recover. We need you strong for both your children.

*With Angel Dust gently guiding him, Husk finally allows himself to be led back to the infirmary, his worry for Freya slightly eased by Lucifer’s assurances*

Lucifer: *his demeanor imposing and unyielding, makes his way to Alastor's quarters. He finds Alastor lounging in his room, clearly annoyed at the disturbance.*

Alastor: *voice dripping with irritation* Lucifer, to what do I owe the displeasure of being awakened at this hour?

Lucifer: *eyes blazing with authority* We need to talk, Alastor. It's about Husk and his children.

Alastor: *raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence* Oh? And what about them?

Lucifer: *steps closer, towering over Alastor* Husk mentioned that you claimed ownership over his daughter, Freya, and the unborn baby. Explain yourself.

Alastor: *sighs theatrically* Decades ago, Husk made a deal with me. In exchange for saving his power, I claimed his soul. Through that claim, any offspring of his also fall under my ownership. It's all very straightforward, really.

Lucifer: *voice cold and commanding* You have no right to claim Freya or the unborn child. They are not yours, and they never will be.

Alastor: *smirks, leaning back* Oh, Lucifer, you of all people should understand how deals work. Husk’s soul belongs to me, and by extension, so do his children. It’s the fine print that matters.

Lucifer: *leaning in, his presence menacing* You seem to forget whose domain this is, Alastor. Deals or not, I am the ultimate authority here. Those children belong to their parents, and no one else. You will release any claim you believe you have on them immediately.

Alastor: *eyes narrowing, annoyance flickering* And if I refuse?

Lucifer: *voice dangerously low* Then you will face consequences far beyond your comprehension. I am the Morning Star, and my word is law in this realm. You will not harm or claim what is not rightfully yours.

*There’s a tense silence as the two powerful figures lock eyes, the air crackling with latent power. Finally, Alastor breaks the silence with a begrudging smile.*

Alastor: *with a mock bow* Very well, Lucifer. Consider your decree acknowledged. I will release my claim on Freya and the unborn child. But remember, Husk’s soul is still mine.

Lucifer: *straightens, his expression still hard* Husk's soul may be bound to you by a deal, but his children are off-limits. If you violate this agreement, you will answer to me.

Alastor: *waves a dismissive hand* Understood. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get back to my rest.

*Lucifer turns on his heel and leaves, his mind already turning to how he can further protect Husk and his family. He knows Alastor is not to be trusted, but for now, the immediate threat is dealt with.*

[wordynerdygurl]

Yours

Author's Note:  Hello lovelies!  As promised, here's an Eddie Munson x Plus Size Female Reader for you to enjoy!

I was insanely inspired by @cicithefreakmunson and a tiktok they created, so do yourself a favor an check it out!

Pairing:  Eddie Munson x Plus Size Fem Reader

Summary:  Eddie needs to make sure that everyone knows who has your heart both in public and private.

Warnings:  SMUT, a fat phobic comment, fighting, mention of blood, swearing, sexy times, spanking, oral sex (female receiving), and some rougher relations in a committed relationship.  If I've missed anything, kindly let me know!



While Eddie was on stage, eyeing you from over the head of his guitar, the final notes of Corroded Coffin’s set swirling around the club, he had to watch some drunk choade stumble into your space, dick first.  This guy’s hands pawing at your wide curves, spilling his drink on you intentionally to make your shirt see-through.  Pulling you to him as you desperately tried to push him away had Eddie’s eyes clouding over at the audacity.  Didn’t this asshole know better?

To his credit, he did take a second to hand his six stringed sweetheart to Gareth before jumping off the stage in a flurry of hair, stomping your way, anger evident in the set of his shoulders.

“Hey baby, miss me?”  Eddie’s arms snaking around you, dragging you tight to his body to show everyone and most especially the sad sack trying to man-handle you, that you were already here with someone.

No, not someone.  Him.  It was him.  By some lucky roll of the die you were his girl and Eddie’s blood was boiling at the thought that this lesser man had the gall to even look your way.

Rising up on your toes, you let Eddie claim you with a long and hard kiss before turning back towards the interloper, smiling widely, “You know I always miss you, Eddie.”

Protectively, Eddie looks you over, barely keeping the icy edge out of his tone, “This uh, gentleman, bothering you?”

Shaking your head, you have to bite back a girly giggle.  He’s defending you and your honor against the groping goofus.  You’d be lying if you said it didn’t affect you; his brooding stare, the twitchy energy in his shoulders, all of his base masculinity on display.  If you weren’t in the middle of The Hideout, surrounded by metalheads and townies, you would have thrown yourself right at Edward Munson, reputation be damned.

But you know better than to push your beautiful boy, especially when he’s snapping with unspent adrenaline, plus, this little scene is already drawing a crowd.  Doing your best to diffuse the tension, your gaze never leaving Eddie’s face, you tisked, “Naw baby, he was just leaving.”

Circling behind you now, laying his chin on your shoulder while his arms circle your middle, Eddie was staring daggers at the intruder, “Then he should go then, right honey?”

Tired of you both talking at him, unsteady on his feet, the drunk practically shouts his confused frustration, “What the hell is your problem man?”

Eddie moves you behind him, shielding you from whatever comes next, angrily barking into the stranger’s face, “You can’t go grabbing chicks, dude.  Especially not my chick.”

Using his bottled beer, the man pointed at you, “That’s your girl?  That fat bi-”  That’s all the goon manages to get out before Eddie punches the handsy stranger hard and fast, his nose erupting in a spray of blood.

From that night on, the outward signs of your devotion to each other become more important than ever.  You were Eddie’s girl and he was your guy.  Everyone else had to get their own or get fucked, a beating he personally loved delivering, if it meant keeping you safe and by his side.

The next time he plays you’re draped in his denim cut, the one that every single soul inside the club knows belongs to him.  After that, you show up in a Corroded Coffin t-shirt, the words “I’m With the Band” stenciled on the back, just in case anyone forgets what brings you back to The Hideout week after week.  But it’s not enough, not for Eddie.

Each day you wore bracelets.  Black and neon green rubber circles that fill the gap between your elbow and your wrist, hot pink and orange, just for fun, and when he feels the need to remind the world who holds onto your heart, Eddie’s silver handcuffs.  Both locked on your right side so you could move around freely and shake hands with whoever, but jingling all night long was the narrow chain between the pair, reinforcing the idea that you were his and his alone, while also making you look hard as fuck.

Heads turn your way, inevitably, at the sight of you together.  Him, tall and lean, you short with sweeping curves.  The adoration on your face matched by the desire in Eddie’s.  And even though you were rounder in figure and fuller in the hips than most of the girls who flocked to The Hideout, working hard in their shiny spandex and over teased bangs, Eddie only had eyes for you.

Now, it was no longer possible to feel his nimble fingers with their calloused pads brushing over your exposed shoulder and not get goosebumps, no matter how crowded the bar was that night.    You couldn’t imagine walking into a room without his hand in your back pocket, pressing against your ample bottom with every swinging step.  How would you ever enjoy a concert or a conversation when his long arm wasn’t draped along your shoulder, or, even better, wrapped around you so his leather jacket creaked against your cheek, the heat of his hand resting possessively on the skin above your full breasts?

You can’t.  It’s not even a remote possibility, not anymore.  Eddie “The Freak” Munson had made you one too and there was no going back.

When he somehow manages to keep you out of his grasp, a truly difficult task for the boy, you still feel the presence of phantom threads connecting you every time you even glance at a mirror.  Your graceful neck could be loaded with necklaces, velvet chokers and chains but no one noticed your jewelry.  All they could see were the lavender splotches where Eddie had sucked and nipped and licked your tender flesh into bruises old and new.  Every one a badge of honor you happily displayed because removable tokens of Eddie’s devotion were no longer enough for either one of you.

You, in your trashy fishnet tights, a cut off pair of denim shorts barely covering the crease where your ass became the back of your thighs.  You, in an ancient Led Zeppelin t-shirt that was so holey you had to wear a tank top underneath it or risk being charged with indecent exposure.  You, with the chopped hair and black eye-liner, a busted out pair of boots and your pleased, crimson smile just for him.

He was so fucking yours.  

Much later, in the divine dark of early morning, his trailer filled with smoke and shadow, Eddie’s lighter flicks to life.  The golden rays highlight his long lashed eyes, solely focused on setting the twisted tip of his joint alight, ready to inhale the fragrant fog.  Drawing deeply, puffing his chest, you watch Eddie lean towards you, his lips puckered and ready.

Fisting your hand into his beloved Hellfire Club shirt, you pull him near enough to kiss, but that wasn’t on the agenda.  Your lips part sweetly, eyes fluttering closed as Eddie exhales the scented smoke from his lungs into your own.  Billowing gently through his lips, the vapor curls around you both in milky white swirls as you gratefully inhale his breathy discharge.

It wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, but it tastes different when it comes from him; sweeter somehow and you flatten your palms along the plains of his chest, overeager for his kiss.  He knows it too.  Recognizing the wanting in your face, moving close enough that your noses bump together, Eddie turns his head at the last moment which makes you huffy.  Inhaling another drag, causing the joint’s cherry to flame brighter, his free hand tangles in the tendrils at your neck, holding you steady as he blows another shotgun directly between your open lips.

Needy now, you drift closer, ready to bridge the millimeters of distance between your mouth and Eddie’s only to be thwarted by his holding grip, “So pretty, baby.  One more, alright?”

And he’s asking you, but there’s no need for that because Eddie knows that you’re going to let him do whatever he wants.  Licking over your bottom lip you stare hungrily at the burning paper, jealous that it gets to touch his full mouth when you haven’t yet.  You try to be patient but Eddie’s just taking so long on the drag.  Frenzied, you can’t help but whine, “Honey!  Please!”

He doesn’t answer in words.  Heavily ringed fingers grab at your chin, the cool metal digging into your overheated skin as he forces your lips into a pretty pout.  Eddie pauses, drawing out the long seconds while the smoke expands inside his chest, pinning you under his steely gaze.  When he’s satisfied that you’re gonna be good, be patient, and his body is almost screaming for fresh air, only then does he release another lungful of sacred smoke into your waiting mouth.

Before you can enjoy what he gives you, Eddie’s licking into you with his tongue.  His hands move to cradle your face, a palm pressing to each cheek, as your desperate lips reach out for him.  Then he’s deepening the kiss you’re sharing in the streaking silver smog, melding you together.  His tongue, your tongue, tangling together.  The push and pull of your shared passion flavored with sugary sighs and the musky scent of sativa, it’s wrecking you.

When you feel Eddie shifting beside you, kneeling up to shuck his jacket before tossing it somewhere, you pivot on the couch.  No longer sitting side by side, now your legs stretch out in front of you, wedged between Eddie’s black denim covered thighs.  There’s a lean, wolfish look on his face that makes you flush because you understand instinctively that he’s the predator.

That makes you prey.

Dancing, his fingers draw over your legs, glazing across the criss-crossed knots of your tights, the sensation tickling and tantalizing.  It’s enough to make you huff out a sound that’s half laugh, half moan and he’s enchanted.  You buck beneath Eddie, earning a cracked groan as he falls forward to caging you beneath him, his hair a curtain of dark curls.  As he nuzzles into your neck, sucking a fresh mark onto your sensitive skin, he can’t help but say, “You make such pretty noises, baby.”

Rubbing your feet together, Eddie’s attention turning you on, you purr pleasantly, “It tickled!”

“This?”  And he smooths an experimental hand over your plush thighs, pressing the black strings of your fishnets into your flesh, watching your reaction with his dilated eyes locked onto your own.  He’s toying with your cutoff’s fringe, widening his palms under the hem of your short shorts but over the stretched diamond pattern of your tights.  With each pass his hands reach lower; the little touched spaces behind your knees, the inner curve of your calves, the shape of your ankles.  And every time he returns to the swell of your hips, his thumbs circling closer and closer to your still covered cleft but stopping short of the connection you want most.

It’s torture.  Delicious, exquisite torture which has you biting your bottom lip as you roll against the weight of him.  Gasping sharply, your head tips over the couch’s arm as you nod mindlessly, “Uh huh…”

He meets your body halfway, grinding into you aggressively, shamelessly.  It’s unbelievable, really.  The way your thick, soft body welcomes his touch.  How you bend your knees reflexively, letting Eddie rock into the warm wet at the center of your legs, his grip squeezing the tender flesh of your ass.  Your panting, desperate sounds, so low and throaty, egging him on.

“Gotta get rid of these, well, you called ‘em shorts, baby, but-” popping the brass button open, Eddie’s hands flare open over your waist, “-damn...  They don’t cover much.”

You find his forearms, pretty painted nails digging in deep as your fingers flex, “Wanted to show off for you, babe.  Wanted you to be- Oh, ah!”  Gasping, you're interrupted by the rough yanking Eddie’s employing to get you out of your cut-offs as quickly as possible.

Lifting his head with a triumphant smirk, Eddie licks over his bottom lip while he fiddles with the belt loops of your bottoms, lust darkening his eyes, “Wanted me to be what, sweetheart?”

Shifting your shoulders, you risk a wide-eyed stare his way before declaring clearly, “Wanted you to be proud to show me off.”

“Sugar-” his voice dropped an octave, gravely and rumbling, “-you’re the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.  I’m more than proud, baby.  I’m fucking honored to be your man.  I mean, damn, just look at you, huh?”

If only you could see what Eddie did;  heat on your cheeks in uneven patches glowing in the dusky dim, legs spread so wide now that one of your feet was on the floor, the other caught under the couch’s back cushion.  Weed soaked, your eyes softly shut, ready to fly open at the faintest touch from his working class hands.  Your perfect, plump mouth parted to sigh, to sing, to bite into your bottom lip when you worried about being too loud.

Shit, even that ratty old t-shirt was sexy as fuck, riding high enough that he could see how hard your nipples had become, showing off the impressions where his fingertips sunk into the velvet skin of your sensitive breasts.  Eddie loved every inch of it.  Every inch of you.

Suddenly shy, you move, trying to tug down the hem of your shirt but Eddie bats your hands away, “Uh uh.  Need to see you, beautiful.  Want to see more, in fact.”

Before you can stop him, Eddie’s wicked hands course over your thighs again, ready to resume undressing you.  Lifting your hips high, high, higher, you hear the wind leave his lungs.  Pinching into your quads, his rings gouge at you, causing a squeak, “Eddie?  Baby?  What’s… is something wrong?”

“You’re not wearing anything under here.  No, uh, panties?”

His voice is low, flat.  No flourishes, no teasing and it’s so unlike him that you reach out for reassurance, “Oh!  That-” your hands trace over his braced arms, giggling a little in relief, “-they felt weird so, I just didn’t-”

“Didn’t wear any fucking panties.”  Now his voice is rasping and raw because Eddie is spiraling at the vision he sees.  The thick, black seam of your tights cuts right over the centerline of your slit, daring him to trace its path.  Your pussy calls out to him from the woven prison you’ve been wearing all night, the strings closest to you are a damp barrier to the very place Eddie wants to devour.

For a long second you think you’ve fucked up.  Eddie’s frozen in place, unmoving until you nudge him with a knee, “Babe?  You ok?”

“Can’t believe you, honey.  Leaving my pretty kitty uncovered so anyone could see her… touch her?”

There’s a jealous tint to his tone making you clench with want even though you feel like you need to defend yourself, “Don’t want anyone else to- to touch me.  Just you, baby.  Only you.”

Those are the right words because Eddie recommits himself to getting you off.  Without answering, he drops his head to your tummy, kissing a hard line from your belly button downward.  The softness of his hair brushing over the recently abused skin makes you shiver as your hands tangle in his hair and Eddie groans at the contact.

You?  You’re lost in the sensation of his lips.  Every scorching, open mouth smooch can be felt through the diamond windows of your fishnet tights, intensifying the high, as Eddie’s tongue presses against your clit, the conflicting textures creating heavenly friction.

Hissing, you yank hard on his curly mop, desperation making your legs shake.  Eddie growls into your lower lips, anxious to suck on your straining pearl properly, racy hosiery be damned!  You register his frustration.  It makes him fierce, feral, as he tries again to lap at you through the restrictive garment.  Like putty in his hands, your thighs rudely part at his coaxing, stretching the black elastic near to breaking, but still denying Eddie what he wants most: you.

“Oh, fuck this!”  With that declaration, right over your weeping hole, Eddie presses two fingers into you taking your filmy tights with him.  He feels a thread let go, then another, and soon a sizable hole is spreading with every forward motion of his twisting, teasing fingers.  Tearing easily, the rip widens, unable to sustain the repeated invasion.

Before you can acclimate to the intrusion, he withdraws, eyes wild and wide.  His strong fingers jerk hard, the seam of your tights giving way with a satisfying snap.  Eddie’s mouth, complete with a satisfied smirk, lowers to your core where he sweeps his tongue in a flat line between your folds, finally able to access your sweetcandy center.

Shaking your hips, you move in time with his licks, the animal in you rising to the surface, “Fuck, Eddie!  Yes!  Shit!”

Those fingers, so used to sliding down frets, slip into you unhindered.  Using the thumb of the same hand to rub your overstimulated clit, Eddie’s free palm coasts over your hip and the wide waistband of your destroyed tights, snapping the stretchy fabric harshly.  Arching into the surprising pop of pain, he catches the back of your head in his hand, kissing you hard with clicking teeth and clashing tongues.

Frantic, you tug at his shirttail, the need to feel his bones on your bones overwhelming.  “Need to feel you baby!”

But Eddie shakes his head, he’s not ready to let you go, not yet.  “Cum on my fingers first,”  Curving his digits deliberately, your walls constrict when he tickles against that soft, spongy place only he can seem to reach.  Then he does it again, seeing your whole body stutter as the contact short circuits your nervous system.

Still on his knees between your own, Eddie’s holding you close enough to rest his forehead to yours, a sweet, sweaty smile on his face, “Please baby.  I wanna see you come apart for me.  Just for me, yea?”

It’s the encouragement you need, his words flipping a switch inside you.  Everything in your body contracts: your abdominals, the muscles in your legs, the bones in your toes, the tendons in your neck.  Eddie can feel it happening from within you and continues to press his advantage, no longer retreating his hard working hand.  Instead he plunders your depths, further and faster than he’s ever done before.

“Need, uh-” licking over your lips, the begging starts in small syllables, “-you.  Need you, Eddie.”

He doesn’t have a chance to respond before you’re pulling him to you in another constrained kiss, tight, and tense, because that’s precisely what you’re experiencing at his hand.  Sucking his bottom lip between your teeth, you bite into the pillowy softness as Eddie firmly grinds his thumb against your clit, his nails scratching along your carnal tunnel.  Shattering, the world around you unravels in cosmic waves as your ecstasy expands beyond the narrow barriers of your body.

Eddie takes control of the lip lock, licking into the cavern of your mouth, the metallic taste of his blood mixing the smokey flavor that is your man.  He keeps his hand on the job until your vibrations slow, then, just as quickly as he started, Eddie smoothly extracts his pleasure giving fingers.  Through sleep heavy eyes you watch as he laps your juices from those same fingers, taking the extra time to suck his thumb clean before looking down at you with a proudly devilish grin.

You can’t help but stare because now Eddie reaches behind his head, removing his shirt in one motion, the tattoos that trail over his torso like a map to pleasure.  Raven wing hairs travel in a line down to the cut of his waist where his belt is undone, the rivet of his jeans open enough for you to see the checkerboard pattern of his boxers.  And a fresh desire for the man who loves you rolls over you.

Itchy now, your needy palms fan over his chest, wrapping under his arms until you’re cradling against him, your head tucked into his chest.  You can hear his heartbeat best like this and in your post-orgasmic state there’s something grounding in the steady rhythm of Eddie’s pulse that brings you back to the here and now.  He talks but you’re so close you only hear muffled mumbles so you tip your head up, “Hmm?”

“I said, I’m not done with you yet.”

Blinking, your drug fogged brain catching on, “Oh, you’re not?”

Shaking his head no, Eddie forces your head back far enough to expose your neck, tongue tracing along the tendon there before nipping at your earlobe, “Not even close, princess.  Get on your knees, baby.  Let me see that beautiful ass of yours.”

Goosebumps spread over you at the sweetly whispered command he issues.  Agreeing with a compliant nod, you go to stand up but Eddie pushes you toward the deep pile carpet on the floor, and you slip off the couch, boneless and floppy.  “Here-” tossing one of the loose cushions to you, Eddie watches you fold your hands under your cheek as if you were going to take a nap, all innocent and peaceful- but you’re far from innocent, aren’t you?

God, he fucking loves you.  He love fucking you, too.

Quickly shedding the rest of his clothes, his dick unbelievably hard because he is, without a doubt, the luckiest sonofabitch in Hawkins for sure, maybe Indiana, possibly the world.  And it’s because of you.

Already spaced out from the weed and first round of pleasure, your ass is framed perfectly by the haphazard tear in your tights, the thin netting still covering everywhere but the places only Eddie gets to touch you.  Lifted up like this, on your knees, he can see your puffy pussy lips, still glistening from your release but furiously flexing from a want to be filled.

He could hardly believe that you were his.  “Fuck, honey.  I wanna be gentle, I really do-” positioning himself behind you, the warmth of Eddie’s body wraps around you as one of his hands glides over your haunches, “-but you look so fucking good right now.”

Over your shoulder you catch his eye, a sly smile on your face, “Hammer me, Eddie.  Make me feel it.  I… I want you to.  I need you to.”

Your words fly straight to Eddie’s cock.  Already swollen and stiff, it hardens further in his hand, the rouge tinted head droolling pre-cum.  Urgency floods through him the moment you quietly beg him to ravage you, sexily swaying your hips in a silent call to action.  It’s too much to process, stalling Eddie’s brainwaves, causing him to choke out, “Wha?  What did you say?”

Widening your legs, your fingers finding the uneven edge of your ruined tights, rubbing over your still wet lips, “You heard me, Munson.  Don’t make me ask you again.”

Lewd.  Filthy.  Hot as fuck, you had Eddie swallowing hard, his throbbing rod pulsing in his fist.  Wanting to thrust into with everything he had, Eddie forces himself to breath, one hand finding its way to the round fullness of your bottom, the other gripping his steely length tight.  “Get yourself ready for me, baby.  Use your fingers, yea, just like that.  Fuck.  You’re a goddamned porn star, aren’t ya?”

Wordlessly you begin stroking between your legs, knowing that Eddie was watching made you more excited, the debauchery of it making it better.  There was a swish of cool air and then a sharp crack as Eddie brought his open palm down on your upturned ass cheek, the sting making you reel, surprise causing you to call out, “Shit, Eddie!”

His hand on the flat of your back held you still, soothing you now, “Shh, shh… you’re doing so good, so good for me, darlin’.  Keep going, ya?”

Settling again, continuing to pleasure yourself as he asked, the fingers of your free hand scrunch into the pillow under you, holding on for dear life.  Another smack, more heat than hurt, breaks over you, increasing the pleasurable pressure building in your belly.  Circling your clit, wishing it was Eddie’s finger or tongue, you throw your head back, pushing your hips into Eddie, pleading now, “Please, babe, please?”

Grinding out through gritted teeth, Eddie slaps your ass once more, “Already begging me, huh?  Don’t you dare finish.  I wanna feel you, pretty girl.  You hear me?”  Nodding in a pre-orgasmic haze, squeaking out the word yes over and over, it was enough for Eddie who was winding up tight enough to snap.  Shuddering, you feel the swollen tip of his cock slide between your slippery lips and flex your back, eager for more friction, only to be denied.  

Eddie, swatting your hands away from your core, rests his tip at your entrance, taking a minute to enjoy the scenery.  Notching into you so achingly slow, the stretch always taking you by surprise, you fisted the cushion beneath you as Eddie withdrew with a sultry snicker, “Jesus, you’re soaking, baby.  Feel so good.”

“No, you- you feel good, Eddie.  So big.  Too big.”

His pulling back makes you whine, but before you can say anything, he knocks the wind out of you by surging forward, burying himself balls deep in your velvet vice.  Shouting out his name, your chest flattens into the carpet as you buck your hips higher, meeting Eddie’s rapid thrusts.

For the first time all night, he goes quiet, concentrating on the loving way you grind your cushioned bottom into his pelvis, skin slapping deadened by the presence of your wrecked lingerie.  Eddie watches as your pink petals swallow him everytime he humps into you, the image etching itself in his mind.  He picks up speed, using your waistband to wrench you back onto his impaling member, over and over and over again.

It’s rough, rougher than ever before, but that’s why you like it so much.  Already your clingy cunt is clenching, trying and failing to keep Eddie locked inside of your wet heat, your bodies fusing together.  You told Eddie to use you; hammer into you in search of his own pleasure, and he does not disappoint.

He barely gives you a chance to bounce along his length before he fortifies his hold on you, his ringed hand on the ample flesh of your waist, the other knotting into your hair.  Rutting into you like a beast, the arch of your spine allows Eddie to access your deepest recesses as you chew on your bottom lip to keep from screaming his name into the night.  Your skin is on fire as the rug burns scars into your knees with every forward drive from the menace you’ve given yourself over to.

The rhythm spikes again.  Faster now, the repetitive smack, smack, smack of your soaked skin accepting his brutal use makes your body bloom.  Sinking into your hips, the muscles of your legs soften, changing the angle for Eddie and you hear an appreciative grunt as he claims another inch of you for himself.

A bubble of laughter rises through you and Eddie hears it, mocking, “Something funny, sweetheart?”

“No!  No!  Just-” he yanks back on your hair and your pussy pulses around him reflexively, “-you’re doing it, Eddie.”

“Giving this pretty pussy what it needs?  Fuck yea, I am.  Gonna be sore tomorrow, doll.  Can’t help it.”

Grinding back against him, your voice rises in pitch, the need to cum consuming you, “Good!  Fuck, Eddie!  Wanna feel it!  Don’t stop!  Don’t stop-'' But you don’t get to finish your sentence because the dam within you cracks open, the watery release too much, and it floods over Eddie as your world fuzzes over in blinding white lightning and static sound.

Your messy ending finishes Eddie, who buries himself to the hilt, holding you near enough to bruise as his release roars out of him, a satisfying sigh of your name on his tongue.  His fingers flex, their grip on you going slack, as Eddie curls over you protectively.  Turning your face to his, a kiss, sweet and soulful passes between you even though the angle is awkward and you are both fucked out entirely.

When he separates himself from you, it borders on painful.  You just fit around him so right, so well, it’s as if your body doesn’t want to let Eddie go.  Pressing his lips to your shoulder, Eddie hums in your ear, “Stay here, beautiful.  I’ll be right back.”

Hazy headed, you agree with sigh, closing your eyes in euphoric exhaustion.  Eddie, always so thoughtful and careful with you, swipes at your exposed skin with a warm washcloth, cleaning you up gently.  When he returns from the bathroom, loose boxers covering his butt, and sees that you haven’t shifted an inch, Eddie drops to his knees, brushing the hair from your face, “You alright baby?”

A satisfied smile fills your face, “Fuck yea, I just uh, my legs are jelly.”

Sitting now, Eddie pulls your head into his lap, combing through your locks, “Sorry about that, sweet girl.”

Searching his face, you titter, “I’m not.  You were incredible.”

You watch the pride blossom in him at your compliment, and stretch your aching arms before sitting up beside him.  Tracing a thumb over his bottom lip, you frown, “Sorry I bit you.”

Hooking his hands around your neck, nose to nose now, Eddie pokes at the broken skin with this tongue, “I’m not.  Now everyone will know I belong to you.”

Resting your head on Eddie’s chest, his arms holding you from behind, you sit in indigo shadows, the harsh street lamps casting moth filled shapes around the trailer.  His hands reach for your ruined tights, ripped and torn and stained, “I can replace these.  You’ll let me buy you new ones, right?”

Your hand cups his stubbly cheek, eyes serious, tone light, “Only if you promise to tear them off me.”

Snorting, Eddie strokes your side under the shirt that you never took off, “Only if you promise that I’m the only guy who gets to tear them off of you.”

And there’s a buried intention in his question, real worry, so you pull back, concern in your expression, “Eddie, honey, I’m yours.  If tonight didn’t prove that, then I don’t know what will-”

He looks away from you, focusing on the lightening sky outside his window, “There are guys who, ya know, they want you.  I see them.  See how they look at you when you aren’t paying attention and I guess-” swallowing thickly, Eddie catches your gaze, “-Shit… I guess I'm worried that you’ll figure it out.”

Panicking, you kneel up next to him, a comforting hand resting against his cheek, “Figure what out, baby?”

Releasing the breath he had been holding on to, Eddie’s brown eyes scan your own, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, “That uh… that you’re too, ya know, good for me.”

Still sore and stinging, you manage to straddle Eddie’s lap, the cotton of his boxers a welcome comfort against your overworked sex.  Raking your fingers through his hair, tugging at the nape of his neck, you force him to look you dead in the eye.  Speaking firmly but calmly, you were ready to make him hear you, “Edward Munson, that is enough of that kinda talk.  I wanna be your girl, and only your girl.

“Who else would punch a dude for me?  Or show me everyday that he loves me?”  Your voice wobbles, breaking at the declaration you’re making, “I don’t want anyone else.  Only you, babe.  Always.”

Cutting you off, Eddie’s mouth crashes into yours, stealing your breath.  A broad palm on your tush and one against your spine ensure that you can’t pull away from the love that he’s trying to share.  And you don’t fight it.  Why would you?  All you wanted was Eddie Munson and all he wanted was you.

Resting his chin on the crown of your head, dawn’s golden glow strengthening beyond the walls of his trailer, he whispers, “I am so fucking yours, ya know that?”

Curling into his warmth, nuzzling further into his lap, you sigh, filled with contentment, “Yea, I know, Eddie.  And you’re stuck with me.”

Grinning as you toy with the guitar pick around his neck, Eddie gives you a tiny peck at the very center of your forehead, “I am totally ok with that, sweetheart.  You’ll be mine and I’ll be yours.”

“Hell yea, baby.  All yours.”

                                              ---- Fin ----

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